The two men stepped back into the hotel. The cashier had returned to
his desk, and the incident which had just transpired seemed to have
passed unnoticed. Nevertheless, Laverick felt that the studied
indifference of his companion’s manner had its significance, and he
endeavored to imitate it.
“Shall we go through into the bar?” he asked. “There’s very seldom any
one there at this time.”
“Anywhere you say,” Bellamy answered. “It’s years since we had a drink
together.”
They passed into the inner room and, finding it empty, drew two chairs
into the further corner. Bellamy summoned the waiter.
“Two whiskies and sodas quick, Tim,” he ordered. “Now, Laverick, listen
to me,” he added, as the waiter turned away. “We are alone for the
moment but it won’t be for long. You know very well that it wasn’t to
renew our schoolboy acquaintance that I’ve asked you to come in here
with me.”
Laverick drew a little breath.
“Please go on,” he said. “I am as anxious as you can be to grasp this
affair properly.”
“When we left school,” Bellamy remarked, “you were destined for the
Stock Exchange. I went first to Magdalen. Did you ever hear what became
of me afterwards?”
“I always understood,” Laverick answered, “that you went into one of
the Government offices.”
“Quite right,” Bellamy assented. “I did. At this moment I have the
honor to serve His Majesty.”
“Two thousand a year and two hours work a day,” Laverick laughed. “I
know the sort of thing.”
“You evidently don’t,” Bellamy answered. “I often work twenty hours a
day, I don’t get half two thousand a year, and most of the time I carry
my life in my hands. When I am working—and I am working now—I am never
sure of the morrow.”
Laverick looked at him incredulously.
“You’re not joking, Bellamy?” he asked.
“Not by any manner of means. I have the honor to be a humble member of
His Majesty’s Secret Service.”
Laverick glanced at his companion wonderingly.
“I really didn’t know,” he said, “that such a service had any actual
existence except in novels.”
“I am a proof to the contrary,” Bellamy declared grimly. “Abroad, I run
always the risk of being dubbed a spy and treated like one. At home, I
am simply the head of the A2 Branch of the Secret Service. Here come
our drinks.”
Laverick raised his whiskey and soda to his lips mechanically.
“Here’s luck!” he exclaimed. “Now go on, Bellamy,” he continued. “The
waiter can’t overhear.”
Bellamy smiled.
“Tim is one of the few persons in the place,” he said, “whom one can
trust. As a matter of fact, he has been very useful to me more than
once. Now listen to me attentively, Laverick. I am going to speak to
you as one man to another.”
Laverick nodded.
“I am ready,” he said.
“Last Monday,” Bellamy went on, leaning forward and speaking in a soft
but very distinct undertone, “a man was murdered late at night in the
heart of the city—within one hundred yards of the Stock Exchange. The
papers called it a mysterious murder. No one knows who the man was, or
who committed the crime, or why. You and I, Laverick, both know a
little more than the rest of the world.”
“Well?”
“The murder,” Bellamy continued, with a strange light in his eyes, “was
accomplished only a stone’s throw from your office.”
Laverick lit a cigarette and threw the match away.
“Horrible affair it was,” he remarked.
Bellamy glanced toward the door,—a man had looked in and departed.
“Enough of this fencing, Laverick,” he said. “A theft was committed
from the person of that murdered man, of which the general public knows
nothing. A pocketbook was stolen from him containing twenty thousand
pounds and a sealed document. As to who murdered the man, I want you to
understand that that is not my affair. As to what has become of that
twenty thousand pounds, I have not the slightest curiosity. I want the
document.”
“What claim have you to it?” Laverick asked quickly.
“I might retort, but I will not,” Bellamy replied. “Time is too short.
I will answer you by explaining who the man was and what that document
consists of. The man’s name was Von Behrling, and he was a trusted
agent of the Austrian Secret Service. The document of which he was
robbed contains a verbatim report of the conference which recently took
place at Vienna between the Emperor of Germany, the Emperor of Austria,
and the Czar of Russia. It contains the details of a plot against this
country and the undertakings entered into by those several Powers. I
want that document, Laverick. Have I established my claim?”
“You have,” Laverick answered. “Why on earth Didn’t you come to me
before? Don’t you believe that I should have listened to you as readily
as to Mademoiselle Idiale?”
“I wish that I had come,” Bellamy admitted, “and yet, here is the
truth, Laverick, because the truth is best. Twenty-two years lie
between us and the time when we knew anything of one another. To me,
therefore, you are a stranger. I had my spies following Von Behrling
that night. I know that you took the pocket-book from his dead body. If
you did not murder him yourself, the deed was done by an accomplice of
yours. How was I to trust you? We are speaking naked words, my friend.
We are dealing with naked truths. To me you were a murderer and a
thief. A word from me and you would have realized the value of that
document. I tell you frankly that Austria would give you almost any sum
for it to-day.”
Laverick, strong man though he was, was conscious of a sudden weakness.
He raised his hand to his forehead and drew it away—wet. He struggled
desperately for self-control.
“Bellamy,” he said, “here’s truth for truth. I am not on my trial
before you. Believe me, man, for God’s sake!”
“I’ll try,” Bellamy promised. “Go on.”
“That night I stayed at my office late because I saw ruin before me on
the morrow. I left it meaning to go straight home. I lit a cigarette
near that entry, and by the light of a match, as I was throwing it
away, I saw the murdered man. I think for a time I was paralyzed. The
pocket-book was half dragged out from his pocket. Why I looked inside
it I don’t know. I had some sort of wild idea that I must find out who
he was. Mind you, though, I should have given the alarm at once, but
there wasn’t a soul in the street. There was a man lurking in the entry
and I chased him, unsuccessfully. When I came back, the body was still
there and the street empty. I looked inside that pocket-book, which
would have been in the possession of his murderer but for my unexpected
appearance. I saw the notes there. Once more I went out into the
street. I gave no alarm,—I am not attempting to explain why. I was like
a man made suddenly mad. I went back to my office and shut myself in.”
Bellamy pointed to the glasses silently. The waiter came forward and
refilled them.
“Bellamy,” Laverick continued, “your career and mine lie far apart, and
yet, at their backbone, as there is at the backbone of every man’s
life, there must be something of the same sort of ambition. My
grandfather lived and died a member of the Stock Exchange, honored and
well thought of. My father followed in his footsteps. I, too, was
there. Without becoming wealthy, the name I bear has become known and
respected. Failure, whatever one may say, means a broken life and a
broken honor. I sat in my office and I knew that the use of those notes
for a few days might save me from disgrace, might keep the name, which
my father and grandfather had guarded so jealously, free from shame. I
would have paid any price for the use of them. I would have paid with
my life, if that had been possible. Think of the risk I ran—the danger
I am now in. I deposited those notes on the morrow as security at my
bank, and I met all my engagements. The crisis is over! Those notes are
in a safe deposit vault in Chancery Lane! I only wish to Heaven that I
could find the owner!”
“And the document?” Bellamy asked. “The document?”
“It is in the hotel safe,” Laverick answered.
Bellamy drew a long sigh of relief. Then he emptied his tumbler and lit
a cigarette.
“Laverick,” he declared, “I believe you.”
“Thank God!” Laverick muttered.
“I am no crime investigator,” Bellamy went on thoughtfully. “As to who
killed Von Behrling, or why, I cannot now form the slightest idea. That
twenty thousand pounds, Laverick, is Secret Service money, paid by me
to Von Behrling only half-an-hour before he was murdered, in a small
restaurant there, for what I supposed to be the document. He deceived
me by making up a false packet. The real one he kept. He deserved to
die, and I am glad he is dead.”
Laverick’s face was suddenly hopeful.
“Then you can take these notes!” he exclaimed.
Bellamy nodded.
“In a few days,” he said, “I shall take you with me to a friend of
mine—a Cabinet Minister. You shall tell him the story exactly as you’ve
told it to me, and restore the money.”
Laverick laughed like a child.
“Don’t think I’m mad,” he apologized, “but I am not a person like you,
Bellamy,—used to adventures and this sort of wild happenings. I’m a
steady-going, matter-of-fact Englishman, and this thing has been like a
hateful nightmare to me. I can’t believe that I’m going to get rid of
it.”
Bellamy smiled.
“It’s a great adventure,” he declared, “to come to any one like you. To
tell you the truth, I can’t imagine how you had the pluck—don’t
misunderstand me, I mean the moral pluck—to run such a risk. Why, at
the moment you used those notes,” Bellamy continued, “the odds must
have been about twenty to one against your not being found out.”
“One doesn’t stop to count the odds,” Laverick said grimly. “I saw a
chance of salvation and I went for it. And now about this letter.”
Bellamy rose to his feet.
“On the King’s service!” he whispered softly.
They walked once more to the cashier’s desk. A stranger greeted them.
Laverick produced his receipt.
“I should like the packet I deposited here this evening,” he said. “I
am sorry to trouble you, but I find that I require it unexpectedly.”
The clerk glanced at the receipt and up at the clock. “I am afraid,
sir,” he answered, “that we cannot get at it before the morning.”
“Why not?” Laverick demanded, frowning.
“Mr. Dean has just gone home,” the man declared, “and he is the only
one who knows the combination on the ‘L’ safe. You see, sir,” he
continued, “we keep this particular safe for documents, and we did not
expect that anything would be required from it to-night.”
Bellamy drew Laverick away.
“After all,” he said, “perhaps to-morrow morning would be better.
There’s no need to get shirty with these fellows. As a matter of fact,
I don’t think that I should have dared to receive it without making
some special preparations. I can get some plain clothes men here upon
whom I can rely, at nine o’clock.”
They strolled back into the hall.
“Tell me,” Laverick asked, “do you know who the man was who forged my
name to the order a few hours ago?”
Bellamy nodded.
“It was Adolf Kahn, an Austrian spy. I have been watching him for days.
If they’d given him the paper I had four men at the door, but it would
have been touch and go. He is a very prince of conspirators, that
fellow. To tell you the truth, I think I might as well go home.”
Bellamy was drawing on his gloves when the hall-porter brought a note
to Laverick.
“A messenger has just left this for you, sir,” he explained.
Laverick tore open the envelope. The contents consisted of a few words
only, written on plain note-paper and in a handwriting which was
strange to him.
“Ring up 1232 Gerrard.”
Laverick frowned, turned over the half sheet of paper and looked once
more at the envelope. Then he passed it on to his companion.
“What do you make of that, Bellamy?” he asked.
Bellamy smiled as he perused and returned it.
“What could any one make of it?” he remarked, laconically. “Do you know
the handwriting?”
“Never saw it before, to my knowledge,” Laverick answered. “What should
you do about it?”
“I think,” Bellamy suggested, “that I should ring up number 1232
Gerrard.”
They crossed the hall and Laverick entered one of the telephone booths.
“1232 Gerrard,” he said.
The connection was made almost at once.
“Who are you?” Laverick asked.
“I am speaking for Miss Zoe Leneveu,” was the reply. “Are you Mr.
Laverick?”
“I am,” Laverick answered. “Is Miss Leneveu there? Can she speak to me
herself?”
“She is not here,” the voice continued. “She was fetched away in a
hurry from the theatre—we understood by her brother. She left two and
sixpence with the doorkeeper here to ring you up and explain that she
had been summoned to her brother’s rooms, 25, Jermyn Street, and would
you kindly go on there.”
“Who are you?” Laverick demanded.
There was no reply. Laverick remained speechless, listening intently.
He stood still with the receiver pressed to his ear. Was it his fancy,
or was that really Zoe’s protesting voice which he heard in the
background? It was a woman or a child who was speaking—he was almost
sure that it was Zoe.
“Who are you?” he asked fiercely. “Miss Leneveu is there with you. Why
does she not speak for herself?”
“Miss Leneveu is not here,” was the answer. “I have done what she
desired. You can please yourself whether you go or not. The address is
25, Jermyn Street. Ring off.”
The connection was gone. Laverick laid down the receiver and stepped
out of the booth.
“I must be off at once,” he said to Bellamy. “You’ll be round in the
morning?”
Bellamy smiled.
“After all,” he remarked, “I have changed my plans. I shall not leave
the hotel. I am going to telephone round to my man to bring me some
clothes. By the bye, do you mind telling me whether this message which
you have just received had anything to do with the little affair in
which we are interested?”
“Not directly,” Laverick answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “The
message was from a young lady. I have to go and meet her.”
“A young lady whom you can trust?” Bellamy inquired quietly.
“Implicitly,” Laverick assured him.
“She spoke herself?”
“No, she sent a message. Excuse me, Bellamy, won’t you, but I must
really go.”
“By all means,” Bellamy answered.
They stood at the entrance to the hotel together while a taxicab was
summoned. Laverick stepped quickly in.
“25, Jermyn Street,” he ordered.
Bellamy watched him drive off. Then he sighed.
“I think, my friend Laverick,” he said softly, “that you will need some
one to look after you to-night.”