“Are you his cursed spy?” cried the man on his right, rising from his seat and bringing his fist down with a bang on the table.
“No,” said Westerham, looking the man straight in the face, “I am not.”
“Sit down, Smith!” shouted Crow.
The man sat down.
“Now, my pretty gentleman,” Crow went on, “we have had enough of you, just as we have had enough of Melun, who has brought you into this business for no good so far as we are concerned, and we do not propose that matters should go any further; in fact, it is rather handy that you thought of coming down East to us, as otherwise we should have come up West to you.”
“Indeed,” said Westerham, who was still smiling at Crow.
“Yes,” Crow went on,“you have saved us a great deal of trouble. You are a cool hand, Mr. Robinson, but we are just as cool. This spot was not chosen for its beauty; it was chosen for its advantages.”
At this some of the men laughed coarsely, while several of them swore.
“Melun's kid-glove business is all very well in its way. It has made a bit of money in its time, but it seems to us—we were just discussing the matter to-night—that we can do pretty well without the captain and his swells up West.
“It is a long time since his nice West End pals brought any grist to our mill, and we don't propose to go on like this for ever.
“What brought matters to a head was your arrival. We can stand a good deal, and we can wait a good deal. We are financed now and again by men whom we never set eyes on, and, according to Melun, we pay them a pretty rate of interest for our share of the work, but that is neither here nor there. What we do object to—and what you will find we object to to the extent of putting an end to it—is the importation of Yankee swankers from the States.”
Westerham raised a protesting hand, but Crow did not heed him.
“Oh, it is no use your objecting,” he said; “we can read you like a book. Things have been worse ever since your arrival. Melun has practically never been near us so that we have been left to our own resources. Well, we don't mind that; but we will see that the resources are such as we like.”
He laughed a jarring laugh.
“Now you may be as bad as the worst of us, and it may be you won't stick at much; and it may be that you have in that clever head a thousand ways of keeping us in funds. I should say by the look of you, you had.
“But I should say, too, that you were one of the mean breed, who keeps things to himself. You are too much class for us. We don't suit your book, and so we can rot while you and Melun spend the dibs up West. Now, that's not good enough.”
Crow looked round the table, the men nodded, and he continued:—
“We are going to end it here and now. Mark you, Mr. High-and-Mighty, we owe you one grudge already. We did not go looking after you to interfere with your pleasures, which probably are a deal worse than ours. In the same way, we do not allow any interference with what we do down here.
“It's a thing which Melun himself never dares to do, and why should you? It's more than we can stand. I am talking about those girls the other night.”
Westerham was still smiling with his eyes hard and bright. “Perhaps,” he said, “you had better let me inform you that if I found the same state of things going on to-night I should interfere again.”
Some of the men stared in astonishment at his audacity. Crow's face went white with passion.
“Would you, my beauty? I don't think you would.”
Then in a flash he had drawn a six-shooter from his pocket and yelled “Hands up!”
Westerham laughed outright. Unless he should so lose control over himself as to act foolishly he knew that Crow would not fire. He had already told two men that they wanted no firing that night.
So, instead of putting his hands up, he folded them placidly on the table.
“Put that thing away,” he said quietly, “until you explain precisely what you intend to do.”
Crow lowered his weapon but kept it on the table. He even laughed a hard, short laugh.
“Well, you are a good plucked 'un at any rate,” he said, “and as your number's up, and dead men tell no tales, I don't see why I shouldn't oblige you.
“You think,” he continued, making an attempt to imitate Westerham's cool, off-hand way of speech, “that this is a working-man's club.
“Well, it is not exactly that. It is a club, sure enough, with pretty fixed rules—rules which, if broken, may result in a man's light being put out.
“The same may be said of anyone who offends us. You have offended us.
“Now, though Melun comes in through ‘The Cut,’ we come in the other way. No one in London except the members of this club know that there are two entrances. We come in by the main door, and that gives on to a path which runs by a handy canal.
“Shooting is noisy, and knives mean messy work. Strangling is just as simple and just as easy, and, with the clothes off you, and with a good lead weight on your feet, there'd not be much chance of your disappearance ever being traced to this place.”
He stared at Westerham with a fixed beast-like glare.
Westerham, however, with his hands still folded placidly on the table, was smiling blandly.
“Allow me,” he said, seeing that Crow had madean end of speaking, “to congratulate you on a very pretty little programme—but a programme which, I fear, is hardly likely to be carried out to-night.”
“Str'wth,” cried a man, craning across the table towards Westerham, “are you a copper's nark? Have you put the police on us?”
Half a dozen men rose from their seats and looked with scared faces at Crow.
Crow, somewhat to Westerham's admiration, kept his head.
“See to the door,” he said.
Two other men rose, and going to Westerham's side of the long room, opened the door leading into a little porch; through this they went out on to the footpath by the canal and peered cautiously up and down.
Presently they came back shaking their heads.
“Have another look,” said Crow. “Search a little further.”
The two men went out again, and in the complete silence which now prevailed their footsteps could be heard through the open door pacing up and down the path.
Returning, they reported that everything was quiet.
“Very well,” said Crow, “but, all the same, you had better get to your posts.”
The two men went out once more and closed the door after them.
“Bluff!” said Crow, insolently, to Westerham, “just bluff. But you cannot come bluff on us, for all your Yankee smartness.”
“No,” said Westerham; and his face was stillthe face of a man who is immensely amused and interested.
“What are you grinning at?” snarled Crow.
“I was grinning because, whatever you may contrive to do to me, it struck me as being rather funny that one man in a place like this should manage to scare so many.”
Crow's hand gripped the handle of his revolver.
“That will do,” said Westerham, growing suddenly serious, for he realised that while the men were posted at either end of the canal-path there was just a chance that Crow might risk the noise of firearms.
“Now, Mr. Crow,” Westerham continued, “I have allowed you to say a good deal and insult me very considerably. As a matter of fact, I do not happen to be an American—not that that makes very much difference. Who I am and where I come from is no concern of yours. And I don't propose to tell you.
“I propose to tell you something else, though, and I regret to say that it is a tale of breach of faith—of a breach of faith committed by a member of what you are pleased to call ‘the club.’”
The men looked at each other.
“The name of the offending member,” said Westerham, slowly and deliberately, “is Melun.”
At the mention of this name most of the men broke out into volleys of cursing; but Westerham held up his hand for silence.
“I entered into a certain agreement with Melun on certain terms,” he said.“Is it news to you that the price I offered for his services and for the services of yourselves was a hundred thousand pounds?”
“Good Heavens!” Crow exclaimed, and then sat muttering to himself.
The rest of the men were too astonished to speak.
“You are a liar!” shouted Crow.
“Pardon me,” said Westerham, “I am no liar, as I am quite prepared to prove to you. Now I have every intention, provided that Melun holds good to his promise, of handing him over that sum. I simply tell you this in order that you may see to it that you get your proper shares.”
“You liar!” exclaimed Crow again.
“Pardon me,” said Westerham, “but you really are mistaken.”
He put his hand into his breast and pulled out a pocket-book.
“Here,” he said, “I have the sum of ten thousand pounds in notes.”
Drawing them out, he flung them carelessly on the table.
So utterly were the men lost in amazement that they could do nothing but stare in silence at the notes.
“Now, I may as well be quite frank,” Westerham went on,“and tell you that I have not the slightest intention of handing those notes over to you. Nor, for that matter, do I intend having them stolen.
“You might take them from me, but you would merely have to destroy them, for I have taken the precaution of informing the bank that all these notes have been lost. I can well afford to let such a sum as this lie idle for a time, and the numbers were posted this afternoon.”
“Good Heavens!” said Crow once more.
“Now,” Westerham continued as evenly as ever, “I hope that this, to some extent, proves that what I say is true.”
Some of the men nodded assent.
“Well,” said Westerham, looking about him, “I will take it for granted that you are prepared to believe me. So far so good.”
“I have now to tell you that Captain Melun is at the present moment engaged in a deal of the most stupendous proportions. He has mentioned to me that the sum he hopes to net is over a quarter of a million.”
He paused and looked round at the men again. They continued to stare at him open-mouthed, remaining entirely silent. They were beyond all speech.
Glancing at Crow, Westerham saw with satisfaction that he was evidently much amazed and beginning to look uneasy.
“Well, gentlemen,” Westerham continued, “it is unnecessary for me to mention the names of the people who are assisting Captain Melun in this enterprise. I really believe that they don't even know what the enterprise is. But there is an exception. One of them does know, because the business may involve dirtier work than Melun may care to do with his own hands.”
Westerham paused, and saw that Crow's face was as pale as ashes.
Again his intuition proved to be correct.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, rising, and pointing anaccusing finger at Crow, “that is the man who knows!”
“It's a lie!” shrieked Crow; “it's a lie! It is only a matter of ten thousand pounds. Melun swore it to me.”
In the silence that followed Westerham laughed loud and long.
“Gentlemen,” he said at last, “I ask you if ever a man more completely condemned himself out of his own mouth?”
Now the tide of anger turned and swept towards Crow.
There was a great clamour, while the men, with curses, shouted at him for an explanation.
Then above the hubbub there came a loud knocking, and turning in the direction of the sound they saw Melun, smiling and pleasant-looking as ever, pounding on the floor with his stick, while the negro stood behind him, grinning over his shoulder.
Instantly silence fell again.
“Now, then,” called Melun, coolly, “be quiet, all of you. Be quiet at once. We have been betrayed, and the man who has betrayed us is there!”
For some seconds the men looked from Westerham to Melun, and then from Melun to Westerham. But the power of their old allegiance held good, and before he could utter a sound Westerham was seized and borne savagely to the floor.
When he found himself pinned to the ground Westerham made not the slightest attempt to struggle. He had been in similar predicaments before, and knew that a policy of passive resistance was best.
And, just as he had expected, when he made no effort to release himself the men partially relaxed their hold of him. Two of them, indeed, dragged him into a sitting posture.
By this time Melun had taken his place at the head of the long table, and was rapping on the bare boards for order and for silence.
“Two of you are enough there,” he said. “The rest of you get back to your seats.”
The men followed his instructions hastily and almost sheepishly.
When they were all seated again, Melun looked down their ranks sharply and a little furtively.
Melun's glance down the ranks of the men satisfied him that he had things well in hand.
The bullet-headed man was shifting about on his seat, and Crow sat with a pasty face, twisting and bending his great, brutal fingers.
“Gentlemen,” said Melun, almost politely, “I expect you feel that some explanation is due from me.”
The majority of the men nodded in a surly way.
“Well,” Melun continued, “the explanation is simplicity itself. I have been duped by that man.”
Again he pointed to Westerham.
“He introduced himself to me,” he went on, “as a colleague in our own particular line of business, and suggested certain schemes to me. Some of them appeared to me to be good, but I may as well tell you that they were at the moment of no use to me, as I had on hand a piece of business which, if I had pulled it off, would have enabled us to rest on our laurels for a considerable period.”
At this point Melun laughed to himself. Westerham was sitting bolt upright on the floor, with every evidence of the closest attention. He was of half a mind to call Melun a liar there and then, but he knew that the greater the lies, and the more the lies, the easier he could refute them. So he let Melun run on without protest.
“Yes,” continued the captain,“it was a very great piece of business indeed, so important a piece of business that it was necessary to keep it from even my most intimate friends and helpers. There was nothing unusual in this, for, as you know, I have often conducted campaigns without letting you into my secrets until success had been assured.
“On this occasion, considering the position of the person I was assailing, the strictest secrecy was necessary. I didn't even inform the kind friend who finances us what I was about. I didn't even tell Crow of my movements, though I had informed him that something out of the common was in view.
“However, with the appearance of that man whom you now see convicted as a traitor, there was introduced into our affairs a certain element—treachery and suspicion.
“One never knows,” Melun went on with calm mendacity, “of what one may be accused; and I therefore took the precaution to inform at least one of you of what I was about, lest it should be charged against me that I was playing the rest of you false.
“The man to whom I spoke of this matter was Patmore. Patmore, be good enough to stand up.”
Patmore rose and glanced uneasily at his chief.
“Be so kind as to repeat, as accurately as you can, what I told you,” Melun ordered him.
Patmore began to speak rapidly, and with what, to a keen observer, might have seemed a somewhat parrot-like air.
“You told me,” he said, looking at Melun,“that this was a matter of blackmail.”
He spoke quite unblushingly, as though such a business was an every-day affair, which, as a matter of fact, it was.
“You told me,” he continued, “that the person to be blackmailed occupied a high position in the State, and that it was so necessary for him to purchase our silence that he would pay practically any price.
“You mentioned a quarter of a million, of which you yourself proposed to take fifty thousand pounds, dividing the rest of the money among us. You also took the oath of the club before me and declared that whatever might be said to the contrary you were determined to play fair.
“You further said that it was absolutely impossible to reveal any details of the scheme to me, as, should anyone know of the matter besides yourself, discovery would be inevitable.
“In fact, you declared that it was the most difficult, and at the same time the boldest, piece of work that you had ever attempted.”
Patmore stopped abruptly in his recitation.
“And that, gentlemen,” said Melun, nodding towards the men, “is absolutely true.
“It is also true,” he continued, “that to win this vast amount of money it was necessary to lay out a certain amount of capital. I hadn't the money on hand, and it was inadvisable to approach the usual sources.
“I trusted”—and there was an increased bitterness in his voice—“I trusted this man Robinson.
“But, would you believe me, gentlemen, I have just discovered that he is not Robinson at all, nor Smith, nor Jones—nor anyone, indeed, of small importance in this world?
“Now, gentlemen, it would be inadvisable at this moment to tell you precisely who he is, but one thing I may tell you, and that is that he is a gentleman of title, and a man of wealth and position.”
The men turned their wondering gaze on Westerham.
“Now, for what purpose do you suppose that a man of title, of wealth and position is mixing himself up with our affairs?”
Melun paused for a few minutes, and watched with satisfaction intelligence dawn on the stupid, brutal faces before him, which stared first at himself in amazement, and then gloomily and savagely at Westerham.
Westerham, however, to their further astonishment, was laughing quietly, his teeth bared in quite an amused and pleasant smile.
“Now, gentlemen,” Melun continued, “it is one of our unbreakable rules that all traitors must die. Therefore, anyone who is likely to betray us must die also.
“From what I know of this man,” he went on, “he will be too proud to purchase his freedom. In short, not to put too fine a point on it, we cannot bleed him, though his wealth is enormous. I fancy it runs into millions.”
Little cries of wonderment and anger broke from the glowering men round the table.
Westerham laughed aloud.
“In fact,” cried Melun,“though I much regret the necessity of having to take such a step, I am afraid this gentleman's last hour has arrived.
“His death,” he added quietly, “will be carried out by the usual means.”
Crow started eagerly from his chair.
“Is it to be done at once?” he asked.
“At once,” said Melun.
All this time, though he had laughed now and again and never ceased to smile a bold, amused smile, Westerham's quick brain was taking in every word and watching for some means of deliverance. He saw that he was in an extremely tight corner, but he did not doubt his ability to find a way out.
The two men who were acting as his warders suddenly seized his hands, and before he quite realised his position Westerham found himself handcuffed.
Still, however, he made no resistance.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, raising his voice so that it rang through the room and dominated all who were gathered there, “gentlemen, a man is usually permitted to say something when he has been condemned to death. I make no quarrel with your decision. If I were in your place I should probably do the same myself by another man as you are doing by me.
“I don't wish to dispute your decision, much less do I wish to plead for mercy. Melun has denounced me for the simple reason that I have the misfortune to be a gentleman. Well, gentlemen have a habit of dying as such.
“I trust I shall be no exception to the rule, but still, before you carry out your kind intentions, I should like to say something to Melun.”
“Bring him to the table,” said Melun. He looked uneasily at Westerham and avoided thesteadiness of his glance. He felt that the moment was an awkward one. It was unwise to allow Westerham to speak; on the other hand, it would have been folly to deny him the privilege.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded sharply as Westerham stepped up to the table and leant his manacled hands on it.
Westerham bent forward over the table as far as he could and looked Melun straight in the face.
“You will not strangle me,” he said in a very quiet voice, “becauseTHEY ARE NOT WHERE THEY WERE.”
Melun turned pale as ashes, and seemed to shrink in his seat.
“Good Heavens, man, what do you mean?” he cried.
Once again the men were glancing stupidly from Westerham to Melun, and back from Melun to Westerham.
“I repeat,” said Westerham, more pointedly than before, “thatTHEY ARE NOT WHERE THEY WERE.”
There was a long and uncomfortable pause while Melun sat rigid in his chair biting his nails.
Westerham had made a long shot, and had found the mark.
He had argued that Melun's control over the Premier was due to the illegal possession of some of Lord Penshurst's papers, though he did not know whom these papers might concern nor where Melun had placed them.
Certainly the captain had not hidden them in his own rooms, nor in the rooms of any of his confederates; for without a doubt if Lord Penshurst hadnot scrupled to burgle Westerham's flat, he would not scruple to ransack the houses of Melun or his friends.
Indeed, Westerham guessed that the hiding-place must be a very strange and secret one—so strange and so secret that probably only the subtle mind of Melun could have conceived it.
Thus he had come to the conclusion that it would cause Melun most terrible alarm if that individual even suspected he had an inkling of the whereabouts of the papers. Nor was he mistaken.
Slowly and painfully Melun pulled himself together. The easy confidence which had marked his manner and his talk a few moments before was now utterly gone. He was a broken, almost a cringing, man; and Westerham realised that Lord Penshurst could not be setting any fictitious value on the stolen papers.
These papers could involve no mere matter of sentiment or personal honour or pride. Some colossal undertaking must be at stake.
It was also obvious to Westerham that if the papers fell into strange hands the consequences must be terrible for all concerned. For the anxiety and fear on Melun's face were greater than the anxiety and fear of a man who hazards all in a great stake and thinks he has lost.
Presently Melun got unsteadily out of his chair and came round the table to Westerham.
“Stand away there!” he said to the two men who were guarding the baronet. “Stand away there!”
The men fell back, and Melun, coming close upto Westerham, whispered in his ear: “What do you mean that ‘they are not where they were’? Do you mean the papers?”
Westerham nodded.
“Where are they?” Melun whispered again.
“I decline to say,” said Westerham.
He might well decline, for he had not the least idea.
“I will make you tell me, you dog!” cried Melun.
“You won't,” answered Westerham, suavely.
“By Heaven!” shouted Melun, “but I will. There are more unpleasant things done in this place than you ever dreamt of in your philosophy. The times of the Inquisition are not past for some people.”
“It will take a little more than you to frighten me, you cur,” said Westerham, in a low voice.
Melun's face blazed with passion. He drew back a pace, and then struck Westerham heavily across the mouth.
On his part Westerham did not hesitate for a moment. He lifted both his fettered hands and brought his steel-bound wrists down with a crash on Melun's head; and the captain went sprawling to the floor.
“Look you here,” cried Westerham to the dumbfounded ruffians who stood watching the scene as though they were chained to their chairs. “Look you here; I will deal with men, but not with curs such as this.”
He touched Melun with his boot.
“You cannot deny,” he continued, purposely dropping to a certain extent into their own jargon,“that I was game. I was prepared to die, but I am not prepared to be struck by swine like this.
“Why,” he went on, turning Melun's prostrate body over with his foot, “he is a liar through and through.
“Did I speak the truth just now when I convicted Crow out of his own mouth? I did. I proved it. And surely Melun has now condemned himself in his turn.
“Do you think that there would be all this fuss over a bundle of papers if there weren't more in the matter than he ever intended to tell you? Not a bit of it.”
The men murmured angry assent, and Westerham felt that he was at last winning through.
“Do you think,” he went on boldly, “that I am the kind of man who deserves to be tortured to reveal the truth? I say no; and so will you.”
Again the men nodded.
“This fellow Melun says that I have betrayed him and you. Let him prove it. I tell him that ‘the papers are not where they were.’ He knows where he placed them; let him go and see. I am content to abide here until he returns.”
It was now the turn of the bullet-headed man to speak.
“Get him to his feet,” he said, pointing to Melun.
Melun was dragged up, dazed and bleeding.
“You will do nothing to this gentleman,” said the bullet-headed man, waving his hand with some deference towards Westerham,“until you have cleared yourself. You will have to see if the papers are gone. But you don't go alone—not much!”
Then Crow spoke up: “Let me go with him,” he pleaded.
The bullet-headed man shook his head. “You have almost as much to answer for as Melun,” he objected.
“No,” he continued. “Ross is the man. We can trust Ross.”
Ross came forward as though the task of watching Melun was not an unwelcome one.
“Yes, boys,” he said, “you can trust me. I will go.”
“Then pull him together a bit,” ordered the bullet-headed man.
Thereupon they roughly plucked Melun's clothes into shape, sponged his face clear of blood, set his hat on his head, and put his stick into his hand.
By this time he had practically recovered himself. He gave one quick look of intense hatred towards Westerham and one quick, vindictive glance in the direction of the man with the bullet head.
“Very well,” he said, in a rather shaky voice. “If it must be, it must be. You are fools to believe your enemy, but I cannot prevent you. If you must know all, you will probably lose all; well—so much the worse for you.”
He jerked his waistcoat down and assumed a certain air of bravado. In spite of himself, Westerham could not but admire the man. At this point Crow urged again that he should be allowed to accompany Melun. Ross made no objection, and he was given leave to go.
The scoundrels round the table then watched Melun take his departure with Ross and Crow. The room was very quiet, and Westerham could hear the men's retreating footsteps along the path of the canal.
When they had quite ceased to be audible Westerham turned again to the bullet-headed man.
“How long do you suppose,” he asked, “we shall have to wait?”
“Heaven knows,” answered the fat man, with a shrug.
“Then, if you will permit me,” said Westerham, “I will sit down. And,” he added, “I should be obliged to you if you will remove these.”
He stretched out his handcuffed wrists.
One of the men laughed and knocked them off. Westerham thanked him and sat down.
Without more ado he took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. As he smoked he turned things rapidly over in his mind. He was perfectly certain that Melun, in spite of his protestations, would not reveal the whereabouts of the papers. Westerham even doubted whether Melun would take the trouble to lead the man on a bogus chase.
For some reason which he was unable to account for he had a foreboding of coming evil. He tried to shake it off, but in vain.
Time and time again he tried to think matters out and decide what Melun's probable course of action would be. But time and time again he failed to work out any theory which satisfied him.
At last, when half an hour had gone by and the delay was becoming irksome, Westerham spoke up again.
“If you will call for silence,” he said to the bullet-headed man, “there is something else I would like to say.”
The bullet-headed man called at once for order.
“Gentlemen,” said Westerham, addressing the men for the third and last time that night, “will you allow me to range myself on your side? I really think I have proved myself sufficiently a man to warrant my asking this.
“I will not take your oath, but if you will take the word of a gentleman, I will pledge it that, come what may, I will never reveal to anyone what has taken place to-night.”
There was considerable grumbling at this, but the bullet-headed man forcibly expressed his favourable opinion.
“Look here, mates,” he cried, turning to the others, “I know a gentleman when I see one, and I know that this gentleman is to be trusted. If Melun wants to do his own dirty work, let him do it.
“In spite of all his boasting our hands have been pretty clean up to the present. It is quite true that we have always been prepared to put a man out of the way if it had to be done, but we have never done it yet.
“And there is no reason, so far as I can see, that we should begin now. So long as we know where to find this gentleman, that should be good enough for us. I am not much of a hand at an argument, but one thing seems to me pretty plain. If this gent”—he indicated Westerham—“had wanted to give us away he would have given us away long since. No, you may depend upon it that whateverhis reasons may be he's got as good cause to keep silence as we have. Don't you think that's right?”
Again there was a good deal of grumbling, but on the other hand there was general assent.
“So I will tell you what we will do,” continued the bullet-headed man, now certain of his ground. “We will let him go on one condition—that he allows me and another man to accompany him home. That seems to be fair. It may be taking a bit of a risk, but it is the only thing to be done unless we want to do murder, and that is not our game. I am not taking any chances of hanging while there's money to be got, and no doubt but that this gentleman will use us fair.”
Westerham caught his meaning, and for the second time took out his pocket-book.
“I said that you would not steal these notes, and I also said that I would not give them away. But I have changed my mind. There they are—and I give you my word that to-morrow I will take the embargo off. It will be easy enough for you to find out whether they are posted as lost or not. I can scarcely do more.”
To this there was greedy assent, and Westerham realised that he was free. He did not even wait for the bullet-headed man's full approval, but reached out for his hat.
There was some dispute as to whom the notes should be given, and finally it was decided that Mackintosh—such was the name of the bullet-headed man—should keep them in his own charge. And then he and a second man by the name of Hicks accompanied Westerham out.
In the main road they took a tram and travelledwestward. At Aldgate Westerham hailed a cab, and the three men drove through the half-empty city streets, past St. Paul's, and up Fleet Street, into the Strand.
As they drew near to Walter's, Westerham's quick eye detected a crowd round the hotel. He thrust his hand through the trap-door in the roof and brought the cab to a standstill.
“Look here,” he said quickly to the other men, “that crowd is outside Walter's—and that is where I live.
“You can accompany me to the door if you like and see me go in; but I should not drive up if I were you, as you will only arouse interest, and possibly someone may see and recognise you. That would be awkward both for you and for me.”
Mackintosh gave a grin of agreement, and alighting, the three men walked towards the hotel.
As they approached the crowd, Mackintosh and his companion drew away from Westerham.
“It will do if we see you go in,” said the bullet-headed man, “we will wait here.” And he moved into a little opening on the side of the street opposite the hotel.
Westerham struck across the Strand and pushed his way through the press. The hotel door was closed and guarded on either side by a constable. Through the glass doorway Westerham could see the face of the hall porter peering out, pale and anxious and questioning.
He rapped on the door, and the porter opened it, the policemen making no demur, seeing that the porter obviously recognised the new arrival.
At the further end of the hall were gathered anumber of the visitors, talking excitedly, but in low voices.
Two immensely large and solid men were seated on a bench. They rose up as Westerham entered, and he immediately recognised one of them as the inquisitive Mr. Rookley from Scotland Yard.
Rookley, with a stern, set face, walked forward to meet Westerham, and touched him with a forefinger on his chest.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said.
The sense of coming evil against which Westerham had struggled earlier in the evening swept over him again with redoubled force. He made an effort to shake it off, but again failed to do so.
“What is it?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange and harsh even to himself.
Without a word, Rookley grasped his arm and led him up the stairs, nor did he stop till he reached the second floor, on which were situated Westerham's sitting-room and modest bedroom.
Opening the door of the sitting-room, Rookley drew Westerham in and closed the door again.
“Look here, Mr. Robinson,” he said, “you gave us the slip last time, I admit; and I admit also that it was only by a very dreadful miracle that I discovered your whereabouts to-night. For I was summoned here on an awful piece of business. But we've got you now, and I want an explanation.”
Westerham stared at him with a set face.
“Now, one thing is certain—I will give you that much credit”—the detective continued—“that you are not the actual perpetrator of what has happened. Perhaps, too, it would be better to prepare you for a shock, though you look a pretty strong-nervedman. You'd better brace yourself, Mr. Robinson.”
“All right,” said Westerham, quietly.
Without more ado the detective pushed open the door communicating with Westerham's bedroom and led the way in.
The room was in darkness, but Rookley, putting his thumb on the electric button, suddenly switched on the light. And with a cry Westerham stepped back and blundered against the detective.
For on the bed was stretched Ross, the man who had left him in the company of Crow and Melun; and driven hard up to the hilt, straight through the man's heart, was a knife which Westerham instantly recognised as one of his own.
The detective seized him almost roughly and hurried him mercilessly up to the bedside.
“Read that!” he whispered hoarsely.
Westerham stooped and saw attached to the handle of the knife a luggage label which bore the name of Walter's hotel.
And on the luggage label was printed in hand-writing the following inscription:—
“So perish all traitors. Be warned in time. The girl may be the next.”
“So perish all traitors. Be warned in time. The girl may be the next.”
Horrified though he was, Westerham made no sign. He had stood in the presence of death before, and he had faced it in more dreadful forms, though it is true he had never known it so intimately and so poignantly.
“The girl may be the next,” the words seemed ominous—like a doom. Troubles encompassed him on every side. An hour or so previously he had faced the greatest odds he had ever known till then. The odds were greater now.
Conscious that the keen eyes of Rookley were upon him, he saw that instant action was necessary, and turning on his heel he walked deliberately into the sitting-room.
The detective followed him, and then seating himself at the table, Westerham bade the man take a chair.
For a moment the detective's face lighted up with anticipation. It seemed to him that at last the mysterious Mr. Robinson was about to make some statement. His anticipations were, however, to be disappointed.
“Well,” said Westerham, in a pleasant, even voice, “I am waiting for you to begin.”
“I was hoping,” said Mr. Rookley, “that you were about to make some statement.”
“I never make statements,” said Westerham,“any more than I answer questions which are inconvenient. What have you to say?”
Suddenly the detective leant forward and spoke so quickly that Westerham was almost thrown off his guard.
“Who are you, Mr. Robinson?”
“I can only give you the same answer,” said Westerham, “which I gave you before—that my name is my own business.”
“You are aware, of course,” pursued Rookley, “that the present occasion is more serious than the last. You seem to have an unfortunate habit of coming in on the heels of awkward occurrences.”
“It does seem like it just now,” agreed Westerham.
There was a pause and Westerham was the first to speak again. “As you yourself know full well that I was not here when this business happened, I think that you had better clear the ground by telling me all you know if you wish me to assist you.”
Rookley looked at him sharply, but decided that Westerham was right.
“I will tell you,” he said.
“At about ten o'clock two men called and asked for you. Both of them were dressed rather like sailors, one man being short, the other tall. They were told that you were out.
“The tall man, however, said that he had come to see you in response to a letter, and that, as he knew you had a sitting-room, he would be obliged if they would allow him to wait with his friend.
“As the men were both quiet and respectable in dress and in manner, they were allowed to do so.
“After a little while the taller of the two men went down to the hall and told the porter that he had left his friend upstairs, and that he himself was going out to buy some cigarettes.
“The porter was a little surprised, but said nothing, but when half an hour had gone by he grew uneasy and going upstairs to the sitting-room discovered what you have just seen.
“The body was not touched, and we were immediately summoned by the police at Bow Street. The police-surgeon happened to be absent, and has not yet called. That accounts for the body being still undisturbed. We had, as a matter of fact, only been here a few minutes when you yourself arrived.”
“Is that all?” asked Westerham.
“That's all that I can tell you up to the present,” said the detective.
“What were the men like?” asked Westerham, though he had by this time little doubt as to the identity of the murderer, just as he knew well enough the identity of the victim.
“The murdered man,” said the detective, “you have seen yourself. The murderer—for there is not the slightest doubt that the taller of the two men stabbed the other—is described as being spare in build and black-bearded.”
“Black-bearded?” said Westerham, wonderingly.
Rookley looked at him sharply.
“You have suspicions?” he said.
“Is there a man without them?” asked Westerham.
“Come, come, sir,” urged the detective,“this is not a time for jesting.”
“I am not jesting,” said Westerham, and relapsed into silence.
“Don't you think,” asked the detective after a little while, “it would be better if you were to make a clean breast of everything?”
“I tell you frankly, Mr. Robinson,” he continued, “that I have changed my opinion about yourself. At first I thought you were a dupe of Melun's, but I was soon convinced that a man so astute as yourself could not possibly have been misled even by that clever scoundrel.
“Indeed, it seemed to me improbable that a gentleman of such ingenuity as yourself should have become a victim of any conspiracy. No, sir, it appears to me—mind, I am giving you every credit—that you are in some way bound up with a very extraordinary network of crime.
“What it is, of course, I cannot tell, unless you trust me. I wish you would see the wisdom of giving me your confidence. In the meantime I can only theorise.”
Mr. Rookley paused and looked infinitely wise.
“Go on,” said Westerham.
“In all probability,” Mr. Rookley proceeded, “you have become involved in some peculiar kind of vendetta. I assure you, sir, that when you are as versed in the machinations of mankind as I am you will not find such a supposition as mine at all romantic.
“If, however, such is the case, then Melun plays a part in it. And if Melun plays a part in it,” concluded the detective, with a fine show of pitiless logic,“then he had a hand in this. Now tell me, sir, do you suspect him?”
“I must once again,” said Westerham, “be allowed to point out that what I suspect is no affair of yours at all.
“I don't mind telling you, however, that I am involved in a very remarkable conspiracy. The part which I play is entirely innocent; on the other hand, it is impossible for me to make the faintest revelation concerning it.”
“But this is not the end of it,” cried Rookley. “By no means the end of it. Look at the threat on the luggage label. ‘The girl may be the next.’ Now, what does that mean? Who is the girl?”
Westerham's ruddy face grew a little pale.
“The girl,” he said, “is the lady it is my business to shelter and protect. By holding silent I can at least secure her life; if I breathe one word I can well believe that her fate may be the same as that of the man within.”
He pointed to the bedroom.
“Then, sir,” said the detective, banging his fist on the table, “it is your duty to tell us everything.
“The police can give protection to all who need it,” he added after a pause.
“The police did not save the dead,” answered Westerham. “And they cannot save the girl.”
“Mr. Robinson,” said the detective, darkly,“if you persist in silence I must resort to extreme measures. There was no justification in my detaining you yesterday over the gagging of your valet. But this is an entirely different piece of business.
“This is murder, and I should not be doing my duty if I did not turn every stone to bring the murderer to justice, I warn you solemnly that there is such a thing as being charged with complicity, and, if you continue to defy me as you do, then I shall have no other course but to take you in charge.”
“My dear man,” said Westerham, “don't be a fool. Let me implore you not to be led by a little exercise of your authority into taking a step which you would for ever regret.
“You have been extremely clever in your theories, but you have not been quite clever enough. I don't wish to be unkind, but you have lacked imagination. This is not some comparatively small affair; it is by no means a vendetta; it is by no means a quarrel over a woman.
“It is an affair in which half the participators act in blind ignorance. There are possibly only three people in existence who can throw any light on the matter. And they occupy such a position in this world that it would be extremely unwise for you to take any steps without their sanction.”
“I don't know who are concerned in the matter,” said the detective. “It is that of which I complain.”
“And I,” answered Westerham, “am not in a position to enlighten you.”
“One thing, however, I can tell you,” said the detective, “and that is that however he may be indirectly concerned in this murder, Melun himself did not actually commit it. I have already ascertained that he was in his club at the time.”
If he expected Westerham to betray the slightest surprise, Rookley was disappointed. For although, as a matter of fact, he was astounded atthis information, Sir Paul continued to stare at his interrogator in stony and unemotional silence.
“Indeed!” was the only remark he made.
Mr. Rookley rose and rang the bell, and when the servant appeared, asked him to request Mr. Moore to step upstairs.
A few minutes later Mr. Moore, the young detective whose acquaintance Westerham had made at his rooms in Bruton Street the day before, came briskly into the room.
“Mr. Moore,” said the detective, solemnly, “we must do our duty.
“It is our task to charge this gentleman with being concerned in this business.”
Westerham turned his hard, stern eyes on Moore, and the man felt uncomfortable.
“Very well, sir,” he said, looking at his chief.
“Stop!” cried Westerham, “before you do so, I want to ask you one or two questions. You, of course, are responsible to the Commissioner?”
Rookley nodded.
“And the Commissioner is responsible to the Home Secretary?”
Rookley nodded again.
“And the Home Secretary is, to a certain extent, responsible to the Prime Minister?”
Once more Rookley nodded.
“That being so,” Westerham continued, “will you allow me to ask you if you have ever known even as bad a business as this hushed up for high political motives?”
Rookley started and stared at him.
“Oh, I see you have,” said Westerham.
“This is not Russia, sir,” remarked Mr. Rookley.
“No,” said Westerham, “but, on the other hand, Russian methods are not wholly unknown in this country.”
It was Mr. Rookley's turn to look uncomfortable now.
“Now,” continued Westerham, “you have warned me. I want to warn you. In dealing with me you are dealing with no ordinary person. I assure you that by my silence I am doing my duty by the State, although I practically know no more what this means than you do. I give you my word on that.
“I know, however, sufficient to appreciate that my arrest must result in a great many inquiries, the effect of which will be disastrous, not only to individuals, but to the State. I repeat again that I cannot see plainly in what way, but I have sufficient knowledge to justify my assuming this conclusion.
“What I ask you therefore is this: Will you allow me to write a note to the Prime Minister in person? I will abide by the answer, which you can easily get from Downing Street within the space of half an hour.”
Mr. Rookley's face suddenly brightened, and there was a certain triumphant air in his manner, as much as to say that he had convicted Westerham of having blundered badly.
“The Prime Minister is away,” he snapped.
“I know that,” said Westerham,“but his private secretary, the Hon. Claude Hilden, is at No. 10. There is, moreover, a private telephone wire to Trant Hall. I know that because I was at the Hall yesterday.”
Mr. Rookley opened his eyes wide. His astonishment was intense and undisguised.
“I will write that note,” said Westerham—“and believe me that the writing of it will save a vast deal of trouble—on one condition. Will you pledge me your word that it shall not be tampered with and shall not be read by anyone until it is placed in the hands of Mr. Hilden himself?”
For a few moments the detective looked worried and doubtful.
“Very well,” he said finally; “but, of course, you must realise that if you are simply putting up a game on us the consequences will be all the worse for yourself.”
“I am perfectly aware,” said Westerham, coldly, “of precisely what I am doing.”
Thereupon he rose, and, going over to the writing-table, hastily wrote the following letter:—
“To the Honourable Claude Hilden, Private Secretary to the Right Honourable the Earl of Penshurst.“Personal and private.“Dear Sir,—Kindly inform Lord Penshurst at once by telephone that the writer of this note—Mr. James Robinson, of Bruton Street—whose rooms were burglariously entered by yourself yesterday afternoon—is in an awkward predicament.“For your own convenience I occupied, besides the flat in Bruton Street, rooms in Walter's Hotel. During my absence to-night an atrocious murder was committed in those rooms. The detectives called in to take charge of the case are convinced that, while I am not the murderer, I am involved in the conspiracy which brought it about. That conspiracy is perfectly well known to Lord Penshurst. There is no justification for my arrest, and the result of police-court proceedings must compel me to make revelations which may prove exceedingly awkward to his lordship.“I recognise that there must be an inquest, and I am prepared to give evidence there. Nothing I may say there, however, will in any way involve the Prime Minister.“I venture to write to you and point these things out, and to ask you that you should immediately communicate with Lord Penshurst by telephone, as, although I am practically in ignorance of all that is going on about me, I realise that some very important matter is involved which Lord Penshurst desires to keep to himself.—I am, yours faithfully,“James Robinson.”
“To the Honourable Claude Hilden, Private Secretary to the Right Honourable the Earl of Penshurst.
“Personal and private.
“Dear Sir,—Kindly inform Lord Penshurst at once by telephone that the writer of this note—Mr. James Robinson, of Bruton Street—whose rooms were burglariously entered by yourself yesterday afternoon—is in an awkward predicament.
“For your own convenience I occupied, besides the flat in Bruton Street, rooms in Walter's Hotel. During my absence to-night an atrocious murder was committed in those rooms. The detectives called in to take charge of the case are convinced that, while I am not the murderer, I am involved in the conspiracy which brought it about. That conspiracy is perfectly well known to Lord Penshurst. There is no justification for my arrest, and the result of police-court proceedings must compel me to make revelations which may prove exceedingly awkward to his lordship.
“I recognise that there must be an inquest, and I am prepared to give evidence there. Nothing I may say there, however, will in any way involve the Prime Minister.
“I venture to write to you and point these things out, and to ask you that you should immediately communicate with Lord Penshurst by telephone, as, although I am practically in ignorance of all that is going on about me, I realise that some very important matter is involved which Lord Penshurst desires to keep to himself.—I am, yours faithfully,
“James Robinson.”
Westerham fastened the note down, sealed it, and handed it to Rookley, who instructed Moore to take it immediately to Downing Street.
There, Moore told Rookley afterwards, he had the unusual experience of seeing Mr. Hilden go pale as death, and of hearing him mutter excitedly to himself.
Then the private telephone was busy for some ten minutes, and presently Mr. Hilden came back still greatly agitated, and told Moore to instruct Rookley that Mr. Robinson was on no account to be detained.
Both the men were, moreover, enjoined to complete silence, and told that not a word of the mattermust be breathed to anyone except the Commissioner himself.
When Moore came back with these various messages, Rookley sat for some moments as though entirely overcome.
When at last he spoke his voice was husky.
“I don't know what it's all about, sir,” he said to Westerham, “or who you may be. Apparently it is none of my business to inquire; but I tell you frankly that this beats everything that I have ever known in the course of my long experience.
“You will naturally have to take another room, as the body must not be touched till the police-surgeon has seen it, when it can be removed to the mortuary. You will get your summons for the inquest in the morning.”
He went into the bedroom where the dead man lay and shut the door with a bang.
Westerham, without even troubling to gather together his different effects, rang the bell and ordered another room. But, as may be imagined, he did not sleep much; indeed, he sat and smoked throughout the entire night, trying to account for the real motive which underlay the murder.
Slowly, too, he began to see that he had underrated Melun's resources and fiendish cleverness; for this was evidently Melun's work.
Yet it was difficult to account for Melun's presence in his club at the moment of the perpetration of the crime. Melun must have acted with almost superhuman swiftness and ingenuity.
Piecing the affair together as best he could, Westerham came to the conclusion that after the menhad left Limehouse Melun must have purchased Crow's adherence out and out; and this more than ever puzzled Westerham to understand what the amazing mystery in which he was entangled meant. He could well believe now that the stake was even greater than the quarter of a million the captain himself had mentioned.
Then he also became convinced that not only had he underestimated Melun's mental capacity, but that he had underrated his physical hardihood; for by this murder, unless he had in some subtle way pre-armed himself with a triumphant excuse, the captain had automatically cut himself adrift from the rougher spirits of his gang.
This reflection led to a great anxiety on Westerham's part, for he realised that if Melun could afford to take this step the crisis must be close at hand. And it was an exceedingly uncomfortable and hair-raising thought when he remembered the threat pinned to the dead man's chest.
“The girl may be the next.”
The words haunted him more than Kathleen's own extraordinary statement. He wondered impotently when the problems which beset him would cease to multiply.
The whole situation seemed to have a double edge, for while he rejoiced to think that the crisis must now be close at hand, he was correspondingly terrified by the thought that the crisis might involve, not only the safety, but even the life of Lady Kathleen.
That he could actually blackmail the Prime Minister to the extent of securing his immunity from arrest only increased his alarm, because hewas able thereby to appreciate more than ever the reality of the unknown peril in which Lord Penshurst stood.
It was with much apprehension that he sent for the morning papers and read what they might have to say concerning the tragedy.
Fortunately the newspapers—whether by Rookley's instrumentality or not Westerham didn't know—were discreet almost to the verge of being indefinite.
They confined themselves to setting forth those details of the murder which could not be hidden; they advanced no theories whatsoever, contenting themselves by stating that the police had a clue and that important developments might be expected.
They did not mention the fact that the murder had been committed in the room occupied by a Mr. James Robinson, but Westerham was glad to note that they did not speculate as to who he might be, nor did they attempt to give any account of his present or past circumstances.
He was prepared to face, and if necessary to defeat, a battery of questions when he went to the inquest.
The strange little coroner's court was packed to suffocation, and Westerham was conscious that every eye was turned upon him. But he drew some comfort from the reflection that this was inevitable, seeing that he was the only witness in the case beyond the hall-porter and the detective.
To his surprise he found that the coroner led him quietly through a few formal questions as to the hour at which he arrived at the hotel and what he had seen there. The coroner, indeed, made no attemptto discover Westerham's actual identity, nor even suggested that he should advance any theory of the strange affair.
At the close of Westerham's evidence, however, one of the jurymen became for a few moments a little troublesome.
“I think it should be asked,” said this gentleman, “whether Mr. Robinson's suspicions turn in any particular direction.
“Has anything occurred in his life that would suggest that such a crime might be looked for?”
But the coroner cut him short in such a freezing manner that Westerham rightly guessed that Rookley had been using a tactful influence.
“I consider that question,” said the coroner, “a most improper one. We have been assured by Mr. Rookley that there is not the slightest reason to associate Mr. Robinson with this crime. Interference on your part is out of place, and may even lead to a miscarriage of justice. I am perfectly certain that this matter may be safely left to the police, who should be allowed to take their own course of action.”
The juryman grumbled a little, but subsided, and the sharp eyes of the reporters at the tables looked disappointed.
A verdict of wilful murder by some person unknown concluded the inquest, from which Westerham hurried in order to evade further questionings from curious journalists.
He imagined that his hotel was likely by this time to be beset by reporters, and so, having first acquainted Inspector Rookley with his intention, he went back to his rooms in Bruton Street.
There even the mask-like face of his valet bore some traces of distrust and curiosity. It was, however, without a word that the man handed him a note.
To his surprise, and with a little leap of his heart, Westerham saw that it was addressed in a woman's hand-writing, and for a moment he thought that the letter might be from Lady Kathleen. But he was very roughly undeceived, for, tearing open the envelope, his eye instantly caught the address—“Laburnum Road, St. John's Wood”—while across half a sheet of newspaper was scrawled:—
“For Lady Kathleen's sake, come to me at once.“Marie Estelle.”
“For Lady Kathleen's sake, come to me at once.
“Marie Estelle.”