Collected works of j s f.., p.757
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 757
So, in the silence of that room, without a sound except the hooting of the owls in the woods and coppices outside, we set to work on what I, at any rate, found a weary and dreary task. Obeying Chaney’s instructions to the letter, I examined every scrap of paper to be found in the bureau. There were a great many letters, but the name Ogden did not occur; they were all, indeed, of comparatively recent date. There were a great many newspaper cuttings; most of them were receipts for cooking or fashion articles. I made an end of my task with absolutely nothing to report. And at about the same time Chaney came to an end of his with a like result.
“Well, there’s this chest,” he said. “Four drawers in it. I’ll take two-you take the other two. Patience!-we don’t know what we mayn’t find yet.”
But I found nothing. Accustomed, perhaps, to dealing with papers and documents rather more than Chaney was, I looked more swiftly than he did, and had finished my two drawers before he had finished his. I was lighting my pipe, as a relief when he suddenly turned with a sharp exclamation from examining an envelope, yellow with age, which was full of newspaper clippings.
“Ha!” he said triumphantly. “Got something at last! Look here-see what this is?” he went on, holding up a long clipping of newspapers which curled itself up in his fingers. “Trial of James Ogden for fraud!-full account. Now, what on earth did she keep that for? That’s out of one paper. Here’s another from another. And-a third from a third. Come!-we aren’t doing badly, Mr. Camberwell!”
“What good are these things?” I asked, doubtfully.
“Precisely! I knew you’d ask that. Well, they show that she was interested in James Ogden, don’t they? And having ascertained that, one might be encouraged to ask-why? What was James Ogden, a convicted criminal, to the respectable Mrs. Hands that she should clip out of the newspapers and keep the accounts of his trial at the assizes? Oh, yes, this is very helpful, very! One stone in itself, Mr. Camberwell, doesn’t amount to much, but a great many stones, put together, make-well, let’s say a bridge wide enough to cross the Straits of Dover! Come on-let’s see what’s in the bedroom.”
What struck me first in the bedroom was a brand-new suit-case, lying on a stand at the foot of the bed, strapped, and probably locked. It struck Chaney, too. He stood gazing at it for a moment, as if in deep thought.
“That’s a suspicious thing!” he observed meditatively. “I’m going to see what’s in that. Somewhat too new-and too heavy-to be wholly innocent, Mr. Camberwell, that is. Poor locks, the things they put on these suit-cases-any fool can open them if he knows the trick.”
He was undoing the straps as he spoke, and in another minute he had snapped open the locks by some deft touch of his fingers and was inspecting the contents of the suit-case, laying everything out carefully on the bed behind the stand. He shook his head.
“I see what this means,” he muttered. “This woman was meditating flight, and she’s packed this in case she had to be off in a hurry. See!-there’s every mortal thing she could want, and do you notice that all the stuff’s intended for a warm climate? That’s it, sir!-Mrs. Hands was ready to be off at a moment’s notice! She’s taken some pains in getting all these things together-and most of ’em are new, too, specially got. I wonder where she was thinking of going? This stuff isn’t intended for Brighton or Margate, anyway. However, there’s nothing here but feminine frippery-we want something more serious.”
He repacked the suit-case carefully, putting everything back in its place, and when he had relocked and strapped it, turned to inspect the room. There was little to see that was out of the common; there were the usual bedroom furnishings and the usual things that one would expect to find in a woman’s apartment. But in one corner, near the window, stood an old-fashioned secretaire or writing-cabinet, and Chaney immediately turned his attention to it, pointing me-as the inferior and inexperienced partner in these investigations-to a chest of drawers which stood against a wall.
“You go through that, Mr. Camberwell,” he commanded. “You’ll think, no doubt, that it’s nothing but female toggery, but you examine every scrap of it, and every corner of each drawer! Women, sir, have a trick of shoving letters and papers away in all sorts of places, and you never know what you may find. Look well and closely!”
I looked well and closely and found nothing but what I expected to find-clothing, outer and under. I was well sick of the job and just about to finish it when Chaney, busy at the secretaire, let out a sudden triumphant exclamation.
“Hooray!” he said. “I’ve got it! I knew what I was gambling on! They always forget something. She forgot-to destroy these.”
He held up in one hand an old, frayed leather pocket-book; in the other some papers which he had evidently drawn from it.
“From a mere glance at ’em, there’s no doubt that these belonged to Ogden,” he said. “They’ve been taken from his dead body. Well, here they are, in Mrs. Hands’s room-shoved away at the back of that drawer. What is she doing with them? How came she by them? Stiff nuts for her to crack, those, Mr. Camberwell. But let’s have a closer look at them.”
He moved over to the dressing-table, above which an electric light hung, and began to lay out the papers one by one, specifying the nature of each as he unfolded it.
“Of course these were on Ogden!” he muttered. “Look at ’em! Two receipted bills from Mrs. Pettigo, his landlady. Ditto, for spirits and beer, from a firm in Kingsland Road. Cutting from some newspaper-looks like The Times-about the chances of the various horses for the Derby. Ditto, another cutting on the same subject from another paper. And ah! What’s this? Cutting of that advertisement which he got Barfitt to put in The Times. Of course, Ogden was just the sort of chap to cut out anything that he had any concern with. Now here are some letters-look at that, now! That’s from that chap Sparkes. See?-making an appointment. Here’s another about the arrangement Sparkes had proposed. And what’s this?-eh, this is more important still. Let’s read it together, Mr. Camberwell.”
He spread out a square sheet of paper, typewritten as to the body, but signed at the foot in a formal, crabbed hand. The address at the head was of a small market-town in Essex; the letter was directed to Mr. James Ogden, c/o Mrs. Pettigo, Little Copperas Street, and the date was an early one in March. This followed:
“DEAR SIR,-In reply to your letter of the 4th inst., inquiring if we know anything of the present whereabouts of your wife, Mrs. Sarah Ogden, formerly Miss Sarah Hands Harrison of this town, we regret to say that we are not able to give you any information on the point. We may state, however, that we ourselves have been endeavouring to trace Mrs. Ogden for some little time. By the will of our late client Mr. Benjamin Hands, who died some months ago, your wife, as one of his nieces, is entitled to a share of his estate, and the executors are anxious to be placed in communication with her. If you should succeed in ascertaining your wife’s present whereabouts, we shall be obliged if you will ask her to communicate with us. As you say that you have not heard of your wife for some years and think that she may be dead, we may mention that if it can be proved that Mrs. Ogden is no longer living, the share in Mr. Hands’s estate just referred to will pass to you, as it was left to her absolutely.
“We are, dear sir, Yours ffly.
“SHARPSTON & PENKETHAM. Solrs.”
Chaney folded up this document with great deliberation and restored it and the other papers to the pocket-book.
“All right!” he said. “I don’t believe Mrs. Hands ever examined this pocket-book and its contents: she just shoved it away, back of this drawer, intending to look at it on some other occasion. Well-she will look at it again!-when it’s shown to her, and she’s asked how she came by it! Now let’s go, Mr. Camberwell-we’ve come off successful. I know now, for certain!”
“Know-what?” I asked.
“Know-what?” he exclaimed. “Why, that Mrs. Hands, or, as she really is, Mrs. Ogden, was privy to the murder of Ogden! That’s sure. Come on-let’s to bed.”
We had a much needed drink in my room and retired; our search had occupied us nearly three hours. I was dead tired and fell asleep at once; when I woke, Jeeves was in my room, drawing up the blinds rather noisily, as if he meant to rouse me. He spoke suddenly.
“Mr. Camberwell, sir, are you awake, sir?” he asked. “Here’s something wrong, sir. Mr. Hoiler’s gone, sir-gone in the night! And one of the cars, the Biddleby-Watkins car, sir-has gone, too!”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE MARKED BRADSHAW
I AM ONE of those fortunately constituted mortals who, the instant they wake, are wide awake, with every faculty alert, and before Jeeves had finished speaking, I was not only out of bed and rushing for the nearest available garment, but had realized the full significance of what he was telling me. Hoiler gone-and in one of the best cars!-and in the night!-and knowing what we had told him the day before! That meant-but I knew very well what it meant.
“Have you told Mr. Chaney?” I asked.
“No, sir, I came to you first,” replied Jeeves. “They know downstairs, sir. Bowlby came up with word that a car was missing from the garage. I went to tell Mr. Hoiler. Then I found that Mr. Hoiler wasn’t there, and that his bed hadn’t been slept in. His room looks as if he’d done a bit of hurried packing, sir-things left about.”
“Go down, Jeeves, and don’t let anybody interfere with that room till I come,” I said. “Lock the door and put the key in your pocket.”
Jeeves hurried off, and I hastened to Chaney’s room and walked in without the ceremony of knocking. Chaney, half-asleep, started from his pillow, staring.
“Hullo-hullo!” he said. “Anything the matter?”
“This is the matter,” I answered. “We’ve given ourselves clean away! Hoiler’s gone! And he’s taken one of Mr. Nicholas’s best cars with him!”
Chaney was not so instantaneously active as I had been; obviously it took him a little time to clear his brain of sleep. But he sat up, staring, and his jaw dropped.
“You don’t mean it?” he exclaimed.
“Don’t I?” I retorted. “You’d better get up quick and see, Chaney! But there it is-Hoiler’s gone! And why he’s gone you may guess! We’ve made a nice mess of it! Hoiler and Mrs. Hands are the two people we want-and they’re flown, all because we were such asses as to take Hoiler into our confidence. Of course, as soon as we’d done that, he went and told Mrs. Hands. Then he got her safely away. Now he’s got safely away himself. And-there you are!”
Chaney was out of bed by that time and hustling into some clothes. He looked like a man who has just been told that his dearest and most trusted friend is a double-dealing scoundrel.
“They can’t have got far, anyhow,” he muttered. “Hoiler can’t, anyway!”
“Can’t he!” said I. “We don’t know what time he went. Hoiler, Chaney, could be a long way off by this time-if there’s such a thing as an early morning boat from any of the Channel ports, he may even be in France! We’re not far from the coast here, you know, and he’s had a long start. What’s to be done?”
He was half-dressed by that time, and he became practical.
“First thing is to have a look round,” he answered. “You’d better dress. And then-well, we’ll set the wires to work.”
I went back to my room and dressed as quickly as I could. When I came out of my room, Chaney was just leaving his. His old look of confidence had come back to him.
“We’ll get ’em!” he said. “Now, first thing, just let’s take a glance at Mrs. Hands’s rooms again-I want to make sure of something.”
We hurried round to the rooms which we had left only a few hours before, but this time one glance inside the bedroom satisfied Chaney. He pointed to the stand where had stood the brand-new suit-case.
“Gone,” he said, with an expressive look. “Hoiler’s taken it! He must have come up here after we’d finished, taken what he came for, and cleared out as soon as we were safe in our own rooms. Well, that certainly gives him a good many hours’ clear start. But let’s go downstairs.”
Downstairs everything was at sixes and sevens-in the servants’ hall, at any rate. The women were in groups, whispering, the men were gathered about Mr. Nicholas’s chauffeur, who appeared to be explaining something. Chaney beckoned him aside.
“One of the best cars is missing, eh?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “The Biddleby-Watkins-Mr. Nicholas’s favourite car, that, though of course the Rolls-Royce is better.”
“Powerful car?” suggested Chaney.
“Very fine car indeed, sir-you can do your fifty or sixty easy with it,” answered the chauffeur. “Easy to drive, too.”
“Do you know if Hoiler can drive-and if he could drive that particular car?” asked Chaney.
“Mr. Hoiler, sir, is a very good driver, and he’s driven that car many a time. There’s been times, sir, when Mr. Hoiler’s driven that car instead of me-for Mr. Nicholas, I mean.”
“Well,” continued Chaney, “we won’t say that Mr. Hoiler has taken the car, because we don’t yet know that he has, but I want to know this-how could anybody get that car without your knowing?”
“Easy enough, sir,” replied the chauffeur, smiling. “I don’t live over the garage, nor yet near it; I live down in the village; I’m a family man, you see, sir. My duty is to lock up the garage every night and to hand the keys over to Mr. Hoiler until morning. Mr. Hoiler, sir, is the only person who could get into that garage after a certain time in the evening.”
“Did you give him the keys last night?” asked Chaney.
“I did, sir-at the usual time. Eight o’clock.”
“And when you came this morning-”
“When I came this morning, sir, the keys weren’t to be had, because Mr. Hoiler wasn’t to be found! I went down to the garage and found it open-the keys were left in the door-and the Biddleby-Watkins gone.”
Chaney thought in silence for a minute or two.
“All right,” he said. “Now we know! Hoiler’s gone off in the Biddleby-Watkins. Very well-we’ve got to track and catch him. As it’s in Mr. Nicholas’s interest, we must have Mr. Nicholas’s best and fastest car. Get it out and get it ready and be prepared to start at a moment’s notice.” He turned to me. “Now let’s have a look at Hoiler’s room.”
Jeeves was mounting guard over the butler’s domains. As soon as we entered Hoiler’s room, we saw that its late occupant had been packing, and Jeeves pointed to a recess behind the bed.
“Mr. Hoiler kept a certain portmanteau there, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve helped him to pack it many a time. It’s gone!-though I know it was here yesterday, for I saw it myself. And look here, gentlemen!-is this of any assistance?”
He pointed to a copy of the current Bradshaw’s Guide, which lay on a side table, open at a page at the top of which, in bold lettering, appeared the names London-Paris, by the shortest, fastest routes. On that page some hand had made three heavy scorings with a blue pencil, and in the present circumstances it seemed very significant indeed that they were made against the three following entries:
Folkestone … 10.55 a.m.
Boulogne … 12.25 p.m.
Paris (Nord) …4.00 p.m.
Chaney stood looking at this marked page so long that I began to wonder. Suddenly he turned to Jeeves.
“Was this lying open, just as it is now, when you came into the room?” he asked, sharply. “Exactly there-on that table?”
“Exactly where you see it, sir,” replied Jeeves promptly. “And just as it is now. I’ve never even touched it-Mr. Camberwell said don’t touch anything. But I looked at it, to see what the blue marks meant.”
“Um,” muttered Chaney. “I wonder what they do mean! Well, let’s get a bit of breakfast as quickly as possible and then we’ll get off in that car. Hurry up some breakfast for us, my lad-anything! It’s just seven thirty,” he went on, turning to me as Jeeves left the room. “Let’s say that Hoiler’s had five hours’ start. Well, that’s plenty! But-it all depends what was in his mind. I’ll bet on one thing that wasn’t in his mind, anyway!”
“What?” I asked.
“Why, that!” he answered, with a sneer. “That’s a piece of bluff! He marked that page and left it open to make us think he’d gone to Folkestone. All the same, when we get down to the post-office we’ll wire to Folkestone; we’ll leave no loop-hole. But it won’t be Folkestone!”
“Where, then?” I asked, wondering what he meant. “Some other port?”
“There are other things than ports, too!” he muttered. “He mayn’t mean that at all. Then open page in Bradshaw-bluff.”
We made a breakfast as hurried as our toilets and as soon as it was finished, went out to the car. Jeeves came running after us.
“In case anything comes, any message or anything, where shall I find you, Mr. Camberwell?” he asked. “What I mean, sir, is that the letters’ll be here in half an hour, and there might be something-”
“We shall be for the next half, or three-quarters of an hour, my lad, at the police station at Havering St. Michael,” said Chaney. “If anything comes, or you hear anything new, jump on your bicycle and come down with it. You heard what I said then?” he went on, turning to me as the car moved off. “The police station? Know what that means? Well, it means that we’ve got to tell! Got to tell those other chaps, chaps like Willerton, safe in their own theories that they’ve been all wrong and that we’ve been right. In other words, as we aren’t officials, we’ve got to place our non-official information in the hands of the men who are officials!”
