Collected works of j s f.., p.206
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 206
“Oh, I’ll try it, you bet!” exclaimed Allerdyke. “I’ll try it for all it’s worth, and as cleverly as I can. In fact, I’ve already thought of a plan, and if you don’t want me any more just now, I’ll go to the post-office and send off a telegram that’s something to do with it.”
“Nothing more now, sir,” answered Chettle. “But look here — you’re not going back to town to-night?”
“Why, that’s just what I meant to do,” replied Allerdyke. “There’s naught to stop here for, is there?”
“I’m expecting a message from the Christiania police some time this afternoon or evening,” said Chettle. “I cabled to them yesterday making full inquiries about Lydenberg — he represented himself here, to Dr. Orwin and the police-surgeons especially, as being a medical man in practice in Christiania, who had come across to Hull on some entirely private family business. Now, we’ve made the most exhaustive inquiries here in Hull — there isn’t a soul in the town knows anything whatever of Lydenberg! I’m as certain as I am that I see you that he’d no business here at all — except to kill and rob your cousin. And so, of course, we want to know if he really was what he said he was, over there. I pressed upon the Christiania police to let me know all they could within thirty-six hours. So if you’ll stop the night here, I’ll likely be able to show you their reply to me.”
“Right!” answered Allerdyke. “I’ll put up at the Station Hotel. You come and have your dinner with me there at seven o’clock.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Allerdyke,” replied Chettle. “I’ll come.”
Then Allerdyke went off to the General Post Office and sent a telegram to his housekeeper in Bradford —
“Send off at once by registered parcel post to me at Waldorf Hotel, London, the morocco-bound photograph album lying on right-hand corner of my writing-desk in the library. — MARSHALL ALLERDYKE.”
He went out of the post-office laughing cynically. Bit by bit things were coming out, he said to himself as he strolled away towards the hotel; link after link the chain was being forged. But around whom, in the end, was it going to be fastened? It was the first time in his life that he had ever been brought face to face with crime, and the seeking out of the criminal was beginning to fascinate him.
“Egad, it’s a queer business!” he muttered. “A thread here, a thread there! — Heaven knows what it’ll all come to. But this Chettle’s a good ‘un — he’s like to do things.”
Chettle joined him in the smoking-room of the hotel at a quarter to seven, and immediately produced a telegram.
“Came half an hour ago,” he said as they sat down in a corner. “Nobody but myself seen it up to now. And — it’s just what I expected. Read it.”
Allerdyke slowly read the message through, pondering over it —
“We have made fullest inquiries concerning Lydenberg. He was certainly not in practice here either under that or any other name. Nothing is known of him as a resident in this city. We have definitely ascertained that he came to Christiania from Copenhagen, by land, via Lund and Copenhagen, arriving Christiania May 7th, and that he left here by steamship Perisco for Hull, May 10th.”
“You notice the dates?” observed Chettle. “May 7th and 10th. Now, it was on May 8th that your cousin wired to Fullaway from Christiania, Mr. Allerdyke — there’s no doubt about it! This man, Lydenberg, whoever he is or was, was sent to waylay your cousin at Christiania — sent from London. I’ve worked it out — he went overland — Belgium, Holland, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway. Sounds a lot — but it’s a quick journey. Sir — he was sent! And the sooner we find out about that photograph the better.”
“I’m at work,” answered Allerdyke. “Leave it to me.”
He found his morocco-bound photograph album awaiting him when he arrived at the Waldorf Hotel next day, and during the afternoon he took it in his hand and strolled quietly and casually into Franklin Fullaway’s rooms. Everything there looked as he had always seen it — Mrs. Marlow, charming as ever, was tapping steadily at her typewriter: Fullaway, himself a large cigar in his mouth, was reading the American newspapers, just arrived, in his own sanctum. He greeted Allerdyke with enthusiasm.
“Been away since yesterday, eh?” he said, after warm greetings. “Home?”
“Aye, I’ve been down to Yorkshire,” responded Allerdyke offhandedly. “One or two things I wanted to see to, and some things I wanted to get. This is one of ’em.”
“Family Bible?” inquired Fullaway, eyeing the solemnly bound album.
“No. Photos,” answered Allerdyke. He was going to test things at once, and he opened the book at the fateful page. “I’m a bit of an amateur photographer,” he went on, with a laugh. “Here’s what’s probably the last photo ever taken of James. What d’ye think of it?”
Fullaway glanced at the photograph, all unconscious that his caller was watching him as he had never been watched in his life. He waved his cigar at the open page.
“Oh!” he said airily. “A remarkably good likeness — wonderful! I said so when I saw it before — excellent likeness, Allerdyke, excellent! Couldn’t be beaten by a professional. Excellent!”
Marshall Allerdyke felt his heart beating like a sledgehammer as he put his next question, and for the life of him he could not tell how he managed to keep his voice under control.
“Ah!” he said. “You’ve seen it before, then? James show it to you?”
Fullaway nodded towards the door of the outer room, from which came the faint click of the secretary’s machine.
“He gave one to Mrs. Marlow the very last time he was here.” he answered. “They were talking about amateur photography, and he pulled a print of that out of his pocket and made her a present of it; said it couldn’t be beaten. You’re a clever hand, Allerdyke — most lifelike portrait I ever saw. Well — any news?”
CHAPTER XIX
THE LATE CALL
IT WAS WITH a mighty effort of will that Allerdyke controlled himself sufficiently to be able to answer Fullaway’s question with calmness. This was for him a critical moment. He knew now to whom James Allerdyke had given the photograph which Chettle had found concealed in Lydenberg’s watch; knew that the recipient was sitting close by him, separated only from him by a wall and a door; knew that between her and Lydenberg, or those who had been in touch with Lydenberg, there must be some strange, secret, and sinister connection. From Mrs. Marlow to Lydenberg that photograph had somehow passed, and, as Chettle had well said, the entire problem of the murders and thefts was mixed up in its transference. All that was certain — what seemed certain, too, was that Fullaway knew nothing of these things, and was as innocent as he himself. And for the fraction of a second he was half-minded to tell all he knew to Fullaway there and then — and it was only by a still stronger effort of will that he restrained his tongue, determined to keep a stricter silence than ever, and replied to the American in an offhand, casual tone.
“News?” he said, with a half-laugh. “Nay, not that I know of. They take their time, those detective chaps. You heard aught?”
“Nothing particular,” answered Fullaway. “Except that the Princess was in here this morning, and that Miss Lennard came at the same time. But neither of them had anything of importance to tell. The Princess has been ransacking her memory all about her affairs with your cousin; she’s more certain than ever now that nobody in Russia but he and she knew anything about the jewel deal. They were always in strict privacy when they discussed the matter; no one was present when she gave him the jewels; she never mentioned the affair to a soul, and she’s confident from what she knew of him, that he wouldn’t. So she’s more convinced than ever that the news got out from this side.”
“And Miss Lennard — what did she want?” asked Allerdyke.
“Oh! she’s found the various references — two or three of ’em — that she had with the French maid,” replied Fullaway. “I looked at them — there’s nothing in them but what you’d expect to find. Two of the writers are well-known society women, the third was a French marquise. I don’t think anything’s to be got out of them, but, anyway, I sent her off to Scotland Yard with them — it’s their work that. Fine photos there, Allerdyke,” he continued, turning over the leaves of the album. “Some of your places in Bradford, eh.”
Allerdyke, who was particularly anxious that he should not seem to have had an ulterior object in bringing the album up to Fullaway’s office hailed this question with relief. He began to point out and explain the various pictures — photographs of his mills, warehouses, town office, his own private house, grounds, surroundings, chatting unconcernedly about each. And while the two men were thus engaged in came Mrs. Marlow, bringing letters which needed Fullaway’s signature.
“Mrs. Marlow knows more about amateur photography than I do,” remarked Fullaway, with a glance at his secretary. “Here, Mrs. Marlow, these are same of Mr. Allerdyke’s productions — you remember that his cousin, Mr. James Allerdyke, gave you a photo which this Mr. Allerdyke had taken?”
Allerdyke, keenly watching the secretary’s pretty face as she laid her papers on Fullaway’s desk, saw no sign of embarrassment or confusion; Fullaway might have made the most innocent and ordinary remark in the world, and yet, according to Allerdyke’s theory and positive knowledge, it must be fraught with serious meaning to this woman.
“Oh yes!” she flashed, without as much as the flicker of an eyelash. “I remember — a particularly good photo. So like him!”
Allerdyke’s ingenuity immediately invented a remark; he was at that stage when, he wanted to know as much as possible.
“I wonder which print it was that he gave you?” he said. “One of them — I only did a few — had a spot in it that’ll spread. If that’s the one you’ve got, I’ll give you another in its place, Mrs. Marlow. Have you got it here?”
But Mrs. Marlow shook her head and presented the same unabashed front.
“No,” she answered readily enough. “I took it home, Mr. Allerdyke. But there’s no spot on my print — I should have noticed it at once. May I look at your album when Mr. Fullaway’s finished with it?”
Allerdyke left the album with them and went away. He was utterly astonished by Mrs. Marlow’s coolness. If, as he already believed, she was mixed up in the murders and robberies, she must know that the photograph which James Allerdyke had given her was a most important factor, and yet she spoke of it as calmly and unconcernedly as if it had been a mere scrap of paper! Of course she hadn’t got it at the office — nor at her home either — it was there at Hull, fitted into the cover of Lydenberg’s old watch.
“A cool hand!” soliloquized Allerdyke as he went downstairs. “Cool, clever, calm, never off her guard. A damned dangerous woman! — that’s the long and short of it. And — what next?”
Experience and observation of life had taught Marshall Allerdyke that good counsel is one of life’s most valuable assets. He could think for himself and decide for himself at any moment, but he knew the worth and value of putting two heads together, especially at a juncture like this. And so, the afternoon being still young, he went off to his warehouse in Gresham Street, closeted himself with Ambler Appleyard, and having pledged him to secrecy, told him all that had happened since the previous morning.
Ambler Appleyard listened in silence. It was only two or three hours since he had listened to another story — the report of the two Gaffneys, and Allerdyke, all unaware of that business, had come upon him while he was still thinking it over. And while Appleyard gave full attention to all that his employer said, he was also thinking of what he himself could tell. By the time that Allerdyke had finished he, too, had decided to speak.
“So there it is, my lad!” exclaimed Allerdyke, throwing out his hands with an eloquent gesture as he made an end of his story. “I hope I’ve put it clearly to you. It’s just as that Chap Chettle said — the whole secret is in that photograph! And isn’t it plain? — that photograph must have been transferred somehow by this Mrs. Marlow to this Lydenberg. How? Why? When we can answer those questions—”
He paused at that, and, looking fixedly at his manager, shook his head half-threateningly.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Ambler,” he went on, after a moment’s silence. “I’ve got a good, strong mind to go straight to the police authorities, tell ’em what I know, insist on ’em fetching Chettle up from Hull at once, and having that woman arrested. Why not?”
“No!” said Appleyard firmly. “Not yet. Too soon, Mr. Allerdyke — wait a bit. And now listen to me — I’ve something to tell you. I’ve been busy while you’ve been away — in this affair. Bit of detective work. I’ll tell you all about it — all! You remember that day I went to lunch with you at the City Carlton, and you pointed out this Mrs. Marlow to me, going into Rothschild’s? Yes, well — I recognized her.”
“You did!” exclaimed Allerdyke. “Nay!”
“I recognized her,” repeated Appleyard. “I said naught to you at the time, but I knew her well enough. As a matter of fact, I’ve known her for two years. She lives at the same boarding-house, the Pompadour Private Hotel, in Bayswater, that I live in. I see her — have been seeing her for two years — every day, morning and night. But I know her as Miss Slade.”
“Miss?” ejaculated Allerdyke.
“Miss — Miss Slade,” answered Appleyard. He drew his chair nearer to Allerdyke’s, and went on in a lower voice. “Now, then, pay attention, and I’ll tell you all about it, and what I’ve done since I got your note yesterday morning.”
He told Allerdyke the whole story of his endeavour to find out something about Rayner merely because Rayner seemed to be in Miss Slade’s confidence, and because Miss Slade was certainly a woman of mystery. And Allerdyke listened as quietly and attentively as Appleyard had listened to him, nodding his head at all the important points, and in the end he slapped his manager’s shoulder with an approving hand.
“Good — good!” he said. “Good, Ambler! That was a bit of right work, and hang me if I don’t believe we shall find something out. But what’s to be done? You know, if these two are in at it, they may slip. That ‘ud never do!”
“I don’t think there’s any fear of that — yet,” answered Appleyard. “The probability is that neither has any suspicion of being watched — the whole thing’s so clever that they probably believe themselves safe. Of course, mind you, this man Rayner may be as innocent as you or I. But against her, on the facts of that photograph affair, there’s a primâ facie case. Only — don’t let’s spoil things by undue haste or rashness. I’ve thought things out a good deal, and we can do a lot, you and me, before going to the police, though I don’t think it ‘ud do any harm to tell this man Chettle, supposing he were here — because his discovery of that photo is the real thing.”
“What can we do, then?” asked Allerdyke.
“Make use of the two Gaffneys,” answered Appleyard without hesitation. “They’re smart chaps — real keen ‘uns. We want to find out who Rayner is; what his connection, if any, with Miss Slade, alias Mrs. Marlow, is; who she is, and why she goes under two names. That’s all what you might call initial proceedings. What I propose is this — when you go back to your hotel, get Gaffney into your private sitting-room. You, of course, know him much better than I do, but from what bit I’ve seen of him I’m sure he’s the sort of man one can trust. Tell him to get hold of that brother of his and bring him here at any hour you like to-morrow, and then — well, we can have a conference, and decide on some means of finding out more about Rayner and keeping an eye on him. For that sort of work I should say that other Gaffney’s remarkably well cut out — he’s a typical, sharp, knowing Cockney, with all his wits about him, and plenty of assurance.”
“It’s detective work, you know, Ambler,” said Allerdyke. “It needs a bit of more than ordinary cuteness.”
“From my observation, I should say both those chaps are just cut for it,” answered Appleyard, with a laugh. “What’s more, they enjoy it. And when men enjoy what they’re doing—”
“Why, they do it well,” agreed Allerdyke, finishing the sentence. “Aye, that’s true enough. All right — I’ll speak to Gaffney, when I go back. And look here — as you’re so well known to this woman, Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow, whichever her name is, you’d better not show up at the Waldorf at any time in my company, eh?”
“Of course,” said Appleyard. “You trust me for that! What we’ve got to do must be done as secretly as possible.”
Allerdyke rose to go, but turned before he reached the door.
“There’s one thing I’m uneasy about,” he said. “If — I say if, of course — if these folks — I mean the lot that’s behind this woman, for I can’t believe that she’s worked it all herself — have got those jewels, won’t they want to clear out with them? Isn’t delay dangerous?”
“Not such delay as I’m thinking of,” answered Appleyard firmly. “She’s cute enough, this lady, and if she made herself scarce just now, she’d know very well that it would excite suspicion. Don’t let’s spoil things by being too previous. We’ve got a pretty good watch on her, you know. I should know very quickly if she cleared out of the Pompadour; you’d know if she didn’t turn up at Fullaway’s. Wait a bit, Mr. Allerdyke; it’s the best policy. You’ll come here to-morrow?”
“Eleven o’clock in the morning,” replied Allerdyke. “I’ll fix it with Gaffney to-night.”
He went back to the Waldorf, summoned Gaffney to his private room, and sent him to arrange matters with his brother. Gaffney accepted the commission with alacrity; his brother, he said, was just then out of a job, having lost a clerkship through the sudden bankruptcy of his employers; such a bit of business as that which Mr. Appleyard had entrusted to him was so much meat and drink to one of his tastes — in more ways than one.
“It’s the sort of thing he likes, sir,” remarked Gaffney, confidentially. “He’s always been a great hand at reading these detective tales, and to set him to watch anybody is like offering chickens to a nigger — he fair revels in it!”
