Collected works of j s f.., p.664
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 664
“Scarcely that,” answered Richard. “He merely pointed out that there was no evidence to corroborate your father’s statement about the notes. But never mind that! — they’ll get the evidence they want. Yourself?”
“I’m all right,” she said, with a shy look at him. “But I haven’t understood things, and I didn’t like being at Malbourne. You got my letter?”
“Yes, and I hurried down there at once — instantly!” replied Richard. “You spoke of being prisoners — were you really prisoners?”
“I don’t know what else you’d call it — to be kept to certain rooms, and to a certain part of the gardens, and to feel that there were men watching you all the time!” she answered. “My father said we weren’t; that it was all business — but I felt that we were. And I don’t like Vandelius — —”
She paused suddenly, and Richard, turning in the direction in which she looked, saw Simpson coming up to him.
“Can you make it convenient to come to the office, Mr. Marchmont?” he asked. “There are some matters there which require your attention. I telephoned to your rooms yesterday and again this morning, but you weren’t at home.”
“I’ll come in an hour from now,” replied Richard. He turned to Angelita when the clerk had withdrawn. “You heard what your father said?” he went on. “I’m to take you back to your hotel. Come along — we can have half an hour together, at any rate. . . .” But at the end of the half-hour he tore himself away, and hurried to Bedford Row, where he found Simpson in the room that had been Henry Marchmont’s. Simpson, as being in charge of the business, had installed himself in his old master’s room and chair, but he rose from the chair when Richard walked in and offered it to him as by right. From a drawer he produced a sheaf of documents.
“These are the matters arising out of the will, Mr. Marchmont,” he said. “You told me that you’d like to pay out the legacies as soon as possible, and of course you can do that at any time without waiting to take out probate. So I’ve prepared the cheques for your signature — these other papers relate to some business matters.”
He laid several already filled-in cheques on the blotting-pad; Richard, who knew next to nothing of legal matters, proceeded, without demur or question, to sign them.
“What are you going to do with your ten thousand pounds, Simpson?” he asked, half jokingly, as he handed the cheque back. “Very useful legacy, isn’t it?
“It will be exceedingly useful to me, Mr. Marchmont,” replied Simpson solemnly. “I propose, as you are selling this business as a going concern, to buy myself a partnership in another firm.”
“Why don’t you join the people who are taking this over?” asked Richard.
“I don’t think they want another partner,” said Simpson. “There are four of them already. No! — I know of a very good firm in the West End, sir, where I can get a partnership — a firm with a first-rate conveyancing practice. The matter can be arranged now that I have received my legacy — for which, Mr. Marchmont, I assure you I am truly grateful to my late employer!”
“Oh, well, I’m sure he was glad to leave it to you, Simpson,” said Richard. “But I say — as regards that evidence we heard this afternoon — is there nowhere, no place in which my uncle could have put those bank-notes for safety?”
“I cannot think of any place, Mr. Marchmont,” replied Simpson. “I — sometimes with you, sometimes alone — have been through the whole office. I am quite sure no bank-notes were in this house that morning!”
“What do you think about their disappearance, then?” asked Richard. “What’s your theory?”
Simpson assumed the demeanour of a man who thinks, or has thought, a good deal about the subject proposed to him, but who is not sure that it would be wise to say what his thoughts are or have been.
“Well, Mr. Marchmont,” he replied at last, “the matter is, of course, sub judice. But a great deal might be said. We must remember that your uncle did sometimes have callers here at night. I know for a fact that men sometimes came here of an evening who sold him old books, curios, things of that sort. The sight of those notes lying on his desk would tempt some men — even to murder! And . . . the doctors may have been mistaken as to the exact time of his death. It may have been an hour of two later — he may have had visitors of the sort I have just referred to. The present thing to do is to trace those notes — if it can be done. It will take time.”
But before noon next day Richard heard that Liversedge had successfully achieved success in the first stage of the note inquiry. All but five of the forty £500 notes had already been cashed at the Bank of England.
XIX. Side Whiskers
LIVERSEDGE TOLD THE result of his preliminary inquiries into the history of the bank-notes at the Hotel Cecil, where he found Richard in company with Lansdale and his daughter. He had encountered no difficulty in tracing the ultimate destination of thirty-five of the forty. They had been duly presented and cashed at the Bank of England, in the ordinary way, at various dates since that on which Lansdale had got them from his own bank, and through different channels, and there had been nothing whatever in their manner of presentation to arouse suspicion or lead to comment. Whoever, said Liversedge, had stolen them from Henry Marchmont’s desk had disposed of them in extremely knowing and clever fashion. Still, some at any rate could be traced back — one bunch, in particular, had been brought to the Bank before eleven o’clock on the very morning after Henry Marchmont’s murder by a commissionaire, who was being sought for — but the process would take time. As to the remaining five, the Bank had, of course, been warned as to the facts relating to the theft and notified of the numbers, and careful watch would be kept for their coming in. That again meant probable delay — and in the meantime Liversedge wanted some more information out of Lansdale.
It was very plain to Richard that the detective, for reasons best known to himself, had accepted Lansdale’s story without hesitation or demur. Henry Marchmont, in Liversedge’s opinion, had been murdered for the twenty thousand pounds left with him by Lansdale. That was a splendid motive from a police point of view, and Liversedge was quick to realise it. And having finished his story about the notes, he turned to Lansdale for other news.
“Mr. Lansdale — a question or two! You said in the witness-box yesterday that you were so much upset by the treatment you got from Henry Marchmont at that City dinner that you took your financial partners in this deal you referred to into your confidence? You meant, primarily, Vandelius?”
“Vandelius, of course. I told him all about it.”
“Where was that?”
“At Crench’s office, in Chancery Lane.”
“Was Crench there?”
“Certainly — I said so in the witness-box. Crench was there, and Garner too.”
“In fact, your conference was with all three of them?”
“Yes, all three.”
“And they all three — Vandelius, Crench, Garner — agreed that the best thing for you to do was to see Henry Marchmont that evening, and endeavour to convince him of your innocence of the suspicions he was evidently still harbouring against you?”
“Just so! — all agreed upon it.”
“They were all concerned lest any action on Henry Marchmont’s part should spoil this big deal of yours?”
“They were — it would have been a very serious matter if anything had interfered with it.”
“Well now, look here, Mr. Lansdale, what I want to get at is this: How much was Crench, who’s in only a small way of practice, concerned in your deal? — how much was Garner concerned?”
“They stood to make a good deal, if the thing went through. Nothing, of course, like Vandelius and myself! But still, a very nice thing — each of them — a handsome amount.”
“So that it was very much in their interests that the deal should be carried through?”
“Of course it was!”
“And it’s a positive fact, is it, Mr. Lansdale, that if Henry Marchmont had interfered, by raising rumours about you, the deal might have been off?”
“If he’d done it quickly — yes. Because both Vandelius and myself were, after all, only agents. If Henry Marchmont had gone into certain financial centres in the City at once, as he might have done, he could have accomplished a lot of harm.”
“Well, Mr. Lansdale, the deal did come off, didn’t it — at Vandelius’s place, where I saw you?”
“Yes — the papers arrived the evening before you came there. We signed them at once — the deal is through.”
“Quite satisfactorily — and finally?”
“Both!”
“All right!” said Liversedge. “Now then, Mr. Lansdale, just tell me something — How much did Crench and Garner get out of it?”
But Lansdale shook his head.
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that!” he answered. “But I can tell you this — as soon as the deal was through, settled by Vandelius and myself signing the papers, Crench and Garner received the amounts which they were to get if it ended satisfactorily.”
“Received them? — there and then?”
“There and then! Vandelius wrote out the cheques for them as soon as we had signed the papers.”
“And you can at any rate say this — the amounts were considerable?”
“Very considerable! Handsome figures!”
Liversedge asked no more questions. But he got Richard out of Lansdale’s rooms and into a quiet corner elsewhere.
“Mr. Marchmont,” he said confidentially, “you must have seen what I was getting at, in there, just now?”
“You seem to have some sort of suspicion of both Crench and Garner,” replied Richard.
“Frankly, I have!” asserted Liversedge. “I don’t know myself what it amounts to, but I have! — it’s there! I’ve never liked the look of either man since setting eyes on ’em, and I like the men less the more I see and hear of ’em! Now look you here, Mr. Marchmont — let’s suppose that these fellows, between them, stood to make, say, ten thousand, aye, or even half that, out of that deal Lansdale’s been talking about. I reckon ten thousand or five thousand or a couple of thousand would have been pie to those chaps! — neither of ’em looks as if they rolled in money. Well, what was the state of events when your uncle crops up? These two were within an ace of getting their money. Then they learn from Lansdale that there’s a rock ahead! Henry Marchmont is the rock! Mr. Marchmont, you mayn’t know it, but there are men — plenty of men, sharks, crooks, bad men! — in London, that would murder their own mothers for a thousand pounds!”
Richard remained silent for a moment.
“You think that one or other of these men may have shot my uncle, so that — —”
“I wouldn’t put it past either of ’em to do it, Mr. Marchmont!” exclaimed Liversedge, with conviction. “Lansdale’s just told me they were upset by his communication to them that afternoon — they saw their money in jeopardy! Supposing they said to each other, ‘Let’s make sure — let’s silence Henry Marchmont once and for all!’ Eh?”
“Vandelius had more interest in silencing him, surely, than they had?” suggested Richard.
“Oh, yes, no doubt; but then, Vandelius, according to all we know of him, is a very rich man!” said Liversedge. “A really big loss — I mean big in the relative sense — wouldn’t have meant as much to Vandelius as the loss of even a couple of thousands to Crench and Garner. There wasn’t the same temptation in his case. No! — I’ve made some small inquiries about both Garner and Crench, and I should say, from all I’ve learnt, that each is the sort who’d sell his soul for a thousand of the ready! — or was, not so long since!”
“You’re evidently pretty strongly prejudiced against them!” remarked Richard.
“Not prejudiced! — that doesn’t enter in,” replied Liversedge. “I’m suspicious — very suspicious indeed, especially since yesterday afternoon, when Lansdale let out about his twenty thousand pounds. Of course, I’ve had all sorts of suspicions in this case, all along. I’m candid with you, Mr. Marchmont — and I want, badly, to track down the man who shot your uncle! — so I tell you that I’ve been uncommonly suspicious about Simpson. I’m not sure that I’m not as suspicious about Simpson as I am about Crench and Garner!”
“What have you particularly against Simpson?” asked Richard.
“You can follow my reasoning, if you like,” said Liversedge. “Your uncle has left Simpson ten thousand pounds, hasn’t he? Very good! — or very bad! But I was there when the will was brought to you — by Simpson. Am I not right in believing that the will was found where, I suppose, anybody — Simpson, at any rate — had easy access to it? It was! — lying in an open drawer, in an unsealed envelope! Mr. Marchmont — do you suppose for one second that Simpson hadn’t acquainted himself with the contents of that will? I don’t!”
“Do you mean that Simpson knew about the legacy to him before my uncle’s death?” exclaimed Richard.
“Of course!” retorted Liversedge, with a cynical laugh. “Lay anything he did! What was to prevent him? There was the will, as I say, in an unlocked drawer, in an unsealed envelope — Simpson, as confidential managing clerk, had the run of the place; often, no doubt, had the place all to himself. Of course he knew! And we don’t know what sort of man Simpson is, really. He may be a rogue. He may gamble, on the quiet. He may live a double life. He may be avaricious. Anyway, Henry Marchmont’s death meant — ten thousand pounds to Simpson!”
He laughed, still more cynically, and then, as with a sudden impulse, turned to Richard with a sharp glance.
“Yes!” he said. “And by the by, Mr. Marchmont, as you’re sole executor of your uncle’s will — and you won’t mind my asking the question, seeing the importance of all these little details — when do you think you’ll pay that money over to Simpson?”
“I have paid it,” replied Richard.
Liversedge’s lips opened in a gasp of astonishment.
“Paid it!” he exclaimed. “What — already?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Richard. “Why not? It had to be paid.”
Liversedge became gravely thoughtful.
“I thought legacies weren’t paid until a year after the testator’s death,” he remarked.
“I don’t know much, if anything, about these things,” replied Richard. “I left all this to Simpson — he had the full confidence of my uncle, and, though I don’t like him personally, I’ve seen no reason to distrust him. I said to him, soon after he produced the will, that I’d like to pay out the legacies as soon as I could, and he explained to me that I could do that whenever I liked — an executor, he said, could collect debts or pay legacies without waiting for probate. So — I paid the legacies. But why?”
Liversedge said nothing for a moment. He was staring at the wall behind Richard. “Oh!” he remarked at last. “Um! So Simpson’s got his ten thousand pounds?”
“Why, of course!” said Richard. “He had to have it some time or other — why not now? You know, though I don’t care about him, I’ve no suspicion of Simpson — he was a faithful servant to my uncle. So, at any rate, my uncle said.”
Liversedge got up, and began to button his overcoat.
“Aye, I’ve no doubt, Mr. Marchmont!” he replied abstractedly. “Well, you see, I live in an atmosphere of suspicion! Still, you want to know who shot Mr. Henry Marchmont, don’t you? To be sure! — so do I! And now I’ll be off and see if I can do a bit more towards finding out!”
He went off into the crowded Strand, and, it being then well past noon, turned into a favourite resort of his to get his midday dinner. But once he got his plate in front of him, Liversedge scarcely knew what he was eating. His brain was busy with Crench, Garner, Simpson — especially Simpson. And when he had made an end of his dinner, he got into the darkest corner of a smoking room, and lighting his pipe, began to think. . . .
The result of Liversedge’s period of reflection, prolonged over the smoking of several pipes of tobacco, was that instead of repairing to headquarters that afternoon, or going into the City in search of further information about the bank-notes, he repaired to his own small bachelor flat in Bloomsbury, and then, after making himself a cup of tea, proceeded to consider his wardrobe. After thoughtful inspection of its contents, he selected a neat and inconspicuous suit of dark tweed and a still darker overcoat, a black bowler hat, and a plain dark necktie — all these things being essentially different from the clothing he had worn of late. Having duly laid them out, with other matters necessary, he divested himself of the smart grey suit he was wearing, and began a process of disguising himself by doing his hair in a quite different style, and assuming a pair of false side-whiskers, so admirably made and fitted that no one could have told they were false except by very close inspection. Eventually, Liversedge stood up before his mirror looking exactly what he wanted to look — a highly respectable, rather smug City clerk, finished off with black gloves and a spruce umbrella. As he had lately been wearing a rather loud-checked overcoat and a pearl-grey Homburg hat, the change in his appearance, helped greatly by the whiskers, was remarkable — still, he fancied that there was yet something needed, and he supplied it after due consideration by finding and assuming a pair of slightly tinted spectacles.
Secure in his disguise, and feeling certain that his own mother would not know him, Liversedge, soon after five o’clock had struck, and the October dusk had begun to fall over the London streets, sauntered round to Bedford Row, and, entering it from the Theobald’s Road end, took the opposite side to that on which Henry Marchmont’s office was situate. He was already fairly familiar with the procedure of that office and the habits of its clerks; as he strolled past, he saw Simpson’s shadow cross and recross the blind in the murdered man’s private room. And biding his time and moving about this almost deserted street in such a manner as to avoid notice, Liversedge waited until, soon after five-thirty, the various offices began to discharge principals and clerks. At twenty minutes to six, Simpson emerged, carrying his small bag and umbrella. He turned away north; Liversedge followed him across Theobald’s Road, up Doughty Street and through Mecklenburgh Square into Gray’s Inn Road as far as King’s Cross, where he turned into a restaurant opposite the station — no doubt, thought Liversedge, to get his dinner. And feeling secure in his side-whiskers and spectacles, Liversedge followed him, carefully selecting a table well removed from that at which Simpson seated himself. So far so good! — yet nothing might happen. But something did happen — for as his waiter handed him a menu card, Liversedge was aware of the entrance, through a side door, of another man in whom he was deeply interested — Crench!
