The next morning dawned grey and boisterous. The English climate was
giving an example of that infinite variety to which custom never
reconciles the stranger within our gates. Julie Querterot, whose
life had been passed entirely in London, suffered from an hereditary
sensitiveness to the changes of the weather, and was never able to
prevent her spirits from drooping as the barometer fell. Rain and gloomy
skies made her dismal even when her whole day was spent within doors,
and on this Wednesday morning, when she had done with the business of
sweeping and cleaning about the house, and took up her station in the
little shop behind the hair-pins and pomades, the view from the window
must have had more than its usual depressing effects upon her, for if
the unlooked for had happened and a customer had chanced to enter he
might have seen that her eyelids were swollen as by the shedding of many
tears.
Soon after midnight the storm that had been brewing had burst over the
empty streets; for hours the lightning had torn the clouds and the
tremendous noise of the thunder had made sleep impossible. All night
torrents of rain had fallen, and people lying awake, or at best dozing
uneasily, had heard its constant patter. Julie's face, white and weary,
looked as if to her at least the night had brought no rest. Sitting in
the half-dusk of the shop she took up her work with slow deliberation;
then letting it fall back to her knee leant her chin upon her palm with
a hopeless gesture. She had had no breakfast, and hunger was combining
with fatigue to bring her to the point of exhaustion. By her, on the
counter where she had put it down, a halfpenny paper lay spread out; and
presently she took it up, and glanced again at the prominent headlines,
which in large black type flaunted across the page.
"DISAPPEARANCE OF LADIES FROM THEIR HOME IN WEST END."
"Mystery of Missing Millionairess."
After a while Julie rose and put away her needlework. Going up to her
little bedroom, she took from the cupboard a small black hat, and
regardless of the weather prepared to go out. Not that she made an
elaborate toilette. A neat coat of plainest black was added to her
blouse and skirt, a rather tawdry brooch pinned where a button had been
torn off, and another, for pure ornament, in a place where it was not
needed. It has already been said that Julie was fond of trinkets, and
she seemed to derive some slight comfort from them even this morning.
Two or three bracelets jingled already on either wrist, and when she
had added a pair of gloves her attire was complete. A few minutes
later the girl opened her umbrella and stepped into the street; then,
locking the shop door behind her, she set her face westward. The rain
was falling less heavily, and before she had taken many turnings it
ceased altogether. Julie shut her umbrella with a sigh of relief. Since
leaving the house she had not been able to put aside a minor, but still
consuming, anxiety, as to the fate of her hat.
* * * * *
In his rooms in Whitehall, Gimblet was studying a copy of the same
newspaper that lay now neglected in the Pimlico shop. One glance at the
headlines had told him to whom they referred, and the paragraph that
followed was still more explicit.
"We learn that anxiety is felt as to the whereabouts of Mrs.
Vanderstein, a lady residing at No. 90, Grosvenor Street, W. Mrs.
Vanderstein left her house on the evening of Monday last for the
purpose of attending the gala performance at the Royal opera house
at Covent Garden. She was accompanied by a young lady, Miss Barbara
Turner, who lives at Grosvenor Street in the capacity of friend and
companion to Mrs. Vanderstein. The two ladies drove to the opera in
their private motor car, and some surprise was felt by the servants
on being told at the door of the theatre that their return after
the performance was over was not desired. No alarm, however, was
experienced until yesterday morning, when the household awoke to find
that neither of the ladies had returned.
"Inquiry at the hospitals, where it was thought the ladies might
have been carried in the event of an accident having occurred, were
productive of no result, and as the day passed without news of their
whereabouts being obtained it was deemed advisable to secure the
services of a detective. It is whispered that one of London's most
celebrated criminal investigators has consented to look into the
matter. Rumours reach us that differences between Mrs. Vanderstein and
one of her nearest relatives have more to do with her disappearance
than at first seems obvious. Mrs. Vanderstein is the widow of the late
Mr. Moses Vanderstein, a financier well known in city circles. She is
a lady of remarkable personal attractions, and is a great favourite in
Jewish society. Miss Turner is the daughter of the late Mr. William
Turner, of Newmarket, and is not much over twenty years of age. It is
believed that the police have a clue to the continued absence of the
two ladies, and that foul play is apprehended."
"So," said Gimblet to himself, "it appears that the worthy Mr. Chark has
been talking."
As he threw aside the paper, and took up another to see if it also had
something to say on the same subject, the bell of the flat rang, and a
moment later Higgs announced Mr. Joseph Sidney.
With a scarcely perceptible start Gimblet recognised the young man he
had observed in the Park on Sunday.
"I hope I don't disturb you," Sidney said at once, "but they told me in
Grosvenor Street that you had been up there asking questions, and so I
suppose Sir Gregory has engaged you to look into this business."
"That is so," said Gimblet. "I hope you have come to give me some
assistance."
"Why, I wish to goodness I could," said Sidney, "but I never heard a
word about it till I saw the paper this morning; and then I couldn't
believe it. But I rang up Grosvenor Street pretty quick, and old Blake,
my aunt's butler, swears it's gospel. It's a queer thing to happen,
isn't it? What can they have done with themselves? Really, women ought
not to be allowed out alone. If my aunt couldn't take care of herself, I
do think she might have made an effort to look after Miss Turner!"
"It's a queer business indeed," said Gimblet, "and I'm afraid it looks
stranger every minute, and very much more serious than it did at first.
For here's another night gone by and no news of either of the ladies.
And we have no clue, no idea where to hunt, nor anything whatever to go
on in our search. I was in hopes you might have some information to
offer me, Mr. Sidney; you were, I believe, one of the last people who
spoke with Mrs. Vanderstein on Monday."
Gimblet looked narrowly at the young man, who, for his part, seemed not
altogether at his ease. He hesitated, crossed to the window and drummed
with his fingers on the pane. In the detective's ears was echoing a
sentence heard above the murmur of the crowd: "I'm pretty desperate, I
can tell you. There's nothing I wouldn't do to get the money."
A second later Sidney turned; and, coming back to where Gimblet sat
impassively waiting, drew up a chair upon which he sat himself down with
an air of resolution.
"I did see my aunt on Monday, Mr. Gimblet, and to tell you the truth I
don't like telling you what she said to me then. One doesn't care about
confiding one's private family affairs to strangers. Still, if you
think it can be of any possible use.... Well, the fact is that I had a
frightful row with Mrs. Vanderstein on Monday."
"What about?" asked Gimblet.
"I," Sidney hesitated again, and then continued with a plunge, "I have
been losing a great deal of money lately; I am ashamed to say that I
have lost it on race-courses, and that it is a sum far larger than I
can afford. I went to my aunt to ask for help. I asked her, in fact, to
lend me some money to tide over my difficulties for the present. She was
very irate about it. She can't stand betting; and as soon as I told her
she got in a fearful rage and threw me out of the house. That is all the
conversation I had with her on Monday. You can understand I don't much
like owning up to it, as it's not precisely to my credit." Sidney ended
with a rueful laugh.
"Mrs. Vanderstein absolutely refused to help you in any way?"
"Said she'd see me damned first. Well, you know, she mayn't have put it
exactly like that."
"Hardly, I should think. I'd rather have her own words, if you can
remember them, please."
Sidney searched his memory. "As far as I can recollect, what she
actually said was, 'I will have nothing whatever to do with a gambler
like you. Not only will I not give you money now, but you shall never
have a penny that is mine to use for that degrading vice. I shall
alter my will,' she said, 'and that to-morrow. And never let me see
you again. I'll not have you in my house.' That's what she said, and I
had nothing to do but to go out of the house like a whipped dog. And I
went." Sidney's voice was bitter as he recalled his humiliation, but
when he spoke again he had recovered his normal good temper. "Poor Aunt
Ruth," he said, "there's a good deal to be said on her side, you know,
and just about nothing at all on mine. However, I didn't come to talk
about my own rotten affairs. I wonder where she can have got to? There's
something uncommon fishy about her vanishing this way, don't you think?
Hope to goodness she's not been knocked on the head for the sake of her
diamonds, you know."
His tone was light, but Gimblet seemed to perceive a note of genuine
anxiety underlying it.
"I hope not, indeed," he agreed gravely.
"I really feel a bit worried about her--her and Miss Turner," went on
the young man. "Hang it all, since I've begun confiding in you I think I
may as well make a clean breast of the whole show. The fact is I've got
a beastly guilty conscience sort of feeling, because I was on the verge,
a day or two ago, of playing the dickens of a shabby trick on Aunt Ruth.
You can see how badly I want this money, as I told you, to pay my debts
next week. Well, I as near as makes no difference tried to get it out
of my aunt by what I suppose you'd call false pretences--which sounds a
nice blackguardly thing to do, don't it? I don't suppose anyone's told
you that she had a craze for Royalty in any shape? Well, I didn't know
it myself till lately, but it seems there's nothing she wouldn't do to
get in contact with great people. A friend of mine suggested that we
should get another of my pals to impersonate some royal prince, and that
I should introduce him to my aunt. The idea was that he should rather
make up to her, and then intercede on my behalf, or get the money out of
her in some way. I don't think I should have done it when it came to the
point, because I saw very plainly the next day what an impossible thing
it was to do. And if I'd gone as far as to ask my friend to help, I
haven't the slightest doubt he would have told me not to be an ass. But
there you are--I did think of it, and it sticks on my conscience now.
I shall never get the taste out of my mouth, I believe, and if there's
anything you think I could do to be of any use, now that she's gone and
mislaid herself, you can understand that I'd do it all the more gladly
since I feel I owe her a good turn."
He ceased speaking, crossed one leg over the other, and leant back,
looking at Gimblet with an air half ashamed, half ingenuous.
The detective returned his gaze with interest.
"Here," he was saying to himself, "is a young man either very innocent
or beyond the common crafty."
"Who was it who suggested this questionable proceeding in the first
place?" he asked.
"Oh, I really can't tell you that," cried Sidney; "it can't have any
importance, and I'm not so dead to all sense of decency as you naturally
think!"
"You say you only contemplated it for a short time. Did you tell your
friend ultimately that, on second thoughts, you didn't like the idea
and had decided to give it up?"
"It wasn't necessary. Before I could communicate with my friend I got a
message from her--him--my friend, I mean----" Sidney grew scarlet as he
realised his slip, but continued hastily in the vain hope of covering
it, "a message to say that the plan was ruined. I don't know what had
happened, but for some reason, apparently, it was completely off,
irrespective of my jibbing."
"And so now," said Gimblet, after a pause, "you have no hope, I suppose,
of paying your debts."
A shade crossed Sidney's face as he replied sadly: "Devil a hope."
"There has been no alteration in your prospects since Monday then,"
pursued the detective; "you have had no better news to-day? Your
difficulties have not so far been removed?" He spoke with great
deliberation, while one hand, hidden in his pocket, fingered the
telegraph form that Barbara Turner had omitted to sign.
Sidney looked up suspiciously, but the little man's face wore no
expression beyond one of calm inquiry.
"No," said he slowly, "everything is just as it was. I have heard
nothing at all and my prospects are as bad as they can be."
There was something about Sidney that disarmed suspicion, and Gimblet
did not fail to be influenced by it. In vain he reflected that the young
man was certainly refraining from telling him of Miss Turner's telegram,
and deliberately, since Gimblet had purposely reminded him of it by
quoting words it actually contained. As he sat considering what should
be his next move, the door opened, and Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones was
announced.
"Good morning, Mr. Gimblet. Have you any news for me? No, I see you
have not; and there is none in Grosvenor Street, as you doubtless know.
Ah, Sidney, how are you? This is a trying time for us all. I am glad
to see you, very." He shook hands warmly with the young man; and then,
before Gimblet guessed what he would be at, the harm was done. "I'm more
than glad to meet you, my dear boy," Sir Gregory was declaring, "so as
to be able to tell you that I don't believe a word they may say against
you. I'm positive you never had a hand in this black business, any more
than I did myself. And all the Charks and beastly rags of newspapers
in London shan't convince me to the contrary." Sir Gregory, still
holding Joe by the hand, shook it up and down with extra and exaggerated
heartiness.
Sidney wrenched it away.
"What the deuce are you talking about?" he exclaimed. "Who's been saying
things about me?"
"I tell you I don't believe a word of it," said Sir Gregory soothingly.
"But you must have seen it in the papers. 'It is believed,' they say,
'that a quarrel took place between Mrs. Vanderstein and a near relative,
which has more to do with the unfortunate ladies' disappearance than
seems plain at first.' You did quarrel with her, didn't you? And Chark,
her lawyer, you know, is taken with the idea; in fact, he's been round
telling me this morning that he's ascertained for a fact that you're
infernally hard up, which would provide a motive, he says. Infernal
nonsense, of course."
"Infernal lies," cried Sidney; "what the devil does anyone mean by
suggesting such things? Do they imagine I've spirited away not only
Aunt Ruth but Miss Turner too, and am holding them for ransom, or what?
Or perhaps your friend Chark would rather think that I was given to
poisoning my relations? If it comes to that, I'll begin on him if he
don't look out. Infernal ass."
He was furious. Gimblet, watching him with interest, wondered whether
his face was so red from anger or from some other emotion.
Sir Gregory, for once, was silenced.
"Where's this newspaper editor?" demanded Sidney. "I'm going to kick
him, now, at once."
"You'd better wait till he gets up," said Gimblet; "at this hour he's
probably still in bed."
"I'll soon get him out."
"Better not take any notice of it. More dignified not to," urged Sir
Gregory, repenting too late his well-meant assurances. "Best treat that
sort of idiot with contempt," he went on. "Chark's the worst. It's he
that's put them up to it."
"Mr. Chark," said Gimblet, "has a longing to be mixed up in a
sensational affair. I saw that yesterday. He ought to know better than
to indulge in libel, a lawyer too! I daresay he's frightened to death,
now that he has done it, and has time to think of the consequences."
"I'll frighten him," said the young man.
He calmed down, however, as the detective continued to pour oil on the
troubled waters, and was at last persuaded to depart peacefully.
Gimblet wrote out a short description of the missing ladies, together
with the promise of a reward to whosoever should bring news of either of
them, and this he gave into Sidney's keeping, charging him to have it
inserted in the evening papers, of which the early editions were already
appearing in the streets.