A Mysterious Disappearance
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“And another happy thought! I’ll come and watch you do it.”
She did not notice that Mensmore’s face clouded at this otherwise pleasant intimation. Nevertheless, he raced off with her to the saloon and seated himself at the writing-table. But before he placed pen to paper, Phyllis bending over him meanwhile, he suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of annoyance:
“Now, what a bore this is. I don’t know how to address the letter to make sure of reaching him at once, and it is very important that it should not miss him.”
“Father will know. Let us ask him.”
“No,” said Mensmore judicially, “I will row across the harbor to the Florio-Rubattino office, find out the exact thing, and send off the letter. Back in half-an-hour. Be good!”
And before Phyllis could argue the matter he was at the gangway shouting for a boat.
She blew a kiss to him as he shot over the narrow strip of water inside the mole, and little realized that Mensmore was saying to himself:
“That was a narrow squeak. Never again, as long as I live, will I take another man’s name. It causes no end of bother, and at the most unexpected moments.”
He did not trouble the Florio-Rubattino people, as he well knew that a letter addressed to the White Star offices would insure any communication reaching his friend.
The context of the missive, as finally indited at the post-office, explains his hesitancy to write it in the presence of his fiancée.
“My dear Sydney, – Your good news is more than surprising. Although I believe you, I cannot yet grasp its full significance. However, let us leave explanations until we meet. I am fixed here for a few days more, as I have just become engaged to the sweetest girl in the world, but will return home at the end of next week. Meanwhile I want you to take up your residence at my flat, No. 12 Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square, where my housekeeper has instructions to receive you. Do not be surprised if you find the name of Corbett familiar there. Indeed, I took the place in your name in August last. However, all explanations when we meet.
“Yours ever,“Bertie Mensmore.”This, with a note to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robinson, and another to the hall-porter of the Universities Club, lest by any chance the Liverpool letter missed his friend, completed his task.
He laughed as he hurried from the post-office to the harbor.
“By Jove!” he said to himself, “won’t old Robinson be surprised when she gets my letter telling her that another Mr. Corbett is coming from America, and that my name, concealed for family reasons, is Mensmore. I guess that Sydney will feel a bit mixed up, too, until I tell him the whole yarn.”
No wonder his housekeeper would fail to understand him.
Others, whose influence on his fortunes he little suspected, were already puzzled by the circumstances. Bruce, for instance, and White would be very glad if some occult power enabled them to read the seemingly trivial letters posted that day in Genoa.
Every person known to the reader, and not the least the visitor from the United States, was on the eve of a mad whirl of events, the outcome of which no man could prophesy. As yet, one man only, Claude Bruce, had the slightest suspicion that affairs were approaching a crisis.
When Mensmore reached the White Heather he found Lady Browne and Phyllis dressed for a drive before dinner. Sir William seized the opportunity to cross-examine his daughter’s suitor as to his means. Phyllis was an only child, and her father did not propose that she should live in penury, whatever the financial position of her husband might be. He liked Mensmore, and had ascertained by private inquiries that his social position was good.
“His father was a Major-General,” said his informant, “who lost his savings by speculation, and was unable to maintain his son in a crack cavalry corps, so the youngster resigned and went to America to try to better himself. There was a daughter, too, by the first wife, a very charming woman, who, when the crash came, was supposed to have gone on the stage. But I have never heard of her since.”
So far, the credentials were not bad; but Sir William thought it his duty to ascertain definite particulars.
Mensmore was quite candid with him.
“I have been somewhat of a rolling stone,” he said, “but I am glad to believe that people have never had cause to think ill of me. At times, my affairs have been at a desperate stage, but I hope such periods have passed forever. I have already spoken to you about the Springbok Mine – ”
The old gentleman nodded.
“Well, this morning I have received very satisfactory news from America,” and he handed over Corbett’s letter for perusal.
“Yes,” agreed Sir William, “these things promise well. We will look into them when we reach England. Meanwhile, I give my provisional sanction to my daughter’s engagement. She is a good girl, Mensmore. She will be a true and excellent wife. I think you are worthy of her, and I hope that whatever clouds may have darkened your life will now pass away. You two ought to be happy.”
“We will, sir,” said Mensmore fervently.
“By the way, where is your sister? Is she in England or abroad?”
Mensmore had been expecting this question. He was prepared for it.
“Mrs. Hillmer is my half-sister,” he explained. “I have not seen much of her since – since an unhappy marriage she contracted some years ago.”
“Indeed. Is her husband alive?”
“I can hardly tell you. I believe so. But she does not live with him. She is well provided for, but it was partly on account of this matter that I came to the Riviera for the winter. To tell the truth, I quarrelled with her about it.”
“Ah, well. Her troubles need not affect Phyllis and you, except to give you warning. And take my advice. Never interfere between husband and wife. However good your motive, ill is sure to come of it.”
In the growing dusk Sir William Browne did not note his companion’s embarrassment in discussing this topic. Mensmore was essentially an honorable man, and he detested the necessity which forced him to permit false inferences to be drawn from his words. Yet there was no help for it. He was compelled to suffer for the faults of another.
It was relief when the dressing-bell for dinner allowed him to escape to his cabin.
There was quite a large gathering for dinner. Places like Genoa contain a number of highly interesting personages if the visitor discovers them. The British race produces a richer variety of human flotsam and jetsam than any other. These derelicts come to anchor in out-of-the-way parts of the earth. They seem to have been everywhere and have done everything, while the whole world is an open book to them.
Thus there was no lack of variety in the conversation, and, as usual in such assemblies, it dealt more with persons than with incidents.
Phyllis had arranged the guests, so it may be taken for granted that her lover was near her – in fact, he sat exactly opposite. The lady he took in to dinner was the wife of an English doctor, and the British consul at the port was Miss Browne’s table companion.
The consul was a chatty man, who kept himself well informed concerning society events.
“By the way,” he said to Phyllis, “did you ever meet Lady Dyke?”
“No, her name is not familiar to me.”
“Do you mean the wife of Sir Charles Dyke?” said Mensmore; and the sudden interest he evinced caused Phyllis to glance at him wonderingly.
“Yes, that is she.”
“I know Sir Charles well. What is there new about his wife?”
“She is dead.”
“Good Heavens! Dead! When, and how?”
Mensmore was so obviously agitated that others present noticed it, and Phyllis marvelled much that in all their confidence the name of Dyke had never escaped his lips.
The consul, too, was a little nonplussed by the sensation caused by his words.
“I fear,” he said, “that I have blurted out the fact rather unguardedly. The Dykes are friends of yours?”
“No, no, not in that sense. Sir Charles I have known for many years. But are you sure his wife is dead?”
“My authority is an announcement in the Times to hand by to-day’s post. I should not have mentioned it were not her ladyship so well known in society, and the affair is peculiar, to say the least.”
“Peculiar – how?”
In his all-absorbing interest in the consul’s statement, Mensmore paid no heed to the curious looks directed at him; he had become very pale, and was more excited in manner than the circumstances appeared to warrant.
“In this sense: The paper is the issue of January 28, yet the notice says that Lady Dyke died on November 6. This is odd, is it not? A woman of her position could hardly have quitted life so quietly that no one would trouble to publish the fact until nearly three months after the event.”
“It is extraordinary – inexplicable!”
“Did you know Lady Dyke personally, Bertie?” put in Phyllis timorously.
The question restored Mensmore to some sense of his surroundings.
“I have never even seen her,” he said, trying desperately to be commonplace; “but her husband is an old schoolfellow of mine, and I have heard much of both of them since their marriage. I am quite shocked by the news.”
“I can only repeat my regret for having spoken of it so carelessly,” said the polite consul.
“Oh, I am glad to know of it since it has happened. Poor Lady Dyke! How strange that she should die!”
Phyllis had the tact to change the conversation, and Mensmore gradually recovered his self-possession. A woman’s eyes are keener than a man often gives her credit for; and Phyllis saw quite plainly that after the first effect of the news had passed it, in some indefinable way, seemed to have a good effect on her lover. But if a woman’s intuition is seldom at fault her reasoning faculties are narrow.
Trying to arrive at a solution of the mystery attending Mensmore’s behavior, Phyllis suddenly became hot all over.
She felt furiously and inordinately jealous of a woman she did not know, and who was admittedly dead before Mensmore and she herself had met.
Hence her nose went high in the air when Bertie claimed her for the first dance.
“Who is this Lady Dyke in whom you are so deeply interested?” she said, drawing him beneath a sheltering awning.
“As I said,” replied Mensmore, “she is the wife of an old acquaintance of mine.”
“But you must have been very fond of her to feel so keenly when you heard of her death?”
“Fond of her! I have never, to my knowledge, laid eyes on her.”
“Oh!” And the tone was somewhat mollified. “Then why did you look so worried during dinner?”
“Simply because I know Sir Charles.”
“What a dear, sympathetic little boy you are! When I die, Bertie, I suppose you will drop down stiff from grief at once.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. We are missing all this delightful music.”
And they whirled away down the snowy deck, forgetful of all things save one, that they were in love.
Now, what a pity it was that Bruce was not on board the White Heather that night. Many complications, and not a little misery, would have been avoided thereby.
CHAPTER XIX
WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT
Sir Charles Dyke, in sending off the hurried announcement of his wife’s death, forgot the “society” papers.
Such a promising topic did not come in their way every week, and they made the most of it. Where did Lady Dyke die? Under what circumstances did she die? They rolled the morsel under their tongue in every conceivable manner.
Details were not forthcoming.
“Our representative called at Wensley House, Portman Square, but was informed that Sir Charles was in Yorkshire.” Inquiry by a local reporter from Sir Charles in person elicited no information. “Lady Dyke is dead,” wrote this enterprising journalist; “of that there can be no manner of doubt, but her husband states that for family reasons he is unable to supply the public with the precise facts concerning his wife’s demise.”
This ill-advised authentic statement only fanned the flame. An evening journal got hold of the proceedings at the Putney Coroner’s Court which inquired into the death of a woman found in the Thames, and, with a portentous display of headlines, published an interview with the doctor giving particulars of the iron spike found imbedded in the skull.
The paper was also able to state “on the best authority” that at this inquest Sir Charles Dyke and the missing lady’s personal maid were called in to identify the body, but failed.
A first-class sensation was in full swing and threatened to reach the question stage in the House of Commons when Bruce took hold of affairs.
He went to Sir Charles Dyke’s solicitors, and induced them to send out the following authoritative communication to the press:
“Much unnecessary pain is being caused to Sir Charles Dyke and to the relatives of his late wife by the comments which have appeared in many newspapers regarding Lady Dyke’s death. Her ladyship left her home on November 6th to pay a visit to her sister at Richmond, and since that date has not been seen or heard of. There was no possible reason for her disappearance. After a long and agonizing search, her husband and relatives have come to the conclusion that she met with some accident on the date named, with the result that her identity was not established, and she was probably buried from some hospital or other institution long before her friends seriously entertained the thought that she was dead. Every such case of accidental death followed by the interment of unknown persons by the authorities, occurring on or about November 6th, has since been rigidly investigated, but no definite trace has been found of the missing lady. Sir Charles Dyke determined to take the public step of announcing his wife’s death in the hope that any hitherto undiscovered clue might thereby come to light. But there are no grounds to suppose that any other explanation of the occurrence than that given will be forthcoming. The investigation has been in the hands of Scotland Yard throughout, so no good purpose can be served by further discussion in the press of what is now, and threatens to remain, a mystery rendered more complex by the simplicity of its leading features.”
Several newspapers, of course, pointed out that they were helping forward the inquiry by noising it abroad, but thenceforth the paragraphs ceased, being eclipsed in interest by the revelations of a great divorce case in which there were no less than six titled co-respondents.
One man was much puzzled by the original obituary notice and the semi-official statement supplied by the solicitors.
Mr. White did not know what to make of them. He guessed that Bruce had inspired that “explanation,” and he read the concluding sentence many times.
“It threatens to remain a mystery, does it not?” he murmured. “Just wait, Mr. Bruce, until I lay my hands on Corbett. Clever as you are, I think I will show you that Scotland Yard can occasionally get the better of your theories. Anyhow, Corbett will have to be very explicit about his movements before I am satisfied that he knows nothing about this business.”
He had written to the Chief of Police at Cheyenne, and something definite would soon come to hand.
Nevertheless, he felt somewhat shaken in his diagnosis of the crime. Wyoming was a long way from London, and the letter from Corbett, which he had in his possession, did not exactly confirm his suspicion that this man was concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke.
He quickly became aware of Mrs. Hillmer’s departure, and at once jumped to the conclusion that she had recently left England for the United States. A close scrutiny of the passenger lists at Liverpool and Southampton did not help him much, and he ultimately resolved to call on Bruce, in the hope that a chance exclamation might reveal the barrister’s opinion of the situation.
Claude was not at a loss to account for Mr. White’s presence.
“I expected you,” he said.
“Really now, may I ask why, sir?”
“Because you have missed Mrs. Hillmer, and you want me to help you find where she has gone, and why.”
The detective smiled.
“I won’t say that you are wrong, sir,” he cried. “In these affairs it is always well to keep an eye on the woman, you know.”
“When did Mrs. Hillmer leave Raleigh Mansions?”
“On the 30th.”
“It is now February 3. Four days ago, eh?”
“That is the time. She might have left by the American line from Southampton or the Cunard from Liverpool on Wednesday, but she did not, and no one answering to her description is booked by the White Star to-morrow.”
“Southampton! Liverpool! Do you think she has gone to America?”
“Where else? She’s in league with Corbett, somehow, of that I am certain, and I think that the Monte Carlo address was a mere blind – a clever one, too, as it even deceived you, Mr. Bruce.”
“Yes. It did deceive me.”
“Then why are you so surprised at the suggestion that the lady should attempt to cross the Atlantic?”
“Because I have not your rapid perception of the points of the case.”
“That’s your way of pulling my leg, Mr. Bruce.”
The barrister smiled.
Mrs. Hillmer, of course, had gone to Monte Carlo. Once there she would have little difficulty in tracing the White Heather, and overtaking Mensmore.
She would warn him of the police pursuit, and there would be a scene between them.
How would it result? Would Mensmore, guilty, seek safety in flight? Would he, innocent, return to London and demand to be confronted with his accusers?
For the life of him, Bruce could not say positively. Yet he felt the situation was too delicate to be dealt with by Mr. White’s bludgeon methods, and he forebore to speak.
The detective interpreted his silence as an admission of inability to find a satisfactory explanation of Mrs. Hillmer’s absence.
He went on:
“Corbett is not at Monte Carlo.”
“So I imagined.”
“Well, it is a fact. The police have made constant inquiries for him at the Hotel du Cercle and elsewhere. Not the slightest trace of him can be found.”
“I was there myself, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I have not forgotten that. But it shows what a clever rascal the fellow is in concealing his identity. However, he could never have counted on my discovering that letter of his. Even if he is not in America we shall have some reliable data to go upon in answer to my queries.”
“There I fully agree with you. You will have done a great deal if you thoroughly clear up the mystery regarding Corbett. May I ask you to let me know the result?”
“With pleasure, sir. And now, can I request a favor in return?”
“Certainly.”
“Tell me, then, what is, in your opinion, the best way to find Mrs. Hillmer.”
Bruce did not expect to be thus openly challenged on the matter. It was one thing to withhold his own theories and discoveries from this representative of the majesty of the law, but quite another to refuse to help a detective with whom he was nominally working.
Besides, Mrs. Hillmer had four days’ start. It would take some time – possibly a telegram would not be sufficiently explicit – to obtain the desired assistance from the Continental police. Yes – in this instance, Mensmore must take his chances.
“If I were you,” said Bruce, slowly weighing his words, “I would inquire at the Continental booking-offices at Victoria and Charing Cross, and from the guards in charge of the morning mail trains on the 30th. In fact, it would be quite safe if you were to wire the authorities at Monte Carlo, asking if Mrs. Hillmer is not now at the Hotel du Cercle.”
The detective started as though he had been shot.
“What!” he cried, “you think she is there all the time?”
“I think she has been there since Wednesday morning.”
“That is what I mean. Why did you not tell me sooner?”
“Because you never asked me. And now, Mr. White, one word of advice. Go slow.”
“It’s all jolly fine telling me to go slow when I have no reason to go fast. The case even against Corbett is shadowy enough at present.”
“Exactly. Wait until you can grasp a substance.”
“I will, sir,” said White, jamming his hat on; “but when I lay my hands on Corbett I will grasp him hard enough.”
It took the policeman all that day to satisfy himself that Mrs. Hillmer had really booked for the Riviera by the Club train from Charing Cross on the preceding Monday.
Just as he verified the fact, came a reply from the Monte Carlo police:
“Mrs. Hillmer arrived at the Hotel du Cercle on Wednesday. Left for Italy same afternoon. Shall we endeavor to trace her?”
“Oh, bother,” he growled. “Corbett may be in Jerusalem by this time. And here have I been fussing about Wyoming or some other potato-patch in the Far West.”
However, he wired again to Monte Carlo:
“Yes. Locate Mrs. Hillmer, if possible. I will then telegraph instructions to local police.”
When this message was despatched he felt easier in his mind.
The chase was at least getting warm.
“I cannot arrest him yet,” he reflected; “but if I once get fairly on his track, I will not lose sight of him again if I can help it. I suppose it will mean a trip to Italy for me. I must lay the evidence before the Treasury to see if a warrant is justified.”
Two days passed without incident.
Late on Sunday evening, February 5, a Continental telegram was handed to him at Scotland Yard:
“Mrs. Hillmer’s present address, Hotel Imperiale, Florence.”
He promptly wired the Chief of Police at Florence:
“Keep Mrs. Hillmer, English visitor, Hotel Imperiale, under surveillance. Also watch her associates, particularly Englishman named Corbett, if there. Letter follows.”
“That’s a good stroke of business,” said he, when the message was sent. “Now we shan’t be long!”
It was in contented mood that he lit a cigar in his office, before walking home for dinner, but a messenger with the badge of the Commercial Cable Company in Northumberland Avenue bustled past him.
“Who’s the cable for, boy?” said the detective.
“White, Scotland Yard,” was the answer.
“That’s me.”
He tore open the envelope, and found that the contents were coded, but he caught the word “Corbett” amidst the unintelligible jumble.
With some excitement he rushed into the office to find the A B C Code, and after some confusion in deciphering the words, this was what he read:
“Regret delay in replying to your communication. Corbett left New York in White Star steamer due Liverpool, February 4.”
“February 4? Why, that’s yesterday. Good gracious, he’s here all the time. Well, of all the – ”
But exclamations were useless. Calling another plain-clothes man to accompany him, he drove off in mad haste to Sloane Square.
About an hour later Bruce received a typewritten slip gummed on to a telegraph form. It was from Florence, and ran as follows:
“My brother wildly excited regarding allegations. We start for London to-night. Meanwhile fearful complications expected. Mr. Corbett, of Wyoming, my brother’s friend, is probably occupying his flat, and may be arrested. We both trust you to save him. Wire us at Modane or Gare du Nord.
”Gwendoline Hillmer.”So Bruce also raced off in a hansom towards Sloane Square.
CHAPTER XX
MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT
The detective glanced up at Bruce’s chambers while passing through Victoria Street.
“I wonder what he would think if he knew what we are after,” he said to his colleague, one of the two who accompanied him when the barrister was arrested by mistake.
“What are we after?” said the policeman.
“This time we are going to nail the right Corbett,” was the confident answer.
“Will we cart him off?”
“Well, now, that depends. I think I am quite right in collaring him unless he explains to my satisfaction, which is hardly likely.”
“The charge is one of murder, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Who did he kill?”
“Well, up to now it hasn’t come out, for the sake of the family. But if Corbett is here you will know soon enough.”
“It’s a funny way to go to work.”
“Commissioner’s orders, my boy. I am not to reveal the la – the name until it cannot be helped. However, as I have said so much, I don’t mind telling you it’s a woman, and a big one too.”
“Big! Fat, do you mean?”
“No. A woman of high position.”