After leaving the office of the private detective, Aylmer went to
his rooms in Ryder Street. His original intention had been to return
to the quaint little village of Rottingdean that same day, and there
await developments. But, suddenly he had determined to change his
plans. And this alteration was due to his desire to be on the spot, so
that Duberry could get immediately in touch with him, if necessary. If
he went back to Rottingdean there would surely be some delay.
He rang up Duberry, and informed him that he had made up his mind to
stop in London for at least another week, in case of any sudden
communication. Duberry, on his side, had something to say.
“Glad you rang me up. There was something I forgot to speak about when
you were here. I was going to write to you about it. But now we shall
save time. I can easily identify a certain person, the man with the
limp; we know his City offices and his deformity. But about the other
people in the drama, the butler, the friend who formed one of a rather
inseparable trio, the lady and gentleman themselves--Can you give me a
pretty detailed description of them, so that I should spot them
immediately if I came across them?”
The answer was reassuring. Aylmer noticed that his friend was very
cautious over the telephone. He had not alluded to any one of them by
name.
“I can do better than write you a description. I am a bit of an
artist, you know. I am afraid that is too big a word, but I have a
slight gift for catching a fairly good likeness. I will send you
sketches by to-night’s post; you will get them in the morning.”
He set to work at once, and in a couple of hours had finished his
task. His portraits of Dicks and Martyn were lifelike. With Quentin he
was not quite so successful, and his portrait of Eileen was shadowy.
Perhaps he was too much in love with her to portray her absolutely.
Having sent these off, he began to feel a little easier in his mind.
Duberry, he was sure, would lose no time in getting on the track, and
whatever he learned would relieve him from this terrible state of
uncertainty. By resolving to stay in London, he had put it out of his
power to avoid for long a meeting with Peyton.
Why not take the bull by the horns without further delay? Peyton would
have to be told sooner or later; let it be sooner. He rang him up, and
after ascertaining that he had a spare evening, invited him to dine at
the Excelsior Club, of which they were both members.
During the progress of the dinner, he told his young friend of his
visit to Hampstead, and of his discovery that the Quentins had left.
He also told him of his meeting with Dicks, the butler, and of the
conversation which had taken place between him and that very
respectable person. Of course, he did not say a word about his
employment of Duberry, or the fact that his journey to The Laurels had
been undertaken in consequence of Eileen’s failure to keep her
engagement with him.
Peyton was wonderfully discreet. He recognized from Aylmer’s manner
that his telling him this singular story caused him some natural
embarrassment, and he did not wish to add to it by any inopportune
remarks. He did make just one observation.
“And you have not had one single line from either the husband or the
wife, giving you any explanation of this sudden departure?”
Aylmer replied quite truthfully in the negative. And Peyton spoke a
few final words with the air of a man dismissing the subject for good.
“It looks very much as if he was in some serious financial difficulty,
and finding he could get no assistance from you, made up his mind to
clear out. Well, I don’t expect you will hear any more of them, unless
one day you happen to strike them again in your wanderings abroad.”
In his heart, Peyton was, of course, very glad that the Quentins had
made this dramatic exit. Aylmer was feeling it very much, of that he
was sure. The change in his appearance, since he had last seen him,
indicated that he had been suffering great mental trouble. He could
only put it down to one cause: the loss of Eileen. To a man of
Peyton’s practical nature, it seemed impossible that a man could
grieve for long after a woman who had run away from him without a
farewell word. He was hard hit at the moment, naturally; but the sense
of her unworthiness would soon cure him. Of course, he did not quite
reckon with that ardent temperament which his friend inherited from
his Spanish mother.
Duberry was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. The day
after Aylmer had called on him, he was up at Hampstead, making a few
inquiries amongst the tradespeople. Amongst these, the verdict was
universal. The Quentins were good customers and prompt payers. Their
sudden departure was a great surprise, and they would be a loss to the
neighborhood. Mr. Dicks, the butler, was well spoken of, although they
did not come much into contact with him. The orders nearly always were
given by an elderly woman who appeared to act as cook-housekeeper.
Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Quentin had done a little shopping, but not
often. They lived a very quiet life and saw few visitors. The weekly
accounts were settled every Monday morning by a check on the
Piccadilly branch of the Consolidated Bank.
On his way back to town, after gathering this information, which
seemed to negative any suspicion of financial stress, Duberry looked
in at his own bank and asked them to make an inquiry as to Quentin’s
position, on the plea that he was engaged on some business with him.
In due course, the report arrived, and was communicated to Aylmer.
But before that report arrived, the indefatigable Duberry was on the
track of Ramon, the man with the limp. And to do this the more
effectually, he called in to his assistance a man named Webber, with
whom he was on very intimate terms.
Webber was aged about fifty-five, and, unlike his friend Duberry, had
been through the professional mill. Beginning as an ordinary
constable, he had shown particular zeal and intelligence, and finally
had worked his way up to a position of considerable importance in the
Criminal Investigation Department. But for a remarkable piece of luck,
in all probability, he would have remained at Scotland Yard till he
was pensioned off. This stroke of luck consisted in his being left a
comfortable little fortune by an uncle who, in early manhood, had gone
out to Australia with a few pounds in his pocket, and had done very
well. Being unmarried, he had made his will in favor of his sister’s
three children, dividing his possessions amongst them in equal
proportions.
George Webber was fond enough of his profession, but he was also a man
who could make good use of leisure. On his accession to a snug little
income of some seven hundred a year from this successful relation, who
nearly had been forgotten by his family, he made up his mind to retire
and leave the way open for younger men.
Shortly after his retirement, he had made the acquaintance of Duberry,
and on learning that he was following the profession of a Private
Inquiry Agent, had taken considerable interest in him. In process of
time, the pair became fast friends.
They were both bachelors, and had several tastes in common; they were
enthusiastic fishermen and keen golfers. Duberry found the experienced
man not only a pleasant companion, but a very useful friend as well.
Webber took a keen interest in the profession, and was a sort of
honorary adviser to the younger man, always ready to help him in any
difficult case.
Thus it came about, a few days after Aylmer’s visit to the offices in
Bloomsbury, that the two men were walking slowly down Old Broad
Street. In front of them was Ramon, the man with the limp, who had
come out of one of the buildings in that narrow thoroughfare.
When Duberry had given Webber a brief _résumé_ of the case which
Aylmer had asked him to investigate, the old Scotland Yard official
had agreed that they ought to get on the track of Ramon as soon as
possible. They had started to-day, having hung about the street till
they saw him emerge from his office. They were following him now with
the intention of finding out where he lived. At this hour of the day,
it would be pretty certain he would be returning to his home, wherever
it might be.
At the eastern end of Old Broad Street the man with the limp turned
into the railway station on the left, and they heard him ask for a
ticket to Dalston.
Duberry took two tickets for the same place, Webber whispering, as
they followed the limping man: “He doesn’t seem to reside in a very
fashionable quarter, does he? That is, if he does live there. One
would have expected him to have a season ticket, if he travels every
day. And then, perhaps, he has his reasons for not taking one--doesn’t
want to give his name and address for one thing.”
At Dalston, Ramon got out, and he was followed at a respectful
distance by his trackers. Dalston is a very busy neighborhood, and it
was just the hour when the male portion of the population was
returning from work. The streets were very full, and they could shadow
him without any great risk of being observed by him. For about ten
minutes he limped along, traversing several side streets leading off
the main road, and turned into one of the poorest-looking of them.
They were all shabby houses, testifying in their dilapidated fronts
and dingy window curtains that the tenants were people in the poorest
circumstances. In the door of one of these unprepossessing dwellings
Ramon inserted a latch-key, and entered the house. The two men halted
a little lower down, and began to compare notes.
“It’s long odds he lives here,” said Duberry. “If he were only an
occasional visitor, he would hardly burden himself with a latch-key,
although, of course, we mustn’t be too ready to take anything for
granted. One thing is pretty certain: his appearance and clothes are
distinctly out of harmony with this mean street. Well, having got
here, I suppose we had better hang about a bit, in case of any
developments.”
“Of course, we will hang about,” said the ex-police official, adding,
with a reminiscent chuckle: “In my day, I have waited hours and hours
shadowing a man before I could get hold of anything. I don’t think we
shall have to use much caution with this chap; I am sure he is more
than usually short-sighted. I noticed when he paid for his ticket, he
had to hold the coin quite close to his eyes to make sure of the value
of it. Well, we will just cross over and walk up and down on the other
side of this depressing street, on the chance of his coming out
again.”
Duberry admired that little touch about the short-sightedness. It was
just one of those bits of observation which denoted the experienced
hand, the man who had trained his faculties to the fullest extent.
As they paced up and down, Webber made some pertinent remarks. “If we
don’t have the pleasure of seeing him again this evening, you will
have to take up the hunt to-morrow; but I’m sorry I can’t join you, as
I have a previous engagement. But I’ve a notion he will come out
presently. In spite of the evidence of that latch-key, I don’t believe
this is his actual home. If my suspicions are correct, he will turn
out to be quite an interesting personage and well worth the trouble of
tracking.”
Their vigil was comparatively a short one; well within half an hour
Ramon let himself out of the shabby-looking house. A
slatternly-looking woman accompanied him to the door, and stood
chatting with him for a few seconds. Finally they shook hands, and the
man with the limp returned in the direction from whence he had come.
“Humph!” growled Webber in a low voice. “That handshake looks as if
they had parted for the evening. I begin to be confirmed in my opinion
that he doesn’t live there. Still, we’ve got him well in sight now,
and we’ll see it through. You see, he has changed his clothes, and he
is carrying a suitcase. That, no doubt, contains the togs he wore when
leaving the office. I wonder if he’s going to lead us much of a
ramble. I should say he has come down to this unfashionable quarter to
keep some appointment. We shall know more, presently.”
The man had altered his appearance considerably. When he had entered
the house it had been quite out of keeping with the surroundings, as
Duberry and his companion had noted at once. The clothes he wore now
had been well worn, to the verge of shabbiness. He did not look like a
working man, but rather gave the impression of a poorly-paid clerk.
They followed him for some time. Suddenly he turned sharply to the
right, and went in through the swinging doors of a rather dimly lit
public house.
When he was with a companion, Webber had a habit of indulging in
low-voiced comments on any particular turn in the situation. He did so
when he saw their quarry disappear through the swinging doors, “Our
quick-change artist is going to meet somebody here, thinks it is a
safe neighborhood. I see he has chosen the saloon-bar, showing he is a
man who likes the best surroundings. Well, we will follow and see what
happens.”
Webber, who always took the lead in any expedition in which they
jointly were engaged, by virtue of his experience and seniority, laid
a restraining hand upon his friend’s arm.
“Wait a second, we will handle this thing in an artistic manner. To go
in together will focus all eyes upon us, at once. You enter first,
order a drink, and sit down. I will come in two or three minutes
later, glance casually around, and recognize in you an old pal whom I
haven’t seen for some time. We’ll shake hands, and pretend to be
delighted to meet each other. We are both good enough actors to make
the thing appear quite natural. As I told you, I don’t believe Ramon
can see very distinctly; but, he may be meeting a friend who has got
normal vision.”
Duberry recognized the common sense of his friend’s suggestion. He
remarked, with the idea of showing that he was not without a proper
share of subtlety: “If I had the ghost of an idea that we were coming
into this part of the world, we would have put on more suitable
clothes. Anyway, we must make the best of it. I don’t think either of
us looks very much like the typical ‘tec.’”
The programme was carried out. Duberry went in first and ordered a
drink at the bar. When it was served to him, he retired to a seat
where he could have a clear view of the apartment and its occupants.
At this early hour of the evening there were not many customers, just
about half a dozen men round the center of the bar, and in the far
corner of it Ramon talking in low tones to a respectable-looking man
with side whiskers. Thanks to Aylmer’s life-like sketch, the detective
was able to recognize Dicks, the butler, without a moment’s
hesitation.
A couple of minutes later, the other actor in the drama sauntered in
and walked briskly up to the bar without looking to the right or left.
With his glass in his hand, he turned round and took a leisurely
survey of his surroundings. That survey immediately included Ramon and
the man with the whiskers. Then, at last, Webber’s roving eye came to
a halt at the table where his friend had seated himself. He gave a
well-simulated start of surprise, and a genial smile overspread his
round, florid face. He hastily crossed over with outstretched hand.
Not to be outdone in this little piece of byplay, Duberry manifested
similar signs of surprise and pleasure at the apparently unexpected
meeting. After indulging in the heartiest of greetings, Webber sat
down beside his friend, and began to talk in a loud voice of the last
occasion on which they were supposed to have encountered each other.
This piece of camouflage finished, he resumed his ordinary demeanor,
and presently inquired in lower tones if Duberry had spotted the man
with the whiskers. When he received an answer in the affirmative, and
learned that it was Dicks, the butler, his expression betokened
satisfaction.
“Not so bad for the first attempt,” he remarked in the same cautious
undertone. “Now, the thing is to turn this little incident to the best
advantage.”
He ruminated for some time. Then, presently, his active brain evolved
a plan. “Go over to the bar as soon as we have finished our drinks and
order another couple. While they are being served, try to get into
conversation with these fellows, offer them one or two good tips for
to-morrow’s races. Then, when you have established friendly relations,
press a cigarette or cigar on Ramon. Don’t give it to him yourself.
Hand your case to him, and let him pick it out. You guess my object,
of course?”
Duberry was not perhaps quite so resourceful as the older man, but was
fairly quick. “To get his finger-prints. Right, I’ll try it. We’ll be
no worse off than at present, if it doesn’t work.”
Webber watched the proceedings with intense interest. It was going on
all right. Duberry was possessed of an affable manner that soon gained
him the confidence of strangers. There was a little conversation, the
offer of a cigarette case to Ramon, who took it in his hand and
extracted a cigarette, and, at Duberry’s suggestion, passed it to the
butler. Dicks, apparently a non-smoker, shook his head. The case was
returned to the owner, who after the exchange of a few further
remarks, went back to his friend.
“Very neatly done,” was Webber’s pleased comment. “I will follow this
up for you at Scotland Yard. Now then, I think we had better part
company. I’ll be off as soon as I have finished my drink. You will
stay till they leave and do your best to follow them. If they go far
together in company you will have a difficult job, for that chap Dicks
gives me the impression of a very spry fellow.”
After Webber’s departure, Duberry sat there for some time, waiting for
the two men to make a move. It turned out that the pair had resolved
on similar tactics. Dicks went out by himself, after shaking hands
with his companion, and Ramon stayed behind a few minutes before
taking his departure. It was obvious they did not want to be seen too
much together.
Duberry followed him to the railway station, where the man with the
limp took a ticket back to the City. It was a bit of luck that he was
by himself, the detective thought, as it would now be easy to follow
him to his real dwelling-place.
He got into the front part of the train so that he should not miss his
quarry when they both got out at the station.
But here an unwelcome surprise awaited him. Plenty of passengers came
streaming along, but Ramon was not amongst them. He had stolen a march
upon his pursuer, and must have got out at an intermediate station.