The Rayner-Slade Amalgamation
Over the edge of his newspaper he watched Rayner and Miss Slade meet, exchange a word or two, and retire to a corner of an inner lounge in which they often sat talking together. He had often seen them talking together, and it had struck him that they seemed to talk with more than ordinary confidence. The hunchback was on terms of easy familiarity with everybody in the house, and he had a remarkable range of topics. He could talk sport, books, finance, politics, art, science, history, theology—the variety of his conversation was astonishing. But Appleyard had begun to notice that he rarely talked to any single person with the exception of Miss Slade—he would join a group in smoking-room or drawing-room and enter gaily into whatever was being discussed, but he seemed to have no desire to hold a tête-a-tête talk with any one except this young woman, who was now as much an object of mystery and speculation to Appleyard as he himself was. They were often seen talking together in quiet corners—and some of the old maids and eligible widows were already saying that Miss Slade was setting her cap at Mr. Rayner's evident deep purse.
Ambler Appleyard went to bed that night wondering greatly about two matters—first, why Miss Slade was Miss Slade in Bayswater and Mrs. Marlow at Fullaway's office; second, if Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow, whichever she really was, had any secrets with the mysterious Mr. Rayner. From that he got to wondering who Rayner really was, and what his business was. And this process of speculation began again next morning, and continued all the way to the Gresham Street warehouse, and by the time he had arrived there he had half-determined to find out more about Miss Slade than was known to him up to then—and also, since he appeared to be such great friends with Miss Slade, about Mr. Gerald Rayner.
"But how?" he mused as he ran up the steps to the warehouse. "I'm not a private detective, and I don't propose to employ one. If I knew some sharp fellow—"
Just then he caught sight of Gaffney, who sat on a bale of goods within the warehouse door, holding a note in his hand. He stood up with a grin of friendly recognition when he saw Appleyard.
"Morning, sir," he said. "Letter from Mr. Allerdyke for you. No answer, but I was to wait till you'd read it."
Appleyard opened the note there and then. It was a mere hurried scrawl, saying that Allerdyke was just setting off for Hull, in obedience to a call from the police; as Gaffney had nothing to do, would Appleyard make use of him during Allerdyke's absence?
Appleyard bade Gaffney wait a while, went into his office, ran through his correspondence, gave the morning's orders out to the warehouseman, and called the chauffeur inside.
"Gaffney," he said as he carefully closed the door on them, "you're a Londoner, aren't you?"
Gaffney smiled widely.
"Ought to be, Mr. Appleyard," he answered. "I was born within sound of Bow Bells, anyhow. Off Aldersgate Street, sir. Yes, I'm a Cockney, right enough."
"Then you know London well, of course," suggested Appleyard.
"Never went out of it much, sir, till I went down to Bradford to this present job," replied Gaffney. "I shouldn't have left it if Mr. Allerdyke hadn't given me extra good wages and a real good place."
Appleyard tossed Allerdyke's note across his desk.
"You see what Mr. Allerdyke says," he remarked. "Wants me to find you something to do while he's off. How long is he likely to be off?"
"He said he might be back to-morrow night, sir," answered Gaffney, glancing at the note. "But possibly not till the day after to-morrow."
"Well, I don't know that there's anything you can do here," said Appleyard. "We're not particularly busy, and we've a full staff. But," he continued, with a sharp glance at the chauffeur, "there's something you can do for me, privately, to-morrow morning—a quite private matter—a matter entirely between ourselves. I'll account to Mr. Allerdyke for your time, but I don't want even him to know about this job that you can do for me—I'll pay you for doing it out of my own pocket."
"Just as you think right, sir," answered Gaffney. "So long as you make it right with the guv'nor, I'm willing."
"Very well," said Appleyard. He paused a moment, and then lowered his voice. "You've seen about this tremendous reward that's being offered in Mr. James Allerdyke's case?" he asked, with another sharp look. "You know what I mean?"
Gaffney's shrewd face grew shrewder, and he nodded knowingly.
"I know!" he said. "Fifty thousand! A fortune, sir!"
"What I want you to do," continued Appleyard, "may lead to something relating to that, and it mayn't. Anyway, I'll make you all right. Now, listen carefully. Do you think you could get hold of a private motor to-morrow morning? A smart, private cab in which you could put a friend of yours—well dressed—would be the thing. Early."
"Easy as winking, sir," answered Gaffney. "Know the cab, and know a friend o'mine who'd sit in it—as long as you like."
"Very good," said Appleyard. "Now, then, do you know Lancaster Gate?"
"Do I know St. Paul's?" exclaimed Gaffney, half-derisively. "Used to drive for an old gent who lived in Porchester Terrace."
"Oh!" replied Appleyard. "Then I daresay you know the Pompadour Private Hotel?"
"As well as I know my own fingers," responded Gaffney. "Driven to and from it many a hundred times."
"Just the man I want, then," continued Appleyard. "Now, to-morrow morning, get your cab early—put your friend in it—dressed up, of course—and at half-past nine to the very minute drive slowly past the front door of the Pompadour. You'll see a private motor-brougham there—dark green—you'll also see a hunchbacked gentleman enter it—you can't mistake him. Follow him! Never mind where he goes, or how long it takes to get there—or how few minutes it takes to get there, for that matter!—follow him and find out where that private cab puts him down. Then—come and report to me. Is that all clear?"
"Clear as noonday, sir," answered Gaffney. "I understand—I've been at that sort of game more than once."
"All right," said Appleyard. "I leave it to you. Take every care—I don't want this man to get the least suspicion that he's followed. And—" He hesitated, considering his plans over again. "Yes," he went on, "there's just another detail that I may mention—it'll save time. This hunchback gentleman's name is Rayner—Mr. Gerald Rayner. Can you remember it?"
"As well as my own," answered Gaffney. "Mr. Gerald Rayner. I've got it."
"Very good. Now, then, can you trust this friend of yours?" asked Appleyard. "Is he a chap of common sense?"
"It's my own brother," replied Gaffney. "Some people say I'm the sharper of the two, some say he is. There's a pair of us, anyhow."
"That'll do," said Appleyard. "Now, wherever you see this Mr. Rayner set down, let your brother get out of your cab and take particular notice if he goes into any shop, office, flats, buildings, anything of that sort which bears his name—Rayner. D'you see? I want to know what his business is. And now that you know what I want, you and your brother put your heads together and try to find it out, and come to me when you've done, and I'll make it worth your while. You'd better go now and make your arrangements."
Gaffney went away, evidently delighted with his commission, and Appleyard turned to his business of the day, wondering if he was not going to waste the chauffer's time and his own money. Next morning he purposely hung about the Pompadour until the time for Rayner's departure arrived; from one of the front windows he saw the hunchback enter his brougham and drive away; at the same moment he saw a neat private cab, driven by Gaffney, and occupied by a smart-looking young gentleman in a silk hat, come along and follow in quite an ordinary and usual manner. And on that he himself went to Gresham Street and waited.
Gaffney and his brother turned in during the morning, both evidently primed with news. Appleyard shut himself into his office with them.
"Well?" he asked.
"Easy job, Mr. Appleyard," replied Gaffney. "Drove straight through the Park, Constitution Hill, the Mall, Strand, to top of Arundel Street. There he got out; brougham went off—back—he walked down street. So my brother here he got out too, and strolled down street after him. He'll tell you the rest, sir."
"Just as plain as what he's told," said the other Gaffney. "I followed him down the street; he walked one side, I t'other side. He went into Clytemnestra House—one of those big houses of business flats and offices—almost at the bottom. I waited some time to see if he was settled like, or if it was only a call he was making. Then I went into the hall of Clytemnestra House, as if I was looking for somebody. There are two boards in that hall with the names of tenants painted on 'em. But there's not that name—Gerald Rayner. Still, I'll tell you what there is, sir—there's a name that begins with the same initials—G.R."
"What name?" asked Appleyard.
"The name," replied the second Gaffney, "is Gavin Ramsay—Agent."
CHAPTER XVII
THE PHOTOGRAPH
Allerdyke went off to Hull, post-haste, because of a telephone call which roused him out of bed an hour before his usual time. It came from Chettle, the New Scotland Yard man who had been sent down to Hull as soon as the news of Lydenberg's murder arrived. Chettle asked Allerdyke to join him by the very next express, and to come alone; he asked him, moreover, not to tell Mr. Franklin Fullaway whither he was bound. And Allerdyke, having taken a quick glance at a time-table, summoned Gaffney, told him of his journey, bade him keep his tongue quiet at the Waldorf, wrote his hasty note to Appleyard, dressed, and hurried away to King's Cross. He breakfasted on the train, and was in Hull by one o'clock, and Chettle hailed him as he set foot on the platform, and immediately led him off to a cab which awaited them outside the station.
"Much obliged to you for coming so promptly, Mr. Allerdyke," said the detective. "And for coming by yourself—that was just what I wanted."
"Aye, and why?" asked Allerdyke. "Why by myself? I've been wondering about that all the way down."
Chettle, a sleek, comfortable-looking man, with a quiet manner and a sly glance, laughed knowingly, twiddling his fat thumbs as he leaned back in the cab. "Oh, well, it doesn't do—in my opinion—to spread information amongst too many people, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "That's my notion of things, anyway. I just wanted to go into a few matters with you, alone, d'ye see? I didn't want that American gentleman along with you. Eh?"
"Now, why?" asked Allerdyke. "Out with it!"
"Well, you see, Mr. Allerdyke," answered the detective, "we know you. You're a man of substance, you've got a big stake in the country—you're Allerdyke, of Allerdyke and Partners, Limited, Bradford and London. But we don't know Fullaway. He may be all right, but you could only call him a bird of passage, like. He can close down his business and be away out of England to-morrow, and, personally, I don't believe in letting him into every secret about all this affair until we know more about him. You see, Mr. Allerdyke, there's one thing very certain—so far as we've ascertained at present, nobody but Fullaway, and possibly whoever's in his employ, was acquainted with the fact that your cousin was carrying those jewels from Russia to England. Nobody in this country, at any rate. And—it's a thing of serious importance, sir."
Just what Appleyard had said!—what, indeed, no one of discernment could help saying, thought Allerdyke. The sole knowledge, of course, was with Fullaway and his lady clerk—so far as was known. Therefore—
"Just so," he said aloud. "I see your point—of course, I've already seen it. Well, what are we going to do—now? You've brought me down here for something special, no doubt."
"Quite so, sir," answered Chettle composedly. "I want to draw your attention to some very special features and to ask you certain questions arising out of 'em. We'll take things in order, Mr. Allerdyke. We're driving now to the High Street—I want to show you the exact spot where Lydenberg was shot dead. After that we'll go to the police-station and I'll show you two or three little matters, and we'll have a talk about them. And now, before we get to the High Street, I may as well tell you that on examining Lydenberg's body very little was found in the way of papers—scarcely anything, and nothing connecting him with your cousin's affair—in fact, the police here say they never saw a foreign gentleman with less on him in that way. But in the inside pocket of his overcoat there was a postcard, which had been posted here in Hull. Here it is—and you'll see that it was the cause of taking him to the spot where he was shot."
Chettle took from an old letter-case an innocent-looking postcard, on one corner of which was a stain.
"His blood," he remarked laconically. "He was shot clean through the heart. Well, you see, it's a mere line."
Allerdyke took the card and looked at it with a mingled feeling of repulsion and fascination. The writing on it was thin, angular, upright, and it suggested foreign origin. And the communication was brief—and unsigned—
"High Street morning eleven sharp left-hand side old houses."
"You don't recognize that handwriting, of course, Mr. Allerdyke?" asked Chettle. "Never seen it before, I suppose?"
"No!" replied Allerdyke. "Never. But I should say it's a foreigner's."
"Very likely," assented Chettle. "Aye, well, sir, it lured the man to his death. And now I'll show you where he died, and how easy it was for the murderer to kill him and get away unobserved."
He pulled the cab up at the corner of the High Street, and turned southward towards the river, looking round at his companion with one of his sly smiles.
"I daresay that you, being a Yorkshireman, Mr. Allerdyke, know all about this old street," he remarked as they walked forward. "I never saw it, never heard of it, until the other day, when I was sent down on this Lydenberg business, but it struck me at once. I should think it's one of the oldest streets left in England."
"It is," answered Allerdyke. "I know it well enough, and I've seen it changed. It used to be the street of the old Hull merchants—they had their houses and warehouses all combined, with gardens at the back running down to the river Hull. Queer old places there used to be in this street, I can tell you when I was a lad!—of late years they've pulled a lot of property down that had got what you might call thoroughly worm-eaten—oh, yes, the place isn't half as ancient or picturesque as it was even twenty years ago!"
"There's plenty of the ancient about it still, for all that," observed Chettle, with a dry laugh. "There was more than enough of it for Lydenberg the other day, at any rate. Now, then, you remember what it said on the postcard—he was to walk down the High Street, on the left-hand side, at eleven o'clock? Very well—down the High Street he walks, on this side which we are now—he strolls along, by these old houses, looking about him, of course, for the person he was to meet. The few people who were about down here that morning, and who saw him, said that he was looking about from side to side. And all of a sudden a shot rang out, and Lydenberg fell—just here—right on this very pavement."
He pulled Allerdyke up in a narrow part of the old street, jointed to the flags, and then to the house behind them—an ancient, ramshackle place, the doors and windows of which were boarded up, the entire fabric of which showed unmistakable readiness for the pick and shovel of the house-breaker. And he laid a hand on one of the shattered windows, close by a big hole in the decaying wood.
"There's no doubt the murderer was hidden behind this shutter, and that he fired at Lydenberg from it, through this hole," he said. "So, you see, he'd only be a few feet from his man. He was evidently a good shot, and a fellow of resolute nerve, for he made no mistake. He only fired once, but he shot Lydenberg clean through the heart, dead!"
"Anybody see it happen?" asked Allerdyke, staring about him at the scene of the tragedy, and thinking how very ordinary and commonplace everything looked. "I suppose there'd be people about, though the street, at this end, anyway, isn't as busy as it once was?"
"Several people saw him fall," answered Chettle.
"They say he jumped, spun round, and fell across the pavement. And they all thought it was a case of suicide. That, of course, gave the murderer a bigger and better chance of making off. You see, as these people saw no assailant, it never struck 'em that the shot had been fired from behind this window. When they collected their thoughts, found it wasn't suicide, and realized that it was murder, the murderer was—Lord knows where! From behind these old houses, Mr. Allerdyke, there's a perfect rabbit-warren of alleys, courts, slums, twists, and turns! The man could slip out at the back, go left or right, mix himself up with the crowd on the quays and wharves, walk into the streets, go anywhere—all in a minute or two."
"Clever—very clever! You've no clue?" asked Allerdyke.
"None; not a scrap!" replied the detective. "Bless you, there's score of foreigners knocking about Hull. Scores! Hundreds! We've done all we can, the local police and myself—we've no clue whatever. But, of course, it was done by one of the gang."
"By one of the gang!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "Ah you've got a theory of your own, then?"
Chettle laughed quietly as they turned and retraced their steps up the street.
"It 'ud be queer if I hadn't, by this time," he answered. "Oh yes, I've thought things out pretty well, and I should say our people at the Yard have come to the same conclusion that I have—I'm not conceited enough, Mr. Allerdyke, to fancy that I'm the only person who's arrived at a reasonable theory, not I?"
"Well—what is your theory?" asked Allerdyke.
"This," replied the detective. "The whole thing, the theft of the Princess Nastirsevitch's jewels from your cousin, of Miss de Longarde's or Lennard's jewels, was the work of a peculiarly clever gang—though it may be of an individual—who made use of both Lydenberg and the French maid as instruments, and subsequently murdered those two in order to silence them forever. I say it may be the work of an individual—it's quite possible that the man who killed the Frenchwoman is also the man who shot Lydenberg—but it may be the work of one, two, or three separate persons, acting in collusion. I believe that Lydenberg was the actual thief of the Princess's jewels from your cousin; that the Frenchwoman actually stole her mistress's jewels. But as to how it was worked—as to who invented and carried out the whole thing—ah!"
"And to that—to the real secret of the whole matter—we haven't the ghost of a clue!" muttered Allerdyke. "That's about it, eh?"
Chettle laughed—a sly, suggestive laugh. He gave his companion one of his half-apologetic looks.
"I'm not so sure, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "We may have—and that's why I wanted to see you by yourself. Come round to the police-station."
In a quiet room in the usual drab and dismal atmosphere which Allerdyke was beginning to associate with police affairs, Chettle produced the personal property of the dead man, all removed, he said, from the Station Hotel, for safe keeping.
"There's little to go on, Mr. Allerdyke," he said, pointing to one article after another. "You'll remember that the man represented himself as being a Norwegian doctor, who had come to Hull on private business. He may have been that—we're making inquiries about him in Christiania, where he hailed from. According to those who're in a position to speak, his clothing, linen, boots, and so on are all of the sort you'd get in that country. But he'd no papers on him to show his business, no private letters, no documents connecting him with Hull in any way: he hadn't even a visiting-card. He'd a return ticket—from Hull to Christiania—and he'd plenty of money, English and foreign. When I got down here, I helped the local police to go through everything—we even searched the linings of his clothing and ripped his one handbag to pieces. But we've found no more than I've said. However—I've found something. Nobody knows that I've found it. I haven't told the people here—I haven't even reported it to headquarters in London. I wanted you to see it before I spoke of it to a soul. Look here!"
Chettle opened a square cardboard box in which certain personal effects belonging to Lydenberg had been placed—one or two rings, a pocket-knife, his purse and its contents, a cigar-case, his watch and chain. He took up the watch, detached it from the chain, and held it towards Allerdyke, who was regarding these proceedings with intense curiosity.
"You see this watch, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "It's a watch of foreign make—Swiss—and it's an old one, a good many years old, I should say. Consequently, it's a bit what we might call massive. Now, I was looking at it yesterday—late last night, in fact—and an idea suddenly struck me. In consequence of that idea, I opened the back of the watch, and discovered—that!"
He snapped open the case of the watch as he spoke and showed Allerdyke, neatly cut out to a circle, neatly fitted into the case, a photograph—the photograph of James Allerdyke! And Allerdyke started as if he had been shot, and let out a sharp exclamation.
"My God!" he cried. "James! James, by all that's holy—and in there!"
"You recognize it, of course?" said Chettle, with a grim smile. "No doubt of it, eh?"
"Doubt! Recognize!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "Lord, man—why, I took it myself, not two months ago!"
CHAPTER XVIII
DEFINITE SUSPICION
Chettle laughed—a low, suggestive, satisfied chuckle. He laid the watch, its case still open, on the table at which they were standing, and tapped the photograph with the point of his finger.
"That may be the first step to the scaffold—for somebody," he said, with a meaning glance. "Ah—it's extraordinary what little, innocent-looking things help to put a bit of rope round a man's neck! So you took this, Mr. Allerdyke?—took it yourself, you say?"
"Took it myself, some eight or nine weeks ago," answered Allerdyke. "I took it in my garden one Sunday afternoon when my cousin James happened to be there. I do a bit in that way—amusement, you know. I just chanced to have a camera in my hand, and I saw James in a very favourable light and position, and I snapped him. And it was such a good 'un when developed that I printed off a few copies."
The detective's face became anxious.
"How many, now?" he asked. "How many, Mr. Allerdyke? I hope you can remember?—it's a point of the utmost seriousness."
"Naught easier," answered Allerdyke readily. "I've a good memory for little things as well as big 'uns. I printed off four copies. One of 'em I pasted into an album in which I keep particularly good photographs of my own taking; the other three I gave to him—he put 'em in his pocket-book."
"All unmounted—like this?" asked Chettle.
"All unmounted—like that," affirmed Allerdyke. "And now, then, since it seems to be a matter of importance, I can tell you what James did with at any rate two of 'em. He gave one to our cousin Grace—Mrs. Henry Mallins—a Bradford lady. He gave another to a friend of my own, another amateur photographer, Wilson Firth—gave him it in my presence at the Midland Hotel one day, when we were all three having a cigar together in the smoking-room there. Wilson Firth's a bit of a rival of mine in the amateur photographic line—we each try to beat the other, you understand. Now, then, James pulled one of these snapshots out and handed it over to Wilson with a laugh. 'There,' he says, 'that's our Marshall's latest performance—you'll have a job to do aught better than that, Wilson, my lad,' he says. So that accounts for two. And—this is the third!"
"And the question, Mr. Allerdyke, the big question—a most important question!—is, how did it come into this man Lydenberg's possession?" said the detective anxiously. "If we can find that out—"
"I've been thinking," interrupted Allerdyke. "There's this about it, you know: James and this Lydenberg came over together from Christiania to Hull in the Perisco. They talked to one another—that's certain. James may have given it to Lydenberg. But the thing is—is that likely?"
"No!" replied Chettle, with emphatic assurance. "No, sir! And I'll tell you why. If your cousin had given this photo to Lydenberg, as he might, of course, have given it to a mere passing acquaintance, because that acquaintance took a fancy to it, or something of that sort, Lydenberg would in all reasonable probability have just slipped in into his pocket-book, or put it loose amongst his letters and papers. But, as we see, however Lydenberg became possessed of this photo, he took unusual pains and precautions about it. You see, he cut it down, most carefully and neatly, to fit into the cover of his watch—he took the trouble to carry it where no one else would see it, but where he could see it himself at a second's notice—he'd nothing to do but to snap open that cover. No, sir, your cousin didn't give that photo to Lydenberg. That photo was sent to Lydenberg, Mr. Allerdyke—sent! And it was sent for one purpose only. What? That he should be able to identify Mr. James Allerdyke as soon as he set eyes on him!"
