Mr. Speedwell Plays His Hand
Next morning Cheyne called at the offices of Messrs. Horton &
Lavender’s Private Detective Agency and asked if their Mr. Speedwell
was within. By good fortune Mr. Speedwell was, and a few seconds later
Cheyne was ushered into the room of the quiet, despondent-looking man
whom he had interviewed at Warren Lodge nearly two months earlier.
“Glad to see you’re better, sir,” the detective greeted him. “I was
expecting you would look in one of these days. You had my letter?”
“No,” said Cheyne, considerably surprised, “and I should like to know
why you were expecting me and how you know I was ill.”
The man smiled deprecatingly.
“If I was really up to my job I suppose I’d tell you that detectives
knew everything, or at least that I did, but I never make any mystery
between friends, leastwise when there isn’t any. I knew you were ill
because I was down at Warren Lodge a month ago looking for you and
Miss Cheyne told me, and I was expecting you to call because I wrote
asking you to do so. However, if you didn’t get my letter, why then it
seems to me I owe the pleasure of this visit to something else.”
“You’re quite right,” said Cheyne. “You do. But before we get on to
that, tell me what you called and wrote about.”
“I’ll do so, sir. I called because I had got some information for you,
and when I didn’t see you I wrote for the same reason asking you to
look in here.”
The man spoke civilly and directly, but yet there was something about
him which rubbed Cheyne up the wrong way—something furtive in his
manner, by which instinctively the other was repelled. It was
therefore with rather less than his usual good-natured courtesy that
Cheyne returned: “Well, here I am then. What is your information?”
“I’ll tell you, sir. But first let me recall to your mind what
I—acting for my firm—was asked to find out.” He stressed the words
“acting for my firm,” and as he did so shot a keen questioning glance
at Cheyne. The latter did not reply, and Speedwell, after pausing for
a moment, went on:
“I was employed—or rather my firm was employed”—what his point was
Cheyne could not see, but he was evidently making one—“my firm was
employed by the manager of the Edgecombe Hotel to investigate a case
of alleged drugging which had taken place in the hotel. That was all,
wasn’t it?”
“That or matters arising therefrom,” Cheyne replied cautiously.
The detective smiled foxily.
“Ah, I see you have taken my meaning, Mr. Cheyne. That or matters
arising directly therefrom. That, sir, is quite correct. Now, I have
found out something about that. Not much, I admit, but still
something. Though whether it is as much as you already are cognizant
of is another matter.”
Cheyne felt his temper giving way.
“Look here,” he said sharply. “What are you getting at? I can’t spend
the day here. If you’ve anything to say, for goodness’ sake get along
and say it and have done with this beating about the bush.”
Speedwell made a deprecating gesture.
“Certainly, sir; as you will. But”—he gave a dry smile—“have you not
overlooked the fact that you called in to consult me?”
“I shall not do it now,” Cheyne said angrily. “Give me the information
that you’re being paid for and that will complete our business.”
“No, sir, but with the utmost respect that will only begin it. I’ll
give you the information right away, but first I’d like to come to an
understanding about this other business.”
“What under the sun are you talking about? What other business?”
“The breaking and entering.” Speedwell spoke now in a decisive,
businesslike tone. “The breaking and entering of a house in Hopefield
Avenue—Laurel Lodge, let us call it—on an evening just six weeks
ago—on the fifth of April to be exact. I should really say the
burglary, because there was also the theft of an important document.
The owners of that document would be glad of information which would
lead to the arrest of the thief.”
This astounding statement, made in the calm matter-of-fact way in
which the man was now speaking, took Cheyne completely aback. For a
moment he hesitated. His character was direct and straightforward, but
for the space of two seconds he was tempted to prevaricate, to admit
no knowledge of the incidents referred to. Then his hot temper swept
away all considerations of what might or might not be prudent, and he
burst out: “Well, Mr. Speedwell, what of it? If you are so well
informed as you pretend, you’ll be aware that the parties lost no
document on that night. I don’t know what you’re after, but it looks
uncommonly like an attempt at blackmail.”
Mr. Speedwell seemed pained at the suggestion. He assured Cheyne that
his remarks had been misinterpreted, and deprecated the fact that such
an unpleasant word had been brought into the discussion. “All the
same,” he concluded meaningly, “I am glad to have your assurance that
the document in question was not stolen from the house.”
Cheyne was not only mystified, but a trifle uneasy. He saw now that he
had been maneuvered into a practical admission that he had committed
burglary, and there was something in the way the detective had made
his last remark that seemed vaguely sinister.
“Well, what business of yours is it?” he said brusquely. “What do you
hope to get out of it?”
Speedwell nodded as he looked at the other out of his close-set
furtive eyes.
“Now, sir,” he answered approvingly, “that’s what I like. That’s
coming to business, that is. I thought perhaps I could be of service
to you, that’s all. Here are these parties looking for you to make a
prosecution for burglary, and here you are looking for them for a
paper they have. And here am I,” his face was inexpressibly sly, “in a
position to help either party, as you might say. There’s an old
saying, sir, that knowledge is power, and many a time I’ve thought
it’s a true one.”
“And you want to sell your knowledge?”
“Isn’t it reasonable, _and_ natural? It’s my business to get
knowledge, and I have to work hard to get it too. You wouldn’t have me
give away the fruits of my work? It’s all I have to live by.”
“Your knowledge belongs to your firm.”
“No, sir, not in this case it doesn’t. All this work was done in my
own time; it was my hobby, so to speak. Besides, my firm didn’t ask
for the information and doesn’t want it.”
“What do you want for it?”
A momentary gleam appeared in Mr. Speedwell’s eyes, but he replied
quietly and without emotion: “Two hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds
and you shall hear all I know, and have my best help in whatever you
want to do into the bargain. And in that case I won’t be able to tell
the other parties where you are to be found, so being as their
question was addressed to me and not to my firm.”
“Two hundred pounds!” Cheyne cried. “I’ll see you far enough first.
Confound your impertinence!” His anger rose and he almost choked.
“Don’t you imagine you are going to blackmail me! But I’ll tell you
what I am going to do. I’m going right in now to the head of your firm
to let him know the way you conduct his business. Two hundred pounds.
I don’t think!”
He flung himself out of the room and called the girl in the outer
office.
“I want to see the principal of the firm,” he shouted. “It’s
important. Either Mr. Horton or Mr. Lavender will do. As soon as
possible, please.”
The girl seemed half startled and half amused. “_Who_ did you want to
see?” she asked.
“Mr. Horton or Mr. Lavender,” Cheyne repeated firmly, fixing her with
a wrathful stare.
“I—I’m afraid I don’t know where they are,” she stammered, the corners
of her mouth twitching. Yes, she _was_ laughing at him. Confound her
impertinence also!
“You don’t know?” he shouted furiously. “When will they be in?”
The girl looked scared, then her amusement evidently overcame her
apprehension and she giggled.
“Not today, I’m afraid,” she answered. “You see Mr. Horton has been
dead over ten years and Mr. Lavender at least five.”
Cheyne glared at her as he asked thickly:
“Then who is the present principal?”
“Mr. Speedwell.”
“Damn,” said Cheyne: then as he looked at the smiling face of the
pretty clerk he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” he said, and as he saw how neatly he had
got his desserts he laughed ruefully himself. This confounded temper
of his, he thought, was always putting him into the wrong. He was just
determining for the thousandth time that he would be more careful not
to give way to it in future when Mr. Speedwell’s melancholy voice fell
on his ears.
“Ah, that is better, sir. Won’t you come back and let us resume our
discussion?”
Cheyne re-entered the private room.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said, “but really your proposition
was so very—I may say, amazing, that it upset me. Of course you were
not serious in what you said?”
Mr. Speedwell leaned forward and became the personification of suave
amiability.
“I sell my wares in the best market, Mr. Cheyne,” he declared. “You
couldn’t blame me for that; it’s only business. But I don’t want to
drive a hard bargain with you. I would rather have an amicable
settlement. I’m always one for peace and goodwill. An amicable
settlement, sir; that’s what I suggest.” He beamed on Cheyne and
rubbed his hands genially together.
“If you have information which would be useful to me I am prepared to
pay its full value. As a matter of fact I called for that purpose. But
you couldn’t have any worth two hundred pounds or anything like it.”
“No? Well, just what do you want to know?”
“Dangle’s address.”
“I can give you that. Anything else?”
Cheyne hesitated. Should he ask for all the information he could get
about the sinister quartet and their mysterious activities? He had
practically admitted the burglary. Should he not make the most of his
opportunity? In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Did you ever hear of a man called Sime?” he asked.
“Of course, sir. Number Three of the quartet.”
“I should like his address also.”
“I can give it to you. And Blessington’s?”
“Yes, Blessington’s too.”
Cheyne was amazed by the knowledge of this Speedwell. He would give a
good deal to find out how he had obtained it.
“What are the businesses of these men?”
“That,” said Mr. Speedwell, “is three questions. First: What is
Dangle’s business? Second: What is Sime’s business? Third: What is
Blessington’s business? Yes, sir, I can answer these questions also.”
“How did you find all that out?”
Mr. Speedwell smiled and shook his head.
“There, sir, you have me. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. You see,
if we professional detectives were to give away our little methods to
you amateur gentlemen we should soon be out of business. You, sir,
will appreciate the position. It would be parting with our capital,
and no business man can afford to do that. Anything else, Mr. Cheyne?”
“You mentioned a paper?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Where is it?”
“That I can answer partially.”
“What is it about?”
“I do not know.”
“Ah, then there is something you do not know. What is the enterprise
these men are going into in connection with the paper?”
“That, Mr. Cheyne, I do not know either. You see I am perfectly open
with you. I have been conducting a sort of desultory inquiry into
these men’s affairs, partly because I was interested, partly because I
thought I could turn my information into money. I have reached the
point indicated in my answers. I can proceed with the investigation
and learn the rest of what you wish to know, assuming of course that
we come to suitable terms. You can have the information I have already
gained now, with of course the same proviso.”
“What are your terms?”
“Twenty pounds a question. You have asked six questions to which I can
give complete answers and one which I can answer partially; say six
twenties and one ten—total, one hundred and thirty pounds.”
“But it’s iniquitous, scandalous, extortionate! I shouldn’t think of
paying such a sum.”
“No, sir? That’s a matter for yourself alone. It seems to me, then,
that our business is completed.” The man paused, then as Cheyne made
no move continued confidentially. “You see, sir, I needn’t tell a
gentleman like yourself that value is relative and not absolute. If I
hadn’t another party willing to pay for my information about you I
couldn’t perhaps afford to refuse what you might be pleased to offer.
But if I don’t get my hundred and thirty from you I’ll get it from the
other party. It’s a matter of £. s. d. for me.”
“But how do I know you won’t get my hundred and thirty and then go to
the other party for his?”
Mr. Speedwell smiled craftily.
“You don’t know, sir. In these matters one person has to take the
other’s word. You pay your money and you get the information you ask
for. You don’t pay and I keep it. It’s for you to say what you’ll do.”
Cheyne sat in thought. It was evident this man could give him valuable
information, and he was well aware that if he had employed him to
obtain it it might easily have cost him more than the sum asked. He
did not doubt, either, that the quartet had asked for information
about himself. When his dead body had not been found it would have
been a likely move. But he was surprised that they should have asked
under their own names. But then again, they mightn’t have. Speedwell
might have found these out. It was certainly an extraordinary
coincidence that himself and the gang should have consulted the same
private detective, though of course there was nothing inherently
impossible in it.
On the whole he felt disposed to pay the money. He was comfortably
enough off and he would scarcely feel it. The payment would not commit
him to anything or put him in any way in the power of this detective.
Moreover, the man was evidently skillful at his job and it might be
useful enough to have him on his side. And last, but not least, after
his failure of the day before it would be a pleasure to go back to
Miss Merrill and tell her how well he had succeeded on this occasion.
“Look here,” he said. “I don’t think you can expect me to believe that
these people came and asked you to find the burglar who had made off
with their confidential paper, so that they might prosecute. That’s
rather tall, you know. Why didn’t they go direct to the police?”
“I’m only telling you what they said. I’m not saying I believed it was
really what they wanted.” Speedwell paused. “As a matter of fact I
don’t mind telling you what I think,” he went on presently. “I believe
they are scared about you, and they want to find you to finish up the
job they bungled. That’s what I think, but I may be wrong.”
“And if I pay you your hundred and thirty you’ll give me your pledge
not to give them the information?”
Mr. Speedwell looked pained.
“I don’t think I said that, sir. It was two hundred that was
mentioned. But see here. I don’t want to be grasping. If you make it
the even hundred and fifty I’ll answer your questions and not theirs.
Is it a bargain, sir?”
“Yes,” said Cheyne. “I have my check-book here and I’ll fill you in a
check for the money as soon as I get your replies.”
Mr. Speedwell beamed.
“Excellent, sir. An amicable settlement. That’s what I like. Well,
sir, I can trust you to keep your word. Here are the answers to your
questions.” He took a bulky notebook from his pocket and continued:
“First question, Dangle’s present address: Earlswood, Dalton Avenue,
Wembley.” He waited while Cheyne wrote the address, then went on:
“Second question, Sime’s present address: 12 Colton Street, Putney.”
Again a pause and then: “Third question, Blessington’s present
address: Earlswood, Dalton Av—”
“The same as Dangle’s?”
“The same as Dangle’s, or rather, to be strictly accurate, Dangle’s is
the same as Blessington’s. Blessington lives at this place and has for
several years; Dangle joined him about six weeks ago, to be precise,
on the day after the incident which I have just forgotten.”
Cheyne nodded with a rueful smile.
“Well, then, these men’s occupations?”
Mr. Speedwell was not to be hurried.
“Fourth question,” he proceeded methodically, “Dangle’s occupation.
Dangle, Mr. Cheyne, is just an ordinary town sharp. He has a bit of
money and adds to it in the usual ways. He’s in with a cardsharping
gang and helps them in their stunts—for a consideration. He frequents
a West End gaming room, and if there is any fat pigeon around he’ll
lend a hand in the plucking. The sister helps as a decoy. They’re a
warm pair and I should think are watched by the police. They’ll not
want their dealings with you to come into the limelight anyway, so
you’ve a pull over them there.”
“Has Dangle no ostensible profession?”
“Not that I know of, unless you call billiard playing a profession.”
“You might give me the address of the gaming rooms.”
“27 Greenway Lane, Knightsbridge.”
“What about Sime?”
“Sime is another of the same kidney. He does the night club end and
brings likely mugs on to the gaming rooms. A plausible ruffian, Sime.
A man without scruple and bad to be up against. He has no ostensible
business, either.”
“And Blessington?”
“Blessington is, in my opinion, the worst of the three. He has ten
times the brains of the other two put together and is an out and out
scoundrel. He’s well enough off in a small way and is supposed to have
made his money by systematic blackmail. He’s supplying the cash for
this little do of yours, whatever it may be. He is believed at Wembley
to be something in the city, but I don’t think he has any job. Lives
on the interest of his money, I should think.”
Cheyne noted the replies, marveling how the detective had come to
learn so much. Then he asked his seventh question.
“Where is the paper?”
“That, sir, I can only answer partially. It is, or was up till quite
lately, in Blessington’s possession. Whether he carries it about with
him or keeps it in his house or in his bank I don’t know. He may even
have lent it to one of the others, but he is the chief of the
enterprise and it appears to belong to him.”
“That’s all right,” Cheyne admitted. “Now what were you going to tell
me apart from these questions—the information you wrote about?”
“Simply, sir, that the man who drugged you in the Edgecombe Hotel in
Plymouth was named Stewart Blessington, that he lived at Wembley, and
that he drugged you in order to ascertain if you carried on your
person a certain paper of which he was in search.”
“You can’t tell me how he did it?”
“No, sir. Some simple trick of course, but I had no chance to find it
out. I might perhaps suggest that he had two similar flasks, one
innocent and the other drugged, and that he changed them by sleight of
hand while attracting your attention elsewhere.”
Cheyne shook his head. He had thought of this explanation before, but
it was not satisfactory. He had been watching the man and he was
satisfied he had not played any such trick. Besides, this would not
explain why no trace of a drug was found in the food. Speedwell,
however, could make no further suggestion.
Cheyne put away his notebook.
“There’s another thing I should like to know,” he said, “and that is
how you have learned all this. I suppose you won’t tell me?”
Speedwell smiled as he shook his head.
“Some day, sir, when the case is over. You see, if I were to show you
my channels of information you would naturally use them yourself, and
then where should I come in? A man in my job soon learns where to pick
up a bit of knowledge. It’s partly practice and partly knowing the
ropes.”
“And there’s another thing I wish,” Cheyne went on as if he had not
heard the other, “and that is that you had gone a bit further in your
researches and learned what that paper was and what game that gang is
up to.”
The detective’s manner became more eager.
“That’s what I was coming to myself, Mr. Cheyne. If you want that
information I can get it for you. But it may cost you a bit of money.
It would depend on the time I should have to spend on it and the risks
I should have to run. If you would like me to take it on for you I
could do so. But of course it’s a matter for yourself altogether.”
Cheyne reflected. This Speedwell had certainly done an amazing amount
of work already on the case, and his success so far showed that he was
a shrewd and capable man. To engage him to complete the work would
probably be the quickest way of bringing the matter to a head, and the
easiest, so far as he himself was concerned. But then he would lose
all the excitement and the fun. He had pitted his wits against these
men, and to hand the affair over to Speedwell would be to confess
himself beaten. Moreover, he would have to admit his failure to Miss
Merrill and to forego any more alarms and excursions in her company.
No, he would keep the thing in his own hands for the present at all
events.
He therefore said that he was obliged for the other’s offer, which
later on he might be glad to accept, but that for the moment he would
not make any further move.
“Right, sir. Whatever you say,” Speedwell agreed amicably. “I might
add what indeed you’ll be able to guess for yourself from what I’ve
told you, that this crowd is a pretty shrewd crowd, and they’ll not,
so to speak, be beating the air in this job of yours. They’re going
for something, and you may take it from me that something will be
worth their going for. At least, if not, I’ll eat my hat.”
“I quite agree with you,” Cheyne returned, fumbling in his pocket. “It
now remains for me to write my check and then we shall be square.”
Cheyne counted the hours until four o’clock, and as soon as he dared
he set off for No. 17 Horne Terrace. Indeed, he timed his visit so
well that as he reached the top of the tenth flight of steps, the door
of room No. 12 opened and the model emerged. She held the door open
for him, and ten minutes later he was seated in the big armchair
drinking the usual cup of fragrant China tea.
Miss Merrill listened with close attention to his story, but she was
not so enthusiastic at his success as he could have wished. She made
no comment until he had finished and then her remark was, if anything,
disparaging.
“I don’t quite like it, you know,” she said slowly. “From your
description of him it certainly looks as if that detective was playing
a game of his own. It doesn’t sound straight. Do you think you can
trust him?”
“Not as far as I can see him, but how can I help myself? I expect the
addresses he gave are all correct, but I’m not at all satisfied that
he won’t go straight to the gang and tell them he has found me and get
their money for that.”
“And you think you wouldn’t be wiser to back out yourself and instruct
him to carry on for you?”
Cheyne sat up and took his pipe out of his mouth.
“I’m damned if I will,” he declared hotly. “It might be a lot wiser
and all that, but I’m just not going to.”
“You’re quite sure? I couldn’t persuade you?” she went on demurely,
without looking at him.
“I can’t imagine you trying, Miss Merrill. But in any case I’m going
on.”
“Good!” she cried, and her eyes lit up as she smiled at him. “You’re
quite mad, but I sometimes like mad people. Then if, in spite of all I
can say, you’re going on, what about a visit to Wembley tonight?”
“The very ticket!” Cheyne was swept by a wave of delight and
enthusiasm. “It is jolly of you to suggest it. And you will come out
to dinner and I may pay my bet!”
“As it’s a bet—all right. But you must go away now. I have some things
to attend to. I’ll meet you when and where you say.”
“What about the Trocadero at seven? A leisurely dinner and then we for
Wembley?”
“Right-o,” she laughed and vanished into the other room, while Cheyne,
full of an eager excitement, went off to telephone orders to the
restaurant as to the reservation of places.