The Red Room

“They owe me some money for work done on a car, and I mean to see where they go.”

There is a clannishness about motor-men, therefore the instant I had told my story he declared himself ready to assist me.

And as I sat back in the cab Langton and his friend, who had now gained Piccadilly, passed in search of a cab.

In a few moments they found one, and soon we had turned the corner of St. James’s Street, and were running down to Pall Mall, where we turned to the left, and after a sharp drive, swung into the station yard at Charing Cross.

Here the pair alighted, and, watching, I saw them stroll upon the arrival platform where, according to the chalked figures on the board, the boat-train from the Continent, already over an hour late, was now expected.

The usual crowd was waiting there, friends of passengers, porters, Customs officers, and the women agents of the various female rescue societies – an expectant crowd which, year in, year out, never differs.

The pair halted in earnest conversation about half-way along the platform, while I strolled slowly at some distance away, with my eyes upon them.

Flynn was arguing something, emphasising his words with his hands, while Langton stood by listening in silence.

Then there was the sudden movement of the porters who had noticed some signal fall, and looking towards the dark bridge I saw the headlight of the engine slowly approaching.

The doctor raised his finger to his friend, an action expressive of an injunction of silence.

Whom were they expecting to arrive?

With bated breath I stood motionless, watching in eager wonder.

From the arrival, whoever it might be, these men intended to preserve some secret.

Chapter Twenty One

I Make a Bold Move

For a moment I lost the two men in the excited crowd of alighting passengers, but when I gained another sight of them, my heart stood still.

Talking with the pair was a well set-up, alert man whose back was turned to me – a man in a soft grey felt hat and heavy travelling coat with beaver collar. Both men were speaking quickly, eagerly, telling the new-comer something of an urgent nature, being hustled at the same time by the bustling passengers eager to claim their luggage from the Customs barriers, and get away.

I moved a little distance along, recognising in the man just returned from the Continent the grey, thin, sinister face of Kershaw Kirk.

My first impulse was to rush forward and demand of him the truth; indeed, to charge him with a secret crime, and to insist on knowing the whereabouts of my beloved Mabel. But it struck me at that instant that the two men who had met him had agreed between themselves upon a course of secrecy, and that they were therefore misleading him. Had not Ethelwynn already told me of Langton’s suspicion of this man, who was to me and mine such a mystery?

Therefore I held back for the moment, awaiting my opportunity.

Standing beyond the barrier where the baggage was being sorted, ready for the Customs examinations, I watched the trio from my unseen point of vantage. I doubt that either would have recognised me in those greasy mechanic’s clothes of mine.

Within myself I felt a sense of complete satisfaction. Kirk had returned to England, and was therefore now within the jurisdiction of the law, however much he might pretend to be immune from its penalties.

What Flynn was saying evidently caused him to hesitate. He was thoughtful for a single moment, but next second shrugged his shoulders, with a gesture of disregard.

A taxi drew up close to where I stood, and I engaged him, telling him to wait. To my satisfaction I saw it was the same driver who had brought me along from Piccadilly.

Then, as I watched, I saw something which caused me to reflect. A porter, quickly recognising Kirk, took from him his baggage ticket and foraged out a big, battered kit-bag which had been placed upon the bench ready for the argus eye of his Majesty’s Customs. The porter uttered a word to the revenue officer and pointed to the bag, whereupon the officer chalked it without opening it.

Kirk’s name, it seemed, was as a laisser-passer at Charing Cross. Who was this man that his belongings should be exempt from Customs’ examination?

He looked much travel-worn, yet presented the same active, alert figure that I had seen passing and repassing before my house. No longer shabby or down-at-heel, however, he had, on the contrary, looked beaming and prosperous until those two men had imparted the information which had, in an instant, caused his brow to cloud, and he became serious and pensive.

The old brown kit-bag bearing many hotel labels was placed upon a taxi, which the three men entered and drove away, I following close upon them.

Half-way up St. James’s Street they pulled up at Boodle’s, where all three entered. Which of the three, I wondered, was a member of that most exclusive and old-fashioned institution?

They remained there nearly half an hour, when Kirk emerged, and, bidding good night to his friends at the kerb, re-entered the taxi and drove to Whitehall Court, that large block of flats which overlooks the embankment close to Northumberland Avenue. Here the liveried porter saluted him respectfully and carried his bag to the lift, up which a few minutes later he disappeared.

In my mechanic’s attire I was now placed at a great disadvantage. Any inquiry I might make of the gorgeous attendant would, I knew, only arouse suspicion, but a thought instantly occurred to me. The friendly driver of my taxi, believing that I, a motor man, had been swindled, might perhaps help me. We had pulled up at the corner where, in a few brief sentences, I now explained to him that I was anxious to know whether Kirk resided there in his own name.

“I’ll inquire for you, mate, if you like,” declared the taxi-driver cheerily. “You just wait here.”

And while I mounted guard over his cab, the red-moustached driver went along to the entrance to the flats. I saw him in conversation with the lift man, and when presently he returned he said:

“The gentleman just gone in is Mr Seymour, who lives on the third floor. He’s abroad very often, it seems, and is only just back. He’s lived there a couple of years.”

Now I recollected that Kirk, when we had sat together that first night in Bedford Park, had told me that he possessed another home, and I had now run him to earth.

Whitehall Court is an expensive place of residence. Apartments there seemed far beyond his income as he appeared when he passed my house, shabby, broken-down, and often hungry-looking.

I gave my friend the taxi-man half a crown beyond his legal fare and dismissed him, afterwards walking as far as the entrance to the National Liberal Club, trying to decide how next to act.

To face the fellow boldly and unflinchingly was, I recognised, the only way in which to gain the knowledge I sought. Yet in the garb of a mechanic, was I not much handicapped? Nevertheless, I walked back, and, finding the hall-porter, gave my name as Flynn, and asked to see Mr Seymour upon important business.

After a wait of nearly ten minutes a man in uniform came and ushered me up in the lift to the third floor, where, having traversed a long, thickly-carpeted corridor, he opened a door and allowed me to pass across the small well-furnished hall of the flat into a sitting-room, where I found myself again face to face with my mysterious neighbour.

He started at sight of me, but so perfect an actor was he that in a second he had recovered himself, and inquired with affected friendliness:

“Why, my dear Holford, why in the name of Fate did you send up your name as Flynn?”

“Because I wished to see you, Mr Kirk,” was my hard response, for we were now alone together in that cosy, sumptuously-furnished sitting-room, through the windows of which I could see the dark flowing Thames and the row of gleaming lights on the Surrey shore beyond. “I knew,” I added, “that if I had sent up my own name I should not be received.”

“Why?” he asked, opening his eyes widely. “I don’t follow you. Surely you have acted as a good friend to me, therefore why shouldn’t I receive you? I’ve only this very moment returned from abroad. Who told you I was back again?”

“No one. I obtained the knowledge for myself,” I said, “and I have come here, Mr Kirk, for several reasons, the chief being to ask you a simple and pointed question: who killed Professor Greer?”

“My dear sir,” he exclaimed, looking straight at me with unwavering gaze, a slight change, however, showing in his thin, grey countenance, “that is the very problem that I myself am trying to solve – but in vain.”

“An impostor is passing himself off as Greer,” I declared.

“Is he?” asked Kirk quietly. “I was not aware of that.”

“Not aware of it!” I cried in angry dismay. “Do you actually deny, then, that you are acquainted with this man who has taken the personality and honours of Professor Greer upon himself in order to preserve the secret of the unfortunate scientist’s death?”

“I deny being aware of any person attempting to pass himself off as Greer,” was my mysterious neighbour’s bold and unflinching reply.

Had I not sent that telegram from Broadstairs and signed it Kirk, and had not its receipt caused the false Professor quickly to change his quarters? Kirk’s reply staggered me.