Mr. Gimblet lived in a flat in the neighbourhood of Whitehall. It was
a fad of his to be more comfortably housed than most solitary men. The
situation was conveniently near to Scotland Yard, where officials were
much in the habit of requiring to see him at odd moments. The view from
the windows, overlooking the river, was delightful to one of cultivated
and artistic propensities, and the rooms, large and well-proportioned,
were capable of displaying to advantage the old and valuable pictures
and furniture with which it was the detective's delight to surround
himself.
Much of his time was spent in curiosity shops, and he was among the
first to discover that former happy hunting ground of the bargain
seeker--the Caledonian market. Many an impatient member of the Force,
sent round from the "Yard" to ask Mr. Gimblet's assistance in some
obscure case, had, after kicking his heels for an hour or two in the
hall, left the flat in desperation, only to meet the detective coming up
the stairs with a dusky, dust-covered picture in his hand, or hugging to
his breast a piece of ancient china.
The younger son of a Midland family, which had moderately enriched
itself in the course of the preceding century by commercial transactions
in which a certain labour-saving machine for the weaving industries had
played a large part, Mr. Gimblet had received the usual public school
education, and had spent two or three subsequent years at Oxford. His
artistic propensities had always been strongly marked, but his family
showing much opposition to his becoming an artist, and he himself having
a modest idea of his own genius and doubting his ability to make his way
very high up the ladder of success by the aid of talent which he knew to
be somewhat limited, he had ended by going into an architect's office,
where he had worked with interest and enjoyment for several more years.
It was by accident that he discovered his capacity for tracking the most
wary of criminals to his hiding place and for discovering the authors
of mysterious and deeply plotted crimes. It happened that a workman
employed in the building of a house for which Gimblet had provided the
design was found murdered in circumstances as peculiar as they were
sinister. There appeared to be no clue to the author of the deed, and
after a week or two the official investigators had confessed among
themselves that they were completely at a loss.
To Gimblet, visiting the scene of the crime in his capacity of
architect--but not without an unwonted and hitherto unknown quickening
of the pulse--a piece of board nailed upright where it should have
been horizontal had proved immediately suggestive; and its removal had
brought to light certain hastily concealed objects, which with one
or two previously unnoticed trifles had resulted in the capture and
ultimate hanging of the murderer.
This success had led the young man to feel an interest in other
mysterious affairs of the same nature; and it was not long before he
found the task of assisting the police in such researches so much
more profitable and engrossing than his work as an architect, that he
gradually came to give more and more of his leisure to the attempt to
discover secrets and to solve problems which at first sight seemed to
offer no solution. By the time he was thirty there was scarcely a crime
of any importance that he was not called upon to assist in bringing
home to its perpetrator; and he had entirely abandoned the pursuit of
architectural learning for that of criminal mankind.
He refused an invitation to become attached to the official staff,
although this was conveyed in terms that were in the highest degree
flattering, preferring to be at liberty to decide for himself whether
or no he should take up a case. It was the sensational and odd that
attracted him; and he found that quite enough of this came his way to
make his occupation an extremely profitable one.
Early on Tuesday afternoon Gimblet sat in his dining-room, contemplating
with some satisfaction a large dish of strawberries and a pot of cream
sent him by a Devonshire friend. He was finishing a luncheon which he
considered well earned, as that morning he had discovered in a narrow
back street in Lambeth, and purchased for a mere song, a little picture
black with age and dirt, in which his hopeful eye discerned a crowd
of small but masterfully painted figures footing it to the strains of
a fiddle upon the grass under a spreading tree. Gimblet told himself
that it was in all probability from the brush of Teniers, and he had
propped it on the dining-room mantelpiece so that in the intervals of
eating he could refresh his eyes as well as his body. Beside him lay
the day's paper which he had hardly had time to read before going out
that morning. He heaped cream upon his strawberries, sprinkled them with
sugar, and took, in succession, a spoonful of the mixture, a look at his
picture, and a glance at the paper. With a contented sigh he repeated
the process.
At the moment he had no work in hand, and no one more thoroughly enjoyed
an occasional loaf.
It was good, he felt, to have nothing to do for once; to have time to
idle; to eat greedily delicious food; to spend as many hours as he chose
in the dusty recesses of second-hand shops; to do a little painting
sometimes; even to be able to arrange beforehand to play a game of golf.
Gimblet had an excellent eye, and had been rather good at games in early
days. He seldom had time now and, if he did go down to a golf ground
occasionally in the afternoons, had to resign himself to play with
anyone he could find, as he never knew till the last minute whether he
would be able to get away.
He thought of going this afternoon, and looked at his watch. There
would be a train from Waterloo in half an hour. Just time to finish his
strawberries and catch it. That picture would look well when he had
cleaned it. He took up the paper again. It must have been a fine sight
last night at Covent Garden. And what a list of singers. Gimblet, who
loved music, wished he had been there. "The Verterexes might have asked
me to their box," he said to himself. "Life is full of ingratitude.
After all I did for them."
And then it struck him that he had not done much for the Verterexes
after all, beyond nearly arresting Mr. Verterex by mistake for a murder
he had not committed.
Gimblet laughed.
Then his thoughts reverted lazily to the pleasures of loafing.
"I think I shall give up work," he said to himself. "Why not? I have
enough money put by to keep me, with economy, in moderate comfort.
Not quite so many strawberries perhaps," he added regretfully, taking
another mouthful, "but what I want is leisure. Yes. I am decided I will
do no more work. Let the police catch its own burglars!"
He spoke aloud, and defiantly, addressing himself to the picture.
At that moment his servant came into the room.
"A gentleman very anxious to see you, sir," he said. "I have shown him
into the library."
"Ask him to come in here if he's in a hurry," said Gimblet. "I haven't
finished lunch."
A minute later the man opened the door again, announcing:
"Major Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones."
Major Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones was a little man with a pink complexion
and a small brown moustache. He was short and rather plumper than he
could wish, but carried himself very uprightly and with a great sense
of his own importance, glaring at those who might be so obtuse as not
immediately to recognise it with such concentrated disapproval that it
was usual for the offenders to realise their mistake in the quickest
possible time. Behind a fussy, self-satisfied exterior he hid a fund
of kindness and good nature seldom to be met with. Sir Gregory prided
himself on his youthful appearance, was, in his turn, a source of some
pride to one of the best tailors in London, took remarkable interest in
his ties and boots, trained his remaining hair in the way it should go,
and, though he was sixty-five, flattered himself that he looked not a
day over fifty-nine.
"I am in luck to find you, Mr. Gimblet," he said, advancing with
outstretched hand as Gimblet rose to receive him. "But this is a sad
occasion, a very sad occasion, I fear."
"Dear me," said Gimblet, "I'm sorry to hear that. But won't you sit
down? I thought as my man said you were in a hurry you would rather come
in here than wait for me. May I offer you some strawberries? No? I'm
sorry I can't give you any wine, but I'm a teetotaller, you know. Don't
have any in the house. Afraid you'll think me faddy. And now that the
servant has gone, may I ask what is the sad event which has given me the
pleasure of seeing you?"
"Bad habit, drinking water," commented Sir Gregory, seating himself in
an arm-chair by the fire-place. "But nowadays young men have no heads.
They can't stand it, that's what it is. Show them three or four glasses
of port and they say it gives them a headache. Absurd, sir! The country
is rotten through and through. The men can't eat, they can't drink, they
can't even dance! They stroll about a ball-room now in a way that would
make you sick. In my days we used to valse properly. But they don't
dance the _deux-temps_ any more, I'm told. They say it makes them giddy!
Giddy! Rotten constitutions, that's what we suffer from nowadays. It's
the same with all this talk of reforming the army. Compulsory service
indeed," the major snorted. "What should we want compulsory service
for? In my day one Englishman was as good as twenty Germans or any kind
of foreigner. At least he would have been if we'd had a European war,
which as it happened was not the case while I was in the Service. But
now there are actually people who think that if it comes to a fight it
would be an advantage for us to have as many men as the enemy. They
ought to be ashamed of themselves, if there's any truth in it. No, no,
the army doesn't need reforming, take my word for it. There are a few
alterations which I could suggest in the uniforms which would make all
the difference in the world, but except for that, what I say is, let
sleeping dogs lie."
Having delivered himself of these remarks, Sir Gregory felt in his
pocket, drew forth a cigar case, selected a cigar and asked for a match.
"Did you come to persuade me to your views on compulsory service?" asked
Gimblet pleasantly as he continued to devour his strawberries, which
were now nearly all gone. "Because I'm afraid it's no good. You can't
possibly convince me that its adoption is not a vital necessity to the
nation."
"I'm sorry to hear you think that," said the other, "for I have the
highest opinion of your intellect. Believe me, when you discovered the
frauds that were being perpetrated at the Great Continental Bank last
year, I marked you down, Mr. Gimblet, as the man I should consult in
case of need. And it is to consult you that I am here. I said it was
a sad occasion. Well, it is sad for me, but I am not yet, as a matter
of fact, quite sure whether or no it is desperately so. What has
happened, in a word, is this. A lady to whom I am deeply attached has
disappeared."
"Disappeared?" said Gimblet, pushing back his chair. He had eaten the
last of the strawberries. "May I ask who the lady is--a relation of
yours?"
"Not exactly. She is a Mrs. Vanderstein, for whom, as I have just said,
I have a great regard, I may say an affection. In fact," said Sir
Gregory, leaning forward and speaking in confidential tones, "I don't
mind telling you that she is the lady I have chosen to be the future
Lady Aberhyn Jones."
"Indeed. You are engaged to marry her?"
"Not precisely engaged," admitted Sir Gregory, with a slightly troubled
look.
As a matter of strict accuracy, he had proposed to Mrs. Vanderstein
about three times a year ever since the death of her husband; but Mrs.
Vanderstein, although tempted by his title, had already been the wife
of one man twice her age and did not intend to repeat the experiment.
Still, his friendship was dear to her; he was the only baronet of
her acquaintance and she liked to have him about the house. He had
been a director on the board of one of her husband's companies, and,
when introduced by him, her pretty face and amiable disposition had
quite captured Sir Gregory's heart, so that he had cultivated Mr.
Vanderstein's society to such good purpose as to become a constant
habitué of the house in Grosvenor Street.
After Mr. Vanderstein's death he lost no more time than decency demanded
in proposing to his widow; and, though she refused to marry him, and
refused over and over again, yet she did it in so sympathetic a manner
and was so kind in spite of her obstinacy that Sir Gregory believed her
absence of alacrity in accepting his hand to be prompted by anything
rather than a lack of affection. She treated him as her best friend and
consulted him on every question of business, to the wise conduct of
which her own shrewdness was a far better guide, and had imperceptibly
fallen into the habit of never making a decision of any importance
without first threshing out the pros and cons in conversation with him.
Nothing so strengthened her faith in the soundness of her own judgment
as his disapproval of any course she intended to adopt.
"For some reason," Sir Gregory continued after a pause, "Mrs.
Vanderstein has never consented to an actual engagement. It is that
which makes me so uneasy now. Can it be--Mr. Gimblet, I give you my word
I feel ashamed of mentioning such a suspicion even to you--but can it be
that she has fled with another?"
He uttered the last words in such a tragic tone that Gimblet, though he
felt inclined to smile, restrained the impulse, and, summoning up all
the sympathy at his command, inquired again:
"Will you not explain the circumstances to me a little more fully? When
did the lady vanish? Have you any reason to think she did not go alone?
Was there some kind of understanding between you, and what did it
amount to?"
"I will be perfectly frank with you," said Sir Gregory, "much the
best thing in these cases is to be absolutely candid. You agree with
me there? I thought you would. At the same time where a lady is
concerned--you follow me? One must avoid anything that looks like
giving her away. But in this case there is really no reason why I
should conceal anything from you. Mrs. Vanderstein has never accepted
my proposals. On the contrary she has refused to marry me on each of
the occasions when I have suggested it to her. You ask me why? My dear
sir, I cannot reply to that question. Who can account for a woman's
whims? Not I, sir, not I. Nor you either; if you will allow me to say
so." Sir Gregory's hands and eyes were uplifted in bewilderment as he
considered the inexplicable behaviour of woman in general and of Mrs.
Vanderstein in particular. "But I have no doubt that in time she would
have reconsidered her decision," he went on puffing at his cigar, "that
is to say I _had_ no doubt until this morning."
"And what happened then?" asked the detective.
"I came up from Surrey, where I had been paying a week-end visit,"
pursued his visitor, "arriving at my rooms at midday. My servant at once
informed me that Mrs. Vanderstein had sent a telephone message yesterday
evening, begging me to go immediately to see her and adding that it
was most important. I only waited to change into London clothes, Mr.
Gimblet, before I hurried to her house in Grosvenor Street. And when I
got there, what did I hear? 'Pon my soul," exclaimed Sir Gregory, taking
his cigar out of his mouth, "you might have knocked me down with a
feather!"
"You heard that the lady had disappeared?"
"Exactly. Not been seen or heard of since last night. Drove away from
her own door, they tell me, in her own motor car; and has never come
back from that hour to this."
"Did she leave no word as to where she was going?"
"None whatever. She dined early, of course, on account of the opera."
"The opera! In that case what makes you think she didn't go there?"
"Of course she went. Didn't I say so? She drove off to Covent Garden and
that's the last that's been heard of her."
"You interest me," said Gimblet. "Was she not seen to leave the opera
house?"
"I don't know about that," said Sir Gregory. "I found the servants very
much disturbed; and very glad they were, I may say, to see me."
"She has probably met with some accident and has been taken to a
hospital," suggested Gimblet. "Have any inquiries been made?"
"I rather think they have been telephoning to the hospitals, but I told
them not to communicate with the police till I had seen you. Wouldn't
do, you know. She would dislike it extremely, especially if it turns out
as I fear and she has gone off with some other man."
"I can't see why she should have done that," said Gimblet. "She was
her own mistress, I suppose, and had no need to conceal her movements.
Depend on it," he went on, for the anxiety on Sir Gregory's face moved
him to pity, "she will be found at one of the hospitals; and I advise
you to make inquiries at them. A woman, alone as she was, would be
carried to one of them if she were taken ill or met with a slight
accident that prevented her for the moment from giving her address."
"But she was not alone," urged Sir Gregory. "Miss Turner, her companion,
was with her, of course."
"Indeed," said Gimblet, "you said nothing of there being anyone with
her. And what has Miss Turner to say on the subject?"
"She's not there. She's vanished too."
"Really," said the detective. "This is getting interesting. That two
ladies should set out for Covent Garden opera house on a gala night and
never return from it, is, to say the least, slightly unconventional.
Now, before we go any further," he went on quickly, "what do you wish me
to do in the matter?"
"I want you to find Mrs. Vanderstein, naturally," returned Sir Gregory,
staring at him in astonishment; "I feel the greatest anxiety on her
account, the more so since you consider her likely to have met with an
accident."
"But if, as you seem to suspect, the lady has gone off deliberately,
will she not be annoyed at our seeking her out? Will she not be angry
with you for trying to discover her movements if she wishes them
unknown?"
"I daresay she'd think it dashed impertinent. But I can't help that.
She may be in need of me; in fact," cried Sir Gregory with sudden
recollection, "I know she is! Don't I tell you she telephoned for me
last night? A most urgent message. That proves she wishes for my help
in some matter of importance to her, and how can I assist her without
knowing where she is?"
"As you say," said Gimblet, "it does look as if she did not wish to
leave you unacquainted with her whereabouts. Well, I have nothing to
do just now and if you wish me to make inquiries I will do so with
pleasure, though I do not think it will prove to be an affair altogether
in my line."
"Thank 'ee. Thank 'ee," mumbled the old soldier with his cigar between
his teeth. "That's what I want. Now, how are you going to set about it?"
"I am going to ask you a few questions first. You have not yet furnished
me with that comprehensive clear account in which the trivial details
which look so unimportant and may yet be of such moment are never
omitted: the lucid narrative so dear to the detective's heart. I do not
think, if you will pardon my saying so, that I am likely to get it from
you, Sir Gregory."
Sir Gregory glared, but said nothing; and Gimblet continued, with a
smile:
"To begin with, who is Mrs. Vanderstein?"
"The widow of a Jewish money-lender." Sir Gregory spoke somewhat
shortly. He considered Gimblet's remarks disrespectful.
"Rich, then?"
"Yes."
"Does she live alone in Grosvenor Street?"
"A young lady, Miss Barbara Turner, lives with her."
"And who is she?"
"She is the daughter of an old pal of Vanderstein's. A man who used to
train his racehorses at Newmarket. He was a bad lot and had to fly the
country long ago. Dead now, I believe."
"Has Miss Turner any money of her own?"
"Old Vanderstein left her a good large sum, £30,000 I think it is, but
Mrs. Vanderstein has a life interest in it. The girl has nothing as long
as she lives with Mrs. Vanderstein, who, however, I have no doubt, is
most generous to her."
"I suppose you know Miss Turner well? What is she like?"
"Oh, she's a very ordinary girl, rather pretty some people think,
apparently. I don't admire the robust, muscular type that is
fashionable nowadays. Mrs. Vanderstein is very fond of her."
"That means you don't like her yourself?"
Sir Gregory hesitated. It was not in him, really, to dislike anyone
without very much provocation, but he always had an idea that Barbara
was laughing at him, and he cherished his dignity.
"I don't suppose there's any harm in the girl," he grunted at last.
"Has Mrs. Vanderstein the full control of her fortune?" asked Gimblet,
after a quick look at him.
"I believe she has, absolutely. But if you think I was after her for her
money," exclaimed Sir Gregory in an angry tone and half rising as he
spoke, "you're dashed well mistaken!"
Gimblet hastened to reassure him on this point and he sat down again,
still grumbling.
"It was Vanderstein's expressed wish that all the money should
ultimately be left to his nephew, young Joe Sidney," he explained, "and
I am sure his widow would not disregard his ideas on that point."
The dining-room faced south-west, and the afternoon sun, creeping round,
already shone full on the small square panes of the casement windows, so
that the temperature of the room was rapidly rising to an intolerable
warmth. Gimblet thought of the train that was to have carried him to the
golf links. It would have been unbearably hot in it, he told himself.
And the disappearance of a wealthy lady from her house in London
was sufficiently unusual to excite his curiosity. Already his vivid
imagination was seething with guesses and speculations. His resolution
to do no more detective work was utterly forgotten.
"What is Mrs. Vanderstein like to look at?" he asked abruptly.
"She is quite young," began Sir Gregory, "about your own age, I should
say. She is not very tall and has dark hair and a perfect figure, not
one of those great maypoles of women one sees about so much now, but
beautifully proportioned and just right in every way. She has wonderful
brown eyes and a smile for every one. I think she is most beautiful,"
concluded her old friend simply.
Gimblet got up.
"I will give instructions about having inquiries made at the hospitals,"
he said, "though it does seem hardly likely that both ladies should have
been hurt, without some news of it having come before now. And then let
us go round to the house. I should like to see the servants and hear
what they may have to tell. I hope there may, even now, be some tidings
awaiting you there."