A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION.
When Maunders passed into the atrium, Vernon returned slowly to his
seat under the peristyle. Here he ordered a fresh cup of strong coffee
to clear his brain, lighted another cigarette, and sat down to recall
the late conversation. As a preliminary to a thorough consideration of
the situation, he ran over in his mind what he knew of the man who
wished to become his partner. His memories showed Maunders to be an
exceedingly unscrupulous person, who was ready to do anything to
gratify his appetite for pleasure.
Vernon's recollections carried him back to a Berkshire village of
which his father had been the squire. Mrs. Bedge, the widow of a
Levantine merchant, had taken a house in the neighbourhood, and there
had settled with her nephew, Constantine Maunders. It seemed that her
sister had married a naturalised Greek, hence the boy's Christian
name. As the parents were dead, Mrs. Bedge, being without offspring,
had adopted the orphan. From what Vernon remembered, Maunders had
always been a handsome and charming little boy, who usually got his
own way by sheer amiability and good looks. But he had inherited more
from his Greek father than a classical face and a Christian name which
smacked of old Constantinople, for he was crafty and clever, and
utterly without moral principle. He could conceal his feelings
admirably, he could scheme for his wants very dexterously, and he told
a lie or the truth with the utmost impartiality when either suited the
end to be gained. Posing as an innocent angel-child, he deceived
everyone, and although outwardly he appeared to be an unsophisticated
babe, he was in reality a little monster of egotism. Even when they
were children together, Vernon--from bitter experience--had always
mistrusted Constantine, and had judged his character more accurately
than grown-up people. Those were invariably taken in by the brat's
cherubic aspect.
At Eton, Constantine fared less happily. He was ten years of age when
his aunt sent him there, and, as Vernon then was fifteen, she had asked
him to look after her darling. But all Vernon's chivalry could not save
Constantine from well-deserved kicks and thrashings. Schoolboys are not
to be taken in by angel-children, so Constantine did not have a happy
time. However, he was so diplomatic and unscrupulous that he managed to
scramble through school life fairly well. At Oxford--whither he went
some years after Vernon--he got on better, and became a general
favourite because of his general pliancy of disposition. By means of
that same pliancy he usually secured his selfish ends, under a guise of
consistent amiability. Being quick-brained and clever, if somewhat
shallow, he secured his degree, and left the University with an
excellent character. Since then he had been a man about town, supported
by his aunt's money. Mrs. Bedge had settled in London at Constantine's
request, and could refuse him nothing. Yet--as Vernon judged from what
the young man had said--even Mrs. Bedge's generosity could not supply
Maunders with sufficient money to gratify the selfish desire he had
always had for pleasure. Only the income of a Rothschild could have
entirely satisfied his cravings for the delights of existence.
Vernon had been less lucky in life. His father had speculated rashly,
and three years prior to the meeting of the young men at the Athenian
Club had died a comparative pauper. Thrown on his own resources and
without a profession, Vernon had utilised his observant and logical
faculties to set up in private practice as a detective. For two years
he had carried on the trade with success and without having been found
out. But now that Constantine had come on the scene, Vernon felt that
there would be trouble. Of course, by taking him as a partner an
exposure could be avoided, but only temporarily. Maunders was so ready
to make mischief that Vernon felt he would take all he could get out
of the business, and when prosperous by marriage with Ida Dimsdale,
would not hesitate to tell the truth. The sole safeguard lay in the
fact that, being tarred with the same brush, Maunders for his own
social sake might hold his tongue. He was always clever enough to
avoid the publication of any facts to his disadvantage. It really
seemed, on these grounds, that it would be judicious to admit him as a
partner. But Vernon shivered at the prospect. At the best, such a
business as he was engaged in, was a delicate one and decidedly
unpopular. With Maunders' unscrupulous methods it might degenerate
into a series of shady transactions.
"But I'll take the month and think it over," thought Vernon, when he
had finished his coffee and cigarette. "Much may happen in thirty days
which may enable me to get out of the difficulty." Then he took out
his watch and noted that it was ten o'clock. "Just time to see
Dimsdale," he yawned.
When putting on his light overcoat in the vestibulum, Vernon
thought it was a strange coincidence that Maunders should have
mentioned--incidentally, of course--the name of the man with whom he
had an appointment at half-past ten o'clock. Earlier in the day Vernon
had received a pressing note asking him to meet the writer at Colonel
Towton's chambers, Ralph Street, St. James's, at that hour. So, as a
matter of fact, two names pertinent to the situation had been
mentioned, Dimsdale and Towton. Vernon wondered as he walked along
Pall Mall what the reason could be. He did not believe in coincidence,
and had sufficient experience of life to doubt the existence of
chance, so the mention of the names taken in conjunction with the
appointment must point to some problem being worked out. Vernon
believed--as every thoughtful man must believe--that everything was
worked out in the unseen world before it became a factor in the
visible plane, and he was quite prepared to find, on this assumption,
that the meeting with Dimsdale in Towton's chambers was more important
than it appeared to be on the surface. Subsequent events proved that
he was right in his conjecture.
Meanwhile--as he was a one-thing-at-a-time man--he sauntered leisurely
along towards his destination, wondering what Dimsdale wished to see
him about. The ex-police-commissioner was one of the very few people
who knew of the business in Covent Garden. Dimsdale had been a
life-long friend of Vernon's father, and had welcomed the young man
with open arms to his home. It was odd that Vernon had not fallen in
love with Ida, as nothing would have pleased Dimsdale better than to
have given his daughter and her money to his old friend's son. But
Fortune in her freakish way had decided that Vernon should fall in
love with Lucy Corsoon, where every obstacle would be placed in the
way of a successful wooing, so Ida and Arthur had settled contentedly
down into a brother and sister relationship.
Dimsdale was annoyed that his pet project of a marriage could not come
to pass, but there was no help for it, as he could not govern the
young man's affections. Also he was annoyed because Vernon, when the
death of his father occurred, would not let the elder man assist him.
However, he told him his plans about the private inquiry office, and
although the ex-police commissioner did not wholly approve, he judged
from his knowledge of the young man's detective powers, that it was
the best use he could put his talents to. More than this, he managed
to bring him clients, and to spread the fame of Nemo by dexterous
allusions. Vernon therefore was doing very well in the line he had
struck out for himself, and felt duly grateful to Dimsdale for his
assistance. He thought as he walked along Ralph Street that probably
the old gentleman had found him a fresh client. But it was odd that
Colonel Towton's chambers should have been chosen as the meeting
place, since Dimsdale belonged to several clubs. And the matter,
whatever it was, must be very important, else Dimsdale would have
waited until Vernon paid his weekly visit to the Hampstead bungalow.
It was only a quarter-past ten o'clock when Vernon arrived, and he
thought that he would have to wait. But Towton's servant intimated
that Mr. Dimsdale was watching for his visitor in the Colonel's
particular sanctum, and ushered the young man into the room, after
relieving him of his coat and hat. The Colonel himself did not appear
to be present, but Martin Dimsdale was smoking in a deep arm-chair,
and jumped up in his boyish way to shake hands warmly. He always had a
great regard for Arthur Vernon.
The room was an ordinary apartment, comfortably furnished, but in a
strictly bachelor fashion. The scheme of colour was deep green and
deep red, so that it appeared somewhat sombre. Trophies of Towton's
sporting instincts in the shape of skins and heads appeared on the
walls and on the floor. There were many military portraits and groups
about, reminiscent of the Colonel's army life. The two windows were
open and the curtains were pulled back, so that the room was fairly
cool, while on the table stood a syphon, some glasses and a decanter
of whisky, together with a box of cigars. These were at Mr. Dimsdale's
elbow. He had evidently been passing the time in smoking and drinking
pending his young friend's arrival.
"I'm glad to see you, boy," said the ex-police commissioner, pointing
to a chair. "Sit down and make yourself at home. Towton gives me full
permission to play in this yard. Have a peg and a cigar."
"Not too strong, please," warned Vernon, accepting a cigar and sinking
into the indicated chair. "I haven't so steady a head as yours."
"It's a cleverer head," said Dimsdale, squirting in the potash. "Else
I should not have asked you to meet me here--Nemo."
"Oh!" Vernon placed the glass beside him. "I thought it was a Case.
But why did you ask me to meet you in Towton's rooms, and where is
Towton?"
"At my sister's ball along with Ida and Miss Hest."
"Lady Corsoon's ball?"
Dimsdale sat down and nodded. "Yes. It's a swell affair, as Sir Julius
wants to make an impression on some Australian people he desires to
rope into his schemes for making money. Something to do with mines, I
believe. I didn't feel inclined to go, although I daresay I'll have to
look in later to fetch Ida and Miss Hest home. I wished particularly
to see you." His manner assumed a portentous gravity. "So I asked
Towton if I could come here and make the appointment."
"But at your club----"
"What I have to say is sacred and secret," interrupted the old
gentleman. "A club has many eyes and many ears. Better be on the safe
side. Oh, that's all right," he added with a nod, on seeing Vernon's
eyes stray to the open window. "Those only look out over the roofs of
houses. No one can hear us. Whisky all right; cigar drawing well? Very
good. Now then!" He settled himself for an exhaustive talk.
The old Indian officer had certainly not been dried up by the hot
climate where he had spent the greater part of his life. He was a
round, tubby, rosy-faced little man, all curves and gracious
contentment. His face was clean-shaven and his head was bald, while
his sharp grey eyes twinkled behind golden-rimmed pince-nez, balanced
on an unimportant nose. With his round head and round body--sphere
super imposed on sphere--and short legs, he looked like the figure of
a Chinese mandarin, and nodded his head like one when he wished to
emphasise a point. There was nothing military about him in any way,
and Vernon wondered how so natty and neat an old gentleman ever came
to have command of men appointed to hunt down Dacoits in the jungles
of Burmah. Yet Dimsdale's official career had been a stirring one, and
he had done good service in pacifying the country after the war. Now
he had beaten his sword into a plough-share, and, with a considerable
fortune, was spending his amiable old age under his own fig-tree.
When Vernon looked at the rotund little man with the round rosy
face, he saw before him a perfectly contented human being, and a very
kind-hearted one to boot.
"Well, sir," he said, leaning back comfortably, "we're tiled in, as
masons say, so I shall be glad to hear what you have to tell me. Also,
I am obliged to you for seeking out this especial case for me."
"Two special cases, my boy, two special cases," said Mr. Dimsdale,
wagging his head and looking more like a Chinese mandarin than ever.
"One has to do with me--I'll tell you about it later; the other has to
do with Mrs. Bedge and her adopted son."
"Maunders!" cried Vernon, astonished to find that his premonition was
coming true. "You don't mean Constantine?"
"Yes, I do, Arthur; of course I do. Young Maunders. I never did like
that boy somehow in spite of his good looks and polite manners. After
all, he's half a Greek, and I don't like the Greeks either. They're
nearly as tricky as the Armenians, and that's saying a lot. All the
same, I'm sorry for the sake of Emily. I'm an old friend of Emily. Ha,
ha! I was in love with her before she married Bedge. He was a
Levantine merchant, you know, dealt in currants and cherry jam and all
the rest of it. Not a bad chap, from what I remember of him, but far
too old a husband for Emily----"
"Do you mean Mrs. Bedge?" asked Vernon, vainly endeavouring to stem
the flow of the old man's speech.
"Of course I mean Mrs. Bedge. I call her Emily because--ha! ha!--I was
in love with her. She was a handsome girl in those years, and a good
one. Why, look how she adopted that rascal--I can't help thinking
young Maunders a rascal, though he does want to marry Ida, which is
not to be thought of. Yes, yes! Emily always was good. I don't believe
a word of it, not a word." And Mr. Dimsdale, bringing his fist down on
the table, glared at his companion through his pince-nez.
"You don't believe a word of what?" asked Vernon soothingly.
"I'm coming to that; I'm coming to that. Don't worry me and hurry me."
Mr. Dimsdale rubbed his nose in a vexed manner. "Young Maunders, now.
Eh, what? Have you seen young Maunders lately?"
"It's odd you should ask that," said Vernon slowly, "because I have
just parted from him at the Athenian Club."
"Don't have anything to do with him, Arthur; he's a bad lot, a very
bad lot indeed. Oh, it's nothing that he has done. I wouldn't say to
anyone else what I am saying to you. But I can read character, and I
have observed Master Constantine. He's so selfish that he would boil
Emily for his own gratification, if it pleased him. And she would let
herself be boiled, too; she's as silly over the scamp as he is selfish
towards her. Why do you cultivate his society? Eh, what? It's wrong
and stupid; yes, yes, stupid and wrong."
"I haven't seen so very much of him since we left Oxford," objected
Arthur, "and certainly I don't cultivate him, as you put it, for I
admire his character as little as you do."
"And on more tangible grounds, perhaps? Eh, what? Tell me."
"No; I have not much to go on. At school and at college, and when we
were children together in Berkshire, I never wholly liked Constantine.
He's too selfish and too unscrupulous, although he always keeps on the
right side of the law. Still, if he could do anything for his own
benefit against the law without being found out and made to pay the
penalty, I believe he would have little hesitation in doing it."
"I daresay; no doubt you speak the exact truth from intuition. He's a
snake that young man, a pretty, curly, insinuating snake; he's poison
in a well-shaped and well-coloured bottle. Poor Emily! poor Emily!
silly woman, but goodness itself. She's a Mrs. Lear with a thankless
adopted child, sharper than a serpent's tooth. Bless her, and damn him
for a rogue, though, bless me, I can't bring any actual charge against
the young beast. Ha, no! but when one sees smoke, one guesses fire."
"Did you tell him that I was Nemo?" asked Vernon bluntly.
Dimsdale grew furiously red and furiously angry, so angry indeed that
he rose to stamp about the room. "How the devil can you ask me such a
question, and how dare you, if it comes to that? Am I an ass, an
idiot, a babbler? I wouldn't tell Maunders that I had eaten my dinner,
much less inform him of a secret which it is to your advantage to
keep. Why do you ask? Hang you, for thinking me a traitor and a
gossip."
"Forgive me," said Vernon with an apologetic air. "I am quite sure
that you have preserved the secret of how I earn my money. But I know
that Constantine haunts your house, and thought you might have let
drop a casual hint, which he is clever enough, as we both know, to
take advantage of. But the fact is he had found out about Nemo, and
threatens unless I take him into partnership--he has given me a month
to turn over the proposition--that he will make Society too hot to
hold me."
"The young rascal, the young blackmailing scoundrel," cried Dimsdale,
stamping again. "It's just what he would do. He haunts my house to
make love to Ida, and I would rather see her dead than as his wife,
especially now that I know what I am about to tell you."
"What is it?"
"Later on I shall explain. Meanwhile, don't beat about the bush, but
tell me exactly what Maunders threatens."
Vernon detailed the conversation, and Dimsdale returned to his seat to
hear the narrative. When it was ended he nodded with compressed lips.
"Very clever on the part of Master Snake. He has you in his power
right enough, since he is ready to betray you if you don't obey his
commands. Well, then, I am going--to a certain extent--to put him in
your power."
"What? Have you found out----"
"I have found out nothing," said Dimsdale testily. "Don't interrupt.
Do you know of a blackmailer called The Spider?"
Vernon half rose and then sat down again with an effort at
self-control. "I have come across his work on several occasions, and
so has Scotland Yard. No one knows what he is or where he lives or
anything about him. He gets his name from the fact that he always
signs his blackmailing letters with the stamped representation of a
spider."
"Go on," said Dimsdale, quite calmly for him, "tell me more."
"There is little to tell, sir. The Spider learns people's secrets
somehow, and in a way which no one can discover. He then writes to
this or that person and threatens unless a certain sum of money is
paid to publish the secret by means of postcards sent to the private
address and sometimes to the club of his victim. Of course, there is
no combating this mode of procedure, so most people pay quietly,
although some have kicked."
"Why isn't the reptile arrested when he comes for his money? Tell me
that, sir. Tell me that."
"Sometimes the money is sent to a given address, and at other times
The Spider, masked and cloaked, meets his victim personally. He is not
arrested because he always tells his victim that if the police are
brought into the question, and he is jailed, the especial secret will
be published all the same to the world by a hidden accomplice by means
of postcards. So you can see, Mr. Dimsdale, that if any person wishes
his or her secret to be preserved they cannot risk an arrest. Still, I
have been employed by one or two victims to learn the truth, and I
have failed. I can't lay hands on The Spider, nor can any of the
official detectives."
Mr. Dimsdale nodded. "He's a clever animal," said he grimly. "You have
described his mode of procedure extremely well, my boy. It's just the
way in which he is tormenting Emily."
"Mrs. Bedge. Is he blackmailing her?"
"Of course he is. Don't I tell you so?" said Dimsdale crossly. "She
asked me to come and see her yesterday, and showed me three letters,
with the figure of a spider at the foot of the writing. The reptile
wants five thousand pounds, else he will send cards to her private
address and to her friends stating that Constantine is her
illegitimate son."
"What?" Vernon leaped from his chair aghast.
"Of course, it's an infernal lie," said Dimsdale warmly. "Emily is a
good woman, even though she jilted me to marry a man old enough to be
her father. She was true to him; I swear she was true to him, and
simply adopted the son of his partner Maunders--his real name was
Constantine Mavrocordato--because the boy's father and mother were
dead."
"There is no grounds for this assertion on the part of The Spider?"
"Absolutely none. Confound it, sir, you know Emily," raged Dimsdale.
"Can you know her and doubt for a moment but that this viper has made
a most iniquitous accusation? She has the boy's certificate of birth,
and can prove the truth, and moreover can call evidence on the part of
friends who knew about the adoption when it took place. But you know
that mud sticks, Arthur, however innocent a person may be. Emily
simply can't stand up against this blackguard attempt. If she refuses
to send the five thousand pounds to the address given within a
fortnight, The Spider says he will send cards making his lying
assertion to all her friends. Even if she rebutted it--as she
can--there would always be shrugged shoulders and raised eyebrows and
cold looks, and no-smoke-without-fire remarks."
"True!" Vernon looked thoughtfully at his cigar tip. "Plenty of
innocent people do not care to face publicity on that account. Human
nature is so prone to believe the worst, even in the face of the very
plainest evidence. What does Mrs. Bedge propose to do?"
"She wanted to send the money, but I suggested that she should let me
place the matter in your hands."
"Thank you. I'll do my best. But it's a difficult case, as The Spider
is so hard to find."
"On this occasion I don't think he will be," said Dimsdale with grim
humour, "since I propose to work with you."
"I don't understand----"
"Don't I speak plainly?" asked Dimsdale tartly. "I said there were two
cases, didn't I? Answer me, sir; answer me?"
"Yes, but----"
"There is no but about the matter, Arthur. I shall make a full
explanation after I have asked a simple question."
"And the question?"
"You see, don't you, how this information places Maunders, young
beast, in your power?"
"No, I don't," answered Vernon very plainly and somewhat aggressively;
"if you mean that I am to use my knowledge of his falsely being
accused of illegitimacy as a threat to keep him from worrying me into
a partnership."
"I don't mean that in the least," cried Dimsdale warmly. "Confound
you, sir, would you make me out to be no better than this spider
reptile. What I mean is that you can say to Maunders that you will
receive him into partnership if he hunts down The Spider and clears
the character of his adopted mother. Not that Emily's character
requires clearing in my eyes, mind you. But we must consider the
limitations of human nature, my boy, and place Emily, like Cæsar's
wife, above suspicion. Now do you understand? Eh, what? Reply, sir."
Arthur nodded. "I understand. And if Maunders hunts down The Spider he
will be worth engaging as a partner."
"No, I don't mean that. But you are setting him to achieve an
impossibility, and unless he fulfils your wish he cannot hope to be a
partner. In the meantime, you and I hunt down The Spider. Then when we
have him jailed, Maunders, not having done what you asked of him,
can't expect to become a partner."
"I think he will in any case?" said Vernon grimly.
"I think not, sir," said Dimsdale very distinctly. "Of course, Emily
is all right, and this blackmailing accusation is a lie. All the same,
Maunders, who is anxious to secure a position in Society and marry
Ida--confound him, he never shall with my consent--will not wish the
slightest breath of his being a possible natural child to get about."
"I should say nothing," said Vernon stiffly.
"Quite so. I never expected you would. But the mere probability of the
business becoming known will make Maunders careful. He won't worry you
again, as, judging you by his own iniquitous self, he will think you
capable of betraying him. _Now_ can you see?"
"Yes. But Constantine knows that I would never speak."
"I daresay, because he thinks the bribe isn't enough. He believes as
Peel did--or Walpole was it?--that every man has his price. He won't
worry you, I tell you, if you give the merest hint to him of the
matter. Not that you need to, for he will know about this blackmailing
letter to-morrow."
Vernon recalled how Maunders had said that his aunt had detained him,
and how he had suggested that she had something on her mind. "He
doesn't know it at present, anyhow."
"No. Emily saw me before speaking to him. However, listen to the
scheme I have in my mind to catch this Spider wretch. He is trying to
blackmail me."
"Oh!" Vernon sat up and laughed. "How ridiculous. You of all men
cannot be blackmailed, since your life is so open."
"No man's life is open," said Dimsdale drily; "and mine has its dark
pages as everyone else's has. I have a secret; not a particularly bad
one, it is true. Still, one that I should prefer to keep to myself."
"What is it?"
"I shan't tell you or any man," snapped the ex-police commissioner.
"It is sufficient to say that it is not a very bad secret, and that
even if it were told to the world it would matter little. However, The
Spider--hang him, I think he must have some acquaintance with my life
in the East--has learned something I thought no one but myself knew
anything about. He asks one thousand pounds, which is moderate
compared with his demand on Emily. Shows that he knows my secret isn't
so very deadly, or it would be worth more."
"Did he write to you?" asked Vernon alertly. "Of course he did, making
the usual threat of exposure by postcards to self and friends. Now I
am going to consent to his demands."
"And pay the money?"
"I didn't say that," corrected Dimsdale sharply, "but I am writing
asking him to meet me in my library, and receive the money; also for
him to hand over any documents to me which even hint at my secret.
When he comes, you can be concealed in the room and we'll take him in
charge."
"But then your secret will become known," objected Vernon. "The Spider
always provides against arrest by leaving the evidence in the hands of
others to publish."
"He can publish what he likes about me," said Mr. Dimsdale coolly;
"don't I tell you that the secret is of little value. The Spider in
his letter to me embroidered upon actual fact, and can make things
unpleasant; but I can prove the exact truth of what he states, and so
can save my bacon. There may be a few cold shoulders, but I shan't
care for that, especially when my own conscience is clear. Now, don't
ask me to tell you my secret, for I shan't. It has nothing to do with
you or anyone else. All you have to do is to come to-morrow or the
next day to my house at Hampstead, and I'll sketch out the plan of
campaign."
"What about Mrs. Bedge?"
"She has a fortnight to consider the payment. We shall catch the
scoundrel before then--you understand. Eh, what? Good! Now I must be
off to Julia's ball. Are you coming?--not asked! Of course; you love
Lucy, and that will never do for Julia, who wants her to make a titled
match. Good-night! Ha, ha! You have plenty to think about. Don't get
brain fever. Good night!"
Then the oddly-assorted pair parted for the time being.