Margaret woke that morning with a fixed determination. She had
fenced with the detective and once or twice had been badly pinked. He
was too shrewd a man, too wise in the artless guile which passes in
criminal circles for clever evasion, to be deceived by her. Her
hypothetical case he demolished, and revealed with alarming clearness
the figure and deeds of Luke. He did not say as much; he did not even
connect the missing banker with the Taffanny robbery. All that he knew
was that Luke Maddison had made a fool of himself, that somebody had
got hold of the fact and was trying to blackmail his wife; but what
shape that folly took he regarded as indelicate to inquire.
When she found herself cornered, and the facts which she was trying to
conceal coming to light, in sheer desperation Margaret had been forced
to accept the suggestion of a woman, though she loathed herself for
her new disloyalty. She spoke vaguely of an earlier attachment, but
since she was a bad liar she carried no conviction. The very fact that
she was not speaking the truth in reality saved her from closer
questioning. The Sparrow jumped to a conclusion which was wrong.
“The only thing I can tell you, Mrs. Maddison, is that, whatever
happens, you’re not to pay anybody anything. If it’s Danty or Connor,
or whoever it is putting the black on you, you’ve only to ring me up
to stop ’em!”
He left with the definite assurance that she would take this step.
She had to force herself to go to bed that night, and will herself to
sleep. She had a heavy day ahead of her and no plans definitely fixed.
The Gunner had told her nothing except that he was in touch with Luke.
Had he told her that he was trying to get him out of England? If he
hadn’t, she had in some occult way received that impression.
Luke would make for Ronda, whither his check book had been sent. She
must follow him--accompany him if possible. She went early to the bank
and saw Stiles. He was--for Stiles--in an optimistic frame of mind.
Two or three undertakings in which the bank was interested had become
flourishing.
“One I had written down as a bad debt and it looks as if it would
bring in eighteen thousand a year,” he almost chortled the news. “I
wish you’d let Mr. Maddison know that: he’ll be delighted. I’d have
sent him a wire to Spain, only I don’t know his address.”
And then, realizing that her appearance at this hour was unusual:
“Is there anything you want, Mrs. Maddison?”
“I want to see my husband’s private account. You had it transferred to
the bank.”
He took her into his private room, brought the pass book to her, and
she ran her finger down the column. The last check drawn was a few
days before his wedding. Since then, Stiles told her, no check had
come in.
“I’ve been expecting some in. Mr. Maddison is rather extravagant at
times, and I’m surprised that he hasn’t cashed a check--although of
course he’s got his Spanish account--but I should have thought he
would wish to replenish that.”
“That is what I’ve come to see you about, Stiles,” she said. “I want
you not to honour any check drawn by my husband for any amount over a
thousand pounds.”
Stiles stared at her over his glasses. This was the resolution she had
reached as she lay in bed on the previous night. She had gone over
every possibility step by step, had seen the likelihood of the
blackmailers transferring their attention from her to Luke. At present
Luke was safe under the protection of the Gunner; but something might
happen to remove him from this watchful, hawk-faced man.
Somehow, for a reason which she could not understand, she trusted the
Gunner implicitly--was sure that whatever his record might be he would
do no harm to Luke.
“That’s an extraordinary request you’re making, Mrs. Maddison,” said
Stiles, troubled. “It’s quite likely that Mr. Maddison may want to
make a big purchase--the last time he was in Spain he bought some
property in Seville that showed a profit of fifty per cent. the first
year.”
She nodded.
“I realize that, but I still make this request--in his name.”
“Very good, Mrs. Maddison.”
Stiles scribbled some instructions on a slip of paper and pinned it to
the ledger he had brought in.
“I don’t know what’s in your mind, but I understood that you had
transferred everything back to Mr. Maddison----”
“It isn’t that,” she explained hastily. “It’s the possibility of----”
But here she was at a loss; she could not offer any explanation which
an intelligent man would accept unless the whole story were revealed.
Her car was parked in Waterloo Place and she was waiting while the
commissionaire brought it, when, turning her head, she saw a man
standing at the corner whose attitude had something familiar about it.
He was still there when the commissionaire returned with the car, and
she had to pass the loiterer. It was then that she saw his face and
tapped at the window. He saw her, too, and for once Gunner Haynes’s
sang-froid deserted him and he looked uncomfortable. The car pulled up
with a jerk; she beckoned the man toward her and he came reluctantly.
“Will you drive with me, please?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“There are one or two questions I want to settle.”
He hesitated.
“It won’t do you very much good, Mrs. Maddison, to be seen driving
with me.”
“Come in, please,” she ordered imperiously, and he stepped in and sat
down by her side.
Through the microphone she gave an order to the driver.
“I want to see my husband,” she said, when this was done.
The Gunner shook his head.
“I don’t think that’s going to be very useful to you. Too many people
have seen him already.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, and she saw Haynes’s face harden.
“I tried to get him away this morning by the early mail. Two of
Connor’s men were there to head him off; I don’t know how they did it,
but they’d persuaded a couple of dicks--detectives--to watch the
barriers, and I didn’t dare chance it. I tried again at eleven o’clock
and I didn’t have any better luck. Of course, Connor guessed, when I
took the passport, what I was going to do.”
“When you took the passport?” she said in surprise. “When did you take
the passport?”
The Gunner deftly slid round the question.
“Your husband’s getting a bit on my mind and is interfering with my
lawful occasions.” There was a faint smile in his eyes as he said
this.
“Were you waiting at the bank to see me?”
He smiled again.
“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Maddison, I didn’t even know you were
there, and didn’t realize it was the bank. The truth is--” he seemed
more uncomfortable still--“there’s a young lady who comes to this part
of the world, and I occasionally take tea with her. I think she’s more
interested in me as a criminal and a source of copy than in anything
else.” He smiled wryly. “But I’m very grateful to have the opportunity
of meeting a decent girl. She’s a newspaper woman, as they call ’em in
America, and she covers some of these West End functions.”
Margaret laughed softly. It was the first time she had laughed for a
very long while.
“Poor Mr. Haynes! I’m terribly sorry if I’ve robbed you of a
tête-à-tête.”
He shook his head.
“No, there was no possibility of her coming--it’s too late. And of
course, there’s always the chance that that obese Sparrow might be
with her.”
“You’re talking of Mr. Bird--and the girl’s name is Bolford.”
He started.
“Did you know?” he gasped, and then: “Oh, of course, she has met you.
She told me once. No, there’s no romance in it, Mrs. Maddison, just a
congenial--” he shrugged--“friendship. I am thankful for small
mercies.”
“Are you married?” she asked.
“I was,” was the short reply, and she did not feel encouraged to
pursue her inquiries.
“Can I see my husband? I think I should, don’t you?”
He looked at her oddly.
“Does it strike you as a possibility that he might not want to see
you?” he asked bluntly, and saw the red come into her cheeks.
“I--I have blinded myself wilfully to that possibility,” she said.
“But he is in trouble, and a wife’s place is by her husband’s side,”
he mocked, and for a moment she hated him.
Then her sense of humour overcame her annoyance.
“Yes, we’ll put it like that. It sounds terribly trite, but most trite
things are true.”
The Gunner was silent for a long time, but presently he sighed.
“I’ve got an idea that whatever I’m doing is quite wrong, and that I
ought to let you help him. Mrs. Maddison, it’s going to be a very
difficult thing to get this husband of yours away out of England.
You’re going to say ‘aëroplane’--I can see it in your eyes--but you
can bet that Connor has got his people at Croydon, too. The only thing
to do is to smuggle him away in a motor-car to a seaside place, hire a
yacht, and push him across the Channel. It’s not going to be easy,
especially as he’s not terribly keen on your giving him any help at
all.”
She pondered this as the car went slowly round the park.
“I’ll take the risk of a snub,” she said, “if you’ll take the risk of
offending him. Will you let me see him?”
Haynes nodded.
“Yes, but you’re not going to take this expensive car, Mrs.
Maddison--into my neighbourhood, I mean. We’ll stop the car at Hyde
Park Corner and get a taxi.”
This they did.
“The only thing that’s troubling me,” he said as they were driving
along Piccadilly, “is whether Connor has tailed me to my home. ‘Tail’
is slang for ‘trail.’”
“You think they followed you there? Didn’t they know where you live?”
“They know many places I live,” explained the Gunner whimsically, “but
this is one they don’t know, or didn’t until this morning.”
They paid off the cab two hundred yards from the model dwelling where
Haynes had his home, and at that hour fortunately there were few
people about, and certainly none who seemed to evince the slightest
curiosity in the presence of this well-dressed woman. They had to pass
through a little gateway to reach the asphalt square that formed the
quadrangle of the huge block, and she saw the Gunner look back; there
was trouble in his face.
“They’ve tailed me all right,” he said grimly. “Did you see that
motor-van on the street outside? The man at the wheel was one of
Connor’s little friends. You won’t see him now--he’s gone. Connor uses
motor-vans a lot.”
As he was mounting the few steps which led to the landing from which
his flat opened, a slatternly woman came out of a door opposite.
“I suppose it’s all right taking your wardrobe away, Mr.
What’s-your-name?” she said.
The Gunner spun round.
“Took my wardrobe? What do you mean?”
“The men from the furniture place came about an hour ago--two chaps in
green aprons. They had the key so I thought it was all right.”
The Gunner asked no further questions: he opened the door and ran into
the passage. The door of Luke’s room was open. He looked at the
disorder, saw the bloodstained sheets, and turned to meet the white
face of Margaret Maddison.
“I’m afraid your husband’s gone,” he said, in such a matter-of-fact
tone that she was deceived.
He closed the door behind him and led her into the little sitting
room.
“He won’t be back till late, so I don’t think it’s worth while your
staying.”
“How do you know?” she asked. “Why were you so worried when they
talked about the wardrobe being taken away?”
“An old wardrobe that I sold,” said the Gunner. “It’s not worth while
keeping stuff that isn’t much use to you.”
He chatted with her pleasantly before he took her away and, finding
another cab, sent her home. She could not guess that he knew in his
heart that the wardrobe contained the body of Luke Maddison. Whether
he was alive or dead he must find out. After he had left the girl
Gunner Haynes went back to his room, rolled up the carpet, took up a
floor-board, and, groping, found a box containing two small
automatics. One of these he slipped in a specially constructed inside
pocket of his coat; the other went into a small holster which buckled
to his braces.
“I think there is going to be some trouble to-night,” said Gunner
Haynes, addressing nobody in particular.