The Herapath Property
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“You don’t want to tell the police all this?” asked Selwood.
“No! Not at present, at any rate,” answered the Professor. “The police have their own methods, and they don’t thank anybody for putting them off their beaten tracks. And—for the present—we won’t tell them anything about your seeing Burchill. If we did, they’d be incredulous. Police-like, they’ll have watched the various seaports much more closely than they’ll have watched London streets for Burchill. And Burchill’s a clever devil—he’ll know that he’s much safer under the very nose of the people who want him than he would be fifty miles away from their toes! No, it’s my opinion that Master Burchill will reveal himself, when the time comes.”
“Give himself up, do you mean?” exclaimed Selwood.
“Likely—but if he does, it’ll be done with a purpose,” answered the Professor. “Well—keep all quiet at present, and tomorrow morning, go and see if you can find out more about Dimambro at that hotel.”
Selwood repaired to the polite manager again next day and found no difficulty in getting whatever information the hotel staff—represented by a manageress, a general man-servant, and a maid or two—could give. It was meagre, and not too exact in particulars. Mr. Dimambro, who had never been there before, had stopped two days. He had occupied Room 5—the gentleman could see it if he wished. Mr. Dimambro had been in and out most of the time. On the 13th he had gone out early in the morning; by ten o’clock he had returned, paid his bill, and gone away with his luggage—one suit-case. No—he had had no callers at the hotel. But a waiter in the restaurant was discovered who remembered him as Number 5, and that on the 12th he had entertained a gentleman to dinner at seven o’clock—a tall, thin, dark-faced gentleman, who looked like—yes, like an actor: a nicely dressed gentleman. That was all the waiter could remember of the guest; he remembered just about as much of Number 5, which was that Dimambro was a shortish, stoutish gentleman, with a slight black beard and moustache. There was a good reason why the waiter remembered this occurrence—the two gentlemen had a bottle of the best champagne, a rare occurrence at the Hotel Ravenna—a whole bottle, for which the surprising sum of twelve shillings and sixpence was charged! In proof of that startling episode in the restaurant routine, he produced the desk book for that day—behold it, the entry: Number 5—1 Moet & Chandon, 12s. 6d.
“It is of a rare thing our customers call for wine so expensive,” said the polite manager. “Light wines, you understand, sir, we mostly sell. Champagne at twelve and six—an event!”
Selwood carried this further news to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who roused himself from his microscope to consider it.
“Could that tall, dark, nicely-dressed gentleman have been Burchill?” he muttered. “Sounds like him. But you’ve got a description of Dimambro, at any rate. Now we know of one man who saw the caller at the House of Commons—Mountain, the coachman. Come along—I’ll go with you to see Mountain.”
Mountain, discovered at the mews wherein the Herapath stable was kept, said at once that he remembered the gentleman who had come out of the House of Commons with his late master. But when he came to be taxed with a requirement of details, Mountain’s memory proved to be of no real value. The gentleman—well, he was a well-dressed gentleman, and he wore a top hat. But whether the gentleman was dark or fair, elderly or middle-aged, short or medium-heighted, he did not know—exactly. Nevertheless–
“I should know him again, sir, if I was to set eyes on him!” said Mountain, with such belief in his powers. “Pick him out of a thousand, I could!”
“Queer how deficient most of our people are in the faculty of observation!” remarked the Professor as he and Selwood left the mews. “It really is most extraordinary that a man like that, with plenty of intelligence, and is no doubt a good man in his own line, can look at another man for a full minute and yet be utterly unable to tell you anything definite about him a month later! No help there, Selwood.”
It seemed to Selwood that they were face to face with an impossible situation, and he began to feel inclined to share Mr. Halfpenny’s pessimistic opinions as to the usefulness of these researches. But Professor Cox-Raythwaite was not to be easily daunted, and he was no sooner baulked in one direction than he hastened to try another.
“Now, let’s see where we are,” he said, as they went round to Portman Square. “We do know for a certainty that Jacob Herapath had a transaction of some sort with one Luigi Dimambro, on November 12th, and that it resulted in his handing, or sending, the said Luigi a cheque for three thousand guineas. Let’s see if we can’t find some trace of it, or some mention of it, or of previous dealings with Dimambro, amongst Jacob’s papers. I suppose we can get access to everything here at the house, and down at the office, too, can’t we? The probability is that the transaction with Dimambro was not the first. There must be something, Selwood—memoranda, letters, receipts—must be!”
But Selwood shook his head and uttered a dismal groan.
“Another of my late employer’s peculiarities,” he answered, “was that he never gave or took receipts in what one may call word-of-mouth transactions! He had a rooted—almost savage—objection to anybody asking him for a receipt for cash; he absolutely refused to take one if he paid cash. I’ve seen him pay several thousand pounds for a purchase and fling the proffered receipt in the fire in the purchaser’s presence. He used to ask—vehemently!—if you wanted receipts for a loaf of bread or a pound of beef-steak. I’m afraid we shan’t find much of that sort. As to letters and memoranda, Mr. Herapath had a curious habit which gave me considerable trouble of mind when I first went to him, though I admit it was a simple one. He destroyed every letter he ever got as soon as he’d answered it. And as he insisted on everything being answered there and then, there’s no great accumulation of paper in that way!”
“We’ll see what there is, anyhow,” said the Professor. “If we could find something, anything—a mere business card, a letter-heading—that would give us Dimambro’s permanent address, it would be of use. For I’m more and more convinced that Dimambro was the man who called at the House of Commons that night, and if it was Burchill who dined with him that same evening, why, then—but come along, let’s have a look at Jacob’s desk in the house here, and after that we’ll go down to the estate offices and see if we can find anything there.”
This was a Saturday morning—during the whole of that afternoon and evening the Professor and Selwood examined every drawer and receptacle in which Jacob Herapath’s papers lay, both at Portman Square and at Kensington. And, exactly as Selwood had said, there was next to nothing of a private nature. Papers relating to Parliamentary matters, to building schemes, to business affairs, there were in plenty, duly filed, docketed, and arranged, but there was nothing of the sort that Cox-Raythwaite hoped to find, and when they parted, late at night, they were no wiser than when they began their investigations.
“Go home to bed,” counselled the Professor. “Put the whole thing out of your head until Monday morning. Don’t even think about it. Come and see me on Monday, first thing, and we’ll start again. For by the Lord Harry! I’ll find out yet what the real nature of Jacob Herapath’s transaction with Dimambro was, if I have to track Dimambro all through Italy!”
Selwood was glad enough to put everything out of his mind; it seemed to him a hopeless task to search for a man to whose identity they only had the very faintest clue. But before noon of the next day—Sunday—he was face to face with a new phase of the problem. Since her uncle’s death, Peggie had begun to show a quiet reliance on Selwood. It had come to be tacitly understood between them that he was to be in constant attendance on her for the present, at any rate. He spent all his time at the house in Portman Square; he saved its young mistress all the trouble he could; he accompanied her in her goings and comings. And of late he had taken to attending her to a certain neighbouring church, whereto Peggie, like a well-regulated young lady, was constant in her Sunday visits. There in the Herapath family pew, he and Peggie sat together on this particular Sunday morning, neither with any thought that the Herapath mystery had penetrated to their sacred surroundings. Selwood had been glad to take Cox-Raythwaite’s advice and to put the thing out of his mind for thirty-six hours: Peggie had nothing in her mind but what was proper to the occasion.
Jacob Herapath had been an old-fashioned man in many respects; one of his fads was an insistence upon having a family pew in the church which he attended, and in furnishing it with his own cushions, mats, and books. Consequently Peggie left her own prayer-book in that pew from Sunday to Sunday. She picked it up now, and opened it at the usual familiar place. And from that place immediately dropped a folded note.
Had this communication been a billet-doux, Peggie could hardly have betrayed more alarm and confusion. For a moment she let the thing rest in the palm of her hand, holding the hand out towards Selwood at her side; then with trembling fingers she unfolded it in such a fashion that she and Selwood read it together. With astonished eyes and beating hearts they found themselves looking at a half-sheet of thin, foreign-looking notepaper, on which were two or three lines of typewriting:
“If you wish to save your cousin Barthorpe’s life, leave the church and speak to the lady whom you will find in a private automobile at the entrance to the churchyard.”
CHAPTER XXX
THE WHITE-HAIRED LADY
The two young people who bent over this mysterious message in the shelter of that old-fashioned pew were each conscious of a similar feeling—they were thankful that they were together. Peggie Wynne had never been so glad of anything in her life as for Selwood’s immediate presence at that moment: Selwood felt a world of unspeakable gratitude that he was there, just when help and protection were wanted. For each recognized, with a sure instinct and intuition, that those innocent-looking lines of type-script signified much, heralded some event of dire importance. To save Barthorpe Herapath’s life!—that could only mean that somebody—the sender of the note—knew that Barthorpe was innocent and some other person guilty.
For a moment the girl stared with startled eyes and flushed cheeks at the scrap of paper; then she turned with a quick, questioning look at her companion. And Selwood reached for his hat and his stick, and murmured one word:
“Come!”
Peggie saw nothing of the surprised and questioning looks which were turned on Selwood and herself as they left the pew and passed down the aisle of the crowded church. She had but one thought—whom was she going to meet outside, what revelation was going to be made to her? Unconsciously, she laid a hand on Selwood’s arm as they passed through the porch, and Selwood, with a quick throb of pride, took it and held it. Then, arm in arm, they walked out, and a verger who opened the outer door for them, smiled as they passed him; he foresaw another passing-out, whereat Peggie would wear orange blossoms.
The yard of this particular church was not a place of green sward, ancient trees, and tumble-down tombs; instead it was an expanse of bare flagstones, shut in by high walls which terminated at a pair of iron gates. Outside those gates an automobile was drawn up; its driver stood attentively at its door. Selwood narrowly inspected both, as he and Peggie approached. The car was evidently a private one: a quiet, yet smart affair; its driver was equally smart in his dark green livery. And that he had received his orders was evident from the fact that as the two young people approached he touched his cap and laid a hand on the door of the car.
“Be watchful and careful,” whispered Selwood, as he and Peggie crossed the pavement. “Leave all to me!”
He himself was keenly alert to whatever might be going to happen. It seemed to him, from the chauffeur’s action, that they were to be invited, or Peggie was to be invited, to enter the car. Very good—but he was going to know who was in that car before any communications of any sort were entered upon. Also, Peggie was not going to exchange one word with anybody, go one step with anybody, unless he remained in close attendance upon her. The phraseology of the mysterious note; the clandestine fashion in which it had been brought under Peggie’s notice; the extraordinary method adopted of procuring an interview with her—all these things had aroused Selwood’s suspicions, and his natural sense of caution was at its full stretch as he walked across to the car, wondering what he and Peggie were about to confront.
What they did confront was a pleasant-faced, white-haired, elderly lady, evidently a woman of fashion and of culture, who bent forward from her seat with a kindly, half-apologetic smile.
“Miss Wynne?” she said inquiringly. “How do you do? And this gentleman is, no doubt, Mr. Selwood, of whom I have heard? You must forgive this strange conduct, this extraordinary manner of getting speech with you—I am not a free agent. Now, as I have something to say—will you both come into the car and hear it?”
Peggie, who was greatly surprised at this reception, turned diffidently to her companion. And Selwood, who had been gazing earnestly at the elderly lady’s face, and had seen nothing but good intention in it, felt himself considerably embarrassed.
“I—well, really, this is such a very strange affair altogether that I don’t know what we ought to do,” he said. “May I suggest that if you wish to talk to Miss Wynne, we should go to her house? It’s only just round the corner, and–”
“But that’s just what I am not to do,” replied the lady, with an amused laugh. “I repeat—I am not exactly a free agent. It’s all very strange, and very unpleasant, and sounds, no doubt, very mysterious, but I am acting—practically—under orders. Let me suggest something—will you and Miss Wynne come into the car, and I will tell the man to drive gently about until you have heard what I have to say? Come now!—I am not going to kidnap you, and you can’t come to much harm by driving round about Portman Square for a few minutes, in the company of an old woman! Dickerson,” she went on, as Selwood motioned Peggie to enter the car, “drive us very slowly round about here until I tell you to stop—go round the square—anywhere.”
The car moved gently up Baker Street, and Selwood glanced inquiringly at their captor.
“May we have the pleasure of–”
The elderly lady brought out a card-case and some papers.
“I am Mrs. Engledew,” she said. “I live in the Herapath Flats. I don’t suppose you ever heard of me, Miss Wynne, but I knew your uncle very well—we had been acquaintances, nay, friends, for years. I thought it might be necessary to prove my bona fides,” she continued, with a laugh, “so I brought some letters of Jacob Herapath’s with me—letters written to me—you recognize his big, bold hand, of course.”
There was no mistaking Jacob Herapath’s writing, and the two young people, after one glance at it, exchanged glances with each other.
“Now you want to know why I am here,” said Mrs. Engledew. “The answer is plain—if astonishing. I have managed to get mixed up in this matter of Jacob Herapath’s murder! That sounds odd, doesn’t it?—nevertheless, it’s true. But we can’t go into that now. And I cannot do more than tell you that I simply bring a message and want an answer. My dear!” she continued, laying a hand on Peggie’s arm, “you do not wish to see Barthorpe Herapath hanged?”
“We believe him innocent,” replied Peggie.
“Quite so—he is innocent—of murder, anyway,” said Mrs. Engledew. “Now—I speak in absolute confidence, remember!—there are two men who know who the real murderer is. They are in touch with me—that is, one of them is, on behalf of both. I am really here as their emissary. They are prepared to give you and the police full particulars about the murder—for a price.”
Selwood felt himself grow more suspicious than ever. This lady was of charming address, pleasant smile, and apparently candid manners, but—price!—price for telling the truth in a case like this!
“What price?” he asked.
“Their price is ten thousand pounds—cash,” answered Mrs. Engledew, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Seems a great deal, doesn’t it? But that is their price. They will not be moved from it. If Miss Wynne will agree to pay that sum, they will at once not only give their evidence as to the real murderer of Jacob Herapath, but they will point him out.”
“When?” demanded Selwood.
“Tonight!” replied Mrs. Engledew. “Tonight—at an hour to be fixed after your agreement to their terms.”
Selwood felt himself in a difficult position. Mr. Tertius was out of town for the day, gone to visit an antiquarian friend in Berkshire: Mr. Halfpenny lived away down amongst the Surrey hills. Still, there was Cox-Raythwaite to turn to. But it seemed as if the lady desired an immediate answer.
“You know these men?” he asked.
“One only, who represents both,” answered Mrs. Engledew.
“Why not point him out to the police, and let them deal with them?” suggested Selwood. “They would get his evidence out of him without any question of price!”
“I have given my word,” said Mrs. Engledew. “I—the fact is, I am mixed up in this, quite innocently, of course. And I am sure that no living person knows the truth except these men, and just as sure that they will not tell what they know unless they are paid. The police could not make them speak if they didn’t want to speak. They know very well that they have got the whip-hand of all of us in that respect!”
“Of you, too?” asked Selwood.
“Of me, too!” she answered. “Nobody in the world, I’m sure, knows the secret but these men. And it’s important to me personally that they should reveal it. In fact, though I’m not rich, I’ll join Miss Wynne in paying their price, so far as a thousand pounds is concerned. I would pay more, but I really haven’t got the money—I daren’t go beyond a thousand.”
Selwood felt himself impressed by this candid offer.
“Precisely what do they ask—what do they propose?” he asked.
“This. If you agree to pay them ten thousand pounds, you and Professor Cox-Raythwaite are to meet them tonight. They will then tell the true story, and they will further take you and the police to the man, the real murderer,” answered Mrs. Engledew. “It is important that all this should be done tonight.”
“Where is this meeting to take place?” demanded Selwood.
“It can take place at my flat: in fact, it must, because, as I say, I am unfortunately mixed up,” said Mrs. Engledew. “If you agree to the terms, you are to telephone to me—I have written my number on the card—at two o’clock this afternoon. Then I shall telephone the time of meeting tonight, and you must bring the money with you.”
“Ten thousand pounds in cash—on Sunday!” exclaimed Selwood. “That, of course, is utterly impossible.”
“Not cash in that sense,” replied Mrs. Engledew. “An open cheque will do. And, don’t you see, that, I think, proves the bona fides of the men. If they fail to do what they say they can and will do, you can stop payment of that cheque first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, that’s so,” agreed Selwood. He glanced at Peggie, who was silently listening with deep interest. “I don’t know how things stand,” he went on. “Mr. Halfpenny, Miss Wynne’s solicitor, lives a long way out of town. Miss Wynne would doubtless cheerfully sacrifice ten thousand pounds to save her cousin–”
“Oh, twenty thousand—anything!” exclaimed Peggie. “Don’t let us hesitate about money, please.”
“But I don’t know whether she can draw a cheque,” continued Selwood. “At least, for such an amount as that. Perhaps Professor Cox-Raythwaite can tell us. Let me ask you a question or two, if you please, Mrs. Engledew,” he went on. “You say you only know one of these men. Do you know his name?”
“No—I don’t,” confessed Mrs. Engledew. “Everything is secret and mysterious.”
“Are you convinced—has he done anything to convince you—of his good faith?”
“Yes—absolutely!”
“You don’t doubt his—their—ability to clear all this up?”
“I’m quite sure they can clear it up.”
“Have you any idea as to the identity of the real murderer?”
“Not the least!”
“One more question, then,” concluded Selwood. “Are the police to be there when Cox-Raythwaite and I come tonight?”
“That I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Engledew. “All I know is—just what I am ordered to say. Pay them the money—they will tell the truth and take you and the police to the real criminal. One more thing—it is understood that you will not approach the police between now and this evening. That part—the police part—is to be left to them.”
“I understand,” said Selwood. “Very well—we will get out, if you please, and we will go straight to Professor Cox-Raythwaite. At two o’clock I shall ring you up and give you our answer.”
He hurried Peggie into a taxi-cab as soon as Mrs. Engledew’s car had gone away, and they went hastily to Endsleigh Gardens, where Professor Cox-Raythwaite listened to the strange story in dead silence.
“Mrs. Engledew—lady living in Herapath Flats—old friend of Jacob’s—possessed letters of his—instrument for two men in possession of secret—willing to fork out a thousand of her own,” he muttered. “Gad!—I take that to be genuine, Selwood! The only question is for Peggie here—does she wish to throw away nine thousand to save Barthorpe’s neck?”
“The only question, Professor,” said Peggie, reprovingly, “is—can I do it? Can I draw a cheque for that amount?”
“Why not?” replied the Professor. “Everything’s in order. Barthorpe withdrew that wretched caveat—the will’s been proved—every penny that Jacob possessed is yours. Draw a cheque for fifty thousand, if you like!”
“And you will go with Mr. Selwood?” asked Peggie, with a touch of anxiety which was not lost on the Professor.
“Go with him—and take care of him, too,” answered the Professor, digging his big fingers into Selwood’s ribs. “Very good. Now stop here and lunch with me, and at two o’clock we’ll telephone.”
He and Peggie stood breathlessly waiting in the hall that afternoon while Selwood was busy at the telephone in an adjacent lobby. Selwood came back to them nodding his head.
“All right!” he said. “You and I, Professor, at her flat—tonight, at nine o’clock.”
CHAPTER XXXI
THE INTERRUPTED DINNER-PARTY
Triffitt’s recent inquiries in connection with the Herapath affair had been all very well from a strictly professional point of view, but not so well from another. For nearly twelve months he had been engaged to a sweet girl, of whom he was very fond, and who thoroughly reciprocated his affection; up to the time of the Herapath murder he had contrived to spend a certain portion of each day with her, and to her he had invariably devoted the whole of his Sundays. In this love affair he was joined by his friend, to whom Triffitt’s young lady had introduced her great friend, with whom Carver had promptly become infatuated. These ladies, both very young and undeniably charming, spent the greater part of the working week at the School of Needlework, in South Kensington, where they fashioned various beautiful objects with busy needles; Sundays they gave up to their swains, and every Sunday ended with a little dinner of four at some cheap restaurant whereat you could get quite a number of courses at the fixed price of half a crown or so and drink light wine which was very little dearer than pale ale. All parties concerned looked forward throughout the week to these joyful occasions; the girls wore their best frocks, and the young men came out bravely in the matter of neckties; there was laughter and gaiety and a general escape from the prosaic matters which obtained from Monday to Saturday—consequently, Triffitt felt it a serious thing that attention to this Herapath business had come to interfere with his love-making and his Sunday feast of mirth and gladness. More than once he had been obliged to let Carver go alone to the usual rendezvous; he himself had been running hither and thither after chances of news which never materialized, while his sweetheart played gooseberry to the more favoured people. And as he was very much in love, Triffitt had often been tempted to throw his clues and his theories to the winds, and to vow himself to the service of Venus rather than to that of Mercury.