The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

Poor Millington’s frugal soul cried out aloud at such wanton expenditure, but he was overborne by Smeaton. He departed in the vehicle, beaming with the sense of his own importance, and conscious that he was still of some use in the world.

The evening of that same day found the detective at the Queen’s Hotel, Manchester. It was pleasant to him to find that his investigations produced a speedy result. Mr Whyman was a well-known citizen, so the head-waiter informed him. He had been first manager and then director of one of the largest businesses there. Two years ago he had retired from active participation in the concern, and had, he believed, taken a big house at Southport. He was a widower with two children. The son had a post in Hong-Kong. The daughter had married and was living in Cheshire.

The waiter added that he was popular, and highly respected by all who knew him, perhaps a bit close-fisted, and hard at a bargain. Since his retirement he was often a visitor at the Hotel.

The next morning Smeaton, having found Mr Whyman’s address in the telephone directory, rang him up. He announced his name and profession, explaining that some documents had me into his possession which he would like to submit for inspection. Might he take the liberty of coming over to Southport during the day at some hour convenient to himself?

Mr Whyman’s reply was given cordially and unhesitatingly. “With pleasure, Mr Smeaton. Shall we say five o’clock? I am afraid I cannot make it earlier, as I have got a very full day in front of me. I am retired from business in a sense, but I am still interested in a lot of things that require personal attention.”

At five o’clock to the minute Smeaton was at the fine house of Mr Whyman, near the end of the Esplanade at Southport, commanding a splendid view of the Welsh and Cumberland hills. It was evident that Mr Whyman had prospered in a worldly sense. The house was an imposing one. A butler opened the door, and ushered him into the morning-room, a square, lofty apartment, solidly and handsomely furnished.

A moment later the owner entered. He was a tall, finely-built man, with regular, handsome features.

Smeaton regarded him closely as they shook hands. There was an obvious frankness and geniality about his manner that fully accounted, for his general popularity. The face was honest, its expression open. His eyes met yours unwaveringly.

And yet this was the man who, according to the dead man, Giovanni Roselli, had been the perpetrator of a great wrong to some person or persons unknown. Well, Smeaton had too vast an experience to trust overmuch to outside appearances. Still, he had never seen anybody who looked less like a rogue than Mr James Whyman, as he stood smiling at him with the most cordial expression in his clear blue eyes.

If he was, or had been at some period of his career, a rogue. Nature had taken the greatest pains to disarm the suspicions of those on whom he practised his rascality.

Whyman pointed to the table, on which were laid glasses, a decanter of whisky, soda-water, and cigars.

“Let me offer you some refreshment after your journey. You smoke? Good. I think you will like those cigars. Let me help you. Now, sir, sit down, and we will get at once to the matter which brings you here.”

Smeaton produced the envelope, and handed it to his genial host. “I think you will recognise those entwined letters, Mr Whyman. I may tell you that I traced the man who cut them – a man named Millington.”

Whyman interrupted him in his brisk, bluff way, and there was not a shade of embarrassment in voice or manner:

“Ah, my dear old friend Millington! Why, he must be quite ancient by now, for he wasn’t a chicken when I knew him.”

“A very old man, and his memory is treacherous. At first he could remember very little. But later on he found a letter from you which brought it all back to him. I was then able to establish the two things I wanted: your own name, and the name of the Italian company you represented.”

Whyman turned the envelope in his hand, after having cast a glance at the cipher. The candid blue eyes regarded the detective steadily as he spoke.

“Yes, that die was cut by my instructions, certainly. Now, in what way can I assist you, Mr Smeaton, beyond confirming that fact?”

Smeaton passed him the threatening letter. “There is no question the envelope came out of your office. Now, do you recognise this handwriting?”

The other man read it carefully, and then passed it back, without a trace of confusion.

“I am certain that I have never seen that handwriting before. How the envelope was obtained I cannot pretend to guess. Hundreds of people, of course, were in and out of my office during the time I was with the company.”

“I presume you had several clerks in your employ?”

Mr Whyman smiled. “Quite the opposite. It was a small and struggling concern, unprosperous from the start. I only had three assistants at the London branch: an elderly man, and two juniors. I should recognise the writing of any one of those if it were put before me.”

Was he speaking the truth or not? Was he honestly puzzled as he appeared, or shielding the writer of that threatening epistle with his assumption of ignorance? Smeaton could not be sure. The only evidence he possessed as to character was that furnished by the deathbed revelations of Roselli, and that was unfavourable.

He resolved to try a random shot. “I think at one time you were acquainted with a man of the name of Giovanni Roselli, an Italian.”

The shot went home. There was a flicker in the steady blue eyes, the voice had lost its bluff and genial ring. He spoke hesitatingly, picking his words.

“Ah, yes. Many years ago I knew a fellow named Roselli, in Turin – not very intimately; we did a little deal in marble together on one occasion. What do you know about him?”

Smeaton shrugged his shoulders carelessly. “Not much. In our business we come across many little things that we have not set out to find, but which emerge from greater issues. However, I did not come here to talk about this foreigner, but in the hope that you might be able to help me with that letter.”

When Whyman spoke again all traces of his momentary embarrassment had passed.

“I am only too sorry that I cannot. I should say that envelope must have been stolen from my office.”

“Very likely,” said Smeaton quietly. Then he rose to go.

Whyman at once became effusively hospitable. “I wish you would dine and stay the night with me. I should be most delighted to have a good long chat with you, especially if you could tell me some of your experiences which are no longer secrets. To-morrow, perhaps, I could take you for a spin in the country in my car.”

Smeaton hesitated. Why did this man, whom he suspected of being a rogue under all this genial veneer, suddenly develop such a partiality for the society of an utter stranger? Did he want to pump him as to what he knew concerning Roselli, whom of course, he did not know was dead?

He decided he would stay. If it came to pumping, Smeaton flattered himself he would prove the better of the two at that particular game. He might even make Whyman betray himself in an unguarded moment.

They spent quite a pleasant time together. Smeaton was shown over the house and grounds. The dinner was good, the wines and cigars excellent. The detective entertained his host with reminiscences of work at “the Yard” that involved no indiscretion. They sat up chatting till past midnight. But the name of Roselli was not mentioned again on either side.

“Good-night, Mr Smeaton, good-night. I have enjoyed your company immensely. Breakfast at half-past nine – eh?”

He might be a rogue at bottom, and his wealth might not have been acquired honestly, but he was a very pleasant one. And as a host he was beyond reproach.

When Smeaton entered the dining-room the next morning, the butler was waiting for him with a letter in his hand.

“Mr Whyman was called away early this morning, sir. He has left this note for you.”

“Dear Mr Smeaton,” ran the brief epistle. “A thousand apologies for treating you in this discourteous fashion. I received a letter just now calling me abroad on urgent business that brooks no delay. I may be absent some few weeks. Trusting we shall meet again – Yours sincerely, James Whyman.”

Smeaton was too accustomed to surprises to exhibit any emotion. He sat down and ate an ample breakfast, and cogitated over the sudden departure of his host.

The one obvious fact was that Whyman had flown. He need not waste time over that. The important thing remained: what was the reason of his hurried flight?

Before he left the room Smeaton crossed over to a writing-desk in the window, and peered into the waste-paper basket at the side. A forlorn hope – it was empty. A torn-up envelope might have revealed the postmark.

But Mr Whyman was evidently too old a bird to leave anything behind him that would enlighten one of the keenest detectives in England.

Chapter Nineteen.

Still Another Club

“Now that we are alone, sir, permit me to present myself in proper form. My name is Caleb Boyle, profession gentleman, educated at that glorious old school, Winchester, and graduate of Trinity College. Cambridge.”

Mr Boyle made a low bow as he completed his self-introduction, which took place in Smeaton’s room at Scotland Yard. He was full of gesture, employing a pantomime of arms, hands and face to accentuate his remarks.

Smeaton bowed, pointed to a chair, and examined him with minute attention. He was a tall, angular man, thin almost to emaciation. Judging by his figure, you might have put him at forty, but the lines on his face suggested another ten or fifteen years.

“I intended no discourtesy to you personally when I declined to give my card to your satellites or subordinates, or whatever name you give to the hangers-on of a great man.”