In a sense, said Lawyer Kitson, "it is a tragedy. In a sense it is a comedy. The most fatal comedy of errors that could be imagined."
Stanford Beale sat on a low chair, his head in his hands, the picture of dejection.
I don't mind your kicks, he said, without looking up; "you can't say anything worse about me than I am saying about myself. Oh, I've been a fool, an arrogant mad fool."
Kitson, his hands clasped behind his back under his tail coat, his gold-rimmed pince-nez perched on his nose, looked down at the young man.
I am not going to tell you that I was against the idea from the beginning, because that is unnecessary. I ought to have put my foot down and stopped it. I heard you were pretty clever with a gun, Stanford. Why didn't you sail in and rescue the girl as soon as you found where she was?
I don't think there would have been a ghost of a chance, said the other, looking up. "I am not finding excuses, but I am telling you what I know. There were four or five men in the house and they were all pretty tough citizens--I doubt if I would have made it that way."
You think he would have married her?
He admitted as much, said Stanford Beale, "the parson was already there when I butted in."
What steps are you taking to deal with this man van Heerden?
Beale laughed helplessly.
I cannot take any until Miss Cresswell recovers.
Mrs. Beale, murmured Kitson, and the other went red.
I guess we'll call her Miss Cresswell, if you don't mind, he said sharply, "see here, Mr. Kitson, you needn't make things worse than they are. I can do nothing until she recovers and can give us a statement as to what happened. McNorton will execute the warrant just as soon as we can formulate a charge. In fact, he is waiting downstairs in the hope of seeing----" he paused, "Miss Cresswell. What does the doctor say?"
She's sleeping now.
It's maddening, maddening, groaned Beale, "and yet if it weren't so horrible I could laugh. Yesterday I was waiting for a 'hobo' to come out of delirium tremens. To-day I am waiting for Miss Cresswell to recover from some devilish drug. I've made a failure of it, Mr. Kitson."
I'm afraid you have, said the other dryly; "what do you intend doing?"
But does it occur to you, asked Kitson slowly, "that this lady is not aware that she has married you and that we've got to break the news to her? That's the part I don't like."
And you can bet it doesn't fill me with rollicking high spirits, snapped Beale; "it's a most awful situation."
What are you going to do? asked the other again.
What are you going to do? replied the exasperated Beale, "after all, you're her lawyer."
And you're her husband, said Kitson grimly, "which reminds me." He walked to his desk and took up a slip of paper. "I drew this out against your coming. This is a certified cheque for L400,000, that is nearly two million dollars, which I am authorized to hand to Oliva's husband on the day of her wedding."
Beale took it from the other's fingers, read it carefully and tore it into little pieces, after which conversation flagged. After awhile Beale asked:
What do I have to do to get a divorce?
Well, said the lawyer, "by the English law if you leave your wife and go away, and refuse to return to her she can apply to a judge of the High Court, who will order you to return within fourteen days."
I'd come back in fourteen seconds if she wanted me, said Beale fervently.
You're hopeless, said Kitson, "you asked how you could get a divorce. I presume you want one."
Of course I do. I want to undo the whole of this horrible tangle. It's absurd and undignified. Can nothing be done without Miss Cresswell knowing?
Nothing can be done without your wife's knowledge, said Kitson.
He seemed to take a fiendish pleasure in reminding the unhappy young man of his misfortune.
I am not blaming you, he said more soberly, "I blame myself. When I took this trust from poor John Millinborn I never realized all that it meant or all the responsibility it entailed. How could I imagine that the detective I employed to protect the girl from fortune hunters would marry her? I am not complaining," he said hastily, seeing the wrath rise in Beale's face, "it is very unfortunate, and you are as much the victim of circumstances as I. But unhappily we have not been the real victims."
I suppose, said Beale, looking up at the ceiling, "if I were one of those grand little mediaeval knights or one of those gallant gentlemen one reads about I should blow my brains out."
That would be a solution, said Mr. Kitson, "but we should still have to explain to your wife that she was a widow."
Then what am I to do?
Have a cigar, said Kitson.
He took two from his vest pocket and handed one to his companion, and his shrewd old eyes twinkled.
It's years and years since I read a romantic story, he said, "and I haven't followed the trend of modern literature very closely, but I think that your job is to sail in and make the lady love you."
Beale jumped to his feet.
Do you mean that? Pshaw! It's absurd! It's ridiculous! She would never love me.
I don't see why anybody should, least of all your wife, said Kitson, "but it would certainly simplify matters."
And then?
Marry her all over again, said Kitson, sending a big ring of smoke into the air, "there's no law against it. You can marry as many times as you like, providing you marry the same woman."
But, suppose--suppose she loves somebody else? asked Beale hoarsely.
Why then it will be tough on you, said Kitson, "but tougher on her. Your business is to see that she doesn't love somebody else."
But how?
A look of infinite weariness passed across Kitson's face. He removed his glasses and put them carefully into their case.
Really, as a detective, he said, "you may be a prize exhibit, but as an ordinary human being you wouldn't even get a consolation prize. You have got me into a mess and you have got to get me out. John Millinborn was concerned only with one thing--the happiness of his niece. If you can make your wife, Mrs. Stanford Beale" (Beale groaned), "if you can make your good lady happy," said the remorseless lawyer, "my trust is fulfilled. I believe you are a white man, Beale," he said with a change in his tone, "and that her money means nothing to you. I may not be able to give a young man advice as to the best method of courting his wife, but I know something about human nature, and if you are not straight, I have made one of my biggest mistakes. My advice to you is to leave her alone for a day or two until she's quite recovered. You have plenty to occupy your mind. Go out and fix van Heerden, but not for his treatment of the girl--she mustn't figure in a case of that kind, for all the facts will come out. You think you have another charge against him; well, prove it. That man killed John Millinborn and I believe you can put him behind bars. As the guardian angel of Oliva Cresswell you have shown certain lamentable deficiencies"--the smile in his eyes was infectious, and Stanford Beale smiled in sympathy. "In that capacity I have no further use for your services and you are fired, but you can consider yourself re-engaged on the spot to settle with van Heerden. I will pay all the expenses of the chase--but get him."
He put out his hand and Stanford gripped it.
You're a great man, sir, he breathed.
The old man chuckled.
And you may even be a great detective, he said. "In five minutes your Mr. Lassimus White will be here. You suggested I should send for him--who is he, by the way?"
The managing director of Punsonby's. A friend of van Heerden's and a shareholder in his Great Adventure.
But he knows nothing?
There was a tap at the door and a page-boy came into the sitting-room with a card.
Show the gentleman up, said Kitson; "it is our friend," he explained.
And he may know a great deal, said Beale.
Mr. White stalked into the room dangling his glasses with the one hand and holding his shiny silk hat with the other. He invariably carried his hat as though it were a rifle he were shouldering.
He bowed ceremoniously and closed the door behind him.
Mr.--ah--Kitson? he said, and advanced a big hand. "I received your note and am, as you will observe, punctual. I may say that my favourite motto is 'Punctuality is the politeness of princes."
You know Mr. Beale?
Mr. White bowed stiffly.
I have--ah--met Mr. Beale.
In my unregenerate days, said Beale cheerfully, "but I am quite sober now."
I am delighted to learn this, said Mr. White. "I am extremely glad to learn this."
Mr. Kitson asked you to come, Mr. White, but really it is I who want to see you, said Beale. "To be perfectly frank, I learnt that you were in some slight difficulty."
Difficulty? Mr. White bristled. "Me, sir, in difficulty? The head of the firm of Punsonby's, whose credit stands, sir, as a model of sound industrial finance? Oh no, sir."
Beale was taken aback. He had depended upon information which came from unimpeachable sources to secure the co-operation of this pompous windbag.
I'm sorry, he said. "I understood that you had called a meeting of creditors and had offered to sell certain shares in a syndicate which I had hoped to take off your hands."
Mr. White inclined his head graciously.
It is true, sir, he said, "that I asked a few--ah--wholesale firms to meet me and to talk over things. It is also true that I--ah--had shares which had ceased to interest me, but those shares are sold."
Sold! Has van Heerden bought them in? asked Beale eagerly; and Mr. White nodded.
Doctor van Heerden, a remarkable man, a truly remarkable man. He shook his head as if he could not bring himself and never would bring himself to understand how remarkable a man the doctor was. "Doctor van Heerden has repurchased my shares and they have made me a very handsome profit."
When was this? asked Beale.
I really cannot allow myself to be cross-examined, young man, he said severely, "by your accent I perceive that you are of trans-Atlantic origin, but I cannot allow you to hustle me--hustle I believe is the word. The firm of Punsonby's----"
Forget 'em, said Beale tersely. "Punsonby's has been on the verge of collapse for eight years. Let's get square, Mr. White. Punsonby's is a one man company and you're that man. Its balance sheets are faked, its reserves are non-existent. Its sinking fund is _spurlos versenkt_."
Sir!
I tell you I know Punsonby's--I've had the best accountants in London working out your position, and I know you live from hand to mouth and that the margin between your business and bankruptcy is as near as the margin between you and prison.
Mr. White was very pale.
But that isn't my business and I dare say that the money van Heerden paid you this morning will stave off your creditors. Anyway, I'm not running a Pure Business Campaign. I'm running a campaign against your German friend van Heerden.
A German? said the virtuous Mr. White in loud astonishment. "Surely not--a Holland gentleman----"
He's a German and you know it. You've been financing him in a scheme to ruin the greater part of Europe and the United States, to say nothing of Canada, South America, India and Australia.
I protest against such an inhuman charge, said Mr. White solemnly, and he rose. "I cannot stay here any longer----"
If you go I'll lay information against you, said Beale. "I'm in dead earnest, so you can go or stay. First of all, I want to know in what form you received the money?"
By cheque, replied White in a flurry.
On what bank?
The London branch of the Swedland National Bank.
A secret branch of the Dresdner Bank, said Beale. "That's promising. Has Doctor Van Heerden ever paid you money before?"
By now Mr. White was the most tractable of witnesses. All his old assurance had vanished, and his answers were almost apologetic in tone.
Yes, Mr. Beale, small sums.
On what bank?
On my own bank.
Good again. Have you ever known that he had an account elsewhere--for example, you advanced him a very considerable sum of money; was your cheque cleared through the Swedland National Bank?
No, sir--through my own bank.
Beale fingered his chin.
Money this morning and he took his loss in good part--that can only mean one thing. He nodded. "Mr. White, you have supplied me with valuable information."
I trust I have said nothing which may--ah--incriminate one who has invariably treated me with the highest respect, Mr. White hastened to say.
Not more than he is incriminated, smiled Stanford. "One more question. You know that van Heerden is engaged in some sort of business--the business in which you invested your money. Where are his factories?"
But here Mr. White protested he could offer no information. He recalled, not without a sinking of heart, a similar cross-examination on the previous day at the hands of McNorton. There were factories--van Heerden had hinted as much--but as to where they were located--well, confessed Mr. White, he hadn't the slightest idea.
That's rubbish, said Beale roughly, "you know. Where did you communicate with van Heerden? He wasn't always at his flat and you only came there twice."
I assure you---- began Mr. White, alarmed by the other's vehemence.
Assure nothing, thundered Beale, "your policies won't sell--where did you see him?"
On my honour----
Let's keep jokes outside of the argument, said Beale truculently, "where did you see him?"
Believe me, I never saw him--if I had a message to send, my cashier--ah--Miss Glaum, an admirable young lady--carried it for me.
Hilda Glaum!
Beale struck his palm. Why had he not thought of Hilda Glaum before?
That's about all I want to ask you, Mr. White, he said mildly; "you're a lucky man."
Lucky, sir! Mr. White recovered his hauteur as quickly as Beale's aggressiveness passed. "I fail to perceive my fortune. I fail to see, sir, where luck comes in."
You have your money back, said Beale significantly, "if you hadn't been pressed for money and had not pressed van Heerden you would have whistled for it."
Do you suggest, demanded White, in his best judicial manner, "do you suggest in the presence of a witness with a due appreciation of the actionable character of your words that Doctor van Heerden is a common swindler?"
Not common, replied Beale, "thank goodness!"
Beale had a long consultation with McNorton at Scotland Yard, and on his return to the hotel, had his dinner sent up to Kitson's private room and dined amidst a litter of open newspapers. They were representative journals of the past week, and he scanned their columns carefully. Now and again he would cut out a paragraph and in one case half a column.
Kitson, who was dining with a friend in the restaurant of the hotel, came up toward nine o'clock and stood looking with amusement at the detective's silent labours.
You're making a deplorable litter in my room, he said, "but I suppose there is something very mysterious and terrible behind it all. Do you mind my reading your cuttings?"
Go ahead, said Beale, without raising his eyes from his newspaper.
Kitson took up a slip and read aloud:
The reserves of the Land Bank of the Ukraine have been increased by ten million roubles. This increase has very considerably eased the situation in Southern Ukraine and in Galicia, where there has been considerable unrest amongst the peasants due to the high cost of textiles.
That is fascinating news, said Kitson sardonically. "Are you running a scrap-book on high finance?"
No, said the other shortly, "the Land Bank is a Loan Bank. It finances peasant proprietors."
You a shareholder? asked Mr. Kitson wonderingly.
No.
Kitson picked up another cutting. It was a telegraphic dispatch dated from Berlin:
As evidence of the healthy industrial tone which prevails in Germany and the rapidity with which the Government is recovering from the effects of the war, I may instance the fact that an order has been placed with the Leipzieger Spoorwagen Gesselshaft for 60,000 box cars. The order has been placed by the L.S.G. with thirty firms, and the first delivery is due in six weeks.
That's exciting, said Kitson, "but why cut it out?"
The next cutting was also dated "Berlin" and announced the revival of the "War Purchase Council" of the old belligerent days as "a temporary measure."
It is not intended, said the dispatch, "to invest the committee with all its old functions, and the step has been taken in view of the bad potato crop to organize distribution."
What's the joke about that? asked Kitson, now puzzled.
The joke is that there is no potato shortage--there never was such a good harvest, said Beale. "I keep tag of these things and I know. The _Western Mail_ had an article from its Berlin correspondent last week saying that potatoes were so plentiful that they were a drug on the market."
H'm!
Did you read about the Zeppelin sheds? asked Beale. "You will find it amongst the others. All the old Zepp. hangars throughout Germany are to be put in a state of repair and turned into skating-rinks for the physical development of young Germany. Wonderful concrete floors are to be laid down, all the dilapidations are to be made good, and the bands will play daily, wet or fine."
What does it all mean? asked the bewildered lawyer.
That The Day--the real Day is near at hand, said Beale soberly.
War?
Against the world, but without the flash of a bayonet or the boom of a cannon. A war fought by men sitting in their little offices and pulling the strings that will choke you and me, Mr. Kitson. To-night I am going after van Heerden. I may catch him and yet fail to arrest his evil work--that's a funny word, 'evil,' for everyday people to use, but there's no other like it. To-morrow, whether I catch him or not, I will tell you the story of the plot I accidentally discovered. The British Government thinks that I have got on the track of a big thing--so does Washington, and I'm having all the help I want.
It's a queer world, said Kitson.
It may be queerer, responded Beale, then boldly: "How is my wife?"
Your--well, I like your nerve! gasped Kitson.
I thought you preferred it that way--how is Miss Cresswell?
The nurse says she is doing famously. She is sleeping now; but she woke up for food and is nearly normal. She did not ask for you, he added pointedly.
Beale flushed and laughed.
My last attempt to be merry, he said. "I suppose that to-morrow she will be well."
But not receiving visitors, Kitson was careful to warn him. "You will keep your mind off Oliva and keep your eye fixed on van Heerden if you are wise. No man can serve two masters."
Stanford Beale looked at his watch.
It is the hour, he said oracularly, and got up.
I'll leave this untidiness for your man to clear, said Kitson. "Where do you go now?"
To see Hilda Glaum--if the fates are kind, said Beale. "I'm going to put up a bluff, believing that in her panic she will lead me into the lion's den with the idea of van Heerden making one mouthful of me. I've got to take that risk. If she is what I think she is, she'll lay a trap for me--I'll fall for it, but I'm going to get next to van Heerden to-night."
Kitson accompanied him to the door of the hotel.
Take no unnecessary risks, he said at parting, "don't forget that you're a married man."
That's one of the things I want to forget if you'll let me, said the exasperated young man.
Outside the hotel he hailed a passing taxi and was soon speeding through Piccadilly westward. He turned by Hyde Park Corner, skirted the grounds of Buckingham Palace and plunged into the maze of Pimlico. He pulled up before a dreary-looking house in a blank and dreary street, and telling the cabman to wait, mounted the steps and rang the bell.
A diminutive maid opened the door.
Is Miss Glaum in? he demanded.
Yes, sir. Will you step into the drawing-room. All the other boarders are out. What name shall I say?
Tell her a gentleman from Krooman Mansions, he answered diplomatically.
He walked into the tawdry parlour and put down his hat and stick, and waited. Presently the door opened and the girl came in. She stopped open-mouthed with surprise at the sight of him, and her surprise deepened to suspicion.
I thought---- she began, and checked herself.
You thought I was Doctor van Heerden? Well, I am not.
You're the man I saw at Heyler's, she said, glowering at him.
Yes, my name is Beale.
Oh, I've heard about you. You'll get nothing by prying here, she cried.
I shall get a great deal by prying here, I think, he said calmly. "Sit down, Miss Hilda Glaum, and let us understand one another. You are a friend of Doctor van Heerden's?"
I shall answer no questions, she snapped.
Perhaps you will answer this question, he said, "why did Doctor van Heerden secure an appointment for you at Punsonby's, and why, when you were there, did you steal three registered envelopes which you conveyed to the doctor?"
Her face went red and white.
That's a lie! she gasped.
You might tell a judge and jury that and then they wouldn't believe you, he smiled. "Come, Miss Glaum, let us be absolutely frank with one another. I am telling you that I don't intend bringing your action to the notice of the police, and you can give me a little information which will be very useful to me."
It's a lie, she repeated, visibly agitated, "I did not steal anything. If Miss Cresswell says so----"
Miss Cresswell is quite ignorant of your treachery, said the other quietly; "but as you are determined to deny that much, perhaps you will tell me this, what business brings you to Doctor van Heerden's flat in the small hours of the morning?"
Do you insinuate----?
I insinuate nothing. And least of all do I insinuate that you have any love affair with the doctor, who does not strike me as that kind of person.
Her eyes narrowed and for a moment it seemed that her natural vanity would overcome her discretion.
Who says I go to Doctor van Heerden's?
I say so, because I have seen you. Surely you don't forget that I live opposite the amiable doctor?
I am not going to discuss my business or his, she said, "and I don't care what you threaten me with or what you do."
I will do something more than threaten you, he said ominously, "you will not fool me, Miss Glaum, and the sooner you realize the fact the better. I am going all the way with you if you give me any trouble, and if you don't answer my questions. I might tell you that unless this interview is a very satisfactory one to me I shall not only arrest Doctor van Heerden to-night but I shall take you as an accomplice."
You can't, you can't. She almost screamed the words.
All the sullen restraint fell away from her and she was electric in the violence of her protest.
Arrest him! That wonderful man! Arrest me? You dare not! You dare not!
I shall dare do lots of things unless you tell me what I want to know.
What do you want to know? she demanded defiantly.
I want to know the most likely address at which your friend the doctor can be found--the fact is, Miss Glaum, the game is up--we know all about the Green Rust.
She stepped back, her hand raised to her mouth.
The--the Green Rust! she gasped. "What do you mean?"
I mean that I have every reason to believe that Doctor van Heerden is engaged in a conspiracy against this State. He has disappeared, but is still in London. I want to take him quietly--without fuss.
Her eyes were fixed on his. He saw doubt, rage, a hint of fear and finally a steady light of resolution shining. When she spoke her voice was calm.
Very good. I will take you to the place, she said.
She went out of the room and came back five minutes later with her hat and coat on.
It's a long way, she began.
I have a taxi at the door.
We cannot go all the way by taxi. Tell the man to drive to Baker Street, she said.
She spoke no word during the journey, nor was Beale inclined for conversation. At Baker Street Station they stopped and the cab was dismissed. Together they walked in silence, turning from the main road, passing the Central Station and plunging into a labyrinth of streets which was foreign territory to the American.
It seemed that he had passed in one step from one of the best-class quarters of the town to one of the worst. One minute he was passing through a sedate square, lined with the houses of the well-to-do, another minute he was in a slum.
The place is at the end of this street, she said.
They came to what seemed to be a stable-yard. There was a blank wall with one door and a pair of gates. The girl took a key from her bag, opened the small door and stepped in, and Beale followed.
They were in a yard littered with casks. On two sides of the yard ran low-roofed buildings which had apparently been used as stables. She locked the door behind her, walked across the yard to the corner and opened another door.
There are fourteen steps down, she said, "have you a light of any kind?"
He took his electric torch from his pocket.
Give it to me, she said, "I will lead the way."
What is this place? he asked, after she had locked the door.
It used to be a wine merchant's, she said shortly, "we have the cellars."
We? he repeated.
She made no reply. At the bottom of the steps was a short passage and another door which was opened, and apparently the same key fitted them all, or else as Beale suspected she carried a pass key.
They walked through, and again she closed the door behind them.
Another? he said, as her light flashed upon a steel door a dozen paces ahead.
It is the last one, she said, and went on.
Suddenly the light was extinguished.
Your lamp's gone wrong, he heard her say, "but I can find the lock."
He heard a click, but did not see the door open and did not realize what had happened until he heard a click again. The light was suddenly flashed on him, level with his eyes.
You can't see me, said a mocking voice, "I'm looking at you through the little spy-hole. Did you see the spy-hole, clever Mr. Beale? And I am on the other side of the door." He heard her laugh. "Are you going to arrest the doctor to-night?" she mocked. "Are you going to discover the secret of the Green Rust--ah! That is what you want, isn't it?"
My dear little friend, said Beale smoothly, "you will be very sensible and open that door. You don't suppose that I came here alone. I was shadowed all the way."
You lie, she said coolly, "why did I dismiss the cab and make you walk? Oh, clever Mr. Beale!"
He chuckled, though he was in no chuckling mood.
What a sense of humour! he said admiringly, "now just listen to me!"
He made one stride to the door, his revolver had flicked out of his hip-pocket, when he heard the snap of a shutter, and the barrel that he thrust between the bars met steel. Then came the grind of bolts and he pocketed his gun.
So that's that, he said.
Then he walked back to the other door, struck a match and examined it. It was sheathed with iron. He tapped the walls with his stick, but found nothing to encourage him. The floor was solidly flagged, the low roof of the passage was vaulted and cased with stone.
He stopped in his search suddenly and listened. Above his head he heard a light patter of feet, and smiled. It was his boast that he never forgot a voice or a footfall.
That's my little friend on her way back, running like the deuce, to tell the doctor, he said. "I have something under an hour before the shooting starts!"
Dr. van Heerden did not hurry his departure from his Staines house. He spent the morning following Oliva's marriage in town, transacting certain important business and making no attempt to conceal his comings and goings, though he knew that he was shadowed. Yet he was well aware that every hour that passed brought danger nearer. He judged (and rightly) that his peril was not to be found in the consequences to his detention of Oliva Cress well.
I may have a week's grace, he said to Milsom, "and in the space of a week I can do all that I want."
He spent the evening superintending the dismantling of apparatus in the shed, and it was past ten o'clock on Tuesday before he finished.
It was not until he was seated by Milsom's side in the big limousine and the car was running smoothly through Kingston that he made any further reference to the previous afternoon.
Is Beale content? he asked.
Eh?
Milsom, dozing in the corner of the car, awoke with a start.
Is Beale content with his prize--and his predicament? asked van Heerden.
Well, I guess he should be. That little job brings him a million. He shouldn't worry about anything further.
But van Heerden shook his head.
I don't think you have things quite right, Milsom, he said. "Beale is a better man than I thought, and knows my mind a little too well. He was astounded when Homo claimed to be a priest--I never saw a man more stunned in my life. He intended the marriage as a bluff to keep me away from the girl. He analysed the situation exactly, for he knew I was after her money, and that she as a woman had no attraction for me. He believed--and there he was justified--that if I could not marry her I had no interest in detaining her, and engaged Homo to follow him around with a special licence. He timed everything too well for my comfort."
Milsom shifted round and peered anxiously at his companion.
How do you mean? he asked. "It was only by a fluke that he made it in time."
That isn't what I mean. It is the fact that he knew that every second was vital, that he guessed I was keen on a quick marriage and that to forestall me he carried his (as he thought) pseudo-clergyman with him so that he need not lose a minute: these are the disturbing factors.
I don't see it, said Milsom, "the fellow's a crook, all these Yankee detectives are grafters. He saw a chance of a big rake off and took it, fifty-fifty of a million fortune is fine commission!"
You're wrong. I'd like to think as you do. Man! Can't you see that his every action proves that he knows all about the Green Rust?
Eh?
Milsom sat up.
How--what makes you say that?
It's clear enough. He has already some idea of the scheme. He has been pumping old Heyler; he even secured a sample of the stuff--it was a faulty cultivation, but it might have been enough for him. He surmised that I had a special use for old Millinborn's money and why I was in a hurry to get it.
The silence which followed lasted several minutes.
Does anybody except Beale know? If you settled him...?
We should have to finish him to-night said van Heerden, "that is what I have been thinking about all day."
Another silence.
Well, why not? asked Milsom, "it is all one to me. The stake is worth a little extra risk."
It must be done before he finds the Paddington place; that is the danger which haunts me. Van Heerden was uneasy, and he had lost the note of calm assurance which ordinarily characterized his speech. "There is sufficient evidence there to spoil everything."
There is that, breathed Milsom, "it was madness to go on. You have all the stuff you want, you could have closed down the factory a week ago."
I must have a margin of safety--besides, how could I do anything else? I was nearly broke and any sign of closing down would have brought my hungry workers to Krooman Mansions.
That's true, agreed the other, "I've had to stall 'em off, but I didn't know that it was because you were broke. It seemed to me just a natural reluctance to part with good money."
Further conversation was arrested by the sudden stoppage of the car. Van Heerden peered through the window ahead and caught a glimpse of a red lamp.
It is all right, he said, "this must be Putney Common, and I told Gregory to meet me with any news."
A man came into the rays of the head-lamp and passed to the door.
Well, asked the doctor, "is there any trouble?"
I saw the green lamp on the bonnet, said Gregory (Milsom no longer wondered how the man had recognized the car from the score of others which pass over the common), "there is no news of importance."
Where is Beale?
At the old man's hotel. He has been there all day.
Has he made any further visits to the police?
He was at Scotland Yard this afternoon.
And the young lady?
One of the waiters at the hotel, a friend of mine, told me that she is much better. She has had two doctors.
And still lives? said the cynical Milsom. "That makes four doctors she has seen in two days."
Van Heerden leant out of the car window and lowered his voice.
The Fraeulein Glaum, you saw her?
Yes, I told her that she must not come to your laboratory again until you sent for her. She asked when you leave.
That she must not know, Gregory--please remember.
He withdrew his head, tapped at the window and the car moved on.
There's another problem for you, van Heerden, said Milsom with a chuckle.
What? demanded the other sharply.
Hilda Glaum. I've only seen the girl twice or so, but she adores you. What are you going to do with her?
Van Heerden lit a cigarette, and in the play of the flame Milsom saw him smiling.
She comes on after me, he said, "by which I mean that I have a place for her in my country, but not----"
Not the sort of place she expects, finished Milsom bluntly. "You may have trouble there."
Bah!
That's foolish, said Milsom, "the convict establishments of England are filled with men who said 'Bah' when they were warned against jealous women. If," he went on, "if you could eliminate jealousy from the human outfit, you'd have half the prison warders of England unemployed."
Hilda is a good girl, said the other complacently, "she is also a good German girl, and in Germany women know their place in the system. She will be satisfied with what I give her."
There aren't any women like that, said Milsom with decision, and the subject dropped.
The car stopped near the Marble Arch to put down Milsom, and van Heerden continued his journey alone, reaching his apartments a little before midnight. As he stepped out of the car a man strolled across the street. It was Beale's watcher. Van Heerden looked round with a smile, realizing the significance of this nonchalant figure, and passed through the lobby and up the stairs.
He had left his lights full on for the benefit of watchers, and the hall-lamp glowed convincingly through the fanlight. Beale's flat was in darkness, and a slip of paper fastened to the door gave his address.
The doctor let himself into his own rooms, closed the door, switched out the light and stepped into his bureau.
Hello, he said angrily, "what are you doing here?--I told you not to come."
The girl who was sitting at the table and who now rose to meet him was breathless, and he read trouble in her face. He could have read pride there, too, that she had so well served the man whom she idolized as a god.
I've got him, I've got him, Julius!
Got him! Got whom? he asked, with a frown.
Beale! she said eagerly, "the great Beale!"
She gurgled with hysterical laughter.
He came to me, he was going to arrest me to-night, but I got him.
Sit down, he said firmly, "and try to be coherent, Hilda. Who came to you?"
Beale. He came to my boarding-house and wanted to know where you had taken Oliva Cresswell. Have you taken her? she asked earnestly.
Go on, he said.
He came to me full of arrogance and threats. He was going to have me arrested, Julius, because of those letters which I gave you. But I didn't worry about myself, Julius. It was all for you that I thought. The thought that you, my dear, great man, should be put in one of these horrible English prisons--oh, Julius!
She rose, her eyes filled with tears, but he stood over her, laid his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back.
Now, now. You must tell me everything. This is very serious. What happened then?
He wanted me to take him to one of the places.
One of what places? he asked quickly.
I don't know. He only said that he knew that you had other houses--I don't even know that he said that, but that was the impression that he gave me, that he knew you were to be found somewhere.
Go on, said the doctor.
And so I thought and I thought, said the girl, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes looking up into his, "and I prayed God would give me some idea to help you. And then the scheme came to me, Julius. I said I would lead him to you."
You said you would lead him to me? he said steadily, "and where did you lead him?"
To the factory in Paddington, she said.
There! he stared at her.
Wait, wait, wait! she said, "oh, please don't blame me! I took him into the passage with the doors. I borrowed his light, and after we had passed and locked the second door I slipped through the third and slammed it in his face."
Then----
He is there! Caught! Oh, Julius, did I do well? Please don't be angry with me! I was so afraid for you!
How long have you been here? he asked.
Not ten minutes, perhaps five minutes, I don't know. I have no knowledge of time. I came straight back to see you.
He stood by the table, gnawing his finger, his head bowed in concentrated thought.
There, of all places! he muttered; "there, of all places!"
Oh, Julius, I did my best, she said tearfully.
He looked down at her with a little sneer.
Of course you did your best. You're a woman and you haven't brains.
I thought----
You thought! he sneered. "Who told you you could think? You fool! Don't you know it was a bluff, that he could no more arrest me than I could arrest him? Don't you realize--did he know you were in the habit of coming here?"
She nodded.
I thought so, said van Heerden with a bitter laugh. "He knows you are in love with me and he played upon your fears. You poor little fool! Don't cry or I shall do something unpleasant. There, there. Help yourself to some wine, you'll find it in the tantalus."
He strode up and down the room.
There's nothing to be done but to settle accounts with Mr. Beale, he said grimly. "Do you think he was watched?"
Oh no, no, Julius--she checked her sobs--"I was so careful."
She gave him a description of the journey and the precautions she had taken.
Well, perhaps you're not such a fool after all.
He unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a long-barrelled Browning pistol, withdrew the magazine from the butt, examined and replaced it, and slipped back the cover.
Yes, I think I must settle accounts with this gentleman, but I don't want to use this, he added thoughtfully, as he pushed up the safety-catch and dropped the weapon in his pocket; "we might be able to gas him. Anyway, you can do no more good or harm," he said cynically.
She was speechless, her hands, clasped tightly at her breast, covered a damp ball of handkerchief, and her tear-stained face was upturned to his.
Now, dry your face. He stooped and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Perhaps what you have done is the best after all. Who knows? Anyway," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud, "Beale knows about the Green Rust and it can't be very long before I have to go to earth, but only for a little time, my Hilda." He smiled, showing his white teeth, but it was not a pleasant smile, "only for a little time, and then," he threw up his arms, "we shall be rich beyond the dreams of Frankfurt."
You will succeed, I know you will succeed, Julius, she breathed, "if I could only help you! If you would only tell me what you are doing! What is the Green Rust? Is it some wonderful new explosive?"
Dry your face and go home, he said shortly, "you will find a detective outside the door watching you, but I do not think he will follow you."
He dismissed the girl and followed her after an interval of time, striding boldly past the shadow and gaining the cab-stand in Shaftesbury Avenue without, so far as he could see, being followed. But he dismissed the cab in the neighbourhood of Baker Street and continued his journey on foot. He opened the little door leading into the yard but did not follow the same direction as the girl had led Stanford Beale. It was through another door that he entered the vault, which at one time had been the innocent repository of bubbling life and was now the factory where men worked diligently for the destruction of their fellows.
Stanford Beale spent a thoughtful three minutes in the darkness of the cellar passage to which Hilda Glaum had led him and then he began a careful search of his pockets. He carried a little silver cigar-lighter, which had fortunately been charged with petrol that afternoon, and this afforded him a beam of adequate means to take note of his surroundings.
The space between the two locked doors was ten feet, the width of the passage three, the height about seven feet. The roof, as he had already noted, was vaulted. Now he saw that along the centre ran a strip of beading. There had evidently been an electric light installation here, probably before the new owners took possession, for at intervals was a socket for an electric bulb. The new occupants had covered these and the rest of the wall with whitewash, and yet the beading and the electric fittings looked comparatively new. One wall, that on his left as he had come in, revealed nothing under his close inspection, but on the right wall, midway between the two doors, there had been a notice painted in white letters on a black background, and this showed faintly through the thick coating of distemper which had been applied. He damped a handkerchief with his tongue and rubbed away some of the whitewash where the letters were least legible and read:
AID
LTER.
------
ULANCE &
T AID.
This was evidently half an inscription which had been cut off exactly in the middle. To the left there was no sign of lettering. He puzzled the letters for a few moments before he came to an understanding.
Air-raid shelter. Ambulance and first aid! he read.
So that explained the new electric fittings. It was one of those underground cellars which had been ferreted out by the Municipality or the Government for the shelter of the people in the neighbourhood during air-raids in the Great War. Evidently there was extensive accommodation here, since this was also an ambulance post. Faintly discernible beneath the letters was a painted white hand which pointed downward. What had happened to the other half of the inscription? Obviously it had been painted on the door leading into the first-aid room and as obviously that door had been removed and had been bricked up. In the light of this discovery he made a more careful inspection of the wall to the left. For the space of four feet the brickwork was new. He tapped it. It sounded hollow. Pressing his back against the opposite wall to give him leverage he put his foot against the new brickwork and pushed.
He knew that the class of workmanship which was put into this kind of job was not of the best, that only one layer of brick was applied, and it was a mechanical fact that pressure applied to the centre of new work would produce a collapse.
At the first push he felt the wall sag. Releasing his pressure it came back. This time he put both feet against the wall and bracing his shoulders he put every ounce of strength in his body into a mighty heave. The next second he was lying on his back. The greater part of the wall had collapsed. He was curious enough to examine the work he had demolished. It had evidently been done by amateurs, and the whitewash which had been thickly applied to the passage was explained.
A current of fresh air came to meet him as he stepped gingerly across the debris. A flight of six stone steps led down to a small room containing a sink and a water supply, two camp beds which had evidently been part of the ambulance equipment and which the new owners had not thought necessary to remove, and a broken chair. The room was still littered with the paraphernalia of first-aid. He found odd ends of bandages, empty medicine bottles and a broken glass measure on the shelf above the sink.
What interested him more was a door which he had not dared to hope he would find. It was bolted on his side, and when he had slid this back he discovered to his relief that it was not locked. He opened it carefully, first extinguishing his light. Beyond the door was darkness and he snapped back the light again. The room led to another, likewise empty. There were a number of shelves, a few old wine-bins, a score of empty bottles, but nothing else. At the far corner was yet another door, also bolted on the inside. Evidently van Heerden did not intend this part of the vault to be used.
He looked at the lock and found it was broken. He must be approaching the main workroom in this new factory, and it was necessary to proceed with caution. He took out his revolver, spun the cylinder and thrust it under his waistcoat, the butt ready to his hand. The drawing of the bolts was a long business. He could not afford to risk detection at this hour, and could only move them by a fraction of an inch at a time. Presently his work was done and he pulled the door cautiously.
Instantly there appeared between door and jamb a bright green line of light. He dare not move it any farther, for he heard now the shuffle of feet, and occasionally the sound of hollow voices, muffled and indistinguishable. In that light the opening of the door would be seen, perhaps by a dozen pair of eyes. For all he knew every man in that room might be facing his way. He had expected to hear the noise of machinery, but beyond the strangled voices, occasionally the click of glass against glass and the shuff-shuff-shuff of slippered feet crossing the floor, he heard nothing.
He pulled the door another quarter of an inch and glued his eye to the crack. At this angle he could only see one of the walls of the big vault and the end of a long vapour-lamp which stood in one of the cornices and which supplied the ghastly light. But presently he saw something which filled him with hope. Against the wall was a high shadow which even the overhead lamp did not wholly neutralize. It was an irregular shadow such as a stack of boxes might make, and it occurred to him that perhaps beyond his range of vision there was a barricade of empty cases which hid the door from the rest of the room.
He spent nearly three-quarters of an hour taking a bearing based upon the problematical position of the lights, the height and density of the box screen and then boldly and rapidly opened the door, stepped through and closed it behind him. His calculations had been accurate. He found himself in a room, the extent of which he could only conjecture. What, however, interested him mostly was the accuracy of his calculation that the door was hidden. An "L"-shaped stack of crates was piled within two feet of the ceiling, and formed a little lobby to anybody entering the vault the way Beale had come. They were stacked neatly and methodically, and with the exception of two larger packing-cases which formed the "corner stone" the barrier was made of a large number of small boxes about ten inches square.
There was a small step-ladder, evidently used by the person whose business it was to keep this stack in order. Beale lifted it noiselessly, planted it against the corner and mounted cautiously.
He saw a large, broad chamber, its groined roof supported by six squat stone pillars. Light came not only from mercurial lamps affixed to the ceiling, but from others suspended above the three rows of benches which ran the length of the room.
Mercurial lamps do not give a green light, as he knew, but a violet light, and the green effect was produced by shades of something which Beale thought was yellow silk, but which he afterwards discovered was tinted mica.
At intervals along the benches sat white-clad figures, their faces hidden behind rubber masks, their hands covered with gloves. In front of each man was a small microscope under a glass shade, a pair of balances and a rack filled with shallow porcelain trays. Evidently the work on which they were engaged did not endanger their eyesight, for the eye-pieces in the masks were innocent of protective covering, a circumstance which added to the hideous animal-like appearance of the men. They all looked alike in their uniform garb, but one figure alone Beale recognized. There was no mistaking the stumpy form and the big head of the Herr Professor, whose appearance in Oliva Cresswell's room had so terrified that young lady.
He had expected to see him, for he knew that this old German, poverty-stricken and ill-favoured, had been roped in by van Heerden, and Beale, who pitied the old man, had been engaged for a fortnight in trying to worm from the ex-professor of chemistry at the University of Heidelberg the location of van Heerden's secret laboratory. His efforts had been unsuccessful. There was a streak of loyalty in the old man, which had excited an irritable admiration in the detective but had produced nothing more.
Beale's eyes followed the benches and took in every detail. Some of the men were evidently engaged in tests, and remained all the time with their eyes glued to their microscopes. Others were looking into their porcelain trays and stirring the contents with glass rods, now and again transferring something to a glass slide which was placed on the microscope and earnestly examined.
Beale was conscious of a faint musty odour permeating the air, an indescribable earthy smell with a tang to it which made the delicate membrane of the nostrils smart and ache. He tied his handkerchief over his nose and mouth before he took another peep. Only part of the room was visible from his post of observation. What was going on immediately beneath the far side of the screen he could only conjecture. But he saw enough to convince him that this was the principal factory, from whence van Heerden was distilling the poison with which he planned humanity's death.
Some of the workers were filling and sealing small test-tubes with the contents of dishes. These tubes were extraordinarily delicate of structure, and Beale saw at least three crumble and shiver in the hands of the fillers.
Every bench held a hundred or so of these tubes and a covered gas-jet for heating the wax. The work went on methodically, with very little conversation between the masked figures (he saw that the masks covered the heads of the chemists so that not a vestige of hair showed), and only occasionally did one of them leave his seat and disappear through a door at the far end of the room, which apparently led to a canteen.
Evidently the fumes against which they were protected were not virulent, for some of the men stripped their masks as soon as they left their benches.
For half an hour he watched, and in the course of that time saw the process of filling the small boxes which formed his barrier and hiding-place with the sealed tubes. He observed the care with which the fragile tubes were placed in their beds of cotton wool, and had a glimpse of the lined interior of one of the boxes. He was on the point of lifting down a box to make a more thorough examination when he heard a quavering voice beneath him.
What you do here--eh?
Under the step-ladder was one of the workers who had slipped noiselessly round the corner of the pile and now stood, grotesque and menacing, his uncovered eyes glowering at the intruder, the black barrel of his Browning pistol covering the detective's heart.
Don't shoot, colonel, said Beale softly. "I'll come down."
After all, it was for the best--van Heerden could almost see the hand of Providence in this deliverance of his enemy into his power. There must be a settlement with Beale, that play-acting drunkard, who had so deceived him at first.
Dr. van Heerden could admire the ingenuity of his enemy and could kill him. He was a man whose mental poise permitted the paradox of detached attachments. At first he had regarded Stanford Beale as a smart police officer, the sort of man whom Pinkerton and Burns turn out by the score. Shrewd, assertive, indefatigable, such men piece together the scattered mosaics of humdrum crimes, and by their mechanical patience produce for the satisfaction of courts sufficient of the piece to reveal the design. They figure in divorce suits, in financial swindles and occasionally in more serious cases.
Van Heerden knew instinctively their limitations and had too hastily placed Beale in a lower category than he deserved. Van Heerden came to his workroom by way of the buffet which he had established for the use of his employees. As he shut the steel door behind him he saw Milsom standing at the rough wooden sideboard which served as bar and table for the workers.
This is an unexpected pleasure, said Milsom, and then quickly, as he read the other's face: "Anything wrong?"
If the fact that the cleverest policeman in America or England is at present on the premises can be so described, then everything is wrong, said van Heerden, and helped himself to a drink.
Here--in the laboratory? demanded Milsom, fear in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
I'll tell you, said the other, and gave the story as he had heard it from Hilda Glaum.
He's in the old passage, eh? said Milsom, thoughtfully, "well there's no reason why he should get out--alive."
He won't, said the other.
Was he followed--you saw nobody outside?
We have nothing to fear on that score. He's working on his own.
Milsom grunted.
What are we going to do with him?
Gas him, said van Heerden, "he is certain to have a gun."
Milsom nodded.
Wait until the men have gone. I let them go at three--a few at a time, and it wants half an hour to that. He can wait. He's safe where he is. Why didn't Hilda tell me? I never even saw her.
She went straight up from the old passage--through the men's door--she didn't trust you probably.
Milsom smiled wryly. Though he controlled these works and knew half the doctor's secrets, he suspected that the quantity of van Heerden's trust was not greatly in excess of his girl's.
We'll wait, he said again, "there's no hurry and, anyway, I want to see you about old man Heyler."
Von Heyler? I thought you were rid of him? said van Heerden in surprise, "that is the old fool that Beale has been after. He has been trying to suck him dry, and has had two interviews with him. I told you to send him to Deans Folly. Bridgers would have taken care of him."
Bridgers can look after nothing, said Milsom.
His eyes roved along the benches and stopped at a worker at the farther end of the room.
He's quiet to-night, he said, "that fellow is too full of himself for my liking. Earlier in the evening before I arrived he pulled a gun on Schultz. He's too full of gunplay that fellow--excuse the idiom, but I was in the same tailor's shop at Portland Gaol as Ned Garrand, the Yankee bank-smasher."
Van Heerden made a gesture of impatience.
About old Heyler, Milsom went on, "I know you think he's dangerous, so I've kept him here. There's a room where he can sleep, and he can take all the exercise he wants at night. But the old fool is restless--he's been asking me what is the object of his work."
He's difficult. Twice he has nearly betrayed me. As I told you in the car, I gave him some experimental work to do and he brought the result to me--that was the sample which fell into Beale's hands.
Mr. Beale is certainly a danger, said Milsom thoughtfully.
Van Heerden made a move toward the laboratory, but Milsom's big hand detained him.
One minute, van Heerden, he said, "whilst you're here you'd better decide--when do we start dismantling? I've got to find some excuse to send these fellows away."
Van Heerden thought.
In two days, he said, "that will give you time to clear. You can send the men--well, send them to Scotland, some out-of-the-way place where news doesn't travel. Tell them we're opening a new factory, and put them up at the local hotel."
Milsom inclined his head.
That sounds easy, he said, "I could take charge of them until the time came to skip. One can get a boat at Greenock."
I shall miss you, said van Heerden frankly, "you were necessary to me, Milsom. You're the driving force I wanted, and the only man of my class and calibre I can ever expect to meet, one who would go into this business with me."
They had reached the big vault and van Heerden stood regarding the scene of mental activity with something approaching complacency.
There is a billion in process of creation, he said.
I could never think in more than six figures, said Milsom, "and it is only under your cheering influence that I can stretch to seven. I am going to live in the Argentine, van Heerden. A house on a hill----"
The other shivered, but Milsom went on.
A gorgeous palace of a house, alive with servants. A string band, a perfectly equipped laboratory where I can indulge my passion for research, a high-powered auto, wine of the rarest--ah!
Van Heerden looked at his companion curiously.
That appeals to you, does it? For me, the control of finance. Endless schemes of fortune; endless smashings of rivals, railways, ships, great industries juggled and shuffled--that is the life I plan.
Fine! said the other laconically.
They walked to a bench and the worker looked up and took off his mask.
He was an old man, and grinned toothlessly at van Heerden.
Good evening, Signor Doctor, he said in Italian. "Science is long and life is short, signor."
He chuckled and, resuming his mask, returned to his work, ignoring the two men as though they had no existence.
A little mad, old Castelli, said Milsom, "that's his one little piece--what crooked thing has he done?"
None that I know, said the other carelessly; "he lost his wife and two daughters in the Messina earthquake. I picked him up cheap. He's a useful chemist."
They walked from bench to bench, but van Heerden's eyes continuously strayed to the door, behind which he pictured a caged Stanford Beale, awaiting his doom. The men were beginning to depart now. One by one they covered their instruments and their trays, slipped off their masks and overalls and disappeared through the door, upon which van Heerden's gaze was so often fixed. Their exit, however, would not take them near Beale's prison. A few paces along the corridor was another passage leading to the yard above, and it was by this way that Hilda Glaum had sped to the doctor's room.
Presently all were gone save one industrious worker, who sat peering through the eye-piece of his microscope, immovable.
That's our friend Bridgers, said Milsom, "he's all lit up with the alkaloid of _Enythroxylon Coca_---- Well, Bridgers, nearly finished?"
Huh! grunted the man without turning.
Milsom shrugged his shoulders.
We must let him finish what he's doing. He is quite oblivious to the presence of anybody when he has these fits of industry. By the way, the passing of our dear enemy--he jerked his head to the passage door--"will make no change in your plans?"
How?
You have no great anxiety to marry the widow?
None, said the doctor.
And she isn't a widow yet.
It was not Milsom who spoke, but the man at the bench, the industrious worker whose eye was still at the microscope.
Keep your comments to yourself, said van Heerden angrily, "finish your work and get out."
I've finished.
The worker rose slowly and loosening the tapes of his mask pulled it off.
My name is Beale, he said calmly, "I think we've met before. Don't move, Milsom, unless you want to save living-expenses--I'm a fairly quick shot when I'm annoyed."
Stanford Beale pushed back the microscope and seated himself on the edge of the bench.
You addressed me as Bridgers, he said, "you will find Mr. Bridgers in a room behind that stack of boxes. The fact is he surprised me spying and was all for shooting me up, but I induced him to come into my private office, so to speak, and the rest was easy--he dopes, doesn't he? He hadn't the strength of a rat. However, that is all beside the point; Dr. van Heerden, what have you to say against my arresting you out of hand on a conspiracy charge?"
Van Heerden smiled contemptuously.
There are many things I can say, he said. "In the first place, you have no authority to arrest anybody. You're not a police officer but only an American amateur."
American, yes; but amateur, no, said Beale gently. "As to the authority, why I guess I can arrest you first and get the authority after."
On what charge? demanded Milsom, "there is nothing secret about this place, except Doctor van Heerden's association with it--a professional man is debarred from mixing in commercial affairs. Is it a crime to run a----"
He looked to van Heerden.
A germicide factory, said van Heerden promptly.
Suppose I know the character of this laboratory? asked Beale quietly.
Carry that kind of story to the police and see what steps they will take, said van Heerden scornfully. "My dear Mr. Beale, as I have told you once before, you have been reading too much exciting detective fiction."
Very likely, he said, "but anyhow the little story that enthralls me just now is called the Green Terror, and I'm looking to you to supply a few of the missing pages. And I think you'll do it."
The doctor was lighting a cigarette, and he looked at the other over the flaring match with a gleam of malicious amusement in his eyes.
Your romantic fancies would exasperate me, but for your evident sincerity. Having stolen my bride you seem anxious to steal my reputation, he said mockingly.
That, said Beale, slipping off the bench and standing, hands on hips, before the doctor, "would take a bit of finding. I tell you, van Heerden, that I'm going to call your bluff. I shall place this factory in the hands of the police, and I am going to call in the greatest scientists in England, France and America, to prove the charge I shall make against you on the strength of this!"
He held up between his forefinger and thumb a crystal tube, filled to its seal with something that looked like green sawdust.
The world, the sceptical world, shall know the hell you are preparing for them. Stanford Beale's voice trembled with passion and his face was dark with the thought of a crime so monstrous that even the outrageous treatment of a woman who was more to him than all the world was for the moment obliterated from his mind in the contemplation of the danger which threatened humanity.
You say that the police and even the government of this country will dismiss my charge as being too fantastic for belief. You shall have the satisfaction of knowing that you are right. They think I am mad--but I will convince them! In this tube lies the destruction of all your fondest dreams, van Heerden. To realize those dreams you have murdered two men. For these you killed John Millinborn and the man Predeaux. But you shall not----
_Bang!_
The explosion roared thunderously in the confined space of the vault. Beale felt the wind of the bullet and turned, pistol upraised.
A dishevelled figure stood by the boxes, revolver in hand--it was Bridgers, the man he had left strapped and bound in the "ambulance-room," and Beale cursed the folly which had induced him to leave the revolver behind.
I'll fix you--you brute! screamed Bridgers, "get away from him--ah!"
Beale's hand flew up, a pencil of flame quivered and again the vault trembled to the deafening report.
But Bridgers had dropped to cover. Again he shot, this time with unexpected effect. The bullet struck the fuse-box on the opposite wall and all the lights went out.
Beale was still holding the glass tube, and this Milsom had seen. Quick as thought he hurled himself upon the detective, his big, powerful hands gripped the other's wrist and wrenched it round.
Beale set his teeth and manoeuvred for a lock grip, but he was badly placed, pressed as he was against the edge of the bench. He felt van Heerden's fingers clawing at his hand and the tube was torn away.
Then somebody pulled the revolver from the other hand and there was a scamper of feet. He groped his way through the blackness and ran into the pile of boxes. A bullet whizzed past him from the half-crazy Bridgers, but that was a risk he had to take. He heard the squeak of an opening door and stumbled blindly in its direction. Presently he found it. He had watched the other men go out and discovered the steps--two minutes later he was in the street.
There was no sign of either of the two men. He found a policeman after he had walked half a mile, but that intelligent officer could not leave his beat and advised him to go to the police station. It was an excellent suggestion, for although the sergeant on duty was wholly unresponsive there was a telephone, and at the end of the telephone in his little Haymarket flat, a Superintendent McNorton, the mention of whose very name galvanized the police office to activity.
I have found the factory I've been looking for, McNorton, said Beale. "I'll explain the whole thing to you in the morning. What I want now is a search made of the premises."
We can't do that without a magistrate's warrant, said McNorton's voice, "but what we can do is to guard the premises until the warrant is obtained. Ask the station sergeant to speak on the 'phone--by the way, how is Miss Cresswell, better, I hope?"
Much better, said the young man shortly.
It was unbelievable that she could ever fill his heart with the ache which came at the mention of her name.
He made way for the station sergeant and later accompanied four men back to the laboratory. They found all the doors closed. Beale scaled the wall but failed to find a way in. He rejoined the sergeant on the other side of the wall.
What is the name of this street? he asked.
Playbury Street, sir--this used to be Henderson's Wine Vaults in my younger days.
Beale jotted down the address and finding a taxi drove back to the police station, wearied and sick at heart.
He arrived in time to be a witness to a curious scene. In the centre of the charge-room and facing the sergeant's desk was a man of middle age, shabbily dressed, but bearing the indefinable air of one who had seen better days. The grey hair was carefully brushed from the familiar face and gave him that venerable appearance which pale eyes and a pair of thin straight lips (curled now in an amused smile) did their best to discount.
By his side stood his captor, a station detective, a bored and apathetic man.
It seems, the prisoner was saying, as Stanford Beale came noiselessly into the room, "it seems that under this detestable system of police espionage, a fellow may not even take a walk in the cool of the morning."
His voice was that of an educated man, his drawling address spoke of his confidence.
Now look here, Parson, said the station sergeant, in that friendly tone which the police adopt when dealing with their pet criminals, "you know as well as I do that under the Prevention of Crimes Act you, an old lag, are liable to be arrested if you are seen in any suspicious circumstances--you oughtn't to be wandering about the streets in the middle of the night, and if you do, why you mustn't kick because you're pinched--anything found on him, Smith?"
No, sergeant--he was just mouching round, so I pulled him in.
Where are you living now, Parson?
The man with extravagant care searched his pockets.
I have inadvertently left my card-case with my coiner's outfit, he said gravely, "but a wire addressed to the Doss House, Mine Street, Paddington, will find me--but I don't think I should try. At this moment I enjoy the protection of the law. In four days' time I shall be on the ocean--why, Mr. Beale?"
Mr. Beale smiled.
Hullo, Parson--I thought you had sailed to-day.
The first-class berths are all taken and I will not travel to Australia with the common herd.
He turned to the astonished sergeant.
Can I go--Mr. Beale will vouch for me?
As he left the charge-room he beckoned the detective, and when they were together in the street Beale found that all the Parson's flippancy had departed.
I'm sorry I got you into that scrape, he said seriously. "I ought to have been unfrocked, but I was sentenced for my first crime under an assumed name. I was not attached to any church at the time and my identity has never been discovered. Mr. Beale," he went on with a quizzical smile, "I have yet to commit my ideal crime--the murder of a bishop who allows a curate to marry a wife on sixty pounds a year." His face darkened, and Beale found himself wondering at the contents of the tragic years behind the man. Where was the wife...?
But my private grievances against the world will not interest you, Parson Homo resumed, "I only called you out to--well, to ask your pardon."
It was my own fault, Homo, said Beale quietly, and held out his hand. "Good luck--there may be a life for you in the new land."
He stood till the figure passed out of sight, then turned wearily toward his own rooms. He went to his room and lay down on his bed fully dressed. He was aroused from a troubled sleep by the jangle of the 'phone. It was McNorton.
Come down to Scotland House and see the Assistant-Commissioner, he said, "he is very anxious to hear more about this factory. He tells me that you have already given him an outline of the plot."
Yes--I'll give you details--I'll be with you in half an hour.
He had a bath and changed his clothes, and breakfastless, for the woman who waited on him and kept his flat and who evidently thought his absence was likely to be a long one, had not arrived. He drove to the grim grey building on the Thames Embankment.
Assistant-Commissioner O'Donnel, a white-haired police veteran, was waiting for him, and McNorton was in the office.
You look fagged, said the commissioner, "take that chair--and you look hungry, too. Have you breakfasted?"
Beale shook his head with a smile.
Get him something, McNorton--ring that bell. Don't protest, my good fellow--I've had exactly the same kind of nights as you've had, and I know that it is grub that counts more than sleep.
He gave an order to an attendant and not until twenty minutes later, when Beale had finished a surprisingly good meal in the superintendent's room, did the commissioner allow the story to be told.
Now I'm ready, he said.
I'll begin at the beginning, said Stanford Beale. "I was a member of the United States Secret Service until after the war when, at the request of Mr. Kitson, who is known to you, I came to Europe to devote all my time to watching Miss Cresswell and Doctor van Heerden. All that you know.
One day when searching the doctor's rooms in his absence, my object being to discover some evidence in relation to the Millinborn murder, I found this.
He took a newspaper cutting from his pocket-book and laid it on the table.
"It is from _El Impartial_, a Spanish newspaper, and I will translate it for you. 'Thanks to the discretion and eminent genius of Dr. Alphonso Romanos, the Chief Medical Officer of Vigo, the farmers of the district have been spared a catastrophe much lamentable' (I am translating literally). 'On Monday last, Senor Don Marin Fernardey, of La Linea, discovered one of his fields of corn had died in the night and was already in a condition of rot. In alarm, he notified the Chief of Medicines at Vigo, and Dr. Alphonso Romanos, with that zeal and alacrity which has marked his acts, was quickly on the spot, accompanied by a foreign scientist. Happily the learned and gentle doctor is a bacteriologist superb. An examination of the dead corn, which already emitted unpleasant odours, revealed the presence of a new disease, the verde orin (green rust). By his orders the field was burnt. Fortunately, the area was small and dissociated from the other fields of Senor Fernardey by wide _zanzas_. With the exception of two small pieces of the infected corn, carried away by Dr. Romanos and the foreign medical-cavalier, the pest was incinerated.'""
"The Foreign Medical-Cavalier, said Beale, "was Doctor van Heerden. The date was 1915, when the doctor was taking his summer holiday, and I have had no difficulty in tracing him. I sent one of my men to Vigo to interview Doctor Romanos, who remembers the circumstances perfectly. He himself had thought it wisest to destroy the germ after carefully noting their characteristics, and he expressed the anxious hope that his whilom friend, van Heerden, had done the same. Van Heerden, of course, did nothing of the sort. He has been assiduously cultivating the germs in his laboratory. So far as I can ascertain from Professor Heyler, an old German who was in van Heerden's service and who seems a fairly honest man, the doctor nearly lost the culture, and it was only by sending out small quantities to various seedy scientists and getting them to experiment in the cultivation of the germ under various conditions that he found the medium in which they best flourish. It is, I believe, fermented rye-flour, but I am not quite sure."
To what purpose do you suggest van Heerden will put his cultivations? asked the commissioner.
I am coming to that. In the course of my inquiries and searchings I found that he was collecting very accurate data concerning the great wheatfields of the world. From the particulars he was preparing I formed the idea that he intended, and intends, sending an army of agents all over the world who, at a given signal, will release the germs in the growing wheat.
But surely a few germs sprinkled on a great wheatfield such as you find in America would do no more than local damage?
Beale shook his head.
Mr. O'Donnel, he said soberly, "if I broke a tube of that stuff in the corner of a ten-thousand-acre field the whole field would be rotten in twenty-four hours! It spreads from stalk to stalk with a rapidity that is amazing. One germ multiplies itself in a living cornfield a billion times in twelve hours. It would not only be possible, but certain that twenty of van Heerden's agents in America could destroy the harvests of the United States in a week."
But why should he do this--he is a German, you say--and Germans do not engage in frightfulness unless they see a dividend at the end of it.
There is a dividend--a dividend of millions at the end of it, said Beale, graver, "that much I know. I cannot tell you any more yet. But I can say this: that up till yesterday van Heerden was carrying on the work without the aid of his Government. That is no longer the case. There is now a big syndicate in existence to finance him, and the principal shareholder is the German Government. He has already spent thousands, money he has borrowed and money he has stolen. As a side-line and sheerly to secure her money he carried off John Millinborn's heiress with the object of forcing her into a marriage."
The commissioner chewed the end of his cigar.
This is a State matter and one on which I must consult the Home Office. You tell me that the Foreign Office believe your story--of course I do, too, he added quickly, "though it sounds wildly improbable. Wait here."
He took up his hat and went out.
It is going to be a difficult business to convict van Heerden, said the superintendent when his chief had gone, "you see, in the English courts, motive must be proved to convict before a jury, and there seems no motive except revenge. A jury would take a lot of convincing that a man spent thousands of pounds to avenge a wrong done to his country."
Beale had no answer to this. At the back of his mind he had a dim idea of the sheer money value of the scheme, but he needed other evidence than he possessed. The commissioner returned soon after.
I have been on the 'phone to the Under-Secretary, and we will take action against van Heerden on the evidence the factory offers. I'll put you in charge of the case, McNorton, you have the search-warrant already? Good!
He shook hands with Beale.
You will make a European name over this, Mr. Beale, he said.
I hope Europe will have nothing more to talk about, said Beale.
They passed back to McNorton's office.
I'll come right along, said the superintendent. He was taking his hat from a peg when he saw a closed envelope lying on his desk.
From the local police station, he said. "How long has this been here?"
His clerk shook his head.
I can't tell you, sir--it has been there since I came in.
H'm--I must have overlooked it. Perhaps it is news from your factory.
He tore it open, scanned the contents and swore.
There goes your evidence, Beale, he said.
What is it? asked Beale quickly.
The factory was burned to the ground in the early hours of the morning, he said. "The fire started in the old wine vault and the whole building has collapsed."
The detective stared out of the window.
Can we arrest van Heerden on the evidence of Professor Heyler?
For answer McNorton handed him the letter. It ran:
From Inspector-in-charge, S. Paddington, to Supt. McNorton. Factory in Playbury St. under P.O. (Police Observation) completely destroyed by fire, which broke out in basement at 5.20 this morning. One body found, believed to be a man named Heyler.
There is a menace about Monday morning which few have escaped. It is a menace which in one guise or another clouds hundreds of millions of pillows, gives to the golden sunlight which filters through a billion panes the very hues and character of jaundice. It is the menace of factory and workshop, harsh prisons which shut men and women from the green fields and the pleasant by-ways; the menace of new responsibilities to be faced and new difficulties to be overcome. Into the space of Monday morning drain the dregs of last week's commitments to gather into stagnant pools upon the desks and benches of toiling and scheming humanity. It is the end of the holiday, the foot of the new hill whose crest is Saturday night and whose most pleasant outlook is the Sunday to come.
Men go to their work reluctant and resentful and reach out for the support which the lunch-hour brings. One o'clock in London is about six o'clock in Chicago. Therefore the significance of shoals of cablegrams which lay on the desks of certain brokers was not wholly apparent until late in the evening, and was not thoroughly understood until late on Tuesday morning, when to other and greater shoals of cables came the terse price-lists from the Board of Trade in Chicago, and on top of all the wirelessed Press accounts for the sensational jump in wheat.
Wheat soaring, said one headline. "Frantic scenes in the Pit," said another. "Wheat reaches famine price," blared a third.
Beale passing through to Whitehall heard the shrill call of the newsboys and caught the word "wheat." He snatched a paper from the hands of a boy and read.
Every corn-market in the Northern Hemisphere was in a condition of chaos. Prices were jumping to a figure beyond any which the most stringent days of the war had produced.
He slipped into a telephone booth, gave a Treasury number and McNorton answered.
Have you seen the papers? he asked.
No, but I've heard. You mean about the wheat boom?
Yes--the game has started.
Where are you--wait for me, I'll join you.
Three minutes later McNorton appeared from the Whitehall end of Scotland Yard. Beale hailed a cab and they drove to the hotel together.
Warrants have been issued for van Heerden and Milsom and the girl Glaum, he said. "I expect we shall find the nest empty, but I have sent men to all the railway stations--do you think we've moved too late?"
Everything depends on the system that van Heerden has adopted, replied Beale, "he is the sort of man who would keep everything in his own hands. If he has done that, and we catch him, we may prevent a world catastrophe."
At the hotel they found Kitson waiting in the vestibule.
Well? he asked, "I gather that you've lost van Heerden, but if the newspapers mean anything, his hand is down on the table. Everybody is crazy here," he said, as he led the way to the elevator, "I've just been speaking to the Under-Minister for Agriculture--all Europe is scared. Now what is the story?" he asked, when they were in his room.
He listened attentively and did not interrupt until Stanford Beale had finished.
That's big enough, he said. "I owe you an apology--much as I was interested in Miss Cresswell, I realize that her fate was as nothing beside the greater issue."
What does it mean? asked McNorton.
The Wheat Panic? God knows. It may mean bread at a guinea a pound--it is too early to judge.
The door was opened unceremoniously and a man strode in. McNorton was the first to recognize the intruder and rose to his feet.
I'm sorry to interrupt you, said Lord Sevington--it was the Foreign Secretary of Great Britain himself. "Well, Beale, the fantastic story you told me seems in a fair way to being realized."
This is Mr. Kitson, introduced Stanford, and the grey-haired statesman bowed.
I sent for you, but decided I couldn't wait--so I came myself. Ah, McNorton, what are the chances of catching van Heerden?
No man has ever escaped from this country once his identity was established, said the police chief hopefully.
If we had taken Beale's advice we should have the gentleman under lock and key, said the Foreign Minister, shaking his head. "You probably know that Mr. Beale has been in communication with the Foreign Office for some time?" he said, addressing Kitson.
I did not know, admitted the lawyer.
We thought it was one of those brilliant stories which the American newspaper reporter loves, smiled the minister.
I don't quite get the commercial end of it, said Kitson. "How does van Heerden benefit by destroying the crops of the world?"
He doesn't benefit, because the crops won't be destroyed, said the minister. "The South Russian crops are all right, the German crops are intact--but are practically all mortgaged to the German Government."
The Government?
This morning the German Government have made two announcements. The first is the commandeering of all the standing crops, and at the same time the taking over of all options on the sale of wheat. Great granaries are being established all over Germany. The old Zeppelin sheds----
Great heavens! cried Kitson, and stared at Stanford Beale. "That was the reason they took over the sheds?"
A pretty good reason, too, said Beale, "storage is everything in a crisis like this. What is the second announcement, sir?"
They prohibit the export of grain, said Lord Sevington, "the whole of Germany is to be rationed for a year, bread is to be supplied by the Government free of all cost to the people; in this way Germany handles the surpluses for us to buy."
What will she charge?
What she wishes. If van Heerden's scheme goes through, if throughout the world the crops are destroyed and only that which lies under Germany's hand is spared, what must we pay? Every penny we have taken from Germany; every cent of her war costs must be returned to her in exchange for wheat.
Impossible!
Why impossible? There is no limit to the price of rarities. What is rarer than gold is more costly than gold. You who are in the room are the only people in the world who know the secret of the Green Rust, and I can speak frankly to you. I tell you that we must either buy from Germany or make war on Germany, and the latter course is impossible, and if it were possible would give us no certainty of relief. We shall have to pay, Britain, France, America, Italy--we shall have to pay. We shall pay in gold, we may have to pay in battleships and material. Our stocks of corn have been allowed to fall and to-day we have less than a month's supply in England. Every producing country in the world will stop exporting instantly, and they, too, with the harvest nearly due, will be near the end of their stocks. Now tell me, Mr. Beale, in your judgment, is it possible to save the crops by local action?
Beale shook his head.
I doubt it, he said; "it would mean the mobilisation of millions of men, the surrounding of all corn-tracts--and even then I doubt if your protection would be efficacious. You could send the stuff into the fields by a hundred methods. The only thing to do is to catch van Heerden and stifle the scheme at its fountain-head."
The Chief of the Foreign Ministry strode up and down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets, his head upon his breast.
It means our holding out for twelve months, he said. "Can we do it?"
It means more than that, sir, said Beale quietly.
Lord Sevington stopped and faced him.
More than that? What do you mean?
It may mean a cornless world for a generation, said Beale. "I have consulted the best authorities, and they agree that the soil will be infected for ten years."
The four men looked at one another helplessly.
Why, said Sevington, in awe, "the whole social and industrial fabric of the world would crumble into dust. America would be ruined for a hundred years, there would be deaths by the million. It means the very end of civilization!"
Beale glanced from one to the other of the little group.
Sevington, with his hard old face set in harsh lines, a stony sphinx of a man showing no other sign of his emotions than a mop of ruffled hair.
Kitson, an old man and almost as hard of feature, yet of the two more human, stood with pursed lip, his eyes fixed on the floor, as if he were studying the geometrical pattern of the parquet for future reference.
McNorton, big, red-faced and expressionless, save that his mouth dropped and that his arms were tightly folded as if he were hugging himself in a sheer ecstasy of pain. From the street outside came the roar and rumble of London's traffic, the dull murmur of countless voices and the shrill high-pitched whine of a newsboy.
Men and women were buying newspapers and seeing no more in the scare headlines than a newspaper sensation.
To-morrow they might read further and grow a little uncomfortable, but for the moment they were only mildly interested, and the majority would turn to the back page for the list of "arrivals" at Lingfield.
It is unbelievable, said Kitson. "I have exactly the same feeling I had on August 1, 1914--that sensation of unreality."
His voice seemed to arouse the Foreign Minister from the meditation into which he had fallen, and he started.
Beale, he said, "you have unlimited authority to act--Mr. McNorton, you will go back to Scotland Yard and ask the Chief Commissioner to attend at the office of the Privy Seal. Mr. Beale will keep in touch with me all the time."
Without any formal leave-taking he made his exit, followed by Superintendent McNorton.
That's a badly rattled man, said Kitson shrewdly, "the Government may fall on this news. What will you do?"
Get van Heerden, said the other.
It is the job of your life, said Kitson quietly, and Beale knew within a quarter of an hour that the lawyer did not exaggerate.
Van Heerden had disappeared with dramatic suddenness. Detectives who visited his flat discovered that his personal belongings had been removed in the early hours of the morning. He had left with two trunks (which were afterwards found in a cloak-room of a London railway terminus) and a companion who was identified as Milsom. Whether the car had gone east or north, south or west, nobody knew.
In the early editions of the evening newspapers, side by side with the account of the panic scenes on 'Change was the notice:
The Air Ministry announce the suspension of Order 63 of Trans-Marine Flight Regulations. No aeroplane will be allowed to cross the coastline by day or night without first descending at a coast control station. Aerial patrols have orders to force down any machine which does not obey the 'Descend' signal. This signal is now displayed at all coast stations.
Every railway station in England, every port of embarkation, were watched by police. The one photograph of van Heerden in existence, thousands of copies of an excellent snapshot taken by one of Beale's assistants, were distributed by aeroplane to every district centre. At two o'clock Hilda Glaum was arrested and conveyed to Bow Street. She showed neither surprise nor resentment and offered no information as to van Heerden's whereabouts.
Throughout the afternoon there were the usual crops of false arrest and detention of perfectly innocent people, and at five o'clock it was announced that all telegraphic communication with the Continent and with the Western Hemisphere was suspended until further notice.
Beale came back from Barking, whither he had gone to interview a choleric commercial traveller who bore some facial resemblance to van Heerden, and had been arrested in consequence, and discovered that something like a Council of War was being held in Kitson's private room.
McNorton and two of his assistants were present. There was an Under-Secretary from the Foreign Office, a great scientist whose services had been called upon, and a man whom he recognized as a member of the Committee of the Corn Exchange. He shook his head in answer to McNorton's inquiring glance, and would have taken his seat at the table, but Kitson, who had risen on his entrance, beckoned him to the window.
We can do without you for a little while, Beale, he said, lowering his voice. "There's somebody there," he jerked his head to a door which led to another room of his suite, "who requires an explanation, and I think your time will be so fully occupied in the next few days that you had better seize this opportunity whilst you have it."
Miss Cresswell! said Beale, in despair.
The old man nodded slowly.
What does she know?
That is for you to discover, said Kitson gently, and pushed him toward the door.
With a quaking heart he turned the knob and stepped guiltily into the presence of the girl who in the eyes of the law was his wife.
She rose to meet him, and he stood spellbound, still holding the handle of the door. It seemed that she had taken on new qualities, a new and an ethereal grace. At the very thought even of his technical possession of this smiling girl who came forward to greet him, his heart thumped so loudly that he felt she must hear it. She was pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, but the hand that gripped his was firm and warm and living.
I have to thank you for much, Mr. Beale, she said. "Mr. Kitson has told me that I owe my rescue to you."
Did he? he asked awkwardly, and wondered what else Kitson had told her.
I am trying to be very sensible, and I want you to help me, because you are the most sensible man I know.
She went back to the lounge-chair where she had been sitting, and pointed to another.
It was horribly melodramatic, wasn't it? but I suppose the life of a detective is full of melodrama.
Oh, brimming over, he said. "If you keep very quiet I will give you a resume of my most interesting cases," he said, making a pathetic attempt to be flippant, and the girl detected something of his insincerity.
You have had a trying day, she said, with quick sympathy, "have you arrested Doctor van Heerden?"
He shook his head.
I am glad, she said.
Glad?
She nodded.
Before he is arrested, she spoke with some hesitation, "I want one little matter cleared up. I asked Mr. Kitson, but he put me off and said you would tell me everything."
What is it? he asked steadily.
She got up and went to her bag which stood upon a side-table, opened it and took out something which she laid on the palm of her hand. She came back with hand extended, and Beale looked at the glittering object on her palm and was speechless.
Do you see that? she asked.
He nodded, having no words for the moment, for "that" was a thin gold ring.
It is a wedding ring, she said, "and I found it on my finger when I recovered."
Oh! said Beale blankly.
Was I married? she asked.
He made two or three ineffectual attempts to speak and ended by nodding.
I feared so, she said quietly, "you see I recollect nothing of what happened. The last thing I remembered was Doctor van Heerden sitting beside me and putting something into my arm. It hurt a little, but not very much, and I remember I spoke to him. I think it was about you," a little colour came to her face, "or perhaps he was speaking about you, I am not sure," she said hurriedly; "I know that you came into it somehow, and that is all I can recall."
Nothing else? he asked dismally.
Nothing, she said.
Try, try, try to remember, he urged her.
He realized he was being a pitiable coward and that he wanted to shift the responsibility for the revelation upon her. She smiled, and shook her head.
I am sorry but I can't remember anything. Now you are going to tell me.
He discovered that he was sitting on the edge of the chair and that he was more nervous than he had ever been in his life.
So I am going to tell you, he said, in a hollow voice, "of course I'll tell you. It is rather difficult, you understand."
She looked at him kindly.
I know it must be difficult for a man like you to speak of your own achievements. But for once you are going to be immodest, she laughed.
Well, you see, he began, "I knew van Heerden wanted to marry you. I knew that all along. I guessed he wanted to marry you for your money, because in the circumstances there was nothing else he could want to marry you for," he added. "I mean," he corrected himself hastily, "that money was the most attractive thing to him."
This doesn't sound very flattering, she smiled.
I know I am being crude, but you will forgive me when you learn what I have to say, he said huskily. "Van Heerden wanted to marry you----"
And he married me, she said, "and I am going to break that marriage as soon as I possibly can."
I know, I hope so, said Stanford Beale. "I believe it is difficult, but I will do all I possibly can. Believe me, Miss Cresswell----"
I am not Miss Cresswell any longer, she said with a wry little face, "but please don't call me by my real name."
I won't, he said fervently.
You knew he wanted to marry me for my money and not for my beauty or my accomplishments, she said, "and so you followed me down to Deans Folly."
Yes, yes, but I must explain. I know it will sound horrible to you and you may have the lowest opinion of me, but I have got to tell you.
He saw the look of alarm gather in her eyes and plunged into his story.
I thought that if you were already married van Heerden would be satisfied and take no further steps against you.
But I wasn't already married, she said, puzzled.
Wait, wait, please, he begged, "keep that in your mind, that I was satisfied van Heerden wanted you for your money, and that if you were already married or even if you weren't and he thought you were I could save you from dangers, the extent of which even I do not know. And there was a man named Homo, a crook. He had been a parson and had all the manner and style of his profession. So I got a special licence in my own name."
You? she said breathlessly. "A marriage licence? To marry me?"
He nodded.
And I took Homo with me in my search for you. I knew that I should have a very small margin of time, and I thought if Homo performed the ceremony and I could confront van Heerden with the accomplished deed----
She sprang to her feet with a laugh.
Oh, I see, I see, she said. "Oh, how splendid! And you went through this mock ceremony! Where was I?"
You were at the window, he said miserably.
But how lovely! And you were outside and your parson with the funny name--but that's delicious! So I wasn't married at all and this is your ring. She picked it up with a mocking light in her eyes, and held it out to him, but he shook his head.
You were married, he said, in a voice which was hardly audible.
Married? How?
Homo was not a fake! He was a real clergyman! And the marriage was legal!
They looked at one another without speaking. On the girl's part there was nothing but pure amazement; but Stanford Beale read horror, loathing, consternation and unforgiving wrath, and waited, as the criminal waits for his sentence, upon her next words.
So I am really married--to you, she said wonderingly.
You will never forgive me, I know. He did not look at her now. "My own excuse is that I did what I did because I--wanted to save you. I might have sailed in with a gun and shot them up. I might have waited my chance and broken into the house. I might have taken a risk and surrounded the place with police, but that would have meant delay. I didn't do the normal things or take the normal view--I couldn't with you."
He did not see the momentary tenderness in her eyes, because he was not looking at her, and went on:
That's the whole of the grisly story. Mr. Kitson will advise you as to what steps you may take to free yourself. It was a most horrible blunder, and it was all the more tragic because you were the victim, you of all the persons in the world!
She had put the ring down, and now she took it up again and examined it curiously.
It is rather--quaint, isn't it? she asked.
Oh, very.
He thought he heard a sob and looked up. She was laughing, at first silently, then, as the humour of the thing seized her, her laugh rang clear and he caught its infection.
It's funny, she said at last, wiping her eyes, "there is a humorous side to it. Poor Mr. Beale!"
I deserve a little pity, he said ruefully.
Why? she asked quickly. "Have you committed bigamy?"
Not noticeably so, he answered, with a smile.
Well, what are you going to do about it? It's rather serious when one thinks of it--seriously. So I am Mrs. Stanford Beale--poor Mr. Beale, and poor Mrs. Beale-to-be. I do hope, she said, and this time her seriousness was genuine, "that I have not upset any of your plans--too much. Oh," she sat down suddenly, staring at him, "it would be awful," she said in a hushed voice, "and I would never forgive myself. Is there--forgive my asking the question, but I suppose," with a flashing smile, "as your wife I am entitled to your confidence--is there somebody you are going to marry?"
I have neither committed bigamy nor do I contemplate it, said Beale, who was gradually recovering his grip of the situation, "if you mean am I engaged to somebody--in fact, to a girl," he said recklessly, "the answer is in the negative. There will be no broken hearts on my side of the family. I have no desire to probe your wounded heart----"
Don't be flippant, she stopped him sternly; "it is a very terrible situation, Mr. Beale, and I hardly dare to think of it."
I realize how terrible it is, he said, suddenly bold, "and as I tell you, I will do everything I can to correct my blunder."
Does Mr. Kitson know? she asked.
He nodded.
What did Mr. Kitson say? Surely he gave you some advice.
He said---- began Stanford, and went red.
The girl did not pursue the subject.
Come, let us talk about the matter like rational beings, she said cheerfully. "I have got over my first inclination to swoon. You must curb your very natural desire to be haughty."
I cannot tell you what we can do yet. I don't want to discuss the unpleasant details of a divorce, he said, "and perhaps you will let me have a few days before we decide on any line of action. Van Heerden is still at large, and until he is under lock and key and this immense danger which threatens the world is removed, I can hardly think straight."
Mr. Kitson has told me about van Heerden, she said quietly. "Isn't it rather a matter for the English police to deal with? As I have reason to know," she shivered slightly, "Doctor van Heerden is a man without any fear or scruple."
My scruples hardly keep me awake at night, he said, "and I guess I'm not going to let up on van Heerden. I look upon it as my particular job."
Isn't it--she hesitated--"isn't it rather dangerous?"
For me? he laughed, "no, I don't think so. And even if it were in the most tragic sense of the word dangerous, why, that would save you a great deal of unpleasantness."
I think you are being horrid, she said.
I am sorry, he responded quickly, "I was fishing for a little pity, and it was rather cheap and theatrical. No, I do not think there is very much danger. Van Heerden is going to keep under cover, and he is after something bigger than my young life."
Is Milsom with him?
He is the weak link in van Heerden's scheme, Beale said. "Somehow van Heerden doesn't strike me as a good team leader, and what little I have seen of Milsom leads me to the belief that he is hardly the man to follow the doctor's lead blindly. Besides, it is always easier to catch two men than one," he laughed. "That is an old detective's axiom and it works out."
She put out her hand.
It's a tangled business, isn't it? she said. "I mean us. Don't let it add to your other worries. Forget our unfortunate relationship until we can smooth things out."
He shook her hand in silence.
And now I am coming out to hear all that you clever people suggest, she said. "Please don't look alarmed. I have been talking all the afternoon and have been narrating my sad experience--such as I remember--to the most important people. Cabinet Ministers and police commissioners and doctors and things."
One moment, he said.
He took from his pocket a stout book.
I was wondering what that was, she laughed. "You haven't been buying me reading-matter?"
He nodded, and held the volume so that she could read the title.
'A Friend in Need,' by S. Beale. I didn't know you wrote! she said in surprise.
I am literary and even worse, he said flippantly. "I see you have a shelf of books here. If you will allow me I will put it with the others."
But mayn't I see it?
He shook his head.
I just want to tell you all you have said about van Heerden is true. He is a most dangerous man. He may yet be dangerous to you. I don't want you to touch that little book unless you are in really serious trouble. Will you promise me?
She opened her eyes wide.
But, Mr. Beale----?
Will you promise me? he said again.
Of course I'll promise you, but I don't quite understand.
You will understand, he said.
He opened the door for her and she passed out ahead of him. Kitson came to meet them.
I suppose there is no news? asked Stanford.
None, said the other, "except high political news. There has been an exchange of notes between the Triple Alliance and the German Government. All communication with the Ukraine is cut off, and three ships have been sunk in the Bosphorus so cleverly that our grain ships in the Black Sea are isolated."
That's bad, said Beale.
He walked to the table. It was littered with maps and charts and printed tabulations. McNorton got up and joined them.
I have just had a 'phone message through from the Yard, he said. "Carter, my assistant, says that he's certain van Heerden has not left London."
Has the girl spoken?
Glaum? No, she's as dumb as an oyster. I doubt if you would get her to speak even if you put her through the third degree, and we don't allow that.
So I am told, said Beale dryly.
There was a knock at the door.
Unlock it somebody, said Kitson. "I turned the key."
The nearest person was the member of the Corn Exchange Committee, and he clicked back the lock and the door opened to admit a waiter.
There's a man here---- he said; but before he could say more he was pushed aside and a dusty, dishevelled figure stepped into the room and glanced round.
My name is Milsom, he said. "I have come to give King's Evidence!"
I'm Milsom, said the man in the doorway again.
His clothes were grimed and dusty, his collar limp and soiled. There were two days' growth of red-grey stubble on his big jaw, and he bore himself like a man who was faint from lack of sleep.
He walked unsteadily to the table and fell into a chair.
Where is van Heerden? asked Beale, but Milsom shook his head.
I left him two hours ago, after a long and unprofitable talk on patriotism, he said, and laughed shortly. "At that time he was making his way back to his house in Southwark."
Then he is in London--here in London!
Milsom nodded.
You won't find him, he said brusquely. "I tell you I've left him after a talk about certain patriotic misgivings on my part--look!"
He lifted his right hand, which hitherto he had kept concealed by his side, and Oliva shut her eyes and felt deathly sick.
Right index digit and part of the phalanges shot away, said Milsom philosophically. "That was my trigger-finger--but he shot first. Give me a drink!"
They brought him a bottle of wine, and he drank it from a long tumbler in two great breathless gulps.
You've closed the coast to him, he said, "you shut down your wires and cables, you're watching the roads, but he'll get his message through, if----"
Then he hasn't cabled? said Beale eagerly. "Milsom, this means liberty for you--liberty and comfort. Tell us the truth, man, help us hold off this horror that van Heerden is loosing on the world and there's no reward too great for you."
Milsom's eyes narrowed.
It wasn't the hope of reward or hope of pardon that made me break with van Heerden, he said in his slow way. "You'd laugh yourself sick if I told you. It was--it was the knowledge that this country would be down and out; that the people who spoke my tongue and thought more or less as I thought should be under the foot of the Beast--fevered sentimentality! You don't believe that?"
I believe it.
It was Oliva who spoke, and it appeared that this was the first time that Milsom had noticed her presence, for his eyes opened wider.
You--oh, you believe it, do you? and he nodded.
But why is van Heerden waiting? asked McNorton. "What is he waiting for?"
The big man rolled his head helplessly from side to side, and the hard cackle of his laughter was very trying to men whose nerves were raw and on edge.
That's the fatal lunacy of it! I think it must be a national characteristic. You saw it in the war again and again--a wonderful plan brought to naught by some piece of over-cleverness on the part of the super-man.
A wild hope leapt to Beale's heart.
Then it has failed! The rust has not answered----?
But Milsom shook his head wearily.
The rust is all that he thinks--and then some, he said. "No, it isn't that. It is in the work of organization where the hitch has occurred. You know something of the story. Van Heerden has agents in every country in the world. He has spent nearly a hundred thousand pounds in perfecting his working plans, and I'm willing to admit that they are wellnigh perfect. Such slight mistakes as sending men to South Africa and Australia where the crops are six months later than the European and American harvests may be forgiven, because the German thinks longitudinally, and north and south are the two points of the compass which he never bothers his head about. If the Germans had been a seafaring people they'd have discovered America before Columbus, but they would never have found the North Pole or rounded the Cape in a million years."
He paused, and they saw the flicker of a smile in his weary eyes.
The whole scheme is under van Heerden's hand. At the word 'Go' thousands of his agents begin their work of destruction--but the word must come from him. He has so centralized his scheme that if he died suddenly without that word being uttered, the work of years would come to naught. I guess he is suspicious of everybody, including his new Government. For the best part of a year he has been arranging and planning. With the assistance of a girl, a compatriot of his, he has reduced all things to order. In every country is a principal agent who possesses a copy of a simple code. At the proper moment van Heerden would cable a word which meant 'Get busy' or 'Hold off until you hear from me,' or 'Abandon scheme for this year and collect cultures.' I happen to be word-perfect in the meanings of the code words because van Heerden has so often drummed them into me.
What are the code words?
I'm coming to that, nodded Milsom. "Van Heerden is the type of scientist that never trusts his memory. You find that kind in all the school--they usually spend their time making the most complete and detailed notes, and their studies are packed with memoranda. Yet he had a wonderful memory for the commonplace things--for example, in the plain English of his three messages he was word perfect. He could tell you off-hand the names and addresses of all his agents. But when it came to scientific data his mind was a blank until he consulted his authorities. It seemed that once he made a note his mind was incapable of retaining the information he had committed to paper. That, as I say, is a phenomenon which is not infrequently met with amongst men of science."
And he had committed the code to paper? asked Kitson.
I am coming to that. After the fire at the Paddington works, van Heerden said the time had come to make a get away. He was going to the Continent, I was to sail for Canada. 'Before you go,' he said, 'I will give you the code--but I am afraid that I cannot do that until after ten o'clock.'
McNorton was scribbling notes in shorthand and carefully circled the hour.
We went back to his flat and had breakfast together--it was then about five o'clock. He packed a few things and I particularly noticed that he looked very carefully at the interior of a little grip which he had brought the previous night from Staines. He was so furtive, carrying the bag to the light of the window, that I supposed he was consulting his code, and I wondered why he should defer giving me the information until ten o'clock. Anyway, I could swear he took something from the bag and slipped it into his pocket. We left the flat soon after and drove to a railway station where the baggage was left. Van Heerden had given me bank-notes for a thousand pounds in case we should be separated, and I went on to the house in South London. You needn't ask me where it is because van Heerden is not there.
He gulped again at the wine.
At eleven o'clock van Heerden came back, resumed Milsom, "and if ever a man was panic-stricken it was he--the long and the short of it is that the code was mislaid."
Mislaid! Beale was staggered.
Here was farce interpolated into tragedy--the most grotesque, the most unbelievable farce.
Mislaid, said Milsom. "He did not say as much, but I gathered from the few disjointed words he flung at me that the code was not irredeemably lost; in fact, I have reason to believe that he knows where it is. It was after that that van Heerden started in to do some tall cursing of me, my country, my decadent race and the like. Things have been strained all the afternoon. To-night they reached a climax. He wanted me to help him in a burglary--and burglary is not my forte."
What did he want to burgle? asked McNorton, with professional interest.
Ah! There you have me! It was the question I asked and he refused to answer. I was to put myself in his hands and there was to be some shooting if, as he thought likely, a caretaker was left on the premises to be entered. I told him flat--we were sitting on Wandsworth Common at the time--that he could leave me out, and that is where we became mutually offensive.
He looked at his maimed hand.
I dressed it roughly at a chemist's. The iodine open dressing isn't beautiful, but it is antiseptic. He shot to kill, too, there's no doubt about that. A very perfect little gentleman!
He's in London? said McNorton. "That simplifies matters."
To my mind it complicates rather than simplifies, said Beale. "London is a vast proposition. Can you give us any idea as to the hour the burglary was planned for?"
Eleven, said Milsom promptly, "that is to say, in a little over an hour's time."
And you have no idea of the locality?
Somewhere in the East of London. We were to have met at Aldgate.
I don't understand it, said McNorton. "Do you suggest that the code is in the hands of somebody who is not willing to part with it? And now that he no longer needs it for you, is there any reason why he should wait?"
Every reason, replied Milsom, and Stanford Beale nodded in agreement. "It was not only for me he wanted it. He as good as told me that unless he recovered it he would be unable to communicate with his men."
What do you think he'll do?
He'll get Bridgers to assist him. Bridgers is a pretty sore man, and the doctor knows just where he can find him.
As Oliva listened an idea slowly dawned in her mind that she might supply a solution to the mystery of the missing code. It was a wildly improbable theory she held, but even so slender a possibility was not to be discarded. She slipped from the group and went back to her room. For the accommodation of his ward, James Kitson had taken the adjoining suite to his own and had secured a lady's maid from an agency for the girl's service. She passed through the sitting-room to her own bedroom, and found the maid putting the room ready for the night.
Minnie, she said, throwing a quick glance about the apartment, "where did you put the clothes I took off when I came?"
Here, miss.
The girl opened the wardrobe and Oliva made a hurried search.
Did you find--anything, a little ticket?
The girl smiled.
Oh yes, miss. It was in your stocking.
Oliva laughed.
I suppose you thought it was rather queer, finding that sort of thing in a girl's stocking, she asked, but the maid was busily opening the drawers of the dressing-table in search of something.
Here it is, miss.
She held a small square ticket in her hand and held it with such disapproving primness that Oliva nearly laughed.
I found it in your stocking, miss, she said again.
Quite right, said Oliva coolly, "that's where I put it. I always carry my pawn tickets in my stocking."
The admirable Minnie sniffed.
I suppose you have never seen such a thing, smiled Oliva, "and you hardly knew what it was."
The lady's maid turned very red. She had unfortunately seen many such certificates of penury, but all that was part of her private life, and she had been shocked beyond measure to be confronted with this too-familiar evidence of impecuniosity in the home of a lady who represented to her an assured income and comfortable pickings.
Oliva went back to her sitting-room and debated the matter. It was a sense of diffidence, the fear of making herself ridiculous, which arrested her. Otherwise she might have flown into the room, declaimed her preposterous theories and leave these clever men to work out the details. She opened the door and with the ticket clenched in her hand stepped into the room.
If they had missed her after she had left nobody saw her return. They were sitting in a group about the table, firing questions at the big unshaven man who had made such a dramatic entrance to the conference and who, with a long cigar in the corner of his mouth, was answering readily and fluently.
But faced with the tangible workings of criminal investigation her resolution and her theories shrank to vanishing-point. She clasped the ticket in her hand and felt for a pocket, but the dressmaker had not provided her with that useful appendage.
So she turned and went softly back to her room, praying that she would not be noticed. She closed the door gently behind her and turned to meet a well-valeted man in evening-dress who was standing in the middle of the room, a light overcoat thrown over his arm, his silk hat tilted back from his forehead, a picture of calm assurance.
Don't move, said van Heerden, "and don't scream. And be good enough to hand over the pawn ticket you are holding in your hand."
Silently she obeyed, and as she handed the little pasteboard across the table which separated them she looked past him to the bookshelf behind his head, and particularly to a new volume which bore the name of Stanford Beale.
Thanks, said van Heerden, pocketing the ticket, "it is of no use to me now, for I cannot wait. I gather that you have not disclosed the fact that this ticket is in your possession."
I don't know how you gather that, she said.
Lower your voice! he hissed menacingly. "I gather as much because Beale knew the ticket would not be in my possession now. If he only knew, if he only had a hint of its existence, I fear my scheme would fail. As it is, it will succeed. And now," he said with a smile, "time is short and your preparations must be of the briefest. I will save you the trouble of asking questions by telling you that I am going to take you along with me. I certainly cannot afford to leave you. Get your coat."
With a shrug she walked past him to the bedroom and he followed.
Are we going far? she asked.
There was no tremor in her voice and she felt remarkably self-possessed.
That you will discover, said he.
I am not asking out of idle curiosity, but I want to know whether I ought to take a bag.
Perhaps it would be better, he said.
She carried the little attache case back to the sitting-room.
You have no objection to my taking a little light reading-matter? she asked contemptuously. "I am afraid you are not a very entertaining companion, Dr. van Heerden."
Excellent girl, said van Heerden cheerfully. "Take anything you like."
She slipped a book from the shelf and nearly betrayed herself by an involuntary exclamation as she felt its weight.
You are not very original in your methods, she said, "this is the second time you have spirited me off."
The gaols of England, as your new-found friend Milsom will tell you, are filled with criminals who departed from the beaten tracks, said van Heerden. "Walk out into the corridor and turn to the right. I will be close behind you. A little way along you will discover a narrow passage which leads to the service staircase. Go down that. I am sure you believe me when I say that I will kill you if you attempt to make any signal or scream or appeal for help."
She did not answer. It was because of this knowledge and this fear, which was part of her youthful equipment--for violent death is a very terrible prospect to the young and the healthy--that she obeyed him at all.
They walked down the stone stairs, through an untidy, low-roofed lobby, redolent of cooking food, into the street, without challenge and without attracting undue notice.
Van Heerden's car was waiting at the end of the street, and she thought she recognized the chauffeur as Bridgers.
Once more we ride together, said van Heerden gaily, "and what will be the end of this adventure for you depends entirely upon your loyalty--what are you opening your bag for?" he asked, peering in the dark.
I am looking for a handkerchief, said Oliva. "I am afraid I am going to cry!"
He settled himself back in the corner of the car with a sigh of resignation, accepting her explanation--sarcasm was wholly wasted on van Heerden.
* * * * *
Well, gentlemen, said Milsom, "I don't think there's anything more I can tell you. What are you going to do with me?"
I'll take the responsibility of not executing the warrant, said McNorton. "You will accompany one of my men to his home to-night and you will be under police supervision."
That's no new experience, said Milsom, "there's only one piece of advice I want to give you."
And that is? asked Beale.
Don't underrate van Heerden. You have no conception of his nerve. There isn't a man of us here, he said, "whose insurance rate wouldn't go up to ninety per cent. if van Heerden decided to get him. I don't profess that I can help you to explain his strange conduct to-day. I can only outline the psychology of it, but how and where he has hidden his code and what circumstances prevent its recovery, is known only to van Heerden."
He nodded to the little group, and accompanied by McNorton left the room.
There goes a pretty bad man, said Kitson, "or I am no judge of character. He's an old lag, isn't he?"
Beale nodded.
Murder, he said laconically. "He lived after his time. He should have been a contemporary of the Borgias."
A poisoner! shuddered one of the under-secretaries. "I remember the case. He killed his nephew and defended himself on the plea that the youth was a degenerate, as he undoubtedly was."
He might have got that defence past in America or France, said Beale, "but unfortunately there was a business end to the matter. He was the sole heir of his nephew's considerable fortune, and a jury from the Society of Eugenics would have convicted him on that."
He looked at his watch and turned his eyes to Kitson.
I presume Miss Cresswell is bored and has retired for the night, he said.
I'll find out in a moment, said Kitson. "Did you speak to her?"
Beale nodded, and his eyes twinkled.
Did you make any progress?
I broke the sad news to her, if that's what you mean.
You told her she was married to you? Good heavens! What did she say?
Well, she didn't faint, I don't think she's the fainting kind. She is cursed with a sense of humour, and refused even to take a tragic view.
That's bad, said Kitson, shaking his head. "A sense of humour is out of place in a divorce court, and that is where your little romance is going to end, my friend."
I am not so sure, said Beale calmly, and the other stared at him.
You have promised me, he began, with a note of acerbity in his voice.
And you have advised me, said Beale.
Kitson choked down something which he was going to say, but which he evidently thought was better left unsaid.
Wait, he commanded, "I will find out whether Miss Cresswell," he emphasized the words, "has gone to bed."
He passed through the door to Oliva's sitting-room and was gone a few minutes. When he came back Beale saw his troubled face, and ran forward to meet him.
She's not there, said Kitson.
Not in her room?
Neither in the sitting-room nor the bedroom. I have rung for her maid. Oh, here you are.
Prim Minnie came through the bedroom door.
Where is your mistress?
I thought she was with you, sir.
What is this? said Beale, stooped and picked up a white kid glove. "She surely hasn't gone out," he said in consternation.
That's not a lady's glove, sir, said the girl, "that is a gentleman's."
It was a new glove, and turning it over he saw stamped inside the words: "Glebler, Rotterdam."
Has anybody been here? he asked.
Not to my knowledge, sir. The young lady told me she did not want me any more to-night. The girl hesitated. It seemed a veritable betrayal of her mistress to disclose such a sordid matter as the search for a pawn ticket.
Beale noticed the hesitation.
You must tell me everything, and tell me quickly, he said.
Well, sir, said the maid, "the lady came in to look for something she brought with her when she came here."
I remember! cried Kitson, "she told me she had brought away something very curious from van Heerden's house and made me guess what it was. Something interrupted our talk--what was it?"
Well, sir, said the maid, resigned, "I won't tell you a lie, sir. It was a pawn ticket."
A pawn ticket! cried Kitson and Beale in unison.
Are you sure? asked the latter.
Absolutely sure, sir.
But she couldn't have brought a pawn ticket from van Heerden's house. What was it for?
I beg your pardon, sir.
What was on the pawn ticket? said Kitson impatiently. "What article had been pledged?"
Again the girl hesitated. To betray her mistress was unpleasant. To betray herself--as she would if she confessed that she had most carefully and thoroughly read the voucher--was unthinkable.
You know what was on it, said Beale, in his best third degree manner, "now don't keep us waiting. What was it?"
A watch, sir.
How much was it pledged for?
Ten shillings, sir.
Do you remember the name.
In a foreign name, sir--van Horden.
Van Heerden, said Beale quickly, "and at what pawnbrokers?"
Well, sir, said the girl, making a fight for her reputation, "I only glanced at the ticket and I only noticed----"
Yes, you did, interrupted Beale sharply, "you read every line of it. Where was it?"
Rosenblaum Bros., of Commercial Road, blurted the girl.
Any number?
I didn't see the number.
You will find them in the telephone book, said Kitson. "What does it mean?"
But Beale was half-way to Kitson's sitting-room, arriving there in time to meet McNorton who had handed over his charge to his subordinate.
I've found it! cried Beale.
Found what? asked Kitson.
The code!
Where? How? asked McNorton.
Unless I am altogether wrong the code is contained, either engraved on the case or written on a slip of paper enclosed within the case of a watch. Can't you see it all plainly now? Van Heerden neither trusted his memory nor his subordinates. He had his simple code written, as we shall find, upon thin paper enclosed in the case of a hunter watch, and this he pledged. A pawnbroker's is the safest of safe deposits. Searching for clues, suppose the police had detected his preparations, the pledged ticket might have been easily overlooked.
Kitson was looking at him with an expression of amazed indignation. Here was a man who had lost his wife, and Kitson believed that this young detective loved the girl as few women are loved; but in the passion of the chase, in the production of a new problem, he was absorbed to the exclusion of all other considerations in the greater game.
Yet he did Beale an injustice if he only knew, for the thought of Oliva's new peril ran through all his speculations, his rapid deductions, his lightning plans.
Miss Cresswell found the ticket and probably extracted it as a curiosity. These things are kept in little envelopes, aren't they, McNorton?
The police chief nodded.
That was it, then. She took it out and left the envelope behind, and van Heerden did not discover his loss until he went to find the voucher to give Milsom the code. Don't you remember? In the first place he said he couldn't give him the code until after ten o'clock, which is probably the hour the pawnbrokers open for business.
McNorton nodded again.
Then do you remember that Milsom said that the code was not irredeemably lost and that van Heerden knew where it was. In default of finding the ticket he decided to burgle the pawnbroker's, and that burglary is going through to-night.
But he could have obtained a duplicate of the ticket, said McNorton.
How? asked Beale quickly.
By going before a magistrate and swearing an affidavit.
In his own name, said Beale, "you see, he couldn't do that. It would mean walking into the lion's den. No, burglary was his only chance."
But what of Oliva? said Kitson impatiently, "I tell you, Beale, I am not big enough or stoical enough to think outside of that girl's safety."
Beale swung round at him.
You don't think I've forgotten that, do you? he said in a low voice. "You don't think that has been out of my mind?" His face was tense and drawn. "I think, I believe that Oliva is safe," he said quietly. "I believe that Oliva and not any of us here will deliver van Heerden to justice."
Are you mad? asked Kitson in astonishment.
I am very sane. Come here!
He gripped the old lawyer by the arm and led him back to the girl's room.
Look, he said, and pointed.
What do you mean, the bookshelf?
Beale nodded.
Half an hour ago I gave Oliva a book, he said, "that book is no longer there."
But in the name of Heaven how can a book save her? demanded the exasperated Kitson.
Stanford Beale did not answer.
Yes, yes, she's safe. I know she's safe, he said. "If Oliva is the girl I think she is then I see van Heerden's finish."