Hetherwick realised at once that Mapperley had news, and was waiting there to communicate it. But he looked not so much at Mapperley as at Mapperley's companion. Mapperley, as Hetherwick had remarked to more than one person in the course of those proceedings, concealed his sharpness under an unusually commonplace exterior; he looked, as a rule, like a young man whose ideas rarely soared above a low level. But the Jew was of a different aspect—Hetherwick was not quite sure whether he was rat or ferret. There was subtlety and craft written all over him, from his bright beady eyes to his long, thin, dirty fingers, and before Mapperley spoke his employer felt sure that in this son of Israel the clerk had found a valuable associate.
"Hullo, Mapperley!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "Waiting for me? You've some news, I suppose?"
Mapperley, grave and formal, pointed a finger at the Jew.
"Mr. Isidore Goldmark, sir," he said. "Friend of mine. I got him to give me a bit of assistance in this Baseverie and Vivian affair. The fact is, sir, he knows Vivian's—don't you, Issy?"
"Thome!" replied Mr. Goldmark, with a grin.
"And he knows Baseverie, too," continued Mapperley. "By sight, anyhow. So I got him—for a consideration—to watch for Baseverie's next appearance on that scene, and then, when he did come, to keep an eye on him—trick him, in fact. And Issy's seen him to-night, Mr. Hetherwick, and followed him. Then Issy came to me, and I brought him here."
"Good!" said Hetherwick. "Sit down, both of you, and I'll hear about it." He dropped into his own easy chair and again regarding the Jew decided that he was probably a creditable witness. "What do you do at Vivian's?" he asked. "Employed there?"
Mr. Goldmark glanced at Mapperley and smiled knowingly. Mapperley nodded.
"All confidential, Issy," he said reassuringly. "Going no further."
"Of course this is all confidential—and secret," remarked Hetherwick. "I only want to know the precise connection between Vivian's and Mr. Goldmark."
"It'th a thort of themi-official, mithter," answered the Jew. "The fact ith, I do a bit o' commith'on work for Vivian'th cuthtomerth, turf you know. Tho'—I'm in and out of an evening. Thee?"
"I see," said Hetherwick. "All right! And you know Baseverie?"
"Ath well ath I know my own nothe," replied Mr. Goldmark.
"How long have you known him?"
"Thome time."
"Do you know what he is?"
"Aint an idea, mithter—and noboody elthe that I knowth of! Liv'th on hith wit'th, I should thay, if you athk me. Wrong 'un!"
"Nor where he lives?"
"No, mithter! All I knowth ith that he come'th to Vivian'th—now and then."
"And you saw him to-night?"
"I did, mithter—to-night ath ever wath!"
"What time was that?"
"About eight o'clock, mithter—near ath I can fix it."
"Well, what happened?"
"Thith, mithter. He came in about eight, ath I thay. I wath there, doing a bit o' bithneth with another cuthmur. Batheverie, he didn't thtop. He wathn't in the plathe three minuteth, and while he wath in he theemed—to me—to be a bit fidgety—thuthpithious, like. Looked round and about—cautiouth. Then he went—and I followed him. According to inthructionth from Mapperley there."
"Where did he go?"
"Well, mithter, I'll give you the particularth—in full: when I theth out on a job o' that thort I do it proper. He turned out o' Candlethtick Pathage into the Lane, and he had a drink at a bar there. Then he went to Trafalgar Square Tube. I wath clothe behind him when he booked——"
"A moment. Does he know you?"
"May jutht know me by thite, mithter, but not enough to exthite any thuthpithion in hith mind if he thaw me there behind him. I never had no truck with him—never thpoke to him."
"Well, go on. Where did he book to?"
"Warwick Avenue, mithter. Tho did I—of courth. When we got there, I followed him out—at a thafe dithtance. He turned down to the Canal, crothed the bridge, and went down to Thant Mary'th Manthion'th. And there he went in."
Hetherwick glanced at Mapperley. Mapperley permitted himself to wink at his employer—respectfully, but knowingly.
"Went into St. Mary's Mansions, eh?" said Hetherwick. "Walked straight in?"
"Straight in, mithter—front entranth. I thee him, from acroth the road, talking to the man in livery—porter or whatever he hith. I could thee through the glath doorth. Then I thee both of 'em go up in the lift. Tho I waited about a bit, jutht to thee if he'd come out. He did."
"Soon?" asked Hetherwick.
"He wath inthide about ten minuteth. Then he came out. Alone. Thith time he went in t'other direction. I followed him acroth Paddington Green to Edgware Road Tube, and there—well, to tell you the truth, mithter, there I lotht him! There wath a lot o' people about, and I made thure he'd be going thouth. But he mutht ha' gone wetht. Anyway, I lotht him altogether."
"Well—I think you saw enough to be of help," said Hetherwick. "Now—just keep this to yourself, Goldmark." He motioned Mapperley into another room, gave him money for his assistant, and waited until the Jew had gone, shown out by the clerk. "Eleven o'clock!" he remarked, glancing at his watch as Mapperley came back. "Mapperley! we're going out—to St. Mary's Mansions. And after we've been there, and made a call, you'd better come back here with me and take a shake-down for the night—I shall want you in the morning, unless I'm mistaken."
It was one of Mapperley's chief virtues that he was always ready to go anywhere and do anything, and he at once accompanied Hetherwick to the top of Middle Temple Lane, found a taxi-cab within five minutes, and proposed himself to sit up and shakedown that night and the next, if necessary.
"Scent's getting hot, I think, sir," he remarked as they drove off, after bidding the driver carry them to Paddington Green. "Things seem to be coming to a head."
"Yes—but I don't think you know everything," answered Hetherwick. He proceeded to give the clerk an epitomised account of the day's doings as they had related to himself, concluding with Matherfield's theory as expressed after leaving the Green Archer. "You're a smart chap, Mapperley," he added. "What do you think?"
"I see Matherfield's point," answered Mapperley. "I can follow his line. He thinks like this: Hannaford, when he came to London, wanted to get rid, advantageously, of that formula of his about a new ink. He got into touch with Ambrose, whom, of course, he'd known before at Sellithwaite. Ambrose introduced him to some men who deal or dabble in chemicals, of whom one, no doubt, is Baseverie, and who seem to have a laboratory or something of that sort somewhere in the Westminster district. On the night of the murder Ambrose met Hannaford, by appointment, at Victoria, and took him there. Probably, Hannaford left the sealed packet—opened by that time—with these fellows. Probably, too, while there he told them—jokingly, very likely—what he'd discovered, from the picture in the papers, about the identity of Mrs. Whittingham and Madame Listorelle. And now comes in—Granett!"
Hetherwick gave an exclamation that denoted two or three things—surprise, for one.
"Ah!" he said. "Granett! To be sure! I'd forgotten Granett!"
"I hadn't," remarked Mapperley with a cynical laugh. "Granett—and his murder—is an essential factor. What I think is this: We know that Hannaford met Ambrose at Victoria Station that all-important evening. Ambrose, without doubt, took him to the place I hinted at just now—the exact location of which is a mystery. I think Hannaford stopped there until late in the evening. But—I also think he went back again! With—Granett!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "I see!"
"We know," continued Mapperley, "that Granett went that evening to see the chemist who gave information about him; we know, too, that he and the chemist went and had a drink together, and parted at about closing time, Granett then, according to the chemist, going towards Victoria Street. Now I think that Granett then met Hannaford—accidentally. They'd known each other in Sellithwaite. They talked—Granett told Hannaford he was down on his luck. Hannaford, evidently, was a kind-hearted man, and I think he did two things out of kindness for Granett. He gave him that five-pound note——"
"That was got at Vivian's!" interrupted Hetherwick quickly.
"To be sure!" assented Mapperley. "But we know that Hannaford had been at Vivian's—with Baseverie—undoubtedly. Taken there by Baseverie, which makes me certain that for two or three days before his death he'd been in touch with both Baseverie and Ambrose. Hannaford got that fiver in change at Vivian's. And he gave it to Granett, on hearing his story. But he did something else—something that was far more important—that is far more important—to us!"
"What?" asked Hetherwick.
"He turned back to the place he'd just left, and took Granett with him!" answered Mapperley with confidence. "He knew Granett was a trained and qualified chemist; he thought he could get him a job with these men who, presumably, were going to take up his own invention. It would be little more than half-past ten then. Where else than at this place are Hannaford and Granett likely to have been between that time and the time at which they got into your carriage at St. James's Park? Of course they were there—with Ambrose and Baseverie."
"As you put it—highly probable," said Hetherwick. "Two and a half hours—doing what?"
"Ah, now we come to the real thing!" exclaimed Mapperley. "My own belief is that Hannaford was fatally poisoned when he left those two men the first time! They'd two objects in poisoning him—or, to put it another way, he'd entrusted them with two secrets—one about Madame Listorelle; the other about his invention. They wanted to keep both to themselves and to profit by both. The invention, no doubt, has considerable value—Hannaford believed it had, anyway. They thought they could blackmail Madame and her sister, Lady Riversreade. So, before Hannaford left them the first time, they poisoned him—cleverly, subtly, devilishly—knowing that so many hours would elapse before the poison worked, and that by that time he'd be safe in bed at his hotel and would die in his sleep. But—he went back to them again, and took another man with him! So—that man had to die, too!"
Hetherwick thought awhile in silence.
"All very good theory, Mapperley," he said at last. "But—it may be nothing but theory. Why did Granett run off at Charing Cross?"
"Because Granett knew that Ambrose lived in John Street, close by," replied Mapperley with promptitude. "He may have known it before; he may not have known it until that evening. But—he knew it! Most likely he thought that Ambrose had returned home from the place in Westminster: Ambrose may have left there before Hannaford and Granett did. Anyway, we may be reasonably certain that when Granett left you with the dying or dead man, he ran off to Ambrose's flat—a few minutes away."
"Why didn't he come back?" demanded Hetherwick. "I'm only wanting to get at probabilities."
"I've thought of that, too," replied Mapperley. "I think he found Ambrose out. But by that time he'd had time to reflect. He knew something was wrong. He knew that if he went back, he'd find the police there, and would be questioned. He might be suspected. And so—he went home, with the bottle in which Ambrose had given him a drop of whisky for himself. And—died in his sleep, as they thought Hannaford would."
"Why should Ambrose have that bottle down at Westminster?" asked Hetherwick.
"Why shouldn't he?" retorted Mapperley. "A man who's taking a tonic takes it at least three times a day—regularly. He'd have his bottle with him. Probably there are several similar empty bottles there at that place."
"Where is that place?" exclaimed Hetherwick. "Where?"
"Got to be found," said Mapperley, as the cab came to a stand. "But—here's this!"
Hetherwick led his companion across Paddington Green and to the house from which he and Matherfield had watched the flats opposite. Late as it was, the lodging-house keeper was up, and lent a willing ear to Hetherwick's request that he should go with him to his friend the caretaker of the Mansions. That functionary was at supper. He continued to sup as Hetherwick, morally supported by the lodging-house man, explained matters to him, but at last he allowed his cheek to bulge with unswallowed food and turned a surprised and knowing eye on his principal visitor.
"Blamed if I didn't wonder whether it was all O.K. with that chap!" he exclaimed, banging the table with the haft of his knife. "For all he was quite the gentleman, I somehow suspicioned him! And yet, he'd a straight tale to tell: come here on Madame's behalf, to get something for her out of her rooms, had her keys, and give me a note from her saying as how I was to allow the bearer to go up to her flat! What more could I expect—and what could I do—under the circs? I asks yer!"
"Oh, he had a note, had he?" inquired Hetherwick. "In Madame's writing?"
The caretaker laid down his knife, and thrusting his hand in his breast-pocket, drew forth an envelope and silently handed it over. It was an azure-tinted envelope, of a very good quality of paper, such as is only sold in high-class stationery shops, and the sheet inside matched it in tint and quality. But Hetherwick at once noticed something about that sheet; so, too, did Mapperley, peering at it from behind his elbow. About an inch and a half had been rather roughly cut off at the top; obviously some address had been engraved, or embossed, or printed on the missing portion. As for what was written on the sheet, it was little—a simple order that the caretaker should allow bearer to go into Madame Listorelle's flat.
"You recognised that as Madame's handwriting?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Oh, that's her fist, right enough, that is!" replied the caretaker. "I knew it at once. And no wonder! I ain't no scholard, not me!—but I knows enough to know that it 'ud puzzle one o' them here forgers as ye reads about to imitate that there sort o' writing—more like as if it had been done with a wooden skewer than a Christian pen! Oh, that's hers."
Hetherwick handed the letter and envelope to Mapperley, who was holding out a hand.
"Well," he said. "I wish ye'd just let me have a look into Madame's flat. There's something seriously wrong, and——"
"Oh, you can do that—'long as I'm with you," said the caretaker readily. He rose and led the way to the left, and presently ushered them into a smart flat and turned on the electric light. "Don't see nothing wrong here," he observed. "The chap wasn't here ten minutes, and he carried nothing heavy away, whatever he had in his pockets."
Hetherwick and Mapperley looked round. Everything seemed correct and in order—the surroundings were those of a refined and artistic woman, obviously one who loved order and system. But on a desk that stood in the centre of the sitting-room a drawer had been pulled open, and in front of it lay scattered a few sheets of Madame Listorelle's private notepaper, with her engraved address and crest. Near by lay some envelopes, similarly marked. And with a sudden idea in his mind, Hetherwick picked up a sheet or two of the paper and a couple of envelopes and put them in his pocket.
A few minutes later, once more in the cab which they had kept waiting, and on the way to Hill Street, whither Hetherwick had bidden the driver go next, Mapperley turned to his employer with a sly laugh, and held up something in the light of a street lamp by which they were passing.
"What's that?" asked Hetherwick.
"The order written by Madame Listorelle," answered Mapperley, chuckling. "The caretaker didn't notice that I carried it off, envelope and all, under his very eyes! But I did—and here it is!"
"What do you want to do with it?" demanded Hetherwick. "What's your notion?"
But Mapperley only chuckled again and without giving any answer restored the azure-tinted envelope and its contents to his pocket.
Lord Morradale, who kept up honest, country-squire habits even in London, had gone to bed when Hetherwick and Mapperley arrived at his house, but he lost little time in making an appearance, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and listened eagerly to Hetherwick's account of the recent transactions.
"Force!" he muttered, nodding his head at each point of the story. "Force! got it out of her by force. That is, if the order's genuine."
Mapperley produced the sheet of paper, which he had filched under the caretaker's eyes, and silently handed it over.
"Oh, that's Madame Listorelle's handwriting!" exclaimed Lord Morradale. "Hers, without doubt. Difficult to imitate, of course. Oh, yes—hers! Well, that proves what I've just said, Mr. Hetherwick—force! She's in their power—with the young lady, Miss—Miss—Featherstone, to be sure—and they've made her write that. Next, they'll make her write an order on the Imperial Safe Deposit. We must be beforehand with them there. Early—early as possible in the morning. Meet me at Matherfield's—I think he's pretty keen. Bless me! what a pack of villains! Now I wonder where, in all London, these unfortunate ladies are?"
"That's precisely what all this ought to help us to find out," remarked Hetherwick. "I'm not so much concerned about the valuables these men are after as about the safety of——"
Lord Morradale gave him a quick, understanding glance.
"Of Miss Featherstone, eh?" he said. "I see—I see! And I'm concerned, too, about Madame Listorelle. Well, this, as you say, ought to help. But look here—we must be cautious—very cautious! We mustn't let Matherfield—you know what the police are—we mustn't let him be too precipitate. Probably—if a man comes to the safe place, he'll go away from it to where these scoundrels are. We must follow—follow!"
"I agree," said Hetherwick.
"Nine o'clock, then, at Matherfield's," concluded his lordship. "And may we have a strong scent, a rousing one, and a successful kill!"
With this bit of sporting phraseology in their ears, Hetherwick and Mapperley returned to the Middle Temple and retired for the rest of the night, one to bed, the other to a shake-down on the sitting-room sofa. But when Hetherwick's alarum clock awoke him at seven-thirty and he put his head into the next room to rouse the clerk, he found that Mapperley had vanished. The cushions, rugs, and blankets with which he had made himself comfortable for the night were all neatly folded and arranged—on the topmost was pinned a sheet of brief-paper, with a message scrawled in blue pencil.
You won't want me this morning; off on an important notion of my own. Look out for message from me about noon.
M.
Muttering to himself that he hadn't the least idea as to what his clerk was about, Hetherwick made a hurried toilet, and an equally hurried breakfast, and hastened away to meet Matherfield and Lord Morradale. He found these two together, and with them a quiet, solemn-faced individual, clad in unusually sombre garments, whom Matherfield introduced as Detective-Sergeant Quigman. Matherfield went straight to business.
"His lordship's just told me of your adventure last night, Mr. Hetherwick," he said, "and I'm beginning to get a sort of forecast of what's likely to happen. It was, of course, Baseverie who went to madame's flat last night—that's settled. But what do you suppose he went for?"
"Can't say that I've worked that out," answered Hetherwick, with a glance at the others. "But I imagine that he went there to get, say, certain keys—having forced Madame Listorelle to tell him where they were. The keys of her safe at the Deposit place, I should think."
"No!" replied Matherfield, shaking his head knowingly, and with a sly smile at Quigman. "No, not that. I'll tell you what he went for—a very simple thing. He went to get some of Madame's private notepaper! He knew well enough that if he was to take an order on that Safe Deposit to allow the bearer access to Madame's safe it would have to be what the French, I believe, callen régle—eh? Written on her own notepaper in her own handwriting, and so on. See?"
"I think you're right, and I think he got it," said Hetherwick. "A drawer in her desk containing boxes of stationery had been pulled out, and some of its contents lay about the desk. As a matter of fact, though I scarcely know why I did it, I put some paper and some envelopes in my pocket—here they are! I had a faint idea that they might be useful—somehow."
"Well, that's the notion, depend on it," asserted Matherfield, glancing at the paper which Hetherwick produced. "I've no doubt that somebody, representing Madame Listorelle, and bearing an authorization from her, written on her notepaper in her own writing, will present himself at the Imperial Safe Deposit this morning. But—it won't be Baseverie! And it won't be Ambrose!"
"A stranger, eh?" suggested Hetherwick.
"We shall see. Now," continued Matherfield, glancing at the clock, "we'll be off to the scene of operations. This Imperial Safe Deposit is in Kingsway—Holborn end—and very fortunately situated for our job, being close to the Tube station; there'll be lots of people about there, and we shan't attract attention. And this is the way of it—his lordship and myself will go into the Safe Deposit, see the people in charge, explain matters, and get them to tell us at once if and when the expected ambassador arrives. We shall let him——"
"Or her," interrupted Quigman solemnly.
"Just so, my lad—it might be a she," assented Matherfield. "Quite likely! We shall let him or her get what is wanted from the safe and go away, closely followed by all four of us. While Lord Morradale and I are inside, you and Quigman, Mr. Hetherwick, will be outside, talking, casually. When we come out—and you'll both keep a sharp watch on the entrance hall—I'll give you the office as to the particular person we're following, and wherever that person goes, you two will go. But don't come near us—we'll keep one side of the street, you the other. If the person takes to a cab or a bus—well, we'll have to do the same. But I've reasons for thinking he or she will stick to his feet!"
"How do we go?—all together?" asked Hetherwick. "Because—it's a mere idea—how do you know, Matherfield, that these people—there would appear to be more than one concerned—aren't keeping an eye on you?"
"I've thought of that," answered Matherfield. "No—we're all going separately. It's now nine-fifteen. That Imperial Safe Deposit doesn't open its doors till ten—nobody can get in there until that time, anyway. We all four go out of this office on our own hook. Each takes his own method of getting to the top of Kingsway. As soon as I get there, I go straight in and ask for the manager. As soon as Lord Morradale gets there, he follows suit—he and I forgather in the manager's room. As for you two, go how you like—fly, if it suits you—or wander round the side streets. But—you meet right opposite the Safe Deposit entrance at precisely ten o'clock, and under pretence of casual meeting and conversation keep your eyes on it, noticing everybody who goes in and comes out. That clear? Then we all clear out—one by one."
Outside, and left to his own devices, Hetherwick walked a little way and then hailed a taxi-cab. He gave his driver a confidential smile.
"You can just help me to employ forty minutes," he said, as he got in. "Drive round—anywhere you like—up and down—as long as you put me down at the corner of the Holborn Restaurant at precisely two minutes to ten. Got that?"
The driver comprehended, and began a leisurely journey round certain principal streets and thoroughfares. Two minutes before ten he pulled up at the Holborn-Kingsway corner and gave his fare a grin.
"Done it to the second, sir," he announced, nodding at an adjacent clock.
"Good man!" said Hetherwick, handing out something over the registered fare. Then an idea struck him. "Look here!" he continued confidentially. "I—and another man—may have to follow somebody from here, presently. Just drive down the street here, keep your flag down, and wait—if I want you, I shall be close at hand."
The driver showed his understanding by a nod and a wink and moved a little distance off to the kerbstone. Hetherwick walked slowly down the west side of Kingsway. And precisely as the clock struck ten he saw Lord Morradale come from one direction and enter the formidable-looking and just opened door of the Safe Deposit, and Matherfield appear from the other: looking round again he was aware of the solemn-faced Quigman who sauntered round the corner of Parker Street and came towards him. Hetherwick went on to meet him.
"There you are!" he said, doing a little acting in case any inimical eyes were on him. "To the minute! We'd better appear to be doing a bit of talk, eh? The others have just gone in."
"I saw 'em, sir," replied Quigman, coming to a halt on the kerb, and affecting an interest in anything rather than on what he was really working. "Ah! But the question is—when will they come out? Might be in a few minutes—so to speak. Mightn't be for hours—as it were!"
"You seem to be a melancholy chap," observed Hetherwick.
"Melancholy job!" muttered Quigman. "Watching isn't my line. But Matherfield—he particularly wanted me to be in at this."
"Why?" asked Hetherwick.
"Peculiar knowledge of solicitors and their clerks in this part o' London," replied Quigman. "My line. Matherfield, he's an idea that the order to open this safe'll be presented by a solicitor."
"Good Lord!—has he?" exclaimed Hetherwick. "I wonder! But—"
"Big help to these chaps, don't you see, if they can make a solicitor do the cat's-paw work," suggested Quigman. "Who'd suspect a solicitor of the High Court? And as I know pretty nearly all of 'em—there's one I know now coming up t'other side of the street," he continued suddenly. "That tallish, thin, pale-faced chap—see him? Look at him without seeming to look. Now I wonder if he's the party we want?"
Hetherwick looked in the direction indicated. He saw a youngish, spectacled man in a silk hat, morning coat, and the corresponding additions of professional attire, who was walking rapidly along from South to north. He was a very mild, gentle-looking person, not at all the sort to be concerned in dark plots and mysterious aims, and Hetherwick said so.
"Aye, well, you never know!" remarked Quigman lugubriously. "But, as I say, I know him. Mr. Garrowell—Mr. Octavius Garrowell—solicitor, of St. Martin's Lane, that is. Been in practice for himself about four years or so. Nice young feller!—quiet. And he is going in there—see?"
Hetherwick saw. There were several people, men and women, entering the Safe Deposit just then, but Mr. Garrowell's silk hat and sloping shoulders made him easily identifiable.
"I dessay it's him!" observed Quigman, with a sigh. "Just the sort to be took in, he is! Innocent, unsuspecting sort o' gentleman. However—it mayn't be. Deal o' people use these Safe Deposits nowadays."
Mr. Garrowell disappeared. The two watchers waited. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by; then Mr. Garrowell came out. He came out just as any man would come out after transacting his business, quietly. Nobody followed him: nobody seemed to be watching him—from the Safe Deposit. But Hetherwick noticed at once that whereas he had entered carrying nothing but an umbrella, he now carried a small, square, leather-covered box. With this in his left hand he crossed the roadway, and advanced straight towards Hetherwick and Quigman.
"No need to move, sir," whispered the detective. "Take no notice—spot him, though."
Mr. Garrowell, seen at close quarters, looked to be a somewhat absent-minded gentleman. But, chancing to look up as he stepped on the pavement, his eyes encountered Quigman, who touched his hat.
"Morning, Mr. Garrowell," said the detective. "Nice morning, sir."
"Morning, Quigman," responded Mr. Garrowell. "A very nice morning!"
He nodded smilingly and went on his way, and round the corner into Parker Street. Quigman glanced at Hetherwick and shook his head.
"Not him!" he said. "Matherfield's not following. And, as I said, we may have to wait—hours!"
But at the end of another ten minutes Matherfield and Lord Morradale came together out of the entrance hall opposite. An official, smiling and talking, accompanied them to the threshold; when they left him they came straight across the road. And it was obvious to Hetherwick that each was in a state of surprise—possibly, of perplexity. Matherfield hailed them as soon as he was within speaking distance.
"Here's a queer business!" he said. "Did you see a professional-looking chap come away just now who carried a small leather box?"
"We saw Mr. Garrowell, solicitor, St. Martin's Lane," answered Quigman. "I know him. Gone down Parker Street."
"It was Garrowell," assented Matherfield. "I know him, too. Well," he turned to Hetherwick, "it's a queer business. They knew Garrowell across there—he's been to Madame Listorelle's safe for her before. He came there just now, with the usual authorisation, on her notepaper, went to the safe, got that small box, and went. Garrowell—a highly—respectable legal practitioner!"
"Why didn't you stop him and ask him questions?" inquired Hetherwick.
Matherfield exchanged a glance with Lord Morradale.
"Not there!" he said. "It—well, it looks as if Madame really had sent him! Her business."
"Of course she'd sent him!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "Sent him under compulsion! The whole thing's a clever plant! These fellows probably know that she's employed Garrowell now and then, and they forced her to write a letter to him, authorising him to come here again, and enclosing an order on the Safe Deposit people! Don't you see?"
"By Gad, there's something in that, Matherfield!" said Lord Morradale. "Didn't strike me, though! 'Pon my honour, I really thought he had come direct from her. Couldn't think why, exactly, but then, as Matherfield says, a highly-respectable solicitor—eh?"
"We'll soon settle it!" exclaimed Matherfield suddenly. "We'll go to Garrowell's office. Better discuss it there than have tackled him here. Anyway, he'll have the square box. Quigman, call a taxi!"
"There's a man here waiting for me," said Hetherwick. He signalled to his former driver who quickly came alongside. "For anything we know," he continued, as all four took their seats, and were driven off, "Garrowell may have gone straight away somewhere to hand that box over! We ought to have followed."
"I don't think so," replied Matherfield. "The whole thing's queer, and not at all what I expected. Lord Morradale says that he never heard of madame employing Garrowell, and yet the Safe people say he's been here two or three times on her business. But we'll soon have it out of him."
Garrowell's office proved to be up two flights of stairs in St. Martin's Lane. They were dark and dingy stairs, and none of the four men clambering up them noticed that an office-boy, rushing unceremoniously downward carried a small parcel with which he fled out of the door and away down the street. They were, indeed, thinking of Garrowell—and within five minutes they were all in his private room. For another five minutes Matherfield was explaining matters—explaining to an obviously startled and much astonished listener.
"That's how it stands," concluded Matherfield. "You've evidently got the explanation, Mr. Garrowell. Now——"
"But you surprise me!" broke in the solicitor. "I've acted for Madame Listorelle in two or three matters—I've got things from her safe for her before, once or twice. And I saw nothing unusual in the letter she sent me this morning. Here it is! You can see it. Her usual notepaper—certainly her handwriting—nobody, I think, could imitate that successfully. You see what she says—I was to give the enclosed authorisation to the Safe people, take out a small, square, brown-leather-covered box from the safe, pack it up, and send it off to Mr. C. Basing, Post Office, Southampton, at once, by express delivery. Nothing unusual in all that, I think. Of course, I carried out her wishes. But look at the letter."
All four men were looking at the letter. It was as Garrowell described, and whether it had been written under duress or not, the writing was bold and firm. But Matherfield seized on the envelope, and after a glance at it, pointed to the postmark.
"See that!" he exclaimed. "Posted in the S.W. district late last night. If madame had been at home in Paddington the postmark would have been different. Well—but the square box, Mr. Garrowell! You've got it, of course? Do you know that that box probably contains jewels worth——"
"The box?" ejaculated Garrowell. "Got it? Of course not! It's gone! The boy went off to the post office with it—oh, just before you came."
"Gad!" muttered Lord Morradale. "Well—the post office, at once, Matherfield!"
But Matherfield suddenly laughed, throwing up both hands as if with a sudden inspiration.
"No, my lord, no!" he said. "No! The box is safe enough in the post. It's off to Mr. C. Basing, Post Office, Southampton. And when Mr. Basing calls to collect it—he'll find me!"
There was triumphant conviction in Matherfield's tone: there was the impulse to immediate action in the way in which he pulled out a railway guide from his pocket, and rapidly turned its pages. But Hetherwick and Lord Morradale looked at each other. And each saw that the other was dubious.
"Yes," said Lord Morradale slowly. "Um—no doubt, Matherfield. But I say, you know—those jewels are worth no end! Safe enough, perhaps, in the hands of the postal authorities, now they are there, but—there's many a slip, you know, and——"
"You might take the postal authorities into your confidence," suggested Hetherwick. "These people are up to all sorts of wily tricks——"
Matherfield laughed quietly. It was the laugh of a man who knows his own business thoroughly, and is a little impatient of outside criticism.
"I know what I'm doing, gentlemen," he answered. "Leave it to me as to what I do with the post office people. I've as good as got the handcuffs on Baseverie or on Ambrose—perhaps on both! This is how I figure the thing," he went on, with a final glance at the time-table. "These two men have got Madame Listorelle and the young lady-secretary in their power, safe somewhere in London. They forced madame, last night, to write that letter to Mr. Garrowell here—we know what they made her write. Mr. Garrowell got the small box containing the jewels, and he's sent it off, already, by express delivery, to Southampton. It will be there early this evening, and one or other of the men will be there to meet it. If Baseverie calls for it, Ambrose will be round the corner. If Ambrose calls for it, Baseverie will be close at hand. Probably they're already in Southampton—they'd go this morning, to be on the spot. As soon as the box is in their hands they'll be off—probably to the Continent, by Southampton and Havre. They won't try the Atlantic—the five days' voyage would be too risky. They'll make for France. But they won't get to France—they'll find themselves in the lock-up at Southampton before bed-time! You see if that doesn't come off, gentlemen, as sure as my name's what it is. Now, Quigman, you come with me. We've just nice time to catch the one-thirty, and to get in touch with the Southampton police, and lay our plans and make our arrangements. Some time to-night, gentlemen, you'll hear from me!"
Then Matherfield hurried Quigman away, and the three men left behind looked at each other. Mr. Garrowell was obviously much concerned, and his hands, thin and nervous, trembled as he began to arrange the papers on his desk.
"This is a most distressing business, gentlemen," he said. "It is very painful to me to think that I have been made an instrument in a crime of this sort, however innocent a one! But how could I tell that this letter was forced out of Madame Listorelle? On the face of it——"
"Oh, there's no blame attaching to you, Mr. Garrowell!" interrupted Lord Morradale. "On the face of it, the letter's genuine enough. But I wanted to ask you a question: How much do you know of Madame Listorelle? I mean, how often has she employed you?"
"Two or three times only," replied Garrowell. "She came to me first about an agreement which I had had to send her on behalf of another client. She seemed very friendly, and was kind enough to say that next time she had any legal business she would remember me as she hadn't any regular solicitor of her own. I think," he added with a deprecating smile, "she probably saw that I was beginning, and hadn't much to do."
"I see," said Lord Morradale, looking round at the somewhat humble appointments of the office. "And you've been to that Safe Deposit place on her behalf—how often?"
"Twice. On each occasion Madame Listorelle wrote her instructions from abroad. Once she was in Paris. The other time she was at Nice. The instructions were similar on both occasions: I was to go to the Safe Deposit, get a certain parcel or article and post it to an address given. The first time I sent a small parcel to Amsterdam—I have the exact address and name; the second, to New York. So that, of course, when I got Madame's letter this morning, I saw nothing unusual in it."
"Just so!" agreed Lord Morradale. "You wouldn't. Well, I hope Matherfield will clap the irons on the men who forced her to write it! Eh, Hetherwick?"
"With all my heart!" responded Hetherwick "But I, too, want to ask Mr. Garrowell a question. How long," he continued, "have you been here, in St. Martin's Lane?"
"Oh, four or five years," replied Garrowell.
"Then you know this district pretty well, of course. Have you ever come across a man whom I'll try to describe to you?" He went on to give an accurate, if concise, description of Baseverie. "That man," he concluded, "is sometimes seen around here."
Garrowell nodded.
"I know him!" he said. "In fact, he's been in this very room—to see me. But I don't know his name, nor anything much about him. He was brought here by another man and he only stayed a few minutes."
"How much do you know about him—however little?" asked Hetherwick.
"This much. You know that people who have invented things come to solicitors for legal advice, and sometimes to get information as to how they can best dispose of their inventions? Well, about nine months ago a man came to me who claimed to have invented a drop-bottle—that is, a bottle from which you could only drop one drop of stuff at a time. He said such a thing was badly wanted, and that there ought to be a pile of money in it. He wanted to know how best to get it on the market. I didn't know, but I mentioned the matter to one or two people, and a man I know—or knew at that time, for he's since dead, unfortunately—said that he knew a man who was a sort of commission agent for inventions—took up a good idea, don't you see, and introduced it—and he promised to bring him to see me. He brought him; the man he brought was, without doubt, the man you describe. His name was not mentioned, but I am sure he was that man. I don't know what your man is, but I felt sure that the man I am talking about either was or had been a medical man."
"Ah!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "What made you think that?"
"From his conversation—from the remarks he made about the bottle. He didn't take it up; he said my client was too late and was wrongly informed into the bargain: there was such a thing, and a superior one, already on the market. He went away then, and, as I say, I never heard his name, and I've never seen him since."
"That's the man we want!" said Hetherwick. "If Matherfield can only lay hands on him! But we shall know more by midnight."
Outside, he turned to Lord Morradale with a shake of the head.
"We're no nearer to any knowledge of where the two women are!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, I don't know!" responded Lord Morradale. "I think we are, you know. You see, if Matherfield nabs those chaps, or even one of them, he or they will see that the game's up, and will give in and say where their captives are. Odd business, Hetherwick, that people can be kidnapped and imprisoned in broad daylight in London!"
"I don't think anything's impossible or odd—in London," answered Hetherwick dryly. "If one had only the least idea as to which quarter of the town that car was driven, one might be doing something!"
"Lots of sub-sections in every quarter, and subsections again in each of those," replied Lord Morradale with equal dryness. "Take some time to comb out this town! No! I think we must trust to Matherfield. Nothing else to trust to, in fact."
But Hetherwick suddenly thought of Mapperley. He began to wonder what the clerk was after, what his notion had been. Then he remembered Mapperley's admonition to look out for a message about that time, and excusing himself from Lord Morradale, he jumped on a bus and went along to the Temple. There, in the letter-box, he found a telegram:
"Meet me Victoria three o'clock. Mapperley."