SEARCHING THE CHAMBERS
Wrayson took his guest to a popular restaurant, where there was music and
a five-course luncheon for three and six. Their conversation during the
earlier part of the meal was limited, for Mr. Sydney Barnes showed
himself possessed of an appetite which his host contemplated with
respectful admiration. His sallow cheeks became flushed and his
nervousness had subsided, long before the arrival of the coffee.
"I say, this is all right, this place is," he said, leaning back in his
chair with a large cigar between his teeth. "Jolly expensive, I suppose,
isn't it?"
Wrayson smiled.
"It depends," he answered. "I don't suppose your brother would have found
it so. A bachelor can do himself pretty well on two thousand a year."
"I only hope I get hold of it," Mr. Sydney Barnes declared fervently.
"This is the way I should like to live, this is."
"I hope you will," Wrayson answered. "An income of that sort could
scarcely disappear into thin air, could it? By the bye, Mr. Barnes, that
reminds me of a very important circumstance which, up to now, we have not
mentioned. I mean the way your brother met with his death."
The young man nodded thoughtfully.
"Ah!" he remarked, "he was murdered, wasn't he? Some one must have owed
him a nasty grudge. Morris always was a one to make enemies."
"I don't know whether the same thing has occurred to you," Wrayson
continued, "but I can't help wondering whether there may not have been
some connection between his death and that mysterious income of his."
"I've thought of that myself," the young man declared. "All the same,
I can't see what he could have carried about with him worth two
thousand a year."
"Exactly," Wrayson answered, "but you see the matter stands like this. He
was in receipt of about £500 every three months, as his bank-book proves.
This sum would represent five per cent interest on forty thousand pounds.
Now, considering your brother's position when he left you at Cape Town,
and the fact that you cannot discover at his bankers or elsewhere any
documents alluding to property or shares of any sort, one can scarcely
help dismissing the hypothesis that this payment was the result of
dividends or interest. At any rate, let us put that out of the question
for the moment. Your brother received five hundred pounds every three
months from some one. People don't give money away for nothing nowadays,
you know. From whom and for what services did he receive that money?"
Mr. Sydney Barnes looked puzzled.
"Ask me another," he remarked facetiously.
"You do not know of any secrets, I suppose, which your brother may have
stumbled into possession of?"
"Not I! He went about with his eyes open and his mouth closed, but I
never heard of his having that sort of luck."
"He could not have had any adventures on the steamer, for he came back
steerage," Wrayson continued thoughtfully, "and he was in funds almost
from the moment he landed in England. I am afraid, Mr. Barnes, that he
must have been deceiving you in Cape Town."
"If I could only have a dozen words with him!" the young man
muttered savagely.
"It would be useful," Wrayson admitted, "but, unfortunately, it is out of
the question. Either he was deceiving you, or he was in possession of
something which turned out far more valuable than he had imagined."
"If so, where is it?" Mr. Sydney Barnes demanded. "If it was worth that
to him, it may be to me."
"Exactly," Wrayson remarked, "but the question of your brother's
murder comes in there. People don't commit a crime like that for
nothing, you know. If it was information which your brother had, it
died with him. If it was documents, they were probably stolen by the
person who killed him."
"Come, that's cheerful," the young man declared ruefully. "If you're
guessing right, where do I come in?"
"I'm afraid you don't come in," Wrayson answered; "but remember I am only
following out a surmise. Have you looked through your brother's papers
carefully?"
"I've gone through 'em all," Mr. Sydney Barnes answered, "but, of course,
I was looking for scrip or a memorandum of investments, or something of
that sort. Perhaps if a clever chap like you were to go through them, you
might come across a clue."
"It seems hard to believe that he shouldn't have left something of the
sort behind him," Wrayson answered. "It might be only an address, or a
name, or anything."
"Will you come round with me and see?" Mr. Barnes demanded eagerly. "It
wouldn't take you long. You're welcome to see everything there is there."
Wrayson called for the bill.
"Very well," he said, "we will take a hansom round there at once."
They left the place a few minutes later, and drove to Battersea.
"There's a quarter to run, the landlord says, so I'm staying here,"
Barnes explained, as he unlocked the front door. "I can't afford a
servant or anything of that sort of course, but I shall just sleep here."
The rooms had a ghostly and unkempt appearance. The atmosphere of the
sitting-room was stuffy and redolent of stale tobacco smoke. Wrayson's
first action was to throw open the window.
"There isn't a sign of a paper anywhere, except in that desk," the young
man remarked. "You'll find things in a mess, but whatever was there is
there now. I've destroyed nothing."
Wrayson seated himself before the desk, and began a careful search. There
were restaurant bills without number, and a variety of ladies' cards,
more or less soiled. There were Empire and Alhambra programmes, a bundle
of racing wires, and an account from a bookmaker showing a small debit
balance. There were other miscellaneous bills, a plaintive epistle from a
lady signing herself Flora, and begging for the loan of a fiver for a
week, and an invitation to tea from a spinster who called herself Poppy.
Amongst all this mass of miscellaneous documents there were only three
which Wrayson laid on one side for further consideration. One of these
was a note, dated from the Adelphi a few days before the tragedy, and
written in a stiff, legal hand. It contained only a few lines:
"DEAR SIR,--
"My client will be happy to meet you at any time on Thursday you may be
pleased to appoint, either here or at your own address. Please reply,
making an appointment, by return of post.
"Yours faithfully,
"W. BENTHAM."
The second document was also in the shape of a letter from a firm of
private detective agents and was dated only a day earlier than the
lawyer's letter. It ran as follows:
"MY DEAR SIR,--
"In reply to your inquiry, our charges for watching a single person in
London only are three guineas a day, including all expenses. For that
sum we can guarantee that the person with whose movements you desire to
keep in touch will be closely shadowed from roof to roof, so long as
the person remains within seven miles of Charing Cross. A daily report
will be made to you, and should legal proceedings ensue from any
information procured by us, you may rely upon any witness whom we might
place in the box.
"Trusting to hear from you,
"We are, yours sincerely,
"McKENNA & FOULDS."
The third document which Wrayson had preserved was the Cunard sailing
list for the current month, the plan of a steamer which sailed within a
week of the murder, and a few lines from the steamship office respecting
accommodation.
"These, at any rate, will give you something to do," Wrayson remarked.
"You can go to the lawyer and find out who his client was who desired to
see your brother. There is a chance there! You can go to McKenna & Foulds
and find out who it was whom he wanted shadowed, and you can go to the
Cunard office and see whether he really intended sailing for America."
Mr. Sydney Barnes looked a little doubtful.
"I suppose," he suggested timidly, "you couldn't spare the time to go
round to these places with me? You see, I'm not much class over here,
even in Morris's togs. They'd take more notice of you, being a gentleman.
Good God! what's that?"
Both men had started, for the sound was unexpected. Some one was fitting
a latch-key into the door!