against me--to put the police upon my track! By Jove! There's no time
to lose. It must be done to-night!"
Next instant he turned, and going to the railway station he obtained a
leather handbag from the cloak-room, and hastened with it back to his
house. He wore rubber heels to his shoes, and moved swiftly and almost
noiselessly.
In the darkness he ascended the steps, and opened the front door with
his key. There was no light in the hall, and he could see through the
Venetian blind of the kitchen that Mrs. Felmore was below.
Without passing into the sitting-room, he went straight upstairs to the
mysterious apartment in which the hooded figure lived in secret. First,
he placed his handkerchief over his mouth, and then, opening the door,
passed in and switched on an electric torch which he produced from his
pocket.
Without hesitation he unlocked the heavy bag, and took therefrom a long
narrow deal box, which he opened, apparently to make certain that
nothing was broken within, and then, placing it upon a table, drew down
a little electric switch which was fitted at one end of the box.
Afterwards, scarcely looking around, he left the room, relocked the
door, and crept out of the house without anyone having seen or heard
him, old Mrs. Felmore being quite unconscious of her master's secret
visit.
Back at the end of Hammersmith Bridge, Boyne glanced at his watch; then,
chuckling to himself, he hurried to the police-station, in order to
watch Marigold farther in case she had not already left.
When the girl had told the sergeant on duty the reason of her visit, she
was passed upstairs into a room, where she was seen by the Inspector of
the Criminal Investigation Department attached to the Division, a
clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned man, who listened to her story very
attentively.
From time to time he took notes of names and addresses.
"Have you any of the telegrams which the missing man sent you?" he asked
presently.
From her handbag she produced two of the messages, which he read
carefully.
"And since the twenty-third of last month you've not seen him?" he
asked.
"No," replied the girl.
"And in Mincing Lane they have heard nothing since the receipt of the
last telegram?"
"Nothing--neither has his sister."
The inspector looked her straight in the face, and said:
"I presume, Miss Ramsay, that this gentleman was a particular friend of
yours, eh?"
Marigold blushed slightly and responded in the affirmative.
"Is there any reason you suspect why he should have gone away so
suddenly? Did you--well, did you quarrel with him, for instance?"
"Not in the least. We were the best of friends," she answered. "I came
here to ask whether you could assist me in finding him."
The clean-shaven man drew his breath, and gravely shook his head.
"I fear that we shall be unable to help you," he replied.
"Why? He is missing. Surely the police can trace him!" she cried in
disappointment.
"No. He is _not_ missing," was his answer. "The fact that he sent
those telegrams is sufficient to show that he is keeping out of the way
for some purpose best known to himself. He has, no doubt, some secret
from you."
"Secret from me?" she echoed in dismay. "No, we both had a secret."
The inspector only smiled. He, of course, thought she alluded to the
fact that they were lovers.
She saw his amusement, and wondered whether she dare be frank and tell
him of their suspicions concerning Mr. Boyne. Yet the thought flashed
across her mind that the story of his visits to that upstairs room,
clothed in that strange garb, would never be credited. The London
police hear strange stories from hour to hour, many of them the result
of vivid imaginations, of hearsay, or deliberate attempts to incriminate
innocent persons. Malice is at the bottom of half the fantastic stories
told by women to officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, and
Marigold saw that even though she told the truth, it would not be
believed. Yet could she eliminate the real reason why her suspicions
had first been aroused? She resolved to be frank, therefore after a
brief pause, she said:
"The secret shared by Mr. Durrant and myself was concerning a certain
man, resident close by here."
"Oh! And what is it?" asked the officer eagerly.
"Well, we have certain suspicions regarding a gentleman named Boyne, who
lives in Bridge Place."
"Boyne? Why, not old Bernie Boyne the insurance agent?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Oh--well, he's well known about Hammersmith," was the inspector's
discreet reply. "What about him?"
"There is something about him that is mysterious," declared the girl.
"Very mysterious."
"And what's that?"
"Well, Mr. Durrant was helping me to watch his movements when he
suddenly disappeared!"
"Ah! That's interesting. Did Boyne know you were watching?"
"No. He had no suspicion. We watched him go to two houses, one in Pont
Street, and the other in Upper Brook Street," Marigold said. "At night
he dresses smartly and goes into the West End."
"A good many men do that, miss. By day they earn their money honestly
by hard work, and at night fritter it away up West. I don't really see
what there is in that. Isn't there anything else you know?"
Marigold hesitated. She feared to tell him of the strange disguise.
"Well, my aunt is Mr. Boyne's housekeeper, and I know that a room at the
top of the house is kept locked."
"A good many upstairs rooms are kept locked. There's nothing much in
that, I think."
"But I heard noises inside--a human cry!"
The inspector looked at her with disbelief written upon his rosy
countenance.
"Are you quite sure of that, Miss--er--Miss Ramsay?" he asked seriously.
"Yes. I heard it," was her firm reply.
"Ah! Then, because of that you and Mr. Durrant believed that Boyne has
somebody in hiding upstairs. Is that so?"
She replied in the affirmative.
"And you don't think Boyne discovered that you were watching him? If he
did, I think he would have resented it very much, for I've met Boyne
once or twice. Indeed, I passed him in King Street an hour ago."
"You passed him! Perhaps he's back then. My aunt hasn't seen him for
three days."
"Well, I saw him in King Street to-night, but he didn't see me." Then,
after a pause, he added: "I think, miss, you're mistaken regarding Mr.
Boyne. I only know him slightly, but I know in what respect he is held
in the neighbourhood, and how his praises are upon everyone's
lips--especially the church people."
"Then you don't think that he has anything to do with Mr. Durrant's
disappearance?"
"Not in the least. I should dismiss that idea from my mind at once."
"But how about that locked room?"
"Your aunt will be able to fathom that if she keeps her eyes open," he
said. "And as for Mr. Durrant, you'll no doubt hear from him very soon.
To me it seems perfectly clear that he has some hidden motive for
keeping out of the way. Are his accounts at the office all right, for
instance?"
"Quite in order."
"Blackmail may be at the bottom of it. That accounts for the mysterious
disappearance of lots of men and women."
"But who could blackmail Mr. Durrant?"
"Ah! you don't know. A little slip, a year or so ago, and the screw is
now being put on by those who know the truth. Oh! that is an everyday
occurrence in London, I assure you, Miss Ramsay."
"Then you can't help me to find him?" she asked eagerly, after a brief
silence.
"I don't see how we can act," was the officer's answer. "Had he
disappeared without a word we would, of course, circulate his
description and a photograph--if you have one?"
"Yes, I have one," she said anxiously.
"Good. But that is useless to us, for the simple reason that, after
leaving you, he has sent you messages telling you not to worry. In face
of that, how can we assume that anything tragic has happened to him?
No, my dear young lady," he added. "I fear we cannot help you
officially, much as I regret it."
Five minutes later Marigold descended the stairs, and walked out into
the dark road utterly disconsolate and disappointed. Gerald was
missing, yet the police would raise not a finger to assist her in
tracing him!
Yet, after all, as she walked back to Bridge Place, she saw quite
clearly that there was much truth in the detective-inspector's argument.
Gerald had not suddenly disappeared and left no trace. He had urged her
not to worry, and the inspector had advised her to keep on hoping for
his return.
Later she sat in the kitchen with her aunt, and related all that had
passed at the police-station.
"I quite agree with the inspector," declared the deaf old woman. "The
police can't search for every man who goes away and sends telegrams
saying he has gone. You see, Mr. Durrant hasn't committed any crime,
for instance. So there's no real reason why the police should act. If
he hadn't sent telegrams the case would be so different."
With that view the girl, greatly distressed and broken, had to agree.
It was then nearly ten o'clock, and at her aunt's suggestion Marigold
resolved to stay the night and keep the old woman company.
"You can have the same room you had a little time ago," she said. "It
is aired, for I always keep hot-water bottles in it in case it may be
wanted. If you went home now, you wouldn't get there till half-past
eleven. Besides, it's more cheerful for me. I'm beginning to hate this
place now Mr. Boyne never comes near."
"The inspector said he saw Mr. Boyne in King Street to-night," Marigold
said.
"Bosh! my dear," was old Mrs. Felmore's prompt reply. "He wouldn't be
in King Street without coming home. It was somebody else he saw, no
doubt." And that was exactly what Marigold herself thought.
Soon after half-past ten, Mrs. Felmore put out the light, and they both
went to bed.
For half an hour Marigold lay awake thinking it all over, and thinking
of the last occasion she had slept in that room, and of the mysterious
chamber upstairs whence had issued those strange human cries. Then, at
last, tired out, she dropped off to sleep.
How long she slept she knew not, but suddenly she was awakened by men's
shouts, and next instant found the room full of smoke. There was a
roaring noise outside. Half suffocated she groped her way to the door
frantically, only to find the staircase above in flames.
"Auntie! auntie!" she yelled, not recollecting that her aunt was deaf,
but by dint of fierce courage she got to the old lady's room. As she
entered the door, Mrs. Felmore, half choking, met her in the red light
thrown by the flames, and together they sprang down the staircase, along
the hall, and, after fumbling with the chain upon the door, dashed out
of the house to where a number of people, including three police
constables, were awaiting the arrival of the fire brigade.
Meanwhile the top floor of the house was burning fiercely, the flames
going up through the roof for many feet, and as there was rather a high
wind, the sparks were flying everywhere.
Bernard Boyne's long deal box had sent petrol about the room of mystery
at the time to which it had been set, and already all evidence of what
was contained there, and of the mysterious origin of the fire, had been
obliterated.
The insidious death-dealer had hoped to include Marigold and his
housekeeper in that relentless plot to destroy all that might
incriminate him.
But he was mistaken. Marigold Ramsay, though in her night attire--and
who had fainted in the arms of a constable--had escaped unscathed!
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*HARD PRESSED*
When Celine Tenot and Henri Galtier so suddenly appeared outside Ena's
flat as the dark shadow of menace at the very moment of the diabolical
triumph of the death-dealers, Bernard Boyne realised that, in order to
escape, he would have to summon all his wits. The death of old Mr.
Martin in Chiswick was an ugly affair--a very ugly affair--and Celine
more than suspected--she knew that somehow by the old man's death all
three had profited.
At first Boyne was furious to think that Ena's visit to Melun, and the
payment of that respectable sum, had been of no avail. But next second,
he had seen that the only means of escape was to keep up his identity as
Mr. Bennett, to temporise with his pursuers, and then to effect an
escape. He saw that, at all hazards, he must prevent the pair of
blackmailers from facing Ena and Lilla.
Therefore, when the Frenchman had expressed that hard determination that
he wanted to prevent him from playing any more of his "hellish tricks"
upon innocent people, he had stood in his path upon the pavement and
replied:
"Now, Monsieur Galtier, just pause for a moment--and think! Aren't you
a fool? Celine's late mistress has been very good to her, and now you
come here and create trouble."
They were standing together against the railings of Hyde Park, not far
from the taxi-men's shelter.
"I wish to create no trouble," declared the Frenchman in very good
English. "Only trouble for _you_!" he snarled.
"That is extremely kind of you," Boyne retorted. "But if you still
continue to threaten me, I shall take measures to protect myself, and
also to retaliate."
"You have denounced me as a blackmailer!" the Frenchman snapped.
"I was wrong," said Boyne apologetically. "I withdraw those words.
Naturally at first I believed you wanted more money!"
"Then you believed wrong," was the reply. "Our object in coming to
London is to see madame and yourself--and to investigate further the
death of Monsieur Martin."
"Well, that you are perfectly at liberty to do," Boyne said, with
affected carelessness. "I have nothing whatever to fear. If you like
to waste your time and money, do so."
"Celine knows the truth," retorted Galtier.
"Then let her go to the police and tell them. The London police pay
little heed to the statements of discharged servants, especially if they
are foreigners."
"Yes, I will go!" cried the French girl excitedly. "You are
assassins!--assassins! You--both of you!--killed poor Monsieur Martin!"
"I think you will have to prove that," replied Boyne, remaining very
calm.
"Hush, Celine!" said her lover. "We do not want a fracas in the
street!"
"Bah! The man thinks we are afraid of him. But we are not! We are
here to get at the truth about poor monsieur."
"Well, mademoiselle, you are at perfect liberty to institute inquiries,"
Boyne replied. "But before you go to the police as you threaten, just
pause and ask yourself what all this storm in a teacup will profit you
and your friend."
The vivacious girl shrugged her shoulders.
"Remember that madame is your friend," he went on. "She told me that
she has recently been in Paris, and called upon you in Melun. Madame,
since you left, has several times expressed regret to me that she was
abrupt."
"Because she believes that I know your secret!" cried mademoiselle,
interrupting.
"Let us walk on," suggested Boyne, turning purposely towards
Knightsbridge. "There are some people trying to overhear our
conversation."
Galtier saw a man and two women who had halted close by, probably
attracted by the loud tones in which they were conversing. Strange
conversations go on in the London streets at night, as every police
constable knows. The night-world of London is an amazing world, of
which the honest go-to-bed-early citizen knows nothing. One half the
world of London is ignorant of what the other half does o' nights.
They moved on past the taxi shelter towards Knightsbridge, which was in
the opposite direction to Upper Brook Street.
"I think you are certainly not fair to madame," Boyne said very quietly
to the girl. "She, out of her own generous heart--for no better-hearted
woman ever lived--sought you out because she felt that she had treated
you unkindly. Of course, I do not know the real facts, but on the face
of it I think you, mademoiselle, treated your late mistress with
ingratitude. I say this," he went on, "in a perfectly friendly spirit.
You may have formed some unfounded suspicion regarding poor Mr. Martin's
death. Why, I don't know."
"Because I heard the truth from madame's own lips."
"Some distorted words half overheard, I suppose," he laughed. "My dear
mademoiselle, it is always very dangerous to interfere with the death of
anybody, because here in England there is such a thing as a law of
slander, and of libel--criminal libel, which means that those who make
false accusations may be committed to prison. Therefore, before you go
further, I advise you to consult a solicitor. He will no doubt advise
you."
"We will see the police first," declared Galtier.
"I have not the slightest objection," laughed Boyne. "If you think it
will avail you, go to Scotland Yard. That is the head office of the
Criminal Investigation Department, but"--and he paused--"but I tell you
this, Monsieur, if either of you make any accusations against madame or
myself, we shall at once prosecute you--and further, if you escape back
to France, we will follow you there and prosecute you. Here, in England,
we will not permit foreigners to come over and give the police a lot of
trouble for nothing. So make whatever statement you like, but don't
forget you will have to substantiate it with witnesses--otherwise you'll
probably both find yourselves in prison. That's all I have to say.
Good-night!"
And, turning abruptly upon his heel, the master-criminal walked back
towards Hyde Park Corner, leaving mademoiselle and her companion utterly
perplexed.
Bernard Boyne, as he hurried up Park Lane on his return to Upper Brook
Street, muttered to himself:
"I've given them something to think over! They'll hesitate--and while
they hesitate, we must act. It would have been fatal for them to have
met Ena--and especially to-night--_of all nights_!"
Ten minutes later he was back in Ena Pollen's room, where she was
sitting with Lilla.
"What's happened?" asked his wife, for the paleness of his countenance
betrayed that something was amiss.
"Oh! nothing--nothing serious, I mean!" was his reply. "Get me a
liqueur brandy," he stammered.
Ena went at once to the dining-room and brought a little glass of old
cognac, which he swallowed at a gulp, and then sat for a few moments
staring straight before him.
"Tell us, Bernie. What's happened? Where have you been?" demanded his
wife.
"Been! I--well, I've been right into the camp of the enemy!" he said
hoarsely.
"Enemy! What enemy?"
"Celine is here. Wants to see you. The fellow Galtier is with her.
They are on the track of old Martin, and want to see you!"
The two women exchanged glances, for the light in the faces of both had
died out.
"Celine here!" gasped Ena. "How much does she know?"
"How can we tell? I've simply defied her."
"But why didn't you offer to pay? They, of course, want money."
Rapidly he described to the two excited women what had occurred. Then
at last Lilla said:
"Well, the only thing we can do is to sit tight. We must--if we are to
get the money paid on dear Augusta's policy."
"Of course, we can't slip out, or it would be an admission, if Celine
really goes to the police."
"There is nothing to prevent her," remarked Ena. "The girl is
dangerous."
"So is that girl Ramsay. I've always said so," Lilla declared. "Her
lover is out of the way, and the sooner she herself is silenced the
better, for as long as that pair are alive they will always be a menace
to us."
"I quite agree," said the red-haired widow. "You said that many weeks
ago."
"Well, it is all in Bernie's hands. It's no use getting the insurance
company to pay without taking due precautions to protect ourselves, is
it?" asked Boyne's wife.
The death-dealers thereupon took counsel together. For an hour they sat
discussing plans, each putting their idea forward. In the whole of
criminal London no three persons were so callous, so ingenious, or so
regardless of human life. They had discovered a means of making money
with little exertion and with certain results. Boyne, expert as he was
in insurance and of a scientific turn of mind, could deal death whenever
and wherever he desired, and in such a manner that no coroner's jury
could pronounce a verdict other than that death had supervened as a
natural cause.
Not before three o'clock in the morning did Lilla and her husband leave
Upper Brook Street, and when they did an elaborate and ingenious plan
had been decided upon which left no loophole for discovery.
Mrs. Augusta Morrison of Carsphairn had died, and Ena would, of course,
excuse herself from going to the funeral. She had mourning which, as a
matter of fact, she had worn on more than one occasion when a wealthy
friend of hers had died. But in this case she dared not put in an
appearance.
At home in Pont Street, Boyne sat with his wife and discussed the
situation at considerable length.
"You must get rid of that girl Marigold," she said very emphatically, as
she lounged upon the silk-covered sofa in the elegant little room. "She
suspects something at Bridge Place, just as her lover suspected. Well,
we've successfully sent him off, and he can thank his lucky stars he
didn't get a dose."
"I only wish now I had given him a little dose that would have caused
him trouble about ten days after he sailed," Boyne said.
"Yes, Bernie. Recollect, I suggested it. They could have buried him at
sea, and we should not have been troubled by him any further."
"I was a fool not to take your advice, Lilla."
"You always are. But take my advice about the girl. She's distinctly
dangerous! A menace to all of us! And so is your _menage_ at
Hammersmith--especially if Celine really does go to the police. You
should end it all, and above everything close Marigold's mouth. That
girl is the greatest peril we have before us!"
Her husband, who had lit a cigarette, and was lounging in a chair,
agreed with her.
"But," he said, "how am I to do it? We are in a devilish tight corner,
Lilla! The game has been a great and very easy one up to now. Nobody
has ever yet tumbled to the scientific insurance stunt. And there's lots
of money in it. We've found it so. We've got between us eighty thousand
or so. A very decent sum. And we could make a million, given a quiet
market. Look at the lots of red- or golden-haired women who are wealthy
and who are not of any use on earth. Life assurance companies are
always on the look-out for business, and pay commission to any and every
little tin-pot agent who can put through a proposal. Remember that
young fool of a solicitor in Manchester. And there are hundreds about
the country everywhere."
"That's so, Bernie," replied his wife in a matter-of-fact tone, she
having taken a cigarette to smoke with her husband. "But here we have a
peril before us. We were never in such a tight corner before. This may
finish us!"
"Oh! my dear Lilla, don't get flurried. I am not. The fellow Durrant
is on the high seas as a man who has had a nervous breakdown. Oh, that
description! What a godsend it is to us all, isn't it? Nervous
breakdown is responsible for a thousand and one evasions of the
law--theft, bigamy, assault, forgery--in fact, almost any crime in the
calendar can be committed and ascribed to the 'nervous breakdown' of the
defendant. We've a lot to be thankful for from the doctors, Lilla," he
said, "a lot to be thankful for!"
"Well," she said, puffing thoughtfully at her cigarette, "if the secret
of Bridge Place were exposed, then I fear that you couldn't ascribe it
to a nervous breakdown, eh?"
Boyne laughed.
"No, Lilla. You are always alive--you are amazingly clever!" he
declared. "I did my best with that French girl, Celine, but--well, I'm
not quite certain whether she won't go to the police and make a
statement."
"Ah! I see," Lilla said quickly. "So we ought to clear out--and
quickly."
"Out of London, but not abroad. But not yet. If all of us left
suddenly, the insurance company might get scent of a mystery, especially
if Celine says anything about old Martin to the police."
"But what of Marigold? Has she any suspicion that Durrant is on the
sea?"
"None. Durrant telegraphed to her to urge her to be patient and that he
will return. So she's waiting--and she'll wait a long time!
"Ah! really, Bernie, you are wonderful. That was a glorious idea of
yours--those telegrams."
"Yes. They've worked well," he said. "Both the girl and his sister, as
well as the fellow's employers, have all been reassured."