The Cheyne Mystery
by Freeman Wills Crofts
Contents
1 The Episode in the Plymouth Hotel
2 Burglary!
3 The Launch “Enid”
4 Concerning a Peerage
5 An Amateur Sleuth
6 The House in Hopefield Avenue
7 Miss Joan Merrill
8 A Council of War
9 Mr. Speedwell Plays His Hand
10 The New Firm Gets Busy
11 Otto Schulz’s Secret
12 In the Enemy’s Lair
13 Inspector French Takes Charge
14 The Clue of the Clay-marked Shoe
15 The Torn Hotel Bill
16 A Tale of Two Cities
17 On the Flood Tide
18 A Visitor from India
19 The Message of the Tracing
20 The Goal of the “L’Escaut”
Chapter I
The Episode in the Plymouth Hotel
When the White Rabbit in _Alice_ asked where he should begin to read
the verses at the Knave’s trial the King replied: “Begin at the
beginning; go on till you come to the end; then stop.”
This would seem to be the last word on the subject of narration in
general. For the novelist no dictum more entirely complete and
satisfactory can be imagined—in theory. But in practice it is hard to
live up to.
Where is the beginning of a story? Where is the beginning of anything?
No one knows.
When I set myself to consider the actual beginning of Maxwell Cheyne’s
adventure, I saw at once I should have to go back to Noah. Indeed I
was not at all sure whether the thing could be adequately explained
unless I carried back the narrative to Adam, or even further. For
Cheyne’s adventure hinged not only on his own character and
environment, brought about by goodness knows how many thousands of
generations of ancestors, but also upon the contemporaneous history of
the world, crystallized in the happening of the Great War and all that
appertained thereto.
So then, in default of the true beginning, let us commence with the
character and environment of Maxwell Cheyne, following on with the
strange episode which took place in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth,
and from which started that extraordinary series of events which I
have called The Cheyne Mystery.
Maxwell Cheyne was born in 1891, so that when his adventure began in
the month of March, 1920, he was just twenty-nine. His father was a
navy man, commander of one of His Majesty’s smaller cruisers, and from
him the boy presumably inherited his intense love of the sea and of
adventure. Captain Cheyne had Irish blood in his veins and exhibited
some of the characteristics of that irritating though lovable race. He
was a man of brilliant attainments, resourceful, dashing, spirited
and, moreover, a fine seaman, but a certain impetuosity, amounting at
times to recklessness, just prevented his attaining the highest rank
in his profession. In character he was as straight as a die, and
kindly, generous, and openhanded to a fault, but he was improvident
and inclined to live too much in the present. And these
characteristics were destined to affect his son’s life, not only
directly through heredity, but indirectly through environment also.
When Maxwell was nine his father died suddenly, and then it was found
that the commander had been living up to his income and had made but
scant provision for his widow and son and daughter. Dreams of Harrow
and Cambridge had to be abandoned and, instead, the boy was educated
at the local grammar school, and then entered the office of a
Fenchurch Street shipping firm as junior clerk.
In his twentieth year the family fortunes were again reversed. His
mother came in for a legacy from an uncle, a sheep farmer in
Australia. It was not a fortune, but it meant a fairly substantial
competence. Mrs. Cheyne bought back Warren Lodge, their old home, a
small Georgian house standing in pleasant grounds on the estuary of
the Dart. Maxwell thereupon threw up his job at the shipping office,
followed his mother to Devonshire, and settled down to the leisurely
life of a country gentleman. Among other hobbies he dabbled
spasmodically in literature, producing a couple of novels, one of
which was published and sold with fair success.
But the sea was in his blood. He bought a yacht, and with the help of
the gardener’s son, Dan, sailed her in fair weather and foul, thereby
gaining skill and judgment in things nautical, as well as a first-hand
knowledge of the shores and tides and currents of the western portion
of the English Channel.
Thus it came to pass that when, three years after the return to Devon,
the war broke out, he volunteered for the navy and was at once
accepted. There he served with enthusiasm if not with distinction,
gaining very much the reputation which his father had held before him.
During the intensive submarine campaign he was wounded in an action
with a U-boat, which resulted in his being invalided out of the
service. On demobilization he returned home and took up his former
pursuits of yachting, literature, and generally having as slack and
easy a time as his energetic nature would allow. Some eighteen months
passed, and then occurred the incident which might be said definitely
to begin his Adventure.
One damp and bleak March day Cheyne set out for Plymouth from Warren
Lodge, his home on the estuary of the Dart. He wished to make a number
of small purchases, and his mother and sister had entrusted him with
commissions. Also he desired to consult his banker as to some question
of investments. With a full program before him he pulled on his
oilskins, and having assured his mother he would be back in time for
dinner, he mounted his motor bicycle and rode off.
In due course he reached Plymouth, left his machine at a garage, and
set about his business. About one o’clock he gravitated towards the
Edgecombe Hotel, where after a cocktail he sat down in the lounge to
rest for a few minutes before lunch.
He was looking idly over _The Times_ when the voice of a page broke in
on his thoughts.
“Gentleman to see you, sir.”
The card which the boy held out bore in fine script the legend: “Mr.
Hubert Parkes, Oakleigh, Cleeve Hill, Cheltenham.” Cheyne pondered,
but he could not recall anyone of the name, and it passed through his
mind that the page had probably made a mistake.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Here sir,” the boy answered, and a short, stoutly built man of middle
age with fair hair and a toothbrush mustache stepped forward. A glance
assured Cheyne that he was a stranger.
“Mr. Maxwell Cheyne?” the newcomer inquired politely.
“My name, sir. Won’t you sit down?” Cheyne pulled an easy chair over
towards his own.
“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you before, Mr. Cheyne,” the
other went on as he seated himself, “though I knew your father fairly
intimately. I lived for many years at Valetta, running the Maltese end
of a produce company with which I was then connected, and I met him
when his ship was stationed there. A great favorite, Captain Cheyne
was! The dull old club used to brighten up when he came in, and it
seemed a national loss when his ship was withdrawn to another
station.”
“I remember his being in Malta,” Cheyne returned, “though I was quite
a small boy at the time. My mother has a photograph of Valetta,
showing his ship lying in the Grand Harbor.”
They chatted about Malta and produce company work therein for some
minutes, and then Mr. Parkes said:
“Now, Mr. Cheyne, though it is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of
the son of my old friend, it was not merely with that object that I
introduced myself. I have, as a matter of fact, a definite piece of
business which I should like to discuss with you. It takes the form of
a certain proposition of which I would invite your acceptance, I hope,
to our mutual advantage.”
Cheyne, somewhat surprised, murmured polite expressions of anxiety to
hear details and the other went on:
“I think before I explain the thing fully another small matter wants
to be attended to. What about a little lunch? I’m just going to have
mine and I shall take it as a favor if you will join me. After that we
could talk business.”
Cheyne readily agreed and the other called over a waiter and gave him
an order. “Let us have a cocktail,” he went on, “and by that time
lunch will be ready.”
They strolled to the bar and there partook of a wonderful American
concoction recommended by the young lady in charge. Presently the
waiter reappeared and led the way, somewhat to Cheyne’s surprise, to a
private room. There an excellent repast was served, to which both men
did full justice. Parkes proved an agreeable and well informed
companion and Cheyne enjoyed his conversation. The newcomer had, it
appeared, seen a good deal of war service, having held the rank of
major in the department of supply, serving first at Gallipoli and then
at Salonica. Cheyne knew the latter port, his ship having called there
on three or four occasions, and the two men found they had various
experiences in common. Time passed pleasantly until at last Parkes
drew a couple of arm chairs up to the fire, ordered coffee, and held
out his cigar case.
“With your permission I’ll put my little proposition now. It is in
connection with your literary work and I’m afraid it’s bound to sound
a trifle impertinent. But I can assure you it’s not meant to be so.”
Cheyne smiled.
“You needn’t be afraid of hurting my feelings,” he declared. “I have a
notion of the real value of my work. Get along anyway and let’s hear.”
Parkes resumed with some hesitation.
“I have to say first that I have read everything that you have
published and I am immensely impressed by your style. I think you do
your descriptions extraordinarily well. Your scenes are vivid and one
feels that one is living through them. There’s money in that, Mr.
Cheyne, in that gift of vivid and interest-compelling presentation.
You should make a good thing out of short stories. I’ve worked at them
for years and I know.”
“Huh. I haven’t found much money in it.”
Parkes nodded.
“I know you haven’t, or rather I guessed so. And if you don’t mind,
I’ll tell you why.” He sat up and a keener interest crept into his
manner. “There’s a fault in those stories of yours, a bad fault, and
it’s in the construction. But let’s leave that for the moment and
you’ll see where all this is leading.”
He broke off as a waiter arrived with the coffee, resuming:
“Now I have a strong dramatic sense and a good working knowledge of
literary construction. As I said I’ve also tried short stories, and
though they’ve not been an absolute failure, I couldn’t say they’ve
been really successful. On the whole, I should think, yours have done
better. And I know why. It’s my style. I try to produce a tale, say,
of a shipwreck. It is intended to be full of human feeling, to grip
the reader’s emotion. But it doesn’t. It reads like a Board of Trade
report. Dry, you understand; not interesting. Now, Mr. Cheyne,” he sat
up in his chair once more, this time almost in excitement, “you see
what I’m coming to. Why should we not collaborate? Let me do the plots
and you clothe them. Between us we have all the essentials for
success.”
He sat back and then saw the coffee.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice this had come.
I hope it’s not cold.” He felt the coffee pot. “What about a liquor?
I’ll ring for one. Or rather,” he paused suddenly. “I think I’ve got
something perhaps even better here.” He put his hand in his pocket and
drew out a small flask. “Old Cognac,” he said. “You’ll try a little?”
He poured some of the golden brown liquid into Cheyne’s cup and was
about to do the same into his own when he was seized with a sudden fit
of choking coughing. He had to put down the flask while he quivered
and shook with the paroxysm. Presently he recovered, breathless.
“Since I was wounded,” he gasped apologetically, “I’ve been taken like
that. The doctors say it’s purely nervous—that my throat and lungs and
so on are perfectly sound. Strange the different ways this war leaves
its mark!”
He picked up the flask, poured a liberal measure of its contents into
his own cup, drank off the contents with evident relish and continued:
“What I had in my mind, if you’ll consider it, was a series of short
stories—say a dozen—on the merchant marine in the war. This is the
spring of 1920. Soon no one will read anything connected with the war,
but I think that time has scarcely come yet. I have fair knowledge of
the subject and yours of course is first hand. What do you say? I will
supply twelve plots or incidents and you will clothe them with, say,
five thousand words each. We shall sell them to _The Strand_ or some
of those monthlies, and afterwards publish them as a collection in
book form.”
“By Jove!” Cheyne said as he slowly sipped his coffee. “The idea’s
rather tempting. But I wish I could feel as sure as you seem to do
about my own style. I’m afraid I don’t believe that it is as good as
you pretend.”
“Mr. Cheyne,” Parkes answered deliberately, “you may take my word for
it that I know what I am talking about. I shouldn’t have come to you
if I weren’t sure. Very few people are satisfied with their own work.
No matter how good it is it falls short of the standard they have set
in their minds. It is another case in which the outsider sees most of
the game.”
Cheyne felt attracted by the proposal. He had written in all seventeen
short stories, and of these only three had been accepted, and those by
inferior magazines. If it would lead to success he would be only too
delighted to collaborate with this pleasant stranger. It wasn’t so
much the money—though he was not such a fool as to make light of that
part of it. It was success he wanted, acceptance of his stuff by good
periodicals, a name and a standing among his fellow craftsmen.
“Let’s see what it would mean,” he heard Parkes’s voice, and it seemed
strangely faint and distant. “I suppose, given the synopses, you could
finish a couple of tales per week—say, six weeks for the lot. And with
luck we should sell for £50 to £100 each—say £500 for your six week’s
work, or nearly £100 per week. And there might be any amount more for
the book rights, filming and so on. Does the idea appeal to you, Mr.
Cheyne?”
Cheyne did not reply. He was feeling sleepy. Did the idea appeal to
him? Yes. No. Did it? Did the idea . . . the idea . . . Drat this
sleepiness! What was he thinking of? Did the idea . . . What
idea? . . . He gave up the struggle and, leaning back in his chair,
sank into a profound and dreamless slumber.
Ages of time passed and Cheyne slowly struggled back into
consciousness. As soon as he was sufficiently awake to analyze his
sensations he realized that his brain was dull and clouded and his
limbs heavy as lead. He was, however, physically comfortable, and he
was content to allow his body to remain relaxed and motionless and his
mind to dream idly on without conscious thought. But his energy
gradually returned and at last he opened his eyes.
He was lying, dressed, on a bed in a strange room. Apparently it was
night, for the room was dark save for the light on the window blind
which seemed to come from a street lamp without. Vaguely interested,
he closed his eyes again, and when he reopened them the room was
lighted up and a man was standing beside the bed.
“Ah,” the man said, “you’re awake. Better, I hope?”
“I don’t know,” Cheyne answered, and it seemed to him as if some one
else was speaking. “Have I been ill?”
“No,” the man returned, “Not that I know of. But you’ve slept like a
log for nearly six hours.”
This was confusing. Cheyne paused to take in the idea, but it eluded
him, then giving up the effort, he asked another question.
“Where am I?”
“In the Edgecombe: the Edgecombe Hotel, you know, in Plymouth. I am
the manager.”
Ah, yes! It was coming back to him. He had gone there for lunch—was it
today or a century ago?—and he had met that literary man—what was his
name? He couldn’t remember. And they had had lunch and the man had
made some suggestion about his writing. Yes, of course! It was all
coming back now. The man had wanted to collaborate with him. And
during the conversation he had suddenly felt sleepy. He supposed he
must have fallen asleep then, for he remembered nothing more. But why
had he felt sleepy like that? Suddenly his brain cleared and he sat up
sharply.
“What’s happened, Mr. Jesse? I never did anything like this before!”
“No?” the manager answered. “I dare say not. I’ll tell you what has
happened to you, Mr. Cheyne, though I’m sorry to have to admit it
could have taken place in my hotel. You’ve been drugged. That’s what
has happened.”
Cheyne stared incredulously.
“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “Drugged! By—not by that literary man,
surely?” He paused in amazed consternation and then his hand flew to
his pocket. “My money,” he gasped. “I had over £100 in my pocket. Just
got it at the bank.” He drew out a pocket-book and examined it
hurriedly. “No,” he went on more quietly. “It’s all right.” He took
from it a bundle of notes and with care counted them. “A hundred and
eight pounds. That’s quite correct. My watch? No, it’s here.” He got
up unsteadily, and rapidly went through his pockets. “Nothing missing
anyway. Are you sure I was drugged? I don’t understand the thing a
little bit.”
“I am afraid there is no doubt about it. You seemed so ill that I sent
for a doctor. He said you were suffering from the effects of a drug,
but were in no danger and would be all right in a few hours. He
advised that you be left quietly to sleep it off.”
Cheyne rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“I can’t understand it,” he repeated. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“About three o’clock or shortly before it, Mr. Parkes appeared at the
office and asked for his bill. He paid it, complimented the clerk on
the excellent lunch he had had, and left the hotel. He was perfectly
calm and collected and quite unhurried. Shortly after the waiter went
up to clear away the things and he found you lying back in your chair,
apparently asleep, but breathing so heavily that he was uneasy and he
came and told me. I went up at once and was also rather alarmed at
your condition, so I sent at once for the doctor.”
“But,” Cheyne objected, “that’s all right, only I _wasn’t_ drugged. I
know exactly what I ate and drank, and Parkes had precisely the same.
If I was drugged, he must have been also, and you say he wasn’t.”
“He certainly was not. But think again, Mr. Cheyne. Are you really
quite certain that he had no opportunity of putting powder over your
food or liquid into your drink? Did he divert your attention at any
time from the table?”
Cheyne was silent. He had remembered the flask of old brandy.
“He put cognac in my coffee from his own flask,” he admitted at
length, “but it couldn’t have been that.”
“Ah,” the manager answered in a satisfied tone, “it _was_ that, I
should swear. Why don’t you think so?”
“I’ll tell you why I don’t think so; why, in fact, I know it wasn’t.
He put an even larger dose out of the same flask into his own cup and
he drank his coffee before I drank mine. So that if there was anything
in the flask he would have got knocked over first.”
The manager looked puzzled.
“Don’t think me discourteous, Mr. Cheyne, but I confess I have my
doubts about that. That episode of the flask looks too suspicious. Are
you sure it was the same flask in each case? Did he pour straight into
one cup after the other or was there an interval in between? You
realize of course that a clever conjurer could substitute a second
flask for the first without attracting your notice?”
“I realize that right enough, but I am positive he didn’t do so in
this case. Though,” he paused for a moment, “that reminds me that
there was an interval between pouring into each cup. He got a fit of
coughing after giving me mine and had to put down the flask. But when
the paroxysm was over he lifted it again and helped himself.”
“There you are,” the manager declared. “During his fit of coughing he
substituted a different flask.”
“I’ll swear he didn’t. But can’t we settle the thing beyond doubt?
Have the cups been washed? If not, can’t we get the dregs analyzed?”
“I have already asked the doctor to have it done. He said he would get
Mr. Pringle to do it at once: that’s the city analyst. They’re close
friends, and Mr. Pringle would do it to oblige him. We should have his
report quite soon. I am also having him analyze the remains on the
plates which were used. Fortunately, owing to lunch being served in a
private room, these had been stacked together and none had been
washed. So we should be able to settle the matter quite definitely.”
Cheyne nodded as he glanced at his watch. “Good Lord!” he cried, “it’s
eight o’clock and I said I should be home by seven! I must ring up my
mother or she’ll think something is wrong.”
The Cheynes had not themselves a telephone, but their nearest
neighbors, people called Hazelton, were good-natured about receiving
an occasional message through theirs and transmitting it to Warren
Lodge. Cheyne went down to the lounge and put through his call,
explaining to Mrs. Hazelton that unforeseen circumstances had
necessitated his remaining overnight in Plymouth. The lady promised to
have the message conveyed to Mrs. Cheyne and Maxwell rang off. Then as
he turned to the dining room, a page told him that the manager would
like to see him in his office.
“I’ve just got a report from the doctor about that coffee, Mr.
Cheyne,” the other greeted him, “and I must say it confirms what you
say, though it by no means clears up the mystery. There was brandy in
those cups, but no drug: no trace of a drug in either.”
“I knew that,” Cheyne rejoined. “Everything that I had for lunch
Parkes had also. I was there and I ought to know. But it’s a bit
unsettling, isn’t it? Looks as if my heart or something had gone
wrong.”
The manager looked at him more seriously. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he
dissented. “I don’t think you can assume that. The doctor seemed quite
satisfied. But if it would ease your mind, why not slip across now and
see him? He lives just round the corner.”
Cheyne reflected.
“I’ll do so,” he answered presently. “If there’s nothing wrong it will
prevent me fancying things, and if there is I should know of it. I’ll
have some dinner and then go across. By the way, have you said
anything to the police?”
The manager hesitated.
“No, I have not. I don’t know that we’ve evidence enough. But in any
case, Mr. Cheyne, I trust you do not wish to call in the police.” The
manager seemed quite upset by the idea and spoke earnestly. “It would
not do the hotel any good if it became known that a visitor had been
drugged. I sincerely trust, sir, that you can see your way to keep the
matter quiet.”
Cheyne stared.
“But you surely don’t suggest that I should take the thing lying down?
If I have been drugged, as you say, I must know who has done it, and
why. That would seem to me obvious.”
“I agree,” the manager admitted, “and I should feel precisely the same
in your place. But it is not necessary to apply to the police. A
private detective would get you the information quite as well. See
here, Mr. Cheyne, I will make you an offer. If you will agree to the
affair being hushed up, I will employ the detective on behalf of the
hotel. He will work under your direction and keep you advised of every
step he takes. Come now, sir, is it a bargain?”
Cheyne did not hesitate.
“Why, yes,” he said promptly, “that will suit me all right. I don’t
specially want to advertise the fact that I have been made a fool of.
But I’d like to know what has really happened.”
“You shall, Mr. Cheyne. No stone shall be left unturned to get at the
truth. I’ll see about a detective at once. You’ll have some dinner,
sir?”
Cheyne was not hungry, but he was very thirsty, and he had a light
meal with a number of long drinks. Then he went round to see the
doctor, to whom the manager had telephoned, making an appointment.
After a thorough examination he received the verdict. It was a relief
to his mind, but it did not tend to clear up the mystery. He was
physically perfectly sound, and his sleep of the afternoon was not the
result of disease or weakness. He had been drugged. That was the
beginning and the end of the affair. The doctor was quite emphatic and
ridiculed the idea of any other explanation.
Cheyne returned to the Edgecombe, and sitting down in a deserted
corner of the lounge, tried to puzzle the thing out. But the more he
thought of it, the more mysterious it became. His mind up till then
had been concentrated on the actual administration of the drug, and
this point alone still seemed to constitute an insoluble problem. But
now he saw that it was but a small part of the mystery. _Why_ had he
been drugged? It was not robbery. Though he had over £100 in his
pocket, the money was intact. He had no other valuables about him, and
in any case nothing had been removed from his pockets. It was not to
prevent his going to any place. He had not intended to do anything
that afternoon that could possibly interest a stranger. No, he could
form no conception of the motive.
But even more puzzling than this was the question: How did Parkes, if
that was really his name, know that he, Cheyne, was coming to Plymouth
that day? It was true that he had mentioned it to his mother and
sister a couple of days previously, but he had told no one else and he
felt sure that neither had they. But the man had almost certainly been
expecting him. At least it was hard to believe that the whole episode
had been merely the fruits of a chance encounter. On the other hand
there was the difficulty that any other suggestion seemed even more
unlikely. Parkes simply _couldn’t_ have known that he, Cheyne, was
coming. It was just inconceivable.
He lay back in his deep armchair, the smoke of his pipe curling lazily
up, as he racked his brains for some theory which would at least
partially meet the facts. But without success. He could think of
nothing which threw a gleam of light on the situation.
And then he made a discovery which still further befogged him and made
him swear with exasperation. He had taken out his pocket-book and was
once more going through its contents to make absolutely sure nothing
was missing, when he came to a piece of folded paper bearing memoranda
about the money matters which he had discussed with his banker. He had
not opened this when he had looked through the book after regaining
consciousness, but now half absent-mindedly he unfolded it. As he did
so he stared. Near the crease was a slight tear, unquestionably made
by some one unfolding it hurriedly or carelessly. But that tear had
not been there when he had folded it up. He could swear to it. Someone
therefore had been through his pockets while he was asleep.