CHAPTER XXRUPERT MORRICE SENDS FOR LANE
Lanewas as chagrined as Sellars himself when he learned the result of that interview with Alma Buckley, for he had rather pinned his hopes on it. The great majority of people who engaged in wrong-doing were corruptible, as he had found by long experience. This middle-aged music-hall artist was a striking exception.
“Drawn into crooked paths by accident perhaps,”he commented, “and makes loyalty to her pals her first principle or, equally probable, is too well paid by the other side to consider it worth while treating with us.”
He rose and paced the room, a sign with him of unusual mental activity. “Well, now, it is needless to say, I am very grievously disappointed, I looked for some good results, and the worst of it is, we have given ourselves away. In another twenty-four hours our friend the baronet and Mrs. Morrice will know of your visit, and will be on their guard.”
Sellars agreed. “That is inevitable. Unless she happened to speak the truth when she said that she knew nothing of Mrs. Morrice and did not know whether she was dead or alive.”
“That’s a lie like the other about Archie Brookes,” replied the detective grimly. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I have had Mrs. Morrice under observation by one of my best men for a little time. During that period she has paid two visits to the Kew flat. Alma Buckley is a useful friend in many ways, although she is not an official one and doesn’t show up at Deanery Street—and no doubt, she gets well paid for her services. It won’t be very long now before we shall have to open the eyes of the master of the house.”
He was pacing up and down the room with very vigorous strides now, his physical energy reflecting his mental activity. In that keen and resourceful brain he was doubtless planning his campaign, determining the best method of exploding his bombshell in Deanery Street.
He paused at last in his restless pacing and turned to his lieutenant, who knew the man too well to put any direct questions.
“Well, Sellars, we have drawn a blank with Alma Buckley, through no fault of yours. You couldn’thave done more than you have. We shall have to precipitate matters, and blow up Clayton-Brookes and that young impostor, whom the world takes for his nephew, in the process.”
Sellars would have dearly liked to have an actual inkling of what his astute leader was planning, but he knew it was useless asking. Lane never revealed hiscoupsbeforehand. When they were accomplished, he was as frank as he had previously been reticent, and would explain with perfect candour the processes by which he had engineered them.
“Well, good-bye, Lane. Sorry the result wasn’t satisfactory. Better luck next time. Can I get on to any other portion of the job?”
The detective thought not, at the moment; what was left he was going to take into his own hands. But he praised his able young lieutenant very highly for the work he had done down at Brinkstone, the foundation on which the superstructure of the subsequent investigations had been built.
In the meantime, while Lane was preparing hiscoup, Rupert Morrice had been stealthily pursuing his line of investigation.
A passionate man by nature, he had experienced the greatest difficulty in restraining himself on his return from the jeweller who had told him that the supposed “birthday” necklace was a worthless imitation. When his wife returned about five o’clock unconscious of the tragic happenings during her brief absence, his first impulse was to follow her up to her room, tell her what he had learned and wring from her a confession.
But he held himself in by a great exercise of self-control. He wanted more evidence, he wished to make sure if this was an isolated instance or one of a series of similar transactions.
As it happened, fortune was adverse to the wrong-doer,and in the banker’s favour. Mrs. Morrice’s friend was very unwell, and the lady drove down to her on the two following days to cheer her up, leaving early in the morning and returning about the same time in the afternoon. As on the previous occasion, the maid was given a holiday during the few hours of her mistress’s absence.
The coast therefore was quite clear for Morrice, and he took advantage of his unique opportunities with grim determination. Rosabelle alone in the house had an idea that something was going on from noting the fact that she met him in the hall on one of the mornings, carrying a small bag and wearing a very grim expression, as if he were engaged on some urgent but disagreeable business.
In all he took some ten very valuable pieces of jewellery to the same man for examination. The result in each case was similar, they were all cleverly executed imitations of the original gifts he had presented to her. That was enough for him. She had a pretty large collection, and it might be that a great many of them were not substitutes; that she had not so far made use of them for her secret purposes. On those of which he was quite certain from the expert’s evidence, he reckoned that, even selling at a greatly depreciated price, she must have realized several thousands of pounds.
On the afternoon of the third day he was pacing his room about five o’clock like a caged lion, feverishly awaiting his wife’s return, waiting to confront her with the anonymous letter, and reveal to her his verification of the charges it contained.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, the quarter, and the half-hour. His face grew darker and darker, as the tide of his righteous wrath swelled. Six o’clock struck, and no sign of Mrs. Morrice. Then ten minutes later a telegram was brought to him which after readinghe cast angrily on the floor. It explained that her friend was very unwell, that she was stopping the night at her house, and would return home at lunch time to-morrow.
The storm could not burst to-day on the devoted head of the woman who had played so foolishly with her husband’s trust in her. The unexpected delay incensed further the unfortunate financier, against whom of late fate seemed to have a special grudge.
Rosabelle came in while he was fuming, to ask him for a small cheque in anticipation of her quarter’s allowance. So preoccupied was he with his bitter thoughts of the gross way in which he had been deceived that he wrote the cheque like a man in a dream, and the girl noticed that his hand trembled. When he looked up to give it to her, she saw that his face was as black as night.
“Uncle dear, whatever is the matter?” she cried impetuously. For some little time past she had had an uneasy feeling, one of those presentiments which occur so often to sensitive people, that there was trouble of some sort brewing in this household.
“Nothing the matter, my child,” he answered evasively, passing his hand wearily across his forehead. Much as he loved his pretty niece, much as he trusted her, he could not as yet reveal to her the cause of his trouble, betray the woman in whom he had believed—who bore his honoured name.
But the girl persisted. “But, dearest uncle, you are hiding something from me. You look so strange, I am sure you are very much moved. Have you had disturbing news?”
For a little time the unhappy man refrained from answering that question, inspired by no spirit of girlish curiosity, but by the sincerest and most loyal affection.
“Yes, my child, I have had bad news, very bad news, I am afraid I am a poor dissembler,” he said atlength. “Later on, under the strict seal of secrecy, I may tell you the cause of my trouble. But not now, not now. Run away, my precious little girl, and leave me to my black mood.”
She dared not worry him further, although her heart was aching for him. Nobody knew better than she the kind, tender nature underlying that rather stern exterior. Before she obeyed him, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him affectionately.
“Tell me when you please, dear, in your own good time, and your poor little Rosabelle, to whom you have always been so kind and generous, will do her best to comfort you.”
“I know you will, you precious, warm-hearted girl.” He clasped her hand almost convulsively. What he had found out had wounded him to the core. Nothing hurt this strong, proud man so much as the discovery that his confidence had been misplaced in those near to him, that his trust in them had been abused.
“Thank heaven, I have one dear little friend in the world, one dear, loyal little friend who has never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who I am confident never will. But run away now, my darling. I cannot speak yet, even to you, of what is troubling me.”
She obeyed him, and left the room wondering. The words he had spoken had been very vague, but her quick instinct had prompted certain suspicions of the cause of his deep perturbation. She was confident that Mrs. Morrice was at the bottom of it. Had he found out something to her discredit, and if so, what? Was it possible that Lane had conceived it to be his duty to report to him that conversation between aunt and nephew which she had overheard?
They dined alone that night, and she was sure that his deep gloom must have been noticed by the servants who waited on them. And she was sure it was not business matters that troubled him. He had alwaysboasted that he never brought home his office worries with him, had expressed his contempt for men who did so, who had no power of detachment. “When a man comes back to his home it is his duty to make his family happy, and leave his business behind him,” had been a favourite dictum of his, and to do him justice he had always acted up to it.
After dinner they went up to the drawing-room, but he made no pretence of being cheerful. Rosabelle asked if the piano would disturb him. He shook his head, and she played very softly a few of her favourite pieces. Suddenly Morrice rose, went to her, and kissed her.
“I am wretched company to-night, my little girl,” he said; his face still wore its hard gloomy expression, but there was a sadness in his voice that went to the girl’s heart. “You stay here and amuse yourself as best you can. I am going to my study, and shall not see you again this evening. Good-night, dear.”
Rosabelle clung to him. “Oh, uncle, can I do nothing to help you?”
He gave her a grateful smile, but shook his head obstinately, and left the room. She played on a little after he had gone, but she was full of troubled thoughts, and hardly knew what she was doing.
And Rupert Morrice, the great financier, the successful man of business, respected by all who knew him, envied by many, sat alone in his room, devoured by bitter and revengeful thoughts. What had his wealth done for him, if it failed to buy loyalty from those who were near to him, on whom he had lavished such kindness and generosity?
It was only a little past eight o’clock, they had dined early as was often their custom when they had no company. Would the weary evening ever come to a close? But when it did, and he went to his room, he knew he would not be able to sleep.
Suddenly the telephone bell rang. Glad of the momentary diversion, he crossed to the instrument and unhooked the receiver.
It was Lane’s voice that was speaking. The detective was late at his office, and it had occurred to him to ring up on the chance of finding Morrice in and making an appointment for to-morrow morning. He had that day, after much reflection, judged that it was time to precipitate matters—to launch hiscoup.
“Ah, good-evening, Mr. Morrice. I have something of the utmost importance to communicate to you, and the sooner the better. Can I see you to-morrow?”
The financier’s deep voice came back through the telephone. “To-morrow, certainly, any time you please, preferably in the morning. But, if convenient to you, come round at once. Mrs. Morrice is away; I am here alone.”
Lane was rather glad to hear it. He answered that he would come at once. What he was about to tell Morrice was bound to produce a violent explosion, but it would not occur while he was in the house.
A few moments later the detective stood in the financier’s private room, in a mood almost as serious as that of Morrice himself.