INTRODUCES A VISITOR
The police, in the absence of any direct clue to the perpetrator, or
perpetrators, of the double crime, were working very slowly.
The death of the mysterious Richard Goodrick had puzzled them greatly.
Though the heads of Scotland Yard--all of them experts in detection of
various branches of crime--had sat in council several times, yet they
had failed to discover anything tangible upon which to base any
theory.
Medland believed that the old priest might know something concerning
the eccentric man. But he still could not be found, although the aid
of the Italian Consul had been invoked.
“Lor’ bless yer, sir; why, yes!” cried Mrs. Ayres when Medland on the
following morning called and showed her a photograph of the late Sir
George Ravenscourt. “That’s certainly the gentleman wot called and saw
Mr. Goodrick! I opened the door to ’im. They sat together for nearly
two hours, I think.”
“You didn’t overhear anything, I suppose?” asked the detective
eagerly.
“Only that they seemed excited after a bit; an’ I ’eard their voices
raised, as though they were a-quarrellin’.”
“What did they say? It’s most important that I should know.”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir. To me it seemed as ’ow the gentleman who
called wanted Mr. Goodrick to do somethink, an’ ’e wouldn’t. ’E was
a-offerin’ ’im money to do somethink--commit a crime, perhaps.”
“Money!” echoed the detective, pricking up his ears. “Why haven’t you
told me this before?”
“Well, because I thought you wouldn’t believe me, sir. You seems so
disbelievin’,” replied the woman.
“No, I’m not. You are mistaken. Tell me everything, my good woman, now
come,” said Medland persuasively.
“Well, I didn’t ’ear much, but what I did was rather startlin’. The
gentleman was actually offerin’ my lodger fifty thousand pounds!”
“Fifty thousand! What for?”
“Ah! that I can’t tell you, sir. It was to do somethink, but I
couldn’t understand what,” was the woman’s reply.
“And that Italian priest?”
“Old Don Mario? Oh! I don’t know anythink about ’im.”
Medland reflected, and by doing so grew more puzzled. Fifty thousand
pounds was the sum he had found in the safe in Carlton House Terrace.
What possible action of old Goodrick’s could be worth such a sum to
the Baronet? He recollected, too, the mysterious source from which the
money had come.
“Is this all that you know, Mrs. Ayres?” he asked persuasively. “Tell
me everything, won’t you?”
“I’ve told you everythink, sir. But I do wish you’d have the old man’s
room cleared out. I can’t abear to go into it now. And I want to have
it done up and let it again.”
“But we are paying you the rent, Mrs. Ayres,” replied the detective.
“Don’t worry about that. Keep it locked for the present.” Then he
added: “I presume Goodrick refused to comply with Sir George’s
wish--refused to accept the money offered him; and could it be for
that reason that he was killed?”
“That’s my idea, sir.”
Medland was silent. Don Mario’s disappearance was curious; and yet he
was a foreigner, and had evidently left London. All along, the
detective’s theory had been that the motive of the mysterious old
man’s murder was in order to suppress some secret.
Presently he left the house and returned to the police headquarters,
where the information he had gathered completely baffled those who
were busy in endeavouring to unravel the mystery.
If the fifty thousand pounds had been missing, then the crime would be
rendered more easy of solution. But as matters stood, the problem had,
to the police, been rendered all the more complex.
One man alone knew the truth, that man of marvellous craft and
cunning, so clever, far-seeing and fearless; the man of many
disguises, the past-master of deceit, one of the shrewdest, if not the
shrewdest, and most remarkable person in the whole metropolis.
And he had snapped his fingers at the police, and laughed at their
ignorance. Both the boldness of his defiance and the cleverness of his
imposture were proof of his amazing impudence and wonderful
versatility.
A few evenings after Medland’s visit to Mrs. Ayres and her
identification of the photograph, Gordon Cunningham was seated in the
smoking-room at the Marquis of Portslade’s, in Grosvenor Square, in
conversation with Mr. Bridgman, the Home Secretary, an elderly,
clean-shaven, legal-looking man in sombre black.
They had been sitting in a corner discussing a matter concerning
Ireland, at that moment the subject of a heated debate in the House,
when suddenly the Home Secretary turned to the young man and, looking
straight into his face, asked:
“By the way, why are you so infernally inquisitive, Cunningham,
regarding that recent affair in Carlton House Terrace--eh? They tell
me you’ve been worrying them constantly at Scotland Yard for
information.”
“Which I don’t get,” added Gordon, removing the after-dinner cigar
from his lips. There had been a political dinner, and a dozen other
well-known politicians were in the room.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” replied the Minister. “I had a report
from the Commissioner of Police to-day, saying that you are
threatening to ask a question in the House regarding the death of our
old friend Sir George.”
“Yes, and I intend to do so if I receive no satisfactory reply,”
declared the young man frankly. “I’m sorry to worry you, Bridgman, but
I feel very strongly upon the point.”
“Why?” asked the famous lawyer, suddenly interested. “Is it wise to
criticise the action of the police, do you think?”
“My dear sir, in this case the police are wilfully hushing up a very
remarkable case. I admit that the coroner’s jury returned a verdict of
suicide, but Sir George never took his own life. Of that I’m
positive!”
“Why, at Lady Andover’s, ten days ago, I recollect you declaring
across the dinner-table that Sir George was in a financial hole, and
no doubt committed suicide,” remarked the Cabinet Minister in
surprise.
“Yes, but I find I had been misinformed. I am quite certain now that
it was not a case of suicide,” Gordon declared. “Fifty thousand pounds
were found in the safe in his room.”
“Why are you so certain? Have you any evidence?”
“Nothing that I can bring forward.”
“But Sir George’s wife, his niece, his butler--all three were there as
soon as the body was discovered. How is it they have not protested
against the verdict?”
“Because they have been forbidden to say anything,” was the reply. “I
have, however, discovered certain curious facts which compel me to
believe that Sir George fell by the hand of an assassin. You know
quite well that he left some remarkable statement or other behind
him--which was not put in evidence.”
“Officially, I only know that a verdict of suicide was returned, in
which case it does not further concern the police.”
“That is the curt reply I have received from the Commissioner,” said
Gordon; “but I intend to put down a question, and demand an inquiry.
The whole organisation at Scotland Yard is antiquated and rotten.”
“No, no,” replied the Minister. “I don’t think you can condemn the
Metropolitan Police so entirely as that. Remember that in the present
state of the law they often have a very difficult and delicate task.”
“I do not condemn the men of the Criminal Investigation Department. It
is the system to which I object. Nowadays the Metropolitan Police
cannot compare with that of Paris, Berlin or Rome. Why? Excess of
caution is one of its worst failings, and that is due to the unwritten
rule which decrees that if a detective makes an error he is rarely, if
ever, given an opportunity of repeating the offence, as he is at once
relegated to the uniform branch of the service. The result is that
your average detective, rather than act in the interests of justice,
always gives the suspected one the benefit of the doubt. So hundreds
of delinquents yearly go scot free for this reason. In every other
detective service an arrest would be made, and the suspected one
interrogated.”
“I admit that one or two reforms are necessary, yet I’m not of opinion
that in the present position of the Government the time is ripe to
open the eyes of the public,” the Minister replied, drawing slowly at
his cigar.
“Myself, I think no time ought to be lost in pointing out that the
Criminal Investigation Department is not what it should be, owing to
the fact that its officers are all drawn from the uniformed
service--men who, in the main, come from rural districts. I cast no
reflection upon them, for they do their best, but, I ask, are such men
as shrewd, as educated, and as clever in investigating crime as the
French or Italian detective--a man chosen because of his talent in
that direction? Constables in uniform develop a peculiar ambling gait,
and by this the London detective always betrays himself--his confrère
in Paris, never. No, my dear Bridgman, the Scotland Yard detective is,
each year, growing more and more incompetent. You have had some good
men, some very excellent men, but nearly all have now retired. Indeed,
under your present system, you seem to retire your most useful men.
Only recently I understand that a sergeant--a naturalised Russian, who
had been many years employed in the extradition branch, and who was a
very clever officer--was retired merely because, owing to the fact of
not receiving an English education, he could not pass the examination
for an inspectorship. No, my dear sir, you want new blood at Scotland
Yard--which is only ‘new’ in name. You want clever, intelligent men,
not plain-clothes police-constables, if you are to unravel the
mysteries of crimes which nowadays are succeeding each other with such
alarming rapidity.”
“I cannot for the life of me see what this has to do with the
unfortunate death of our mutual friend,” remarked Mr. Bridgman.
“It has. Just because Scotland Yard is faced with an inscrutable
problem--with a mystery which is most remarkable and utterly
bewildering--they coolly arrange for a verdict of suicide. And not
only in that case--but in another, the death of some mysterious old
man over at Pimlico.”
“And how do you know all this, pray?” inquired the Home Secretary,
looking at him keenly.
“I--well, the fact is, I am in possession of certain information,
Bridgman,” replied the young man, with a slight hesitation. “I tell
you that there is a great mystery surrounding the death of both these
men. They died by the same hand.”
“Are you certain of this, Cunningham?” asked the Home Secretary very
surprised, for he had believed the report furnished by the police.
“I’m quite certain,” Gordon said earnestly. “And if the police will
not reveal to me--in confidence, of course--the efforts they are
making to solve the problem, then I shall put the question in the
House, and expose the methods by which they manipulate evidence before
a coroner, and hush up serious crime because of their own
incompetence.”
“But surely, Cunningham, you’ll never do that! It would be a huge
scandal in such an important public department,” cried the Minister,
with undisguised alarm.
“Scandal or no, I don’t care. My friend Ravenscourt was murdered, and
I intend that the assassin shall be unmasked,” replied Gordon firmly.
“Therefore, perhaps, it would be as well if you ordered the
Commissioner to reply to my queries--I, on my part, pledging myself to
secrecy.”
“But, you see, the police will declare that to reveal their action
might be to defeat the ends of justice.”
“I do not care. If they set up that plea, then I shall at once put the
question upon the paper.”
The Home Secretary looked at the young man. He did not like the
threat. Gordon Cunningham was a young and impetuous man, and an attack
upon Scotland Yard would greatly increase his popularity.
Just at that moment their host suggested bridge, and they were
compelled to rise.
“The matter rests with you, Bridgman,” said the young man; “but
remember I mean to act as I have said.”
“Well,” remarked the Home Secretary, “I’ll think it over. I question
very much if Scotland Yard will depart from its usual course--even in
face of your threat.”
“Then I shall ask the question,” laughed Gordon, as he passed out of
the room.
“I believe I shall obtain the information I seek,” the young man
muttered to himself as, a couple of hours later, he was driving home
to his chambers in Bruton Street. “Bridgman does not welcome the idea
of a question in the House. He believes I am acting for the public
welfare, and at the same time seeking a little cheap advertisement.
He, at least, does not dream the real reason why I am so desirous of
knowing in which direction the police inquiries are being directed.”
As he ascended the stairs and entered his chambers, Newton, his man,
came forward, saying:
“There is a gentleman waiting to see you, sir. His business, he says,
is very important, so he has remained. He’s been here nearly an hour,
sir.”
“Who is he?” asked the young legislator, glancing at the stranger’s
card as he stood in his cosy, luxurious, dimly-lit sitting-room,
furnished with low divans, Eastern hangings, and quantities of
bric-à-brac which he had collected in his travels in the Balkans,
Asia Minor, and Arabia.
“He’s a stranger,” said his man. “Evidently he is in a great hurry to
see you.”
Gordon sighed, for he was very tired after a long day and the fevered
atmosphere of the bridge-table.
“Oh! show him in,” he said, casting off his coat and advancing to the
fire.
A moment later a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man entered, carrying
his crush hat in his hand, and, bowing politely, expressed regret at
being compelled to call at that hour--for it was nearly eleven
o’clock.
The visitor did not look more than fifty-five, and rather dandified in
his smartly-cut dress clothes, black overcoat, and patent-leather
boots. Upon his face was a pleasant, urbane smile.
Yet, as the dim light from the shaded lamps in the old brass Turkish
lanterns fell across his profile, it revealed the sharply-cut features
of John Ambrose, the man who was such a past-master in the art of
disguise.
Gordon Cunningham, even though the light was dim and restful,
instantly recognised his visitor. He stood there gasping,
open-mouthed.
Ambrose, entirely unlike his real self, was quick to realise this.
Yet, coolly and unperturbed he stood before him, his hand in his
overcoat pocket, wherein reposed a big Browning revolver. His eager
finger was upon the trigger. He would shoot through his coat if
necessary. He had no compunction--and he took no risks.
John Ambrose, full of devilish cunning as always, was there for a
purpose.
“Well?” gasped the young man, his face pale as death.
“Well?” said the man of mystery. “So at last I have the opportunity of
a chat with you. You don’t seem exactly overjoyed to see me--eh?”