Missing or Murdered (22 page)

“No, sir. He said he had no fixed address at present and could easily write to Mr. Winslade if he desired to.”

“Ah, I wish he had left his address.”

“He didn't seem to remember you, sir, when I mentioned your name. I told him that you were in the Church and knew him. He tried hard to recollect, but said he thought you must have made some mistake.”

“Perhaps I have, but his name seemed very familiar to me. I hope he paid you, Mrs. Parslow, for his board and lodgings. I think you told me he had left without doing so.”

“Well, sir, I did, and it just shows you how slow you ought to be in judging people harshly. He remembered it quite well and settled up his account. In fact, he said that was the principal reason why he had come back. He suffers very badly at times with his head and is shockingly absent-minded.”

“A terrible complaint, Mrs. Parslow. I feel quite sorry for him. However, all's well that ends well. I shall be leaving you to-day, but I should like to keep on my room for another month if convenient, so that I might come and stay here at any odd time should I wish. Of course, if you get another applicant, don't hesitate to let me know, and I'll make way for him. On the other hand I'm quite willing to pay you as if I were having full board here while I am away. Would that be convenient?”

“You shall have the room, sir, as long as you choose. I'm a respectable lady and I like to have real gentlemen in my house, sir. One never knows how some young gentlemen are going to behave, well-educated though they may be…”

Mrs. Parslow continued at some length, and retailed the story of one of her former lodgers, the nicest young gentleman, just down from Oxford, who used to climb in at his window at two and three o'clock in the morning, and who, to annoy an irritable old gentleman next door, hired four organ grinders to play simultaneously beneath his window. Vereker was apparently listening intently to Mrs. Parslow's story, but in reality his thoughts were elsewhere. He was wondering what move he should make next in his quest of Lord Bygrave. One thing was fairly certain: Bygrave had called for a letter from Winslade which he expected would contain money. It was this factor of money which in the end would certainly give a clue to his address—for he couldn't possibly go on without means. Rising from his chair, Vereker bade good-bye to Mrs. Parslow and took his departure. He decided to return to his flat and drop Winslade a line letting him know that his uncle had called again at 10 Glendon Street. On arriving he was glad to discard his disguise and get into a comfortable old lounge suit. He found Ricardo seated at a table with a sheaf of manuscript in front of him, rolling cigarettes.

“Glad to see you busy on the magnum opus,” commented Vereker.

“Please don't interrupt the flow of imagination, Vereker. I've no time for idle conversation just now. Let me see—let me see. Wroth must put an end to this low fellow's baboonery. One straight from the shoulder ought to hand him the dope tablet, although it would be easier to kick him on the shin— No, that won't do. We must harass the gentle reader by letting Silas have Wroth down for a count of eight about four times, and then Wroth, gathering every ounce of failing strength, puts in a bone-crushing right swing to the ear. Pop goes the weasel with Silas—he's dead—Wroth's a murderer—Beryl breaks off the engagement. Silas not at all keen on the quiet of the tomb—very much alive—”

“Shut up, Ricky, I'm trying to think.”

“Wroth wandering in the never-never land—water-bottle lost in the bush—dying of thirst. Silas passes by on horseback and waves a flask of the best in his face with the words: ‘Die of thirst, you dog!'”

“Will you shut up, Ricky!” exclaimed Vereker. “Can't you see I'm trying to write a letter?”

“Letter—letter—ah, Vereker, that brings me back from thrilling dreams to sordid reality. A letter arrived for you by the midday post. You'll find it behind the clock. It's a good place to put anything. One has to wind up a clock, and there you are, elementary mnemonics without moans.”

Vereker continued his letter to Winslade without further interruption. It was a difficult letter. Henry Darnell would undoubtedly write to Winslade for money, with the request that it be forwarded to a certain address. Winslade was not in a position to meet repeated demands for money. As Bygrave's executor and trustee, Vereker felt that he might take a hand in the matter without undue offence to Winslade. The strange part of the affair was that Bygrave had not sent some word to him about money matters through Winslade. The more he thought of it the stranger it seemed. Winslade, should he consent to his proposal with regard to furnishing funds for Bygrave, could hardly refuse to let him know Bygrave's address. And then—well, that could all be settled in due course. If Winslade chose to be secretive about the matter, that would put a very sinister complexion on the part he had played—it would be tantamount to a very damning admission. Things were travelling apace. He finished the letter with a sense of satisfaction, for he felt that it would scarcely fail to elicit some new information, sealed it up and rose from his writing-desk.

“The letter behind the clock is in a feminine hand,” remarked Ricardo as he wrote furiously.

“Oh,” said Vereker with some surprise and, glancing at the postmark, saw that it had come from Farnaby.

“From Mrs. Cathcart,” he thought. “I wonder how she got my address? Directory of course.”

He tore open the envelope and glanced at the contents:

Vereker read the letter carefully several times and then, folding it up, thrust it into his letter-case. Sitting down, he strove to discover what might be the matter disturbing Mrs. Cathcart's conscience. Surely she was not going to make a confession about those bearer bonds after her furious declaration that the receipt for them in her name was a forgery. That did not seem likely—though he could see no other subject on which she should wish to unburden her mind. At length he gave up the conundrum with the thought that it was just like a woman to make a mystery about a probably trivial affair.

“Ricky,” he suddenly remarked aloud, “you're a connoisseur as far as the feminine mind is concerned. I'm going to put a simple question to you. If a woman tells you there's something on her mind which she wishes to tell you about before she leaves England, and you haven't the vaguest notion about the nature of that something, what inference would you draw?”

Ricardo solemnly laid down his fountain-pen and faced Vereker. Without giving the matter a moment's consideration, he replied:

“That's a most serious symptom, Vereker, my boy, a most serious symptom. You must walk warily; there are pitfalls ahead, or rocks—whichever you prefer. Of course with your limited experience how can you be expected to know, poor old soul? But it's just at this critical moment in your life I can render you a signal service as some small recompense for the kindly shelter of your roof and the generous provision of food. Even a man of genius cannot write on an empty stomach. You know the story of dear old George Gissing—the woeful product of an ill-nourished brain can never be a best seller.”

“Get to the point.”

“I'm getting—though my mind may seem to move in a mysterious way—it's too large to move in a bee-line. Bee-lines for bee-minds is one of my brightest apophthegms. The lady— By the way, what's her Christian name?”

“Ida.”

“And surname?”

“Wister.”

“That makes matters simpler. Miss Ida Wister merely wishes—”

“She's a Mrs., Ricky: so be careful.”

“Good Lord above! A widow?”

“Probably.”

“I should take the trouble to find out.”

“It's immaterial.”

“Then I may assume she's a widow. She merely wishes to tell you that the problem that troubles her is whether you're sufficiently in love with her to marry her.”

“You think so?”

“Most indubitably. The going abroad wheeze is the oldest arrow in the female quiver. If you're in love you'll have to make a forced march, so to speak, to attain your objective. It also suggests that if you don't wish to attain the objective she's going to forget the tragedy by having a merry old time on the Riviera, or Deauville, or wherever they go to flirt at this time o' year. Should anyone else wish to attain the objective, they can wait until she returns. In short, you're the odds-on favourite. Go and ‘win in a common canter.'”

“Thanks, Ricky. Your knowledge of woman is simply invaluable. Let's go and dine at Jacques'.”

“But I've got all the materials for a tinned lobster mayonnaise.”

“You can sup on that alone. I never eat anything after dinner.”

“I've also managed a bottle of wine. I—I was going to make it a sort of supper in honour of—of—let's see, what does the calendar say? Ah, Jean Jacques Rousseau died—no, that was yesterday. The sun rises at 8.30—well, that's an excellent reason. I didn't see him rise, but it's a comforting assurance in this climate.”

“Barbera—good—bland—genial—generous—inexpensive.”

“You'd better have that for your supper too.”

“Splendid. I'm sorry you don't care for Barbera. Then let's hie us to Jacques'. You shall order any dinner you like. I can eat and drink anything that the Fates provide.”

“Well, Jacques plays the part of the Fates very satisfactorily.”

“I don't know his ‘eat emporium,' as the Americans call it, I believe. You're not going to dress, I hope, because Uncle has my dinner-jacket suit in his strong room at present.”

“No—it's a very Bohemian place; I like the easy atmosphere. I'm just going out to post a letter; on my return we will go.”

“Righty-o. I shall have settled the fates of Wroth, Beryl and Silas by the time you return.”

Vereker, having dispatched his letter to Winslade, turned into Oxford Street and then sauntered leisurely down Regent Street. It was his favourite stroll before dinner; but on this occasion he pursued his way almost automatically. His eyes were unobservant, his mind on other things than the ever-absorbing throng of passers-by intent on reaching home after the close of the day's labour. He turned into Piccadilly, thence wandered up Bond Street, and arrived back at his flat in Fenton Street about a quarter to seven. He found Ricardo busy with a bottle of his fountain-pen ink and a camel-hair sky brush; he was inking his heel where it peeped through a hole in his black woollen sock just above his shoe.

“Rather a good way of darning,” suggested Vereker.

“I was just thinking that your paint-box will make an excellent assortment of wools,” replied Ricardo. “Now, there's a hole in my grey socks—I couldn't mend that with Swan ink. After all, this studio of yours is rather a handy place. Are you ready?”

“Quite. Come along.”

Together they walked along at a brisk pace towards Jacques' restaurant in Soho, Vereker quietly intent on certain street effects that pleased his painter's eye; Ricardo chattering incessantly in his ebullient, boyish way, heedless whether his companion was listening or not. As they passed into Greek Street Vereker suddenly came to an abrupt halt. There was a look of surprise and excitement on his face, for not ten yards ahead of him he saw the unmistakable figure and gait of Mr. Sidney Smale.

“What's up, Vereker?” asked Ricardo.

“The man in front of us is a certain Mr. Sidney Smale, once Lord Bygrave's secretary. He disappeared a week or so ago, much to our surprise, and hasn't been seen or heard of since. Now I've caught sight of him I'm not going to lose him. We must follow.”

“
Yo
u must follow, Vereker. I'm not the least bit interested in him; I'm too hungry.”

“Come on, Ricky, give me a helping hand. I shall need your assistance. This will be your first attempt at shadowing—it may prove useful if you ever attempt a detective yarn.”

“I can imagine that without much effort, Vereker. I can't imagine I've dined at Jacques'; but give the word of command and I follow to the death—probably from exhaustion due to lack of nourishment. What am I to do?”

“You must follow him. He knows me too well, so I shall make myself scarce. Run him to his lair and then come and report to me. I shall return to the flat.”

“After dining at Jacques', I presume?”

“No; I'll go back and prepare the lobster mayonnaise for supper.”

“I say, Vereker, look—he has actually turned in at Jacques'.”

“Well, here's some money. Go and sit at the next table. Follow him wherever he goes.”

“Right. Count on me. Au revoir,” and Ricardo hurried on and vanished into the comfortable little French restaurant, leaving Vereker to retrace his steps to Fenton Street.

On returning to his flat Vereker discovered Detective-Inspector Heather in the act of pressing the electric door-bell.

“Hello, Heather; what a pleasant surprise! Come in and have a chat over a whisky and cigar.”

“Thanks, Mr. Vereker; I've quite a lot to talk about.”

“Going to pull my leg again?” asked Vereker, as he pushed the burly detective into the most comfortable arm-chair and placed a decanter and glasses between them.

“No, it's getting rather too serious for any more fooling,” replied Heather gravely. “I think we're getting to the bottom of the Bygrave case at last. I'm afraid we shall see no more of your friend.”