Who was the "philanthropist" who was making a market in stagnant stocks? Whoever it was, he or they repented long before T. B. Smith had reached the Central Criminal Court, which was his objective.
He was a witness in the Gildie Bank fraud case, and his cross-examination at the hands of one of the most relentless of counsel occupied three hours. This concluded to everybody's satisfaction, save counsel's, T. B. Smith, who hated the law courts, walked out into Old Bailey to find newsboys loudly proclaiming, "Slump on the Stock Exchange!"
"Thank Heaven, that bubble's burst!" said T. B. piously, and walked back to Scotland Yard, whistling.
He did not doubt that the artificial rise had failed, and that the market had gone back to normal.
At the corner of the Thames Embankment he bought a paper, and the first item of news he read was:
"Consols have fallen to 84."
Now, Consols that morning had stood at 90, and T. B. Smith stopped whistling.
T. B. Smith strolled into the room of Superintendent Elk.
Elk is a detective officer chiefly remarkable for his memory. A tall, thin, sad man, who affects a low turned-down collar and the merest wisp of a black tie. If he has any other pose than his desire to be taken for a lay preacher, it is his pose of ignorance on most subjects. Elk's attitude to the world at large is comprehended in the phrase, "I am a child in these things," which accounts to a very great extent for the rapidity of his promotion in the Criminal Investigation Department.
T. B.'s face wore a frown, and he twirled a paper-knife irritably.
"Elk," he said, without any preliminary, "the market has gone to the devil."
"Again?" said Elk politely, having knowledge without interest.
"Again," said T. B. emphatically, "for the fourth time this year. I've just seen one of the Stock Exchange Committee, and he's in a terrible state of mind. Stocks and shares are nothing to me," the Commissioner went on, seeing the patient boredom on the other's face, "and I know there is a fairly well-defined law that governs the condition of the Stock Exchange. Prices go see-sawing up and down, and that is part of the day's work, but for the fourth time, and for no apparent reason, the market is broken. Consols are down to 84."
"I once had some shares in an American copper mine," reflected Elk, "and a disinterested stock-jobber advised me to hold on to them; I'm still holding, but it never occurred to me—I lost £500—that it was a matter for police investigation."
The Commissioner stopped in his walk and looked at the detective.
"There's little romance in finance," he mused, "but there is something behind all this; do you remember the break of January 4?"
Elk nodded; he saw there was a police side to this slump, and grew alert and knowledgeable.
"Yankees and gilt-edged American stock came tumbling down as though their financial foundations had been dug away. What was the cause?"
Elk thought.
"Wasn't it the suicide of the President of the Eleventh National Bank?" he asked.
"Happened after the crash," said T. B. promptly. "Do you remember the extraordinary slump in Russian Fours in April—a slump which, like the drop in Yankees, affected every market? What was the cause?"
"The attempt on the Czar."
"Again you're wrong," said the other; "the slump anticipated the attempt; it did not follow it. Then we have the business of the 9th of August."
"The Kaffir slump?"
"Yes."
"But, surely, the reason for that may be traced," said Elk; "it followed the decision of the Cabinet to abolish coloured labour in the mines."
"It anticipated it," corrected his chief, with a twinkle in his eye, "and do you remember no other occurrence that filled the public mind about that time?"
Elk thought with knit brows.
"There was the airship disaster at the palace. Hike Mills was put away just about then for blackmail; there was the Vermont case—and the Sud Express wreck——"
"That's it," said the Commissioner, "wrecked outside Valladolid; three killed, many injured—do you remember who was killed?"
"Yes," said Elk slowly, "a Frenchman, whose name I've forgotten; Mr. Arthur Saintsbury, a King's Messenger—by George!"
The connection dawned upon him, and T. B. grinned.
"Killed whilst carrying despatches to the King of Portugal," he said.
"Those despatches related to the proposed withdrawal of native labour—much of which is recruited in Portuguese West Africa." He paused a moment, and added as an afterthought, "His despatch-box was never found."
There was silence.
"You suggest?" said Elk suddenly.
"I suggest there is an intelligent anticipator in existence who is much too intelligent to be at large." The Commissioner walked to the door.
He stood for a moment irresolutely.
"I offer you two suggestions," he said: "the first is that the method which our unknown operator is employing is not unlike the method of Mr. George Baggin, who departed this life some time ago. The second is that, if by any chance I am correct in my first surmise, we lay this ghost for good and all."
It was two days later, when Consols touched 80, that T. B. Smith gathered in Cord Van Ingen and marched him into the City.
The agitated Committee-man of the Stock Exchange met them in his office and led them to his private room.
"I must tell you the whole story," he said, after he had carefully shut and locked the door. "Last Wednesday, the market still rising and a genuine boom in sight, Mogseys—they're the biggest firm of brokers in the city—got a wire from their Paris agents which was to this effect, 'Sell Consols down to 80.' They were standing then at 90, and were on the up-grade. Immediately following the wire, and before it could be confirmed, came another instruction, in which they were told to sell some gilt-edged stocks—this was on a rising market, too—down to prices specified. I have seen the list, and taking the prices as they stood on Wednesday morning and the price they stand at to-day, the difference is enormous—something like three millions."
"Which means——?"
"Which means that the unknown bears have pocketed that amount. Well, Mogseys were paralysed at the magnitude of the order, and cabled away to their agent, asking for particulars, and were equally dumfounded to learn that they were acting on behalf of the Credit Bourbonnais, one of the biggest banks in the South of France. There was nothing else to do but to carry out the order, and on Thursday morning they had hammered stocks down ten points—stocks that have never fluctuated five points each way in mortal memory!"
The Committee-man, speaking in tones of reverence of these imperturbable securities, mopped his forehead with a tumultuous bandanna.
"Now," he resumed, "we know all the bears throughout all the world. The biggest of 'em is dead. That was George T. Baggin, one of the most daring and unscrupulous operators we have ever had in London. We know every man or woman or corporation likely to jump onto the market with both feet and set it sagging—but there isn't a single known bear who has a hand in this. We've tried to discover his identity, but we've always come up against a blank wall—the bank. The bank can't give away its client, and, even if it did, I doubt very much whether we should be any the wiser, for he's pretty sure to have hidden himself too deep. We'd probably find the bank was instructed by a broker and the broker by another bank, and we'd be as far off a solution as ever."
"Is there any cause for the present break?"
"I'm coming to that. In all previous slumps there has been a very good excuse for a panic hanging round. In the present instance no such excuse exists. There is a good feeling abroad, money is free and the Bank Rate is low, and the recent spurt in Kaffirs and Yankee rails has put a good heart into the market—why, even the Brontes have dealt!"
He mentioned the name of the great bank, which, in the City of London, ranks second to the Bank of England only.
"I don't know exactly the details of their dealing, but it is pretty generally known in the City that they have increased their commitments, and, when a conservative house like Bronte's takes advantage of a spell of prosperity, you may be sure that peace is in the very air we breathe."
T. B. Smith was thoughtfully rolling a glass paper-weight up and down a blotting-pad, and Van Ingen, following such a plain lead, was regarding the ceiling with an air of pained resignation.
Neither of the two spoke when the Committee-man finished his recital. He waited a little longer for them to offer some remark, and, finding that neither had any comment to make, he asked, a little impatiently:
"Well?"
T. B. roused himself from his reverie.
"Would you mind telling me the names of the stocks again?" he asked. "The stocks that are being attacked."
The member recited a list.
"Um!" said the Commissioner thoughtfully. "Industrials, breweries, manufactories—the very shares that enjoyed the boom are now undergoing the slump. Will you give me a Stock Exchange Year-book?"
"Certainly."
He unlocked the door and went out, reappearing shortly with a fat brown volume.
T. B. turned the pages of the book with quick, nervous fingers, consulting the list at his side from time to time.
"Thank you," he said at length, pushing the book from him and rising.
"Have you any idea——?" the broker began, and T. B. laughed.
"You nearly said 'clue,'" he smiled; "yes, I've lots of ideas—I'm just going to work one of them out."
He bowed slightly, and the two men left the building together. Van Ingen was burning with curiosity, but he wisely kept silence.
At the corner of Threadneedle Street, Smith bought an evening paper.
"Issued at 4.10," he said, glancing at the "fudge" space, where the result of a race had been printed, "and nothing has happened."
He hailed a passing cab, and the two men got in.
"Bronte's Bank, Holborn," was the direction he gave.
"Like the immortal Mrs. Harris, there ain't no Bronte, as you know," he said. "The head of the business is Sir George Calliper. He's an austere young man of thirty-five or thereabouts. President of philosophical societies and patron of innumerable philanthropies."
"Has no vices," added Van Ingen.
"And therefore a little inhuman," commented T. B. "Here we are."
They drew up before the severe façade of Bronte's, and dismissed the cab.
The bank was closed, but there was a side door—if, indeed, such an insignificant title could be applied to the magnificent portal of mahogany and brass—and a bell, which was answered by a uniformed porter.
"The bank is closed, gentlemen," he said when T. B. had stated his errand.
"My business is very urgent," said T. B. imperatively, and the man hesitated.
"I am afraid Sir George has left the building," he said, "but, if you will give me your cards, I will see."
T. B. Smith drew a card from his case. He also produced a tiny envelope, in which he inserted the card.
A few minutes later the messenger returned.
"Sir George will see you," he said, and ushered them into an anteroom. "Just a moment, gentlemen; Sir George is engaged."
Ten minutes passed before he came again. Then he reappeared, and they followed him along a marble-tiled corridor to the sanctum of the great man.
It was a large room, solidly and comfortably furnished and thickly carpeted. The only ornamentation was the beautifully carved mantel, over which hung the portrait of Septimus Bronte, who, in 1743, had founded the institution which bore his name.
Sir George Calliper rose to meet them.
He was a tall young man with sandy hair and a high, bald forehead. From his square-toed boots to his black satin cravat, he was commercial solidity personified. T. B. noted the black ribbon watchguard, the heavy dull gold signet-ring, the immaculately manicured nails, the dangling black-rimmed monocle, and catalogued his observations for future reference.
Van Ingen, who saw with another eye and from a different point of view, mentally recorded a rosebud on the carpet and a handkerchief.
"Now, what can I do for you?" asked Sir George; he picked up the card from the desk and refreshed his memory.
"We're very sorry to trouble you," began T. B. conventionally, but the baronet waved the apology aside.
"I gather you have not come to see me out of office hours without cause," he said, and his tone rather suggested that it would be unpleasant even for an Assistant-Commissioner, if he had.
"No, but I've come to make myself a nuisance—I want to ask you questions," said T. B. coolly.
"So long as they are pertinent to the business in hand, I shall have every pleasure in answering," replied Sir George.
"First and foremost, is there the slightest danger of Bronte's Bank failing?" asked T. B. Smith calmly.
The audacity of the question struck the baronet dumb.
"Failing?" he repeated. "Bronte's fail—Mr. Smith, are you jesting?"
"I was never more in earnest," said T. B. "Think what you like of my impertinence, but humour me, please."
The banker looked hard at the man before him, as though to detect some evidence of ill-timed humour.
"It is no more possible for Bronte's to fail than the Bank of England," he said brusquely.
"I am not very well acquainted with the practice of banking," said T. B., "and I should be grateful if you would explain why it is impossible for a bank to fail."
If Sir George Calliper had been a little less sure of himself, he would have detected the monstrous inaccuracy of T. B.'s confession of ignorance.
"But are you really in earnest?"
"I assure you," said T. B. seriously, "that I regard this matter as being one of life and death."
"Well," said the banker, with a perplexed frown, "I will explain. The solvency of a bank, as of an individual, is merely a matter of assets and liabilities. The liabilities are the elementary debts, deposits, loans, calls, and such like that are due from the bank to its clients and shareholders. Sometimes the liability takes the form of a guarantee for the performance of certain obligations—that is clear enough?"
T. B. nodded.
"Assets may be represented as gold, Government securities and stock convertible into gold, properties, freehold, leasehold, land; but you know, of course, the exact significance of the word assets?"
T. B. nodded again.
"Well, it is a matter of balance," said the banker, "allowing a liberal margin for the fluctuation of securities, we endeavour and succeed in keeping a balance of assets in excess of our liabilities."
"Do you keep gold in any quantity on the premises?—what would be the result, say, of a successful burglary that cleared your vaults?"
"It would be inconvenient," said Sir George, with a dry smile, "but it would not be disastrous."
"What is your greatest outstanding liability?" demanded T. B.
The banker looked at him strangely.
"It is queer that you should ask," he said slowly; "it was the subject of a discussion at my hoard meeting this afternoon—it is the Wady Semlik Barrage."
"The Egyptian irrigation scheme?" asked T. B. quickly.
"Yes, the bank's liability was very limited until a short time ago. There was always a danger that the physical disabilities of the Soudan would bring about a fiasco. So we farmed our liability, if you understand the phrase. But with the completion of the dam, and the report of our engineer that it had been submitted to the severest test, we curtailed the expensive insurance."
"When are the works to be handed over to the Egyptian Government?"
Sir George smiled.
"That I cannot tell you," he said; "it is a secret known only to the directors and myself."
"But until it is officially handed over, you are liable?"
"Yes, to an extent. As a matter of fact, we shall only be fully liable for one day. For there is a clause in the agreement which binds the Government to accept responsibilities for the work seven days after inspection by the works department, and the bulk of our insurances run on till within twenty-four hours of that date. I will tell you this much: the inspection has taken place—I cannot give you the date—and the fact that it was made earlier than we anticipated is responsible for the cancellation of the insurances."
"One more question, Sir George," said T. B. "Suppose, through any cause, the Wady Semlik Barrage broke on that day—the day upon which the bank was completely liable,—what would be the effect on Bronte's?"
A shadow passed over the banker's face.
"That is a contingency I do not care to contemplate," he said curtly.
He glanced at his watch.
"I have not asked you to explain your mysterious visit," he said, with a smile, "and I am afraid I must curb my curiosity, for I have an appointment in ten minutes, as far west as Portland Place. In the meantime, it may interest you to read the bank's balance-sheet."
Van Ingen's eye was on him as he opened a drawer in his desk.
He closed it again hurriedly, with a little frown. He opened another drawer and produced a printed sheet. "Here it is," he said. "Would you care to see me again at ten to-morrow?"
T. B. might have told him that for the next twelve hours the banker would hardly be out of sight for an hour, but he replied:
"I shall be very pleased."
He had shaken hands with Sir George, and was on his way to the door, when Van Ingen gave him a sign. T. B. turned again.
"By the way," he said, pointing to the picture over the fireplace, "that istheBronte, is it not?"
Sir George turned to the picture.
"Yes," said he, and then with a smile: "I wonder Mr. Bronte did not fall from his frame at some of your questions."
T. B. chuckled softly as he followed the uniformed doorkeeper along the ornate corridor.
In a cab being driven rapidly westward, Van Ingen solemnly produced his finds.
"A little rose and a handkerchief," he said.
T. B. took the last-named article in his hand. It was a delicate piece of flimsiness, all lace and fragrance. Also it was damp.
"Here's romance," said T. B., folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. "Somebody has been crying, and I'll bet it wasn't our friend the banker."
"I've got two men on to Sir George," said T. B. to Van Ingen. They were at the Yard. "I've given them instructions not to leave him day or night. Now, the question is, how will the 'bears' discover the fatal day the barrage is to be handed over to the guileless Fellaheen?"
"Through the Egyptian Government?" suggested Van Ingen.
"That I doubt. It seems a simple proposition, but the issues are so important that you may be sure our mysterious friends will not strike until they are absolutely certain. In the meantime——"
He unlocked the safe and took out a book. This, too, was fastened by two locks. He opened it, laid it down, and began writing on a sheet of paper, carefully, laboriously checking the result.
That night the gentleman who is responsible for the good order of Egypt received a telegram which ran:
"Premium Fellow Collect Wady BarrageMeridian Tainted Inoculate Weary Sulphur."
There was a great deal more written in the same interesting style. When the Egyptian Chief of Police unlocked his book to decode the message, he was humming a little tune that he had heard the band playing outside Shepheard's Hotel. Long before he had finished decoding the message, his humming stopped.
Ten minutes later the wires were humming, and a battalion of infantry was hastily entrained from Khartoum.
Having despatched the wire, T. B. turned to the young man, who was sitting solemnly regarding a small gossamer handkerchief and a crushed rosebud that lay on the table.
"Well?" demanded T. B. Smith, leaning over the table, "what do you make of 'em?"
"They are not Sir George's," replied Van Ingen, with a grin.
"So much I gather," said T. B. "A client's?"
"A very depressed and agitated client—feel."
T. B.'s fingers touched the little handkerchief; it was still quite damp. He nodded.
"The rosebud?"
"Did you notice our austere banker's button-hole?"
"Not particularly—but I remember no flowers."
"No," agreed Van Ingen, "there were no flowers. I noticed particularly that his buttonhole was sewn, and yet——"
"And yet?"
"Hidden in one of those drawers was a bunch of these roses. I saw them when he was getting your balance-sheet."
"H'm!" T. B. tapped the table impatiently.
"So, you see," Van Ingen went on, "we have an interest in this lady client of his, who comes after office hours, weeps copiously, and leaves a bunch of rosebuds as a souvenir of her visit. It may have been a client, of course."
"And the roses may have been security for an overdraft," said the ironic T. B. "What do you make of the handkerchief?"
It was an exquisite little thing of the most delicate cambric. Along one hem, in letters minutely embroidered in flowing script, there ran a line of writing. T. B. took up a magnifying glass and read it.
"'Que dieu te garde,'" he read, "and a little monogram—a gift of some sort, I gather. As far as I can see, the lettering is 'N.H.C.'—and what that means, Heaven knows! I'm afraid that, beyond intruding to an unjustifiable extent into the private affairs of our banker, we get no further. Well, Jones?"
With a knock at the door, an officer had entered.
"Sir George has returned to his house. We have just received a telephone message from one of our men."
"What has he been doing to-night—Sir George?"
"He dined at home; went to his club and returned; he does not go out again."
T. B. nodded.
"Watch the house and report," he said. The man saluted and left.
T. B. turned again to the contemplation of the handkerchief.
"If I were one of those funny detectives, Mr. Van Ingen, who live in books," he said sadly, "I could weave quite an interesting theory from this." He held the handkerchief to his nose and smelt it. "The scent is 'Simpatico,' therefore the owner must have lived in Spain; the workmanship is Parisian, therefore——" He threw the flimsy thing from him with a laugh. "This takes us no nearer to the Wady Barrage, my friend—no nearer to the mysterious millionaires who 'bear' the shares of worthy brewers. Let us go out into the open, and ask Heaven to drop a clue at our feet."
The two men turned their steps towards Whitehall, and were halfway to Trafalgar Square when a panting constable overtook them.
"There is a message from the man watching Sir George Calliper's house, sir," he said; "he wants you to go there at once."
"What is wrong?" asked T. B. quickly.
"A drunken man, sir, so far as I could understand."
"A what?"
T. B.'s eyebrows rose, and he smiled incredulously.
"A drunken man," repeated the man; "he's made two attempts to see Sir George——"
"Hail that cab," said T. B. "We'll drive round and see this extraordinary person."
A drunken man is not usually a problem so difficult that it is necessary to requisition the services of an Assistant-Commissioner. This much T. B. pointed out to the detective who awaited him at the corner of St. James's Square.
"But this man is different," said the officer; "he's well dressed; he has plenty of money—he gave the cab-driver a sovereign—and he talks."
"Nothing remarkable in that, dear lad," said T. B. reproachfully; "we all talk."
"But he talks business, sir," persisted the officer; "boasts that he's got Bronte's bank in his pocket."
"The devil he does!" T. B.'s eyebrows had a trick of rising. "Did he say anything else?"
"The second time he came," said the detective, "the butler pushed him down the steps, and that seemed to annoy him—he talked pretty freely then, called Sir George all the names he could lay his tongue to, and finished up by saying that he could ruin him."
T. B. nodded.
"And Sir George? He could not, of course, hear this unpleasant conversation? He would be out of earshot."
"Beg pardon, sir," said the plain-clothes man, "but that's where you're mistaken. I distinctly saw Sir George through the half-opened door. He was standing behind his servant."
"It's a pity——" began T. B., when the detective pointed along the street in the direction of the Square.
"There he is, sir," he whispered; "he's coming again."
Along the pavement, a little unsteadily, a young man walked. In the brilliant light of a street lamp T. B. saw that he was well dressed in a glaring way. The Assistant-Commissioner waited until the newcomer reached the next lamp; then walked to meet him.
A young man, expensively garbed, red of face, and flashily jewelled—at a distance T. B. classified him as one of the more offensive type ofnouveau riche. The stranger would have passed on his way, but T. B. stepped in front of him.
"Excuse me, Mr.——" He stopped with an incredulous gasp. "Mr. Moss!" he said wonderingly. "Mr. Lewis Moss, some time of Tokenhouse Yard, company promoter."
"Here, stash it, Mr. Smith," begged the young man. He stood unsteadily, and in his eye was defiance. "Drop all that—reformed—me. Look 'ere"—he lurched forward and caught T. B. by the lapel of his coat, and his breath was reminiscent of a distillery—"if you knew what I know, ah!"
The "Ah!" was triumph in a word.
"If you knew what I know," continued Mr. Moss, with relish; "but you don't. You fellers at your game think you knowtoot, as Count Poltavo says; but you don't." He wagged his head wisely.
T. B. waited.
"I'm goin' to see Calliper," Mr. Moss went on, with gross familiarity, "an' what I've got to say to him is worth millions—millions, I tell you. An' when Calliper says to me, 'Mr. Moss, I thank you!' and has done the right thing, I'll come to you—see?"
"I see," said T. B., "but you mustn't annoy Sir George any more to-night."
"Look here, Smith," Mr. Moss went off at a tangent, "you want to know how I got acquainted with Count Poltavo—well, I'll tell you. There's a feller named Hyatt that I used to do a bit of business with. Quiet young feller who got marvellous tips—made a lot o' money, he did, all because he bowled out Poltavo—see?"
He stopped short, for it evidently dawned upon him that he was talking too much.
"He sent you, eh?" Mr. Moss jerked the point of a gold-mounted stick in the direction of Sir George's house. "Come down off his high 'orse"—the third "h" was too much for him—"and very wisely, very wisely." He shook his head with drunken gravity. "As a man of the world," he went on, "you bein' one an' me bein' another, it only remains to fix a meeting between self an' client—your client—an' I can give him a few tips."
"That," said T. B., "is precisely my desire." He had ever the happy knack of dealing satisfactorily with drunken men. "Now let us review the position."
"First of all," said Mr. Moss firmly, "who are these people?" He indicated Van Ingen and the detective. "If they're friends of yours, old feller, say the word"—and his gesture was generous—"friends of yours? Right!" Once more he became the man of affairs.
"Let us get at the bottom of the matter," said T. B. "Firstly, you wish to see Sir George Calliper?"
The young man, leaning against some happily placed railings, nodded several times.
"Although," T. B. went on, shaking his head reprovingly, "you are not exactly——"
"A bottle of fizz—a couple, nothing to cloud the mind," said the young man airily. "I've never been drunk in me life."
"It seems to me that I have heard that remark before," said T. B., "but that's beside the matter; you were talking about a man called Hyatt who bowled Poltavo."
The young man pulled himself erect.
"In a sense I was," he said, with dignity, "in a sense I wasn't; and now I must be toddling."
T. B. saw the sudden suspicion that came to him. "What do you know about the barrage?" he asked abruptly.
The man started back, sobered.
"Nothing," he said harshly. "I know nothing. I know you, though, Mr. Bloomin' Smith, and you ain't goin' to pump me. Here, I'm going."
He pushed T. B. aside. Van Ingen would have stopped him but for a look from his companion.
"Let him go," he said. "I have a feeling that——"
The young man was crossing St. James's Street, and disappeared for a moment in the gloom between the street lamps. T. B. waited a time for him to reappear, but he did not come into sight.
"That's rum," murmured Van Ingen; "he couldn't have gone into Sir George's; his house is on the other side of the street—hello, there he is!"
A man appeared momentarily in the rays of the lamp they were watching, and walked rapidly away.
"That isn't him," said T. B., puzzled; "he's too tall; it must be somebody from one of the houses. Let us stroll along and see what has become of Mr. Moss."
The little party crossed the street. The thoroughfare was deserted now, save for the disappearing figure of the tall gentleman.
The black patch where Moss had disappeared was the entrance of the mews.
"He must have mistaken this for a thoroughfare," said T. B. "We'll probably find him asleep in a corner somewhere." He took a little electric lamp from his pocket and shot a white beam into the darkness.
"I don't see him anywhere," he said, and walked into the mews.
"There he is!" said Van Ingen suddenly.
The man was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open, one arm moving feebly.
"Drunk?" said T. B., and leant over him. Then he saw the blood and the wound in the man's throat.
"Murder! by the Lord!" he cried.
He was not dead, but, even as the sound of Van Ingen's running feet grew fainter, T. B. knew that this was a case beyond the power of the divisional surgeon. The man tried to speak, and the detective bent his head to listen. "Can't tell you all," the poor wreck whispered, "get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower—they know. His sister's got the book—Hyatt's sister—down in Falmouth—you'll find N.H.C. I don't know who they are, but you'll find them." He muttered a little incoherently, and T. B. strained his ears, but heard nothing. "N.H.C.," he repeated under his breath, and remembered the handkerchief.
The man on the ground spoke again—"The Admiralty—they could fix it for you. Poltavo——"
Then he died.
"Get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower!"
It sounded like the raving of a dying man, and T. B. shook his head as, in the company of Van Ingen, he walked back to his chambers in the early hours of the morning.
Since the night of the assault, the young man had remained as Smith's guest, at the latter's express command.
"Not that I believe you stand in immediate danger of having your head broken again by those miscreants," he said laughingly the next morning, "or that I could protect you if you did! But since you are in on this thing, and the enemy have got wind of it, it is as well to join forces. You can run errands, type my notes, and investigate obscure clues—in short, become a useful other self to me. In that way I double my efficiency, and can be in two places at once!"
And so Van Ingen, nothing loath, had sent for a few necessaries, and had taken up quarters with the detective.
At the suggestion of the latter, he had not acquainted Doris with his mishap, the injuries from which were, indeed, slight enough, consisting only of a bruise, the size of a walnut on the right side of his head, and an accompanying dizziness when, the next morning, he attempted to raise his head from the pillow.
He had scrawled a line to Doris therefore, reporting himself, per agreement, and inviting himself to tea, to discuss an important personal matter, the next afternoon at five.
To this he had received, late the same day, posted from Folkestone, the following reply:
"DEAR CORD:
"Owing to a sudden change of plans, we start for the Continent to-night, and, 'to-morrow at five,' I shall be having my tea with Aunty in Paris—and thinking of you!
"We remain there only for a few days, then on to the Riviera, and eventually cross into Spain.
"I had something to ask you last night, which escaped me in the pain of bidding you farewell—something you may do for me, which will add to the great debt of gratitude I already owe you—and crown it all! Abandon this investigation! By our dear friendship of many years, I ask it,—by the love which you profess for me. It will involve you in frightful consequences of which I do not dare to speak. Your bare connection with it fills me with anguish—I cannot sleep! ... Thank you for the report of your health. I am nervous and unstrung these days, and filled with imaginary terrors.
"In your note, you speak of 'an important personal matter'—may I interpret the phrase, candidly, and give you my answer? I esteem you too dear to entangle you in my own melancholy career. This decision is quite unalterable, and, moreover, I am not free.
"There is nothing left to add. God bless you.
"DORIS."
This missive Van Ingen did not show to Smith. With a white bandage about his head, and looking, the detective declared, "pale and interesting," he sat in an easy-chair before the open fire, and gloomily reviewed the situation.
She was not free. That meant Poltavo! Could it be true that in truth she loved him, then? For a while, he gave himself to the full bitterness of the idea. Before his mind there arose, vividly, the picture of the two at the opera—Poltavo, elegant, distinguished, speaking in low eager tones, and Doris bending toward him with parted lips, a divine light in her blue eyes. As he pondered all the recent circumstances, he felt the waters of despair pour over his soul. His head still throbbed from the bruise; he felt feverish and agitated, full of a burning turmoil, and a longing that knows but one solace.
Again he turned to the letter, seeking, unconsciously, for some word of comfort to his troubled spirit, and reread it, slowly.
This time her sweet sympathy shone out at him, like the sun behind storm-clouds. He remarked, also, the note of despairing sadness. She was not free! That hinted not of love, but of compulsion, of an iron necessity laid upon her soul. In a flash of intuition, the young man glimpsed the real situation. She had bound herself to the count, in order to save her father!
What had it not cost her to assume that heavy burden? For the first time he realised something of what the girl, with her high spirit, and her passionate adoration of her father, must have suffered at learning that he had perpetrated such a monstrous fraud on the public; that he was, in truth, a cheat, an outlaw, and a criminal. Was it any wonder that her cheeks had lost their colour, her eyes their light, and her figure its youthful buoyancy and charm? He recalled, with a sharp pang, the pitiful droop of the slender, black-robed figure when he had last seen her; her pallor, and the shadow which lay deep in her eyes. Fear had looked out of those eyes, fear had trembled in her voice, as she bade him be careful! ... And she had esteemed him too dear to entangle in her dark fate! ... A flood of infinite tenderness welled up in his breast, a tenderness and an exquisite yearning which thrilled the young man's soul to the point of pain. He burned with the desire to stand between her and her troubles, to carry her off bodily from her enemies, to conquer a kingdom, or subdue a dragon—to do any wild, rash thing to prove his love.
Such moments rarely endure. They pass, these mountain-heights of exaltation and emotion, but to have experienced them however briefly, to have loved a woman with such passion and pure fervour, leaves no man as he was before.
Van Ingen returned to the problem. She had bound herself to the count.
But Poltavo, according to the detective's theory, was the master-mind of the conspiracy. How, then, had he tricked her so completely? How had he gulled them all, he wondered savagely. Even his chief, the American ambassador, and a judge of men, had been completely fascinated by the charm of his personality, and would not hear a word against him.
As for women—he knew the silly ardent creatures went down like nine-pins before the smiling glance of his eyes and the unfailing courtesy of his manners. There was Lady Angela, the Duke of Manchester's daughter, a slender dryad-girl, with soft eyes and a halo of pale golden hair, whom the count had sketched upon a recent visit to their country-house, and whom, it was reported, he might have any day, for the asking.
"Why don't he ask her, then?" he growled aloud.
The detective, who lounged opposite him, warm coils of smoke ascending from his briar pipe, regarded him with humorous eyes.
"I don't follow you," he said. He glanced down at the open letter, which Van Ingen still held tightly in his hand.
"Do you want him to marry her?"
Van Ingen reddened. "I—I beg your pardon!" he stammered. "I was thinking of Lady Angela."
The detective smoked on tranquilly, though it was apparent he did not get the connection. Van Ingen, however, vouchsafed no further explanation, and presently the conversation fell upon other things.
The next morning Cord had awakened greatly refreshed, and with his resolve strengthened to continue the investigation. In company with Smith, he had interviewed Sir George Calliper, and seen the tragic end of Moss. As they walked homeward in the cold air of the early morning, Cord speculated upon the manner of man was this Count Poltavo. Beside him, the detective pondered, grimly, the same problem.
Hyatt—the man on the Eiffel Tower—the Wady Barrage—the mysterious bears—what connection was there one with another?
"To —— HYATT, A FRIEND OF THE LATE LEWIS MOSS
"Information concerning the whereabouts of the above-mentioned Hyatt is urgently required. Immediate communication should be made to the nearest police-station."
This notice appeared under the heading, "Too Late for Classification," in every London newspaper the morning following the murder of Moss.
"It is possible that the name is an assumed one," said T. B., "but the Falmouth clue narrows the search."
An "all-station" message was flashed throughout the metropolis:
"Arrest and detain Count Ivan Poltavo" (here followed a description), "on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Lewis Moss."
But Count Poltavo anticipated the arrest, for hardly had the last message been despatched when he himself entered the portico of Scotland Yard and requested an interview with T. B.
"Yes," he said sadly, "I knew this young man. Poor fellow!"
He gave a very frank account of his dealings with Moss, offered a very full explanation of his own movements on the night of the murder, and was finally dismissed by a perplexed Commissioner, who detached an officer to verify all that Poltavo had said.
T. B. was worried, and showed it, after his own fashion. He sent Van Ingen by an early train to pursue his enquiries in Cornwall, and then went into the City.
An interview with the head of the banking-house of Bronte was not satisfactory.
"I am satisfied," said T. B., "that an attempt will be made to destroy the barrage on the day for which you are liable. All the features of the present market position point to this fact."
"In that case," said the banker, "the 'bears' must be clairvoyant. The day on which the barrage comes into the hands of the Egyptian Government is known to two persons only. I am one, and the other is a gentleman the mere mention of whose name would satisfy you as to his integrity."
"And none other?"
"None other," said the banker. And that was all he would say.
But at six o'clock that night T. B. received a message. It was written in pencil on the torn edges of a newspaper.
"To-night Sir George Calliper is dining with the Spanish dancing girl, La Belle Espagnole."
That, and an initial, was all the note contained, but it came from the most reliable man in the Criminal Investigation Department, and T. B. whistled his astonishment.
Sir George Calliper lived in St. James's Street. A bachelor—some regarded him as a misogynist—his establishment was nevertheless a model of order; and if you had missed the indefinable something that betrays a woman's hand in the arrangement of furniture, you recognised that the controlling spirit of the household was one possessed of a rigid sense of domesticity, that found expression in solid comfort and sober luxury.
The banker sat in his study engaged in writing a letter. He was in evening dress, and the little French clock on the mantel had just chimed seven.
He finished the note and folded it in its envelope. Then he pressed a bell. A servant entered.
"I am dining out," said Sir George shortly. "I shall be home at eleven." It was characteristic that he did not say "may be home," or "at about eleven."
"Shall I order the car, Sir George?"
"No; I'll take a cab."
A shrill whistle brought a taxi-cab to the door.
A passing commissionaire stopped to ask the cabman which was the nearest way to Berkeley Square as the banker came down the two steps of the house.
"Meggioli's," he instructed the cabman, and added, "the Vine Street entrance."
The commissionaire stood back respectfully as the whining taxi jerked forward.
"Meggioli's!" murmured the commissionaire, "and by the private door! That's rum. I wonder whether Van Ingen has started for Cornwall yet?"
He walked into St. James's Square, and a smart one-horse brougham, that had been idly moving round the circle of garden in the centre, pulled up at the curb by his side.
"Meggioli's—front entrance," said the commissionaire.
It was a uniformed man who entered the carriage; it was T. B. Smith in his well-fitting dress clothes who emerged at Meggioli's.
"I want a private room," he informed the proprietor, who came to meet him with a bow.
"I'm ver' sorry, Mr. Smith, but I have not——"
"But you have three," said T. B. indignantly.
"I offer a thousand regrets," said the distressed restaurateur; "they are engaged. If you had only——"
"But, name of dog! name of a sacred pipe!" expostulated T. B. unscrupulously. Was it not possible to pretend that there had been a mistake; that one room had already been engaged?
"Impossible, m'sieur! In No. 1 we have no less a person than the Premier of Southwest Australia, who is being dined by his fellow-colonists; in No. 2 a family party of Lord Redlands; in No. 3—ah! in No. 3——"
"Ah, in No. 3!" repeated T. B. cunningly, and the proprietor dropped his voice to a whisper.
"'La Belle Espagnole'!" he murmured. He named the great Spanish dancer with relish. "She, and herfiancé'sfriend, eh?"
"Herfiancé? I didn't know——"
"It is a secret——" He looked round as if he were fearful of eavesdroppers. "But it is said that 'La Belle Espagnole' is to be married to a rich admirer."
"Name?" asked T. B. carelessly.
The proprietor shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not enquire the name of my patrons," he said, "but I understand that it is to be the young Lord Carleby."
The name told T. B. nothing.
"Well," he said easily, "I will take a table in the restaurant. I do not wish to interrupt atête-à-tête."
"Oh, it is not Carleby to-night," the proprietor hastened to assure him. "I think mamzelle would prefer that it was—not; it is a stranger."
T. B. sauntered into the brilliantly lighted room, having handed his hat and coat to a waiter. He found a deserted table. Luck was with him to an extraordinary extent; that Sir George should have chosen Meggioli's was the greatest good fortune of all.
At that time Count Menshikoff was paying one of his visits to England. The master of the St. Petersburg secret police was a responsibility. For his protection it was necessary that a small army of men should be detailed, and since Meggioli's was the restaurant he favoured, at least one man of the Criminal Investigation Department was permanently employed at that establishment.
T. B. called a waiter, and the man came swiftly. He had a large white face, big unwinking black eyes, and heavy bushy eyebrows, that stamped his face as one out of the common. His name—which is unimportant—was Vellair, and foreign notabilities his specialty.
"Soup—consommé, crème de——"
T. B., studying his menu, asked quietly, "Is it possible to see and hear what is going on in No. 3?"
"The private room?"
"Yes."
The waiter adjusted the table with a soft professional touch. "There is a small anteroom, and a ventilator, a table that might be pushed against the wall and a chair," said the waiter concisely. "If you remain here I will make sure."
He scribbled a mythical order on his little pad and disappeared.
He came back in five minutes with a small tureen of soup. As he emptied its contents into the plate before T. B. he said, "All right; the key is on the inside.—The door is numbered 11."
T. B. picked up the wine list.
"Cover me when I leave," he said.
He had finished his soup when the waiter brought him a note. He broke open the envelope and read the contents with an expression of annoyance.
"I shall be back in a few minutes," he said, rising; "reserve this table."
The waiter bowed.
T. B. reached the second floor. The corridor was deserted; he walked quickly to No. 11. The door yielded to his push. He closed it behind him and noiselessly locked it. He took a tiny electric lamp from his pocket and threw the light cautiously round.
He found the table and chair placed ready for him, and blessed Vellair silently.
The ventilator was a small one; he had located it easily enough when he had entered the room by the gleam of light that came through it. Very carefully he mounted the table, stepped lightly into the chair, and looked down into the next chamber.
It was an ordinary kind of private dining-room. The only light came from two shaded electric lamps on the table in the centre.
Sir George, with a frown, was regarding his beautifulvis-à-vis. That she was lovely beyond ordinary loveliness T. B. knew from repute. He had expected the high colourings, the blacks and scarlets of the Andalusian; but this girl had the creamy complexion of the well-bred Spaniard, with eyes that might have been hazel or violet in the uncertain light, but which were decidedly not black. Her lips, now tightly compressed, were neither too full nor too thin; her nose straight; her hair, brushed back from her forehead in an unfamiliar style, was that exact tint between bronze and brown that your connoisseur so greatly values.
A plainfiletof dull gold about her head and the broad collar of pearls around her neck were the only jewels she displayed. Her dress was black, unrelieved by any touch of colour. She was talking rapidly in French, a language with which T. B. was very well conversant.
"——but, Sir George," she pleaded, "it would be horrible, wicked, cruel not to see him again!"
"It would be worse if you saw him," said the other drily. "You know, my dear Miss Dominguez, you would both be miserable in a month. The title would be no compensation for you; Carleby would bore you; Carleby House would drive you mad; Carleby's relatives would incite you to murder."
"You are one!" she blazed.
"Exactly; and do I not exasperate you? Think of me magnified by a hundred. Come, come, there are better men than Carleby in the world, and you are young, you are little more than a child."
"But I love him," she sobbed.
"I suppose you do." T. B., from his hiding-place, bestowed an admiring grin upon the patronage in the baronet's tone. "When did you meet him first?"
"Three weeks ago." She spoke with a catch in her voice that affected T. B. strangely.
"That girl is acting," he thought. "But why——?"
"Three weeks?" mused the banker. "Um—when did you discover he was a relative of mine?"
"A few days since," she said eagerly. "I was in Cornwall, visiting some friends——"
"Cornwall!" T. B. had hard work to suppress an exclamation.
"——and I learnt from them that you were related. I did not know of any other relation. My friends told me it would be wicked to marry without the knowledge of his people. 'Go to Sir George Calliper and explain,' they said; 'he will help you'; instead of which——"
The banker smiled again.
"Instead of which I pointed out how impossible it was, eh? and persuaded you to give up all idea of marrying Carleby. Yes, I suppose you think I am a heartless brute."
She sat with bent head.
"You will give him my message?" she asked suddenly.
"You will give him my message?""You will give him my message?"
He nodded.
"And the flowers?"
"And the flowers," he repeated gravely.
("That clears the banker," thought T. B.)
"I shall leave for Spain to-morrow. It was good of you to let me have this talk."
"It was good of you to come."
"Somehow," she said drearily, "I cannot help feeling that it is for the best."
Again T. B. thought he detected a note of insincerity.
"When will you see him?"
"Carleby?" he asked.
"To-morrow?"
"Not to-morrow."
"The next day?"
T. B. was alert now; he saw in a flash the significance of this interview; saw the plot which had lured a foolish relative of Calliper's to a love affair; and now, the manoeuvring to the crucial moment of the interview which she had so cleverly planned.
"Nor the next day," smiled Sir George.
"Well, thenextday?"
He shook his head. "That is the day of all days I am not likely to leave London."
"Why?" she asked innocently, her eyes wide open and her lips parted.
"I have some very important business to transact on that day," he said briefly.
"Oh, I forgot," she said, with a hint of awe in her voice. "You're a great banker, aren't you?" she smiled. "Oh, yes, Carleby told me——"
"I thought you didn't know about me until your Cornish friends told you?" he asked.
"Not that you were related to him," she rejoined quickly, "but he spoke of the great house of Bronte——"
("Neat," approved the hidden T. B.)
"So Thursday will be the day," she mused.
"What day?" The banker's voice was sharp.
"The day you will see Carleby," she said, with a look of surprise.
"I saidnotThursday on any account, but possibly the next day," said Sir George stiffly.
"She has the information she wants," said T. B. to himself, "and so have I," he reflected; "I will now retire."
He stepped carefully down, reached the floor, and was feeling his way to the door when a strange noise attracted his attention. It came, not from the next room, but from that in which he stood. He stood stock-still, holding his breath, and the noise he heard was repeated.
Somebody was in the room with him. Somebody was moving stealthily along the wall at the opposite side of the apartment. T. B. waited for a moment to locate his man, then leapt noiselessly in the direction of the sound. His strong hands grasped a man's shoulder; another instant and his fingers were at the spy's throat. "Utter a word and I'll knock your head off!" he hissed. No terrible threat when uttered facetiously, but T. B.'s words were the reverse of humorous. Retaining a hold of his prisoner, he waited until the noise of a door closing told him that the diners in the next room had departed, then he dragged his man to where he judged the electric-light switch would be. His fingers found the button, turned it, and the room was instantly flooded with light.
He released the man with a little push, and stood with his back to the door.
"Now, sir," said T. B. virtuously; "will you kindly explain what you mean by spying on me?"
The man was tall and thin. He was under thirty and decently dressed; but it was his face that held the detective's attention. It was the face of a man in mortal terror—the eyes staring, the lips tremulous, the cheeks lined and seamed like an old man's. He stood blinking in the light for a moment, and when he spoke he was incoherent and hoarse.
"You're T. B. Smith," he croaked. "I know you; I've been wanting to find you."
"Well, you've found me," said the detective grimly.
"I wasn't looking for you—now. I'm Hyatt."
He said this simply enough. It was the detective's turn to stare.
"I'm Hyatt," the man went on; "and I've a communication to make; King's evidence; but you've got to hide me!" He came forward and laid his hand on the other's arm. "I'm not going to be done in like Moss; it's your responsibility, and you'll be blamed if anything happens to me," he almost whispered in his fear. "They've had Moss, and they'll try to have me. They've played me false because they thought I'd get to know the day the barrage was to be handed over, and spoil their market. They brought me up to London, because I'd have found out if I'd been in Cornwall——"
"Steady, steady!" T. B. checked the man. He was talking at express rate, and between terror and wrath was well-nigh incomprehensible. "Now, begin at the beginning. Who are 'they'?"
"N.H.C, I told you," snarled the other impatiently. "I knew they were going to get the date from the banker. That was the scheme of Catherine Dominguez. She is one of the agents—they've got 'em everywhere. She was introduced to his nephew so that she might get at the uncle. But I'm giving King's evidence. I shall get off; shan't I?"
His anxiety was pitiable.
T. B. thought quickly. Here were two ends to the mystery; which was the more important? He decided. This man would keep; the urgent business was to prevent Catherine from communicating her news to her friends.
"Take this card," he said, and scribbled a few words hastily upon a visiting-card; "that will admit you to my rooms at the Savoy. Make yourself comfortable until I return."
He gave the man a few directions, piloted him from the restaurant, saw him enter a cab, then turned his steps toward Baker Street.
Pentonby Mansions are within a stone's throw of Baker Street Station. T. B. jumped out of his cab some distance from the great entrance hall, and paid the driver. Just before he turned into the vestibule a man, strolling towards him, asked him for a match.
"Well?"
"She came straight from the restaurant and has been inside ten minutes," reported the man, ostentatiously lighting his pipe.
"She hasn't sent a telegram?"
"So far as I know, no, sir."
In the vestibule a hall porter sat reading the evening paper.
"Can I telephone from here?" asked T. B.
"Yes, sir," said the man, and T. B.'s heart sank, for he had overlooked this possibility.
"I suppose you have 'phones in every room?" he asked carelessly.
But the man shook his head.
"No, sir," he said; "there is some talk of putting 'em in, but so far this 'phone in my office is the only one in the building."
T. B. smiled genially.
"And I suppose," he said, "that you're bothered day and night with calls from tenants?" He waited anxiously for the answer.
"Sometimes I am, and sometimes I go a whole day without calls. No; to-day, for instance, I haven't had a message since five o'clock."
T. B. murmured polite surprise and began his ascent of the stairs. So far, so good. His business was to prevent the girl communicating with Poltavo.
He had already formed a plan in his mind.
Turning at the first landing, he walked briskly along the corridor to the left.
"29, 31, 33," he counted, "35, 37. Here we are." The corridor was empty; he slipped his skeleton-key from his pocket and deftly manipulated it.
The door opened noiselessly. He was in a dark little hallway. At the end was a door, and a gleam of light shone under it. He closed the door behind him, stepped softly along the carpeted floor, and his hand was on the handle of the further door, when a sweet voice called him by name from the room.
"Adelante! Señor Smit'," it said; and, obeying the summons, T. B. entered.
The room was well, if floridly, furnished; but T. B. had no eyes save for the graceful figure lounging in a big wicker-chair, a thin cigarette between her red lips, and her hands carelessly folded on her lap.
"Come in," she repeated, this time in French. "I have been expecting you."
T. B. bowed slightly.
"I was told that I should probably receive a visit from you."
"First," said T. B. gently, "let me relieve you of that ugly toy."
Before she could realise what was happening, two strong hands seized her wrists and lifted them. Then one hand clasped her two, and a tiny pistol that lay in her lap was in the detective's possession.
* * * * * * *
"Let us talk," said T. B. He laid her tiny pistol on the table, and with his thumb raised the safety-catch.
"You are not afraid of a toy pistol?" she scoffed.
"I am afraid of anything that carries a nickel bullet," he confessed without shame. "I know by experience that your 'toy' throws a shot that penetrates an inch of pinewood and comes out on the other side. I cannot offer the same resistance as pinewood," he added modestly.
"I have been warned about you," she said, with a faint smile.
"So you were warned?" T. B. was mildly amused and just a trifle annoyed. It piqued him to know that, whilst, as he thought, he had been working in the shadow, he had been under a searchlight.
"You are—what do you call it in England?—smug," she said, "but what are you going to do with me?"
She had let fall her cloak and was again leaning back lazily in the big armchair. The question was put in the most matter-of-fact tones.
"That you shall see," said T. B. cheerfully. "I am mainly concerned now in preventing you from communicating with your friends."
"It will be rather difficult?" she challenged, with a smile. "I am not proscribed; my character does not admit——"
"As to your character," said T. B. magnanimously, "we will not go into the question. So far as you are concerned, I shall take you into custody on a charge of obtaining property by false pretences," said T. B. calmly.
"What?"
"Your name is Mary Brown, and I shall charge you with having obtained the sum of £350 by a trick from a West Indian gentleman at Barbadoes last March."
She sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing.
"You know that is false and ridiculous," she said steadily. "What is the meaning of it?"
T. B. shrugged his shoulders.
"Would you prefer that I should charge 'La Belle Espagnole' with being an accessory to murder?" he asked, with a lift of his eyebrows.
"You could not prove it!" she challenged.
"Of that I am aware," he said. "I have taken the trouble to trace your movements. When these murders were committed you were fulfilling an engagement at the Philharmonic, but you knew of the murder, I'll swear—you are an agent of N.H.C."
"So it was you who found my handkerchief?"
"No; a discerning friend of mine is entitled to the discovery. Are you ready—Mary Brown?"
"Wait."
She stood plucking at her dress nervously. "What good can my arrest do to you?—tomorrow it will be known all over the world."
"There," said T. B., "you are mistaken."
"To arrest me is to sign your death-warrant—you must know that—the Nine Men will strike——"
"Ah!!"
T. B.'s eyes were dancing with excitement.
"Nine men!" he repeated slowly. "Neuf hommes—N.H. What does the 'C.' stand for?"
"That much you will doubtless discover," she said coldly, "but they will strike surely and effectively."
The detective had regained his composure.
"I'm a bit of a striker myself," he said in English.