A Mysterious Disappearance
- -
- 100%
- +
“Phew! A regular society scandal, I suppose?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
On arrival at Sloane Square they quickly ascended to No. 12 Raleigh Mansions.
A stout, elderly woman answered their knock, and a glance at her face revealed the map of Ireland, although her name was Saxon Robinson.
“Mr. Corbett in?” inquired White.
“Faix, he’s not.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know, misther, an’ if I did I wouldn’t be afther telling when axed in an oncivil manner.”
“All right, Mrs. – ”
“Robinson’s my name, if that’s anny use to ye.”
“Very well, Mrs. Robinson. We wish to have a word with Mr. Corbett, and we will be much obliged if you can tell us when he is likely to return, if he is in London.”
“Arrah, it’s meself is mixed intirely about him. Sure this Mr. Corbett is in London right enough, and is comin’ in to dinner in half-an-hour, so by yer lave I’ll jist go on wid me wurruk.”
“May we come in and wait for him?”
Mrs. Robinson surveyed them suspiciously, but seemingly decided in their favor.
“Stip in here, gintlemen both,” she said, and conducted them to the sitting-room.
A fire now burned brightly in the grate wherein Bruce had made his pregnant discovery. The damaged bracket still stared at White, so to speak, but he saw it not.
Mrs. Robinson bustled away to the kitchen, and the two officers sat silently waiting developments. Suddenly a thought occurred to White, and he went into the passage.
“Mrs. Robinson,” he said, “what did you mean by referring to this Mr. Corbett?”
A quick step came bounding up the stairs, and a key rattled in the lock.
“You’d betther ax him yerself,” responded the housekeeper pithily, and the door opened to admit a handsome, well-knit man, tall and straight, with the clearly cut features of the true Westerner, and the easy carriage of one accustomed to the freedom of the prairie.
He was quietly dressed. The only sign that he was not a Londoner was given by his wide-awake felt hat, the last token of environment relinquished by a wandering citizen from the region of the Rockies. In the semi-darkness of the interior he could but dimly discern the form of the detective behind the ready-tongued housekeeper.
“There’s two gintlemen to see ye, Misther Corbett,” said she.
“Well, now, that’s curious,” he answered cheerfully. “I can only see one of you, but I’m glad to have you call, stranger, anyway. Come right in. Are you sent by my friend to kinder cheer me up? I find this big city of yours a powerful kind of tonic after Wyoming. Come right in.”
Mr. White was as greatly nonplussed by the newcomer’s attitude as by his flow of language.
Within the drawing-room Corbett caught sight of the second detective. “Hello! Here’s the other one. Ve-ry glad to meet you both. Now, if you’ll just tell me your names we’ll get along straight away, as I guess you know mine all right.”
The man was genuinely pleased by this unexpected visit. He smilingly pushed towards them a box of cigars, green ones, and helped himself to a weed.
“My name,” said the detective, “is Inspector White, of Scotland Yard, and my friend here accompanies me officially.”
“And hasn’t he got a name?”
“Yes; but it doesn’t matter.”
“Well, if it doesn’t matter, we won’t quarrel. I guess you’ve got a message of some sort for me, else you wouldn’t trouble to climb these stairs. Why don’t you have el-e-vators in these big buildings?”
“As I said,” began Mr. White, “we are from Scotland Yard.”
“That’s so. I’ve got that fixed O.K. Your name is I. White, from Scotland Yard. I don’t know where Scotland Yard is, but we’ll worry along without the geography of it.”
“I am in the police. My title is Inspector. It is not my Christian name. Scotland Yard is the headquarters of the London police.”
The American’s eyes opened wide in wonder at this announcement, and a perplexing thought seemed to occur to him. But he said quietly:
“I’ll figure it out better when you tell me why you’ve been good enough to call. And suppose we all sit down. I’m not used to stone pavements. I’m tired.”
“Your name is Sydney H. Corbett?” said the detective severely, though he took a chair.
“So my people always told me.”
“And you have occupied these chambers since August last?”
“Have I?”
“So I am informed.”
“Get along with your story.”
“You have just returned to England from Wyoming. The New York police cabled me that you arrived in Liverpool yesterday.”
“Did they now? That was real cute of ’em.”
“I want to ask you, in the first instance, the exact date of your departure from this country.”
Before replying to the detective Corbett looked at him fixedly, as though he was trying to read what was passing in his mind.
At last he said with a smile:
“Say, what are you after, Mr. White of Scotland Yard? What’s the game? Who’s been fooling you?”
“That is not the way to talk to me, sir. Answer my question fully and properly, or it may be worse for you.”
“Jehosh! Have you come to wipe the floor with me?”
“Are you going to reply to me or not?”
“I’m not going to speak square to any man who comes along and puts a thing like you do.”
“Very well. I can get my information by other means. You leave me no alternative – ”
Mr. White had half risen and was about to add, “but to arrest you,” when, with a rapidity known only to those accustomed to “draw” from boyhood, Corbett whipped a revolver from a hip pocket and covered the bridge of White’s nose with the muzzle.
“Just you sit still, right there, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, or I will let daylight through you and your nameless friend if he interferes. You’d better believe me. By gad! I won’t speak twice.”
Neither White nor his companion were cowards. But they were quite helpless. They had not grappled with the circumstances with sufficient alertness, and they were utterly at this man’s mercy. They were away from the door, and a table separated them from Corbett, while there was that in his eye which told them he would shoot if either of them moved. They both sprang to their feet, and glared at him impotently.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Corbett, with the utmost coolness, “let me persuade you to sit down again and go on with your story, which interests me.”
White was scarlet with wrath and annoyance.
“Let me tell you – ” he roared.
“Sit down!”
“Make the best of it, Jim,” murmured the other policeman; and the queer gathering resumed their seats.
“That’s better,” said Corbett genially. “Now, we’ll have a nice little chat. Am I correct in supposing that you were about to march me off to jail just now, when I spoilt the proposition?”
“There’s no use in resisting,” growled White. “You cannot escape. If you have an atom of sense left you will come with us quietly, as it’s all up with you.”
“It looks like it,” said Corbett, with a grim smile. “But if it’s so bad a case as all that, there’s no desperate hurry, is there?”
“You’re only making matters more difficult for yourself.”
“Maybe. But as I happen to be a citizen of the United States, I allow that I can’t be whipped off to prison just because a fool like you thinks it’s good for me. I’ve been a law-abiding man all my life, and I’ve lived in places where each man made his own law. If you can show good cause for your action, I’ll stand the racket. At present I regard you as a blamed idiot.”
The situation overcame the detective. He could only mutter:
“Time will show who’s the idiot.”
“I’m getting hungry, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, and I’ve a kind of notion that the old lady is ready with the eatables. Will you be good enough to say what you’re after?”
“I came here to ask you to account for your movements, and, failing a satisfactory explanation, to arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
“For being concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke, on or about November 6 last.”
“Lady Dyke?”
“Yes.”
“Arrest me?”
“Yes.”
“I placed you right away. You are a blamed idiot, Mr. White of Scotland Yard.”
This repetition of his name and address goaded the detective almost beyond endurance.
“Now you know the charge,” he shouted, “are you coming with us quietly, or – ”
“Or what?”
The revolver still hovered across the table.
“Are we going to sit here all night?”
It was a weak conclusion, but to suggest an attack was sheer madness under the conditions.
“I guess not,” was the calm answer. “I want my dinner, and I mean to have it.”
“Very well. Eat your dinner and have done with it.”
“That’s better. You and your friend shall join me. We’ll have a nice little talk and straighten out matters, which have got kinder mixed.”
This was too much for White’s associate. He burst out laughing.
“I allowed there was a joke in the deal, somewhere,” went on Corbett, “but I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. Now, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, are you going to act like a reasonable man, or must I keep your nose in line with the barrel?”
White was saved from deciding which horn of the dilemma he would land on, for a sharp rat-tat at the door induced silence, and a moment later Bruce’s voice was heard inquiring:
“Is Mr. Corbett in?”
“Faix, there may be a half-a-dozen of him in by this time,” cried Mrs. Robinson. “I dunno where I am, at all, at all. The gintlemen are in the parlor, sir.”
And Bruce entered.
In order to enfilade the new-comer scientifically, Corbett backed to the corner. Claude glanced at the three, saw the revolver, and said with a comical air of relief:
“Thank goodness, nothing has happened. Put away your pistol, Mr. Corbett; you will not need it.”
Although the barrister’s manner differed considerably from the brusque methods adopted by Mr. White, the American remained on his guard. He said stiffly:
“You all seem to know me fairly well; but if you had the advantage of closer acquaintance, you would allow that I am not the man to be rushed on a confidence trick. If somebody doesn’t explain quick I will lose my temper, and there will be trouble.”
“I sympathize with you!” cried Bruce. “But the first thing you must learn in this country is to keep dry cigars for your visitors. Our respective tastes differ in that respect.”
“I guess I’ll cotton to you, stranger; but I’m tired holding this pistol.”
“Put it away, then. I tell you it is not wanted. White, listen to me. You have hit upon the wrong man.”
“Wrong man!” cried the detective, feeling more confident in the barrister’s presence. “Why, I’ve had a cable about him from New York.”
“Possibly; but you’re mistaken, nevertheless. Mr. Corbett has not been within five thousand miles of England for years, possibly not in his life.”
“Bully for you, stranger!” broke in Corbett.
“Then who is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett whom you believe, as well as I, to be the murderer of Lady Dyke?”
“Steady, White. The last time I saw you I appealed to you to go slow. The man whom you want, simply because he happens to be the real occupant of these rooms, is at present travelling to London as fast he can from Florence, and his sister, Mrs. Hillmer, is with him.”
“Florence! Mrs. Hillmer!” gasped the policeman. “I’ve just arranged to have her watched there.”
“Your arrangements, though admirable, are somewhat late in the day.”
“Then what is her brother’s name?”
“Albert Mensmore. For some reason, hidden at this moment, he lived here under the name of the gentleman who has, I see, been giving you a practical lesson in the art of not jumping at conclusions.”
“Have you known this long?”
“For some weeks.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I have no definite reason for connecting Mensmore with Lady Dyke’s death. If I had, his action in returning to London the moment he hears of the charge would shake my belief.”
“Who told him?”
“Mrs. Hillmer.”
“Oh, this business is quite beyond me. I can’t fathom it a little bit.”
And White sank dejectedly to his chair again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, gentlemen,” said Corbett, pocketing his revolver; “but it dawns upon me that I shan’t be required to shoot anybody or sleep in jail to-night.”
“Why didn’t you answer my questions properly, and save all this nonsense?”
“I’ll tell you why, sir. The name of a friend of mine has been mentioned. Albert Mensmore has been more than a brother to me. I allowed you meant mischief to him, as you thought you were talking to him all the time. I don’t know much about you, but I hope that your first action would not be to give away your chum if he is in trouble.”
The detective did not answer, though his look of astonishment at Corbett’s declaration of motive was eloquent enough.
“Before we quit this business,” went on the American, “let me say one thing. Any man who tells you that Albert Mensmore murdered a woman is telling you a lie. I don’t know anything about this Lady Dyke, or how she may have died, but I do know my friend. He’s good in a tight place, but, to think of him killing a woman – Jehosh, it’s sickening.”
Mrs. Robinson burst in, with face aflame.
“Is this palaverin’ to go on all night?” she demanded angrily. “Here’s the dinner sphilin’, after all me worry and bother, with the head of me vexed to know who is the masther and who ishn’t.”
“All right, mother,” laughed Corbett. “Bring in the whole caboodle.”
“Mr. Corbett,” said Bruce, “I hope you will come and have lunch with me to-morrow, at this address,” handing him a card. “I want to have a long talk with you. Mr. White, if you come with me I will explain a good deal to you of which you are now in ignorance.”
“Surely, Mr. Corbett will answer a few questions first,” said the detective.
“Don’t you think you have troubled him sufficiently for this evening? Besides, he can tell us nothing. All the explanation is really due to him, and I propose to give it to him to-morrow. Come, White, this time I promise you that a considerable portion of your inquiry shall be cleared up, and I do not speak without foundation, as you have often learned hitherto.”
So the mysterious Sydney H. Corbett was left in undisturbed possession of his flat and his dinner, while the trio passed out into the quietude of the streets.
CHAPTER XXI
HOW LADY DYKE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS
Mr. White was actually inclined to preserve silence while they walked to Victoria Street. The events of the preceding hour had not exactly conduced to the maintenance, in the eyes of his brother officer, of that pre-eminent sagacity which he invariably claimed.
His companion rubbed in this phase of the matter by saying: “I should think, Jim, you will give Raleigh Mansions wide berth for some time to come, after making two bad breaks there.”
But it was no part of Bruce’s scheme that the detective should be rendered desperate by repeated failures. “It is not Mr. White’s fault,” he said, “that these errors have occurred. They are rather the result of his pertinacity in leaving no clue unsolved which promises to lead to success. When this case ends, if ever it does end, I feel sure he will admit that he has never before encountered so much difficulty in unravelling the most complex problems within his experience.”
“That is so,” chimed in the senior detective. “The thing that beats me in this affair is the want of a beginning, so to speak. One would imagine it the work of a lunatic if Lady Dyke herself had not contributed so curiously to the mystery of her disappearance.”
“There you are, White; that is the true scent. Find the motive and we find the murderer, if Lady Dyke was wilfully put to death.”
“If she was, Mr. Bruce? Have you any doubt about it?”
“There cannot be certainty when we are groping in the dark. But the gloom is passing; we are on the eve of a discovery.”
At Bruce’s residence White’s colleague left him. Soon the barrister and the policeman were sitting snugly before a good fire.
There Claude took him step by step through each branch of his inquiry as it is known to the reader.
He omitted nothing. The discovery of Jane Harding and of Mensmore, the latter’s transactions with Dodge & Co., his dramatic coup at Monte Carlo and its attendant love episode – all these were exhaustively described. He enlarged upon Mrs. Hillmer’s anxiety when the tragedy became known to her, and did not forget Sir Charles Dyke’s amazement at the suggestion that his old playmate might prove to be responsible for the death of his wife.
He produced the waxen moulds of the piece of iron found on the body at Putney, and the ornamental scroll from which it had been taken.
At this bit of evidence Mr. White’s complacency forsook him. Thus far he had experienced a feeling of resentment against Bruce for having concealed from him so much that was material to their investigation.
But when he realized that a powerful link in the chain of events had all along been placidly resting before his eyes his distress was evident, and the barrister came to his rescue.
“You are not to blame, White,” he said, “for having failed to note many things which I have now told you. You are the slave of a system. Your method works admirably for the detection of commonplace crime, but as soon as the higher region of romance is reached it is as much out of place as a steam-roller in a lady’s boudoir. Look at the remarkable series of crimes the English police have failed to solve of late, merely because some bizarre element had intruded itself at the outset. Have you ever read any of the works of Edgar Allan Poe?”
The detective answered in the affirmative. “The Murders of the Rue Morgue” and “The Mystery of Marie Roget” were familiar to him.
“Well,” went on Bruce, “there you have the accurate samples of my meaning. Poe would not have been puzzled for an hour by the vagaries of Jack the Ripper. He would have said at once – most certainly after the third or fourth in the series of murders – ‘This is the work of an athletic lunatic, with a morbid love of anatomy and a morbid hatred of a certain class of women. Seek for him among young men who have pestered doctors with outrageous theories, and who possess weak-minded or imbecile relatives.’ Then, again, take the murder on the South-Western Railway. Do you think Poe would have gone questioning bar-tenders or inquiring into abortive love affairs? Not he! Jealous swains do not carry pestles about with them to slay their sweethearts, nor do they choose a four-minutes’ interval between suburban stations for frenzied avowals of their passion. Here you have the clear trail of a clever lunatic, dropping from the skies, as it were, and disappearing in the same erratic manner. That is why I tell you most emphatically that neither you nor I have yet the remotest conception as to who really killed Lady Dyke.”
“Surely things look black now against this Mensmore?”
“Do they? How would it have fared with an acquaintance of one of the unfortunate women killed by Jack the Ripper had the police found him in the locality with fresh blood-stains on his clothes? What would have resulted from the discovery of a chemist’s mortar among the possessions of one of Elizabeth Camp’s male friends? Come now, be honest, and tell me.”
But Mr. White could only smoke in silence.
“Therefore,” continued Bruce, “let us ask ourselves why, and how, it was possible for Mensmore to commit the crime. Personally, notwithstanding all that we apparently know against him circumstantially, I should hardly believe Mensmore if he confessed himself to be the murderer!”
“Now, why on earth do you say that, Mr. Bruce?”
“Because Mensmore is normal and this crime abnormal. Because the man who would blow out his brains on account of losses at pigeon-shooting never had brains enough to dispose of the body in such fashion. Because Mensmore, having temporarily changed his name for some trivial reason, would never resume it with equal triviality with this shadow upon his life.”
“Then why have you told me all these things that tell so heavily against him?”
“In order that, this time at least, you may feel that the production of a pair of handcuffs does not satisfactorily settle the entire business.”
“I promise there shall be no more arrests until this affair is much more decided than it is at present.”
“Good. I shall make a detective of you after my own heart in time.”
“Yet I cannot help being surprised at the very strange fact that his own sister should seem to suspect him!”
“Ah! Now you have struck the true line. Why did she have that fear? There I am with you entirely. Let us ascertain that and I promise you an important development. Mrs. Hillmer and Mensmore are both concerned in the disappearance of Lady Dyke, yet neither knew that she had disappeared, and both are deeply upset by it, for Mrs. Hillmer flies off to warn her brother, and the brother posts back to London the moment it comes to his ears through her. There, you see, we have a key which may unlock many doors. For Heaven’s sake let it not be battered out of shape the instant it reaches our hands.”
But Mr. White was quite humble. “As I have told you,” he said, “I have done with the battering process.”
“I am sure of it. And now listen to the most remarkable fact that has yet come to light. Lady Dyke’s body was taken from Raleigh Mansions to Putney in a four-wheeler. The cabman was forthwith locked up by the police and clapped into prison for three months. He was released yesterday, and will be here within the next quarter of an hour.”
The detective’s hair nearly rose on end at this statement.
“Look here, Mr. Bruce!” he cried, “have you any more startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish?”
“That is the last shot in my locker.”
“I’m jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you would say was that you did the job yourself.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you thought that; eh, my friend?”
White positively blushed.
“Oh! that’s chaff,” he said. “But why the dickens did the police lock up this cabman – the only witness we could lay our hands upon? Why, I myself questioned every cabman in the vicinity several times.”
“Because he got drunk on the proceeds of the journey, and subsequently thought he was Phaeton driving the chariot of the sun. But, there, he will tell you himself. I met him yesterday morning outside Holloway Jail, and persuaded him to come here to-night, provided he has not gone on the spree again with disastrous results.”
The entrance of Smith – obviously relieved to see his master and the “tec” on such good terms – to announce the arrival of “Mr. William Marsh,” settled any doubts as to the cabman’s intentions, and his appearance established the fact of his sobriety. Three months “hard” had made the cab-driver a new man.
Recognition was mutual between him and Mr. White.
“Hello, Foxey,” cried the latter. “It’s you, is it?”
“Me it is, guv’nor; but I didn’t know there was to be a ‘cop’ here” – this with a suspicious glance at Bruce and a backward movement towards the door.
“Do not be alarmed,” said the barrister; “this gentleman’s presence implies no trouble for you. We want you to help us, and if you do so willingly I will make up that lost fiver you received for driving two people to Putney the night you were arrested.”
The poor old cabman became very confused on hearing this staggering remark. Up to that moment he regarded Bruce as the agent for a charitable association, and there was no harm, he told his “missus,” in trying to “knock him for a bit.”
He stood nervously fumbling with his hat, but did not answer. White knew how to deal with him.
“Sit down, Foxey, and have a drink. You need one to cheer you up. Answer this gentleman’s questions. He means you no harm.”
“Honor bright?”
“Honor bright.”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do. No soda, thank you, sir. Just a small drop of water. Ah, that’s better stuff ’n they keep in Holloway.”
Thus fortified, Marsh had no hesitation in telling them what he knew. Substantially, his story was identical with the version given to Bruce by the ticket collector.
“Can you describe the gentleman?” said the barrister.
“No, sir. He was just like any other swell. Tall and well-dressed, and talked in the ’aw-’aw style. It might ha’ been yerself for all I could tell.”
“Do you think it was I?”