Part 5

“The man and I had a brief struggle—he was armed with a knife by the way. In the end he succeeded in making off by way of the window.”

“What did you do then, Mr. McGrath?”

“I examined the contents of my suit-case.”

“Had anything been taken?”

“Nothing of—importance,” said Anthony slowly.

The manager leaned back with a sigh.

“I am glad of that,” he remarked. “But you will allow me to say, Mr. McGrath, that I do not quite understand your attitude in the matter. You made no attempt to arouse the hotel? To pursue the thief?”

Anthony shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing of value had been taken, as I tell you. I am aware, of course, that strictly speaking it is a case for the police——”

He paused, and the manager murmured without any particular enthusiasm:

“For the police—of course——”

“In any case, I was fairly certain that the man would manage to make good his escape, and since nothing was taken why bother with the police?”

The manager smiled a little.

“I see that you realize, Mr. McGrath, that I am not at all anxious to have the police called in. From my point of view it is always disastrous. If the newspapers can get hold of anything connected with a big fashionable hotel such as this, they always run it for all it is worth, no matter how insignificant the real subject matter may be.”

“Quite so,” agreed Anthony. “Now I told you that nothing of value had been taken, and that was perfectly true in a sense. Nothing of any value to the thief was taken, but he got hold of something which is of considerable value to me.”

“Ah?”

“Letters, you understand.”

An expression of superhuman discretion, only to be achieved by a Frenchman, settled down upon the manager’s face.

“I comprehend,” he murmured. “But perfectly. Naturally, it is not a matter for the police.”

“We are quite agreed upon that point. But you will understand that I have every intention of recovering these letters. In the part of the world where I come from, people are used to doing things for themselves. What I require from you therefore is the fullest possible information you can give me about this waiter, Giuseppe.”

“I see no objection to that,” said the manager after a moment or two’s pause. “I cannot give you the information offhand, of course, but if you will return in half an hour’s time I will have everything ready to lay before you.”

“Thank you very much. That will suit me admirably.”

In half an hour’s time, Anthony returned to the office again to find that the manager had been as good as his word. Jotted down upon a piece of paper were all the relevant facts known about Giuseppe Manelli.

“He came to us, you see, about three months ago. A skilled and experienced waiter. Has given complete satisfaction. He has been in England about five years.”

Together the two men ran over a list of the hotels and restaurants where the Italian had worked. One fact struck Anthony as being possibly of significance. At two of the hotels in question there had been serious robberies during the time that Giuseppe was employed there, though no suspicion of any kind had attached to him in either case. Still, the fact was significant.

Was Giuseppe merely a clever hotel thief? Had his search of Anthony’s suit-case been merely part of his habitual professional tactics? He might just possibly have had the packet of letters in his hand at the moment when Anthony switched on the light, and have shoved it into his pocket mechanically so as to have his hands free. In that case, the thing was mere plain or garden robbery.

Against that, there was to be put the man’s excitement of the evening before when he had caught sight of the papers lying on the table. There had been no money or object of value there such as would excite the cupidity of an ordinary thief.

No, Anthony felt convinced that Giuseppe had been acting as a tool for some outside agency. With the information supplied to him by the manager, it might be possible to learn something about Giuseppe’s private life, and so finally track him down. He gathered up the sheet of paper and rose.

“Thank you very much indeed. It’s quite unnecessary to ask, I suppose, whether Giuseppe is still in the hotel?”

The manager smiled.

“His bed was not slept in, and all his things have been left behind. He must have rushed straight out after his attack upon you. I don’t think there is much chance of our seeing him again.”

“I imagine not. Well, thank you very much indeed. I shall be staying on here for the present.”

“I hope you will be successful in your task, but I confess that I am rather doubtful.”

“I always hope for the best.”

One of Anthony’s first proceedings was to question some of the other waiters who had been friendly with Giuseppe, but he obtained very little to go upon. He wrote out an advertisement on the lines he had planned, and had it sent to five of the most widely read newspapers. He was just about to go out and visit the restaurant at which Giuseppe had been previously employed when the telephone rang. Anthony took up the receiver.

“Hullo, what is it?”

A toneless voice replied.

“Am I speaking to Mr. McGrath?”

“You are. Who are you?”

“This is Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins. Just a minute, please. I will put you through to Mr. Balderson.”

“Our worthy publishers,” thought Anthony. “So they are getting worried too, are they? They needn’t. There’s a week to run still.”

A hearty voice struck suddenly upon his ear.

“Hullo! That Mr. McGrath?”

“Speaking.”

“I’m Mr. Balderson of Balderson and Hodgkins. What about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath?”

“Well,” said Anthony, “what about it?”

“Everything about it. I understand, Mr. McGrath, that you have just arrived in this country from South Africa. That being so, you can’t possibly understand the position. There’s going to be trouble about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath, big trouble. Sometimes I wish we’d never said we’d handle it.”

“Indeed?”

“I assure you it’s so. At present I’m anxious to get it into my possession as quickly as possible, so as to have a couple of copies made. Then, if the original is destroyed—well, no harm will be done.”

“Dear me,” said Anthony.

“Yes, I expect it sounds absurd to you, Mr. McGrath. But, I assure you, you don’t appreciate the situation. There’s a determined effort being made to prevent its ever reaching this office. I say to you quite frankly and without humbug that if you attempt to bring it yourself it’s ten to one that you’ll never get here.”

“I doubt that,” said Anthony. “When I want to get anywhere, I usually do.”

“You’re up against a very dangerous lot of people. I wouldn’t have believed it myself a month ago. I tell you, Mr. McGrath, we’ve been bribed and threatened and cajoled by one lot and another until we don’t know whether we’re on our heads or our heels. My suggestion is that you do not attempt to bring the manuscript here. One of our people will call upon you at the hotel and take possession of it.”

“And supposing the gang does him in?” asked Anthony.

“The responsibility would then be ours—not yours. You would have delivered it to our representative and obtained a written discharge. The cheque for—er—a thousand pounds which we are instructed to hand to you will not be available until Wednesday next by the terms of our agreement with the executors of the late—er—author—you know whom I mean, but if you insist I will send my own cheque for that amount by the messenger.”

Anthony reflected for a minute or two. He had intended to keep the Memoirs until the last day of grace, because he was anxious to see for himself what all the fuss was about. Nevertheless, he realized the force of the publisher’s arguments.

“All right,” he said, with a little sigh. “Have it your own way. Send your man along. And if you don’t mind sending that cheque as well I’d rather have it now, as I may be going out of England before next Wednesday.”

“Certainly, Mr. McGrath. Our representative will call upon you first thing to-morrow morning. It will be wiser not to send anyone direct from the office. Our Mr. Holmes lives in South London. He will call in on his way to us, and will give you a receipt for the package. I suggest that to-night you should place a dummy packet in the manager’s safe. Your enemies will get to hear of this, and it will prevent any attack being made upon your apartments to-night.”

“Very well, I will do as you direct.”

Anthony hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.

Then he went on with his interrupted plan of seeking news of the slippery Giuseppe. He drew a complete blank, however. Giuseppe had worked at the restaurant in question, but nobody seemed to know anything of his private life or associates.

“But I’ll get you, my lad,” murmured Anthony, between his teeth. “I’ll get you yet. It’s only a matter of time.”

His second night in London was entirely peaceful.

At nine o’clock the following morning, the card of Mr. Holmes from Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins was sent up, and Mr. Holmes followed it. A small, fair man with a quiet manner. Anthony handed over the manuscript, and received in exchange a cheque for a thousand pounds. Mr. Holmes packed up the manuscript in the small brown bag he carried, wished Anthony good morning, and departed. The whole thing seemed very tame.

“But perhaps he’ll be murdered on the way there,” Anthony murmured aloud, as he stared idly out of the window. “I wonder now—I very much wonder.”

He put the cheque in an envelope, enclosed a few lines of writing with it, and sealed it up carefully. Jimmy, who had been more or less in funds at the time of his encounter with Anthony at Bulawayo, had advanced him a substantial sum of money which was, as yet, practically untouched.

“If one’s job’s done with, the other isn’t,” said Anthony to himself. “Up to now, I’ve bungled it. But never say die. I think that, suitably disguised, I shall go and have a look at 487, Pont Street.”

He packed his belongings, went down and paid his bill, and ordered his luggage to be put on a taxi. Suitably rewarding those who stood in his path, most of whom had done nothing whatever materially to add to his comfort, he was on the point of being driven off, when a small boy rushed down the steps with a letter.

“Just come for you, this very minute, sir.”

With a sigh, Anthony produced yet another shilling. The taxi groaned heavily and jumped forward with a hideous crashing of gears, and Anthony opened the letter.

It was rather a curious document. He had to read it four times before he could be sure of what it was all about. Put in plain English (the letter was not in plain English, but in the peculiar involved style common to missives issued by Government officials) it presumed that Mr. McGrath was arriving in England from South Africa to-day—Thursday, it referred obliquely to the Memoirs of Count Stylptitch, and begged Mr. McGrath to do nothing in the matter until he had had a confidential conversation with Mr. George Lomax, and certain other parties whose magnificence was vaguely hinted at. It also contained a definite invitation to go down to Chimneys as the guest of Lord Caterham, on the following day, Friday.

A mysterious and thoroughly obscure communication. Anthony enjoyed it very much.

“Dear old England,” he murmured affectionately. “Two days behind the times, as usual. Rather a pity. Still, I can’t go down to Chimneys under false pretences. I wonder, though, if there’s an inn handy? Mr. Anthony Cade might stay at the inn without anyone being the wiser.”

He leaned out of the window, and gave new directions to the taxi driver, who acknowledged them with a snort of contempt.

The taxi drew up before one of London’s more obscure hostelries. The fare, however, was paid on a scale befitting its point of departure.

Having booked a room in the name of Anthony Cade, Anthony passed into a dingy writing-room, took out a sheet of notepaper stamped with the legend Hotel Blitz, and wrote rapidly.

He explained that he had arrived on the preceding Tuesday, that he had handed over the manuscript in question to Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins, and he regretfully declined the kind invitation of Lord Caterham as he was leaving England almost immediately. He signed the letter “Yours faithfully, James McGrath.”

“And now,” said Anthony, as he affixed the stamp to the envelope. “To business. Exit James McGrath, and Enter Anthony Cade.”

8

A Dead Man

On that same Thursday afternoon Virginia Revel had been playing tennis at Ranelagh. All the way back to Pont Street, as she lay back in the long, luxurious limousine, a little smile played upon her lips, as she rehearsed her part in the forthcoming interview. Of course it was within the bounds of possibility that the blackmailer might not reappear, but she felt pretty certain that he would. She had shown herself an easy prey. Well, perhaps this time there would be a little surprise for him!

When the car drew up at the house, she turned to speak to the chauffeur before going up the steps.

“How’s your wife, Walton? I forgot to ask.”

“Better I think, ma’am. The doctor said he’d look in and see her about half-past six. Will you be wanting the car again?”

Virginia reflected for a minute.

“I shall be away for the week-end. I’m going by the 6.40 from Paddington, but I shan’t need you again—a taxi will do for that. I’d rather you saw the doctor. If he thinks it would do your wife good to go away for the week-end, take her somewhere, Walton. I’ll stand the expense.”

Cutting short the man’s thanks with an impatient nod of the head, Virginia ran up the steps, delved into her bag in search of her latchkey, remembered she hadn’t got it with her, and hastily rang the bell.

It was not answered at once, but as she waited there a young man came up the steps. He was shabbily dressed, and carried in his hand a sheaf of leaflets. He held one out to Virginia with the legend on it plainly visible: “Why Did I Serve my Country?” In his left hand he held a collecting-box.

“I can’t buy two of those awful poems in one day,” said Virginia pleadingly. “I bought one this morning. I did, indeed, honour bright.”

The young man threw back his head and laughed. Virginia laughed with him. Running her eyes carelessly over him, she thought him a more pleasing specimen than usual of London’s unemployed. She liked his brown face, and the lean hardness of him. She went so far as to wish she had a job for him.

But at that moment the door opened, and immediately Virginia forgot all about the problem of the unemployed, for to her astonishment the door was opened by her own maid, Élise.

“Where’s Chilvers?” she demanded sharply, as she stepped into the hall.

“But he is gone, madame, with the others.”

“What others? Gone where?”

“But to Datchet, madame—to the cottage, as your telegram said.”

“My telegram?” said Virginia, utterly at sea.

“Did not madame send a telegram? Surely there can be no mistake. It came but an hour ago.”

“I never sent any telegram. What did it say?”

“I believe it is still on the table _là-bas_.”

Élise retired, pounced upon it, and brought it to her mistress in triumph.

“_Voilà_, madame!”

The telegram was addressed to Chilvers and ran as follows:

“Please take household down to cottage at once, and make preparations for week-end party there. Catch 5.49 train.”

There was nothing unusual about it, it was just the sort of message she herself had frequently sent before, when she had arranged a party at her riverside bungalow on the spur of the moment. She always took the whole household down, leaving an old woman as caretaker. Chilvers would not have seen anything wrong with the message, and like a good servant had carried out his orders faithfully enough.

“Me, I remained,” explained Élise, “knowing that madame would wish me to pack for her.”

“It’s a silly hoax,” cried Virginia, flinging down the telegram angrily. “You know perfectly well, Élise, that I am going to Chimneys. I told you so this morning.”

“I thought madame had changed her mind. Sometimes that does happen, does it not, madame?”

Virginia admitted the truth of the accusation with a half smile. She was busy trying to find a reason for this extraordinary practical joke. Élise cut forward a suggestion.

“_Mon Dieu!_” she cried, clasping her hands. “If it should be the malefactors, the thieves! They send the bogus telegram and get the _domestiques_ all out of the house, and then they rob it.”

“I suppose that might be it,” said Virginia doubtfully.

“Yes, yes, madame, that is it without a doubt. Every day you read in the papers of such things. Madame will ring up the police at once—at once—before they arrive and cut our throats.”

“Don’t get so excited, Élise. They won’t come and cut our throats at six o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Madame, I implore you, let me run out and fetch a policeman now, at once.”

“What on earth for? Don’t be silly, Élise. Go up and pack my things for Chimneys if you haven’t already done it. The new Cailleuax evening dress, and the white crêpe marocain, and—yes, the black velvet—black velvet is so political, is it not?”

“Madame looks ravishing in the eau de nil satin,” suggested Élise, her professional instincts reasserting themselves.

“No, I won’t take that. Hurry up, Élise, there’s a good girl. We’ve got very little time. I’ll send a wire to Chilvers at Datchet, and I’ll speak to the policeman on the beat as we go out and tell him to keep an eye on the place. Don’t start rolling your eyes again, Élise—if you get so frightened before anything has happened, what would you do if a man jumped out from some dark corner and stuck a knife into you?”

Élise gave vent to a shrill squeak, and beat a speedy retreat up the stairs, darting nervous glances over each shoulder as she went.

Virginia made a face at her retreating back, and crossed the hall to the little study where the telephone was. Élise’s suggestion of ringing up the police station seemed to her a good one, and she intended to act upon it without any further delay.

She opened the study door and crossed to the telephone. Then, with her hand on the receiver, she stopped. A man was sitting in the big arm-chair, sitting in a curious huddled position. In the stress of the moment, she had forgotten all about her expected visitor. Apparently he had fallen asleep whilst waiting for her.

She came right up to the chair, a slightly mischievous smile upon her face. And then suddenly the smile faded.

The man was not asleep. _He was dead._

She knew it at once, knew it instinctively even before her eyes had seen and noted the small shining pistol lying on the floor, the little-singed hole just above the heart with the dark stain round it, and the horrible dropped jaw.

She stood quite still, her hands pressed to her sides. In the silence she heard Élise running down the stairs.

“Madame! Madame!”

“Well, what is it?”

She moved quickly to the door. Her whole instinct was to conceal what had happened—for the moment anyway—from Élise. Élise would promptly go into hysterics, she knew that well enough, and she felt a great need for calm and quiet in which to think things out.

“Madame, would it not be better if I should draw the chain across the door? These malefactors, at any minute they may arrive.”

“Yes, if you like. Anything you like.”

She heard the rattle of the chain, and then Élise running upstairs again, and drew a long breath of relief.

She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her course was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once.

But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with horror and with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain. The bogus telegram. Had it something to do with this? Supposing Élise had not stayed behind? She would have let herself in—that is, presuming she had had her latchkey with her as usual, to find herself alone in the house with a murdered man—a man whom she had permitted to blackmail her on a former occasion. Of course she had an explanation of that; but thinking of that explanation she was not quite easy in her mind. She remembered how frankly incredible George had found it. Would other people think the same. Those letters now—of course she hadn’t written them, but would it be so easy to prove that?

She put her hands on her forehead, squeezing them tight together.

“I must think,” said Virginia. “I simply must think.”

Who had let the man in? Surely not Élise. If she had done so, she would have been sure to have mentioned the fact at once. The whole thing seemed more and more mysterious as she thought about it. There was really only one thing to be done—ring up the police.

She stretched out her hand to the telephone, and suddenly she thought of George. A man—that was what she wanted—an ordinary level-headed, unemotional man who would see things in their proper proportion and point out to her the best course to take.

Then she shook her head. Not George. The first thing George would think of would be his own position. He would hate being mixed up in this kind of business. George wouldn’t do at all.

Then her face softened. Bill, of course! Without more ado, she rang up Bill.

She was informed that he had left half an hour ago for Chimneys.

“Oh, damn!” cried Virginia, jamming down the receiver. It was horrible to be shut up with a dead body and to have no one to speak to.

And at that minute the front-door bell rang.

Virginia jumped. In a few minutes it rang again. Élise, she knew, was upstairs packing and wouldn’t hear it.

Virginia went out in the hall, drew back the chain, and undid all the bolts that Élise had fastened in her zeal. Then, with a long breath, she threw open the door. On the steps was the unemployed young man.

Virginia plunged headlong with a relief born of overstrung nerves.

“Come in,” she said. “I think that perhaps I’ve got a job for you.”

She took him into the dining-room, pulled toward a chair for him, sat down herself facing him, and stared at him very attentively.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but are you—I mean——”

“Eton and Oxford,” said the young man. “That’s what you wanted to ask me, wasn’t it?”

“Something of the kind,” admitted Virginia.

“Come down in the world entirely through my own incapacity to stick to regular work. This isn’t regular work you’re offering me, I hope?”

A smile hovered for a moment on her lips.

“It’s very irregular.”

“Good,” said the young man in a tone of satisfaction.

Virginia noted his bronzed face and long lean body with approval.