Six months later T. X. Meredith was laboriously tracing an elusive line
which occurred on an ordnance map of Sussex when the Chief Commissioner
announced himself.
Sir George described T. X. as the most wholesome corrective a public
official could have, and never missed an opportunity of meeting his
subordinate (as he said) for this reason.
“What are you doing there?” he growled.
“The lesson this morning,” said T. X. without looking up, “is maps.”
Sir George passed behind his assistant and looked over his shoulder.
“That is a very old map you have got there,” he said.
“1876. It shows the course of a number of interesting little streams in
this neighbourhood which have been lost sight of for one reason or
the other by the gentleman who made the survey at a later period. I
am perfectly sure that in one of these streams I shall find what I am
seeking.”
“You haven't given up hope, then, in regard to Lexman?”
“I shall never give up hope,” said T. X., “until I am dead, and possibly
not then.”
“Let me see, what did he get--fifteen years!”
“Fifteen years,” repeated T. X., “and a very fortunate man to escape
with his life.”
Sir George walked to the window and stared out on to busy Whitehall.
“I am told you are quite friendly with Kara again.”
T. X. made a noise which might be taken to indicate his assent to the
statement.
“I suppose you know that gentleman has made a very heroic attempt to get
you fired,” he said.
“I shouldn't wonder,” said T. X. “I made as heroic an attempt to get him
hung, and one good turn deserves another. What did he do? See ministers
and people?”
“He did,” said Sir George.
“He's a silly ass,” responded T. X.
“I can understand all that”--the Chief Commissioner turned round--“but
what I cannot understand is your apology to him.”
“There are so many things you don't understand, Sir George,” said T. X.
tartly, “that I despair of ever cataloguing them.”
“You are an insolent cub,” growled his Chief. “Come to lunch.”
“Where will you take me?” asked T. X. cautiously.
“To my club.”
“I'm sorry,” said the other, with elaborate politeness, “I have lunched
once at your club. Need I say more?”
He smiled, as he worked after his Chief had gone, at the recollection
of Kara's profound astonishment and the gratification he strove so
desperately to disguise.
Kara was a vain man, immensely conscious of his good looks, conscious of
his wealth. He had behaved most handsomely, for not only had he accepted
the apology, but he left nothing undone to show his desire to create a
good impression upon the man who had so grossly insulted him.
T. X. had accepted an invitation to stay a weekend at Kara's “little
place in the country,” and had found there assembled everything that
the heart could desire in the way of fellowship, eminent politicians
who might conceivably be of service to an ambitious young Assistant
Commissioner of Police, beautiful ladies to interest and amuse him. Kara
had even gone to the length of engaging a theatrical company to play
“Sweet Lavender,” and for this purpose the big ballroom at Hever Court
had been transformed into a theatre.
As he was undressing for bed that night T. X. remembered that he had
mentioned to Kara that “Sweet Lavender” was his favorite play, and he
realized that the entertainment was got up especially for his benefit.
In a score of other ways Kara had endeavoured to consolidate the
friendship. He gave the young Commissioner advice about a railway
company which was operating in Asia Minor, and the shares of which stood
a little below par. T. X. thanked him for the advice, and did not take
it, nor did he feel any regret when the shares rose 3 pounds in as many
weeks.
T. X. had superintended the disposal of Beston Priory. He had the
furniture removed to London, and had taken a flat for Grace Lexman.
She had a small income of her own, and this, added to the large
royalties which came to her (as she was bitterly conscious) in
increasing volume as the result of the publicity of the trial, placed
her beyond fear of want.
“Fifteen years,” murmured T. X., as he worked and whistled.
There had been no hope for John Lexman from the start. He was in debt
to the man he killed. His story of threatening letters was not
substantiated. The revolver which he said had been flourished at him
had never been found. Two people believed implicitly in the story, and a
sympathetic Home Secretary had assured T. X. personally that if he could
find the revolver and associate it with the murder beyond any doubt,
John Lexman would be pardoned.
Every stream in the neighbourhood had been dragged. In one case a small
river had been dammed, and the bed had been carefully dried and sifted,
but there was no trace of the weapon, and T. X. had tried methods more
effective and certainly less legal.
A mysterious electrician had called at 456 Cadogan Square in Kara's
absence, and he was armed with such indisputable authority that he
was permitted to penetrate to Kara's private room, in order to examine
certain fitments.
Kara returning next day thought no more of the matter when it was
reported to him, until going to his safe that night he discovered that
it had been opened and ransacked.
As it happened, most of Kara's valuable and confidential possessions
were at the bank. In a fret of panic and at considerable cost he had
the safe removed and another put in its place of such potency that the
makers offered to indemnify him against any loss from burglary.
T. X. finished his work, washed his hands, and was drying them when
Mansus came bursting into the room. It was not usual for Mansus to
burst into anywhere. He was a slow, methodical, painstaking man, with a
deliberate and an official, manner.
“What's the matter?” asked T. X. quickly.
“We didn't search Vassalaro's lodgings,” cried Mansus breathlessly. “It
just occurred to me as I was coming over Westminster Bridge. I was on
top of a bus--”
“Wake up!” said T. X. “You're amongst friends and cut all that 'bus'
stuff out. Of course we searched Vassalaro's lodgings!”
“No, we didn't, sir,” said the other triumphantly. “He lived in Great
James Street.”
“He lived in the Adelphi,” corrected T. X.
“There were two places where he lived,” said Mansus.
“When did you learn this?” asked his Chief, dropping his flippancy.
“This morning. I was on a bus coming across Westminster Bridge, and
there were two men in front of me, and I heard the word 'Vassalaro' and
naturally I pricked up my ears.”
“It was very unnatural, but proceed,” said T. X.
“One of the men--a very respectable person--said, 'That chap Vassalaro
used to lodge in my place, and I've still got a lot of his things. What
do you think I ought to do?'”
“And you said,” suggested the other.
“I nearly frightened his life out of him,” said Mansus. “I said, 'I am a
police officer and I want you to come along with me.'”
“And of course he shut up and would not say another word,” said T. X.
“That's true, sir,” said Mansus, “but after awhile I got him to talk.
Vassalaro lived in Great James Street, 604, on the third floor. In fact,
some of his furniture is there still. He had a good reason for keeping
two addresses by all accounts.”
T. X. nodded wisely.
“What was her name?” he asked.
“He had a wife,” said the other, “but she left him about four months
before he was killed. He used the Adelphi address for business purposes
and apparently he slept two or three nights of the week at Great James
Street. I have told the man to leave everything as it is, and that we
will come round.”
Ten minutes later the two officers were in the somewhat gloomy
apartments which Vassalaro had occupied.
The landlord explained that most of the furniture was his, but that
there were certain articles which were the property of the deceased
man. He added, somewhat unnecessarily, that the late tenant owed him six
months' rent.
The articles which had been the property of Vassalaro included a tin
trunk, a small writing bureau, a secretaire bookcase and a few clothes.
The secretaire was locked, as was the writing bureau. The tin box, which
had little or nothing of interest, was unfastened.
The other locks needed very little attention. Without any difficulty
Mansus opened both. The leaf of the bureau, when let down, formed
the desk, and piled up inside was a whole mass of letters opened and
unopened, accounts, note-books and all the paraphernalia which an untidy
man collects.
Letter by letter, T. X. went through the accumulation without finding
anything to help him. Then his eye was attracted by a small tin case
thrust into one of the oblong pigeon holes at the back of the desk. This
he pulled out and opened and found a small wad of paper wrapped in tin
foil.
“Hello, hello!” said T. X., and he was pardonably exhilarated.