It came as something in the nature of a shock to Margaret Maddison
to discover how completely changed were her feelings toward the man
with whom she had passed through stages of toleration to liking, and
from liking to a sort of passive affection, and from that again, in
the cataclysmic revolution of feeling that her brother’s death had
brought about, to the bitterest loathing.
For the first time in her life Margaret was in love, and in love with
something which was neither a memory nor an idea, but something which
was to her as real as her own hand. She had gained that sense of
possession which is the wife’s own sense--an understanding of her
obligations. She could not afford to waste time in regrets at the
amazing follies and wicked errors of the past: in the days that
followed her mind was occupied with schemes for helping him out of the
morass in which he struggled.
She did not hear from Gunner Haynes, although she stayed up until
nearly two o’clock the next morning, having the telephone switched
through to her bedside. Nor did the next day bring news. She was out
when Danty called, and having no occasion to go to her check book, she
did not discover his theft.
The following morning brought the Sparrow--professionally.
“Did you give orders that none of your husband’s checks over a
thousand pounds were to be cashed at the bank?” he asked.
She nodded.
“A young man brought one in for two thousand this morning. Very
foolishly, Mr. Stiles didn’t call me up, and he got away before I
arrived.”
“Was it in Luke’s handwriting?” she asked eagerly. “Where is he?”
The Sparrow could not supply information.
“I thought he was abroad--is it usual for your husband to send people
to the bank with checks to cash? It seems queer to me.”
“The money was not paid?” she asked.
“No--Stiles said if it had been for a thousand he’d have cashed it.”
She was purposely evasive, and after the detective had gone she
telephoned through to Stiles. He had little to add.
“The man who brought the check seemed very respectable.”
“But did you ask him where he got the check?” she demanded
impatiently. “Surely, Mr. Stiles, you weren’t satisfied----”
“I thought that you expected him to send checks,” said Mr. Stiles.
She had never realized how dense a man this middle-aged manager was.
After she had rung off she sat down to think. Luke had broken into his
flat to secure his passport and clothes. The passport was now in the
Gunner’s possession--she must see that he had a change in case he
arrived unexpectedly. She went herself to his flat, made a careful
collection, packed such toilet articles as she thought he might
require, including a case of razors, and had them taken down to her
car. It was the first wifely duty she had performed, and it brought
her a pleasing sense of novelty. Even that faint pleasure brought to
her a realization of the strain under which she was living, and the
ever increasing anxiety concerning Luke’s fate.
If she could have got into touch with Gunner Haynes she would have
done so. She would almost have welcomed the arrival of Danty Morell.
She had a reminder of his earlier visit when she went to her bureau to
make out household checks. She took out the wrong check book and saw
that some were missing. Putting through a call to the bank, she
learned that the check presented that day was one of these. Then
Danton Morell was in the conspiracy!
Her first inclination was to send for Inspector Bird. But at all costs
the police must not be called in. She turned the leaves of the
telephone directory to search for Danton’s number, and was on the
point of calling him when she came to a decision to see him herself.
She did not wait for her car, but hailing a taxi and leaving certain
very definite instructions behind her, drove to Half Moon Street. Pi
Coles, who opened the door to her, stared in amazement at this
unexpected vision.
“Come in, miss,” he said awkwardly. “The guv’nor’s inside.”
Danton heard her voice and was coming across the hall to meet her
before the door was closed.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Margaret,” he said. “Is anything
wrong?”
She did not answer until she was in his room.
“Before I tell you why I’ve come,” she said, “I think it is only fair
that you should know I have left instructions that unless I am back in
my house in three quarters of an hour my butler will ring up Mr. Bird
and tell him where I have gone.”
He frowned at this.
“What’s the idea?” he asked harshly. “That’s an extraordinary way to
behave--why the dickens shouldn’t you be back in three quarters of an
hour?”
“Where are the remainder of those checks that you stole from my check
book when you called the other day?” she asked.
She saw his face go red.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said loudly. “I steal checks? What
nonsense you’re talking----”
“You came into my house and you were in my sitting room long enough to
extract ten checks. One of them was brought to the bank to-day, made
out in Luke’s name and signed by him. On my instructions the check was
not honoured.”
The colour left his face.
“Not honoured?” he stammered, and in his embarrassment he betrayed his
share of the guilt.
“I’m less interested in the check than in my husband,” she said
quietly. “Where is he?”
He strove vainly to recover his self-possession and forced a smile.
“Really, my dear girl----” he began.
“You’ll address me as Mrs. Maddison, if you have to address me as
anything,” she said. “I want you to return those checks; I want you
also to tell me exactly where Luke is.”
“As far as I know, he’s staying with a convicted thief named Haynes,”
the man answered roughly, and to his surprise she nodded.
“I thought so, too. I went down to see him--but he had gone. I think
Mr. Haynes was surprised to find that he had gone, and I’m only now
understanding that Luke did not go of his own free will. Then I
thought he may have wandered out by himself in order to escape
association with Mr. Haynes. But the check explains a great deal.
Where is Luke?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“In that case I am going to do what I was trying to avoid,” she said.
“I am going to the police, and I shall charge you with stealing the
blank checks, and leave it to Mr. Bird to connect you with Luke’s
disappearance.”
She half turned to the door, but he caught her by the arm.
“For God’s sake, Margaret, consider what you’re doing!”
She saw he was really alarmed; his voice was tremulous, his whole air
suggested panic.
“I swear to you I don’t know where Luke is--he was on a barge, where
Connor was keeping him. The swine didn’t tell me that Maddison had
signed a check. All he told me was that he jumped into the river and
got away or was drowned--I don’t know which. That’s the truth. I knew
nothing about it till Connor had found him. I swear to you this is the
truth!”
“Where is Connor?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He was here this morning, and told me about Luke
getting away. That is all the information I have. I didn’t believe
him, and probably it’s a lie he told me.”
He saw she was undecided and eagerly sought to turn her from her
intention. He had no doubt that she meant what she had said.
She did not know what to do.
“Could you find Haynes for me?”
“Find Haynes?” he almost shouted. “You don’t imagine I would
communicate with that fellow, do you? He’s a dangerous man,
Margaret----”
“Mrs. Maddison,” she said coldly.
“He’s dangerous--you oughtn’t to have any dealings with him.”
He did not attempt to deny the theft of the checks.
“You don’t know where Mr. Maddison is at all?”
He accepted the corrected relationship without demur.
“No, Mrs. Maddison, I’ve no idea. Connor’s been looking for him all
night.”
When she returned home she found the Sparrow waiting for her on the
doorstep. The sight of a large kitbag at his feet surprised her, and
when he carried it into the house and into the little study on the
ground floor, she was to have a shock. She did not recognize the
crumpled clothes he took from the bag.
“These clothes were found in the possession of a river thief, who was
trying to sell them this morning,” he said. “He didn’t know that your
husband’s name was stitched in the inside pocket.”
“My husband’s name?” she gasped, turning pale. “Where did he get
them?”
“That’s what I want to know. The yarn he tells is that last night he
picked up a man who was wet through and who had come out of the river,
and took him to a house. We’ve since verified that--though from the
description I’ve had it couldn’t possibly be Mr. Maddison, who is
still abroad, I presume?”
Was there a note of sarcasm in his voice? She thought she detected it,
and very wisely did not answer.
“The man said the clothes were given to him, but that of course is the
usual yarn. I have reason to believe that they were stolen while the
owner was in bed. Can you throw any light upon them.”
She shook her head. It was a pitiable confession, but she knew she
could not even recognize an old suit of clothes worn by her husband.
It was the suit into which he had changed when he broke into his flat.
“What do you make of that, Mrs. Maddison?”
She shook her head helplessly.
“It couldn’t be a suit your husband gave away, because the date it was
delivered is written on the tab, and it must have been new a month
ago.”
He looked at her keenly.
“There’s a lot of mystery about this husband of yours, Mrs. Maddison,
and I think you’re in some kind of trouble. I’d like to help you if I
could.”
She was going to speak, but he held up his hand to stop her.
“Don’t tell me anything until I have told you just how much I know.”
He ticked off the facts on the fingers of his hand. “I know your
husband disappeared the day after your marriage. I know that there was
a burglary at his flat, and that when the police arrived they
recognized the man who had been concerned in a robbery that afternoon.
I know that among the things stolen from his flat was a passport--I
interviewed his servant subsequently, and he told me there was a
passport in one of the drawers of the desk. Now, if there were any
chance--and it seems one of those fantastic theories that writers make
a lot of money from--that this man is Mr. Maddison, the best people to
help him are the police. I know him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t
hold up Taffanny’s. If it’s a question of impersonation--we can be
more than useful. Won’t you tell me, Mrs. Maddison?”
She was silent. With a shake of his head the detective took his
departure, carrying with him the suit of clothes and a very
deep-seated conviction.
It was a curious coincidence that he should have brought those
crumpled garments to the house when, neatly packed away in a new
suitcase in her bedroom, was the change of garments she had arranged
for Luke.
She was puzzled as to the arrangements she could make that would be
most convenient. She decided ultimately upon leaving the suitcase at a
railway cloakroom. The ticket could be sent to Luke as soon as he was
discovered. She waited for the night to come to carry this plan into
effect.
The night brought its problems for Danty Morell. That afternoon, after
Margaret Maddison had left him, he made a discovery which turned him
sick with apprehension. He had lost his hold on Margaret; at any
moment she might go to the police, and just then he was most anxious
not to renew acquaintance with Scotland Yard. Things had gone badly
with him; he owed a very large sum of money which had to be paid in
the City on the following day; and now, with the added possibility of
police intervention, his position was perilous.
Danton Morell was in some ways a careful man. However extravagant he
might be, he had reserved for himself a fat nest egg in cash which, in
spite of all temptation, he had never touched. He had collected the
money that day from two or three accounts which he ran in an assumed
name. Nothing was needed now but to follow the line of retreat he had
planned. There was a small aërodrome on the outskirts of London, from
which exhibition flights were given. Danty had found it expedient to
finance the small company which owned the airplanes, and by telephone
he arranged his flight. This was facilitated by the fact that the
company had recently acquired a big rebuilt monoplane which was
capable of a long flight. Danty, who had decided upon Switzerland for
his first hop, gave orders for the storage of petrol and necessities
for the journey. He certainly did not anticipate taking a companion
with him, but he was not the only panic-stricken man in London.
Danty made a very quick search for papers which, left behind, might
have awkward consequences, and his first attention was directed to the
little box in which he kept the most dangerous of his correspondence.
He brought this into the dining room before he discovered that the
lock had been forced. With an exclamation he threw up the lid, shook
out the contents---- The one packet of letters that he had been mad to
keep was gone! And the little telephone slip--that also had
disappeared.
His hands were shaking so that he could hardly hold the papers he was
examining. There was no need to speculate upon the identity of the man
who had forced that box. The Gunner had been seen in the
neighbourhood: Pi Coles had told him that, and it had been the Gunner
who had made this search and found the documents. Danty Morell saw
death grinning at him; hypnotized into sheer inaction. When there came
a knock at the outer door, he leaped up from his chair, a shivering
wreck of a man, not daring to open to the visitor.
He calmed himself sufficiently to go to the door and demand who was
there, and when he heard Connor’s voice he could have cried aloud for
joy.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Connor, when they were back in the
room.
“I’ve had a bit of a shock, and I’m not particularly well. You know
they’re after those kites?”
Connor himself was not particularly happy-looking.
“I know. They’ve stopped a check I sent to the bank and half the
busies in London are looking for him. They know who it is, too--that’s
the worst of it. You’re in this, Danty.”
“We’re both in it, aren’t we?” snarled the other. “I’m getting out of
London to-night.”
Connor laughed raucously.
“You’ve got a fine chance of getting out of London, unless you take a
rattler.” And then, suddenly: “How are you going?”
It was on the tip of Danty’s tongue to invent a method of escape, but
just now he needed the association of Connor. Connor was not above
using a gun at a pinch, and, moreover, hated Gunner Haynes.
“I’m going by airplane from Elford,” he said. “We’ve got the Gunner to
thank for this. He squealed.”
“He’s never stopped squealing,” said Connor without heat. “Where do
you land in your flying machine?”
Danty told him his destination.
“That’ll do for me,” said Connor.
He looked at the papers on the table.
“Having a burn-up?” he asked pleasantly. And then: “How much stuff
have you got?”
Here Danty lied. He could not tell the truth about money.
The conference was a brief one. They agreed to visit the aërodrome
that evening and make final preparations for their journey. The
journey through the suburbs into outer London was a silent one; now
and again Danty lifted the flap at the back of the hired car in which
they were travelling, and peered along the darkening road.
“What’s the matter with you?” growled Connor.
“There’s a car, a two-seater, following us.”
“Why shouldn’t it?” demanded the other sarcastically. “Do you want the
road to yourself?”
A few minutes later, when Danty looked back, the little car had
disappeared.
The preparations for the night’s journey were not easily made. The
pilot had only just been communicated with. He was on a holiday in the
Midlands.
“It’s a good job we came, or we might have been in Queer Street,” said
Connor as they were driving back. “What time did you say you’d be
here?”
“About midnight.”
“What are you looking for?” asked Connor ten minutes later. “The
little car?”
He pushed his companion aside and peered.
“There’s a motor lorry: has that got anything on us?” he demanded.
Danty said nothing. No man could know the terror that was in his
heart. Behind him stalked the grim shadow of vengeance, and every
second he expected to see the hawklike face of the Gunner peering into
his from the darkness.
Danty did not go near his flat. He telephoned to Pi Coles and they met
in the park, Pi bringing with him an overcoat and wrap which were to
be Danty’s sole luggage. His servitor he rewarded liberally. There was
nothing to do now but to pass the few hours which intervened before he
left England forever.
He telephoned to the hangar and learned to his satisfaction that the
pilot had arrived. He would have liked to advance the hour of his
departure, but he knew that for once he must keep faith--Connor was a
dangerous man, and he had no desire to let two enemies grow in the
place of one.
Once or twice, as he loafed about the less frequented streets of
Pimlico, he had the impression that he was being shadowed; but when
once he walked back in desperate boldness to interview the man who was
following him, he found it was a perfectly inoffensive stranger to the
neighbourhood who was trying to find a street and a number.
He had work to do--vengeful work--and he completed this in a teashop
near Vauxhall Bridge. Making a wide detour, he reached the central
post office and handed in the telegram addressed to Inspector Bird. It
ran:
The man who was concerned in the Taffanny robbery was Luke Maddison.
He is attempting to leave London to-night. His wife and Gunner Haynes
are aware of the double life he has been living.
He signed it with his own name.
Late as was the hour, he knew that the telegram would be delivered. He
went back to meet his companion in misfortune, feeling more cheerful
than he had felt all day.