CHAPTER XVII.

THE INSURANCE MONEY

That afternoon Diana made a request of her employer which disappointed him a little.

“Certainly,” he said, “I shan’t want you this evening. Going to a dance, do you say?”

She nodded.

“That’s fine,” he said heartily. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”

It chilled him a little, for he was so completely absorbed by the game that he could not understand that what was fun to him was work to her. She must have read his thoughts, for she said, with a little jerk of her chin which was characteristic of her:

“I am merely going on duty, Mr. Holt. I should not have thought of going to the dance, but the man who asked me is a young underwriter to whom I was secretary for about six months,” she said.

“You seem to have started work at a very early age,” he smiled. “Did you go to a public school?”

“I went to a council school,” she replied quietly. “My aunt who brought me up was very poor.”

“You didn’t know your father and mother?”

She shook her head.

“I hope you’re not going to associate me with the missing Clarissa,” she smiled. “I am afraid my origin is a little less romantic. I am always expecting to find my father figuring in the records of Scotland Yard, if he is alive, for Mrs. Ward never spoke of him except in uncomplimentary terms. Yes, I did begin work rather young.”

“You say you are going on duty,” he interrupted her. “What do you mean?”

She went to her desk and took up her handbag, opened it and produced a letter.

“It will interest you to know,” she smiled, “that Mr. Gray’s wife will be there to chaperon me and joins in the invitation.”

It did interest Larry very much indeed. He did not say so because he thought it might be indiscreet, and he was not quite sure of how he would express the pleasure that news brought to him.

“Here is the paragraph that made me decide to go,” said the girl, and read:

“We have had a pretty bad time lately. The loss of a ship in the Baltic hit my partner rather hard, and I have had to pay out a very considerable sum of money over the death of a man named Stuart.”

“Stuart?” said Larry quickly. “That can’t be our Stuart. By the way, the jury have just returned a verdict of ‘Found drowned’ in that case. We did not care to oppose the verdict, or offer any evidence which might put the murderers on their guard. Stuart, eh?” he nodded to himself several times. “I owe you an apology, Diana,” he said, using her name for the first time. “I thought you were going to frivol, and I was hoping that you were sufficiently interested in this case to give your whole mind to it.”

She looked at him with kindling eyes, and her face was flushed pink.

“I am giving all my mind to it,” she said in a low voice. “It is lovely working with you,” and then, to change the subject, she told him of her adventure with Fred.

“Poor old Fred,” chuckled Larry. “You have the satisfaction of knowing that he will avoid you like the plague for the future. What time will you come back?” he asked.

“Why?” She was surprised.

“I was wondering whether you could come here, or whether I’d be waiting on the door-mat for you in Charing Cross Road. I want to know what you have discovered.”

She nibbled her finger thoughtfully.

“I will come to the Yard,” she said. “I’ll be here soon after eleven.”

She looked with narrowed eyes at the mark on his throat.

“Does that feel awfully sore?” she asked sympathetically.

“Not so bad,” said Larry. “Injury to vanity doing very badly. It will take some time before that heals.”

“He must be terribly strong,” she said with a shudder. “I shall never forget that night on the stairs. I suppose there is no news of him?”

“None whatever,” said Larry. “He’s gone to ground.”

“Are you watching the Home?”

“The Home?” he said in surprise. “No, I don’t think that is necessary. The superintendent seems a very decent sort of man. I saw the local police inspector and he told me that every man in the Home is an honest character, and he can vouch for all of them except the fellow they call ‘Lew.’ He was the man I saw upstairs who seemed to be half-demented.”

“I want to ask you a favour,” she said. “Will you take me to-morrow to the Home?”

“Ye-es,” he hesitated. “But----”

“But will you?”

“Surely if you wish to go, but I don’t think you’ll find any clue there to bring us nearer to the gentleman who murdered Stuart.”

“I wonder?” she said thoughtfully.

She permitted him to lunch with her that day: it was a joyous meal for Larry and he was unusually incoherent. The afternoon was a more serious time for him, for his search for documentary proof that Diana’s theory was correct and that Mrs. Stuart had had twin daughters had been unavailing. There was no record of the children’s births, though the files at Somerset House had been diligently examined.

“Check Number Two,” said Larry.

“Which will be overcome,” replied the girl, “though it is curious that a woman of Mrs. Stuart’s position should have neglected to register her children.”

She said this and smiled, and Larry asked her why.

“Mrs. Ward had views on that subject. My aunt, whose name I bear,” she said. “She hated vaccination, registration, and education!”

“What happened to your aunt? Did she die?” asked Larry.

The girl was silent.

“No--she didn’t die.”

She said this so strangely that Larry looked at her and the girl went crimson.

“I oughtn’t to talk about her if I’m not prepared to go on,” she said quietly. “I--I come from a very bad stock, Mr. Holt. My aunt stole from her employer, and I rather think she made a practice of doing so. At any rate, when I was twelve, she went away for quite a long time and I never saw her again.”

Larry crossed the room and laid his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“My dear,” he said, “you have succeeded in shaking loose and establishing yourself in a truly marvellous way. I am very proud of you.”

When she looked up her eyes were filled with tears.

“I think she drank: I’m not quite sure. She was very good to me when I needed her most,” she said. “I would like to know what has happened to her, but I simply dare not ask.”

“She went to prison?”

The girl shook her head.

“I think it was an inebriates’ home,” she said. “Now, what are you doing this afternoon?” she demanded briskly, and Larry laid down his programme, dictated a letter or two, and went out, leaving her to finish them.

With every step he took, the Stuart mystery grew more and more of a tangle. Dead ends and culs-de-sac met him at every turn, and even the fact that Stuart had been murdered was no fact, but a theory based upon the eccentricity of the tide which had left his body on the steps of the Embankment, and a piece of paper, now stolen, embossed with Braille characters.

He stopped in his walk when he was halfway up Northumberland Avenue, and took out his pocket-book.

“Murdered… dear… sea…” he read, and shook his head.

“Why the ‘dear’?” he wondered. The man who attempted to betray the murderers would not go to the trouble of writing “dear sir,” and, anyway, it occurred in the wrong place. For the girl had pointed out the characters at the end of the second line.

“Dear, dear, dear,” he repeated as he strolled along, and then, for no reason at all, a name came into his mind. Dearborn! He laughed quietly. That good soul of a clergyman, labouring amongst the men who lived in everlasting darkness! He shook his head again. It is a fact which all people can verify that if you see an unusual name for the first time you meet with it again in the course of twenty-four hours. His walk carried him beyond Shaftesbury Avenue, and in passing a theatre the name caught his eye. He checked himself and stooped down to read the playbill of a theatre.

“John Dearborn,” he read.

Dearborn was apparently the author of the play which was being performed here. What was the theatre? He stepped back in the roadway and looked up at the name in coloured glass on the edge of the awning. The Macready! It was from the Macready Theatre that Gordon Stuart disappeared!

Without hesitation he walked into the vestibule to the booking-office and his quick eyes fell upon the plan which the office keeper had before him. There were precious few blue marks, indicating that seats had been taken.

“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. John Dearborn?” he asked.

The office keeper looked at him with an air of pained resignation.

“You’re not a friend of the management’s, are you?”

“No,” admitted Larry, “I am not.”

“You’re not a friend of Mr. Dearborn’s, by any chance, are you?” asked the clerk carelessly, and Larry shook his head. “Well,” said the man, “I’ll speak my mind. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I don’t know where to find Mr. Dearborn, and I wish the management didn’t know where to find him either! I’m leaving this week,” he said, “so it doesn’t matter very much what I say. He’s about the rottenest playwright that the world has ever seen. I’m not choking you off buying a seat, am I?” he asked good-humouredly.

“No, no,” said Larry with a smile.

“Well, I won’t persuade you to buy one,” said the box-office keeper. “I haven’t any grudge against you, anyway! We had six people in at the Saturday matinée, and we look like having three to-night. The only people who take any interest in this play are the Commissioners in Lunacy, who come along and watch the audience, and whenever a lunatic breaks out of Hanwell they send the keepers here to search the house.”

“You haven’t answered my question. Do you know where I can find the author of this unfortunate play?”

The clerk shrugged his shoulders.

“He runs a mission for something or other in the West End. Poor chap, he’s blind, and maybe I oughtn’t to slate him. But he writes rotten plays.”

“Is he continuously writing plays?” asked Larry in surprise.

“Continuously,” said the other glumly. “I think he writes them in his sleep.”

“And they’re all produced?”

The man nodded.

“And they’re all failures?”

Again the man nodded.

“But why? Surely the management would not produce successive failures from the same pen?”

“They do,” said the clerk in despair, “and that is why the Macready is a byword----”

“How long has John Dearborn been writing?” asked Larry.

“Oh, about ten years. Mind you, it’s not bad stuff in parts. It’s more mad than bad.”

“Does he ever come here?”

“Never,” said the man, shaking his head. “I don’t know why, but he doesn’t, not even to rehearsals.”

“One more question. To whom does the theatre belong?”

“To a syndicate,” said the clerk, who was now growing restive under the questions. “May I ask why you’re making all these inquiries?”

“I’m just asking,” said Larry with a smile, and seeing that no more information could be got, he went out.

It was rather an amazing situation, he thought. But to connect that one word “dear” with the author of bad plays, or give to Mr. Dearborn, an obvious philanthropist, any evil significance, was absurd. He was outside the theatre when he suddenly remembered and went back.

“As a great personal favour,” he said, “could I see the house?”

The clerk demurred at first, but eventually summoned an attendant.

“You’ll find it pretty dark,” he said. “The house lights are not on.”

Larry followed the attendant into the dress-circle and surveyed the little theatre. It was in gloom. The curtain was down, and the seats were sheeted in holland.

“Which is Box A?” asked Larry, for that was what he came to see.

The man led him along a passage through a heavy curtain and down a narrower passage which ran at the back of the boxes, and at the end he stopped and opened a door on his right. Larry stepped in. The box was in darkness, and he lit a match.

There was nothing peculiar about Box A, except that the carpet on the floor was thick and rich and the three chairs which formed its furniture were beautifully designed.

“Are all the boxes furnished like this?” asked Larry.

“No, sir,” said the man, “only Box A.”

Larry came out and examined the passage. Opposite the door of Box A, a thick red curtain was draped on the wall. He drew it aside and found an iron door on which in red letters were the words “Exit in case of fire.”

“Where does this lead to?” he asked.

“To a side street, sir,” said the man. “To Cowley Street. It is not really a street, but a passage which is the property of this theatre and is blocked up at one end.”

Larry tipped the man and went out. He was nearer to the solution of Gordon Stuart’s disappearance and murder at that moment than he had ever been before. And he knew it.

He was in his office at half-past ten that night, waiting impatiently for the arrival of the girl, and endeavouring by self-analysis to discover whether his eagerness to see her was due to his professional zeal or to his personal interest in the girl herself.

She came at ten minutes to eleven, and he, who had never seen her before save in her working dress, was stricken dumb at the sight of this radiant beauty. He could not know that the black tulle dress she wore cost her something less than £5, or that the bandeau of black leaves about her golden hair cost something short of ten shillings. To him she was magnificently arrayed, and a creature so divine and ethereal that he hardly dared speak to her.

“Come in,” he said; “you’re making the furniture look shabby.”

She laughed, dropped her cloak on her chair, and Larry forgot the official and important side of her visit and would have continued in oblivion if she had not brought him to earth with a triumphant:

“I’ve got it!”

“Got it?” he stammered. “Oh, yes, you saw your underwriting friend.”

She opened a little satin bag and took out a piece of paper.

“I’ve made some notes,” she said. “My friend was very hard hit by Stuart’s death, and it is this Stuart.”

Larry whistled.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

“My friend is an underwriter. He’s in the insurance business,” she explained. “When a man has his life insured for a very large sum, as you probably know, the company that issues the policy does not retain all the risk. It sends round to other offices and to various underwriters offering each underwriter some of the responsibility. It appears that my friend, the underwriter, underwrote three thousand pounds’ worth of the reinsurance.”

“Three thousand pounds’ worth?” said Larry in astonishment. “Then, in the name of Heaven, for how much was Stuart insured?”

“I asked that,” she nodded, and lifted her paper. “On the policy which was endorsed by Mr. Gray the sum of £50,000 was mentioned, but Mr. Gray says that there was another policy for a similar amount.”

Larry sat down, his eyes gleaming.

“So that was the business end of Stuart’s death, was it? Insured for £100,000! Did your friend pay?”

“Naturally he paid,” said the girl, “the moment the company which had accepted the insurance had sent in its claim. He had nothing else to do but to find the money.”

“What is the name of the company?”

She paused and looked at him.

“The Greenwich Insurance Company,” she replied slowly, and he jumped to his feet.

“Dr. Judd,” he said softly.