AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE
Wrayson easily discovered the object of his search. She was seated upon a
lounge in the promenade, her ample charms lavishly displayed, and her
blackened eyes mutely questioning the passers-by. She welcomed Wrayson
with a smile which she meant to be inviting, albeit she was a little
suspicious. Men of Wrayson's stamp and appearance were not often such
easy victims.
"Saw you at Luigi's, didn't I?" he asked, hat in hand.
She nodded, and made room for him to sit down by her side.
"Did you see the old stick I was with?" she asked. "I don't know why I
was fool enough to go out with him. Trying to pump me about poor old
Barney, too, all the time. Just as though I couldn't see through him."
"Old Barney!" Wrayson repeated, a little perplexed.
She laughed coarsely.
"Oh! come, that won't do!" she declared. "I'm almost sure you're on the
same lay yourself. Didn't I see you at the inquest?--Morris Barnes'
inquest, of course? You know whom I mean right enough."
"I know whom you mean now," Wrayson admitted. "Yes! I was there. Queer
affair, wasn't it?"
The lady nodded.
"I should like a liqueur," she remarked, with apparent irrelevance.
"Benedictine!"
They were seated in front of a small table, and were at times the object
of expectant contemplation on the part of a magnificent individual in
livery and knee-breeches. Wrayson summoned him and ordered two
Benedictines.
"Now I don't mind telling you," the lady continued, leaning over towards
him confidentially, "that I'm dead off that old man who came prying round
and took me out to dinner, to pump me about poor Barney! He didn't get
much out of me. For one thing, I don't know much. But the little I do
know I'd sooner tell you than him."
"You're very kind," Wrayson murmured. "He used to come to these places a
good deal, didn't he?"
She nodded assent.
"He was always either here or at the Empire. He wasn't a bad sort,
Barney, although he was just like all the rest of them, close with his
money when he was sober, and chucking it about when he'd had a drop too
much. What did you want to know about him in particular?"
"Well, for one thing," Wrayson answered, "where he got his money from."
She shook her head.
"He was always very close about that," she said. "The only story I ever
heard him tell was that he'd made it mining in South Africa."
"You have really heard him say that?" Wrayson asked.
"Half a dozen times," she declared.
"That proves, at any rate," he remarked thoughtfully, "that there was
some mystery about his income, because I happen to know that he came
back from South Africa a pauper."
"Very likely," she remarked. "Barney was always the sort who would rather
tell a lie than the truth."
"Did he say anything to you that night about being in any kind of
danger?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"No! I don't think so. I didn't take particular notice of what he said,
because he was a bit squiffy. I believe he mentioned some thing about a
business appointment that night, but I really didn't take much notice."
"You didn't tell them anything about that at the inquest," Wrayson
remarked.
"I know I didn't," she admitted. "You see, I was so knocked over, and I
really didn't remember anything clearly, that I thought it was best to
say nothing at all. They'd only have been trying to ferret things out of
me that I couldn't have told them."
"I think that you were very wise," Wrayson said. "You don't happen to
remember anything else that he said, I suppose?"
"No! except that he seemed a little depressed. But there's something else
about Barney that I always suspected, that I've never heard mentioned
yet. Mind you, it may be true or it may not, but I always suspected it."
"What was that?" Wrayson demanded.
"I believe that he was married," she declared impressively.
"Married!"
Wrayson looked incredulous. It certainly did not seem probable.
"Where is his wife then?" he asked. "Why hasn't she turned up to claim
his effects? Besides, he lived alone. He was my neighbour, you know. His
brother has taken possession of his flat."
The lady rather enjoyed the impression she had made. She was not averse,
either, to being seen in so prominent a place in confidential talk with a
man of Wrayson's appearance. It might not be directly remunerative, but
it was likely to do her good.
"He showed me a photograph once," she continued. "A baby-faced chit of a
girl it was, but he was evidently very proud of it. A little girl of his
down in the country, he told me. Then, do you know this? He was never in
London for Sunday. Every week-end he went off somewhere; and I never
heard of any one who ever saw him or knew where he went to."
"This is very interesting," Wrayson admitted; "but if he was married,
surely his wife would have turned up by now!"
"Why should she?" the lady answered. "Don't you see that she very likely
has what all you gentlemen seem to be so anxious about--his income?"
"By Jove!" Wrayson exclaimed softly. "Of course, if there was
anything mysterious about the source of it, all the more reason for
her to keep dark."
"Well, that's what I've had in my mind," she declared, summoning the
waiter. "I'll take another liqueur, if you don't mind."
Wrayson nodded. His thoughts were travelling fast.
"Did you tell Mr. Bentham this?" he asked.
"Not I," she answered. "The old fool got about as much out of me as he
deserved--and that's nothing."
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged," Wrayson answered, drawing out his
pocketbook. "I wonder if I might be allowed--?"
He glanced at her inquiringly. She nodded. "I'm not proud," she
declared.
* * * * *
"As an amateur detective," Wrayson remarked to himself, as he strolled
homewards, "I am beginning rather to fancy myself. And yet--"
His thoughts had stolen away. He forgot Morris Barnes and the sordid
mystery of which he was the centre. He remembered only the compelling
cause which was driving him towards the solution of it. The night was
warm, and he walked slowly, his hands behind him, and ever before his
eyes the shadowy image of the girl who had brought so many strange
sensations into his somewhat uneventful life. Would he ever see her, he
wondered, without the light of trouble in her eyes, with colour in her
cheeks, and joy in her tone? He thought of her violet-rimmed eyes, her
hesitating manner, her air always as of one who walked hand in hand with
fear. She was not meant for these things! Her lips and eyes were made for
laughter; she was, after all, only a girl. If he could but lift the
cloud! And then he looked upwards and saw her--leaning from the little
iron balcony, and looking out into the cool night.
He half stopped. She did not move. It was too dark to see her features,
but as he looked upwards a strange idea came to him. Was it a gesture or
some unspoken summons which travelled down to him through the
semi-darkness? He only knew, as he turned and entered the flat, that a
new chapter of his life was opening itself out before him.