Collected works of j s f.., p.690
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 690
“Hallo!”
His voice sounded curiously ghostly, he thought; it was as if he called where there was no possible chance of reply. Certainly he got none. He called again, and yet again, without result. And at that he pushed the door wide, and walked into the room and looked round.
There was another cat there — a she-cat, blinking on the hearth, benevolently regardful of a kitten that played about on the rug. Against the wall next to the shop, on a small side-table, were breakfast things — a tea-pot, a cup and saucer, plates, bread, toast, jam, bacon and egg. But Jennison saw at once that whoever it was that had sat there to break his or her fast, had been interrupted, suddenly, and by some urgent business. A knife and fork lay across a scarcely-touched slice of bacon on one plate; a round of dry toast had been just broken into; the cup was three-quarters full of tea; the top had been chipped off the egg, but the egg was uneaten. The very position of the chair showed that its occupant had risen suddenly from it, thrusting it aside, and had not returned to it. Whatever the reason was, the person who had sat down to egg and bacon, toast and tea, had suffered an abrupt breaking-in upon the meal, risen from it, and never come back to it.
By this time Jennison was so sure there was nobody about the place that he began to look round, leisurely. There was a sort of scullery or lobby behind the living-room, and in it an outer door, which stood half-open. He looked out of it into a long, narrow, high-walled passage that ran between houses, and gave, in the distance, on a street, and it immediately struck him that if the owner of the herbalist establishment had found reason to flee suddenly, this was the way by which he or she had gone. He turned from that to the staircase, which ran from the side of the living-room. To make sure that he really had the place to himself, he called up it two or three times. When no answer came, he walked up to a landing. A bedroom door stood wide, and Jennison crossed its threshold and looked round. The bed was neatly made, but across its coverlet were thrown female garments, tossed down anyway, as if they had been hastily discarded for others. They were the sort of garments that a woman would wear who had house-work to do — a print gown, a linen overall, suchlike. And in a chest of drawers against the wall, drawers were left wide open, as if other garments had been quickly snatched from them, and on the floor a hat-box lay with its lid off and tissue-paper wrappings thrown aside. Clearly, the owner of that house was a woman, and as she sat at her breakfast some message had come to her which made her leave her meal, rush upstairs, change her attire, and flee her own roof as if . . . as if she were not safe in it for one minute longer!
Jennison wasted no more time in looking round. There were other rooms opening off the landing, but he gave nothing but a glance at their closed doors. Hurrying downstairs, he went into the shop and from its threshold looked out on the street. It was a quiet, dismal street, that; there were few people about. But right opposite was a greengrocer’s shop, and the greengrocer himself was at its front, busily engaged in laying out his various wares. And Jennison closed the shop door behind him, and crossed the street. He accosted the greengrocer with a look and tone suggesting confidence and mystery: the greengrocer, ceasing from arranging his roots and fruits, looked over the way.
“Out?” he said. “I’m sure I can’t say, mister!” he answered. “I saw her take down her shutters at the usual time — half-past eight. She’s perhaps in the back?”
“No!” answered Jennison. “There isn’t a soul in the place — unless cats have souls. I’ve been downstairs and upstairs. There’s nobody there.”
“Then she must have gone out by the back way,” said the greengrocer. “There’s a passage at the rear, leading to another street. But — leaving the shop open! Not that there’s such a lot of custom,” he added, with a chuckle. “People don’t buy that sort of dried stuff as they buy this!”
He waved his hand at his own commodities, and Jennison, sizing him up as a man you could talk to freely, became more confidential.
“Look here!” he said. “I may as well tell you I’m a private inquiry agent. I want to know something about that place and its owner. It’s a woman, eh?”
“Mrs. Reegrater,” said the greengrocer readily. “Elderly woman.”
“You know her?”
“Just as you do know neighbours! Know her by sight, and as much as to pass the time of day with her — if I come across her. Quiet, retiring sort of person, she is — does a fair bit of business, I fancy, with working folks about here. They’re great believers in these herbalists, you know — believe in them and their stuff more than in doctors or chemists.”
“Has she been here long?” demanded Jennison.
“Well, not so long — as things go,” said the greengrocer. “Mother of two or three girls, maybe. But it’s my belief it’s not her business at all. I think it belongs to a lady that you see hereabouts pretty regular, a lady that’s generally there of an evening. Comes to take the day’s money, I expect.”
“What sort of a lady?” asked Jennison. “What’s she like?”
“Elderly! Tall, thinnish woman, very similar in appearance to Mrs. Reegrater; dresses usually in black. I saw her the other night. You can often see her if you’re about here — she’s generally across there till late — I’ve often seen her leaving. In fact, it’s only at night that you do see her — never see her in the day time, or close to.”
“You don’t know her name?” suggested Jennison.
“No more than I know yours, mister!” said the greengrocer. “But that’s London. You can live next door to a person for twenty years here and know nothing about name or business — unless it’s a shop. No! I don’t know the lady’s name. But, as I said, it’s my belief it’s her business, and Mrs. Reegrater just manages it.”
“Mrs. Reegrater lives alone?” asked Jennison.
“Except for a couple o’ cats, and a kitten now and then, yes. Quiet woman, as I said. Keeps herself to herself.”
Jennison made no remark on this. He was watching the shop opposite. Presently the greengrocer spoke again.
“Queer that she should go out like that, leaving nobody there!” he said musingly. “But there, she’s nobody to leave. And customers don’t tumble over each other across there, you know! One now and then — that’s how it is.”
Jennison was thinking. He had no doubt now that it was to that herbalist’s shop that Alfred Jakyn had gone when he came up Crowndale Road. Perhaps he had looked into its window out of mere curiosity while waiting for Syphax, and had seen inside somebody that he recognised; perhaps that somebody had been Mrs. Nicholas Jakyn; perhaps Syphax had purposely brought him there to see Mrs. Nicholas; perhaps . . . but it was idle to speculate. There were certain things that he now knew as facts — and he meant to make good use of them, to his own benefit.
“What time at night does this Mrs. Reegrater shut up shop?” he asked suddenly. “Early or late?”
“Oh, late!” answered the greengrocer. “Known her keep it open till twelve o’clock. Good part of her trade’s done at night. That lady I spoke about — she’s generally here very late — I’ve seen her leaving after eleven, many a time. She never leaves though, till after the shop’s closed. But what’s it all about, mister?”
“I’ll tell you later,” replied Jennison. “Serious matter — very. I’m just going to see if she’s come back.”
He went across the street and into the shop, and through the glass-paned door to the parlour. Everything was still as before, but on the hearthrug the kitten was chasing and frolicking with a crumpled ball of pink paper. Something prompted Jennison to pick that ball up and to smooth out the folds. And the next instant he found himself staring at a telegram on which was a message of three words:
“Leave at once.”
“And — she left!” muttered Jennison, with a cynical laugh. Didn’t stand on the order of her going, as they say. “O — —” He paused as the clock in the shop began to strike. “By George! — eleven!” he exclaimed. “Trusford — —”
Crumbling the telegram in his hand, he hurried out of the room and the house, and made round the corner of the street into Crowndale Road — to run, full tilt, into the arms of Womersley and Holaday.
CHAPTER XXIII. WANTED!
WOMERSLEY HAD A grip of Jennison’s arm before Jennison had fully realised what he had run into. He slewed him round with a jerk and a stern ejaculation.
“Now then,” he demanded, “what’s up now? — what are you after? — what are you doing here?”
Jennison twisted himself out of the detective’s clutch and sheered off a little.
“You keep your hands to yourself, Womersley!” he answered defiantly. “I’m here on my own business, and I reckon you’d give a good deal to know what it is! Will know what it is, will you? Not till I’ve had a word or two with him,” continued Jennison, pointing to Holaday. “I may tell the two of you, then — but not till then! And you can bluster as much as you like,” he went on, as Womersley began to show signs of anger. “I know something, and I’m top dog in this! Show any more of that, and I’m off . . . elsewhere!”
“Well, now, what is it?” asked Holaday, interposing himself between them. “You want a word or two with me — —”
“Come aside!” said Jennison. He retreated a few yards along the street, eyeing Womersley jealously. “Look here!” he went on, as the American came up to him, smiling good-humouredly. “That offer of your company’s? — the reward, five thousand — does it hold good? Will it be paid?”
“Sure!” answered Holaday. “No doubt of it — if the conditions are fulfilled.”
“If I told you something that fulfilled the conditions, you’d see that I got it?” persisted Jennison. “You really would, honest Injun?”
“Honest Injun!” laughed Holaday.
“I’m trusting you!” said Jennison. He turned and beckoned Womersley, imperiously. “Come here, you!” he commanded. “I’ve got Holaday’s word, and now I’ll tell you what I’ve just found out. Now you listen as you’ve never listened in your lives. . . .”
Jennison’s small bit of literary ability helped him to present his story with an eye to dramatic effect. He told his hearers why he had come up to Crowndale Road, what he had seen in the herbalist’s shop in the side street, what he had heard from the greengrocer. The more he told the more eagerly the two men listened, and at the end Womersley made a move for the corner.
“Shop still open?” he asked.
“Unless she’s come back and locked the door,” answered Jennison. “Which isn’t likely!”
He led them round to the shop and into it, and into the parlour, and finally upstairs, indicating various things in corroboration of his story. His companions saw for themselves, looked, wondered, surmised. In the bedroom, Womersley, turning over the discarded garments, picked up a lady’s handkerchief, and, after a moment’s examination of it, held it towards Holaday, pointing to a corner.
“Look at that!” he said.
Holaday looked and started. There, daintily woven into the fabric was a name — Isabel Jakyn. He made a sound expressive of surprise.
“Just so!” remarked Womersley. “That’s what I feel! And yet — not so surprising after all. Come along downstairs.”
He put the handkerchief in his pocket, and led the way back to the street. And once outside the shop door, Jennison, looking round, saw Trusford at the corner, glancing up and down. Womersley, too, saw him, and beckoned.
“Look here,” he said, turning to Jennison as the reporter came running up, “you’ve done a bit of good work this morning, and now you can do more. Stop here, and look after the place while Holaday and I do a bit of investigating. If the woman turns up — —”
“She won’t!” said Jennison.
“Well, if she does, send Trusford for the nearest policeman, and tell him what’s going on, and that I shall be back,” continued Womersley. “You can tell Trusford all about it — but no printing or anything yet, mind you! Just give me that telegram — I want to look into that! And now, don’t leave that shop till I’m back, or you hear from me.”
He put the telegram into his pocket, and, touching Holaday on the arm, went across the street. The greengrocer stood at his door, keenly interested.
“You’ve given our friend across there a bit of information,” said Womersley, putting his card into the man’s hand. “Can you give me a bit more? The shop opposite, you say, is kept by a Mrs. Reegrater, and there’s a lady who’s very similar to her in appearance, who, you believe, is the real proprietor, and is there of a night, leaving late? Just so! Now, have you ever seen that lady in the daytime?”
“No, never!” replied the greengrocer. “Only at nights, late.”
“Have you ever seen her and Mrs. Reegrater together?”
“No, I never have. I’ve never seen Mrs. Reegrater except for a minute or so, looking out of her shop door. The lady I never saw at any time except late at night.”
“When did you see her last?”
“Can’t be sure whether it was last night or night before. It’s always very late. I’m a late man myself — I often smoke a pipe, strolling up and down, last thing, and that’s when I’ve generally seen her.”
“Much obliged to you!” said Womersley.
He motioned Holaday to follow him, gave a glance at the herbalist’s shop, inside the door of which Jennison and Trusford were visible in excited conversation, and walked towards the corner. There he drew out the telegram.
“See where that was sent off from?” he asked. “Grenville Street. But you don’t know where Grenville Street is, nor what its present significance is! Grenville Street, my boy, is at the bottom of Brunswick Square, close to — Syphax’s!”
Holaday whistled.
“To be sure!” said Womersley. “That’s it! Now, let’s get a taxi and hurry down to the Grenville Street post office. I want to know who sent that telegram to Mrs. Reegrater, and as it’s scarcely three hours since it was sent we shall easily find out. Was it Syphax, or was it Mrs. Nicholas Jakyn? For it strikes me, Holaday, that the mysterious lady who comes to that shop of a night, is the doctor’s sister, the aunt of Alfred! What do you think? Hallo! — there’s a taxi yonder. Hi! Yes,” he went on, as the cab turned and came along to them, “what do you think?”
Holaday was standing at the edge of the pavement, his arms folded, his eyes cast down, apparently at the toes of his big shoes, his mouth set in a straight line. Suddenly he looked up; his mouth relaxed into an almost seraphic smile, and he laughed, as if an amusing idea had come to him.
“I’ll tell you what I think!” he said. “I think that Mrs. Reegrater and Mrs. Nicholas Jakyn are one and the same person! Sure!”
Womersley uttered an exclamation that was half sceptical, half acquiescent.
“Ah, you’re thinking that, are you?” he said. “Well, I’m beginning to suspect it. It may be so! But I don’t know!”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt of it,” answered Holaday as they settled themselves in the cab. “Put things together. Alfred Jakyn said to Syphax when he rejoined him after strolling around in this Crowndale Road that he’d come across a bit of a mystery. From what we know now, I take it that what he’d come across was his aunt — keeping that herbalist’s shop under the name of Reegrater.
“Reconstruct it for yourself — he wanders around while he’s waiting for Syphax; he sees a light in the shop window, he goes and peers in, he sees his aunt. He enters. We don’t know what happens then, but I guess she gave him that home-made toffee! — gave him a lump of it there and then, maybe, with perhaps a jocular reference to the fact that she knew he used to have a sweet tooth. Clever woman, no doubt, this Mrs. Nicholas Jakyn — unscrupulous, too! But — is she identical with Mrs. Reegrater? I think so. That man who sells potatoes and carrots says that he never saw Mrs. Reegrater and the mysterious lady, together. Sometimes he saw one — sometimes another. Now I take it that Mrs. Nicholas Jakyn ran that shop — she was Mrs. Reegrater when she ran it, and she was Mrs. Jakyn when she left it. And from the fact that she’d had her breakfast, or was getting it there this morning, I conclude that occasionally she spent the night there — in fact, I reckon that we’ve hit on a very good instance of a double life. But we, or you, can find that out; that parlourmaid of Syphax’s can tell if Mrs. Nicholas was out o’ nights much, and, in fact, a good deal about her habits. And — the daughter knows!”
“Oh, the daughter!” exclaimed Womersley. “She knows a damned lot! Been shielding her mother, of course. Don’t you remember what the parlourmaid told me she’d overheard? Well — it’s natural for a daughter to shield her mother! But it makes her accessory. I expect it was the daughter sent this telegram. But I’ll know that in two minutes when we strike the post office.”
“Oh, the daughter sent it!” said Holaday. “Something roused her suspicions this morning that things were at the climax. That’s been the way of it — and it’s given the woman a good two hours’ start.”
“Start or no start, I’ll run her down!” muttered Womersley. He bade Holaday remain in the cab when they reached the Grenville Street post office, hurried in, and within a minute or two was back. “That’s settled,” he said, with a nod. “The daughter’s sent it! Handed it in herself — they know her well enough there. Well — we’re close to Syphax’s! I’ll pay this man, and then . . .”
The house in Brunswick Square looked innocent enough in its high respectability. It was a smart house, seen from outside — brightly polished windows, shining paint and brass, clean blinds and curtains, and well-kept house. And the parlourmaid who presently responded to Womersley’s knock looked in keeping with it in her coquettish cap and apron. But the cap wagged vigorously above her glossy hair as she saw who the callers were.
