IS SUSPICIOUS
They walked leisurely along the platform, Dick still carrying his
suit-case, and at the end of it passed down the sloping sub-way which
leads to the Metropolitan Railway. For a moment they were out of sight,
but directly I turned the corner I saw them again; they walked slower
now, Dick evidently finding his burden rather heavy. At the pigeon-hole
of the booking-office a queue of a dozen or so were waiting to buy
tickets. The woman and Dick did not stop, however. I saw them pass by
the queue, and then I saw the woman hold out tickets to the collector to
be clipped, and as I took my place at the back end of the queue she and
Dick passed on to the Praed Street platform.
To what station should I book? I had no idea where they were going, so
decided to go to High Street, Kensington, and pay the difference if I
had to follow them further. There were still six people in front of me,
when I heard the train coming in.
"Hurry up in front!" I called out in a fever of excitement, dreading
that I might not get a ticket in time.
"All right, my man—don't shove!" the man immediately before me
exclaimed angrily, pushing back against me. "This ain't the only train,
you know; if you miss this you can catch the next!"
I believe he deliberately took a long time getting out his money.
Anyway, before I had bought my ticket the train had started. A moment
later I stood upon the platform, watching, in a frenzy of despair, the
red tail-light of the train containing Dick and the strange woman
disappearing into the tunnel.
I felt literally beside myself. What in the world had I done! I had
deliberately let the strange woman take Dick away with her, without
having the remotest idea where she was going or why she had, to all
intents, abducted the boy. It was awful to think of—and I alone was
entirely to blame! Then the thought came back to me that I had told Dick
to have no fear, assuring him that I would be near him all the time.
What would the headmaster say who had confided him to my care? Worse,
what would Sir Roland say when I confessed to him what I had done?
These and other maddening thoughts were crowding into my brain as I
stood upon the platform, dazed, and completely at a loss what to do,
when somebody nudged me. Turning, I recognized at once the man in the
snuff-coloured suit who had told me so rudely "not to shove," and had
then dawdled so while buying his railway ticket. I was about to say
something not very complimentary to him, when he spoke.
"I trust you will forgive my apparent rudeness a moment ago at the
booking-office," he said in a voice I knew quite well, "but there's a
method in my madness. I am Preston—George Preston."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, the sudden revulsion of feeling almost
overpowering me. "But do you know what has happened—do you know that
Sir Roland Challoner's son I had charge of has—"
"Don't distress yourself, Mr. Berrington," he interrupted reassuringly,
"I know everything, and more than you know, but I rather feared that
you might see through this disguise. I have been loafing about
Paddington station for nearly an hour. The lady I expected to see
arrived just after seven, and took up her position under the clock. Then
I saw you and the lad arrive; I saw you recognize the woman; I saw you
put yourself out of sight behind the pile of trunks, and talk earnestly
to the lad for a few moments, and I guessed what you were saying to him.
I walked right past you in the sub-way, and intentionally made you miss
this train, because it is inexpedient that you should follow those two.
I know where they are going, and Mr. Osborne knows too; I needn't
trouble to explain to you here how I come to know all this. The thing
you have to do now is to come with me to my house off Regent Street,
where Mr. Osborne awaits us."
Never in my life, I suppose, have I felt so relieved as I did then, for
the mental pain I had endured during these few minutes had been torture.
Indeed, I felt almost indignant with Preston for his having made me
suffer so; but he explained that he had revealed himself to me the
moment he felt justified in doing so. Suddenly a thought occurred to me.
"Do you know," I asked him quickly, "anything of a telegram sent to Eton
this morning, apparently by Sir Roland, saying that Miss Challoner had
been taken suddenly ill, and requesting that his son might be sent home
to Holt at once?"
"Yes, I know, because—I sent it."
"_You_ sent it!"
"Yes—though I didn't write it. Mrs. Stapleton wrote it. She gave it to
her chauffeur, who was in the hall at the Rook Hotel, and when she was
gone he asked me if I would mind handing it in, as I had intentionally
told him I was going to the post office. I was a chauffeur, too, at the
time, chauffeur to 'Baron Poppenheimer,' whom I drove down this morning
in his car ostensibly to see the beautiful widow. 'Baron Poppenheimer'
was, of course, Mr. Osborne. The widow was not at 'The Book' when we
arrived—we knew she wouldn't be, and, of course, you know where she
was, she was at the house in Hampstead where you found Miss Challoner
when you called there this morning; she arrived home about two o'clock,
however, and while 'Baron Poppenheimer' was making himself agreeable to
her—your friend Mr. Osborne is a most splendid actor, and ought to have
been in the detective force—I was making headway with her chauffeur out
in the garage. Yes, Mr. Berrington, you can set your mind at rest—Miss
Challoner is perfectly well. I wonder if by chance you telephoned to
Holt this afternoon."
"I tried to."
"And you couldn't get through? The line was out of order?"
"Yes."
"Good!" Preston exclaimed, his small, intelligent eyes twinkling oddly.
"That is as I thought. One of Gastrell's accomplices set the line out of
order between three and five this afternoon. When the line comes to be
examined the electrician will, unless I am greatly mistaken, find the
flaw at some point between Holt Stacey and Holt Manor—if you should
happen to hear, you might tell me the exact point where they find that
the trouble exists. My theories and my chain of circumstances are
working out splendidly—I haven't as yet made a single false conjecture.
And now come along to my house, and I'll tell you more on the way."
Osborne sat in Preston's sitting-room, smoking a long cigar. He no
longer wore the disguise of "Baron Poppenheimer," or any disguise, and
upon our entry he uttered an exclamation.
"By Jove, Mike," he said, "you are the very man we've been wanting all
day. Where did you disappear to last night?" And turning to Preston he
added, "Were you right? Did he follow the widow and Miss Challoner home
last night?"
"Yes," I answered for him, "I did. Did you see Dulcie at Gastrell's last
night?"
"I should say so—and we saw you gazing at her. You nearly gave yourself
away, Mike; you did, indeed. You ought to be more careful. When we saw
you follow them out of the room, we knew, just as though you had told
us, that you meant to follow them home. And what about the boy?" he
said, addressing Preston. "Did he turn up? And was he met?"
"Yes, just as I expected; but he wasn't met by Sir Roland's butler, of
course. He was met by Doris Lorrimer—you have probably noticed her,
that dark, demure, quietly dressed girl who was at Connie Stapleton's
dinner party at 'The Rook,' and at Gastrell's last night."
"You don't mean to say that she, too, is one of Gastrell's accomplices!"
Jack exclaimed. "It seems impossible—looking like that!"
"I have suspected it for some time. Now I am sure. She has taken Dick
Challoner to Connie Stapleton's house in Hampstead. It's one of the
headquarters of the set, though, of course, the principal headquarters
are at 300 Cumberland Place. How furious Lord Easterton would be if he
knew! He suspects nothing as yet, I think."
"But how do you know that Doris Lorrimer has taken the boy to that
Hampstead house?" Osborne asked quickly; "and why has she taken him?"
"The gang have kidnapped him—it was Connie Stapleton's idea—in order
to get the reward they feel sure Sir Roland will offer for his recovery.
How I know where Doris Lorrimer has taken him is that Connie Stapleton's
chauffeur, with whom I fraternized this afternoon in Newbury, happened
to mention that his mistress had told Miss Lorrimer to be under the
clock at Paddington at seven-fifteen this evening to meet the man with
the parcel,' as she said, and then to take the 'parcel' to her house in
Hampstead! I won't tell you until later how I come to know the
kidnapping was Mrs. Stapleton's idea; I have a reason for not telling
you—yet."
"You certainly are a marvel, George," Jack said, as he blew a cloud
towards the ceiling. "We seem to be well on the way now to running
these scoundrels to ground. I shall be glad to see them
convicted—right glad."
"We are 'on the way'—yes," Preston answered, "but you'll find it a
longer 'way' than you expect, if you are already thinking of
convictions. You don't know—you can't have any idea of—the slimness of
these rogues if you suppose we are as yet anywhere near running them to
ground. Just look how clever they have already been: first there is the
fire in Maresfield Gardens and the discovery of the stabbed and charred
body, for you may depend upon it that fire was meant to conceal some
crime, probably murder, by destroying all traces, including that body
which ought by rights to have been entirely consumed; then there is the
robbery at Holt Manor; then the affair in Grafton Street, with yourself
as the victim; then the murder of Sir Roland's gardener, Churchill—all
these constitute mysteries, undiscovered crimes, and now comes this
business of kidnapping Sir Roland's young son."
We talked at considerable length, discussing past and present
happenings, and arranging our future line of action. Preston was
immensely interested in the cypher messages unravelled by Dick—I had
brought the cuttings with me to show to him and Jack. The reference to
the date of the coming of age of Cranmere's son, considered in
connection with the questions about Cranmere's seat, Eldon Hall, put to
Osborne during his mysterious confinement in Grafton Street, made the
detective almost excited. The unravelling of those cyphers was, he said,
perhaps the most important discovery as yet made. Indeed, he believed
that our knowledge of these messages might simplify matters Sufficiently
to lead directly to the arrest of at any rate some members of the gang
at a much earlier date than he had previously anticipated.
"It is clear," he said, as he put the cuttings into the envelope again
and handed them back to me, "that Gastrell and company contemplate a
coup of some sort either on the day Lord Cranmere's son comes of age, or
on one day during the week of festivities that will follow. 'Clun
Cross.' We must find out where Clun Cross is; probably it's somewhere in
Northumberland, and most likely it's near Eldon Hall. I suppose,
Osborne, that you are invited to the coming of age, as you know
Cranmere so well?"
"Yes, and I mean to go. But Berrington isn't invited; he doesn't know
Cranmere."
"He probably knows what he looks like, though," Preston answered,
laughing—he was thinking of his impersonation of the Earl, and his
wonderful make-up. "I am not invited either, professionally or
otherwise, so that Mr. Berrington and I had better go to Bedlington and
put our heads together there, for something is going to happen at Eldon
Hall, Osborne, you may take my word for that. We mustn't, however,
forget that last cypher message: 'Osborne and Berrington suspect; take
precautions.' 'Precautions' with such people may mean anything. I am
firmly of opinion that poor Churchill's assassination was a
'precautionary' measure. It was on the afternoon before that murder,
remember, that Churchill found the paste buckle at the spot where a grey
car had been seen, left deserted, on the morning of the robbery at Holt.
It was on the afternoon before that murder that he brought the buckle to
Miss Challoner, told her about the grey car he had seen, which, he said,
led him to suspect something, and asked to have the afternoon off. It
was on that same afternoon that Mrs. Stapleton happened to motor over to
Holt, and while there was told by Miss Challoner all about the finding
of the buckle, also all about Churchill's secret suspicion about the
car, and his asking to have the afternoon off, presumably to pursue his
inquiries. And what happened after that? Don't you remember? Mrs.
Stapleton telephoned from Holt to the Book Hotel in Newbury and talked
to someone there—her maid, so she said—for five minutes or more,
talked to her in Polish. Now, does anything suggest itself to either of
you? Don't you think it quite likely that Mrs. Stapleton, hearing from
Miss Challoner all about what had happened, telephoned in Polish certain
instructions to somebody in Newbury, most likely one of her accomplices,
and that those instructions led, directly or indirectly, to Churchill's
being murdered the same night, lest he should discover anything and give
information? One thing I am sure of, though—Mrs. Stapleton's
chauffeur is an honest man who does not in the least suspect what is
going on; who, on the contrary, believes his mistress to be a most
estimable woman, kind, considerate, open-handed. I found that out while
associating with him to-day as a fellow-chauffeur."
It was nearly nine o'clock before we went out into Soho to dine. Preston
told us that he had arranged to call at Willow Road for Dick between ten
and half-past. The three of us were to go to Hampstead and represent
ourselves as being instructed by Sir Roland to take the boy away.
Preston himself would, he said, represent himself as being an Eton
master, and Doris Lorrimer was to be closely cross-questioned as to who
had authorized her to meet the boy and take him to Hampstead and—
Well, Preston had thoroughly thought out his plan of action down to the
smallest detail, and during dinner in the little restaurant in Gerrard
Street, to which he had taken us, he explained it to us fully. Briefly,
his intention was to frighten Doris Lorrimer half out of her senses by
threatening instant prosecution if she did not, then and there, make
certain disclosures which would help on our endeavour to bring to
justice the whole gang with which she was evidently associated.
"But supposing," I hazarded, "we don't see Doris Lorrimer. Supposing we
see only a servant, who assures us that we are mistaken, and that Dick
isn't there. Supposing that Mrs. Stapleton, or even Gastrell, should
confront us. What then?"
"I have carefully considered all those possibilities," Preston answered
lightly as he refilled my glass, then Jack's, and then his own. "If
anything of that kind should happen I shall simply—but there, leave it
to me and I think you will be satisfied with the outcome. You must
remember, Mr. Berrington, that I have been at this sort of thing over
twenty years. Well, here's luck to our enterprise," and, raising his
glass, he clinked it against our glasses in turn, then emptied it at
a draught.
"And now," he said, preparing to rise, "we must be moving. We have
rather a ticklish task before us, though I have no fear whatever as to
its sequel, provided you leave most of the talking to me. In any case
there must be no violence, remember. The only thing I regret is that the
lad will most likely be asleep, so that we shall have to awaken him."
Punctually at half-past ten our taxi drew up outside the house numbered
460 Willow Road, Hampstead.