A Council of War
Cheyne returned to his hotel that afternoon in a jubilant frame of
mind. He had been depressed from his illness and his failure at the
house in Hopefield Avenue and had come to believe he was wasting his
time on a wild-goose chase. But now all his former enthusiasm had
returned. Once again he was out to pit his wits against this
mysterious gang of scoundrels, and he was all eagerness to be once
more in the thick of the fray.
Miss Merrill had told him something about herself before he had left.
It appeared that she was the daughter of a doctor in Gloucester who
had died some years previously. Her mother had died while she was a
small child, and she was now alone in the world save for a sister who
was married and living in Edinburgh. Her father had left her enough to
live on fairly comfortably, but by cutting down her expenditure on
board and lodging to the minimum she had been able to find the
wherewithal necessary to enable her to take up seriously her hobby of
painting. She was getting on well with that. She had not yet sold any
pictures, but her art masters and the dealers to whom she had shown
her work were encouraging. She also made a study of architectural
details—moldings, string courses, capitals, etc.—which, having
photographed them with her half-plate camera and flashlight apparatus,
she worked into decorative panels and head and tail pieces for
magazine illustration and poster work. With these also she was having
fair success.
Cheyne was enthused by the idea of this girl starting out thus boldly
to carve, singlehanded, her career in the world, and he spent as much
time that evening thinking of her pluck and of her chances of success
as of the mysterious affair in which now they were both engaged.
His first visit next day was to a man called Hake, whom he had met
during the war and who was now a clerk in one of the departments of
the Admiralty. From him he received definite confirmation that the
whole of the Hull barony story was a fabrication of James Dangle’s
nimble brain. No such diplomat as St. John Price had ever existed,
though it was true that Arnold Price had at the time in question been
third officer of the _Maurania_. Hake added a further interesting
fact, though whether it was connected with Cheyne’s affair there was
nothing to indicate. Price, the real Arnold Price through whom the
whole mystery had arisen, had recently disappeared. He had left his
ship at Bombay on a few days’ leave and had not returned. At least he
had not returned up to the latest date of which Hake had heard. Cheyne
begged his friend to let him know immediately if anything was learned
as to Price’s fate, which the other promised to do.
In the afternoon Cheyne once more climbed the ten flights of stairs in
No. 17 Horne Terrace, but this time he took the ascent slowly enough
to avoid having to sit down to recover at the top. Miss Merrill opened
to his knock. She was painting and a girl sat on the throne, the
original of the picture he had seen the day before. He was told that
he might sit down and smoke so long as he kept perfectly quiet and did
not interrupt, and for half an hour he lay in the big armchair
watching the face on the canvas grow more and more like that of the
model. Then a little clock struck four silvery chimes, Miss Merrill
threw down her brushes and palette and said “Time!” and the model
relaxed her position. Both girls disappeared into the bedroom and
emerged presently, the model in outdoor garb and Miss Merrill without
her overall. The model let herself out with a “Good-afternoon, Miss
Merrill,” while the lady of the house took up the aluminum kettle and
began to fill it.
“Gas stove,” she said tersely.
Cheyne produced the expected plop, then stood with his back to the
fire, watching his hostess’s preparations for tea. The removal of the
overall had revealed a light green knitted jumper of what he believed
was artificial silk, with a skirt of a darker shade of the same color.
A simple dress, he thought, but tremendously effective. How splendidly
it set off the red gold of her hair, and how charmingly it revealed
the graceful lines of her slender figure! With her comely, pleasant
face and her clear, direct eyes she looked one who would make a good
pal.
“Well now, and what’s the program?” she said briskly when tea had been
disposed of.
Cheyne began to fill his pipe.
“I scarcely know,” he said slowly. “I’m afraid I’ve not any cut and
dried scheme to put up except that I already mentioned: to get into
that house somehow and have a look around.”
She moved nervously.
“I don’t like it,” she declared. “There are many objections to it.”
“I know there are, but what can you suggest?”
“First of all there’s the actual danger,” she went on, continuing her
own train of thought and ignoring his question. “These people have
tried to murder you once already, and if they find you in their house
again they’ll not bungle it a second time.”
“I’ll take my chance of that.”
“But have you thought that they have an easier way out of it than
that? All they have to do is to hand you over to the nearest policeman
on a charge of burglary. You would get two or three years or maybe
more.”
“They wouldn’t dare. Remember what I could tell about them.”
“Who would believe you? They, the picture of injured innocence, would
deny the whole thing. You would say they attempted to murder you. They
would ridicule the idea. And—there you are.”
“But I could prove it. There was my injured head, and you found me at
that house.”
“And what did you yourself tell the doctor had happened to you? No,
you wouldn’t have the ghost of a case.”
“But Susan Dangle was at our house for several weeks. She could be
identified.”
“How would that help? She would of course admit being there, but would
deny everything else. And you couldn’t prove anything. Why, the gang
would point out that it was Susan’s presence at your house that had
suggested the whole story to you.”
Cheyne shook his head.
“I’m not so sure of that,” he declared. “There would be a good deal of
corroborative evidence on my side. And then there was Blessington at
the hotel at Plymouth. He could be identified by the staff.”
“That’s true,” she admitted. “But even that wouldn’t help you much. He
would deny having drugged you and you couldn’t prove he had. No, the
more I think of it the better their position seems to be.”
“Well, then, what’s the alternative?”
She shook her head and for a moment silence reigned. Then she went on:
“I’ve been thinking about the gang since you told me the story—it’s
another point, of course—but it occurs to me they must have had a fine
old shock on the morning after your visit.”
Cheyne looked up sharply.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Why, they must have been worried to death to know what had happened
to you. Your dead body wasn’t found—they’d soon have heard of it if it
had been. And no information was given to the police about the
affair—they’d soon have heard of that too. And you haven’t struck at
them. Probably they’ve made inquiries at Dartmouth and found you
haven’t gone home. They’ll absolutely be scared into fits to know
whether you’re alive or dead, or what blow may not be being built up
against them. Though they richly deserve it, I don’t envy them their
position.”
This was a new idea to Cheyne.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he returned, then he laughed. “Yes, it
didn’t work out quite as they wanted, did it? But I expect they know
all about me. Don’t you think that under the circumstances they would
have gone round making discreet inquiries at the hospitals?”
“Well, that is at least something to be done. First job: find out if
possible if anyone asked about you at the Albert Edward. If that
fails, same question elsewhere.”
“Right: that’s an idea. But it is not enough.” Cheyne shook his head
to give emphasis to his remark. “We must do something more. And the
only thing I can think of is to get into that house again and see what
I can find. I’ll risk the police.”
Miss Merrill was evidently thrilled, but not converted.
“I shouldn’t be in too great a hurry,” she counseled. “How would it do
if we went out there first and had a look around?”
“I don’t see that we should gain much by looking at the outside of the
house.”
“You never know. Let’s go as soon as it gets dark tonight. If we see
nothing no harm is done.”
Cheyne was not averse to the idea of an excursion in the company of
his new friend, and he readily agreed, provided Miss Merrill gave her
word not to run into any danger.
“I think you should put on a hat with a low brim and wear something
with a high collar,” he suggested. “I’ll do the same, and in the dark
we’re not likely to be noticed even if any of the gang are about.”
Miss Merrill pointed out that as she was unknown to the gang, it did
not matter if her features were seen, but Cheyne was insistent.
“You don’t know,” he said. “We might both be seen, and then it would
be as bad for you as for me. There’ll be unavoidable risks enough in
this job without taking on any we needn’t.”
They discussed their plans in detail, then Cheyne remarked: “Now
that’s settled, what’s wrong with your coming and having a bit of
dinner with me as a prelude to adventure?”
“That sounds bookish. Are you keen on books? I’ll go and have dinner
if I may pay my share, not otherwise.”
Cheyne protested, but she was adamant. It appeared further she was a
great reader, and they discussed books until it was time to go out.
Then after dinner at an Italian restaurant in Soho they took the tube
to Hendon and began to walk towards Hopefield Avenue.
The night was chilly for mid-May, but calm and dry. It would soon be
quite dark out of the radius of the street lamps, as the quarter moon
had not yet risen and clouds obscured the light of the stars. In the
main street there was plenty of traffic, but Hopefield Avenue was
deserted and their footsteps rang out loudly on the pavements.
“Let’s walk past it,” Miss Merrill suggested, “and perhaps we can hide
and watch what goes on.”
They did so. Laurel Lodge looked as before except that the lower front
windows were lighted up. Building operations, however, had been much
advanced in the six weeks since Cheyne’s last visit. The almost
completed walls of a house stood on the next lot, and the house in
which the supposed dead body of Cheyne had been abandoned was
practically complete.
“Half-finished houses are the stunt in this game,” Cheyne observed.
“Suppose we go back to that next door to our friends and see from
there if anything happens.”
Five minutes later they had passed along the lane at the back of the
houses and taken up their positions in what was evidently to be the
hall of the new house. A small window looked out from its side, not
forty feet from the hall door of Laurel Lodge. Cheyne made a seat of a
plank laid across two little heaps of bricks and they sat down and
waited.
They were so ignorant as to the steps usually taken by a detective in
such a situation that their idea of watching the house was simply
adopted in the Micawberish hope that somehow something might turn up
to help them. What that something might be they had no idea. But with
the extraordinary luck which so often seems reserved for those who
blindly plunge, they had not waited ten minutes before they received
some really important information.
The unconscious agent was a postman. They saw him first pass near a
lamp farther down the street, and then watched him gradually approach,
calling in one house after another. Presently he reached the gate of
Laurel Lodge, and opening it, passed inside.
From where they sat, the watchers, being in line with the front of the
house, were not actually in sight of the hall door. But there was a
heap of building material in front of their hiding place and Cheyne,
slipping hurriedly out, crouched behind the pile in such a position
that he could see what might take place.
In due course the postman reached the door, but instead of delivering
his letters and retreating, he knocked and stood waiting. The door was
opened by a woman, and her silhouette against the lighted interior
showed she was not Susan Dangle. The woman was short, stout and
elderly.
“Evening, ma’am,” Cheyne heard the man say. “A parcel for you.”
The woman thanked him and closed the door, while the postman crossed
to a house on the opposite side of the street. As soon as his back was
turned Cheyne left his hiding-place, and was strolling along the road
when the postman again stepped on to the footpath.
“Good-evening, postman,” said Cheyne. “I’m looking for people called
Dangle somewhere about here. Could you tell me where they live?”
The postman stopped and answered civilly:
“They’ve left here, sir, or at least there were people of that name
here till a few weeks ago. They lived over there.” He pointed to
Laurel Lodge.
Cheyne made a gesture of annoyance.
“Moved; have they? Then I’ve missed them. I suppose you couldn’t tell
me where they’ve gone?”
The postman shook his head.
“Sorry, sir, but I couldn’t. If you was to go to the post office in
Hendon they might know. But I couldn’t say nothing about it.”
Nor could the postman remember the exact date of the Dangles’
departure. It was five or six weeks since or maybe more, but he
couldn’t say for sure.
Cheyne returned to Miss Merrill with his news. A sudden flitting on
the Dangles’ part seemed indicated, born doubtless of panic at the
disappearance of the supposed corpse, and if this was the cause of
their move, no applications at the post office or elsewhere would bear
fruit.
“We should have foreseen this,” Cheyne declared gloomily. “If you
think of it, to make themselves scarce was about the only thing they
could do. If I was alive and conscious they couldn’t tell how soon
they might have a visit from the police.”
“Well, we’ve got to find them,” his companion answered. “I’ll begin by
making inquiries at the house. No,” as Cheyne demurred, “it’s my turn.
You stay here and listen.”
She slipped out on to the road, and passing through the gate of Laurel
Lodge, rang the bell. The same elderly woman came to the door and Miss
Merrill asked if Miss Dangle was at home.
The woman was communicative if not illuminating. No one called Dangle
lived in the house, though she understood her predecessors had borne
that name. She and her son had moved in only three weeks before, and
they had only taken the house a fortnight before that. She did not
know anything of the Dangles. Oh, no, she had not taken the house
furnished. She had brought her own furniture with her. Indeed yes,
moving was a horrible business and so expensive.
“That’s something about the furniture,” Miss Merrill said, when
breathless and triumphant she had rejoined Cheyne. “If they took their
furniture we have only to find out who moved it for them. Then we can
find where it was taken.”
“That’s the ticket,” Cheyne declared admiringly. “But how on earth are
we going to find the removers? Have you any ideas?”
Miss Merrill looked at him quizzically.
“Just full of ’em,” she smiled, “and to prove it I’ll make you a bet.
I’ll bet you the price of our next dinner that I have the information
inside half an hour. What time is it? Half-past nine. Very well:
before ten o’clock. But the information may cost you anything up to a
pound. Are you on?”
“Of course I’m on,” Cheyne returned heartily, though in reality he was
not too pleased by the trend of affairs. “Do you want the pound now?”
“No, I have it. But whatever the information costs me you may pay. Now
_au revoir_ until ten o’clock.”
She glided away before Cheyne could reply, and for some minutes he sat
alone in the half-built porch wondering what she was doing and wishing
he could smoke. It was cold sitting still in the current of chilly air
which poured through the gaping brickwork. He felt tired and
despondent, and realized against his will that he had been severely
shaken by his experiences and was by no means as yet completely
recovered. If it was not for this splendid girl he would have been
strongly tempted to throw up the sponge, and he thought with longing
of the deep armchairs in the smoking room at the hotel, or better
still, in Miss Merrill’s studio.
Presently he saw her. She was crossing the street in front of Laurel
Lodge. She was directly in the light of a lamp and he could not but
admire her graceful carriage and the dainty way in which she tripped
along.
She pushed open the gate of a house directly opposite and disappeared
into the shadow behind its encircling hedge. In a moment she was out
again and had entered the gate of the next house. There she remained
for some time; indeed the hands on the luminous dial of Cheyne’s watch
showed three minutes to the hour before she reappeared. She recrossed
the road and presently Cheyne heard her whisper: “That was a near
squeak for my dinner! It’s not after ten, is it?”
“Half a minute before,” breathed Cheyne, continuing eagerly: “Well,
what luck?”
“Watterson & Swayne. Vans came the day after your adventure.”
Cheyne whistled below his breath.
“My word!” he whispered, “but you’re simply It! How in all this
earthly world did you find that out?”
She chuckled delightedly.
“Easy as winking,” she declared. “Got it fifth shot. I called at five
of the houses overlooking the Laurel gate, and pretended to be a woman
detective after the Dangles. I was mysterious about the crimes they
had committed and got the servants interested. There were servants at
three of the houses—the others I let alone. I offered the servants
five shillings for the name of the vans which had come to take the
stuff, and the third girl remembered. I gave her the five shillings
and told her I was good for another five if she could tell me the date
of the moving, and after some time she was able to fix it. She
remembered she had seen the vans on the day of a party at her
sister’s, and she found the date of that from an old letter.”
“Good for you! I say, Miss Merrill, if you’re going to carry on like
this we shall soon have all we want. What’s the next step now?
Inquiries at Watterson & Swayne’s?”
“No,” she said decidedly, “the next step for you is bed. You’re not
really well enough yet for this sort of thing. We’ve done enough for
tonight. We’ll go home.”
Cheyne protested, but as, apart from his health, it was obvious that
inquiries could not at that hour be instituted at the furniture
removers, he had to agree.
“I shall go round and see them tomorrow morning,” he remarked as they
walked back along Hopefield Avenue. “I suppose you couldn’t manage to
come at that time? Or shall I wait until the afternoon?”
She shook her head.
“Neither,” she answered. “I shall be busy all day and you must just
carry on.”
Cheyne felt a surprisingly keen disappointment.
“But mayn’t I come and report progress in the afternoon?” he begged.
“Not until after four. I shall be painting up till then.”
He wanted to see her home, but this she would not hear of, and soon he
was occupying one of these deep chairs in the hotel smoking room whose
allure had seemed so strong to him in the draughty porch of the
half-built house. As he sat he thought over the turn which this
evening’s inquiry had given to the affair in which he was engaged. It
was clear enough now that Miss Merrill’s view had been correct and
that the Dangles were scared stiff by the absence of information about
the finding of his body. As he put himself in their place, he saw that
flight was indeed their only course. What he marveled at was that they
should have taken time to remove their furniture. From their point of
view it must have been a horrible risk, and it undoubtedly left,
through the carrying contractor, a certain clue to their whereabouts.
But when Cheyne began his inquiries on the following morning he
rapidly became less impressed with the certainty of the clue. A direct
request at the firm’s office for Dangle’s address was met by a polite
_non possumus_, and when during the dinner hour Cheyne succeeded in
bribing a junior clerk to let him have the information, at a further
interview the lad declared he could not find it. It was not until
after five hours’ inquiry among the drivers of the various vans which
entered and left the yard that he learned anything, and even then he
found himself no further on. The furniture, which had been collected
from an unoccupied house, had been stored and still remained in
Messrs. Watterson & Swayne’s warehouses.
It was a weary and disgruntled Cheyne who at six o’clock that evening
dragged himself up the ten flights to Miss Merrill’s room. But when he
was seated in her big armchair with his pipe going and had consumed a
whisky and soda which she had poured out for him he began to feel that
all was not necessarily lost and that life had compensations for
failures in the role of amateur detective.
She listened carefully to his tale of woe, finally dropping a word of
sympathy with his disappointment and of praise for his efforts which
left him thinking she was certainly the good pal he expected her to
be.
“But that’s not the worst,” he went on gloomily. “It’s bad enough that
I have failed today, but it’s a great deal worse that I don’t know how
I am going to do any better. Those Watterson & Swayne people simply
_won’t_ give away any information, and I don’t see how else it’s to be
got.”
“There’s not much to go on certainly,” she admitted. “That’s where the
police have the pull. They could go into that office and demand the
Dangles’ address. You can’t. What about the others, that Sime and that
Blessington? Could you trace them in any way?”
Cheyne moved lazily in his chair.
“I don’t see how,” he answered slowly. “We have little enough
information about the Dangles, but there is less still about the
others. We have practically nothing to go on. I wonder what a real
detective would do in such a case. I feel perfectly certain he would
find all four in a few hours.”
“Ha! That gives me an idea.” She sat up and looked at him eagerly, and
then in answer to his question went on: “What about that detective who
was already engaged on the case, the one the manager of the Plymouth
hotel recommended? Why not get hold of him and see what he can do? He
was a private detective, wasn’t he—not connected with the police?”
“He was, and I have his name and address. By Jove, Miss Merrill, it’s
an idea! I’ll go round and see him in the morning. He’s a man I didn’t
take to personally, but what does that matter if he’s good at his
job?”
Though Cheyne thus enthusiastically received his companion’s
suggestion, he was not greatly enamored of the idea. As he said, he
had not liked the man personally, and he would have preferred to have
kept the affair in his own hands. But he felt bankrupt of ideas for
carrying on the inquiry, and if a professional was to be brought in,
this man whom he knew and who was vouched for by the manager of the
Edgecombe should be as good as another. He decided, however, that he
would not employ the fellow on the case as a whole. His job should be
to find the quartet, and if and when he did that he could be paid his
money and sent about his business. Cheyne felt that at this stage at
all events he was not going to share the secret of the linen tracing.
But Cheyne, like many another before him, was to learn the
difficulties which beset the path of him who makes half confidences.