CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was a long time before Newcombe struggled back to convalescence; during that period Grewgus had several interviews with the doctor who was attending him, a young, harassed-looking man who had a large but not particularly remunerative practice in a poor neighbourhood. The detective came to the conclusion at their first meeting that he was not a very brilliant member of his profession. He said there were symptoms of poisoning, certainly, probably ptomaine poisoning. The landlady had said the patient told her he was dining at some restaurant the previous evening. Possibly some cheap one where there was little care exercised in the selection or cooking of food. Undoubtedly he had partaken of some dish which had produced this disastrous result.

Then came the day when Grewgus was permitted to go up to the ill-furnished room where the Colonial lay, a shadow of his former robust self. He stretched out a wasted hand. “Very good of you to come and see me, mate. My landlady told me a gent had been inquiring after me. For the life of me I couldn’t guess who it was. I’ve no friends in this infernal country. And what made you look me up?”

Grewgus played a waiting game, till he could see his way more clearly. “Well, just blind chance, as it were. I was in this district, on a bit of business one day, and remembering where you lived, I thought I’d look you up, to see if you had recovered from the effects of that rather warm evening we spent together. I was shocked to hear you were so bad.”

“I’ve had a close shave, mister; the doctor told me he thought my number was up. But he says now, if I keep quiet for a few days, I shall pull through.”

He paused and added grimly, “If I do, I guess it will be a disappointment to somebody.”

So the same suspicion had crept into his mind. Grewgus proceeded in the same quiet way: “You dined out with a friend, your landlady told me. No doubt you partook of some food that poisoned you?”

The man’s calm manner left him. His eyes blazed out in sudden fury. “And a dog-goned idiot I was, knowing the character of the man I went with. At my time of life I ought to have had more sense.”

For a little time he kept silence, but his eyes were blazing, his face was working all the time. When he spoke again, it seemed as if he had, for the moment, forgotten the other man’s presence, as if he were muttering his thoughts aloud.

“The dirty dog, the dirty dog to try and do me in for the sake of saving a few paltry quid! Me that stood by him when he hadn’t got a pal in the world, me that nursed him when he was sick to death as well as his own mother would have done. The treacherous swine.”

Suddenly he seemed to realize the presence of Grewgus, and his mood underwent a sudden change. The fury in his glance died down, the voice lost its tone of hatred.

“Don’t take any notice of me, mate. I’m weak after this infernal bout and perhaps a little bit light-headed. I was just rambling, that was all.”

Grewgus leaned forward and looked the Colonial straight in the face. “You are not light-headed, and you are not rambling,” he said in a firm voice. “You did not partake of any bad food. You have in your mind the same suspicion which I have, and that is that you were deliberately poisoned, by some subtle means, by the man, your pretended friend, who took you out to dinner.”

The man’s jaw dropped. He looked at the detective in a dazed kind of way. “How did you guess that?” he cried.

It was evident to the keen-witted Grewgus that Newcombe’s feelings were making deadly war on each other. On the one hand he wanted to speak, to give full vent to the terrible ideas that were surging in his mind. On the other hand, he feared the consequence of a too frank revelation.

He resolved to put his cards on the table. “Now, look here, my friend, you don’t know me from Adam. I will tell you frankly I am here for a purpose. I’m not a detective in the usual meaning of the term, although I was for some years at Scotland Yard. I am no longer a recognized officer of the law, I am on my own, as a private inquiry agent. Here is my card. My office is in Craven Street, and my name is Grewgus.”

The man’s mind took in the situation swiftly. “Ah, I see it now. You followed me that night from the street where the party was--I forget the name of it now--you followed me into the pub. You took me home, not because you were a particularly good sort of a chap as I thought, but because you wanted to find out where I lived.”

“You’re a smart fellow, Newcombe, I can see that quite plainly,” said the detective, thinking a little flattery might be judicious. “I think you and I shall get on quite well together presently, when we know each other better. Now, first of all, I want you to get this thoroughly into your head, that I am not acting on behalf of the law. Unless you recognize that, it is not likely we shall go very far. Do you believe me?”

Mr. Newcombe hesitated a little before he replied to this straight question. “Suppose I say I do, just to make things more comfortable between us,” he said presently. “You are here on behalf of somebody.”

“Quite true,” answered Grewgus promptly. “On behalf of private parties.”

A cunning smile overspread the Colonial’s features. “What is it you want to find out?” he asked bluntly.

“I want to find out as much as I can about that man you had the altercation with the other day, Mr. Howard Stormont, the owner of Effington Hall, and apparently well off. At any rate, he seems to spend a pretty good amount of money.”

Mr. Newcombe thought things well over before he spoke again, in a disjointed sort of way as if he were giving utterance to his own thoughts. “Private parties you said. Well, I’d wager a bit I can guess who the private party is--that nice-looking young fellow I met down at Effington who’s going to marry the pretty niece. He thinks there’s a bit of mystery about, and he wants to get to the bottom of it.”

It was evidently not much use fencing with this shrewd, hard-headed Colonial. “I won’t say you’re right, and I won’t say you’re wrong, Newcombe. Think what you like. Of course, you’ll understand that in my delicate position I can’t afford to be too frank.”

“Neither can I, in my position,” said the Colonial with a grin.

“Granted. Well, now let me put things as they appear to me. You can tell me presently whether I am right or wrong. It is evident you know something about this fellow who appears prosperous enough now. You had fallen upon bad times, that we know from his own admission.”

“Oh, he has told that, has he?” cried Newcombe, with something of a snarl in his voice. “He didn’t mind giving me away, did he?”

“In a sense he was forced to; he had to explain your sudden arrival at Effington. Well, to continue, you had fallen upon bad times. You went to see your old friend, and no doubt represented to him that it would be highly inconvenient for him in his present position if you made certain disclosures about his past. Not being a fool, he saw that.”

Mr. Newcombe listened to this reconstruction of what had taken place between himself and the owner of Effington Hall without interruption. Not wishing his countenance to betray him, he kept his gaze steadily averted.

Grewgus looked round the ill-furnished room in a disparaging fashion. “He recognized the fact that he could not allow you to talk, and he agreed to make you some sort of allowance. Judging by the condition of this apartment, not a very handsome one.”

The Colonial indulged in a derisive grunt at this allusion to his surroundings, but he did not break his obstinate silence.

“Small as that allowance is, he begrudges it. Or perhaps it is not the money he minds so much; what weighs upon his mind is that you are a standing menace to his safety, the fear that one day, when you’ve had a drop or two too much, you’ll blurt out the very thing he wants to hide. He feels he’ll have no real security till you are safely out of the way. Hence that apparently hospitable action the other day.”

Grewgus had the satisfaction of seeing a vindictive scowl steal over the man’s face at this reference. He hoped to appeal not only to the Colonial’s cupidity but in an equal degree to his thirst for revenge.

“If you ask me, I don’t think your position is a very safe one, my friend. From what I do know of Stormont, I have reason to believe him to be possessed of diabolical cunning, and unscrupulous to a degree. If he has made up his mind to get you out of the way, it is long odds that, in the end, he will accomplish his designs, either on his own initiative or with the help of his numerous friends.”

And then Mr. Newcombe spoke: “He’s a cunning devil enough, you’re right about that. Well, mister private inquiry agent, let’s come to the point. What is it you want to propose to me? You’ve been a long time leading up to it. Let’s have it without any more beating about the bush.”

“If you’ll tell me the secret of Stormont’s past which he is paying you some paltry pittance to hush up, I’ll pay you down in hard cash the sum of five hundred pounds.”

“And supposing you got that information--mind you, I haven’t said that I can give it you--what use are you going to make of it?”

Grewgus was a bit puzzled what to answer to this plain and very natural question. Would Lydon take any steps against Stormont if he found himself in a position to do so? The young man had carefully kept Gloria’s name out of the matter, but the shrewd detective had originally guessed there was a woman in the case. Newcombe’s statement that Lydon was engaged to Stormont’s niece confirmed that suspicion absolutely.

No, he felt sure that his client would never lift his hand against the uncle of the girl he loved, however great his guilt might be. He was quite safe in making the Colonial’s mind easy on that score. Strange perversity of human nature that this man, presumably a crook himself, shrank from giving another crook away, even although he had been treated so vilely. Or was Newcombe’s hesitation due to a sense of self-preservation? In giving his old pal away, would he be forced to implicate himself?

“I understand what is in your mind, but I think you may be quite sure nothing of the kind will happen. Certain suspicions having arisen, it is necessary to confirm or remove them.”

The Colonial was evidently thinking very deeply, looking at the matter from every point of view. “And supposing, mind you, I only say supposing, that the suspicions were confirmed, I presume the young fellow would chuck this pretty girl.”

“I am sure of the contrary,” answered the detective, speaking quite warmly; he had taken a great fancy to Lydon and was convinced he would never act shabbily to a woman. “It is not pleasant to have a criminal for an uncle, of course, but I understand her father is a man of the highest probity.”

Again the Colonial put on his thinking cap. “That settles that, then.” And now he began to relinquish, to some extent, his rather futile attempts at caution. “And now let’s consider the position as it affects me. If I give Stormont away, I shall have to make a clean bolt of it; there’ll be no further help from that quarter. Besides, I shouldn’t be safe, if he happened to find it out, and it’s a chance one must reckon with. He wants to get me out of the way as it is.”

“You’re quite right, Newcombe. If he ever got a hint, he would be doubly, trebly anxious to remove you. If we do come to an arrangement, you’ll have to quit in double-quick time. Now, let us discuss terms. If you can tell me something definite about this man, as I have said, there is five hundred pounds waiting for you. You are a man of brains and resource; with that sum you can start life again. And, in my candid opinion, the sooner you get out of Stormont’s reach, the better for your own peace of mind.”

“Not enough,” cried the Colonial promptly. “One can’t do much in making a fresh start with five hundred. Besides, it’s worth a thousand.”

But if Newcombe was hard at a bargain, Grewgus was by no means a bad man of business. He joined issue at once, and for a long time they fought each other strenuously. A compromise was finally reached at seven hundred. Grewgus was sure his client would go to this extent, from what he had said.

But the victory was not quite won yet. Newcombe wanted further time for reflection. “It’s a very serious step you are asking me to take. I’ve got to look at it all round. Don’t think I have any consideration for that dirty dog, Stormont; you wouldn’t expect it, would you? If we were out in some parts I could name, I’d plug him without the slightest compunction; he’d deserve it. But I’ve got to think of myself, to be sure I’m not making a false step.”

From that position he would not budge. He must have a clear day to think it over. If Grewgus would call at the same time to-morrow, he would give him his decision.

Grewgus saw his client later in the day, and got an open cheque from him for the seven hundred pounds which he would cash on the following morning. It was no use going to the Colonial without the money in his pocket. His knowledge of human nature told him that Mr. Newcombe, if he had made up his mind to betray his old pal, would stipulate that the money should be handed over before he opened his mouth.

“My own impression is that he will bite,” remarked the detective. “It is perfectly obvious that he knows something damaging, or he would not have gone so far in the preliminary negotiations. We are buying a pig in a poke, and what he has to tell may not be worth so much money. Still, if Stormont suffers himself to be blackmailed to the extent of three or four pounds a week, it must be something rather bad, if not so bad as we think.”

Lydon agreed. Anyway, if Newcombe took the seven hundred pounds, the suspense would be ended, they would know something definite.

“The thing I want to assure him positively of is that nothing he tells me will be used against himself or Stormont. I gave him this assurance off my own bat, as it were,” said the detective as he took his leave. “I take it that, whatever we find out, you personally have no intention of setting the police upon Stormont. In other words, this is strictly a private inquiry, with which the official police will have nothing to do?”

Lydon assured him that this was so. He could not yet quite bring himself to disclose his relations to Gloria. He simply said that the man belonged to a highly-respectable family which he was determined to spare so far as it lay in his power.

The French police were still probing the mystery of the death of Calliard, the jeweller. If they were successful, it was more than probable that Stormont might be implicated. That contingency could not be averted.

“Of course, I shall mention nothing of that affair to Newcombe,” was the detective’s reply.