CHAPTER XIV.

INTRODUCES A VISITOR

The police, in the absence of any direct clue to the perpetrator, or perpetrators, of the double crime, were working very slowly.

The death of the mysterious Richard Goodrick had puzzled them greatly. Though the heads of Scotland Yard--all of them experts in detection of various branches of crime--had sat in council several times, yet they had failed to discover anything tangible upon which to base any theory.

Medland believed that the old priest might know something concerning the eccentric man. But he still could not be found, although the aid of the Italian Consul had been invoked.

“Lor’ bless yer, sir; why, yes!” cried Mrs. Ayres when Medland on the following morning called and showed her a photograph of the late Sir George Ravenscourt. “That’s certainly the gentleman wot called and saw Mr. Goodrick! I opened the door to ’im. They sat together for nearly two hours, I think.”

“You didn’t overhear anything, I suppose?” asked the detective eagerly.

“Only that they seemed excited after a bit; an’ I ’eard their voices raised, as though they were a-quarrellin’.”

“What did they say? It’s most important that I should know.”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir. To me it seemed as ’ow the gentleman who called wanted Mr. Goodrick to do somethink, an’ ’e wouldn’t. ’E was a-offerin’ ’im money to do somethink--commit a crime, perhaps.”

“Money!” echoed the detective, pricking up his ears. “Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“Well, because I thought you wouldn’t believe me, sir. You seems so disbelievin’,” replied the woman.

“No, I’m not. You are mistaken. Tell me everything, my good woman, now come,” said Medland persuasively.

“Well, I didn’t ’ear much, but what I did was rather startlin’. The gentleman was actually offerin’ my lodger fifty thousand pounds!”

“Fifty thousand! What for?”

“Ah! that I can’t tell you, sir. It was to do somethink, but I couldn’t understand what,” was the woman’s reply.

“And that Italian priest?”

“Old Don Mario? Oh! I don’t know anythink about ’im.”

Medland reflected, and by doing so grew more puzzled. Fifty thousand pounds was the sum he had found in the safe in Carlton House Terrace.

What possible action of old Goodrick’s could be worth such a sum to the Baronet? He recollected, too, the mysterious source from which the money had come.

“Is this all that you know, Mrs. Ayres?” he asked persuasively. “Tell me everything, won’t you?”

“I’ve told you everythink, sir. But I do wish you’d have the old man’s room cleared out. I can’t abear to go into it now. And I want to have it done up and let it again.”

“But we are paying you the rent, Mrs. Ayres,” replied the detective. “Don’t worry about that. Keep it locked for the present.” Then he added: “I presume Goodrick refused to comply with Sir George’s wish--refused to accept the money offered him; and could it be for that reason that he was killed?”

“That’s my idea, sir.”

Medland was silent. Don Mario’s disappearance was curious; and yet he was a foreigner, and had evidently left London. All along, the detective’s theory had been that the motive of the mysterious old man’s murder was in order to suppress some secret.

Presently he left the house and returned to the police headquarters, where the information he had gathered completely baffled those who were busy in endeavouring to unravel the mystery.

If the fifty thousand pounds had been missing, then the crime would be rendered more easy of solution. But as matters stood, the problem had, to the police, been rendered all the more complex.

One man alone knew the truth, that man of marvellous craft and cunning, so clever, far-seeing and fearless; the man of many disguises, the past-master of deceit, one of the shrewdest, if not the shrewdest, and most remarkable person in the whole metropolis.

And he had snapped his fingers at the police, and laughed at their ignorance. Both the boldness of his defiance and the cleverness of his imposture were proof of his amazing impudence and wonderful versatility.

A few evenings after Medland’s visit to Mrs. Ayres and her identification of the photograph, Gordon Cunningham was seated in the smoking-room at the Marquis of Portslade’s, in Grosvenor Square, in conversation with Mr. Bridgman, the Home Secretary, an elderly, clean-shaven, legal-looking man in sombre black.

They had been sitting in a corner discussing a matter concerning Ireland, at that moment the subject of a heated debate in the House, when suddenly the Home Secretary turned to the young man and, looking straight into his face, asked:

“By the way, why are you so infernally inquisitive, Cunningham, regarding that recent affair in Carlton House Terrace--eh? They tell me you’ve been worrying them constantly at Scotland Yard for information.”

“Which I don’t get,” added Gordon, removing the after-dinner cigar from his lips. There had been a political dinner, and a dozen other well-known politicians were in the room.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” replied the Minister. “I had a report from the Commissioner of Police to-day, saying that you are threatening to ask a question in the House regarding the death of our old friend Sir George.”

“Yes, and I intend to do so if I receive no satisfactory reply,” declared the young man frankly. “I’m sorry to worry you, Bridgman, but I feel very strongly upon the point.”

“Why?” asked the famous lawyer, suddenly interested. “Is it wise to criticise the action of the police, do you think?”

“My dear sir, in this case the police are wilfully hushing up a very remarkable case. I admit that the coroner’s jury returned a verdict of suicide, but Sir George never took his own life. Of that I’m positive!”

“Why, at Lady Andover’s, ten days ago, I recollect you declaring across the dinner-table that Sir George was in a financial hole, and no doubt committed suicide,” remarked the Cabinet Minister in surprise.

“Yes, but I find I had been misinformed. I am quite certain now that it was not a case of suicide,” Gordon declared. “Fifty thousand pounds were found in the safe in his room.”

“Why are you so certain? Have you any evidence?”

“Nothing that I can bring forward.”

“But Sir George’s wife, his niece, his butler--all three were there as soon as the body was discovered. How is it they have not protested against the verdict?”

“Because they have been forbidden to say anything,” was the reply. “I have, however, discovered certain curious facts which compel me to believe that Sir George fell by the hand of an assassin. You know quite well that he left some remarkable statement or other behind him--which was not put in evidence.”

“Officially, I only know that a verdict of suicide was returned, in which case it does not further concern the police.”

“That is the curt reply I have received from the Commissioner,” said Gordon; “but I intend to put down a question, and demand an inquiry. The whole organisation at Scotland Yard is antiquated and rotten.”

“No, no,” replied the Minister. “I don’t think you can condemn the Metropolitan Police so entirely as that. Remember that in the present state of the law they often have a very difficult and delicate task.”

“I do not condemn the men of the Criminal Investigation Department. It is the system to which I object. Nowadays the Metropolitan Police cannot compare with that of Paris, Berlin or Rome. Why? Excess of caution is one of its worst failings, and that is due to the unwritten rule which decrees that if a detective makes an error he is rarely, if ever, given an opportunity of repeating the offence, as he is at once relegated to the uniform branch of the service. The result is that your average detective, rather than act in the interests of justice, always gives the suspected one the benefit of the doubt. So hundreds of delinquents yearly go scot free for this reason. In every other detective service an arrest would be made, and the suspected one interrogated.”

“I admit that one or two reforms are necessary, yet I’m not of opinion that in the present position of the Government the time is ripe to open the eyes of the public,” the Minister replied, drawing slowly at his cigar.

“Myself, I think no time ought to be lost in pointing out that the Criminal Investigation Department is not what it should be, owing to the fact that its officers are all drawn from the uniformed service--men who, in the main, come from rural districts. I cast no reflection upon them, for they do their best, but, I ask, are such men as shrewd, as educated, and as clever in investigating crime as the French or Italian detective--a man chosen because of his talent in that direction? Constables in uniform develop a peculiar ambling gait, and by this the London detective always betrays himself--his confrère in Paris, never. No, my dear Bridgman, the Scotland Yard detective is, each year, growing more and more incompetent. You have had some good men, some very excellent men, but nearly all have now retired. Indeed, under your present system, you seem to retire your most useful men. Only recently I understand that a sergeant--a naturalised Russian, who had been many years employed in the extradition branch, and who was a very clever officer--was retired merely because, owing to the fact of not receiving an English education, he could not pass the examination for an inspectorship. No, my dear sir, you want new blood at Scotland Yard--which is only ‘new’ in name. You want clever, intelligent men, not plain-clothes police-constables, if you are to unravel the mysteries of crimes which nowadays are succeeding each other with such alarming rapidity.”

“I cannot for the life of me see what this has to do with the unfortunate death of our mutual friend,” remarked Mr. Bridgman.

“It has. Just because Scotland Yard is faced with an inscrutable problem--with a mystery which is most remarkable and utterly bewildering--they coolly arrange for a verdict of suicide. And not only in that case--but in another, the death of some mysterious old man over at Pimlico.”

“And how do you know all this, pray?” inquired the Home Secretary, looking at him keenly.

“I--well, the fact is, I am in possession of certain information, Bridgman,” replied the young man, with a slight hesitation. “I tell you that there is a great mystery surrounding the death of both these men. They died by the same hand.”

“Are you certain of this, Cunningham?” asked the Home Secretary very surprised, for he had believed the report furnished by the police.

“I’m quite certain,” Gordon said earnestly. “And if the police will not reveal to me--in confidence, of course--the efforts they are making to solve the problem, then I shall put the question in the House, and expose the methods by which they manipulate evidence before a coroner, and hush up serious crime because of their own incompetence.”

“But surely, Cunningham, you’ll never do that! It would be a huge scandal in such an important public department,” cried the Minister, with undisguised alarm.

“Scandal or no, I don’t care. My friend Ravenscourt was murdered, and I intend that the assassin shall be unmasked,” replied Gordon firmly. “Therefore, perhaps, it would be as well if you ordered the Commissioner to reply to my queries--I, on my part, pledging myself to secrecy.”

“But, you see, the police will declare that to reveal their action might be to defeat the ends of justice.”

“I do not care. If they set up that plea, then I shall at once put the question upon the paper.”

The Home Secretary looked at the young man. He did not like the threat. Gordon Cunningham was a young and impetuous man, and an attack upon Scotland Yard would greatly increase his popularity.

Just at that moment their host suggested bridge, and they were compelled to rise.

“The matter rests with you, Bridgman,” said the young man; “but remember I mean to act as I have said.”

“Well,” remarked the Home Secretary, “I’ll think it over. I question very much if Scotland Yard will depart from its usual course--even in face of your threat.”

“Then I shall ask the question,” laughed Gordon, as he passed out of the room.

“I believe I shall obtain the information I seek,” the young man muttered to himself as, a couple of hours later, he was driving home to his chambers in Bruton Street. “Bridgman does not welcome the idea of a question in the House. He believes I am acting for the public welfare, and at the same time seeking a little cheap advertisement. He, at least, does not dream the real reason why I am so desirous of knowing in which direction the police inquiries are being directed.”

As he ascended the stairs and entered his chambers, Newton, his man, came forward, saying:

“There is a gentleman waiting to see you, sir. His business, he says, is very important, so he has remained. He’s been here nearly an hour, sir.”

“Who is he?” asked the young legislator, glancing at the stranger’s card as he stood in his cosy, luxurious, dimly-lit sitting-room, furnished with low divans, Eastern hangings, and quantities of bric-à-brac which he had collected in his travels in the Balkans, Asia Minor, and Arabia.

“He’s a stranger,” said his man. “Evidently he is in a great hurry to see you.”

Gordon sighed, for he was very tired after a long day and the fevered atmosphere of the bridge-table.

“Oh! show him in,” he said, casting off his coat and advancing to the fire.

A moment later a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man entered, carrying his crush hat in his hand, and, bowing politely, expressed regret at being compelled to call at that hour--for it was nearly eleven o’clock.

The visitor did not look more than fifty-five, and rather dandified in his smartly-cut dress clothes, black overcoat, and patent-leather boots. Upon his face was a pleasant, urbane smile.

Yet, as the dim light from the shaded lamps in the old brass Turkish lanterns fell across his profile, it revealed the sharply-cut features of John Ambrose, the man who was such a past-master in the art of disguise.

Gordon Cunningham, even though the light was dim and restful, instantly recognised his visitor. He stood there gasping, open-mouthed.

Ambrose, entirely unlike his real self, was quick to realise this. Yet, coolly and unperturbed he stood before him, his hand in his overcoat pocket, wherein reposed a big Browning revolver. His eager finger was upon the trigger. He would shoot through his coat if necessary. He had no compunction--and he took no risks.

John Ambrose, full of devilish cunning as always, was there for a purpose.

“Well?” gasped the young man, his face pale as death.

“Well?” said the man of mystery. “So at last I have the opportunity of a chat with you. You don’t seem exactly overjoyed to see me--eh?”