Collected works of j s f.., p.583
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 583
“Oh, there’s no blame attaching to you, Mr. Garrowell!” interrupted Lord Morradale. “On the face of it, the letter’s genuine enough. But I wanted to ask you a question: How much do you know of Madame Listorelle? I mean, how often has she employed you?”
“Two or three times only,” replied Garrowell. “She came to me first about an agreement which I had had to send her on behalf of another client. She seemed very friendly, and was kind enough to say that next time she had any legal business she would remember me as she hadn’t any regular solicitor of her own. I think,” he added with a deprecating smile, “she probably saw that I was beginning, and hadn’t much to do.”
“I see,” said Lord Morradale, looking round at the somewhat humble appointments of the office. “And you’ve been to that Safe Deposit place on her behalf — how often?”
“Twice. On each occasion Madame Listorelle wrote her instructions from abroad. Once she was in Paris. The other time she was at Nice. The instructions were similar on both occasions: I was to go to the Safe Deposit, get a certain parcel or article and post it to an address given. The first time I sent a small parcel to Amsterdam — I have the exact address and name; the second, to New York. So that, of course, when I got Madame’s letter this morning, I saw nothing unusual in it.”
“Just so!” agreed Lord Morradale. “You wouldn’t. Well, I hope Matherfield will clap the irons on the men who forced her to write it! Eh, Hetherwick?”
“With all my heart!” responded Hetherwick “But I, too, want to ask Mr. Garrowell a question. How long,” he continued, “have you been here, in St. Martin’s Lane?”
“Oh, four or five years,” replied Garrowell.
“Then you know this district pretty well, of course. Have you ever come across a man whom I’ll try to describe to you?” He went on to give an accurate, if concise, description of Baseverie. “That man,” he concluded, “is sometimes seen around here.”
Garrowell nodded.
“I know him!” he said. “In fact, he’s been in this very room — to see me. But I don’t know his name, nor anything much about him. He was brought here by another man and he only stayed a few minutes.”
“How much do you know about him — however little?” asked Hetherwick.
“This much. You know that people who have invented things come to solicitors for legal advice, and sometimes to get information as to how they can best dispose of their inventions? Well, about nine months ago a man came to me who claimed to have invented a drop-bottle — that is, a bottle from which you could only drop one drop of stuff at a time. He said such a thing was badly wanted, and that there ought to be a pile of money in it. He wanted to know how best to get it on the market. I didn’t know, but I mentioned the matter to one or two people, and a man I know — or knew at that time, for he’s since dead, unfortunately — said that he knew a man who was a sort of commission agent for inventions — took up a good idea, don’t you see, and introduced it — and he promised to bring him to see me. He brought him; the man he brought was, without doubt, the man you describe. His name was not mentioned, but I am sure he was that man. I don’t know what your man is, but I felt sure that the man I am talking about either was or had been a medical man.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “What made you think that?”
“From his conversation — from the remarks he made about the bottle. He didn’t take it up; he said my client was too late and was wrongly informed into the bargain: there was such a thing, and a superior one, already on the market. He went away then, and, as I say, I never heard his name, and I’ve never seen him since.”
“That’s the man we want!” said Hetherwick. “If Matherfield can only lay hands on him! But we shall know more by midnight.”
Outside, he turned to Lord Morradale with a shake of the head.
“We’re no nearer to any knowledge of where the two women are!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, I don’t know!” responded Lord Morradale. “I think we are, you know. You see, if Matherfield nabs those chaps, or even one of them, he or they will see that the game’s up, and will give in and say where their captives are. Odd business, Hetherwick, that people can be kidnapped and imprisoned in broad daylight in London!”
“I don’t think anything’s impossible or odd — in London,” answered Hetherwick dryly. “If one had only the least idea as to which quarter of the town that car was driven, one might be doing something!”
“Lots of sub-sections in every quarter, and subsections again in each of those,” replied Lord Morradale with equal dryness. “Take some time to comb out this town! No! I think we must trust to Matherfield. Nothing else to trust to, in fact.”
But Hetherwick suddenly thought of Mapperley. He began to wonder what the clerk was after, what his notion had been. Then he remembered Mapperley’s admonition to look out for a message about that time, and excusing himself from Lord Morradale, he jumped on a bus and went along to the Temple. There, in the letter-box, he found a telegram:
“Meet me Victoria three o’clock. Mapperley.”
Hetherwick set off for Victoria there and then. But it was only a quarter-past two when he got there, and as he had had no lunch, he turned into the restaurant. There, when he was half-way through a chop, Mapperley found him, and slipped into a chair close by before Hetherwick noticed his presence.
“Thought I might find you in here, sir,” said Mapperley. They were alone in a quiet corner, but the clerk lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well,” he continued, bending across the table, “I’ve done a bit, anyhow.”
“In what way?” asked Hetherwick.
Mapperley produced from his breast pocket some papers, and from amongst them selected an envelope — the azure-tinted envelope which he had picked up from the caretaker’s supper table at St. Mary’s Mansions.
“You recognise this?” he said, with a sly smile. “You know where I got it. This is the envelope which Baseverie took to the caretaker, with the order to enter Madame Listorelle’s flat. You knew that I carried it off, from under the man’s nose, last night. But you didn’t know why. I only laughed when you asked me.”
“Well, why, then?” inquired Hetherwick.
“This reason,” replied Mapperley. “We both noticed that the sheet of paper on which the order had been written by Madame had been shortened — there was no doubt that a printed or embossed address had been trimmed off, rather roughly, too. We noticed that, I say, both of us. But I don’t think you noticed something far more important — far, far more important — for our purposes.”
“No,” admitted Hetherwick. “I didn’t. What?”
“This,” said Mapperley, turning back the broken flap of the envelope. “You didn’t notice that here, on the envelope, is the name and address of the stationer who supplied this stuff! There you are — W. H. Calkin, 85, Broadway, Westminster. You never saw that, Mr. Hetherwick. But I did!”
Hetherwick began to comprehend. He smiled — gratefully.
“Smart of you, Mapperley!” he exclaimed. “I see! And — you’ve been there?”
“I’ve been there,” answered Mapperley. “I saw a chance of tracking these men down. I couldn’t get hold of Calkin till nearly noon, but I got on like a house afire when I did get him. You see,” he went on, “that paper is, to start with, of an unusual tint, in colour. Secondly, it’s of very superior quality, though very thin — intended chiefly for foreign correspondence. Thirdly, it’s expensive. Now, I felt certain its use would be limited, and what I wanted to find out from the stationer was — to whom he’d supplied it. That was easy. He recognised the paper and envelope at once. Of the handwriting on the paper, he knew nothing whatever — Madame’s writing, you know — that he’d never seen before. But he said at once that he’d only supplied that particular make of paper and envelopes to three people, and for each person he’d prepared a die, to emboss the addresses. The embossing had been done at his shop, and he showed me specimens of each. One was for the Dowager Lady Markentree, 120, Grosvenor Gardens. That was no use. The second was for Miss Chelandry, 87, Ebury Street. That was out of count, too. But the third was what I wanted. It was just the address, 56, Little Smith Street, S.W.1. As soon as I saw it, I knew I’d got on the right track.”
“Go on!” said Hetherwick.
“The stationer, Calkin, didn’t know the name of the man who ordered this paper and gave this address,” continued Mapperley. “He knew him well enough as a customer, though, and described him. Baseverie, without a doubt! Calkin says that Baseverie, during the last few months, bought various items of stationery from him — notebooks, duplicating paper, office requisites, and so on. He never knew his name, but as he always carried away his own purchases, and paid spot cash for them, that didn’t matter. Calkin supplied him with ten quires of this paper and envelopes to match, a couple of months ago. So — there you are! And there I was — sure at last that Baseverie’s mysterious hiding-place was 56, Little Smith Street!”
“Good — good!” said Hetherwick. “What next?”
“Well, I thought we could do with a bit of help,” replied Mapperley, smiling. “So I left Calkin — bound to secrecy, of course — and telephoned to Issy Goldmark. Issy is just the sort of chap for games of this sort! Issy came — and he and I took a stroll round. Do you know Little Smith Street?”
“Not I!” answered Hetherwick. “Never heard of it!”
“Oh, well, but it is a street,” said Mapperley. “It lies between Great Smith Street and Tufton Street, back o’ the Church House — not so far from the Abbey. Bit slummy down those quarters, round about — sort of district that’s seen decidedly better days. Still, there’s good, solid houses here and there — 56 is one of ’em. From outside, it looks the sort of house you can’t get into — dark, silent, heavily-curtained windows — sort of place in which you could murder anybody on the quiet. Very substantial front door, painted dark green, with an old-fashioned brass knocker — that sort of house. We took a good look at it.”
“See anything?” asked Hetherwick.
“Nothing but what I’ve told you — lifeless sort o’ place,” answered Mapperley. “However, having once seen it, I wasn’t going to leave it unwatched, so I posted Issy there, in the window of a convenient public-house, and came away to telegraph to you. And there Issy is — either in his pub, or loafing round. And now we ought to go and hear if he’s anything to report. And if he hasn’t — what then?”
“Just so,” said Hetherwick. “That’s it — what then? But before we do anything at all, Mapperley, I’d better post you up as to what’s happened elsewhere this morning. You see,” he continued, when he had finished his story, “if Matherfield’s theory is correct, and Baseverie has already gone to Southampton to collect that parcel on its arrival, and if Ambrose has gone with him, we shan’t find Baseverie at this address. But — we might inquire if he’s known there.”
Mapperley reflected a while. Then an idea seemed to suggest itself.
“Pay your bill, sir, and let’s get out to a Post Office Directory somewhere,” he said. “We’ll get the name of the occupier of 56, Little Smith Street.”
Ten minutes later they were looking down the long columns of names in a directory; Mapperley suddenly pointed to what they wanted.
“There we are!” he said. “Mrs. Hannah Mallett — boarding-house proprietor.”
“Come along!” said Hetherwick. “We’ll see Mrs. Mallett, anyhow.”
But on arrival at Little Smith Street, Mapperley looked round first, for his friend, Mr. Goldmark. Mr. Goldmark materialised suddenly — apparently from nowhere — and smiled.
“Afternoon, mithter!” he said politely to Hetherwick. “Lovely weather, ithn’t it? Ain’t theen nothing, Mapperley, old bean! Ain’t been a thoul in or out o’ that houth, thinth you hopped it! Theemth to me it’th locked up.”
“We’ll see about that,” remarked Hetherwick. “Come with me, Mapperley. You stay here. Goldmark, and keep your eyes as open as before.”
He advanced boldly, with the clerk at his heels, to the door of number 56, and knocked loudly on the stout panel, supplementing this with a ring at the bell. This dual summons was twice repeated — with no result.
“Somebody coming!” whispered Mapperley, suddenly. “Bolted — inside — as well as locked!”
Hetherwick distinctly heard the sound of a stout bolt being withdrawn, then of a key being turned. The door was opened — only a little, but sufficiently to show them the face and figure of an unusually big woman, an Amazon in appearance, hard of eye and lip, who glared at them suspiciously, and as soon as she saw that there were two of them, narrowed the space through which she inspected her callers. But Hetherwick got a hand on the door and a foot across the threshold.
“Mrs. Mallett?” he inquired in a purposely loud voice. “Just so! Is Doctor Baseverie in?”
Both men were watching the woman keenly, and they saw that she started a little, involuntarily. But her head shook a ready negative.
“Nobody of that name here!” she answered.
She would have shut the door, but for Hetherwick’s foot — he advanced it further, giving Mrs. Mallett a keen, searching glance.
“Perhaps you know Dr. Baseverie by another name?” he suggested. “So — is Mr. Basing in?”
But the ready shake of the head came again, and the hard eyes grew harder and more suspicious.
“Nobody of that name here, either!” she said. “Don’t know anybody of those names.”
“I think you do,” persisted Hetherwick sternly. He turned to Mapperley, purposely. “We shall have to get the police — —”
“Look out, sir!” exclaimed Mapperley, snatching at Hetherwick’s arm. “Your fingers!”
The woman suddenly banged the door to, narrowly missing Hetherwick’s hand, which he had closed on the edge; a second later they heard the bolt slipped and the key turned. And Hetherwick, as with a swift illumination, comprehended things, and turned sharply on his clerk.
“Mapperley!” he exclaimed. “Sure as fate! Those ladies are in there! Trapped!”
“Shouldn’t wonder, sir,” agreed Mapperley. “And as you say — the police — —”
“Come back to Goldmark,” said Hetherwick.
Going lower down the street and retreating into the shelter of a doorway, the three men held a rapid consultation, suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the Jew, who still kept his eyes on the house:
“Th’elp me if the woman ain’t leavin’ that houth!” he said. “Thee! the — thee ith! Lockin’ the door behind her, too! Goin’ up the thtreet!”
Hetherwick looked and saw, and pushed Goldmark out of the doorway.
“Follow!” he said. “And for God’s sake, don’t miss her!”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE HOUSE IN THE YARD
THE JEW SILENTLY and promptly set out in the wake of the hurrying woman; presently she and her pursuer disappeared round a corner.
“That’s the result of our call, Mapperley!” said Hetherwick. “She’s gone somewhere — to tell somebody!”
“Likely!” assented Mapperley. “But wherever she’s gone, Issy Goldmark’ll spot her. He’s the eyes of a lynx.”
“He let Baseverie slip him, the other night, though,” remarked Hetherwick.
“Well, there was some excuse for that,” said Mapperley, “to begin with, he was only instructed to find out where Baseverie went, and to end with he had found out! He’ll not let this woman slip him. She’s good to follow — plenty of her.”
“I wish we knew what she’d left in that house,” said Hetherwick. “We’ll have to find out, somehow!”
“That’s a police job,” replied Mapperley. “Can’t walk into people’s houses without a warrant. And you say Matherfield’s on the other track? However, I should say that this woman’s gone off now to find somebody who’s principally concerned — she looked afraid, in my opinion, when she saw me.”
“She’s in it, somehow,” muttered Hetherwick.
“That house looks mysterious enough for anything. We’ll keep a close watch on it, anyway, until Goldmark comes back, however long that may be.”
But the Jew was back within twenty minutes. So was the woman. She came first, hurrying up the street quicker than when she had left it. As far as the watchers could make out from their vantage point, twenty yards away from her door, she looked flustered, distressed, upset. After her, on the opposite pavement, came Mr. Issy Goldmark, his hands in his pockets.
The woman re-entered the house; they heard the door bang. A moment later the Jew turned into the entry in which Hetherwick and Mapperley stood, half hidden from the street. He smiled, inscrutably.
“Thee her go back to her houth?” he asked. “Well, I followed. I thaw where thee’th been, too.”
“Where, then?” demanded Hetherwick, impatiently.
Goldmark jerked his head in the direction from whence he had come.
“Round that corner,” he said, “you get into a regular thlum. Little thtreeth, alleyth, pathageth, and tho on. In one of ’em, a narrow plathe, where there’th a thort of open-air market, there’th a good thithed pieth of blank wall, with an iron-fathen’d door in it. Well, the woman went in there — let herthelf in with a key that thee took from her pocket. Ath thoon ath thee’d gone in, I took a clother look. The door’th fathen’d with iron, or thteel, ath I thaid — jolly thtrong. There ain’t no name on it, and no keyhole that you can look through. The wall’th a good nine or ten feet high, and it’th covered with broken glath at the top. Not a nithe plathe to get into, nohow!”
“Well?” inquired Hetherwick. “She went in?”
“Went in, ath I thay, mithter, and the door clothed on her. After I’d taken a glimpth at the door I got a potht behind one of the thtalls in the thtreet and watched. She came out again in about ten minitth — looked to me, too, ath if thee hadn’t had a very plethant time inthide. Upthet! And thee thet off back here, fathter than vhat thee came. Now thee’th gone into her houth again — ath you no doubt thaw. And that’th all. But if I wath you, mithter,” concluded Issy, “I should jutht find out vhat there ith behind that door and the wall it’th thet in — I thhould tho!”
