Hetherwick set off for Victoria there and then. But it was only a quarter-past two when he got there, and as he had had no lunch, he turned into the restaurant. There, when he was half-way through a chop, Mapperley found him, and slipped into a chair close by before Hetherwick noticed his presence.
"Thought I might find you in here, sir," said Mapperley. They were alone in a quiet corner, but the clerk lowered his voice to a whisper. "Well," he continued, bending across the table, "I've done a bit, anyhow."
"In what way?" asked Hetherwick.
Mapperley produced from his breast pocket some papers, and from amongst them selected an envelope—the azure-tinted envelope which he had picked up from the caretaker's supper table at St. Mary's Mansions.
"You recognise this?" he said, with a sly smile. "You know where I got it. This is the envelope which Baseverie took to the caretaker, with the order to enter Madame Listorelle's flat. You knew that I carried it off, from under the man's nose, last night. But you didn't know why. I only laughed when you asked me."
"Well, why, then?" inquired Hetherwick.
"This reason," replied Mapperley. "We both noticed that the sheet of paper on which the order had been written by Madame had been shortened—there was no doubt that a printed or embossed address had been trimmed off, rather roughly, too. We noticed that, I say, both of us. But I don't think you noticed something far more important—far, far more important—for our purposes."
"No," admitted Hetherwick. "I didn't. What?"
"This," said Mapperley, turning back the broken flap of the envelope. "You didn't notice that here, on the envelope, is the name and address of the stationer who supplied this stuff! There you are—W. H. Calkin, 85, Broadway, Westminster. You never saw that, Mr. Hetherwick. But I did!"
Hetherwick began to comprehend. He smiled—gratefully.
"Smart of you, Mapperley!" he exclaimed. "I see! And—you've been there?"
"I've been there," answered Mapperley. "I saw a chance of tracking these men down. I couldn't get hold of Calkin till nearly noon, but I got on like a house afire when I did get him. You see," he went on, "that paper is, to start with, of an unusual tint, in colour. Secondly, it's of very superior quality, though very thin—intended chiefly for foreign correspondence. Thirdly, it's expensive. Now, I felt certain its use would be limited, and what I wanted to find out from the stationer was—to whom he'd supplied it. That was easy. He recognised the paper and envelope at once. Of the handwriting on the paper, he knew nothing whatever—Madame's writing, you know—that he'd never seen before. But he said at once that he'd only supplied that particular make of paper and envelopes to three people, and for each person he'd prepared a die, to emboss the addresses. The embossing had been done at his shop, and he showed me specimens of each. One was for the Dowager Lady Markentree, 120, Grosvenor Gardens. That was no use. The second was for Miss Chelandry, 87, Ebury Street. That was out of count, too. But the third was what I wanted. It was just the address, 56, Little Smith Street, S.W.1. As soon as I saw it, I knew I'd got on the right track."
"Go on!" said Hetherwick.
"The stationer, Calkin, didn't know the name of the man who ordered this paper and gave this address," continued Mapperley. "He knew him well enough as a customer, though, and described him. Baseverie, without a doubt! Calkin says that Baseverie, during the last few months, bought various items of stationery from him—notebooks, duplicating paper, office requisites, and so on. He never knew his name, but as he always carried away his own purchases, and paid spot cash for them, that didn't matter. Calkin supplied him with ten quires of this paper and envelopes to match, a couple of months ago. So—there you are! And there I was—sure at last that Baseverie's mysterious hiding-place was 56, Little Smith Street!"
"Good—good!" said Hetherwick. "What next?"
"Well, I thought we could do with a bit of help," replied Mapperley, smiling. "So I left Calkin—bound to secrecy, of course—and telephoned to Issy Goldmark. Issy is just the sort of chap for games of this sort! Issy came—and he and I took a stroll round. Do you know Little Smith Street?"
"Not I!" answered Hetherwick. "Never heard of it!"
"Oh, well, but it is a street," said Mapperley. "It lies between Great Smith Street and Tufton Street, back o' the Church House—not so far from the Abbey. Bit slummy down those quarters, round about—sort of district that's seen decidedly better days. Still, there's good, solid houses here and there—56 is one of 'em. From outside, it looks the sort of house you can't get into—dark, silent, heavily-curtained windows—sort of place in which you could murder anybody on the quiet. Very substantial front door, painted dark green, with an old-fashioned brass knocker—that sort of house. We took a good look at it."
"See anything?" asked Hetherwick.
"Nothing but what I've told you—lifeless sort o' place," answered Mapperley. "However, having once seen it, I wasn't going to leave it unwatched, so I posted Issy there, in the window of a convenient public-house, and came away to telegraph to you. And there Issy is—either in his pub, or loafing round. And now we ought to go and hear if he's anything to report. And if he hasn't—what then?"
"Just so," said Hetherwick. "That's it—what then? But before we do anything at all, Mapperley, I'd better post you up as to what's happened elsewhere this morning. You see," he continued, when he had finished his story, "if Matherfield's theory is correct, and Baseverie has already gone to Southampton to collect that parcel on its arrival, and if Ambrose has gone with him, we shan't find Baseverie at this address. But—we might inquire if he's known there."
Mapperley reflected a while. Then an idea seemed to suggest itself.
"Pay your bill, sir, and let's get out to a Post Office Directory somewhere," he said. "We'll get the name of the occupier of 56, Little Smith Street."
Ten minutes later they were looking down the long columns of names in a directory; Mapperley suddenly pointed to what they wanted.
"There we are!" he said. "Mrs. Hannah Mallett—boarding-house proprietor."
"Come along!" said Hetherwick. "We'll see Mrs. Mallett, anyhow."
But on arrival at Little Smith Street, Mapperley looked round first, for his friend, Mr. Goldmark. Mr. Goldmark materialised suddenly—apparently from nowhere—and smiled.
"Afternoon, mithter!" he said politely to Hetherwick. "Lovely weather, ithn't it? Ain't theen nothing, Mapperley, old bean! Ain't been a thoul in or out o' that houth, thinth you hopped it! Theemth to me it'th locked up."
"We'll see about that," remarked Hetherwick. "Come with me, Mapperley. You stay here. Goldmark, and keep your eyes as open as before."
He advanced boldly, with the clerk at his heels, to the door of number 56, and knocked loudly on the stout panel, supplementing this with a ring at the bell. This dual summons was twice repeated—with no result.
"Somebody coming!" whispered Mapperley, suddenly. "Bolted—inside—as well as locked!"
Hetherwick distinctly heard the sound of a stout bolt being withdrawn, then of a key being turned. The door was opened—only a little, but sufficiently to show them the face and figure of an unusually big woman, an Amazon in appearance, hard of eye and lip, who glared at them suspiciously, and as soon as she saw that there were two of them, narrowed the space through which she inspected her callers. But Hetherwick got a hand on the door and a foot across the threshold.
"Mrs. Mallett?" he inquired in a purposely loud voice. "Just so! Is Doctor Baseverie in?"
Both men were watching the woman keenly, and they saw that she started a little, involuntarily. But her head shook a ready negative.
"Nobody of that name here!" she answered.
She would have shut the door, but for Hetherwick's foot—he advanced it further, giving Mrs. Mallett a keen, searching glance.
"Perhaps you know Dr. Baseverie by another name?" he suggested. "So—is Mr. Basing in?"
But the ready shake of the head came again, and the hard eyes grew harder and more suspicious.
"Nobody of that name here, either!" she said. "Don't know anybody of those names."
"I think you do," persisted Hetherwick sternly. He turned to Mapperley, purposely. "We shall have to get the police——"
"Look out, sir!" exclaimed Mapperley, snatching at Hetherwick's arm. "Your fingers!"
The woman suddenly banged the door to, narrowly missing Hetherwick's hand, which he had closed on the edge; a second later they heard the bolt slipped and the key turned. And Hetherwick, as with a swift illumination, comprehended things, and turned sharply on his clerk.
"Mapperley!" he exclaimed. "Sure as fate! Those ladies are in there! Trapped!"
"Shouldn't wonder, sir," agreed Mapperley. "And as you say—the police——"
"Come back to Goldmark," said Hetherwick.
Going lower down the street and retreating into the shelter of a doorway, the three men held a rapid consultation, suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the Jew, who still kept his eyes on the house:
"Th'elp me if the woman ain't leavin' that houth!" he said. "Thee! the—thee ith! Lockin' the door behind her, too! Goin' up the thtreet!"
Hetherwick looked and saw, and pushed Goldmark out of the doorway.
"Follow!" he said. "And for God's sake, don't miss her!"
The Jew silently and promptly set out in the wake of the hurrying woman; presently she and her pursuer disappeared round a corner.
"That's the result of our call, Mapperley!" said Hetherwick. "She's gone somewhere—to tell somebody!"
"Likely!" assented Mapperley. "But wherever she's gone, Issy Goldmark'll spot her. He's the eyes of a lynx."
"He let Baseverie slip him, the other night, though," remarked Hetherwick.
"Well, there was some excuse for that," said Mapperley, "to begin with, he was only instructed to find out where Baseverie went, and to end with he had found out! He'll not let this woman slip him. She's good to follow—plenty of her."
"I wish we knew what she'd left in that house," said Hetherwick. "We'll have to find out, somehow!"
"That's a police job," replied Mapperley. "Can't walk into people's houses without a warrant. And you say Matherfield's on the other track? However, I should say that this woman's gone off now to find somebody who's principally concerned—she looked afraid, in my opinion, when she saw me."
"She's in it, somehow," muttered Hetherwick.
"That house looks mysterious enough for anything. We'll keep a close watch on it, anyway, until Goldmark comes back, however long that may be."
But the Jew was back within twenty minutes. So was the woman. She came first, hurrying up the street quicker than when she had left it. As far as the watchers could make out from their vantage point, twenty yards away from her door, she looked flustered, distressed, upset. After her, on the opposite pavement, came Mr. Issy Goldmark, his hands in his pockets.
The woman re-entered the house; they heard the door bang. A moment later the Jew turned into the entry in which Hetherwick and Mapperley stood, half hidden from the street. He smiled, inscrutably.
"Thee her go back to her houth?" he asked. "Well, I followed. I thaw where thee'th been, too."
"Where, then?" demanded Hetherwick, impatiently.
Goldmark jerked his head in the direction from whence he had come.
"Round that corner," he said, "you get into a regular thlum. Little thtreeth, alleyth, pathageth, and tho on. In one of 'em, a narrow plathe, where there'th a thort of open-air market, there'th a good thithed pieth of blank wall, with an iron-fathen'd door in it. Well, the woman went in there—let herthelf in with a key that thee took from her pocket. Ath thoon ath thee'd gone in, I took a clother look. The door'th fathen'd with iron, or thteel, ath I thaid—jolly thtrong. There ain't no name on it, and no keyhole that you can look through. The wall'th a good nine or ten feet high, and it'th covered with broken glath at the top. Not a nithe plathe to get into, nohow!"
"Well?" inquired Hetherwick. "She went in?"
"Went in, ath I thay, mithter, and the door clothed on her. After I'd taken a glimpth at the door I got a potht behind one of the thtalls in the thtreet and watched. She came out again in about ten minitth—looked to me, too, ath if thee hadn't had a very plethant time inthide. Upthet! And thee thet off back here, fathter than vhat thee came. Now thee'th gone into her houth again—ath you no doubt thaw. And that'th all. But if I wath you, mithter," concluded Issy, "I should jutht find out vhat there ith behind that door and the wall it'th thet in—I thhould tho!"
"That's a police job," said Mapperley once more. "If we'd only got Matherfield with us, we could——" Hetherwick paused—thinking. "Look here, Mapperley," he continued, with a sudden inspiration. "I know what we'll do! You get a taxi-cab, as quickly as possible. Drive to the police station where I usually meet Matherfield. There's another man there whom I know, and who's pretty well up in this business—Detective-Sergeant Robmore. Ask for him. Tell him what we've discovered, and ask him to come back with you and to bring another man if he thinks it necessary. Now then, Goldmark! Tell Mapperley exactly where this place is."
The Jew pointed along the street to its first corner.
"Round that corner," he said. "Firtht turning to the right; then firtht to the left; then firtht to the right—that'th the thpot. Lot'th o' little thtallth in it—a bithy, crowded plathe."
"Didn't ye notice the name?" demanded Mapperley, half scoldingly.
"To be thure I did!" grinned Goldmark. "Pencove Thtreet. But it'th better to dethcribe it than to name it. And don't you go tellin' no tackthy-driver to drive you in there!—cauth' there ain't room!"
Mapperley gave no answer to this piece of advice; he shot off in the direction of Victoria Street, and Hetherwick turned to the Jew.
"We'll go and have another look at this place, Goldmark," he said. "But we'll go separately—as long as we're in this street, anyway. You stroll off to that first corner, and I'll join you."
He crossed the street when the Jew had lounged away, and once more took a narrow look at the house into which the big woman had vanished. It was as close barred and curtained as ever; a veritable place of mystery. For a moment Hetherwick doubted whether he ought to leave it unwatched. But the descriptions of the wall and door in Pencove Street had excited his imagination, and he went on, turned the corner, and rejoined Goldmark. Goldmark at once went in front, piloting him into a maze of unusually dirty and crowded streets, and finally into one, narrower than the rest, on each side of which were tent-like stalls whereon all manner of cheap wares were being offered for sale by raucous-voiced vendors. He saw at once that this was one of those open-air markets of which there are many in the poorer neighbourhoods of London, and wherein you can buy a sixpenny frying-pan as readily as a paper of fried fish, and a gay neckerchief alongside a damaged orange.
Threading his way behind Issy, and between the thronged stalls and the miserable shops that lined the pavement, Hetherwick presently came to the piece of blank wall of which the Jew had told him. The houses and shops round about were old and dilapidated, but the wall was either modern or had been rebuilt and strengthened. It stretched between two low houses, one used as a grocer's, the other as a hardware shop. In length, it was some thirty feet; in height, quite ten; its coping, as Goldmark had said, was liberally embattled with broken glass. The door, set flush with the adjoining masonry, was a solid affair, faced with metal, newly painted, and the lock was evidently a patent one. A significant fact struck Hetherwick at once—there was no sign of a bell and none of a knocker.
"You say the woman let herself in here?" he asked, as he and Issy paused.
"That'th it, mithter Hetherwick—let herthelf in," replied Issy. "I thee her take the key from her pocket."
Hetherwick glanced at the top of the wall.
"I wonder what's behind?" he muttered. "Building of some sort, of course." He turned to a man whose stall stood just in front of the mysterious door, and who at that moment had no trade. "Do you know anything about this place?" he asked. "Do you know what's behind this wall? What building it is?"
The stall-keeper eyed Hetherwick over, silently and carefully. Deciding that he was an innocent person and not a policeman in plain clothes, he found his tongue.
"I don't, guv'nor!" he answered. "'Aint a bloomin' notion! I been comin' here, or hereabouts, this three year or more, but I 'aint never seen behind that wall, nor in at that there doorway. S'elp me!"
"But I suppose you've seen people go in and come out of the door?" suggested Hetherwick. "It must be used for something!"
"I reckon it is, guv'nor, but I don't call nobody to mind, though, to be sure, I see a woman come out of it a while ago—big, heavy-jawed woman, she was. But queer as it may seem, I don't call to mind ever seeing anybody else. You see, guv'nor, I comes here at about ten o'clock of a morning, and I packs up and 'ops it at five—if there's folks comes in and out o' that spot, it must be early in a morning and late at night, and so I shouldn't see 'em. But it's my belief this here wall and door is back premises to something—the front o' the place'll be on the other side."
"That's a good idea," said Hetherwick, with a glance at Goldmark. "Let's go round."
But there was no going round. Although they tried various alleys and passages and streets that ought to have been parallel to Pencove Street, they failed to find any place that could be a frontage to the mysterious wall and its close-set door. But the Jew's alert faculties asserted themselves.
"We can thee vhat'th behind that vail, mithter, eathy enough if we get one o' them thop-keeperth oppothit to let uth go upthtairth to hith firtht floor," he said. "Look right acroth the thtreet there, thtallth and all, into vhatever there ith. Try that one," he went on, pointing to a greengrocer's establishment which faced the close-set door. "Tell him we're doin' a bit o' land thurveyin'—which ith thtrue!"
Hetherwick made his request—the greengrocer's lady showed him and Goldmark upstairs into a bow-windowed parlour, one of those dismal apartments which are only used on Sundays, for the purpose of adding more gloom to a gloomy day. She observed that there was a nice view both ways of the street, but Hetherwick confined his inspection to the front. He saw across the wall easily enough, now. There was little to see. The wall bounded a yard, bounded on its left and right sides by the walls of the adjoining houses, and at its further extremity by a low, squat building of red brick, erected against the rear of a high, windowless wall beyond. From its mere aspect, it was impossible to tell what this squat, flat-roofed structure was used for. Its door—closed—was visible; visible, too, were the windows on either side. But it was easy to see that they were obscured, as to their lower halves, by coats of dark paint. There was no sign over the building; no outward indication of its purpose. In the yard, however, were crates, boxes, and carboys in wicker cases; a curiously-shaped chimney, projecting from the roof above, suggested the presence of a furnace or forge beneath. And Hetherwick, after another look, felt no doubt that he was gazing at the place to which Hannaford had been taken, and where he had been skilfully poisoned.
Goldmark suddenly nudged his arm, and nodded at the crowded street below.
"Mapperley!" he whispered. "And two men with him!"
Hetherwick, glancing in the direction indicated, saw Robmore and another man, both in plain clothes, making their way down the street, between the stalls and the shops. With them, and in close conversation, was a uniformed constable. He turned to leave the room, but Goldmark again touched his elbow.
"Before we go, mithter," he said, "jutht take another glanth at that plathe oppothite, and it'ths thurroundin'th. I thee where we can get in! D'ye thee, mithter Hetherwick, the wall between that yard and the next houth—the right-hand thide one—'ith fairly low at the far end. Now, if the man in that houth would let uth go through to hith back-yard—vhat?"
"I see!" agreed Hetherwick. "We'll try it. But Robmore first—come along."
He slipped some silver into the hand of the green-grocer's lady, and went down to the street. A few brief explanations to the two detectives supplemented the information already given them by Mapperley, and then Robmore nodded at the constable who stood by, eagerly interested.
"We've been talking to him, Mr. Hetherwick," he said. "He's sometimes on day duty here, and sometimes he's on night. He says he's often wondered about this place, and it's a very queer thing that though he's known this district more than a year, he's never seen a soul go in or out of that door, and hasn't the least notion of what business, if it is a business, is carried on there!"
"Never seen anything or anybody!" corroborated the constable. "At any time—day or night. When I first came on this beat, maybe fifteen months ago, that door had been newly set and painted, and the glass had just been stuck a-top of the wall. But it's a fact—I've never seen anybody go in or come out!"
"I propose to go in," said Hetherwick. "I think we've abundant cause, knowing what we do. It may be that the two missing ladies are there. I've been having a look into the yard, and we could get into it easily by going through the grocer's shop there, on the right, and climbing the wall from his back premises. What do you say, Robmore?"
"Oh, I think so!" agreed Robmore. "Now we're on the job, we'll carry it through. Better let me tackle the grocer, Mr. Hetherwick—I'll see him first and then call you in."
The other waited while Robmore entered the shop and spoke with its owner. They saw him engaged in conversation for several minutes; then he came to the door and beckoned the rest to approach.
"That's all right," he said in an aside to Hetherwick. "We can go through to his back-yard, and he'll lend us a step-ladder to get over the wall. But he's told me a bit—he knows the two men who have this place in the next yard, and there's no doubt at all, from his description of them, that one's Ambrose and the other Baseverie. He says they've had the place almost eighteen months, and he thinks they use it as a laboratory—chemicals, or something of that sort. But he says they're rarely seen—sometimes he's never seen them for days and even weeks together. Usually they're there of a night—he's seen lights in the place at all hours of the night. Well—come on!"
The posse of investigators filed through the dark little shop to a yard at its rear, the grocer's apprentice going in front with a step-ladder, which he planted against the intervening wall at its lowest point. One by one, the uniformed constable going first, the six men climbed and dropped over. But for their own presence, the place seemed deserted and lifeless. As Hetherwick had observed from the greengrocer's parlour the windows were obscured by thick coats of paint; nevertheless, two or three of the men approached and tried to find places from which the paint had been scratched, in an effort to see what lay inside. But the constable, bolder and more direct, went straight to the entrance.
"Door's open!" he exclaimed. "Not even shut!" He pushed the door wide, and went into the building, the rest crowding after him. "Hullo!" he shouted. "Hullo!"
No answer came to the summons. The constable crossed the lobby in which they were all standing, and opened an inner door. And Hetherwick saw at once that the grocer's surmise as to the purpose to which the place was put had been correct—this was a chemical laboratory, well equipped, too, with modern apparatus. But there was not a sign of life in it.
"Nobody here, apparently," murmured one of the men. "Flown!"
Robmore went forward to another door, and opening it, revealed a room furnished as an office. There was a roll-top desk in it, and papers and documents lying there; he and Hetherwick began to finger and examine them. And Hetherwick suddenly saw something that made a link between this mysterious place and the house he had called at earlier in the afternoon. There, before his eyes, lay some of the azure-tinted notepaper which Mapperley had traced with the embossed address on it of which the stationer had told.
"There's no doubt we've hit on the place at last, Robmore," he said. "I wish we'd had Matherfield here. But——"
Before he could say more, a sudden shout came from Goldmark, who, while the others were investigating the lower regions, had courageously, and alone, gone up the low staircase to the upper rooms.
"Mithter!" he called. "Mithter Hetherwick! come up here—come up, all of you. Here'th a man here, a-thittin' in a chair—and th'elp me if I don't believe he'th a thtiff 'un—dead!"
The rest of the searchers, hearing that startled cry from the Jew, with one accord made for the upper part of the building. Robmore and Hetherwick reached him first; he was standing at the half-opened door of a room, into which he was staring with eager eyes. They pushed by him and entered.
Hetherwick took in the general aspect and contents of that room at a glance. It had been fitted up—recently, he thought, from certain small evidences—as a bed-sitting-room. A camp-bed stood in one corner; there was a washstand, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, two or three pictures, a shelf of books, a small square of carpet in the centre of the floor, the outer edges of which had been roughly and newly stained. On the bed lay, open, a suit-case, already packed with clothes and linen; by it lay an overcoat, hat, gloves, umbrella; it was evident that the man to whom it belonged had completed his preparations for a departure, and had nothing to do but to close and lock the suit-case, put on his overcoat and hat, pick up the other things and go away.
But the man himself? There was a big, old-fashioned easy chair at the side of the bed—a roomy, comfortable affair. A man lay, rather than sat, in it, in an attitude which suggested that he had dropped there as with a sudden weariness, laid his head back against the padded cushion, and—gone to sleep. But the men knew, all of them, as they crowded into that room, that it was no sleep that they had broken in upon—it was death. This, as the Jew had been quick to see, was a dead man—dead!
Hetherwick took him in as quickly as he had taken in his surroundings. His head lay quietly against the padding of the chair, a little inclined to his left shoulder: the face was fully visible. It was—to Hetherwick—the face of a stranger; in all his and Matherfield's investigations it had not been described to them. Yet he was certain that he was looking on the man known to them by repute as Ambrose. Disguised, of course—he had shaved off the dark beard and moustache of which they had heard, and he could see at once that the loss of them had made a remarkable difference in his appearance. But nothing could disguise his height and general build. This, without doubt, was the man Matherfield and he had hunted for, the man who had met Hannaford at Victoria, who had disappeared from his flat in the Adelphi—the man who was associated with Baseverie, and who——
"Dead as a door-nail!" muttered Robmore, bending close to the still figure. "And—he's been dead a good bit, too!—some hours, anyway. Stiff! Do ye know him, Mr. Hetherwick?"
Hetherwick said what he thought. Robmore pointed to the things on the bed.
"Looks as if he'd been taken with a seizure just as he was about to set off somewhere," he remarked. "Well, if this is the Dr. Ambrose we've been seeking—but let's see if he's got anything on him to prove his identity."
While the rest of the men stood by watching, he put his hand into the dead man's inside breast pocket—he was wearing a smart, brand-new grey tweed suit, Hetherwick, later on, remembered how its newness struck him as being incongruously out of place, somehow—and drew out a pocket-book. Touching Hetherwick's elbow and motioning him to follow him, he went over to the window, leaving the others still staring wonderingly at the dead man.
"This is a queer business, Mr. Hetherwick," he whispered as they drew apart. "You think this is the Dr. Ambrose we were after?"
"Sure of it!" answered Hetherwick. "He's shaved off his beard and moustache, and that's no doubt made a big difference in his appearance, but you may depend on it, this is the man! But what's caused his sudden death?"
Then a keen, vivid recollection flashed up in him, and he turned sharply, glancing at the rigid figure in the background.
"What is it?" asked Robmore curiously. "Something strikes you?"
Hetherwick pointed to the dead man's attitude.
"That's—that's just how Hannaford looked when he died in the railway carriage!" he whispered. "After the first signs—you know—he laid back and—died. Just like that—as if he'd dropped quietly asleep. Can—can it be that——"
"I know what you're thinking," muttered Robmore. "Poisoned! Well—what about—eh—the other man?"
"Baseverie!" exclaimed Hetherwick.
"Why not?—to rid himself of an accomplice! But—this pocket-book," said Robmore. "Let's see what's in it. Doesn't seem to be anything very much, by the thinness."
From one flap of the pocket-book he drew out a wad of carefully-folded bank notes, and rapidly turned them over.
"Hundred and fifty pounds there," he remarked. "And what's this paper—a draft on a New York bank for two hundred. New York, eh? So that's where he was bound? And this," he went on, turning out the other flap. "Ah! see this, Mr. Hetherwick? He'd got his passage booked by theMaratic, sailing to-night. Um! And Matherfield's gone to Southampton, after Baseverie. I'm beginning to see a bit into this, I think."
"What do you see?" asked Hetherwick.
"Well, it looks to me as if Baseverie had gone ahead to collect that box containing the jewels, and that Ambrose was to follow later, join him there, when Baseverie had secured the loot, and that they were then to be off with their harvest! But—do you notice this—the name under which the passage is booked? Not Ambrose—Charles Andrews, Esquire. Andrews! And Baseverie is Basing. Basing and Andrews. Now I wonder if they carried on business here under these names?"
"That's an unimportant detail," said Hetherwick. "The important thing, surely, is—that! How did that man come by his death?"
"Well, but I don't think that is very important—just now," replied Robmore. "After all, he is dead, and whether he died as the result of a sudden seizure, or whether Baseverie cleverly poisoned him before he left, is a question we'll have to settle later. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Hetherwick—I'll lay anything he didn't poison himself! Look round—there isn't a sign of anything he's been drinking out of. No, sir—the other man's done this. And if Matherfield has the luck to lay hands on him to-night—ah! But now, what was this your clerk, Mapperley, told us as we came along about the Little Smith Street landlady coming here this afternoon?"
"She was followed here by Goldmark," replied Hetherwick. "Goldmark saw her admit herself by a key which she took from her pocket. She stayed inside a few minutes, came out looking much upset, and hurried away to her own house."
"And now you and I'll just hurry after her," said Robmore. "After all, she's living, and we'll make her find her tongue. Of course, she came in here expecting to find this man, and to tell him somebody was on the look-out. And—she found him dead! Come round there with me, Mr. Hetherwick, at once."
He turned to the other detective and the constable, and after giving them some whispered instructions, left the room, Hetherwick, after a word or two with Mapperley, following him. But before they had reached the outer door, they heard steps in the yard, and suddenly two men appeared in the doorway.
If Hetherwick and his companion looked questioningly at these two men, they, on their part, looked questioningly at Robmore and Hetherwick. They were youngish men—Hetherwick set them down as respectably-dressed artisans. That they were surprised to find anyone confronting them at the door whereat all four now stood, was evident; their surprise, indeed, was so great that they came to a sudden halt, staring silently. But Robmore spoke. "Wanting somebody?" he asked sharply.
The two strangers exchanged a glance, and the apparently elder one replied:
"Well, no!" he said. "Not that we know of. But might we ask if you are? And how you got in here? Because this place happens to be ours!"
"Yours!" exclaimed Robmore. "Your property?
"Well, if buying it, paying for it, and taking a receipt and papers makes it so!" answered the man. "Bought it this morning—and settled up for it, too, anyway."
Robmore produced and handed over a professional card, and the faces of the two men fell as they read it. The elder looked up quickly.
"I hope there's nothing wrong?" he said anxiously. "Detectives, eh? We've laid out a nice bit on this—savings, too, and——"
"I don't suppose there's anything wrong that way," replied Robmore reassuringly. "But there's something uncommonly wrong in other ways. Now look here, who are you two, and from whom did you buy this place?"
"My name's Marshall, his is Wilkinson," answered the leader. "We're just starting business for ourselves as electrical engineers. We advertised for a likely place hereabouts, and Mr. Andrews came to us about this—said he and his partner, Mr. Basing, were leaving, and wanted to sell it, just as it stood. We came to look at it, and as it's just the place we need to start with, we agreed to buy it. They said it was their own property, and to save law expenses we carried out the purchase between ourselves. And we paid over the purchase money this morning, and got the papers and the key."
"What time was that?" asked Robmore.
"Ten o'clock or thereabouts," replied Marshall. "By appointment, here."
"Did ye see both men—Basing and Andrews?"
"Both! In that little room to the right. We settled the business—paid them in cash—and settled all up. It was soon done, then they stood us a drink and a cigar, and we went."
"Stood you a drink, eh?" said Robmore suddenly. "Where?"
"Here! Basing, he pulled out a big bottle of champagne and a cigar-box, and said we'd wet the bargain. We'd a glass apiece, Wilkinson and me, then we left 'em to finish the bottle: we were in a hurry. But—is anything wrong?"
"What is wrong, my lad, is that the man you know as Andrews is lying dead upstairs!" replied Robmore. "Poisoned, most likely, by his partner. But, as I said just now, I don't suppose there's anything wrong about your buying the property, providing you can show a title to it; you say you've got the necessary papers?"
Marshall clapped a hand on the pocket of his coat.
"Got 'em all here, now," he said. "But—did you say Andrews was dead—poisoned? Why, he was as alive as I am when we left the two of 'em together. They were finishing the bottle——"
"Look here," interrupted Robmore. "Wait awhile until we come back—we've some important work close by. There are people of ours upstairs—tell them I said you were to wait a bit. Now, Mr. Hetherwick."
Outside the yard and in the crowded street, Robmore turned to his companion with a cynical laugh.
"Champagne—to wet the bargain!" he said. "Left them to finish it, eh? And no doubt what finished Ambrose was in that champagne—slipped in by Baseverie when his back was turned. I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick, that chap's a thorough-paced 'un—he goes the whole hog! I only hope he won't be too deep for Matherfield at Southampton! I shall be anxious till I hear."
"Is it possible for him to escape Matherfield?" exclaimed Hetherwick. "How can he? I look on him as being as good as in custody already! He's bound to call at the post office for that box."
"Is he, though?" interrupted the detective, with another incredulous laugh. "I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Hetherwick. Baseverie is evidently an accomplished scoundrel, and full of all sorts of tricks! I'll tell ye what I'm wondering—will that parcel ever get to Southampton post office, where it's to be called for?"
"Whatever do you mean?" demanded Hetherwick. "It's in the post! Posted this morning."
"No doubt," agreed Robmore dryly. "By special delivery, eh? And when it gets to Southampton Station, it's got to be taken to the head post office, hasn't it?"
"Well?" asked Hetherwick.
"There's many a slip twixt cup and lip—so the old saying goes," replied Robmore. "That parcel may slip. But isn't this the number your clerk mentioned?"
The door of Mrs. Mallett's house looked more closely barred than ever—if possible. And no answer came to several summonses by bell and knocker. But presently Robmore tried the handle—the door opened at his touch.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "Open! Um! That seems a bit queer. Well—inside!"
For the second time that afternoon, Hetherwick walked into a place that seemed to be wholly deserted.
The detective, walking a little in advance of his companion, stepped forward to a hall-table and knocked loudly on its polished surface. No answer came. He went further along, to the head of a railed stair which evidently communicated with a cellar kitchen; again he knocked, more loudly than before, on an adjacent panel, and again got no reply. And at that, turning back along the hall, he opened the door of the room which faced upon the street, and he and Hetherwick looked in. A musty-smelling, close-curtained room that, a sort of Sunday parlour, little used, cold and comfortless in its formality. But the room behind it, to which Robmore turned next, showed signs of recent occupancy and life. There was a fire in the grate, with an easy chair drawn near to it; on the table close by lay women's gear—a heap of linen, with needle and thread thrust in, a work-basket, scissors, thimble; it required no more than a glance to see that the owner of these innocent matters had laid them down suddenly, suddenly interrupted in her task.
"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick!" exclaimed Robmore abruptly. "This house is empty! Empty of people, anyway."
"Silent enough, to be sure," agreed Hetherwick. "The woman——"
"You've frightened her by calling here," said Robmore. "Then she slipped round to Pencove Street. And there she found Ambrose dead! She's some connection with him and Baseverie, because she possesses a key that admits to that yard. And finding Ambrose dead, she came back here, got her things and cleared out. There isn't a soul in this house. I'll lay anything on that!"
"It struck me that this might be the place where the two ladies were detained," remarked Hetherwick.
"We'll soon see about that," declared Robmore. "Come upstairs—we'll search the place from top to bottom. But stop, downstairs first."
He ran down the stair to the cellar kitchen, with Hetherwick at his heels. And at the door he laughed, pointing within.
"Look there!" he exclaimed. "I told you you'd interrupted things. See! there's one tea-tray, laid out all ready for two—cups and saucers, teapot, bread and butter cut, cake. There's another for one. And there's the kettle, singing away like a bird on a bough. What's that mean? The woman was going to carry up tea for two, somewhere; t'other tray was for herself. Well, you nipped that in the bud; she'll have to get her tea somewhere. But—the others? Come upstairs."
Going back to the hall, he led the way up the main staircase. There were two stories above the ground floor; on the first were rooms the doors of which, being opened, or being found open, revealed nothing but ordinary things: of these rooms there were three, opening off a main landing. But on the next floor there were only two rooms; one was unfurnished: at the door of the other, a few inches ajar, the detective immediately paused.
"Look you there, now, Mr. Hetherwick!" he said, pointing here and there. "Here's recent work! Do you see that a strong bolt, more like a bar, has been fitted on the outside of this door, and the door itself fitted with a new patent lock, key outside? And, good Lord! a chain as well. Might be in a gaol! But what's inside?"
He pushed the door open and revealed a large room, fitted with two small beds, easy chairs, a table on which books, magazines, newspapers lay; on the table, too, was fancy-work which, it was evident, had been as hastily laid aside as the sewing downstairs. Hetherwick bent over the things, but Robmore went to the one window.
"Gaol, did I say?" he exclaimed. "Why, this is a gaol! Look here, Mr. Hetherwick!—window morticed inside and fitted with iron bars outside. Even if whoever's been in here could have opened the window, and if there'd been no bars there, they couldn't have done anything though, for there's nothing but a high blank wall opposite—back of some factory or other, apparently. But what's this?" he added, opening a door that stood in a corner. "Um! small bathroom. And this," he continued, going to a square hatch set in the wall next to the staircase. "Ah! trap big enough to hand things like small trays through, but not big enough for a grown person to squeeze through. Well, I shouldn't wonder if you're right, Mr. Hetherwick—this, probably, is where these ladies were locked up. But—they're gone!"
Hetherwick was looking round. Suddenly his eyes lighted on a familiar object. He stepped forward, and from a chair near one of the beds, picked up a handbag of green silk. He knew it well enough.
"That settles it!" he exclaimed. "They have been here! This is Miss Han—I mean Miss Featherstone's bag—I've seen her carry it often. These are her things in it—purse, card-case, so on. She's left it behind her."
"Aye, just so!" agreed Robmore. "As I say, they all left in a hurry. I figure it out like this: the woman, who, of course, acted as sort of gaoler to these two unfortunate ladies, when she made that discovery round yonder, came back here, got her outdoor things, and cleared off. But before she went, she'd the decency to slip up here, undo that chain, slip the bolt back, and turn the key! Then, no doubt, she made tracks at express speed, leaving the ladies to do what they liked. And they, Mr. Hetherwick, having a bit o' common sense about 'em, did what I should ha' done—they hooked it as quick as possible. That's that, sir!"
Hetherwick thrust Rhona's handbag into his pocket and made for the door.
"Then I'm off, Robmore," he said. "I must try to find out where they've gone. I've an idea probably they'd go to Penteney's office. I'll go there. But—you?"
"Oh, I'm going back to Pencove Street," answered Robmore. "Plenty to do there. But off you go after the ladies, Mr. Hetherwick, there's nothing you can do round here now. I'll keep that clerk of yours a bit, and the Jew chap—they might come in. We shall have some nice revelations in the papers to-morrow, I'm thinking, especially if Matherfield has the luck he expects."
"What are you going to do about this house?" asked Hetherwick as they went downstairs. "Do you think the woman will come back?"
"Bet your life she won't!" answered Robmore. "Not she! I should think she's half-way across London—north, south, east or west, by this. House? Why, I shall just lock the front door and put the key in my pocket. We shall want to search this house narrowly."
Hetherwick bade him good-day for the time being, and hurried off to Victoria Street, to fling himself into the first disengaged taxi-cab he encountered, and to bid its driver go as speedily as possible to Lincoln's Inn Fields. He was anxious about Rhona—and yet he felt that she was safe. And he was inquisitive, too; he wanted to hear her story, to find out what had happened behind the scenes. He felt sure of finding her at Penteney's office; she and Madame Listorelle, once released from their prison, would naturally go there.
But the clerk whom he encountered as soon as he rushed into the outer office, damped his spirits at once by shaking his head.
"Mr. Penteney's not in, sir," he answered. "He was in until not so long ago, but he got a telephone call and went out immediately afterwards. No, I don't know who it was that rang him up, Mr. Hetherwick, nor where he went; seemed a bit excited when he went out, and was in a fearful hurry."
Hetherwick concluded that Madame Listorelle had summoned Penteney, and that he had gone to meet her and Rhona. He went away, somewhat at a loss—then, remembering that Matherfield had promised to wire from Southampton, he turned towards his chambers. At the foot of the stairs he met his caretaker.
"Been a young lady here inquiring for you, Mr. Hetherwick," said the man. "Been here twice. I said I didn't know when you'd be in—any time or no time. She said—but there is the young lady, sir—coming back!"
Hetherwick turned sharply and saw Rhona coming across the square. Hurrying to meet her and disregarding whatever eyes might be watching them, he took both her hands in his in a fashion that brought the colour to her cheeks.
"You're all right—safe?" he asked quickly.
"Sure?"
"I'm all right and quite safe, thank you," she answered. "I—I've been here twice before, but you were out. I came to borrow some money. I left my bag and purse in—the place where we were locked up, and——"
Hetherwick pulled out the handbag and silently gave it to her. She stared at him.
"You've been—there!" she exclaimed. "How——"
"Got in this afternoon, an hour ago," he answered. "Here, come up to my rooms! We can't stand talking here. Madame Listorelle—where's she?"
"I left her at Victoria, telephoning to Major Penteney," replied Rhona. "She, too, had no money. She wanted me to wait until Major Penteney arrived, but I wouldn't. I walked here. I—I thought you'd want to know that we'd got out—at last."
Hetherwick said nothing until they had entered his sitting-room. Then, staring silently at her, he put his hands on Rhona's shoulders, and after a long look at her, suddenly and impulsively bent and kissed her.
"By gad!" he said in a low voice. "I didn't know how anxious I was about you until I saw you just now! But—now I know!"
Then, just as suddenly, he turned away from her, and in a matter-of-fact manner lighted his stove, put on a kettle of water, and began preparations which indicated his intention of making tea. Rhona, from an easy chair into which he had unceremoniously thrust her, watched him.
"Liberty!" she said suddenly. "We're both discovering something. When you've been locked up, day and night, for a while——"
"How was it?" he asked, turning on her. "Of course, we know all about the kidnapping—but the rest, until to-day? Baseverie, of course?"
"Baseverie and another man," she answered. "A tall, clean-shaven man, whose name we never heard. But Baseverie was the chief villain. As to how it was, they met us at the sunk road at Riversreade, forced us at the point of revolvers into a car, and drove us off to London—to Westminster—and into a house there, the house you've been in. There——"
"A moment," said Hetherwick, who was finding cups and saucers. "The driver of that car? He must have been an accomplice."
"No doubt, but we never saw him again. We only saw those two and a woman who acted as gaoler and brought our meals. We were fed all right, and they gave us books and papers, and actually provided us with fancy work. But they were inexorable about madame and her jewels. They must have known all about them, because they got her own notepaper——"
"I know all about that," said Hetherwick. "I'll tell you my side of it when you've had some tea. Forced her, I suppose, to write the letters?"
"They forced her to do that just as they forced us into the car," said Rhona, "with revolvers! And—they meant it. I suppose they've got the jewels now?"
"Remains to be seen," replied Hetherwick. "Did Madame Listorelle happen to tell you what those jewels were worth?"
"She talked about little else. Between eighty and ninety thousand pounds. She's in an awful state about them. But it was literally a question of her life or her jewels. I don't know what they'd have done with me. But now—I'm all right!"
Hetherwick opened a tin box, and producing a plum cake, held it up for Rhona to inspect.
"What d'you think of that for a cake?" he asked admiringly. "Present from my old aunt in the country—real, proper cake that. Yes," he went on, setting the cake on the table, "yes, yes; you're all right now. But, by George——"
Rhona said nothing; she saw that his relief at seeing her was greater and deeper than he cared to show. She poured out the tea; they sat discussing the recent events until dusky shadows began to fall over the whole room.
"I ought to be getting back to Riversreade," she remarked at last. "It's late."
"Wait a bit!" said Hetherwick, who by that time had told her all he knew. "There'll be a wire from Matherfield before long. Don't go down to Riversreade to-night. Telephone to Lady Riversreade that you're staying in town. Her sister will be there by now, and will have told her everything. Wait till we get the wire from Matherfield; then we'll go and dine somewhere, and you can put up at your old hotel in Surrey Street for the night. I want you to know what's happened at Southampton and——"
He broke off as a knock came at his outer door.
"That'll be Matherfield's wire," he exclaimed "Now then——"
A moment later he came back to her with the message in his hand.
"It is from Matherfield," he said. "Handed in Southampton West six-nineteen. Doesn't say if he's got him! All he says is; 'Meet me Waterloo, arriving eight-twenty.' Well——"
"I wonder?" said Rhona. "But Baseverie is——"
"Just what Robmore says," muttered Hetherwick.
"However—" he looked at his watch. "Come along," he continued. "We've just time to get some dinner—at Waterloo—and to be on the platform when the eight-twenty comes in. If only we could see Baseverie in charge of Matherfield and Quigman first it would give me an appetite!"
The vast space between the station buildings and the entrance to the platform at Waterloo was thronged when Hetherwick and Rhona came out of the restaurant at ten minutes past eight. Hetherwick was inquiring as to which platform the Southampton train would come in at when he felt a light touch on his arm. Turning sharply he saw Robmore. Robmore gave him a quiet smile, coupled with an informing wink.
"Guess you're on the same job, Mr. Hetherwick," he said. "Wire from Matherfield, eh?"
"Yes," replied Hetherwick. "And you?"
"Same here," assented Robmore. "Just to say I was to be here for the eight-twenty—with help," he added significantly. "I've got the help; there's four of us round about. Heard anything of those ladies, Mr. Hetherwick?"
"Here is one of them," replied Hetherwick, indicating Rhona. "They're safe. You'll hear all about it later. But this business—what do you make of Matherfield's wire? Has he failed?"
"I'll tell you what I make of it," answered Robmore. "I think you'll find that Baseverie is on the train, with Matherfield and Quigman in close attendance. For some reason of his own, Matherfield means to arrest Baseverie here—here! That's how I figure it. They've seen Baseverie there and decided to follow him back to town. As soon as that train's in——"
A sudden, sharp exclamation from Rhona interrupted him and made both men turn to her. She clutched Hetherwick's arm, at the same time pointing with the other hand across the space behind them.
"Baseverie—himself!" she said. "There—under that clock! See! He's going towards the gates!"
With a swift and unceremonious gesture Robmore laid a hand on Rhona's shoulder, twisted her round and drew her amongst a group of bystanders.
"Keep out of sight, miss!" he muttered. "He'll know you! Now, again—which man. That with the pale face and high hat? I see him. Good to remember, too. All right! Stop here, you two. If he moves in this direction, Mr. Hetherwick, move away anywhere. Wait!"
Robmore slipped away. A moment later they saw him speak to a couple of quiet-looking men, who presently glanced at Baseverie. Hetherwick was watching Baseverie, too. Baseverie, quiet, unconcerned, evidently wholly unsuspicious, had taken up a position at the exit through which the Southampton passengers must emerge; he was smoking a cigar, placidly, with obvious appreciation.
"You're certain that's the man?" whispered Hetherwick.
"Baseverie? Positive!" declared Rhona. "As if I could mistake him! I've too good reason to remember his whole appearance. But—here! Daring!"
"Well," said Hetherwick, "something's going to happen! Keep back—keep well back! We can see things from here without being seen. If he caught sight of you——"
Robmore came strolling back and joined them.
"All right!" he murmured. "Four pairs of eyes, beside ours—that's three pairs more—on him! My men are close up to him, too. See 'em? One, two, three, four! All round him, though he doesn't know. I shan't let him go, whether Matherfield turns up or not. Cool customer, eh?"
"The train's due," said Hetherwick. He had Rhona's hand within his arm, and he felt it tremble. "Yes," he whispered, bending down to her, "that's how I feel. Tense moment, this. But that scoundrel there——"
Baseverie was glancing at the big clock. He turned from it to the platform behind the gates, looking expectantly along its lighted surface. The others looked, too. A minute passed. Then, out of the gloom at the further extremity of the vast station, an engine appeared, slowly dragging its burden of carriages and came sighing like a weary giant up the side of the platform. The passengers in the front compartments leapt out and began filing towards the exit.
"Now for it," muttered Robmore. "Keep back, you two! My men'll watch him—and whoever's here to meet him, for he's expecting somebody."
Nothing happened for the first minute. The crowd of discharged passengers, men and women, civilians, soldiers, sailors, filed out and went their ways. Gradually it thinned. Then Hetherwick's arm was suddenly gripped by Rhona for the second time, and he saw that she was staring at something beyond the barrier.
"There!" she exclaimed. "There—the man in the grey coat and fawn hat! That's the man who drove the car! See! Baseverie sees him!"
Hetherwick looked and saw Baseverie lift a hand in recognition of a young, fresh-faced man, who was nearing the ticket-collectors, and who carried in his right hand a small, square parcel. But he saw more. Close behind this young man came Matherfield on one hand and Quigman on the other. They drew closer as he neared the gate, and on its other side the detectives drew closer to Baseverie.
"Now then," whispered Robmore, and stole swiftly forward.
It was all over so swiftly that neither Hetherwick nor Rhona knew exactly how the thing was done. Before they had realised that the men were trapped, or the gaping bystanders had realised that something was happening under their very noses, Baseverie and his man were two safely handcuffed prisoners in the midst of a little group of silent men who were hurrying both away. Within a moment captors and captives were lost in the outer reaches of the station. Then the two watchers suddenly realised that Matherfield, holding the square parcel in his hand, was standing close by, a grim but highly satisfied smile in his eyes. He held the parcel up before them.
"Very neat, Mr. Hetherwick, very neat indeed!" he said. "Uncommonly neat—eh?"
But Hetherwick knew that he was not referring to the parcel.