CHAPTER VILANE ENGAGES AN ASSISTANT
Mr. Sellars, Reggie Sellars as he was known to his intimates, was a tall, good-looking young man of about thirty, of the aristocratic type, with aquiline features and an elegant figure. Following no settled occupation or profession, he formed one of that numerous brigade of men-about-town who belong to good clubs, frequent respectable society and always seem to have plenty of money for their personal wants, although nobody knows the exact source of their incomes, or how they contrive to present such a good appearance.
These men are usually very scrupulous in money matters, pay their bets promptly when they lose and expect to be paid as promptly when they win, are never behindhand in a club subscription, liberal but not ostentatious in their tips to waiters. Many of them, in fact most, have a small annuity which forms the nucleus of their income; how the rest of that income is earned is often a puzzle to even their most intimate friends.
Mr. Sellars was one of a large family, some twelve in all, sons and daughters. His father had left capital bringing in about fifteen hundred a year to be divided amongst this numerous offspring. This brought Reggie in the modest competence of about a hundred odd pounds a year. He dressed very well, and his tailor must have taken more than that. It was obvious, therefore, that he had a knack of picking up money somehow and somewhere, as he belonged to several clubs, frequented fashionable society, and was by no means an anchorite in his tastes.
As a matter of fact, he lived on his wits, using theexpression in a perfectly respectable sense. He furnished gossip to a well-known Society newspaper for which he received a liberal remuneration; he was a scientific backer of horses, he played a first-rate hand at bridge, sometimes he got a handsome fee for initiating somenouveau richeinto the mysteries of fashionable life. Since his acquaintance with Mr. Gideon Lane, he had often been useful to that gentleman, and had been paid well for his services.
They had met at a Bohemian club to which both men belonged, for Reggie Sellars, although of very good family and an aristocrat by instinct and connection, was by no means exclusive, and was equally at home in Bohemia and Mayfair.
At first Lane had not been attracted to the young man, whom he regarded as the usual type of lounger who led a life of aimless pleasure, a mere idler with whom he was not likely to have anything in common. And, truth to tell, although in a certain way he was one of the shrewdest fellows alive, Sellars’ good-looking countenance did not furnish any striking evidence of mentality or strenuous impulse.
But one night in the smoking-room the two got into a conversation on the subject of criminals and criminology, and Lane found that this seemingly idle, pleasure-loving young man, with apparently no thoughts beyond the race-course and the bridge-table, displayed a keen knowledge and a swift power of deduction that astonished him.
Lane had a considerableclientèleamongst persons high up in the social scale, he frequently wanted to obtain special information about people belonging to or moving in fashionable circles. Into such quarters he was unable to penetrate himself for obvious reasons. Here was a man just fitted for the job, keen, quiet, quick in resource; a man, in short, disguising a considerable mentality under a most deceptive exterior.Lane suggested that there was certain work in which his previous knowledge and facilities of approach could be of material assistance to him. Mr. Reginald Sellars, the good-looking young man-about-town, jumped at the proposal, and Lane had to confess that, in his own line, he had never possessed a more competent lieutenant.
He was just the man for the Morrice job, or at any rate one particular portion of it, and that was why the busy and brainy detective had rung him up to-day.
“Not been very long, eh, Lane?” was the young man’s greeting as he entered the private room. “Always ready for business, you know, for anything that brings grist to the mill. I hope you’ve got something good for me.”
At his fashionable clubs, in the society of his aristocratic friends, he cultivated a rather languid manner. When he talked to practical people like Lane his tone was brisk, his whole manner alert.
The detective went to the point at once. “Of course, you know of Rupert Morrice, the big financier, most probably you are personally acquainted with him?”
“Known him for years, he was rather a pal of my father’s, used to give him a good tip now and then for his investments,” was the answer. “Can’t say I’m one of the intimates of the house, but always get a card for their big things, have been asked twice, I think, to fill up a dinner-party. What’s up?”
But without answering his question, Lane asked one himself. “We all know the man’s story, that is public property. But what about Mrs. Morrice; do you know anything about her antecedents, her family, her history, before she met her husband?”
Sellars shook his head. “I’ve never heard, I don’t think anybody has. A very charming woman, well-bredand all that, does the honours perfectly, but never seems to talk about herself as most of her sex do. The only thing I can remember is that some few years ago a nephew was introduced, a young chap named Archie Brookes, who was also a nephew of Sir George Clayton-Brookes who is as well-known in London as the Monument. Her sister married his younger brother, we were told.”
“You don’t know her maiden name?”
“No, but that of course can easily be got at Somerset House,” said the bright young man who had proved such an able colleague.
“Of course, I know that, but we need not go there. I have got the name, a rather uncommon one. She was a Miss Lettice Larchester, and I believe she hails from somewhere in Sussex.”
“And you want me to find out all about her before she became Mrs. Morrice, eh? He met her and married her abroad, I suppose you know that. He was awfully gone on Mrs. Croxton, the mother of that young chap whom he practically adopted and who acts as his secretary. It is said he remained a bachelor for years because of her.”
Reggie Sellars’ knowledge of the annals of the people who moved in certain circles was of the most exhaustive nature. And he had a memory like a vice; he never forgot a fact or a date, and never confused one history with another. He was certainly a most deceptive person. To look at him you would never imagine he would take the slightest trouble to acquire any knowledge that was not strictly necessary for his own immediate purposes.
“Yes, I want you to find out all you can about her; of course you will make your inquiries very discreetly. But, there, I need not warn you of that. You are always discreet.”
And in truth he was. He could pursue the mostdelicate investigations without giving himself away for a second.
“Well, now, you haven’t given me an inkling of what’s up yet, and you know I’m not fond of working in the dark. Why this sudden interest in Mrs. Morrice’s past?”
Lane was not addicted to telling more than he could help, for secrecy had become an ingrained habit with him. But the young man was a bit touchy on some things. He was especially so on the point that perfect confidence should be reposed in him, and it must be admitted that that confidence was never abused. He was a perfectly honourable young fellow, and his word was better than the bond of a good many people.
So Lane told him the salient details of the robbery in Deanery Street, ending with the remarkable discovery of the finger-prints of “Tubby” Thomas, and the incarceration of that accomplished criminal.
The quick mind of Sellars speedily grasped the complicated nature of this puzzling case. “By Jove, it wants a bit of thinking out, doesn’t it, Lane? In the meantime, according to your invariable custom, you are suspecting everybody, including Mrs. Morrice; the secretary, of course, and Morrice himself, and naturally the Brookes’s, uncle and nephew.”
Lane smiled. “I intend to know everything I can about every one of them. I exclude the servants, it is too deep a job for any of them.”
“And what about that pretty girl, the niece, what’s her name—eh, Miss Sheldon? You’ve got your eye on her, of course?” He spoke in rather a joking manner, for he often rallied Lane on his tendency to reverse the usual principle of British law and believe everybody to be guilty till his innocence was fully established.”
“She is a very charming young lady,” replied thedetective a little grimly, for he did not relish being chaffed. “But I shall certainly not exclude her from the scope of my investigations if all others fail. Well now, look here, Mr. Sellars, I expect it will take you a little time to get at Mrs. Morrice’s history. What do you know about this Clayton-Brookes and his nephew? The uncle is a great racing man, I understand, and you are amongst the racing set.”
“I know Sir George just a little, we nod to each other when we meet, but I don’t think I have exchanged half a hundred words with him in my life. Archie Brookes I know about as well. But I can tell you this, he is not popular; most people think him a bit of a bounder. Do you want me to investigate in that quarter too?”
“Yes, I wish you to find out all you can. I want you to discover particularly what is known about the young man’s father who, according to what we are told, married Mrs. Morrice’s sister.”
“Right, it shall be done,” replied Sellars. “Now, as I have said, I don’t know either of the men well, and I can’t get any information from them. But I do know pretty intimately a man who is a great pal of Sir George; he’s a member of White’s, a good, garrulous sort of person, and he’ll talk by the hour when you once get him started. I’ll tap him as soon as I can get the chance. He’s much older than I, of course, but we are rather pals, and I’ll make him give me what I want.”
Lane did not possess a very keen sense of humour, his calling did not greatly encourage it, but he was a bit tickled by the gusto with which this remarkable young man, who hid his talents so successfully under that indifferent exterior, set about the task of extracting information from his numerous friends and acquaintances.
For it was one of his greatest assets, moving ashe did in so many various circles, that if he could not get what he wanted directly, he could always do so indirectly. Here, for example, although he did not know Sir George very well, he was more than intimate with that gentleman’s great friend, whom, of course, he could pump with greater freedom than Sir George himself. Presently he took his leave, promising to let Lane know the result of his investigations at the earliest moment.
He appeared a couple of days later. “He rose to the fly beautifully,” he said in that brisk voice which he always assumed when he was engaged on strict business. “He has got it all pat. Sir George had a younger brother Archibald, a bit of a rolling-stone. He couldn’t make good here, so his family packed him off to Australia to try what a change of climate might do. He didn’t do very well there, but he didn’t come back. He married—but my friend doesn’t know the maiden name of his wife; Sir George had either never mentioned it, or he had forgotten it. Anyway, there was one child, the boy Archie, named after his father. The mother died a few years after his birth. The father died later in Melbourne. When the young one was grown up, Sir George sent for him to come home, and adopted him. There’s the whole history cut and dried for you.”
“And very lucidly told too,” said Mr. Lane approvingly. Sellars knew him well now, and he inferred from the careful way in which he entered the details in his notebook that he attached great importance to the information. So he did, much more than the young man guessed; this he was to learn later on.
To be a really great detective a man must have a certain amount of inspiration and imagination, and Lane possessed both these in a remarkable degree. While ruminating over the various problems of this puzzling case, one of these flashes of inspiration hadcome to him, and he intended to test it. But for the present, he was not going to take Sellars into his confidence in case it proved to be wrong.
The young man shortly took his leave and returned to his modest rooms in Bennett Street. To-morrow, he was going to embark on his investigations into Mrs. Morrice’s past, and it behoved him to set his affairs in order, in a sense, so as to be left free to devote his whole energies to the task.
This he easily did, being a very methodical and business-like person, although most of his acquaintances regarded him only as a saunterer through life, a frequenter of fashionable salons. He posted his little paragraphs of Society gossip to his editor, he wrote certain instructions to his bookmaker, he wrote and despatched a short breezy article on current topics to a newspaper which published his effusions at regular intervals. Then he felt himself free to embark on the great adventure to which he was looking forward, for he revelled in detective work as much as the great Lane himself.
Poor Rosabelle had gone home after that interview in a very crestfallen and despondent mood, for she had pinned her faith to those finger-marks, and in prophetic imagination had seen her lover restored to his old place in the esteem of all who were in the terrible secret.
She communicated the new facts to her uncle on his return to Deanery Street. Morrice said little, but a pitying look came over his face as he noticed how pale and sad she looked. He laid his hand upon her shoulder with a kindly gesture.
“Give it up, my poor little girl, give it up before it breaks your heart. Steel yourself to face the fact that Richard Croxton, by his own act, has passed away from your life.”
But she would have none of that. Her voice was pleading but half indignant as she cried out in her pain: “Oh, uncle dear, do not ever say that to me again. I know, I feel it in my heart, that a day will come when you will regret bitterly that you spoke those words.”
The hardest task was when she had to tell her lover that the mystery, so far from approaching solution, was deepened by what had happened. Richard took it calmly to all appearance, but she noticed that the depression which had been temporarily lifted by the discovery of those strange finger-prints, seemed to settle on him again.
“Oh, Dick, my poor darling,” she cried tearfully; “how I wish we were not going to Mürren! I think I shall ask uncle to let me stay behind so that I can come and cheer you.”
But he would not hear of that. It seemed as if he was beginning to realize that he must pass out of her life, as Morrice had put it, and that the sooner the separation began the better for both.
So a week before Christmas a sad group of three started for Switzerland, an expedition they had all so looked forward to when Richard Croxton was to have been one of the party.
And some days before they left a cable from Australia arrived at Lane’s office, and as he read it, his eyes gleamed. That inspiration of his had been true. The contents of that cable were communicated to Sellars in a brief note:—
“You will remember I attached great importance to the details you obtained for me about Archibald Brookes, the brother of Sir George, who went to Australia. A certain inspiration came to me on that subject which I did not tell you of at the time for fear it might lead to nothing. I cabledout to an old colleague of mine in that country to make certain inquiries. I have heard from him to-day. It is true that Archibald Brookes died in Melbourne, but he was a bachelor and consequently left no children. Therefore the tale Sir George told his old friend is a lie, and the story of Mrs. Morrice’s sister being married to his brother is a fabrication. Here is another mystery in the Morrice household which must be unravelled.”
“You will remember I attached great importance to the details you obtained for me about Archibald Brookes, the brother of Sir George, who went to Australia. A certain inspiration came to me on that subject which I did not tell you of at the time for fear it might lead to nothing. I cabledout to an old colleague of mine in that country to make certain inquiries. I have heard from him to-day. It is true that Archibald Brookes died in Melbourne, but he was a bachelor and consequently left no children. Therefore the tale Sir George told his old friend is a lie, and the story of Mrs. Morrice’s sister being married to his brother is a fabrication. Here is another mystery in the Morrice household which must be unravelled.”