BEFRIENDING A REPORTER.
Though several weeks had passed, no trace had been discovered of Mrs.
Mervyn-Robertson’s missing property. For reasons of her own she had
prevented any mention of the robbery being made in the newspapers, and
apparently even the Metropolitan Secret Agency had this time failed to
make good.
Preparations were in progress for the great ball to be given at the
Albert Hall by Aloysius Stapleton and his friend, young La Planta,
and as Jessica still said she preferred not to act as hostess on that
occasion, Stapleton had succeeded in enlisting the services of a
well-known peeress who, helped by friends of her own, would receive his
guests on the eventful night.
It was expected that “all London” would be there, and as the ball had
been organized by Stapleton and La Planta ostensibly in aid of some
charitable object, the newspaper press had laid itself out to give
plenty of publicity.
“If I had arranged to make it a private ball,” Stapleton observed
to Jessica one evening, “it would have cost me an enormous sum, and
hundreds who have now bought tickets would not have done so. I was
right to take your advice--you remember telling me the way to make a
ball of this sort an unqualified success, and at the same time run it
at other people’s expense, was to make it a ‘charity’ concern; get the
newspapers to print columns of fancy stories about it and publish lists
of names of people with titles likely to be present; and let it be
known that women of high social standing would receive the guests. That
advice was excellent, Jessica. There has been such a rush for tickets
that if it continues we shall have to stop selling.”
“Have I ever given you bad advice?” Jessica asked with a smile. “In
matters of this sort, and for that matter in most cases, a clever
woman’s advice is the safest advice to follow. You have not yet asked
me what I am going to wear. It is too late now to tell you. But this I
can say--my dress will surprise you.”
“I don’t want to be surprised.”
“Naturally. Nobody does. But I have a reason for wanting to surprise
you at your own ‘charity’ ball,” and she laughed. “You will find out
why, later. Have you any idea what Cora Hartsilver and her precious
friend, Yootha Hagerston, intend to wear?”
“Not the slightest. How should I? And why should their dresses interest
you?”
“They do interest me, and that is sufficient. If you have not enough
acumen to guess the reason, I don’t think much of your intellectual
foresight,” and she laughed again in her deep contralto voice.
Meanwhile Jessica Mervyn-Robertson and Cora Hartsilver met often at
receptions, dances and other social functions, and, though outwardly
friendly, each knew the other secretly hated her.
At a lunch party in Mayfair during the first days of June there had
been talk about Ascot, and Jessica had mentioned casually that on Gold
Cup Day fortune invariably favored her. Twice, she said, she had found
herself at the end of the day much richer than in the morning, “and in
other ways,” she added, “Gold Cup Day has helped me towards happiness.”
“Would it be too much to inquire what the other ways were?” Cora, who
sat near her at the angle of the table, said lightly. “I can’t see how
good fortune could come to anybody on a race day except through the
actual racing unless----”
“Unless what?” Jessica asked quickly, with an odd look, as Cora checked
herself.
“Well, one might happen to meet somebody whom afterwards one might come
to like very much,” Cora replied with a far-away look.
One or two people, happening to remember they had heard somewhere that
Jessica had first become acquainted with Aloysius Stapleton at an Ascot
meeting, smiled.
“I agree,” Jessica said with exaggerated indifference. “But the same
thing might happen to anybody anywhere--say at lunch at the Ritz, or at
one of my own musical At Homes, or at----”
She was interrupted by one of the men at the end of the table who, not
seeing she was engaged in conversation, inquired if she would make one
of the party he meant to drive down to Ascot on his coach.
“It is rather short notice, Mrs. Robertson,” he added, “but until this
morning I had not actually decided to go down. Do say ‘Yes’ if you have
not made other arrangements.”
“I shall be delighted to come,” she answered after a moment’s
hesitation. “I suppose you mean Gold Cup Day?”
“Yes, Gold Cup Day. That is good of you. Then it is settled?”
“Lucky again!” Cora Hartsilver said with a curious laugh. “I shall end
by becoming superstitious myself. Will you give me all the winners on
Gold Cup Day, Jessica?”
“Oh, then you will be there?”
“If I am lucky, too.”
“And I suppose Yootha with you? Oh! but I needn’t ask,” she ended with
a malicious little laugh.
The luncheon came to an end just then, which was as well, for the
two women were each awaiting an opportunity to deal the other
metaphorically a blow between the eyes. For weeks past their hatred had
been smoldering. To-day it had come near to bursting into flame.
When Cora met Yootha that afternoon, she at once told her of her
passage-of-arms at lunch with Jessica Robertson, and of Jessica’s
hardly veiled sneer at their friendship.
“Why let that annoy you, Cora dear?” Yootha exclaimed. “Heaven knows
why the woman dislikes you so, or why she dislikes me, as I know she
does. I expect the truth is she has heard that we are trying to find
out who she is. And I mean to go on trying, until I do find out.”
“And I am with you. I am as certain as that I am standing here that
she is an impostor of some sort, though up to the present she and her
friends, Stapleton and La Planta, have been clever enough to hide the
truth. Has it never struck you as strange, Yootha, that not a word got
into the papers about the theft of her jewelry and things, though all
one’s friends knew about it? What has made me think of that now is that
I was told this morning by a friend of mine who writes or edits, or
does something for some paper--no, you don’t know him--that Stapleton
and Jessica Robertson both moved heaven and earth to prevent the affair
being reported in the press.”
“But why?”
“Exactly--but why? I was wondering if she could have some reason for
not wanting her name to get into the papers, but as one sees it in all
the ‘social columns’ every day----”
“That may have been the reason, nevertheless. The jewelry, et cetera,
were, if you remember, apparently stolen by one of her guests that
night, and possibly she suspects one of them and is afraid of the
scandal which would follow if he, or she, were convicted of the theft.
Indeed, I can’t think what other motive she can have had for not
wanting anything to be said in the papers about the crime.”
“I wonder,” Cora said thoughtfully.
They would probably have been surprised if they had known that Captain
Preston, too, who of course had also heard of the robbery, had been
puzzling his brain to account for Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s aversion from
press publicity in connection with the robbery.
“I tell you it’s devilish odd, George,” he had said to his friend
Blenkiron only the night before, as the two sat smoking together in
his rooms in Fig Tree Court, “that woman and her dear friend Stapleton
being so desperately anxious to keep the affair out of the papers. If
you or I were burgled should we care a button if the facts were made
public or not? Would anybody else whose house was burgled object to
the fact being known? Then why this hush-hush movement on the part of
Jessica Robertson and her friends--young La Planta, too, helped to keep
it quiet.”
“Who told you?”
“Harry Hopford. He was with me in Flanders a long time, and I came
across him in Whitefriars only the other day--he is back on his
newspaper again. He said the steps that woman and her two friends took
to prevent mention being made in the papers of the robbery at her house
during one of her night parties, aroused a good deal of conjecture in
Fleet Street. Some of the reporters were actually paid to say nothing
about it. He told me so himself.”
For some moments both were silent.
“She must have had some strong motive for wanting to hush it up,”
Blenkiron said at last.
“That is what I say. Now, what can the reason have been? I tell you
again, George, there is more behind those people than anybody suspects.
And who are they? And where do they come from? You can try as you like,
but you won’t find out.”
“I certainly don’t believe Mrs. Robertson’s story that her father
was a sheep farmer in Queensland. I know every town and village in
Queensland, have known them over twenty years, and it is impossible
that if her father had been sheep farming out there, even in a small
way, I should not have known him, at any rate by name.”
“It seems that the police were not notified of the theft. Only the
Metropolitan Secret Agency was told about it, and for a wonder it
failed to discover a clue. You know how clever that Agency is in
running thieves to earth. I am told it hardly ever fails, though there
are queer rumors as to the methods it employs to catch criminals.”
It was Harry Hopford, though Preston did not know it, who had told Cora
Hartsilver about the hushing up in the press. They were not intimately
acquainted; Hopford had met Cora at a dance one night which he was
attending professionally, and afterwards they had recognized each other
at the Chelsea Flower Show and engaged in conversation. Thus neither
Hopford nor Cora suspected that the other was acquainted with Captain
Preston.
It so happened that, some days after this conversation, Hopford had
occasion to call to see Stapleton to obtain from him some facts about
the approaching ball at the Albert Hall. Being, as all journalists
have to be, of an inquisitive disposition, he referred incidentally to
the theft of jewelry and notes from Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s house in
Cavendish Square, and casually inquired if the stolen property had been
recovered.
“I am sure I don’t know,” Stapleton answered quickly. “What makes you
think I should know?”
“I thought you might,” Hopford replied calmly, “as you are acquainted
with the lady and were at supper at her house on the night of the
robbery.”
“Who told you I was there?”
“Oh, the press generally knows these things.”
“‘The press,’ as you call it, is a damned nuisance at times,” Stapleton
said sharply. “I suppose a report of that robbery would have appeared
in every paper if Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson had not asked the editors
to refrain from giving her undesirable notoriety. I can’t think why
newspapers always want to publish detailed reports of crimes. Such
reports do a lot of harm, I am sure--a lot of harm.”
“The papers wouldn’t publish the reports if the public was not anxious
to read them,” Hopford replied with assurance. “You should blame the
public, Mr. Stapleton, not the press.”
“Nothing ever did appear about that robbery, did it?” Stapleton asked,
looking at the young reporter rather oddly.
“Not so far as I am aware.”
Stapleton remained silent for a minute. He seemed to be thinking.
“Are you ever in need of money, my lad?” he inquired suddenly.
Hopford laughed.
“Show me the journalist who isn’t,” he said. “Why?”
“Supposing I made it worth your while----”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s like this--by the way, what’s your name?”
“Hopford--Harry Hopford.”
“Come and sit down, Hopford--here, have a cigar. Now then, I am in
a position to be able to do you a good turn now and again, in other
words, to benefit you pecuniarily, if in return you will do as I
suggest and at the same time keep absolutely silent about it. Don’t
think I am going to ask you to do anything terrible. I am not,” and he
smiled.
“I dare say it could be managed,” Hopford answered dreamily, as he
began to enjoy the cigar. “Hadn’t you better tell me exactly what it is
you want me to do, then I shall be able to give you a straightforward
answer at once. Anything you may tell me I shall, of course, consider
confidential.”
“That’s the spirit; that’s the way I like to hear a young fellow talk.
Well now, listen.”
Stapleton glanced towards the door to see that it was shut, then
continued:
“There are several things you may be able to do for me from time to
time, and the first is this. I am practically certain I know who took
the diamonds and the notes, and the rest of the stuff stolen that
night, and though naturally I don’t intend to mention the lady’s name,
I can hint at it. I believe the thief--yes, thief--to be a young widow
whose husband died in tragic circumstances nine or ten months ago--he
was found dead in his bath one morning; possibly you recollect the
affair.”
“I ought to, seeing that I was sent to the house the same day to
obtain particulars of the tragedy. The house is not far from Portland
Place--am I right?”
“Quite.”
“So the widow was among Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s guests at supper that
night?”
“She was not. She was not even invited. Yet I have a good reason for
supposing she was admitted, though the hostess never saw her.”
“Would that have been possible?”
“Certainly. There was a great crush. At one time during the night one
could hardly force one’s way through it, and it was then the widow was
admitted, the footman believing her to be an invited guest.”
“Could you get me an interview with the footman?”
“Quite impossible, my dear fellow. Besides, it may not have been the
footman who admitted her. That was merely my conjecture. It may have
been one of the other servants.”
“The butler, for instance.”
“No, not the butler.”
“And you are sure that she was there? You saw her?”
“No, no; don’t jump at conclusions. I didn’t see her--myself.”
“Then who did?”
“That I must not tell you. It would be unwise.”
“I have promised to respect your confidence.”
“Quite so, or I should not have told you what I have. But names, you
know, are sacred things. If I mentioned names it would be impossible
for me afterwards to swear I had not done so, should an occasion for
taking the oath, by some unforeseen chance, arise.”
“I see your point. Well, can you, without committing yourself, hint to
me the reason you believe the lady, whose identity you have practically
revealed to me, ransacked Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s safe? Was it, should
you say, for the intrinsic value of the things stolen, or was there
some deeper reason?”
“Such as?”
“Documents, compromising letters, anything of that sort?”
“I am afraid I must not answer that either. You see, one has to be so
careful. My idea in telling you as much as I have is that you should,
without, of course, making any definite statement, hint in your paper
that the crime was committed by a young widow well known in Society;
you might go so far as to say the widow lost her husband in tragic
circumstances comparatively recently, and you might also work in some
fancy padding of your own. You could add that you had obtained your
information from a trustworthy source.”
“Meaning you.”
“Of course. Who else?”
“And what terms do you propose?”
“That I must leave to you to suggest.”
“I would sooner the offer came from you, Mr. Stapleton.”
Stapleton hesitated a moment, then:
“Would a ten-pound note about meet the case? You see, you score by
getting what I believe you call a ‘scoop’ for your paper.”
“And run the risk of being fired if the lady hinted at should think fit
to bring an action against my paper. Oh, no, Mr. Stapleton, I am not
out to take sporting chances for the sake of pocketing a tenner. If you
had said eighty or a hundred pounds I might--I say might--have felt
tempted to take a chance, but a tenner----”
He rose, preparatory to leaving.
“Wait a minute, Hopford, wait a minute,” Stapleton exclaimed, trying to
conceal his eagerness as he laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder to detain
him. “I asked you to name a sum, remember--I have no idea what terms
are usual in such cases. Sit down again and I may, after all, be able
to meet your wishes.”
With assumed reluctance the reporter sank back into the chair from
which he had just risen, and for another ten minutes he and Stapleton
continued to converse. And when, finally, the former left the house, he
carried in his breast-pocket five new ten-pound notes, and chuckled as
he thought of Stapleton’s promise to hand him five more notes on the
publication of the scoop.