CHAPTER XIVAN ALARMING INTERRUPTION
Punctuallyat five o’clock on the appointed evening Lane and Simmons met. On the face of the valet was a triumphant expression.
“We needn’t try this new scheme of yours, Mr. Cox—Mr. Lane, I should say. I’ll come back to the flat with you; it’s all plain sailing. The drawer is unlocked. The bank-book isn’t there, and he’s taken the cheque-book with him; but he’s left the paying-in slips all right. You said these would do.”
Not by any means for the first time was Gideon Lane impressed by the inconsistencies of the human temperament. Here was a shrewd, clever man like Sir George Clayton-Brookes, one who counted his cigars and wine-bottles to prevent his valet helping himself to a surreptitious smoke or drink! Surely he would be equally meticulous in other and more important matters. And yet, he had gone away leaving that drawer unlocked, its contents open to the prying eyes of Simmons.
The detective himself would never have done such a thing, and he was quite sure he had less to conceal than this mysterious baronet who passed himself off as a wealthy man, while all the evidence that had been gathered pointed to the contrary. Perhaps Sir George, like many other persons of considerable mentality—for there was little doubt that he had brains of a certain order—entertained a great contempt for the intelligence of his inferiors, and thought that if Simmons did pry about in his absence he would not be much the wiser for his researches.
The baronet resided on the first floor of a blockof service flats in the Victoria direction, finding this mode of living very suitable to him. Simmons slept out, coming early in the morning and leaving at all sorts of times dependent upon his master’s convenience. In the course of his communications to Lane, the detective had gathered that, in many respects, it was a very easy place. Sir George did a great deal for himself, so that the valet’s duties were not onerous, and he had a lot of spare time. If his master went out for the evening, and this happened on most evenings of the week, Simmons was never required to await his return. His meals he occasionally took in the restaurant attached to the flats, but more frequently he lunched and dined at his clubs or the private houses of his acquaintances. Breakfast, a Continental one of coffee and rolls, was served in his own apartments.
“As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want a valet at all,” was Simmons’s rather contemptuous comment on his master’s habits. “And if he consulted his own inclinations, I don’t believe he would keep one, for he’s that dirt mean that I know he begrudges me my wages every time he pays me. What can you expect of a man who sells all his old clothes to a second-hand dealer? Not a waistcoat or a pair of old boots have I had since I was in his service. He’s obliged to keep one to carry out his policy of ‘swank.’ He knows his friends would think it deuced queer for one in his position to be without a man.”
It formed a handsome suite of apartments, with its two elegantly furnished sitting-rooms, large airy bedroom and capacious bathroom. Still, one would only put it down as the abode of a man comfortably well-off, not one supposed to be actually wealthy.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Mr. Simmons, as he ushered the detective into the smaller of the two sitting-rooms, which was used as a smoking-room andstudy in which the owner wrote his letters and attended to his business, whatever it was.
“And here’s the writing-table, and that top one on the left is the drawer in which you want to look. I’m glad it’s turned out like this, Mr. Lane; I feel a good bit easier in my mind. Nobody can call this burglary, eh? No harm in taking a peep at things that be under your hand, is there?”
By which it will be seen that Mr. Simmons, though perhaps not a high authority on morals, had certain well-defined ethics of his own. It was not stealing to abstract a cigar from the store of a master who did not resort to the discreditable meanness of putting out a dozen in a box at a time so that he would easily miss one; it was not wrong to help yourself as often as you could to a glass of good wine; it was not against the moral code to listen outside doors, or to read letters and papers to which you could procure easy access through your employer’s carelessness. But in some matters the valet was a purist, more, it is to be feared, from terror of the legal consequences than from the revolt of a tender conscience. He did draw the line at picking locks or steaming open a letter.
Growing quite daring in his comfortable belief that they were engaged in a comparatively innocent operation, he pulled the drawer open with his own hands and pointed to the pale-coloured little book which contained the paying-in slips.
“There it is; goes back for two months. Is that enough for you? I hope so, for I don’t know where he puts the old ones; locks them up in his safe, I expect.”
Lane intimated it would be quite sufficient for his purposes, and got to work at once. He took careful notice of the exact position of the little book which was lying at a slight angle on the top of a pile ofpapers, so that he could replace it in the same position. Sir George, careless as he appeared to be in some matters, might have a good memory in certain things, and might notice on his return that the contents of the drawer had been disturbed. Still, that did not matter very much if he did suspect; his suspicions would naturally fall upon Simmons as the guilty party, and, truth to tell, the detective was not very much concerned about that individual. He had proved a useful and adaptable instrument, but Lane could not help despising him for a smooth-faced hypocrite and venal rogue.
It cannot be said that he enjoyed the situation very much himself. He had taken this course because he could think of no other which would serve his ends, and one has often to resort to dirty means in a good cause. But even if Sir George was the scoundrel he was beginning to believe him to be, the action he was now taking savoured just a little too much of hitting below the belt to square with his stolid English notions of fair play. If it had been possible he would have preferred to come out more in the open. Still, all is fair in war; he had comforted himself with that reflection many times in the course of his active career.
It was not a very long task, for there seemed to be but few payments, and those mostly for small sums. The name of Willis occurred frequently in the margin of the counterfoils, evidently this was the person who had paid the amounts to Sir George.
“Do you know anything of a man named Willis?” asked Lane of the valet who was watching his proceedings with great interest. He was a very curious fellow, and he would dearly have liked to know the particular object of the present researches.
“Yes, that’s his bookmaker,” was the answer of Simmons.
Mr. Willis’s cheques were for trifling sums whichseemed to prove that the baronet did not bet so high as was generally supposed, as he pretended to his friends, according to the valet’s account. But, of course, it was not proof positive. Like most men who follow racing, he would win one day and lose the next, so that at the end of the week there might be a very trifling balance against him or in his favour.
What, of course, Lane was looking for was an entry a little subsequent to the first big burglary, when the diamonds and the big bundle of foreign notes had been stolen. There was certainly the biggest entry he had seen in the book about a week after the actual date of the robbery, and against it was marked the word “cash.” But it was only for seventy-five pounds.
Now the diamonds alone, according to Lane’s information, had cost Mr. Morrice no less than eight thousand pounds, as the stones were big ones, perfect in matching and colour. Granted that they had been realized by the thief or thieves at a tremendous depreciation, they should at least have brought in a fourth of that sum. It was hardly possible that Sir George, even if he were a member of a gang who shared the spoil, would engage in such a dangerous operation for the sake of the paltry sum of seventy-five pounds.
Including that item the total payings-in for the two months were a little over four hundred pounds. Assuming that this was a fair average, the baronet’s income would be only slightly more than two thousand a year. It was a small amount for a man who went about in good society, and according to Simmons, spent about five hundred a year at least on his clothes, and entertained his friends lavishly to lunches and dinners at the most expensive restaurants.
“That’s what riles me about him,” observed the valet when he had answered Lane’s direct questions on these points. “A month ago he bought a newcar that must have cost him every penny of a thousand pounds. He thinks nothing of paying fifty pounds for a dinner to his pals, I know that from one or two waiters who are friends of mine. And yet he’s so devilish mean in some things, he sells his old clothes, he begrudges me a cigar or a glass of wine, and while he’s blueing all this money, his bank won’t let him overdraw five pounds, according to his own statement which I overheard him make to his nephew.”
“On the evidence of this book, one would say he was, comparatively speaking, a poor man, that is to say a poor man for his position,” said the detective in a musing tone, as he restored the little pale-coloured book to its original position, and shut the drawer. “And yet he spends any amount of money on clothes and entertaining, and can plank down a thousand pounds for a new car. You said yourself he was a poor man, pretending to be rich.”
“He seems to be wealthy one day and hard-up the next, now one comes to go into it a bit closer,” remarked Mr. Simmons. “I expect I was guided a bit too much to my opinion by the fact of his being in such a blue funk about that cheque he had changed at the club.”
“That little book is a blind, Simmons; no wonder he is careless about that drawer; he knows that whatever you can see there will not disclose the true state of his affairs. And you say he bought that car about a month ago.”
“Of course, he may owe for it, for anything we know to the contrary,” was the valet’s comment, “only just paid a bit down and is trying to raise the wind somewhere now. Perhaps that’s the object of his present journey.”
The detective was thinking deeply, it was a puzzling situation. He had been in hopes that he might have got some absolute results from his visit to Sir George’sflat and the inspection of his paying-in book. The outcome was quite negative. The one suspicious thing was the purchase of that car, and as Simmons had truly remarked, it might have been bought on credit. Still, supposing it had been, Sir George must have expected to lay his hands upon a thousand pounds pretty soon.
The drawer contained nothing to help him. He cast his eyes longingly at the safe which stood in the corner of the room, a big one, made by one of the best-known makers in London. He would very much have liked to have a peep into that safe, it might have yielded up some secrets. But he was not an expert safe-breaker like Mr. “Tubby” Thomas now languishing in Dartmoor, or the hitherto undiscovered thief who had practised his art in the big, old-fashioned house in Deanery Street.
He lost himself in speculation for some little time, almost oblivious of the valet’s presence. That gentleman thought it time that attention should be paid to his own immediate affairs, and coughed gently to raise Lane from his reverie.
“Haven’t you found what you wanted?” he asked, with an anxious look in his cunning little eyes.
“To tell the truth, I haven’t. For all practical purposes I might as well not have taken on the job.”
The anxious look grew more intense. Mr. Simmons had small faith in his fellow-men. Perhaps the detective might try to get out of his bargain, if not altogether, to a very considerable extent.
He spoke in an ingratiating tone. “Not my fault, is it? I’ve done all you wanted, haven’t I?”
“Oh, certainly, there is no blame attached to you.” Lane understood what he was driving at and extracted from a letter-case several five-pound notes, the balanceof the sum which he had undertaken to pay, and handed them to the valet, who received them with profuse expressions of gratitude and a look of relief.
“Many, many thanks. Is there any other question you’d like to ask? Only too happy to oblige.”
“Well, yes, Mr. Simmons, since you’re so kind, we may as well have a little further chat while I’m here; we shan’t be disturbed. It’s about this nephew, young Archie Brookes, who seems so fully in his uncle’s confidence. What can you tell me about him?”
Mr. Simmons with that nice sum of money nestling snugly in his pocket was in a most obliging mood, and hastened to unfold all he knew.
“Well, Mr. Lane, as you know, I haven’t been in Sir George’s service very long, and what I know is chiefly gathered from his former valet, who is now with the Duke of Droitwich, a man named Dundas, and other servants who have been about in the same sort of set.”
“What I want to know particularly is when he first appeared upon the scene. I understand the story given out is that he’s the son of a younger brother of Sir George’s, that the father died in Australia, and that his uncle sent for the young fellow and introduced him to London society.”
“Quite right, Mr. Lane. This happened about five years ago. Sir George gave out the story as you have heard it, the young man came over, and ever since his arrival the two have been inseparable. When Sir George is in town, and that’s the best part of the year, there’s hardly a day passes that young Archie doesn’t come here, sometimes staying for only a few minutes. Sir George put him up for a couple of decent clubs that he belongs to himself, but not for the two very exclusive ones of which he is a member. I suppose the young chap is not quite big enough for them.”
“Is he supposed to have any money of his own?”
“According to my friend Dundas, not more than a pittance. Dundas was in the service of a great friend of Sir George’s before he went to the baronet, and he got the information from him. The father, according to this account, died leaving very little; the mother had died years before. His uncle practically adopted him with the intention of making him his heir. Although, as you and I know, Mr. Lane, whether there will be anything for him to be heir to is a bit of a puzzle, I think.”
“There is the furniture of this flat which is worth a bit, and the motor-car,” observed Lane with a humorous smile. “Do I take it then that the young man is supported by Sir George?”
“That’s what my friend Dundas gathered.”
“If that is a fact, it might account for the baronet being a comparatively poor man, then. What sort of style does this young Archie keep up?”
“From all that I hear, he makes a greater show than his uncle. He rents a flat in the Hyde Park district twice the rent of this, runs a Rolls-Royce and keeps a valet. I know his man, and he says it’s a ripping job. He’s as open-handed as his uncle is stingy. Gives jolly bachelor dinners sent in from outside to his own place, where they swim in champagne and the most expensive wines. Jenks, my friend, can take as many cigars as he likes, nothing is ever said; many a time I’ve cracked a bottle of young Archie’s best champagne when he’s been out of the way. Jenks says he’d give him one if he asked for it. When he goes for his holiday, he chucks him a tenner; he does the same at Christmas. He has no end of clothes which he never half wears out, and as soon as he tires of a suit he tosses it over to my friend. Oh, there’s some pretty little ‘picks’ there, I can tell you. If I was in the young man’s service, instead of in thisold curmudgeon’s, I shouldn’t be looking out for a new place, you bet your life.”
“A gay young gentleman, evidently,” observed Lane, to whom all this information was intensely interesting.
“Rather! He spends money right and left. He’s got a lot of lady friends, many of them not too particular, married and single. He’s always buying handsome presents for them. His jeweller’s bills tot up to a nice round sum, Jenks tells me. Besides that, he gambles a lot, but he doesn’t back horses much.”
“Then we have established one fact pretty clearly,” said the detective decisively. “If this young scapegrace has no money and his uncle is paying the piper, Sir George must, after all, be the wealthy man that popular report considers him.”
The door of the room in which they were sitting and holding this confidential conversation was partly open, and just as Lane had finished speaking, both men distinctly heard the sound of a key being inserted in the hall door.
The valet swore wickedly under his breath, and sprang to his feet, his face white as chalk, his hands shaking.
“It’s Archie, I know his cat-like footstep. The old devil has left his key with him. He’s come after his letters, they won’t trust me with the address.”
Lane was disturbed too, he had not bargained for this sudden interruption, and Simmons looked so panic-stricken, being a white-livered sort of fellow, that his looks were enough to hang him.
“Pull yourself together and leave as much as you can to me,” he whispered to the shaking valet. Then he strode across the room and pretended to be examining a picture while he awaited the entrance of Archibald Brookes.