"IN THE PAPERS"
Dick was sleeping so heavily that he hardly stirred when I picked him
up, carried him into my bedroom, laid him on my bed and loosened his
clothes; I had decided to sleep on the settee in the room adjoining.
Soon after seven next morning I was awakened by hearing him moving
about. He had made himself quite at home, I found, for he had had a bath
and used my towels and hair-brushes and found his way into a pair of
my slippers.
"I hope you don't mind," he said apologetically, after telling me what
he had done. "And now shall I tell you how I come to be here, Mike?" he
added, clambering up on to my bed and lying down beside me.
I told him I wanted to know everything, and at once, and, speaking in
his rapid, vivacious way, he went on to explain exactly what
had occurred.
It seemed that when he went and stood by Doris Lorrimer under the clock
at Paddington station, she had, as I had told him she probably would,
asked him if he were Dick Challoner. Upon his telling her that he was,
she said that she had been sent to meet him, and asked him to come with
her. She had not told him where they were going, but when she got out at
Baker Street station and he got out after her, a man had suddenly come
up to her and said he wished to speak to her privately. She had told
Dick to wait, and had then walked a little way away with the man, and
for about ten minutes they had stood together, conversing in undertones.
"What was the man like?" I interrupted.
Dick described him rather minutely—he said he had taken special notice
of his appearance "because he was such a hairy man"—and before he had
done I felt practically certain the man who had met Doris Lorrimer was
the foreign-looking man who had shadowed Preston, Jack, and myself the
night before.
"I think," Dick went on, "the lady altered her plans after meeting that
man; because for some moments after he had gone she seemed undecided
what to do. Finally she went out of the station, hailed a taxi in Baker
Street, told me to get into it, and then said something to the driver
that I couldn't hear. We went straight down Baker Street, down Orchard
Street—I noticed the names of both streets—then turned to the right
and stopped at a house in Cumberland Place. As you had disappeared, I
was beginning to feel a bit frightened, Mike,—I didn't much like the
woman, who had spoken hardly a word to me all the time,—so just as she
got out of the taxi on the left side, I quickly opened the door on the
right side, popped out while her back was still turned, and ran away as
hard as I could, leaving my suit-case in the taxi. It was very dark, and
I believe that until after she had paid the driver she can't have missed
me, as nobody came after me."
"Well, and what did you do then?"
"As soon as I had got well away, I went up to a policeman and asked him
the way to South Molton Street. He explained clearly, and I came
straight on here and asked for you. Your man, Simon, said you weren't
in, and that he didn't know when you would be, so I asked if I might
come in and wait, as I said I had something important to say to you. Of
course he knew me by sight from seeing me with you sometimes, so he said
'Certainly,' and put me into your sitting-room. It was past eight when I
got here. I was awfully hungry, so I ate all the cake and all the
biscuits I found in the sideboard in your dining-room, and then I sat
down in your big chair to wait for you—and I suppose I then
fell asleep."
This report interested me a good deal, and I was still pondering it when
my man came in with my letters and the newspaper, which he always
brought to me before I got up. After reading my letters I picked up the
newspaper, telling Dick to lie still and not disturb me until I had
glanced through it. I had read the principal items of news, when
suddenly my attention became centred upon an article which was headed:
AMAZING SERIES OF ROBBERIES
POLICE COMPLETELY BAFFLED
The article made up nearly a column of closely set type, and ran as
follows:
Within a brief period of three months, that is to say since the
beginning of December last, no less than eleven great robberies have
been committed in various parts of Great Britain. Up to the present,
however, no clue of any sort has been obtained that seems likely to lead
to the discovery of the perpetrators of any one of these crimes. The
victims of these robberies are the following:
Here followed a list of names of eleven well-known rich people; the
names of the houses where the robberies had been committed; a brief
description of the method employed by the thieves; and the value,
approximately, of the property stolen in each case. The houses were for
the most part large country mansions situated in counties far apart, and
"Holt Manor, Sir Roland Challoner's seat in Berkshire," figured in the
list. The article then continued:
When eleven such serious robberies, as we may rightly term them, are
committed in comparatively rapid succession, and our police and
detective force, in spite of their vaunted ability, prove themselves
unable to effect a single arrest, what, we have a right to ask, is amiss
with our police, or with their methods, or with both?
Questioned upon the subject, a well-known Scotland Yard Inspector
yesterday informed our representative that official opinion inclines to
the belief that the crimes mentioned have one and all been effected by a
group of amazingly clever criminals working in combination. "How many
members the gang consists of," he said, "how they obtained the special
information they must have possessed to enable them to locate so
accurately the exact whereabouts of the valuables they seized, and how
they succeeded in securing those valuables in broad daylight, we have
not the remotest notion. The theory held at present," he continued, "is
that a number of expert thieves have by some means succeeded in becoming
intimate with the owners of the houses that have been robbed. We
repudiate entirely the theory that servants in the different houses must
have been accomplices in the robberies either directly or indirectly."
The article then proceeded to advance a number of apparently plausible
theories to account for the non-discovery of the thieves, and finally
ended as follows:
If, then, our police and detectives would retain, or rather regain,
their prestige, it is incumbent upon them at once to take steps to
prevent any further outrages of this kind. Otherwise the police of Great
Britain will run a grave risk of becoming the laughing-stock of
Continental countries, where, we make bold to state, such a series of
robberies, all more or less of the same nature, and involving a loss of,
in the aggregate, approximately L50,000, would not thus have been
committed with impunity.
I handed Dick the paper. When he had carefully read the article right
through, he looked up abruptly.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I have an idea!"
I waited. For some moments he was silent. Then he continued:
"Do you remember the account of the robbery at Thatched Court, near
Bridport? It's one of the robberies mentioned in this list."
"I can't say I do," I answered. "I don't read the newspapers very
carefully. Why?"
"I happened to read that account, and remember it rather well. The
robbery took place about five weeks ago—the house was entered while
everybody, including some of the servants, was at a race-meeting. Among
the things stolen was a pair of shot-guns made by Holland and Holland."
"But what on earth has that to do with anything? Where does the 'idea'
come in?"
"It doesn't come in—there. It comes in later. You know that every
shot-gun has a number on it, and so can be identified. Now, if these
thieves are people who are pretending to be gentlemen—how do you put
it? There's a word you use for that, but I've forgotten it."
"Do you mean masquerading as gentlemen?"
"Masquerading—that's the word I was thinking of; if they are
masquerading as gentlemen they'll probably keep good guns like that to
shoot with—they can do that, or think they can, without running much
risk, whereas if they sold them they'd run rather a big risk of being
caught, because I happen to remember that the numbers of the stolen guns
were mentioned in the newspaper account of the robbery. They said the
guns were in a case, and almost new. Now, this is where my idea 'comes
in,' as you put it. I heard you tell Dulcie only the other day that you
wanted a pair of guns by a tip-top maker. Just afterwards I happened to
hear her talking to Mrs. Stapleton about her wedding—by the way, Mike,
have you fixed the date yet?"
"Not yet. But what about Mrs. Stapleton?"
"Well, Dulcie spoke about wedding presents, just casually in course of
conversation, and I heard her tell Mrs. Stapleton that you had said you
hoped among your wedding presents there would be a good gun, 'or, better
still, a pair,' I heard her say that you said. Mrs. Stapleton didn't
answer at once, but I noticed a queer sort of expression come on to her
face, as if she'd just thought of something, and presently she said: 'I
have a good mind, darling, to give him a pair of guns that belonged to
my poor husband. They are quite new—he can't have used them more than
once or twice, if that. They were made by a Bond Street gun-maker he
always went to, one of the best in London.' Mike, is Holland and
Holland's shop in Bond Street?"
"Yes," I answered, "at the top of Bond Street. Oh, but there are several
good gun-makers in Bond Street. Besides, why should Mrs. Stapleton give
me such a present as that? I really hardly know her."
"Wait until I've finished, Mike, you always jump at conclusions so.
Dulcie said almost at once: 'Oh, don't do that, Connie. Mike wouldn't
expect such a present as that from you. He mightn't like to take it; you
see, you hardly know him really'—just what you have this moment said.
Then Dulcie said: 'I tell you what I wish you would do, Connie—let me
buy them from you to give to him. What shall I give you for them?' I
believe that was what Mrs. Stapleton had been driving at all the
time—she wanted to sell the guns without running any risk, for of
course you would never think of noticing the numbers on them, and nobody
would ever suppose that guns given to you by Dulcie, apparently new
guns, were guns that had been stolen. In the end Dulcie said she would
give Mrs. Stapleton eighty pounds for the pair, and that was agreed
upon, so that Dulcie has practically bought them for you, in fact she
may have paid Mrs. Stapleton for them already. Now look here, I'll get
hold of that newspaper that gave the numbers of the guns, and I bet you
when Dulcie gives you those guns you'll find they're marked with the
numbers of the stolen guns."
"Dick," I said thoughtfully, after a moment's pause, "were you
eavesdropping when you heard all this?"
"Why, no, of course not!" he exclaimed indignantly. "I was in the room,
reading a book, and I couldn't help hearing all they said, though they
were talking in undertones."
I turned over in my bed, and looked into his eyes for an instant or two.
"Would you be surprised to hear, Dick," I said slowly, watching to see
what effect my words would have upon him, "would you be surprised to
hear that Dulcie gave me a pair of guns, as her wedding present, only
last week?"
Dick sprang up in the bed.
"Did she?" he cried out, clapping his hands. "Oh—Mike, tell me, are
they Holland guns?"
I nodded.
Dick jumped off the bed and began to caper about the room.
"Have you got them here?" he exclaimed at last, as his excitement began
to subside.
"They are in the next room. You shall see them after breakfast."
I had difficulty in calming Dick's excitement and inducing him to eat
his breakfast, and directly breakfast was over I took him into the next
room, produced the gun-case, pulled out the two pairs of barrels, and
together we examined the numbers stamped upon them. Dick wrote the
numbers down in the little notebook he always carried in his trousers
pocket, and a little later we drove down to Fleet Street to look up the
file of the newspaper in which Dick had, he declared, read the report of
the robbery at Thatched Court, near Bridport.
I confess that I had not placed much faith in Dick's theory about the
numbers. I had taken him down to Fleet Street chiefly because he had so
earnestly entreated me to. When, therefore, after turning up the report,
Dick discovered, with a shout of triumph, that the numbers on my guns
were actually identical with the numbers mentioned in the newspaper as
those of the stolen guns, I was not merely greatly astonished, but also
considerably perturbed.
"Dick," I said thoughtfully, when I had to some extent recovered from my
surprise, "I really think we shall have to make a private detective of
you. Would you like me to take you now to one of the most famous
detectives in London—a man who was connected with Scotland Yard for
twenty years, who is helping Mr. Osborne to try to discover who the
thieves are who robbed Holt Manor, and who it was who killed poor
Churchill?"
"Do you mean Mr. Preston?" the boy asked quickly, peering up at me out
of his intelligent brown eyes.
"Yes. I suppose you have heard Mr. Osborne and me speak of him."
"Of course I have, and I should love to see him. Are you going to see
him now?"
"I am going straight to him to tell him of your discovery of these
numbers. He already knows all about your having deciphered the newspaper
cyphers; in fact, he has the cuttings at this moment, and your
translation of them. He told me the other day that he would like to
meet you."
Preston was at home at his house in Warwick Street, off Recent Street.
In a few words I had explained everything to him, and at once he
grew serious.
"The unfortunate part," he said at last, "is that in spite of this young
man's sharpness in making this discovery, it really leaves us almost
where we were, unless—"
"Unless what?" I asked, as he paused, considering.
"Well, Mr. Berrington, it's like this," he said bluntly. "You are
engaged to be married to Miss Challoner, and she gives you a wedding
present—a pair of new guns; at least they are to all intents new, and
naturally she expects you to think they are, and might be vexed if she
thought you had found out that she picked them up as a bargain. Now, it
all turns on this: Have you the moral courage to tell your _fiancee_
that you believe the wedding present she has given you is part of the
plunder secured in a recent robbery, indeed that you know it is, and
that therefore you and she are unwittingly receivers of stolen goods? I
have never myself been in love, so far as I can recollect, but if I were
placed as you are I think I should hardly have the courage to
disillusion the young lady."
I am bound to admit that until he put this problem to me it had not
occurred to me to look at the matter in that light, and now I felt much
as Preston declared he would feel if he were in my place. Dulcie might
not mind my having discovered that she had picked up the guns as a
bargain—indeed, why should she? But when it came to hinting—as I
should have to do if I broached the matter at all—that I believed that
her great friend Connie Stapleton knew, when she sold the guns to her,
that they had been stolen—Connie Stapleton, who was about to become her
stepmother—
No, I shouldn't have the pluck to do it. I shouldn't have the pluck to
face the storm of indignation that I knew my words would stir up in
her—women are logical enough, in spite of all that the ignorant and
unthinking urge to the contrary, but in this particular case Dulcie
would, I felt perfectly certain, "round" upon me, and, in the face of
evidence, no matter how damning, declare that I was, to say the least,
mistaken. She would go at once to Connie Stapleton and tell her
everything, and immediately Connie Stapleton would invent some plausible
story which would entirely clear her of all responsibility, and from
that moment onward I should probably be her bitterest enemy. No, I
thought; better, far better, say nothing—perhaps some day circumstances
might arise which would of themselves lead to Mrs. Stapleton's, so to
speak, "giving herself away." Indeed, in face of the discovery, I now
decided not to make certain statements to Sir Roland that I had fully
intended to make. After all, he was old enough to be my father, and if a
man old enough to be my father could be so foolish as to fall in love
with an adventuress, let him take the consequences. I should not so much
have minded incurring Sir Roland's wrath, but, knowing him as well as I
did, I felt positive that anything I might say would only strengthen his
trust in and attachment to this woman he had decided to wed. He might
even turn upon me and tell me to my face that I was striving to oppose
his marriage because his marrying must, of course, affect my pecuniary
position—an old man who falls in love becomes for the time, I have
always maintained, mentally deranged.
Preston conversed at considerable length with Dick Challoner, and, by
the time I rose to leave—for I had to call at Willow Street for Dulcie
at noon—the two appeared to have become great friends.
"I shall take you with me to call for Dulcie," I said to Dick as we went
out. "Then we shall drive you to Paddington, put you in the train for
Windsor, and leave you to your own devices."
"I wish I hadn't lost my suit-case," Dick observed ruefully. "I bet
anything it's in that house in Cumberland Place where the taxi
stopped—unless the woman who met me at Paddington intentionally left it
in the taxi when she found I had jumped out and run away. We ought to
inquire at Scotland Yard, oughtn't we?"
We arrived at Willow Road, Hampstead, at ten minutes to twelve. Telling
Dick to remain in the taxi, I got out and rang the bell. The door was
opened by a maid I had not seen before, and when I inquired for Miss
Challoner she stared at me blankly—indeed, as I thought, suspiciously.
"Nobody of that name lives here," she said curtly. Quickly I glanced up
at the number on the door. No, I had not mistaken the house.
"She is staying here," I said, "staying with Mrs. Stapleton."
"With Mrs. who?"
"Mrs. Stapleton."
"You have mistaken the house. There's nobody of that name here."
"Well, Mr. Gastrell, then," I said irritably. "Ask Mr. Gastrell if I can
see him."
"I tell you, sir, you've come to the wrong house," the maid said
sharply.
"Then who does live here?" I exclaimed, beginning to lose my temper.
The maid looked me up and down.
"I'm not going to tell you," she answered; and, before I could speak
again, she had shut the door in my face.