There was nothing about the supper party on that particular Sunday evening in November at Daisy Villa, Green Street, Streatham, which seemed to indicate in any way that one of the most interesting careers connected with the world history of crime was to owe its very existence to the disaster which befell that little gathering. The villa was the residence and also—to his credit—the unmortgaged property of Mr. David Barnes, a struggling but fairly prosperous coal merchant of excellent character, some means, and Methodist proclivities. His habit of sitting without his coat when carving, although deprecated by his wife and daughter on account of the genteel aspirations of the latter, was a not unusual one in the neighbourhood; and coupled with the proximity of a cold joint of beef, his seat at the head of the table, and a carving knife and fork grasped in his hands, established clearly the fact of his position in the household, which a somewhat weak physiognomy might otherwise have led the casual observer to doubt. Opposite him, at the other end of the table, sat his wife, Mrs. Barnes, a somewhat voluminous lady with a high colour, a black satin frock, and many ornaments. On her left the son of the house, eighteen years old, of moderate stature, somewhat pimply, with the fashion of the moment reflected in his pink tie with white spots, drawn through a gold ring, and curving outwards to seek obscurity underneath a dazzling waistcoat. A white tube-rose in his buttonhole might have been intended as a sort of compliment to the occasion, or an indication of his intention to take a walk after supper in the fashionable purlieus of the neighbourhood. Facing him sat his sister—a fluffy-haired, blue-eyed young lady, pretty in her way, but chiefly noticeable for a peculiar sort of self-consciousness blended with self-satisfaction, and possessed only at a certain period in their lives by young ladies of her age. It was almost the air of the cat in whose interior reposes the missing canary, except that in this instance the canary obviously existed in the person of the young man who sat at her side, introduced formally to the household for the first time. That young man’s name was—at the moment—Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald.
It seems idle to attempt any description of a person who, in the past, had secured a certain amount of fame under a varying personality; and who, in the future, was to become more than ever notorious under a far less aristocratic pseudonym than that by which he was at present known to the inhabitants of Daisy Villa. There are photographs of him in New York and Paris, St. Petersburg and Chicago, Vienna and Cape Town, but there are no two pictures which present to the casual observer the slightest likeness to one another. To allude to him by the name under which he had won some part, at least, of the affections of Miss Maud Barnes, Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, as he sat there, a suitor on probation for her hand, was a young man of modest and genteel appearance. He wore a blue serge suit—a little underdressed for the occasion, perhaps; but his tie and collar were neat; his gold-rimmed spectacles—if a little disapproved of by Maud on account of the air of steadiness which they imparted—suggested excellent son-in-lawlike qualities to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. He had the promise of a fair moustache, but his complexion generally was colourless. His features, except for a certain regularity, were undistinguished. His speech was modest and correct. His manner varied with his company. To-night it had been pronounced, by excellent judges—genteel.
The conversation consisted—naturally enough, under the circumstances—of a course of subtle and judicious pumping, tactfully prompted, for the most part, by Mrs. Barnes. Such, for instance, as the following:
“Talking about Marie Corelli’s new book reminds me, Mr. Fitzgerald—your occupation is connected with books, is it not?” his prospective mother-in-law enquired, artlessly.
Mr. Fitzgerald bowed assent.
“I am cashier at Howell & Wilson’s in Cheapside,” he said. “We sell a great many books there—as many, I should think, as any retail establishment in London.”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Barnes purred. “Very interesting work, I am sure. So nice and intellectual, too; for, of course, you must be looking inside them sometimes.”
“I know the place well,” Mr. Adolphus Barnes, Junior, announced condescendingly—“pass it every day on my way to lunch.”
“So much nicer,” Mrs. Barnes continued, “than any of the ordinary businesses—grocery or drapery, or anything of that sort.”
Miss Maud elevated her eyebrows slightly. Was it likely that she would have looked with eyes of favour upon a young man engaged in any of these inferior occupations?
“There’s money in books, too,” Mr. Barnes declared with sudden inspiration. His prospective son-in-law turned towards him deferentially.
“You are right, sir,” he admitted. “There is money in them. There’s money for those who write, and there’s money for those who sell. My occupation,” he continued, with a modest little cough, “brings me often into touch with publishers, travellers and clerks, so I am, as it were, behind the scenes to some extent. I can assure you,” he continued, looking from Mr. Barnes to his wife, and finally transfixing Mr. Adolphus—“I can assure you that the money paid by some firms of publishers to a few well-known authors—I will mention no names—as advances against royalties, is something stupendous!”
“Ah!” Mr. Barnes murmured, solemnly shaking his head.
“Marie Corelli, I expect, and that Hall Caine,” remarked young Adolphus.
“Seems easy enough to write a book, too,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Why, I declare that some of those we get from the library—we subscribe to a library, Mr. Fitzgerald—are just as simple and straightforward that a child might have written them. No plot whatsoever, no murders or mysteries or anything of that sort—just stories about people like ourselves. I don’t see how they can pay people for writing stories about people just like those one meets every day!”
“I always say,” Maud intervened, “that Spencer means to write a book some day. He has quite the literary air, hasn’t he, mother?”
“Indeed he has!” Mrs. Barnes declared, with an appreciative glance at the gold-rimmed spectacles.
Mr. Fitzgerald modestly disclaimed any literary aspirations.
“The thing is a gift, after all,” he declared, generously. “I can keep accounts, and earn a fair salary at it, but if I attempted fiction I should soon be up a tree.”
Mr. Barnes nodded his approval of such sentiments.
“Every one to his trade, I say,” he remarked. “What sort of salaries do they pay now in the book trade?” he asked guilelessly.
“Very fair,” Mr. Fitzgerald admitted candidly—“very fair indeed.”
“When I was your age,” Mr. Barnes said reflectively, “I was getting—let me see—forty-two shillings a week. Pretty good pay, too, for those days.”
Mr. Fitzgerald admitted the fact.
“Of course,” he said apologetically, “salaries are a little higher now all round. Mr. Howell has been very kind to me—in fact I have had two raises this year. I am getting four pounds ten now.”
“Four pounds ten per week?” Mrs. Barnes exclaimed, laying down her knife and fork.
“Certainly,” Mr. Fitzgerald answered. “After Christmas, I have some reason to believe that it may be five pounds.”
Mr. Barnes whistled softly, and looked at the young man with a new respect.
“I told you that—Mr.—that Spencer was doing pretty well, Mother,” Maud simpered, looking down at her plate.
“Any one to support?” her father asked, transferring a pickle from the fork to his mouth.
“No one,” Mr. Fitzgerald answered. “In fact, I may say that I have some small expectations. I haven’t done badly, either, out of the few investments I have made from time to time.”
“Saved a bit of money, eh?” Mr. Barnes enquired genially.
“I have a matter of four hundred pounds put by,” Mr. Fitzgerald admitted modestly, “besides a few sticks of furniture. I never cared much about lodging-house things, so I furnished a couple of rooms myself some time ago.”
Mrs. Barnes rose slowly to her feet.
“You are quite sure you won’t have a small piece more of beef?” she enquired anxiously.
“Just a morsel?” Mr. Barnes asked, tapping the joint insinuatingly with his carving knife.
“No, I thank you!” Mr. Fitzgerald declared firmly. “I have done excellently.”
“Then if you will put the joint on the sideboard, Adolphus,” Mrs. Barnes directed, “Maud and I will change the plates. We always let the girl go out on Sundays, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she explained, turning to their guest. “It’s very awkward, of course, but they seem to expect it.”
“Quite natural, I’m sure,” Mr. Fitzgerald murmured, watching Maud’s light movements with admiring eyes. “I like to see ladies interested in domestic work.”
“There’s one thing I will say for Maud,” her proud mother declared, plumping down a dish of jelly upon the table, “she does know what’s what in keeping house, and even if she hasn’t to scrape and save as I did when David and I were first married, economy is a great thing when you’re young. I have always said so, and I stick to it.”
“Quite right, Mother,” Mr. Barnes declared.
“If instead of sitting there,” Mrs. Barnes continued in high good humour, “you were to get a bottle of that port wine out of the cellarette, we might drink Mr. Fitzgerald’s health, being as it’s his first visit.”
Mr. Barnes rose to his feet with alacrity. “For a woman with sound ideas,” he declared, “commend me to your mother!”
Maud, having finished her duties, resumed her place by the side of the guest of the evening. Their hands met under the tablecloth for a moment. To the girl, the pleasure of such a proceeding was natural enough, but Fitzgerald asked himself for the fiftieth time why on earth he, who, notwithstanding his present modest exterior, was a young man of some experience, should from such primitive love-making derive a rapture which nothing else in life afforded him. He was, at that moment, content with his future—a future which he had absolutely and finally decided upon. He was content with his father-in-law and his mother-in-law, with Daisy Villa, and the prospect of a Daisy Villa for himself—content, even, with Adolphus! But for Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, these things were not to be! The awakening was even then at hand.
The dining room of Daisy Villa fronted the street, and was removed from it only a few feet. Consequently, the footsteps of passers-by upon the flagged pavement were clearly distinguishable. It was just at the moment when Mrs. Barnes was inserting a few fresh almonds into a somewhat precarious tipsy cake, and Mr. Barnes was engaged with the decanting of the port, that two pairs of footsteps, considerably heavier than those of the ordinary promenader, paused outside and finally stopped. The gate creaked. Mr. Barnes looked up.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “What’s that? Visitors?”
They all listened. The front-door bell rang. Adolphus, in response to a gesture from his mother, rose sulkily to his feet.
“Job I hate!” he muttered as he left the room.
The rest of the family, full of the small curiosity of people of their class, were intent upon listening for voices outside. The demeanour of Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, therefore, escaped their notice. It is doubtful, in any case, whether their perceptions would have been sufficiently keen to have enabled them to trace the workings of emotion in the countenance of a person so magnificently endowed by Providence with the art of subterfuge. Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald seemed simply to have stiffened in acute and earnest attention. It was only for a moment that he hesitated. His unfailing inspiration told him the truth!
His course of action was simple—he rose to his feet and strolled to the window.
“Some people who have lost their way in the fog, perhaps,” he remarked. “What a night!”
He laid his hand upon the sash—simultaneously there was a rush of cold air into the room, a half-angry, half-frightened exclamation from Adolphus in the passage, a scream from Miss Maud—and no Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald! No one had time to be more than blankly astonished. The door was opened, and a police inspector, in very nice dark braided uniform and a peaked cap, stood in the doorway.
Mr. Barnes dropped the port, and Mrs. Barnes, emulating her daughter’s example, screamed. The inspector, as though conscious of the draught, moved rapidly toward the window.
“You had a visitor here, Mr. Barnes,” he said quickly—“a Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald. Where is he?”
There was no one who could answer! Mr. Barnes was speechless between the shock of the spilt port and the appearance of a couple of uniformed policemen in his dining room. John Dory, the detective, he knew well enough in his private capacity, but in his uniform, and attended by policemen, he presented a new and startling appearance! Mrs. Barnes was in hysterics, and Maud was gazing like a creature turned to stone at the open window, through which little puffs of fog were already drifting into the room. Adolphus, with an air of bewilderment, was standing with his mouth and eyes wider open than they had ever been in his life. And as for the honoured guest of these admirable inhabitants of Daisy Villa, there was not the slightest doubt but that Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald had disappeared through the window!
Fitzgerald’s expedition was nearly at an end. Soon he paused, crossed the road to a block of flats, ascended to the eighth floor by an automatic lift, and rang the bell at a door which bore simply the number II. A trim parlourmaid opened it after a few minutes’ delay.
“Is Miss Emerson at home?” he asked.
“Miss Emerson is in,” the maid admitted, with some hesitation, “but I am not sure that she will see any one to-night.”
“I have a message for her,” Fitzgerald said.
“Will you give me your name, sir, please?” the maid asked.
An inner door was suddenly opened. A slim girl, looking taller than she really was by reason of the rug upon which she stood, looked out into the hall—a girl with masses of brown hair loosely coiled on her head, with pale face and strange eyes. She opened her lips as though to call to her visitor by name, and as suddenly closed them again. There was not much expression in her face, but there was enough to show that his visit was not unwelcome.
“You!” she exclaimed. “Come in! Please come in at once!”
Fitzgerald obeyed the invitation of the girl whom he had come to visit. She had retreated a little into the room, but the door was no sooner closed than she held out her hands.
“Peter!” she exclaimed. “Peter, you have come to me at last!”
Her lips were a little parted; her eyes were bright with pleasure; her whole expression was one of absolute delight. Fitzgerald frowned, as though he found her welcome a little too enthusiastic for his taste.
“Violet,” he said, “please don’t look at me as though I were a prodigal sheep. If you do, I shall be sorry that I came.”
Her hands fell to her side, the pleasure died out of her face—only her eyes still questioned him. Fitzgerald carefully laid his hat on a vacant chair.
“Something has happened?” she said. “Tell me that all that madness is over—that you are yourself again!”
“So far as regards my engagement with Messrs. Howell & Wilson,” he said, despondently, “you are right. As regards—Miss Barnes, there has been no direct misunderstanding between us, but I am afraid, for the present, that I must consider that—well, in abeyance.”
“That is something!” she exclaimed, drawing a little breath of relief. “Sit down, Peter. Will you have something to eat? I finished dinner an hour ago, but—”
“Thank you,” Fitzgerald interrupted, “I supped—extremely well in Streatham!”
“In Streatham!” she repeated. “Why, how did you get there? The fog is awful.”
“Fogs do not trouble me,” Fitzgerald answered. “I walked. I could have done it as well blindfold. I will take a whisky and soda, if I may.”
She led him to an easy-chair.
“I will mix it myself,” she said.
Without being remarkably good-looking, she was certainly a pleasant and attractive-looking young woman. Her cheeks were a little pale; her hair—perfectly natural—was a wonderful deep shade of soft brown. Her eyes were long and narrow—almost Oriental in shape—and they seemed in some queer way to match the room; he could have sworn that in the firelight they flashed green. Her body and limbs, notwithstanding her extreme slightness, were graceful, perhaps, but with the grace of the tigress. She wore a green silk dressing jacket, pulled together with a belt of lizard skin, and her neck was bare. Her skirt was of some thin black material. She was obviously in deshabille, and yet there was something neat and trim about the smaller details of her toilette.
“Go on, please, Peter,” she begged. “You are keeping me in suspense.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” he answered. “It’s over—that’s all.”
She drew a sharp breath through her teeth.
“You are not going to marry that girl—that bourgeois doll in Streatham?”
Fitzgerald sat up in his chair.
“Look here,” he said, seriously, “don’t you call her names. If I’m not going to marry her, it isn’t my fault. She is the only girl I have ever wanted, and probably—most probably—she will be the only one I ever shall want. That’s honest, isn’t it?”
The girl winced.
“Yes,” she said, “it is honest!”
“I should have married her,” the young man continued, “and I should have been happy. I had my eye on a villa—not too near her parents—and I saw my way to a little increase of salary. I should have taken to gardening, to walks in the Park, with an occasional theatre, and I should have thoroughly enjoyed a fortnight every summer at Skegness or Sutton-on-Sea. We should have saved a little money. I should have gone to church regularly, and if possible I should have filled some minor public offices. You may call this bourgeois—it was my idea of happiness.”
“Was!” she murmured.
“Is still,” he declared, sharply, “but I shall never attain to it. To-night I had to leave Maud—to leave the supper table of Daisy Villa—through the window!”
She looked at him in amazement.
“The police,” he explained. “That brute Dory was at the bottom of it.”
“But surely,” she murmured, “you told me that you had a bona-fide situation—”
“So I had,” he declared, “and I was a fool not to be content with it. It was my habit of taking long country walks, and their rotten auditing, which undid me! You understand that this was all before I met Maud? Since the day I spoke to her, I turned over a new leaf. I have left the night work alone, and I repaid every penny of the firm’s money which they could ever have possibly found out about. There was only that one little affair of mine down at Sudbury.”
“Tell me what you are going to do?” she whispered.
“I have no alternative,” he answered. “The law has kicked me out from the respectable places. The law shall pay!”
She looked at him with glowing eyes.
“Have you any plans?” she asked, softly.
“I have,” he answered. “I have considered the subject from a good many points of view, and I have decided to start in business for myself as a private detective.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“My dear Peter!” she murmured. “Couldn’t you be a little more original?”
“That is only what I am going to call myself,” he answered. “I may tell you that I am going to strike out on somewhat new lines.”
“Please explain,” she begged.
He recrossed his knees and made himself a little more comfortable.
“The weak part of every great robbery, however successful,” he began, “is the great wastage in value which invariably results. For jewels which cost—say five thousand pounds, and to procure which the artist has to risk his life as well as his liberty, he has to consider himself lucky if he clears eight hundred. For the Hermitage rubies, for instance, where I nearly had to shoot a man dead, I realized rather less than four hundred pounds. It doesn’t pay.”
“Go on,” she begged.
“I am not clear,” he continued, “how far this class of business will attract me at all, but I do not propose, in any case, to enter into any transactions on my own account. I shall work for other people, and for cash down. Your experience of life, Violet, has been fairly large. Have you not sometimes come into contact with people driven into a situation from which they would willingly commit any crime to escape if they dared? It is not with them a question of money at all—it is simply a matter of ignorance. They do not know how to commit a crime. They have had no experience, and if they attempt it, they know perfectly well that they are likely to blunder. A person thoroughly experienced in the ways of criminals—a person of genius like myself—would have, without a doubt, an immense clientele, if only he dared put up his signboard. Literally, I cannot do that. Actually, I mean to do so! I shall be willing to accept contracts either to help nervous people out of an undesirable crisis; or, on the other hand, to measure my wits against the wits of Scotland Yard, and to discover the criminals whom they have failed to secure. I shall make my own bargains, and I shall be paid in cash. I shall take on nothing that I am not certain about.”
“But your clients?” she asked, curiously. “How will you come into contact with them?”
He smiled.
“I am not afraid of business being slack,” he said. “The world is full of fools.”
“You cannot live outside the law, Peter,” she objected. “You are clever, I know, but they are not all fools at Scotland Yard.”
“You forget,” he reminded her, “that there will be a perfectly legitimate side to my profession. The other sort of case I shall only accept if I can see my way clear to make a success of it. Needless to say, I shall have to refuse the majority that are offered to me.”
She came a little nearer to him.
“In any case,” she said, with a little sigh, “you have given up that foolish, bourgeois life of yours?”
He looked down into her face, and his eyes were cold.
“Violet,” he said, “this is no time for misunderstandings. I should like you to know that apart from one young lady, who possesses my whole affection—”
“All of it?” she pleaded.
“All!” he declared emphatically. “She will doubtless be faithless to me—under the circumstances, I cannot blame her—but so far as I am concerned, I have no affection whatever for any one else.”
She crept back to her place.
“I could be so useful to you,” she murmured.
“You could and you shall, if you will be sensible,” he answered.
“Tell me how?” she begged.
He was silent for a moment.
“Are you acting now?” he asked.
“I am understudying Molly,” she answered, “and I have a very small part at the Globe.”
He nodded.
“There is no reason to interfere with that,” he said, “in fact, I wish you to continue your connection with the profession. It brings you into touch with the class of people among whom I am likely to find clients.”
“Go on, please,” she begged.
“On two conditions—or rather one,” he said, “you can, if you like, become my secretary and partner—and find the money we shall require to make a start.”
“Conditions?” she asked.
“You must understand, once and for all,” he said, “that I will not be made love to, and that I can treat you only as a working; companion. My name will be Peter Ruff, and yours Miss Brown. You will have to dress like a secretary, and behave like one. Sometimes there will be plenty of work for you, and sometimes there will be none at all. Sometimes you will be bored to death, and sometimes there will be excitement. I do not wish to make you vain, but I may add, especially as you are aware of my personal feelings toward you, that you are the only person in the world to whom I would make this offer.”
She sighed gently.
“Tell me, Peter,” she asked, “when do you mean to start this new enterprise?”
“Not for six months—perhaps a year,” he answered. “I must go to Paris—perhaps Vienna. I might even have to go to New York. There are certain associations with which I must come into touch—certain information I must become possessed of.”
“Peter,” she said, “I like your scheme, but there is just one thing. Such men as you should be the brains of great enterprises. Don’t you understand what I mean? It shouldn’t be you who does the actual thing which brings you within the power of the law. I am not over-scrupulous, you know. I hate wrongdoing, but I have never been able to treat as equal criminals the poor man who steals for a living, and the rich financier who robs right and left out of sheer greed. I agree with you that crime is not an absolute thing. The circumstances connected with every action in life determine its morality or immorality. But, Peter, it isn’t worth while to go outside the law!”
He nodded.
“You are a sensible girl,” he said, “I have always thought that. We’ll talk over my cases together, if they seem to run a little too close to the line.”
“Very well, Peter,” she said, “I accept.”
About twelve months after the interrupted festivities at Daisy Villa, that particular neighbourhood was again the scene of some rejoicing. Standing before the residence of Mr. Barnes were three carriages, drawn in each case by a pair of grey horses. The coachmen and their steeds were similarly adorned with white rosettes. It would have been an insult to the intelligence of the most youthful of the loungers-by to have informed them that a wedding was projected.
At the neighbouring church all was ready. The clerk stood at the door, the red drugget was down, the usual little crowd were standing all agog upon the pavement. There was one unusual feature of the proceedings: Instead of a solitary policeman, there were at least a dozen who kept clear the entrance to the church. Their presence greatly puzzled a little old gentleman who had joined the throng of sightseers. He pushed himself to the front and touched one of them upon the shoulder.
“Mr. Policeman,” he said, “will you tell me why there are so many of you to keep such a small crowd in order?”
“Bridegroom’s a member of the force, sir, for one reason,” the man answered good-humouredly.
“And the other?” the old gentleman persisted.
The policeman behaved as though he had not heard—a proceeding which his natural stolidity rendered easy. The little old gentleman, however, was not so easily put off. He tapped the man once more upon the shoulder.
“And the other reason, Mr. Policeman?” he asked insinuatingly.
“Not allowed to talk about that, sir,” was the somewhat gruff reply.
The little old gentleman moved away, a trifle hurt. He was a very nicely dressed old gentleman indeed, and everything about him seemed to savour of prosperity. But he was certainly garrulous. An obviously invited guest was standing upon the edge of the pavement stroking a pair of lavender kid gloves. The little old gentleman sidled up to him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, raising his hat. “I am just back from Australia—haven’t seen a wedding in England for fifty years. Do you think that they would let me into the church?”
The invited guest looked down at his questioner and approved of him. Furthermore, he seemed exceedingly glad to be interrupted in his somewhat nervous task of waiting for the wedding party.
“Certainly, sir,” he replied cheerfully. “Come along in with me, and I’ll find you a seat.”
Down the scarlet drugget they went—the big best man with the red hands and the lavender kid gloves and the opulent-looking old gentleman with the gold-rimmed spectacles and the handsome walking stick.
“Dear me, this is very interesting!” the latter remarked. “Is it the custom, sir, always, may I ask, in this country, to have so many policemen at a wedding?”
The big man looked downward and shook his head.
“Special reason,” he said mysteriously. “Fact is, young lady was engaged once to a very bad character—a burglar whom the police have been wanting for years. He had to leave the country, but he has written her once or twice since in a mysterious sort of way—wanted her to be true to him, and all that sort of thing. Dory—that’s the bridegroom—has got a sort of an idea that he may turn up to-day.”
“This is very exciting—very!” the little old gentleman remarked. “Reminds me of our younger days out in Australia.”
“You sit down here,” the best man directed, ushering his companion into an empty pew. “I must get back again outside, or I shall have the bridegroom arriving.”
“Good-day to you, sir, and many thanks!” the little old gentleman said politely.
Soon the bridegroom arrived—a smart young officer, well thought of at Scotland Yard, well set up, wearing a long tail coat a lilac and white tie, and shaking in every limb. He walked up the aisle accompanied by the best man, and the little old gentleman from Australia watched him genially from behind those gold-rimmed glasses. And, then, scarcely was he at the altar rails when through the open church door one heard the sounds of horses’ feet, one heard a rustle, the murmur of voices, caught a glimpse of a waiting group arranging themselves finally in the porch of the church. Maud, on the arm of her father, came slowly up the aisle. The little old gentleman turned his head as though this was something upon which he feared to look. He saw nothing of Mr. Barnes, in a new coat, with tuberose and spray of maidenhair in his coat, and exceedingly tight patent leather boots on his feet; he saw nothing of Mrs. Barnes, clad in a gown of the lightest magenta, with a bonnet smothered with violets.
It was in the vestry that the only untoward incident of that highly successful wedding took place. The ceremony was over! Bride, bridegroom and parents trooped in. And when the register was opened, one witness had already signed! In the clear, precise writing his name stood out upon the virgin page—
Spencer Fitzgerald
The bridegroom swore, the bride nearly collapsed. The clerk pressed into the hands of the latter an envelope.
“From the little old gentleman,” he announced, “who was fussing round the church this morning.”
Mrs. Dory tore it open and gave a cry of delight. A diamond cross, worth all the rest of her presents put together, flashed soft lights from a background of dull velvet. Her husband had looked over her shoulder, and with a scowl seized the morocco case and threw it far from him.
It was the only disturbing incident of a highly successful function!
At precisely the same moment when the wedding guests were seated around the hospitable board of Daisy Villa, a celebration of a somewhat different nature was taking place in the more aristocratic neighbourhood of Curzon Street. Here, however, the little party was a much smaller one, and the innocent gaiety of the gathering at Daisy Villa was entirely lacking. The luncheon table around which the four men were seated presented all the unlovely signs of a meal where self-restraint had been abandoned—where conviviality has passed the bounds of licence. Edibles were represented only by a single dish of fruit; the tablecloth, stained with wine and cigar ash, seemed crowded with every sort of bottle and every sort of glass. A magnum of champagne, empty, another half full, stood in the middle of the table; whisky, brandy, liqueurs of various sorts were all represented; glasses—some full, some empty, some filled with cigar ash and cigarette stumps—an ugly sight!
The guest in chief arose. Short, thick-set, red-faced, with bulbous eyes, and veins about his temples which just now were unpleasantly prominent, he seemed, indeed, a very fitting person to have been the recipient of such hospitality. He stood clutching a little at the tablecloth and swaying upon his feet. He spoke as a drunken man, but such words as he pronounced clearly showed him to be possessed of a voice naturally thick and raspy. It was obvious that he was a person of entirely different class from his three companions.
“G—gentlemen,” he said, “I must be off. I thank you very much for this—hospitality. Honoured, I’m sure, to have sat down in such—such company. Good afternoon, all!”
He lurched a little toward the door, but his neighbour at the table—who was also his host—caught hold of his coat tail and pulled him back into his chair.
“No hurry, Masters,” he said. “One more liqueur, eh? It’s a raw afternoon.”
“N—not another drop, Sir Richard!” the man declared. “Not another drop to drink. I am very much obliged to you all, but I must be off. Must be off,” he repeated, making another effort to rise.
His host held him by the arm. The man resented it—he showed signs of anger.
“D—n it all! I—I’m not a prisoner, am I?” he exclaimed angrily. “Tell you I’ve got—appointment—club. Can’t you see it’s past five o’clock?”
“That’s all right, Masters,” the man whom he had addressed as Sir Richard declared soothingly. “We want just a word with you on business first, before you go—Colonel Dickinson, Lord Merries and myself.”
Masters shook his head.
“See you to-morrow,” he declared. “No time to talk business now. Let me go!”
He made another attempt to rise, which his host also prevented.
“Masters, don’t be a fool!” the latter said firmly. “You’ve got to hear what we want to say to you. Sit down and listen.”
Masters relapsed sullenly into his chair. His little eyes seemed to creep closer to one another. So they wanted to talk business! Perhaps it was for that reason that they had bidden him sit at their table—had entertained him so well! The very thought cleared his brain.
“Go on,” he said shortly.
Sir Richard lit a cigarette and leaned further back in his chair. He was a man apparently about fifty years of age—tall, well dressed, with good features, save for his mouth, which resembled more than anything a rat trap. He was perfectly bald, and he had the air of a man who was a careful liver. His eyes were bright, almost beadlike; his fingers long and a trifle over-manicured. One would have judged him to be what he was—a man of fashion and a patron of the turf.
“Masters,” he said, “we are all old friends here. We want to speak to you plainly. We three have had a try, as you know—Merries, Dickinson and myself—to make the coup of our lives. We failed, and we’re up against it hard.”
“Very hard, indeed,” Lord Merries murmured softly.
“Deuced hard!” Colonel Dickinson echoed.
Masters was sitting tight, breathing a little hard, looking fixedly at his host.
“Take my own case first,” the latter continued. “I am Sir Richard Dyson, ninth baronet, with estates in Wiltshire and Scotland, and a town house in Cleveland Place. I belong to the proper clubs for a man in my position, and, somehow or other—we won’t say how—I have managed to pay my way. There isn’t an acre of my property that isn’t mortgaged for more than its value. My town house—well, it doesn’t belong to me at all! I have twenty-six thousand pounds to pay you on Monday. To save my life, I could not raise twenty-six thousand farthings! So much for me.”
The man Masters ground his teeth.
“So much for you!” he muttered.
“Take the case next,” Sir Richard continued, “of my friend Merries here. Merries is an Earl, it is true, but he never had a penny to bless himself with. He’s tried acting, reporting, marrying—anything to make an honest living. So far, I am afraid we must consider Lord Merries as something of a failure, eh?”
“A rotten failure, I should say,” that young nobleman declared gloomily.
“Lord Merries is, to put it briefly, financially unsound,” Sir Richard declared.
“What is the amount of your debt to Mr. Masters, Jim?”
“Eleven thousand two hundred pounds,” Lord Merries answered.
“And we may take it, I presume, for granted that you have not that sum, nor anything like it, at your disposal?” Sir Richard asked.
“Not a fiver!” Lord Merries declared with emphasis.
“We come now, Mr. Masters, to our friend Colonel Dickinson,” Sir Richard continued. “Colonel Dickinson is, perhaps, in a more favourable situation than any of us. He has a small but regular income, and he has expectations which it is not possible to mortgage fully. At the same time, it will be many years before they can—er—fructify. He is, therefore, with us in this somewhat unpleasant predicament in which we find ourselves.”
“Cut it short,” Masters growled. “I’m sick of so much talk. What’s it all mean?”
“It means simply this, Mr. Masters,” Sir Richard said, “we want you to take six months’ bills for our indebtedness to you.”
Masters rose to his feet. His thick lips were drawn a little apart. He had the appearance of a savage and discontented animal.
“So that’s why I’ve been asked here and fed up with wine and stuff, eh?” he exclaimed thickly. “Well, my answer to you is soon given. NO! I’ll take bills from no man! My terms are cash on settling day—cash to pay or cash to receive. I’ll have no other!”
Sir Richard rose also to his feet.
“Mr. Masters, I beg of you to be reasonable,” he said. “You will do yourself no good by adopting this attitude. Facts are facts. We haven’t got a thousand pounds between us.”
“I’ve heard that sort of a tale before,” Masters answered, with a sneer. “Job Masters is too old a bird to be caught by such chaff. I’ll take my risks, gentlemen. I’ll take my risks.”
He moved toward the door. No one spoke a word. The silence as he crossed the room seemed a little ominous. He looked over his shoulder. They were all three standing in their places, looking at him. A vague sense of uneasiness disturbed his equanimity.
“No offence, gents,” he said, “and good afternoon!”
Still no reply. He reached the door and turned the handle. The door was fast. He shook it—gently at first, and then violently. Suddenly he realized that it was locked. He turned sharply around.
“What game’s this?” he exclaimed, fiercely. “Let me out!”
They stood in their places without movement. There was something a little ominous in their silence. Masters was fast becoming a sober man.
“Let me out of here,” he exclaimed, “or I’ll break the door down!”
Sir Richard Dyson came slowly towards him. There was something in his appearance which terrified Masters. He raised his fist to strike the door. He was a fighting man, but he felt a sudden sense of impotence.
“Mr. Masters,” Sir Richard said suavely, “the truth is that we cannot afford to let you go—unless you agree to do what we have asked. You see we really have not the money or any way of raising it—and the inconvenience of being posted you have yourself very ably pointed out. Change your mind, Mr. Masters. Take those bills. We’ll do our best to meet them.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Masters answered, striking the door fiercely with his clenched fist. “I’ll have cash—nothing but the cash!”
There was a dull, sickening thud, and the bookmaker went over like a shot rabbit. His legs twitched for a moment—a little moan that was scarcely audible broke from his lips. Then he lay quite still. Sir Richard bent over him with the life preserver still in his hand.
“I’ve done it!” he muttered, hoarsely. “One blow! Thank Heaven, he didn’t want another! His skull was as soft as pudding! Ugh!”
He turned away. The man who lay stretched upon the floor was an ugly sight. His two companions, cowering over the table, were not much better. Dyson’s trembling fingers went out for the brandy decanter. Half of what he poured out was spilled upon the tablecloth. The rest he drank from a tumbler, neat.
“It’s nervous work, this, you fellows,” he said, hoarsely.
“It’s hellish!” Dickinson answered. “Let’s have some air in the room. By God, it’s close!”
He sank back into his chair, white to the lips. Dyson looked at him sharply.
“Look here,” he exclaimed, “I hold you both to our bargain! I was to be the one he attacked and who struck the blow—in self-defence! Remember that—it was in self-defence! I’ve done it! I’ve done my share! I hope to God I’ll forget it some day. Andrew, you know your task. Be a man, and get to work!”
Dickinson rose to his feet unsteadily. “Yes!” he said. “What was it? I have forgotten, for the moment, but I am ready.”
“You must get his betting book from his pocket,” Sir Richard directed. “Then you must help Merries downstairs with him, and into the car. Merries is—to get rid of him.”
Merries shivered. His hand, too, went out for the brandy.
“To get rid of him,” he muttered. “It sounds easy!”
“It is easy,” Sir Richard declared. “You have only to keep your nerve, and the thing is done. No one will see him inside the car, in that motoring coat and glasses. You can drive somewhere out into the country and leave him.”
“Leave him!” Merries repeated, trembling. “Leave him—yes!”
Neither of the two men moved.
“I must do more than my share, I suppose,” Sir Richard declared contemptuously. “Come!”
They dragged the man’s body on to a chair, wrapped a huge coat around him, tied a motoring cap under his chin, fixed goggles over his eyes. Sir Richard strolled into the hall and opened the front door. He stood there for a moment, looking up and down the street. When he gave the signal they dragged him out, supported between them, across the pavement, into the car. Ugh! His attitude was so natural as to be absolutely ghastly. Merries started the car and sprang into the driver’s seat. There were people in the Square now, but the figure reclining in the dark, cushioned interior looked perfectly natural.
“So long, Jimmy,” Sir Richard called out. “See you this evening.”
“Right O!” Merries replied, with a brave effort.
Peter Ruff, summoned by telephone from his sitting room, slipped down the stairs like a cat—noiseless, swift. The voice which had summoned him had been the voice of his secretary—a voice almost unrecognisable—a voice shaken with fear. Fear? No, it had been terror!
On the landing below, exactly underneath the room from which he had descended, there was a door upon which his name was written upon a small brass plate—Mr. Peter Ruff. He opened and closed it behind him with a swift movement which he had practised in his idle moments. He found himself looking in upon a curious scene.
Miss Brown, with the radiance of her hair effectually concealed, in plain black skirt and simple blouse—the ideal secretary—had risen from the seat in front of her typewriter, and was standing facing the door through which he had entered, with a small revolver—which he had given her for a birthday present only the day before—clasped in her outstretched hand. The object of her solicitude was, it seemed to Peter Ruff, the most pitiful-looking object upon which he had ever looked. The hours had dwelt with Merries as the years with some people, and worse. He had lost his cap; his hair hung over his forehead in wild confusion; his eyes were red, bloodshot, and absolutely aflame with the terrors through which he had lived—underneath them the black marks might have been traced with a charcoal pencil. His cheeks were livid save for one burning spot. His clothes, too, were in disorder—the starch had gone from his collar, his tie hung loosely outside his waistcoat. He was cowering back against the wall. And between him and the girl, stretched upon the floor, was the body of a man in a huge motor coat, a limp, inert mass which neither moved nor seemed to have any sign of life. No wonder that Peter Ruff looked around his office, whose serenity had been so tragically disturbed, with an air of mild surprise.
“Dear me,” he exclaimed, “something seems to have happened! My dear Violet, you can put that revolver away. I have secured the door.”
Her hand fell to her side. She gave a little shiver of relief. Peter Ruff nodded.
“That is more comfortable,” he declared. “Now, perhaps, you will explain—”
“That young man,” she interrupted, “or lunatic—whatever he calls himself—burst in here a few minutes ago, dragging—that!” She pointed to the motionless figure upon the floor. “If I had not stopped him, he would have bolted off without a word of explanation.”
Peter Ruff, with his back against the door, shook his head gravely.
“My dear Lord Merries,” he said, “my office is not a mortuary.”
Merries gasped.
“You know me, then?” he muttered, hoarsely.
“Of course,” Ruff answered. “It is my profession to know everybody. Go and sit down upon that easy-chair, and drink the brandy and soda which Miss Brown is about to mix for you. That’s right.”
Merries staggered across the room and half fell into an easy-chair. He leaned over the side with his face buried in his hands, unable still to face the horror which lay upon the floor. A few seconds later, the tumbler of brandy and soda was in his hands. He drank it like a man who drains fresh life into his veins.
“Perhaps now,” Peter Ruff suggested, pointing to the motionless figure, “you can give me some explanation as to this!”
Merries looked away from him all the time he was speaking. His voice was thick and nervous.
“There were three of us lunching together,” he began—“four in all. There was a dispute, and this man threatened us. Afterwards there was a fight. It fell to my lot to take him away, and I can’t get rid of him! I can’t get rid of him!” he repeated, with something that sounded like a sob.
“I still do not see,” Peter Ruff argued, “why you should have brought him here and deposited him upon my perfectly new carpet.”
“You are Peter Ruff,” Merries declared. “ ‘Crime Investigator and Private Detective,’ you call yourself. You are used to this sort of thing. You will know what to do with it. It is part of your business.”
“I can assure you,” Peter Ruff answered, “that you are under a delusion as to the details of my profession. I am Peter Ruff,” he admitted, “and I call myself a crime investigator—in fact, I am the only one worth speaking of in the world. But I certainly deny that I am used to having dead bodies deposited upon my carpet, and that I make a habit of disposing of them—especially gratis.”
Merries tore open his coat.
“Listen,” he said, his voice shaking hysterically, “I must get rid of it or go mad. For two hours I have been driving about in a motor car with—it for a passenger. I drove to a quiet spot and I tried to lift it out—a policeman rode up! I tried again, a man rushed by on a motor cycle, and turned to look at me! I tried a few minutes later—the policeman came back! It was always the same. The night seemed to have eyes. I was watched everywhere. The—the face began to mock me. I’ll swear that I heard it chuckle once!”
Peter Ruff moved a little further away.
“I don’t think I’ll have anything to do with it,” he declared. “I don’t like your description at all.”
“It’ll be all right with you,” Merries declared eagerly. “It’s my nerves, that’s all. You see, I was there—when the accident happened. See here,” he added, tearing a pocketbook from his coat, “I have three hundred and seventy pounds saved up in case I had to bolt. I’ll keep seventy—three hundred for you—to dispose of it!”
Ruff leaned over the motionless body, looked into its face, and nodded.
“Masters, the bookmaker,” he remarked. “H’m! I did hear that he had a lot of money coming to him over the Cambridgeshire.”
Merries shuddered.
“May I go?” he pleaded. “There’s the three hundred on the table. For God’s sake, let me go!”
Peter Ruff nodded.