CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was not long before the quarry came to a halt at a public-house in a side street off Piccadilly. When he reached this hostelry, his intense indignation had exercised a remarkably sobering effect upon him, his gait was quite steady, and when he asked the barmaid for refreshment his voice had recovered its normal tones.

Grewgus had followed him in. After a little while, Newcombe went and sat down in front of one of the tables. After a decent interval the detective followed him and opened up conversation by some remark about the weather. Mr. Newcombe made a somewhat gloomy response; it was evident his mind was still full of the epithet which Stormont had hurled at him as he hurried into the car.

As Grewgus saw that he was not disposed for general conversation, he thought he would try him on something that would interest him. He judged him not to be too well blessed with the world’s goods, in spite of his loud but evidently cheap apparel; he thought, therefore, he would start on a democratic note.

“Awful lot of money these nobs do waste on themselves. When you walk down these parts, the luxury that meets you on every hand makes you fairly sick, it does. Many a poor bloke has got to keep his wife and family for a week on what they spend on one meal.”

He was a very good actor, and he put on a ripe Cockney accent for the benefit of his companion. He did not want to be taken for a man of too superior class, or else he might easily excite suspicion.

Mr. Newcombe grunted assent to these propositions, and drained his tumbler. Grewgus put on a genial smile and did the same.

“They give you precious little stuff for the money in these days,” he remarked in the same dissatisfied tone. “I feel a bit fed up to-day with thinking of all these things; I always feel that way when I see much of this quarter of the town. I’m going to have another; I should be rather glad if you’d have one with me.”

Mr. Newcombe hesitated for a second, then accepted. Grewgus had judged his condition pretty accurately. He had had too much when he stood outside the house in Curzon Street; the abuse hurled at him by Stormont, and the indignation it created, had momentarily sobered him. But another glass or two would stir up the old drink and reduce him to his previous condition. When he got back to that he would be disposed to talk. The second tumbler accomplished the desired result. The detective saw he could now get to work.

“I’ve just strolled down from Curzon Street, and it was the sight of a big party going on at one of the houses that set me thinking. Motor-cars galore waiting for the beautiful ladies with frocks that cost a small fortune, men coming out with their expensive suits. It gave me the hump, it did, so I cut it and dropped into the first public I could come across.”

Newcombe looked at him with a perfectly unsuspicious eye. “Was you there too? So was I. Did you happen to see me?”

“No,” answered the detective unblushingly, feeling that he was lying in a good cause. “Rather rum that when you come to think of it, isn’t it? That we should be looking at the same thing, and then meeting a few minutes after in this place, I suppose for the same reason, that we both felt a trifle dry. I say, we’d better have another. I always feel reckless when I’m a bit fed up.”

The Colonial accepted the hospitality for the second time. Grewgus went to the counter to get the drinks; he did not wish the Colonial to entertain any doubts of his own sobriety, which was fast tottering under the last glass.

When he returned, Mr. Newcombe began to give vent to some of the thoughts that were harrowing his indignant soul.

“It isn’t often I come in these parts--I live King’s Cross way. But it being a fine day, I thought I’d just take a stroll up here, and have a look at the nobs. Well, I wandered about a lot, then I sat down in the Park, and afterwards I got into that street where you were. I forget what you said the name of it was.”

Grewgus supplied the necessary information, and the Colonial rambled on, in a voice that grew thicker as he proceeded.

“Well, presently I come to that house where the show was. I stood looking at the motor-cars and the dainty ladies stepping into them. Suddenly I see come out a man I have known for years, with his sister and niece. He was a pal of mine in Australia when we were both young men. Many a good turn I done him, once I nursed him back to life through a bad fever. Well, remembering the good old days, I go up to him in a cheery sort of way. And what do you think I get in return?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” replied the mendacious Grewgus.

“He called me a drunken dog, a drunken dog, and dared me to speak to him in the street or anywhere else. What do you say to that?”

Grewgus shrugged his shoulders and spoke in a withering voice: “A rich man, of course, got on in the world. Well, I should say it was just what he would do, like the snob he is. I suppose he wouldn’t chuck you a shilling if you were starving.”

It was evident, in spite of his resentment, that Newcombe could not tell an absolute lie. “I won’t say he hasn’t given me a bit, but there’s a reason for it, a reason for it.”

“A reason for it,” repeated the detective. “I expect a pretty good one too?” Was he going to get something out of this sot?

Mr. Newcombe went on muttering to himself: “I could make him smart, if I chose to, the ungrateful dog. He to lord it with his flunkeys and his fine motor-car while I live on a pittance.”

“You know something about this fine gentleman who calls you a drunken dog?” insinuated the detective, repeating the offensive epithet with the view of keeping the man’s resentment at white heat.

Perhaps Grewgus had overdone it. Something seemed to stir in the drink-soddened brain, and told him he had gone too far. The Colonial seemed to pull himself together.

“That’s neither here nor there,” he said in a surly tone. Then he harked back in his maudlin state to his original grievance. “A drunken dog indeed, from him who for years never drew a sober breath! Tell me, mister, did I look drunk? But I forget, you said you didn’t see me. Am I drunk now?”

Grewgus knew that the moment had gone. He would get nothing out of this creature now. There was no need for him to dissemble any longer. “If you ask my candid opinion, I think you have had too much. The last glass has knocked you over. I am not sure you can stand properly. Have a try.”

Mr. Newcombe did as he was told, but the effort was not successful. He got up for an instant, but relapsed promptly into his seat. Grewgus found himself confronted with an awkward situation. He did not for a moment regret his hastily conceived pursuit of Newcombe; he had come within an ace of accomplishing his object. It was by the merest bad luck, at the last moment, some sudden flickering of intelligence had caused the inebriated man to exercise discretion.

All the same, he found himself saddled with a companion, drunk to the point of incapacity, and unable to look after himself.

Grewgus made up his mind at once; it was necessary to do so, since Newcombe showed signs of sinking into slumber.

“Look here,” he whispered into the man’s ear as loud as he dared. “If you don’t want to be locked up for the night, I shall have to get you home. Tell me quickly where you live.”

In a thick voice, the incapacitated Colonial muttered the name of a mean street in the King’s Cross district. Grewgus knew the place well, and, as was his custom, drew a rapid inference. Either Stormont was allowing him a very small pittance, or else Newcombe was averse to heavy standing charges as they would curtail his opportunities of purchasing his beloved alcohol.

A very decent young man had come into the bar, whom the detective judged, by his appearance, to be of the Good Samaritan sort, disposed to help in a case of trouble. Propping the almost comatose man well against the table, he went up to this individual and besought his assistance.

“My friend has been overcome, been taking too much before I met him, I expect,” was his explanation. “I want to get him away without fuss, if I can. If you would kindly call a taxi, and come back here and lend a helping hand, I am sure I can manage it. I doubt if he can walk very well, but between us we can manage to shove him along and get him in the taxi.”

The decent-looking young man responded nobly to the appeal. In a very short time, Mr. Newcombe, still half asleep and almost deprived of the powers of motion, was being borne in the direction of King’s Cross.

About half-way on the journey, he made one of those remarkable recoveries which are frequently to be observed in the devotees of alcohol. He was still far from sober, but his partial slumber, and the rather keen fresh air blowing through the open taxi-windows on his inflamed face, had cleared his faculties to a certain extent. He was able to appreciate and thank the detective for what he had done.

“The act of a pal, that’s what it is,” he hiccoughed. “If ever your turn comes and I’m there, I’ll do the same with you. If you had sneaked out and left me, I should have been run in as safe as eggs.” His mind suddenly reverted to the events of a short time ago. “By gosh, if it had been that fellow with the flunkeys and the fine car, he’d have left me in the lurch. I say, mister, I don’t know your name, perhaps I was a bit gone; he bawled at me that I was a drunken dog.”

There was something very comical in his almost abject aspect as he put this question. Grewgus could hardly keep from laughing.

“I should say more than likely, my friend. You strike me as one of those chaps who can get drunk and sober again three or four times in a day. We shall be there in a very few minutes. I expect you will find yourself able to walk without assistance when we get out.”

And so it proved. When the taxi drew up before the shabby-looking house in one of the meanest streets in the locality, Mr. Newcombe was able to comport himself with a certain amount of steadiness. He apologized for not being able to ask his companion up, as he occupied one apartment at the top of the house, and there was, alas! no refreshment to offer a guest when he got there.

“I’ve sense enough not to keep it in the house,” he said with a cunning smile. “Having to go out for it does put a bit of a stopper on me. You see, I know my weakness. But I tell you what--I want to prove to you that I look upon you as a pal, one of the right sort. If you’ll make an appointment to meet me to-morrow, not perhaps at the same place, we’ll have a return match.”

Grewgus thanked him and hastily explained that he would not be in London on the morrow, nor for some little time after. Then, having seen his companion put his key in the door, and enter the unprepossessing premises, he went on his way. With his usual methodical habit, he posted in his note-book Mr. Newcombe’s address, in case he should require it in the future.

Early the next morning he rang up Lydon while the young man was at breakfast.

“A thousand apologies for running away from you yesterday. But after that little scene with Stormont, I thought I ought not to let the chance slip. Got nothing out of it though, will tell you all when I see you. I want very much to know what you have to report to me. Shall I come to you, or vice versa?”

“I’d rather come to you,” was Lydon’s answer. “We shall be less liable to interruption in your place.”

The young man went round to him after lunch. Grewgus related how he had nearly brought the Colonial to the blabbing point, and how the man had suddenly shrunk back into his shell. On his side Lydon gave a full account of the reception in Curzon Street, omitting no detail.

“There is no doubt what the game is,” said the detective when his companion had finished. “They have evidently got this young chap into their clutches, and they mean to bleed him to the utmost.”

“Do you think these elaborate preparations, the taking of the house in Curzon Street, this purchase of expensive furniture, etcetera, are a part of the plot?”

“Undoubtedly. I have heard a good deal of this young Wraysbury from one source and another. I should say he’s rather a silly sort of chap, intoxicated with his good fortune, and an easy pigeon to be plucked. I am told he has a lot of hangers-on who are thriving on his bounty, regular parasites and leeches. On the quiet, he goes in for the theatrical business, has put money in one or two shows, and I need hardly say lost what he put in.”

“Edwards, who seems immensely proud of the acquaintance, spoke in very warm terms of him, says he is a delightful fellow in himself, very generous, but by no means a fool.”

Grewgus laughed derisively. “Of course, that is just what a man of that stamp would say of somebody he had designs on, make him out cleverer than himself. No, I think my version is the true one. I don’t say that the young man is vicious or anything of that sort, but he is pleasure-loving, gambles pretty heavily, and of course goes racing.”

“He is evidently very thick with the woman. He was sitting in her pocket all the afternoon.”

“Ah! I understand he has a great _penchant_ for female society, and that he is far from discriminating in his choice of fair companions. I believe his parents live in terror that he will one fine day make some actress or dancer Lady Wraysbury. Probably you don’t know anything about the Felthams; in my line I get a lot of information about people. They are a very pious, straight-living couple. The old man is a pillar of the Established Church, his wife is equally devout. At their London house in Eaton Place she is surrounded with parsons. His youthful lordship has certainly not taken after his parents.”

“And I suppose they would be shocked beyond expression if they knew he was hanging about a married woman?”

“Go off their heads, I should think,” was the detective’s reply. “But they are not likely to hear of it. They live in a very narrow set, to whom such doings don’t penetrate. They won’t know unless some scandal arises suddenly out of it.”

Presently Lydon suggested that, in view of what they knew about Mrs. Edwards, otherwise Elise Makris, Wraysbury ought to be warned. How could it be done?

Grewgus looked doubtful. “You see, the difficulty is that we have no evidence of her having previously blackmailed anybody. Your friend, Mr. Craig, was very vague on the point, you say. Of course, I don’t suppose they would dare to take any action if we did such a thing, wouldn’t court having their past ripped up. But if this young ass is infatuated--and it looks very like it--he wouldn’t believe much stronger evidence than it is in our power to produce.”

“But you have no doubt of the character of all these people yourself?” asked Lydon, who did not perhaps quite realize the habitual caution of a man who followed Grewgus’ profession.

“In my own mind, certainly not. But what we do know is of such a purely circumstantial kind that we should have great difficulty in getting the average person to agree with us. One can feel a thing without being able to prove it.”

“It seems to me that we have come to a deadlock,” said Lydon in a tone of disappointment.

Grewgus reluctantly admitted that it looked like it. He added more cheerfully that something might turn up at any moment. The French police were still pursuing their inquiries into the mystery of Calliard’s death, and they might still be able to connect Edwards, if not Zillah Mayhew, with that tragedy. Then there would be something to go on of a tangible nature.

It was some few days after that Grewgus sought another meeting with his client. Perhaps in their last interview he had sensed a certain dissatisfaction on Lydon’s part at the slow progress of affairs.

“I have been thinking a good deal over that fellow Newcombe,” he said. “I have not the slightest doubt he could tell us something about Stormont that would make a certainty of what now is not more than a very strong conjecture. I wonder whether you would care to bribe him. There is no doubt that at the moment he is very incensed with Stormont; those bitter words, although he has half a notion they were deserved, will rankle for a long time. Also I doubt if Stormont pays him much to hold his tongue. Now would be the time to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. Of course, the drawback is that you will have to put down more money, in addition to the expenses you have already incurred, as it were, for no practical result.”

Lydon thought a little. “I would give a great deal to have the thing settled,” he said presently. “To find out something which would definitely justify our suspicions, our almost positive suspicions, of Stormont. As you have pointed out, we cannot prove that Calliard was done to death at his instigation, but we have little doubt of it in our own minds. We cannot actually prove that this Curzon Street couple are out to fleece this simple young Wraysbury, but we are sure of it; and Stormont, perhaps also Whitehouse, is at the bottom of that. What sort of a sum do you think would be required?”

“I should say five hundred at once would be a big temptation to a fellow of that sort.”

Lydon rose. “Then set about it at once. I will go to that. If necessary, a bit more. Anything to get rid of this state of suspense.”

It was five days since Grewgus had escorted Newcombe home to his mean little lodging. He had received Lydon’s permission to embark on his new scheme shortly after the luncheon hour, their usual time for meeting. Directly after his client had left, he went up to King’s Cross.

The door was opened by a slatternly woman of middle age, whose appearance was in keeping with the house. She was the landlady.

To his inquiry as to whether Mr. Newcombe was in, she replied in the voluble and indirect manner of her class.

“You’re the gent as brought him home in a taxi a few days ago, ain’t you, when he’d had a drop too much? I saw you through the door when he let himself in, and I never forgets a face. Yes, he’s in right enough, but nobody can see him. He’s that bad, we don’t know whether he’ll pull through yet. The doctor ain’t sure.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“The doctor says the symptoms are those of a man who has been poisoned, whether by bad food he can’t say.”

“When did the attack commence?”

“Two days after you brought him home. On the next day somebody called for him, dressed like a toff, a very genial, red-faced man. Said he was an old friend and he went upstairs. They were in Newcombe’s room for over an hour, and then they went out together.”

“Do you know where they went to?”

“I’m coming to that in a minute, mister. I didn’t see him again that day; he came back about ten o’clock and went up to his room. The next morning he had his breakfast in my kitchen as usual; he always told me he was poor now, but had seen better days. Said he had been to dine last evening with an old friend of his who had known him in his prosperous times, and had been given the best dinner he had ever had in his life. He didn’t come to tea, and I went upstairs to tell him it was ready; he was a nice, pleasant feller, very free with his money, when he had it, and always grateful for any little kindness or attention. He was sitting huddled up in his chair, and couldn’t speak. I sent for the doctor at once, for I was sure he had some money. We put him to bed, and there he’s been ever since. He’s still unconscious. I and my daughter look after him.”

Grewgus pulled out his ever-ready note book. “I should like the address of that doctor, please, in case I want to see him. Your lodger was once a friend of mine, and I’ve only lately learned he is down on his luck. I called to-day to propose something for his benefit; I will come again to-morrow or next day. Many thanks, sorry to have taken up your time; you must be a busy woman.”

He slipped a pound note into her hand, and went straight to Lydon’s office in Victoria Street. But he just missed him; Leonard had left to catch an early train to Brighton.

He called on him early the next morning, and told him what had happened. The two men looked at each other. There was an inquiry in Leonard’s glance which Grewgus answered at once.

“Yes, I surmise what you surmise. The genial, red-faced man was Stormont, and there is no doubt he is at times an active member of his organization. You may depend upon it, he is devilish clever, and this last thing may still remain a matter of conjecture incapable of actual proof.”

He paused a moment, then added: “But if this poor devil lives, he is clever enough for the same idea to occur to him. And if it does he will speak out what he knows about Stormont.”