Burglary!
The discovery that his pockets had been gone through while he was
under the influence of the drug reduced Cheyne to a state of even more
complete mystification than ever. What _had_ the unknown been looking
for? He, Cheyne, had nothing with him that, so far as he could
imagine, could possibly have interested any other person. Indeed,
money being ruled out, he did not know that he possessed anywhere any
paper or small object which it would be worth a stranger’s while to
steal.
Novels he had read recurred to him in which desperate enterprises were
undertaken to obtain some document of importance. Plans of naval or
military inventions which would give world supremacy to the power
possessing them were perhaps the favorite instruments in these
romances, but treaties which would mean war if disclosed to the wrong
power, maps of desert islands on which treasure was buried, wills of
which the existence was generally unknown and letters compromising the
good name of wealthy personages had all been used time and again. But
Cheyne had no plans or treaties or compromising letters from which an
astute thief might make capital. Think as he would, he could frame no
theory to account for Parkes’s proceedings.
He yawned and, getting up, began to pace the deserted lounge. The
effects of the drug had not entirely worn off, for though he had slept
all the afternoon he still felt slack and drowsy. In spite of its
being scarcely ten o’clock, he thought he would have a whisky and go
up to bed, in the hope that a good night’s rest would drive the poison
out of his system and restore his usual feeling of mental and physical
well-being.
But Fate, once more in the guise of an approaching page, decreed
otherwise. As he turned lazily towards the bar a voice sounded in his
ear.
“Wanted on the telephone, sir.”
Cheyne crossed the hall and entered the booth.
“Well?” he said shortly. “Cheyne speaking.”
A woman’s voice replied, a voice he recognized. It belonged to Ethel
Hazelton, the grown-up daughter of that Mrs. Hazelton whom he had
asked to inform Mrs. Cheyne of his change of plans. She spoke
hurriedly and he could sense perturbation in her tones.
“Oh, Mr. Cheyne, I’m afraid I have rather disturbing news for you.
When you rang up we sent James over to Warren Lodge. He found Mrs.
Cheyne and Agatha on the doorstep trying to get in. They had been
ringing for some time, but could not attract attention. He rang also,
and then eventually found a ladder and got in through one of the upper
windows. He opened the door for Mrs. Cheyne and Agatha. Can you hear
me all right?”
“Yes, clearly. Go on, please, Miss Hazelton.”
“They searched the house and they discovered cook and Susan in their
bedrooms, both tied up and gagged, but otherwise none the worse. They
released them, of course, and then found that the house had been
burgled.”
“Burgled!” Cheyne ejaculated sharply. “Great Scott!” He was
considerably startled and paused in some consternation, asking then if
much stuff was missing.
“They don’t know,” the distant voice answered. “Your safe had been
opened, but they hadn’t had time to make an examination when James
left. The silver seems to be all there, so that’s something. James
came back here with a message from Mrs. Cheyne asking us to let you
know, and I have been ringing up hotels in Plymouth for the last half
hour. You know, you only said you were staying the night in your
message; you didn’t say where. Mrs. Cheyne would like you to come back
if you can manage it.”
There was no hesitation about Cheyne’s reply.
“Of course I shall,” he said quickly. “I’ll start at once on my
bicycle. What about telling the police?”
“I rang them up immediately. They said they would go out at once.
James has gone back also. He will stay and lend a hand until you
arrive.”
“Splendid! It’s more than good of you both, Miss Hazelton. I can’t
thank you enough. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”
He delayed only to tell the news to the manager.
“There’s the explanation of this afternoon’s affair at all events,” he
declared. “I was evidently fixed up so that I couldn’t butt in and
spoil sport. But it’s good-bye to your keeping it quiet. The police
have been called in already and the whole thing is bound to come out.”
The manager made a gesture of concern.
“I’m sorry to hear your news,” he said gravely. “Are you properly
insured?”
“Partially. I don’t know if it will cover the loss because I don’t
know what’s gone. But I must be getting away.”
He was moving off, but the manager laid a detaining hand on his arm.
“Well, I’m extremely sorry about it. But see here, Mr. Cheyne, it may
not prove to be necessary to bring in about the drugging. It would
injure the hotel. I sincerely trust you’ll do what you can in the
matter, and if you find the private detective sufficient, you’ll let
our arrangement stand.”
“I’ll decide when I hear just what has happened. You’ll let me have a
copy of the analyst’s report?”
“Of course. Directly I get it I shall send it on.”
Fifteen minutes later Cheyne was passing through the outskirts of
Plymouth on his way east. The night was fine, the mists of the day
having cleared away, and a three-quarter moon shone brilliantly out of
a blue-black sky. Keenly anxious to reach home and learn the details
of the burglary and the extent of his loss, Cheyne crammed on every
ounce of power, and his machine snored along the deserted road at well
over forty miles an hour. In spite of slacks for villages and curves
he made a record run, turning into the gate of Warren Lodge at just
ten minutes before eleven.
As he approached the house everything looked normal. But when he let
himself in this impression was dispelled, for a constable stood in the
hall, who, saluting, informed him that Sergeant Kirby was within and
in charge.
But Cheyne’s first concern was with his mother and sister. An inquiry
produced the information that the two ladies were waiting for him in
the drawing room, and thither he at once betook himself.
Mrs. Cheyne was a frail little woman who looked ten years older than
her age of something under sixty. She welcomed her son with a little
cry of pleasure.
“Oh, I am relieved to see you, Maxwell,” she cried. “I’m so glad you
were able to come. Isn’t this a terrible business?”
“I don’t know, mother,” Cheyne answered cheerily, “that depends. I
hear no one is any the worse. Has much stuff been stolen?”
“Nothing!” Mrs. Cheyne’s tone conveyed the wonder she evidently felt.
“Nothing whatever! Or at least we can’t find that anything is
missing.”
“Unless something may have been taken from your safe,” Agatha
interposed. “Was there much in it?”
“No, only a few pounds and some papers, none valuable to an outsider.”
He glanced at his sister. She was a pretty girl, tall and dark and in
features not unlike himself. Both the young people had favored the
late commander’s side of the house. He turned towards the door,
continuing: “I’ll go and have a look, and then you can tell me what
has happened.”
The safe was built into the wall in his own sanctum, “the study,” as
his mother persisted in calling it. It had been taken over with the
house when Mrs. Cheyne bought the little estate. As Cheyne now entered
he saw that its doors were standing open. A tall man in the uniform of
a sergeant of police was stooping over it. He turned as he heard the
newcomer’s step.
“Good-evening sir,” he said in an impressive tone. “This is a bad
business.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know, sergeant,” Cheyne answered easily. “If no one
has been hurt and nothing has been stolen it might have been worse.”
The sergeant stared at him with some disfavor.
“There’s not much but what might have been worse,” he observed
oracularly. “But we’re not sure yet that nothing’s been stolen. Nobody
knows what was in this here safe, except maybe yourself. I’d be glad
if you’d have a look and see if anything is gone.”
There was very little in the safe and it did not take Cheyne many
seconds to go through it. The papers were tossed about—he could swear
someone had turned them over—but none seemed to have been removed. The
small packet of Treasury notes was intact and a number of gold and
silver medals, won in athletic contests, were all in evidence.
“Nothing missing there, sergeant,” he declared when he had finished.
His eye wandered round the room. There was not much of value in it;
one or two silver bowls—athletic trophies also, a small gold clock of
Indian workmanship, a pair of high-power prism binoculars and a few
ornaments were about all that could be turned into money. But all
these were there, undisturbed. It was true that the glass door of a
locked bookcase had been broken to enable the bolt to be unfastened
and the doors opened, but none of the books seemed to have been
touched.
“What do you think they were after, sir?” the sergeant queried. “Was
there any jewelry in the house that they might have heard of?”
“My mother has a few trinkets, but I scarcely think you could dignify
them by the name of jewelry. I suppose these precious burglars have
left no kind of clue?”
“No, sir, nothing. Except maybe the girls’ description. I’ve
telephoned that into headquarters and the men will be on the lookout.”
“Good. Well, if you can wait here a few minutes I’ll go and send my
mother to bed and then I’ll come back and we can settle what’s to be
done.”
Cheyne returned to the drawing room and told his news. “Nothing’s been
taken,” he declared. “I’ve been through the safe and everything’s
there. And nothing seems to be missing from the room either. The
sergeant was asking about your jewels, mother. Have you looked to see
if they’re all right?”
“It was the first thing I thought of, but they are all in their
places. The cabinet I keep them in was certainly examined, for
everything was left topsy-turvy, but nothing is missing.”
“Very extraordinary,” Cheyne commented. It seemed to him more than
ever clear that these mysterious thieves were after some document
which they believed he had, though why they should have supposed he
held a valuable document he could not imagine. But the searching first
of his pockets and then of his safe and house unmistakably suggested
such a conclusion. He wondered if he should advance this theory, then
decided he would first hear what the others had to say.
“Now, mother,” he went on, “it’s past your bedtime, but before you go
I wish you would tell me what happened to you. Remember I have heard
no details other than what Miss Hazelton mentioned on the telephone.”
Mrs. Cheyne answered with some eagerness, evidently anxious to relieve
her mind by relating her experiences.
“The first thing was the telegram,” she began. “Agatha and I were
sitting here this afternoon. I was sewing and Agatha was reading the
paper—or was it the _Spectator_, Agatha?”
“The paper, mother, though that does not really matter.”
“No, of course it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Cheyne repeated. It was
evident the old lady had had a shock and found it difficult to
concentrate her attention. “Well, at all events we were sitting here
as I have said, sewing and reading, when your telegram was brought
in.”
“_My_ telegram?” Cheyne queried sharply. “What telegram do you mean?”
“Why, your telegram about Mr. Ackfield, of course,” his mother
answered with some petulance. “What other telegram could it be? It did
not give us much time, but—”
“But, mother dear, I don’t know what you are talking about. I sent no
telegram.”
Agatha made a sudden gesture.
“There!” she exclaimed eagerly. “What did I say? When we came home and
learned what had happened and thought of your not turning up,” she
glanced at her brother, “I said it was only a blind. It was sent to
get us away from the house!”
Cheyne shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. What he had half
expected had evidently taken place.
“Dear people,” he protested, “this is worse than getting blood from a
stone. Do tell me what has happened. You were sitting here this
afternoon when you received a telegram. Very well now, what time was
that?”
“What time? Oh, about—what time did the telegram come, Agatha?”
“Just as the clock was striking four. I heard it strike immediately
after the ring.”
“Good,” said Cheyne in what he imagined was the manner of a
cross-examining K.C. “And what was in the telegram?”
The girl was evidently too much upset by her experience to resent his
superior tone. She crossed the room, and taking a flimsy pink form
from a table, handed it over to him.
The telegram had been sent out from the General Post Office in
Plymouth at 3:17 that afternoon, and read:
You and Agatha please come without fail to Newton Abbot by 5:15
train to meet self and Ackfield about unexpected financial
development. Urgent that you sign papers today. Ackfield will return
Plymouth after meeting. You and I will catch 7:10 home from Newton
Abbot — MAXWELL.
Three-seventeen; and Parkes left the Edgecombe about three! It seemed
pretty certain that he had sent the telegram. But if so, what an
amazing amount the man knew about them all! Not only had he known of
Cheyne’s war experiences and literary efforts and of his visit that
day to the Edgecombe, but now it seemed that he had also known his
address, of his mother and sister, and, most amazing thing of all, of
the fact that Mr. Ackfield of Plymouth was their lawyer and
confidential adviser! Moreover, he had evidently known that the ladies
were at home as well as that they alone comprised the family. Surely,
Cheyne thought, comparatively few people possessed all this knowledge,
and the finding of Parkes should therefore be a correspondingly easy
task.
“Extraordinary!” he said aloud. “And what did you do?”
“We got a taxi,” Mrs. Cheyne answered. “Agatha arranged it by
telephone from Mrs. Hazelton’s. You tell him, Agatha. I’m rather
tired.”
The old lady indeed looked worn out and Cheyne interposed a suggestion
that she should go at once to bed, leaving Agatha to finish the story.
But she refused and her daughter took up the tale.
“We caught the 5:15 ferry and went on to Newton Abbot. But when the
Plymouth train came in there was no sign of you or Mr. Ackfield, so we
sat in the waiting-room until the 7:10. I telephoned for a taxi to
meet the ferry. It brought us to the door about half-past eight, but
unfortunately it went away before we found we couldn’t get in.”
“You rang?”
“We rang, and knocked, but could get no answer. The house was in
darkness and we began to fear something was wrong. Then just as I was
about to leave mother in the summer-house and run up to the Hazeltons’
to see if James was there, he appeared to say that you were staying in
Plymouth overnight. He rang and knocked again. But still no one came.
Then he tried the windows on the ground floor, but they were all
fastened, and at last he got the ladder from the yard and managed to
get in through the window of your dressing room. He came down and
opened the door and we got in.”
“And what did you find?”
“Nothing at first. We wondered where the maids could possibly have got
to, or what could have happened. I found your electric torch and we
began to search the rooms. Then we saw that your safe had been broken
open and we knew it was burglary. That terrified us on account of the
maids and we wondered if they had been decoyed away also. I don’t mind
admitting now that I was just shaking with fear lest we should find
that they had been injured or even murdered. But it wasn’t so bad as
that.”
“They were tied up?”
“Yes, we found them in cook’s bedroom, lying on the floor with their
hands and feet tied, and gagged. They were both very weak and could
scarcely stand when we released them. They told us—but you’d better
see them and hear what they have to say. They’re not gone to bed yet.”
“Yes, I’ll see them directly. What did you do then?”
“As soon as we were satisfied the burglars had gone James went home to
call up the police. Then he came back and we began a second search to
see what had been stolen. But the more we looked, the more surprised
we became. We couldn’t find that anything had been taken.”
“Extraordinary!” Cheyne commented again. “And then?”
“After a time the police came out, and then James went home again to
see whether they had been able to get in touch with you. He came back
and told us you would be here by eleven. He had only just gone when
you arrived. I really can’t say how kind and helpful he has been.”
“Yes, James is a good fellow. Now you and mother get to bed and I’ll
fix things up with the police.”
He turned his steps to the kitchen, where he found the two maids
shivering over a roaring fire and drinking tea. They stood up as he
entered, but he told them to sit down again, asked for a cup for
himself, and seating himself on the table chatted pleasantly before
obtaining their statements. They had evidently had a bad fright and
cook still seemed hysterical. As he sat he looked at them curiously.
Cook was an elderly woman, small and plain and stout. She had been
with them since they had bought the house, and though he had not seen
much of her, she had always seemed good-tempered and obliging. He had
heard his mother speak well of her and he was sorry she should have
had so distressing an experience. But he didn’t fancy she would be one
to give burglars much trouble.
Susan, the parlormaid, was of a different quality. She was tall with
rather heavy features, and good looking after a somewhat coarse type.
If a trifle sullen in manner, she was competent and by no means a
fool, and he felt that nefarious marauders would find her a force to
be reckoned with.
By dint of patient questioning he presently knew all they had to tell.
It appeared that shortly after the ladies had left a ring had come at
the door. Susan had opened it to find two men standing outside. One
was tall and powerfully built, with dark hair and clean shaven, the
other small and pale—pale face, pale hair, and tiny pale mustache.
They had inquired for Mr. Maxwell Cheyne, and when she had said he was
out the small man had asked if he could write a note. She had brought
them into the hall and was turning to go for some paper when the big
man had sprung on her and before she could cry out had pressed a
handkerchief over her mouth. The small man had shut the door and begun
to tie her wrists and ankles. Susan had struggled and in spite of them
had succeeded in getting her mouth free and shouting a warning to
cook, but she had been immediately overpowered and securely gagged.
The men had laid her on the floor of the hall and had seemed about to
go upstairs when cook, attracted by Susan’s cry, had appeared at the
door leading to the back premises. The two men had instantly rushed
over, and in a few seconds cook also lay bound and gagged on the
floor. They had then disappeared, apparently to search the house, for
in a few minutes they had come back and carried first Susan and then
cook to the latter’s room at the far end of the back part of the
house. The intruders had then withdrawn, closing the door, and the two
women had neither heard nor seen anything further of them.
The whole episode had a curious effect on Cheyne. It seemed, as he
considered it, to lose its character of an ordinary breach of the law,
punishable by the authorized forces of the Crown, and to take on
instead that of a personal struggle between himself and these unknown
men. The more he thought of it the more inclined he became to accept
the challenge and to pit his own brain and powers against theirs. The
mysterious nature of the affair appealed to his sporting instincts,
and by the time he rejoined the sergeant in the study, he had made up
his mind to keep his own counsel as to the Plymouth incident. He would
call up the manager of the Edgecombe, tell him to carry on with his
private detective, and have the latter down to Warren Lodge to go into
the matter of the burglary.
He found the sergeant attempting ineffectively to discover
finger-prints on the smooth walls of the safe, sympathized with him in
the difficulty of his task, and asked a number of deliberately futile
questions. On the ground that nothing had been stolen he minimized the
gravity of the affair, questioned his power to prosecute should the
offenders be forthcoming, and instilled doubts into the other’s mind
as to the need for special efforts to run them to earth. Finally, the
man explaining that he had finished for the time being, he bade him
good night, locked up the house and went to bed. There he lay for
several hours tossing and turning as he puzzled over the affair,
before sleep descended to blot out his worries and soothe his eager
desire to be on the track of his enemies.