Melky, who had grown breathless in his efforts to carry out his companion's wishes, turned and looked at him with no attempt to conceal his wonder.
"Well, s'elp me if you ain't a cool 'un, Mr. Ayscough!" he exclaimed. "Here you troubles to track a chap to this here Underground Railway, seen him pop into it like a rabbit into a hole—and let's him go! What did we follow him up Gower Street for? Just to see him set off for a ride?"
"All right, my lad!" repeated Ayscough. "You don't quite understand our little ways. Wait here a minute."
He drew one of his cards from his pocket and carrying it into the booking office exchanged a few words with the clerk at the window. Presently he rejoined Melky. "He took a ticket for Whitechapel," remarked Ayscough as he strolled quietly up. "Ah! now what does a young Japanese medical student want going down that way at eleven o'clock at night? Something special, no doubt, Mr. Rubinstein. However, I'm going westward just now. Just going to have a look in at the Great Western Hotel, to see if Mr. Purdie heard anything from that American chap—and then I'm for home and bed. Like to come to the hotel with me?"
"Strikes me we might as well make a night of it!" remarked Melky as they recrossed the road and sought a west-bound train. "We've had such an evening as I never expected! Mr. Ayscough! when on earth is this going to come to something like a clearing-up?"
Ayscough settled himself in a corner of a smoking-carriage and leaned back.
"My own opinion," he said, "is that it's coming to an end. Tomorrow, the news of the Chinaman's murder'll be the talk of the town. And if that doesn't fetch Levendale out of whatever cranny he's crept into, hanged if I know what will!"
"Ah! you think that, do you?" said Melky. "But—why should that news fetch him out?"
"Don't know!" replied Ayscough, almost unconcernedly. "But I'm almost certain that it will. You see—I think Levendale's looking for Chen Li. Now, if Levendale hears that Chen Li's lying dead in our mortuary—what? See?"
Melky murmured that Mr. Ayscough was a cute 'un, and relapsed into thought until the train pulled up at Praed Street. He followed the detective up the streets and across the road to the hotel, dumbly wondering how many times that day he had been in and about that quarter on this apparently interminable chase. He was getting dazed—but Ayscough who was still smoking the cigar which Yada had given him, strode along into the hotel entrance apparently as fresh as paint.
Purdie had a private sitting-room in connection with his bedroom, and there they found him and Lauriston, both smoking pipes and each evidently full of thought and speculation. They jumped to their feet as the detective entered.
"I say!" exclaimed Lauriston. "Is this true?—this about the Chinese chap? Is it what they think at your police-station?—connected with the other affairs? We've been waiting, hoping you'd come in!"
"Ah!" said Ayscough, dropping into a chair. "We've been pretty busy, me and Mr. Rubinstein there—we've had what you might call a pretty full evening's work of it. Yes—it's true enough, gentlemen—another step in the ladder—another brick in the building! We're getting on, Mr. Purdie, we're getting on! So you've been round to our place?—they told you, there!"
"They gave us a mere outline," answered Purdie. "Just the bare facts. I suppose you've heard nothing of the other Chinaman?"
"Not a circumstance—as yet," said Ayscough. "But I'm in hopes—I've done a bit, I think, towards it—with Mr. Rubinstein's help, though he doesn't quite understand my methods. But you, gentlemen—I came in to hear if you'd anything to tell about Guyler. What did he think about what John Purvis had to tell us this afternoon?"
"He wasn't surprised," answered Purdie. "Don't you remember that he assured us from the very start that diamonds would be found to be at the bottom of this. But he surprised us!"
"Aye? How?" asked Ayscough. "Some news?"
"Guyler swears that he saw Stephen Purvis this very morning," repliedPurdie. "He's confident of it!"
"Saw Stephen Purvis—this very morning!" exclaimed Ayscough. "Where, now?"
"Guyler had business down in the City—in the far end of it," said Purdie. "He was crossing Bishopsgate when he saw Stephen Purvis—he swears it was Stephen Purvis!—nothing can shake him! He, Purvis, was just turning the corner into a narrow alley running out of the street. Guyler rushed after him—he'd disappeared. Guyler waited, watching that alley, he says, like a cat watches a mouse-hole—and all in vain. He watched for an hour—it was no good."
"Pooh!" said Ayscough. "If it was Purvis, he'd walked straight through the alley and gone out at the other end."
"No!" remarked Lauriston. "At least, not according to Guyler. Guyler says it was a long, narrow alley—Purvis couldn't have reached one end by the time he'd reached the other. He says—Guyler—that on each side of that alley there are suites of offices—he reckoned there were a few hundred separate offices in the lot, and that it would take him a week to make enquiry at the doors of each. But he's certain that Purvis disappeared into one block of them and dead certain that it was Stephen Purvis that he saw. So—Purvis is alive!"
"Where's the other Purvis—the farmer?" asked Ayscough.
"Stopping with Guyler at the Great Northern," answered Lauriston. "We've all four been down in the City, looking round, this evening. Guyler and John Purvis are going down again first thing in the morning. John Purvis, of course, is immensely relieved to know that Guyler's certain about his brother. I say!—do you know what Guyler's theory is about that diamond of Stephen's?"
"No—and what might Mr. Guyler's theory be, now Mr. Lauriston?" enquired the detective. "There's such a lot of ingenious theories about that one may as well try to take in another. Mr. Rubinstein there is about weary of theories."
But Melky was pricking his ears at the mere mention of anything relating to the diamond.
"That's his chaff, Mr. Lauriston," he said. "Never mind him! What doesGuyler think?"
"Well, of course, Guyler doesn't know yet about the Chinese development," said Lauriston. "Guyler thinks the robbery has been the work of a gang—a clever lot of diamond thieves who knew about Stephen Purvis's find of the orange-yellow thing and put in a lot of big work about getting it when it reached England. And he believes that that gang has kidnapped Levendale, and that Stephen Purvis is working in secret to get at them. That's Guyler's notion, anyhow."
"Well!" said Ayscough. "And there may be something in it! For this search—how do we know that at any rate one of these Chinamen mayn't have had some connection with this gang? You never know—and to get a dead straight line at a thing's almost impossible. However, we've taken steps to have the news about the diamond and about this Chen Li appear in tomorrow morning's papers, and if that doesn't rouse the whole town—"
A tap at the door prefaced the entrance of a waiter, who looked apologetically at its inmates.
"Beg pardon, gentlemen," he said, "Mr. Ayscough? Gentleman outside would like a word with you, if you please, sir."
Ayscough picked up his hat and walked out—there, waiting a little way down the corridor, an impressive figure in his big black cloak and wide-brimmed hat, stood Dr. Mirandolet. He strode forward as the detective advanced.
"I heard you were here, so I came up," he said, leading Ayscough away."Look here, my friend—one of your people has told me of this affair atMolteno Lodge—the discovery of the Chinaman's dead body."
"That young fellow, Rubinstein, who called on you early this evening, and got me to accompany him discovered it," said Ayscough, who was wondering what the doctor was after. "I was with him."
"I have heard, too," continued Mirandolet, "also from one of your people, about the strange story of the diamond which came out this afternoon, from the owner's brother. Now—I'll tell you why after—I want to see that dead Chinaman! I've a particular reason. Will you come with me to the mortuary?"
Ayscough's curiosity was aroused by Mirandolet's manner, and without going back to Purdie's room, he set out with him. Mirandolet remained strangely silent until they came to the street in which the mortuary stood.
"A strange and mysterious matter this, my friend!" he said. "That little Rubinstein man might have had some curious premonition when he came to me tonight with his odd question about Chinese!"
"Just what I said myself, doctor!" agreed Ayscough.
"It did look as if he'd a sort of foreboding, eh? But—Hullo!"
He stopped short as a taxi-cab driven at a considerable speed, came rushing down the street and passing them swiftly turned into the wider road beyond. And the sudden exclamation was forced from his lips because it seemed to him that as the cab sped by he saw a yellow-hued face within it—for the fraction of a second. Quick as that glimpse was, Ayscough was still quicker as he glanced at the number on the back of the car—and memorized it.
"Odd!" he muttered, "odd! Now, I could have sworn—" He broke off, and hurried after Mirandolet who had stridden ahead. "Here we are, doctor," he said, as they came to the door of the mortuary. "There's a man on night duty here, so there's no difficulty about getting in."
There was a drawing of bolts, a turning of keys; the door opened, and a man looked out and seeing Ayscough and Dr. Mirandolet, admitted them into an ante-room and turned up the gas.
"We want to see that Chinaman, George," said the detective. "Shan't keep you long."
"There's a young foreign doctor just been to see him, Mr. Ayscough," said the man. "You'd pass his car down the street—he hasn't been gone three minutes. Young Japanese—brought your card with him."
Ayscough turned on the man as if he had given him the most startling news in the world.
"What?" he exclaimed, "Japanese? Brought my card?"
"Showed me it as soon as he got here," answered the attendant, surprised at Ayscough's amazement. "Said you'd given it to him, so that he could call here and identify the body. So, of course, I let him go in."
Ayscough opened his mouth in sheer amazement. But before he could get out a word, Mirandolet spoke, seizing the mortuary-keeper by the arm in his eagerness.
"You let that man—a Japanese—see the dead Chinaman—alone?" he demanded.
"Why, of course!" the attendant answered surlily. "He'd Mr. Ayscough's card, and—"
Mirandolet dropped the man's arm and threw up his own long white hands.
"Merciful Powers!" he vociferated. "He has stolen the diamond!"
The silence that followed on this extraordinary exclamation was suddenly broken: the mortuary keeper, who had been advancing towards a door at the side of the room, dropped a bunch of keys. The strange metallic sound of their falling roused Ayscough, who had started aside, and was staring, open-mouthed, at Mirandolet's waving hands. He caught the doctor by the arm.
"What on earth do you mean?" he growled. "Speak man—what is it?"
Mirandolet suddenly laughed.
"What is it?" he exclaimed. "Precisely what I said, in plain language! That fellow has, of course, gone off with the diamond—worth eighty thousand pounds! Your card!—Oh, man, man, whatever have you been doing? Be quick!—who is this Japanese?—how came he by your card? Quick, I say!—if you want to be after him!"
"Hanged if I know what this means!" muttered Ayscough. "As to who he is—if he's the fellow I gave a card to, he's a young Japanese medical student, one Yada, that was a friend of those Chinese—I called on him tonight, with Rubinstein, to see if we could pick up a bit of information. Of course, I sent in my professional card to him. But—we saw him set off to the East End!"
"Bah!" laughed Mirandolet. "He has—what you call done you brown, my friend! He came—here! And he has got away—got a good start—with that diamond in his pocket!"
"What the devil do you mean by that?" said Ayscough, hotly. "Diamond! Diamond! Where should he find the diamond—here? In a deadhouse? What are you talking about?"
Mirandolet laughed again, and giving the detective a look that was very like one of pitying contempt, turned to the amazed mortuary keeper.
"Show us that dead man!" he said.
The mortuary keeper, who had allowed his keys to lie on the floor during this strange scene, picked them up, and selecting one, opened, and threw back the door by which he was standing. He turned on the light in the mortuary chamber, and Mirandolet strode in, with Ayscough, sullen and wondering, at his heels.
Chen Li lay where the detective had last seen him, still and rigid, the sheet drawn carefully over his yellow face. Without a word Mirandolet drew that sheet aside, and motioning his companion to draw nearer, pointed to a skull-cap of thin blue silk which fitted over the Chinaman's head.
"You see that!" he whispered. "You know what's beneath it!—something that no true Chinaman ever parts with, even if he does come to Europe, and does wear English dress and English headgear—his pigtail! Look here!"
He quietly moved the skull-cap, and showed the two astonished men a carefully-coiled mass of black hair, wound round and round the back of the head. And into it he slipped his own long, thin fingers—to draw them out again with an exclamation which indicated satisfaction with his own convictions.
"Just as I said," he remarked. "Gone! Mr. Detective—that's where Chen Li hid the diamond—and that Japanese man has got it. And now—you'd better be after him—half-an-hour's start to him is as good as a week's would be to you."
He drew the sheet over the dead face and strode out, and Ayscough followed, angry, mystified, and by no means convinced.
"Look here!" he said, as they reached the ante-room; "that's all very well, Dr. Mirandolet, but it's only supposition on your part!"
"Supposition that you'll find to be absolute truth, my good friend!" retorted Mirandolet, calmly. "I know the Chinese—better than you think. As soon as I heard of this affair tonight, I came to you to put you up to the Chinese trick of secreting things of value in their pigtails—it did not occur to me that the diamond might be there in this case, but I thought you would probably find something. But when we reached this mortuary, and I heard that a Japanese had been here, presenting your card when he had no business to present it, I guessed immediately what had happened—and now that you tell me that you told him all about this affair, well—I am certain of my assertion. Mr. Detective—go after the diamond!"
He turned as if to leave the place, and Ayscough followed.
"He mayn't been after the diamond at all!" he said, still resentful and incredulous. "Is it very likely he'd think it to be in that dead chap's pigtail when the other man's missing? It's Chang that's got that diamond—not Chen."
"All right, my friend!" replied Mirandolet. "Your wisdom is superior to mine, no doubt. So—I wish you good-night!"
He strode out of the place and turned sharply up the street, andAyscough, after a growl or two, went back to the mortuary keeper.
"How long was that Jap in there?" he asked, nodding at the death chamber.
"Not a minute, Mr. Ayscough!" replied the man. "In and out again, as you might say."
"Did he say anything when he came out?" enquired the detective.
"He did—two words," answered the keeper. "He said, 'That's he!' and walked straight out, and into his car."
"And when he came he told you I'd sent him?" demanded Ayscough.
"Just that—and showed me your card," assented the man. "Of course, I'd no reason to doubt his word."
"Look here, George!" said Ayscough, "you keep this to yourself! Don't say anything to any of our folks if they come in. I don't half believe what that doctor said just now—but I'll make an enquiry or two. Mum's the word, meanwhile. You understand, George?"
George answered that he understood very well, and Ayscough presently left him. Outside, in the light of the lamp set over the entrance to the mortuary, he pulled out his watch. Twelve o'clock—midnight. And somewhere, that cursed young Jap was fleeing away through the London streets—having cheated him, Ayscough, at his own game!
He had already reckoned things up in connection with Yada. Yada had been having him—even as Melky Rubinstein had suspected and suggested—all through that conversation at Gower Street. Probably, Yada, from his window in the drawing-room floor of his lodging-house, had watched him and Melky slip across the street and hide behind the hoarding opposite. And then Yada had gone out, knowing he was to be followed, and had tricked them beautifully, getting into an underground train going east, and, in all certainty, getting out again at the next station, chartering a cab, and returning west—with Ayscough's card in his pocket.
But Ayscough knew one useful thing—he had memorized the letters and numbers of the taxi-cab in which Yada had sped by him and Mirandolet, L.C. 2571—he had kept repeating that over and over. Now he took out his note-book and jotted it down—and that done he set off to the police-station, intent first of all on getting in touch with New Scotland Yard by means of the telephone.
Ayscough, like most men of his calling in London, had a considerable amount of general knowledge of things and affairs, and he summoned it to his aid in this instance. He knew that if the Japanese really had become possessed of the orange and yellow diamond (of which supposition, in spite of Mirandolet's positive convictions, he was very sceptical) he would most certainly make for escape. He would be off to the Continent, hot foot. Now, Ayscough had a good acquaintance with the Continental train services—some hours must elapse before Yada could possibly get a train for Dover, or Folkstone, or Newhaven, or the shortest way across, or to any other ports such as Harwich or Southampton, by a longer route. Obviously, the first thing to do was to have the stations at Victoria, and Charing Cross, and Holborn Viaduct, and London Bridge carefully watched for Yada. And for two weary hours in the middle of the night he was continuously at work on the telephone, giving instructions and descriptions, and making arrangements to spread a net out of which the supposed fugitive could not escape.
And when all that was at last satisfactorily arranged, Ayscough was conscious that it might be for nothing. He might be on a wrong track altogether—due to the suspicions and assertions of that queer man, Mirandolet. There might be some mystery—in Ayscough's opinion there always was mystery wherever Chinese or Japanese or Hindus were concerned. Yada might have some good reason for wishing to see Chen Li's dead body, and have taken advantage of the detective's card to visit it. This extraordinary conduct might be explained. But meanwhile Ayscough could not afford to neglect a chance, and tired as he was, he set out to find the driver of the taxicab whose number he had carefully set down in his notebook.
There was little difficulty in this stage of the proceedings; it was merely a question of time, of visiting a central office and finding the man's name and address. By six o'clock in the morning Ayscough was at a small house in a shabby street in Kentish Town, interviewing a woman who had just risen to light her fire, and was surlily averse to calling up a husband, who, she said, had not been in bed until nearly four. She was not any more pleased when Ayscough informed her of his professional status—but the man was fetched down.
"You drove a foreigner—a Japanese—to the mortuary in Paddington last night?" said Ayscough, plunging straight into business, after telling the man who he was. "I saw him—just a glimpse of him—in your cab, and I took your number. Now, where did you first pick him up?"
"Outside the Underground, at King's Cross," replied the driver promptly.
This was precisely what Ayscough had expected; so far, so good; his own prescience was proving sure.
"Anything wrong, mister?" asked the driver.
"There may be," said Ayscough. "Well—you picked him up there, and drove him straight to the mortuary?"
"No—I didn't," said the man. "We made a call first. Euston. He went in there, and, I should say, went to the left luggage office, 'cause he came back again with a small suit-case—just a little 'un. Then we went on to that mortuary."
Euston! A small suit-case! More facts—Ayscough made notes of them.
"Well," he said, "and when you drove away from the mortuary, where did you go then?"
"Oxford Circus," answered the driver, "set him down—his orders—right opposite the Tube Station—t'other side of the street."
"Did you see which way he went—then?" enquired Ayscough.
"I did. Straight along Oxford Street—Tottenham Court Road way," said the driver, "carrying his suitcase—which it was, as I say, on'y a little 'un—and walking very fast. Last I see of him was that, guv'nor."
Ayscough went away and got back to more pretentious regions. He was dead tired and weary with his night's work, and glad to drop in at an early-opened coffee-shop and get some breakfast. While he ate and drank a boy came in with the first editions of the newspapers. Ayscough picked one up—and immediately saw staring headlines:—
Ayscough laid down the paper and smiled. Levendale—if not dead—could scarcely fail to see that!
Five minutes after Ayscough had gone away with Dr. Mirandolet the hotel servant who had summoned him from Purdie's sitting-room knocked at the door for the second time and put a somewhat mystified face inside.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, glancing at Purdie, who was questioning Melky Rubinstein as to the events of the evening in their relation to the house in Maida Vale. "Two ladies outside, sir—waiting to see you. But they don't want to come in, sir, unless they know who's here—don't want to meet no strangers, sir."
Purdie jumped to his feet, and putting the man aside looked into the dimly-lighted corridor. There, a few paces away, stood Zillah—and, half hidden by her, Mrs. Goldmark.
"Come in—come in!" he exclaimed. "Nobody here but Andie Lauriston andMelky Rubinstein. You've something to tell—something's happened?"
He ushered them into the room, sent the hotel servant, obviously in a state of high curiosity about these happenings, away, and closed the door.
"S'elp me!" exclaimed Melky, "there ain't no other surprises, Zillah? You ain't come round at this time o' night for nothing! What you got to tell, Zillah?—another development?"
"Mrs. Goldmark has something to tell," answered Zillah. "We didn't know what to do, and you didn't come, Melky—nobody come—and so we locked the house and thought of Mr. Purdie. Mrs. Goldmark has seen somebody!"
"Who?" demanded Melky. "Somebody, now? What somebody?"
"The man that came to her restaurant," replied Zillah. "The man who lost the platinum solitaire!"
Mrs. Goldmark who had dropped into the chair which Purdie had drawn to the side of the table for her, wagged her head thoughtfully.
"This way it was, then," she said, with a dramatic suggestion of personal enjoyment in revealing a new feature of the mystery, "I have a friend who lives in Stanhope Street—Mrs. Isenberg. She sends to me at half-past-ten to tell me she is sick. I go to see her—immediate. I find her very poorly—so! I stop with her till past eleven, doing what I can. Then her sister, she comes—I can do no more—I come away. And I walk through Sussex Square, as my road back to Praed Street and Zillah. But before I am much across Sussex Square, I stop—sudden, like that! For what? Because—I see a man! That man! Him what drops his cuff-link on my table. Oh, yes!"
"You're sure it was that man, Mrs. Goldmark?" enquired Melky, anxiously. "You don't make no mistakes, so?"
"Do I mistake myself if I say I see you, Mr. Rubinstein?" exclaimed Mrs. Goldmark, solemnly and with emphasis. "No, I don't make no mistakes at all. Is there not gas lamps?—am I not blessed with good eyes? I see him—like as I see you there young gentleman and Zillah. Plain!"
"Well—and what was he doing?" asked Purdie, desirous of getting at facts. "Did he come out of a house, or go into one, or—what?"
"I tell you," replied Mrs. Goldmark, "everything I tell you—all in good time. It is like this. A taxicab comes up—approaching me. It stops—by the pavement. Two men—they get out. Him first. Then another. They pay the driver—then they walk on a little—just a few steps. They go into a house. The other man—he lets them into that house. With a latch-key. The door opens—shuts. They are inside. Then I go to Zillah and tell her what I see. So!"
The three young men exchanged glances, and Purdie turned to the informant.
"Mrs. Goldmark," he said, "did you know the man who opened the door?"
"Not from another!" replied Mrs. Goldmark. "A stranger to me!"
"Do you know Mr. Levendale—by sight?" asked Purdie.
"Often, since all this begins, I ask myself that question," said Mrs. Goldmark, "him being, so to speak, a neighbour. No, that I do not, not being able to say he was ever pointed out to me."
"Well, you can describe the man who pulled out his latch-key and opened the door, anyhow," remarked Purdie. "You took a good look at him, I suppose!"
"And a good one," answered Mrs. Goldmark. "He was one of our people—I saw his nose and his eyes. And I was astonished to see so poor-looking a man have a latch-key to so grand a mansion as that!—he was dressed in poor clothes, and looked dirty and mean."
"A bearded dark man?" suggested Purdie.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Goldmark. "A clean-shaved man—though dark he might be."
Purdie looked at Melky and shook his head.
"That's not Levendale!" he said, "Clean-shaven! Levendale's bearded and mustached—and I should say a bit vain of his beard. Um! you're dead certain, Mrs. Goldmark, about the other man?"
"As that I tell you this," insisted Mrs. Goldmark. "I see him as plain as what I see him when he calls at my establishment and leaves his jewellery on my table. Oh, yes—I don't make no mistake, Mr. Purdie."
Purdie looked again at Melky—this time with an enquiry in his glance.
"Don't ask me, Mr. Purdie!" said Melky. "I don't know what to say. Sounds like as if these two went into Levendale's house. But what man would have a latch-key to that but Levendale himself? More mystery!—ain't I full of it already? Now if Mr. Ayscough hadn't gone away—"
"Look here!" said Purdie, coming to a sudden decision, "I'm going round there. I want to know what this means—I'm going to know. You ladies had better go home. If you others like to come as far as the corner of Sussex Square, come. But I'm going to Levendale's house alone. I'll find something out."
He said no more until, Zillah and Mrs. Goldmark having gone homeward, and he and his two companions having reached a side street leading into Sussex Square, he suddenly paused and demanded their attention!
"I've particular reasons for wanting to go into that house alone," he said. "There's no danger—trust me. But—if I'm not out again in a quarter of an hour or so, you can come there and ask for me. My own impression is that I shall find Levendale there. And—as you're aware, Andie—I know Levendale." He left them standing in the shadow of a projecting portico and going up to Levendale's front door, rang the bell. There was no light in any of the windows; all appeared to be in dead stillness in the house; somewhere, far off in the interior, he heard the bell tinkle. And suddenly, as he stood waiting and listening, he heard a voice that sounded close by him and became aware that there was a small trap or grille in the door, behind which he made out a face.
"Who is that?" whispered the voice.
"John Purdie—wanting to see Mr. Levendale," he answered promptly.
The door was just as promptly opened, and as Purdie stepped within was as quickly closed behind him. At the same instant the click of a switch heralded a flood of electric light, and he started to see a man standing at his side—a man who gave him a queer, deprecating smile, a man who was not and yet who was Levendale.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Purdie, "it isn't—"
"Yes!" said Levendale, quietly. "But it is, though! All right,Purdie—come this way."
Purdie followed Levendale into a small room on the right of the hall—a room in which the remains of a cold, evidently impromptu supper lay on a table lighted by a shaded lamp. Two men had been partaking of that supper, but Levendale was alone. He gave his visitor another queer smile, and pointed, first to a chair and then to a decanter.
"Sit down—take a drink," he said. "This is a queer meeting! We haven't seen each other since—"
"Good God, man!" broke in Purdie, staring at his host. "What's it all mean? Are you—disguised?"
Levendale laughed—ruefully—and glanced at the mean garments whichMrs. Goldmark had spoken of.
"Necessity!" he said. "Had to! Ah!—I've been through some queer times—and in queer places. Look here—what do you know?"
"Know!" cried Purdie. "You want me to tell you all I know—in a sentence? Man!—it would take a month! What do you know? That's more like it!"
Levendale passed a hand across his forehead—there was a weariness in his gesture which showed his visitor that he was dead beat.
"Aye, just so!" he said. "But—tell me! has John Purvis come looking for his brother?"
"He has!" answered Purdie. "He's in London just now."
"Has he told about that diamond?—told the police?" demanded Levendale.
"He has!" repeated Purdie. "That's all known. Stephen Purvis—where is he?"
"Upstairs—asleep—dead tired out," said Levendale. "We both are! Night and day—day and night—I could fall on this floor and sleep—"
"You've been after that diamond?" suggested Purdie.
"That—and something else," said Levendale.
"Something else?" asked Purdie. "What then?"
"Eighty thousand pounds," answered Levendale. "Just that!"
Purdie stood staring at him. Then he suddenly put a question.
"Do you know who murdered that old man in Praed Street?" he demanded."That's what I'm after."
"No!" said Levendale, promptly. "I don't even know that he was murdered!" He, too, stared at his visitor for a moment; then "But I know more than a little about his being robbed," he added significantly.
Purdie shook his head. He was puzzled and mystified beyond measure.
"This is getting too deep for me!" he said. "You're the biggest mystery of all, Levendale. Look here!" he went on. "What are you going to do? This queer disappearance of yours—this being away—coming back without your beard and dressed like that!—aren't you going to explain? The police—"
"Yes!" said Levendale. "Ten o'clock this morning—the police-station. Be there—all of you—anybody—anybody who likes—I'm going to tell the police all I know. Purvis and I, we can't do any more—baffled, you understand! But now—go away, Purdie, and let me sleep—I'm dead done for!"
Within ten minutes of leaving them, Purdie was back with Lauriston andMelky Rubinstein, and motioning them away from Sussex Square.
"That's more extraordinary than the rest!" he said, as they all moved off. "Levendale's there, in his own house, right enough! And he's shaved off his beard and mustache, and he's wearing tramp's clothes and he and Stephen Purvis have been looking night and day, for that confounded diamond, and for eighty thousand pounds! And—what's more, Levendale does not know who killed Daniel Multenius or that he was murdered! But, by George, sirs!" he added, as high above their heads the clock of St. James's Church struck one, "he knows something big!—and we've got to wait nine hours to hear it!"
The inner room of the police-station, at ten o'clock that morning, was full of men. Purdie, coming there with Lauriston at five minutes before the hour, found Melky Rubinstein hanging about the outer door, and had only just time to warn his companion to keep silence as to their midnight discovery before Guyler and John Purvis drove up in one cab and Mr. Killick in another. Inside, Ayscough, refreshed by his breakfast and an hour's rest, was talking to the inspector and the man from New Scotland Yard—all these looked enquiringly at the group which presently crowded in on them.
"Any of you gentlemen got any fresh news?" demanded the inspector, as he ran his eye over the expectant faces "No?—well, I suppose you're all wanting to know if we have?" He glanced at Ayscough, who was pointing out certain paragraphs in one of the morning newspapers to the Scotland Yard man. "The fact is," he continued, "there have been queer developments since last night—and I don't exactly know where we are! My own opinion is that we'd better wait a few hours before saying anything more definite—to my mind, these newspapers are getting hold of too much news—giving information to the enemy, as it were. I think you'd all better leave things to us, gentlemen—for a while." There was rather more than a polite intimation in this that the presence of so many visitors was not wanted—but John Purvis at once assumed a determined attitude.
"I want to know exactly what's being done, and what's going to be done, about my brother!" he said. "I'm entitled to that! That's the job I came about—myself—as for the rest—"
"Your brother's here!" said Purdie, who was standing by the window and keeping an eye on the street outside. "And Mr. Levendale with him—hadn't you better have them straight in?" he went on, turning to the inspector. "They both look as if they'd things to tell."
But Ayscough had already made for the door and within a moment was ushering in the new arrivals. And Purdie was quick to note that the Levendale who entered, a sheaf of morning papers in his hand, was a vastly different Levendale to the man he had seen nine hours before, dirty, unkempt, and worn out with weariness. The trim beard and mustache were hopelessly lost, and there were lines on Levendale's face which they concealed, but Levendale himself was now smartly groomed and carefully dressed, and business-like, and it was with the air of a man who means business that he strode into the room and threw a calm nod to the officials.
"Now, Inspector," he said, going straight to the desk, while Stephen Purvis turned to his brother. "I see from the papers that you've all been much exercised about Mr. Purvis and myself—it just shows how a couple of men can disappear and give some trouble before they're found. But here we are!—and why we're here is because we're beaten—we took our own course in trying to find our own property—and we're done! We can do no more—and so we come to you."
"You should have come here at first, Mr. Levendale," said the Inspector, a little sourly. "You'd have saved a lot of trouble—to yourselves as well as to us. But that's neither here nor there—I suppose you've something to tell us, sir?"
"Before I tell you anything," replied Levendale, "I want to know something." He pointed to the morning papers which he had brought in. "These people," he said, "seem to have got hold of a lot of information—all got from you, of course. Now, we know what we're after—let's put it in a nutshell. A diamond—an orange-yellow diamond—worth eighty thousand pounds, the property of Mr. Stephen Purvis there. That's item one! But there's another. Eighty thousand pounds in bank-notes!—my property. Now—have any of you the least idea who's got the diamond and my money? Come!"
There was a moment's silence. Then Ayscough spoke.
"Not a definite idea, Mr. Levendale—as yet."
"Then I'll tell you," said Levendale. "A Chinese fellow—one Chang Li. He's got them—both! And Stephen Purvis and I have been after him for all the days and nights since we disappeared—and we're beaten! Now you'll have to take it up—and I'd better tell you the plain truth about what's no doubt seemed a queer business from the first. Half-an-hour's talk now will save hours of explanation later on. So listen to me, all of you—I already see two gentlemen here, Mr. Killick, and Mr. Guyler, who in a certain fashion, can corroborate some particulars that I shall give you. Keep us free from interruption, if you please, while I tell you my story."
Ayscough answered this request by going to the door and leaning against it, and Levendale took a chair by the side of the desk and looked round at an expectant audience.
"It's a queer and, in some respects, an involved story," he said, "but I shall contrive to make matters plain to you before I've finished. I shall have to go back a good many years—to a time when, as Mr. Killick there knows, I was a partner with Daniel Molteno in a jewellery business in the City. I left him, and went out to South Africa, where I engaged in diamond trading. I did unusually well in my various enterprises, and some years later I came back to London a very well-to-do man. Not long after my return, I met my former partner again. He had changed his name to Multenius, and was trading in Praed Street as a jeweller and pawnbroker. Now, I had no objection to carrying on a trade with certain business connections of mine at the Cape—and after some conversation with Multenius he and I arranged to buy and sell diamonds together here in London, and I at once paid over a sum of money to him as working capital. The transactions were carried out in his name. It was he, chiefly, who conducted them—he was as good and keen a judge of diamonds as any man I ever knew—and no one here was aware that I was concerned in them. I never went to his shop in Praed Street but twice—if it was absolutely necessary for him to see me, we met in the City, at a private office which I have there. Now you understand the exact relations between Daniel Multenius and myself. We were partners—in secret.
"We come, then, to recent events. Early in this present autumn, we heard from Mr. Stephen Purvis, with whom I had had some transactions in South Africa, that he had become possessed of a rare and fine orange-yellow diamond and that he was sending it to us. It arrived at Multenius's—Multenius brought it to me at my city office and we examined it, after which Multenius deposited it in his bank. We decided to buy it ourselves—I finding the money. We knew, from our messages from Stephen Purvis, that he would be in town on the 18th November, and we arranged everything for that date. That date, then, becomes of special importance—what happened at Multenius's shop in Praed Street on the afternoon of November 18th, between half-past four and half-past five is, of course, the thing that really is of importance. Now, what did happen? I can tell you—save as regards one detail which is, perhaps, of more importance than the other details. Of that detail I can't tell anything—but I can offer a good suggestion about it.
"Stephen Purvis was to call at Daniel Multenius's shop in Praed Street between five o'clock and half-past on the afternoon of November 18th—to complete the sale of his diamond. About noon on that day, Daniel Multenius went to the City. He went to his bank and took the diamond away. He then proceeded to my office, where I handed him eighty thousand pounds in bank notes—notes of large amounts. With the diamond and these notes in his possession, Daniel Multenius went back to Praed Street. I was to join him there shortly after five o'clock.
"Now we come to my movements. I lunched in the City, and afterwards went to a certain well-known book-seller's in Holborn, who had written to tell me that he had for sale a valuable book which he knew I wanted. I have been a collector of rare books ever since I came back to England. I spent an hour or so at the book-seller's shop. I bought the book which I had gone to see—paying a very heavy price for it. I carried it away in my hand, not wrapped up, and got into an omnibus which was going my way, and rode in it as far as the end of Praed Street. There I got out. And—in spite of what I said in my advertisement in the newspapers of the following morning,—I had the book in my hand when I left the omnibus. Why I pretended to have lost it, why I inserted that advertisement in the papers, I shall tell you presently—that was all part of a game which was forced upon me.
"It was, as near as I can remember, past five o'clock when I turned along Praed Street. The darkness was coming on, and there was a slight rain falling, and a tendency to fog. However, I noticed something—I am naturally very quick of observation. As I passed the end of the street which goes round the back of the Grand Junction Canal basin, the street called Iron Gate Wharf, I saw turn into it, walking very quickly, a Chinaman whom I knew to be one of the two Chinese medical students to whom Daniel Multenius had let a furnished house in Maida Vale. He had his back to me—I did not know which of the two he was. I thought nothing of the matter, and went on. In another minute I was at the pawn-shop. I opened the door, walked in, and went straight to the little parlour—I had been there just twice before when Daniel Multenius was alone, and so I knew my way. I went, I say, straight through—and in the parlour doorway ran into Stephen Purvis.
"Purvis was excited—trembling, big fellow though he is, do you see? He will bear me out as to what was said—and done. Without a word, he turned and pointed to where Daniel Multenius was lying across the floor—dead. 'I haven't been here a minute!' said Purvis. 'I came in—found him, like that! There's nobody here. For God's sake, where's my diamond?'
"Now, I was quick to think. I formed an impression within five seconds. That Chinaman had called—found the old man lying in a fit, or possibly dead—had seen, as was likely, the diamond on the table in the parlour, the wad of bank-notes lying near, had grabbed the lot—and gone away. It was a theory—and I am confident yet that it was the correct one. And I tell you plainly that my concern from that instant was not with Daniel Multenius, but with the Chinaman! I thought and acted like lightning. First, I hastily examined Multenius, felt in his pockets, found that there was nothing there that I wanted and that he was dead. Then I remembered that on a previous visit of mine he had let me out of his house by a door at the rear which communicated with a narrow passage running into Market Street, and without a second's delay, I seized Purvis by the arm and hurried him out. It was dark enough in that passage—there was not a soul about—we crossed Market Street, turned to the right, and were in Oxford and Cambridge Terrace before we paused. My instinct told me that the right thing to do was to get away from that parlour. And it was not until we were quite away from it that I realized that I had left my book behind me!"
Levendale paused at this point of his story, and looked round the circle of attentive faces. He was quick to notice that two men were watching him with particularly close attention—one was Ayscough, the other, the old solicitor. And as he resumed his account he glanced meaningly at Mr. Killick.
"I daresay some of you would like to question me—and Stephen Purvis, too—on what I've already told you?" he said. "You're welcome to ask any questions you like—any of you—when I've done. But—let me finish—for then perhaps you'll fully understand what we were at.
"Purvis and I walked up and down in Oxford and Cambridge Terrace for some time—discussing the situation. The more I considered the matter, the more I was certain that my first theory was right—the Chinaman had got the diamond and the bank-notes. I was aware of these two Chinamen as tenants of Multenius's furnished house—as a matter of fact, I had been present, at the shop in Praed Street, on one of my two visits there when they concluded their arrangements with him. What I now thought was this—one of them had called on the old man to do some business, or to pay the rent, and had found him in a fit, or dead, as the result of one, had seen the diamond and the money on the table, placed there in readiness for Purvis's coming, and had possessed himself of both and made off. Purvis agreed with me. And—both Purvis and myself are well acquainted with the characteristic peculiarities, and idiosyncrasies of Chinamen!—we knew with what we had to deal. Therefore we knew what we had to do. We wanted the diamond and my money. And since we were uncomfortably aware of the craft and subtlety of the thief who'd got both we knew we should have to use craft ourselves—and of no common sort. Therefore we decided that the very last thing we should think of would be an immediate appeal to the police.
"Now, you police officials may, nay, will!—say that we ought to have gone straight to you, especially as this was a case of murder. But we knew nothing about it being a case of murder. We had seen no signs of violence on the old man—I knew him to be very feeble, and I believed he had been suddenly struck over by paralysis, or something of that sort. I reckoned matters up, carefully. It was plain that Daniel Multenius had been left alone in house and shop—that his granddaughter was out on some errand or other. Therefore, no one knew of the diamond and the money. We did not want any one to know. If we had gone to the police and told our tale, the news would have spread, and would certainly have reached the Chinaman's ears. We knew well enough that if we were to get our property back the thief must not be alarmed—there must be nothing in the newspapers next morning. The Chinaman must not know that the real owners of the diamond and the bank-notes suspected him—he must not know that information about his booty was likely to be given to the police. He must be left to believe—for some hours at any rate—that what he had possessed himself of was the property of a dead man who could not tell anything. But there was my book in that dead man's parlour! It was impossible to go back and fetch it. It was equally impossible that it should not attract attention. Daniel Multenius's granddaughter, whom I believed to be a very sharp young woman, would notice it, and would know that it had come into the place during her absence. I thought hard over that problem—and finally I drafted an advertisement and sent it off to an agency with instructions to insert it in every morning newspaper in London next day. Why? Because I wanted to draw a red herring across the trail!—I wanted, for the time being, to set up a theory that some man or other had found that book in the omnibus, had called in at Multenius's to sell or pawn it, had found the old man alone, and had assaulted and robbed him. All this was with a view to hoodwinking the Chinaman. Anything must be done, anything!—to keep him ignorant that Purvis and I knew the real truth.
"But—what did we intend to do? I tell you, not being aware that old Daniel Multenius had met his death by violence, we did not give one second's thought to that aspect and side of the affair—we concentrated on the recovery of our property. I knew the house in which these Chinese lived. That evening, Purvis and I went there. We have both been accustomed, in our time, to various secret dealings and manoeuvres, and we entered the grounds of that house without any one being the wiser. It did not take long to convince us that the house was empty. It remained empty that night—Purvis kept guard over it, in an outhouse in the garden. No one either entered or left it between our going to it and Purvis coming away from it next morning—he stayed there, watching until it was time to keep an appointment with me in Hyde Park. Before I met him, I had been called upon by Detective Ayscough, Mr. Rubinstein, and Mr. Lauriston—they know what I said to them. I could not at that time say anything else—I had my own concerns to think of.
"When Purvis and I met we had another consultation, and we determined, in view of all the revelations which had come out and had been published in the papers, that the suspicion cast on young Mr. Lauriston was the very best thing that could happen for us; it would reassure our Chinaman. And we made up our minds that the house in Maida Vale would not be found untenanted that night, and we arranged to meet there at eleven o'clock. We felt so sure that our man would have read all the news in the papers, and would feel safe, and that we should find him. But, mark you, we had no idea as to which of the two Chinamen it was that we wanted. Of one fact, however, we were certain—whichever it was that I had seen slip round the corner of Iron Gate Wharf the previous day, whether it was Chang Li or Chen Li, he would have kept his secret to himself! The thing was—to get into that house; to get into conversation with both; to decide which was the guilty man, and then—to take our own course. We knew what to do—and we went fully prepared.
"Now we come to this—our second visit to the house in Maida Vale. To be exact, it was between eleven and twelve on the second night after the disappearance of the diamond. As on the previous night, we gained access to the garden by the door at the back—that, on each occasion, was unfastened, while the gate giving access to the road in Maida Vale was securely locked. And, as on the previous night, we quickly found that up to then at any rate, the house was empty. But not so the garden! While I was looking round the further side of the house, Purvis took a careful look round the garden. And presently he came to me and drew away to the asphalted path which runs from the front gate to the front door. The moon had risen above the houses and trees—and in its light he pointed to bloodstains. It did not take a second look, gentlemen, to see that they were recent—in fact, fresh. Somebody had been murdered in that garden not many minutes—literally, minutes!—before our arrival. And within two minutes more we found the murdered man lying behind some shrubbery on the left of the path. I knew him for the younger of the two Chinese—the man called Chen Li.
"This discovery, of course, made us aware that we were now face to face with a new development. We were not long in arriving at a conclusion about that. Chang Li had found out that his friend had become possessed of these valuable—he might have discovered the matter of the diamond, or of the bank-notes or both—how was immaterial. But we were convinced, putting everything together, that he had made this discovery, had probably laid in wait for Chen Li as he returned home that night, had run a knife into him as he went up the garden, had dragged the body into the shrubbery, possessed himself of the loot, and made off. And now we were face to face with what was going, as we knew, to be the stiffest part of our work—the finding of Chang Li. We set to work on that without a moment's delay.
"I have told you that Purvis and I have a pretty accurate knowledge of Chinamen; we have both had deep and intimate experience of them and their ways. I, personally, know a good deal of the Chinese Colony in London: I have done business with Chinamen, both in London and South Africa, for years. I had a good idea of what Chang Li's procedure would be. He would hide—if need be, for months, until the first heat of the hue and cry which he knew would be sure to be raised, would have cooled down. There are several underground warrens—so to speak—in the East End, in which he could go to earth, comfortably and safely, until there was a chance of slipping out of the country unobserved. I know already of some of them. I would get to know of others.
"Purvis and I got on that track—such as it was, at once. We went along to the East End there and then—before morning I had shaved off my beard and mustache, disguised myself in old clothes, and was beginning my work. First thing next morning I did two things—one was to cause a telegram to be sent from Spring Street to my butler explaining my probable absence; the other to secretly warn the Bank of England about the bank-notes. But I had no expectation that Chang Li would try to negotiate those—all his energies, I knew, would be concentrated on the diamond. Nevertheless, he might try—and would, if he tried—succeed—in changing one note, and it was as well to take that precaution.
"Now then, next day, Purvis and I being, in our different ways, at work in the East End, we heard the news about the Praed Street tradesman, Parslett. That seemed to me remarkable proof of my theory. As the successive editions of the newspapers came out during that day, and next day, we learnt all about the Parslett affair. I saw through it at once. Parslett, being next-door neighbour to Daniel Multenius, had probably seen Chen Li—whom we now believed to have been the actual thief—slip away from Multenius's door, and, when the news of Daniel's death came out, had put two and two together, and, knowing where the Chinamen lived, had gone to the house in Maida Vale to blackmail them. I guessed what had happened then—Parslett, to quieten him for the moment, had been put off with fifty pounds in gold, and promised more—and he had also been skilfully poisoned in such a fashion that he would get safely away from the premises but die before he got home. And when he was safe away, Chang Li had murdered Chen Li, and made off. So—as I still think—all our theories were correct, and the only thing to do was to find Chang."
But here Levendale paused, glanced at Stephen Purvis, and spread out his hands with a gesture which indicated failure and disappointment. His glance moved from Stephen Purvis to the police officials.
"All no good!" he exclaimed. "It's useless to deny it. I have been in every Chinese den and haunt in East London—I'm certain that Chang Li is nowhere down there. I have spent money like water—employed Chinese and Easterns on whom I could depend—there isn't a trace of him! And so—we gave up last night. Purvis and I—baffled. We've come to you police people—"
"You should have done that before, Mr. Levendale," said the Inspector severely. "You haven't given us much credit, I think, and if you'd told all this at first—"
Before the Inspector could say more, a constable tapped at the door and put his head into the room. His eyes sought Ayscough.
"There's a young gentleman—foreigner—asking for you, Mr. Ayscough," he said. "Wants to see you at once—name of Mr. Yada."
Ayscough had only time to give a warning look and a word to the others before Mr. Mori Yada was ushered in. Every eye was turned on him as he entered—some of the men present looking at him with wonder, some with curiosity, two, at any rate—Levendale and Stephen Purvis—with doubt. But Yada himself was to all outward appearance utterly indifferent to the glances thrown in his direction: it seemed to John Purdie, who was remembering all he had heard the night before, that the young Japanese medical student was a singularly cool and self-possessed hand. Yada, indeed, might have been walking in on an assemblage of personal friends, specially gathered together in his honour. Melky Rubinstein, who was also watching him closely, noticed at once that he had evidently made a very careful toilet that morning. Yada's dark overcoat, thrown negligently open, revealed a smart grey lounge suit; in one gloved hand he carried a new bowler hat, in the other a carefully rolled umbrella. He looked as prosperous and as severely in mode as if no mysteries and underground affairs had power to touch him, and the ready smile with which he greeted Ayscough was ingenuous and candid enough to disarm the most suspicious.
"Good morning, Mr. Detective," he began, as he crossed the threshold and looked first at Ayscough and then at the ring of attentive faces. "I want to speak to you on that little affair of last night, you know. I suppose you are discussing it with these gentlemen? Well, perhaps I can now give you some information that will be useful."
"Glad to hear anything, Mr. Yada," said Ayscough, who was striving hard to conceal his surprise. "Anything that you can tell us. You've heard something during the night, then?"
Yada laughed pleasantly, showing his white teeth. He dropped into the chair which Ayscough pushed forward, and slowly drew off his gloves.
"I assured myself of something last night—after you left me," he said, with a knowing look. "I used your card to advantage, Mr. Detective. I went to the mortuary."
Ayscough contrived to signal to the Inspector to leave the talking to him. He put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, assumed an easy attitude as he leaned against the door, and looked speculatively at the new comer.
"Aye?—and what made you do that now, Mr. Yada?" he asked, half-carelessly. "A bit of curiosity, eh?"
"Not idle curiosity, Mr. Detective," replied Yada. "I wanted to know, to make certain, which of the two Chinamen it really was who was there—dead. I saw him. Now I know. Chen Li!"
"Well?" said Ayscough.
Yada suddenly twisted round in his chair, and slowly glanced at the listening men on either side of the desk. They were cool, bold, half-insolent eyes which received face after face, showing no recognition of any until they encountered Melky Rubinstein's watchful countenance. And to Melky, Yada accorded a slight nod—and turned to Ayscough again.
"Which," he asked calmly, "which of these gentlemen is the owner of the diamond? Which is the one who has lost eighty thousand pounds in bank-notes? That is what I want to know before I say more."
In the silence which followed upon Ayscough's obvious doubt about answering this direct question, Levendale let out a sharp, half-irritable exclamation:
"In God's name!" he said, "who is this young man? What does he know about the diamond and the money?"
Yada turned and faced his questioner—and suddenly smiling, thrust his hand in his breast pocket and drew out a card-case. With a polite bow he handed a card in Levendale's direction.
"Permit me, sir," he said suavely. "My card. As for the rest, perhapsMr. Detective here will tell you."
"It's this way, you see, Mr. Levendale," remarked Ayscough. "Acting on information received from Dr. Pittery, one of the junior house-surgeons at University College Hospital, who told me that Mr. Yada was a fellow-student of those two Chinese, and a bit of a friend of theirs, I called on Mr. Yada last night to make enquiries. And of course I had to tell him about the missing property—though to be sure, that's news that's common to everybody now—through the papers. And—what else have you to tell, Mr. Yada?"
But Yada was watching Levendale—who, on his part, was just as narrowly watching Yada. The other men in the room watched these two—recognizing, as if by instinct, that from that moment matters lay between Levendale and Yada, and not between Yada and Ayscough. They were mutually inspecting and appraising each other, and in spite of their impassive faces, it was plain that each was wondering about his next move.
It was Levendale who spoke first—spoke as if he and the young Japanese were the only people in the room, as if nothing else mattered. He bent forward to Yada.
"How much do you know?" he demanded.
Yada showed his white teeth again.
"A plain—and a wide question, Mr. Levendale!" he answered, with a laugh. "I see that you are anxious to enlist my services. Evidently, you believe that I do know something. But—you are not the owner of the diamond! Which of these gentlemen is?"
Levendale made a half impatient gesture towards Stephen Purvis, who nodded at Yada but remained silent.
"He is!" said Levendale, testily. "But you—can do your talking to me.Again—how much do you know in this matter?"
"Enough to make it worth your while to negotiate with me," answeredYada. "Is that as plain as your question?"
"It's what I expected," said Levendale. "You want to sell your knowledge."
"Well?" assented Yada, "I am very sure you are willing to purchase."
Once more that duel of the eyes—and to John Purdie, who prided himself on being a judge of expressions, it was evident that the younger man was more than the equal of the older. It was Levendale who gave way—and when he took his eyes off Yada, it was to turn to Stephen Purvis.
Stephen Purvis nodded his head once more—and growled a little.
"Make terms with him!" he muttered. "Case of have to, I reckon!"
Levendale turned once more to the Japanese, who smiled on him.
"Look you here, Mr. Yada," said Levendale, "I don't know who you are beyond what I'm told—your card tells me nothing except that you live—lodge, I suppose—in Gower Street. You've got mixed up in this, somehow, and you've got knowledge to dispose of. Now, I don't buy unless I know first what it is I'm buying. So—let's know what you've got to sell?"
Yada swept the room with a glance.
"Before these gentlemen?" he asked. "In open market, eh?"
"They're all either police, or detectives, or concerned," retortedLevendale. "There's no secret. I repeat—what have you got to sell?Specify it!"
Yada lifted his hands and began to check off points on the tips of his fingers.
"Three items, then, Mr. Levendale," he replied cheerfully. "First—the knowledge of who has got the diamond and the money. Second—the knowledge of where he is at this moment, and will be for some hours. Third—the knowledge of how you can successfully take him and recover your property. Three good, saleable items, I think—yes?"
Purdie watched carefully for some sign of greed or avarice in the informer's wily countenance. To his surprise, he saw none. Instead, Yada assumed an almost sanctimonious air. He seemed to consider matters—though his answer was speedy.
"I don't want to profit—unduly—by this affair," he said. "At the same time, from all I've heard, I'm rendering you and your friend a very important service, and I think it only fair that I should be remunerated. Give me something towards the expenses of my medical education, Mr. Levendale: give me five hundred pounds."
With the briefest exchange of glances with Stephen Purvis, Levendale pulled out a cheque-book, dashed off a cash cheque, and handed it over to the Japanese, who slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
"Now—your information!" said Levendale.
"To be sure," replied Yada. "Very well. Chang Li has the diamond and the money. And he is at this moment where he has been for some days, in hiding. He is in a secret room at a place called Pilmansey's Tea Rooms, in Tottenham Court Road—a place much frequented by medical students from our college. The fact of the case is, Mr. Policeman, and the rest of you generally, there is a secret opium den at Pilmansey's, though nobody knows of it but a few frequenters. And there!—there you will find Chang Li."
"You've seen him there?" demanded Levendale.
"I saw him there during last night—I know him to be there—he will be there, either until you take him, or until his arrangements are made for getting out of this country," answered Yada.
Levendale jumped up, as if for instant action. But the Inspector quietly tapped him on the elbow.
"He promised to tell you how to take him, Mr. Levendale," he said. "Let's know all we can—we shall have to be in with you on this, you know."
"Mr. Police-Inspector is right," said Yada. "You will have to conduct what you call a raid. Now, do precisely what I tell you to do. Pilmansey's is an old-fashioned place, a very old house as regards its architecture, on the right-hand side of Tottenham Court Road. Go there today—this mid-day—a little before one—when there are always plenty of customers. Go with plenty of your plain-clothes men, like Mr. Ayscough there. Drop in, don't you see, as if you were customers—let there be plenty of you, I repeat. There are two Pilmanseys—men—middle-aged, sly, smooth, crafty men. When you are all there, take your own lines—close the place, the doors, if you like—but get hold of the Pilmansey men, tell them you are police, insist on being taken to the top floor and shown their opium den. They will object, they will lie, they will resist—you will use your own methods. But—in that opium den you will find Chang Li—and your property!"
He had been drawing on his gloves as he spoke, and now, picking up his hat and umbrella, Yada bowed politely to the circle and moved to the door.
"You will excuse me, now?" he said. "I have an important lecture at the medical school which I must not miss. I shall be at Pilmansey's, myself, a little before one—please oblige me by not taking any notice of me. I do not want to figure—actively—in your business."
Then he was gone—and the rest of them were so deeply taken with the news which he had communicated that no one noticed that just before Yada fastened his last glove-button, Melky Rubinstein slipped from his corner and glided quietly out of the room.