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

“A temporary aberration,” rejoined the scientific detective. “Even men of calm temperament get into uncontrollable rages occasionally. He wrote it at white heat, strung to momentary madness by the ruin that confronted him. That is understandable. What is not understandable is that a man of that well-balanced mind should cherish rancour for a period of twenty-odd years.”

“There is something in what you say, Johnson. I confess that you are more subtle than I am.”

Johnson pursued his advantage. “After the lapse of twelve months, by which time he had probably found his feet again, he would recognise it, to use a phrase we both know well, sir, as ‘a fair cop.’ He had defied the law; the law had got the better of him. He would take off his hat, and say to the law: ‘I give you best. You are the better man, and you won.’”

Smeaton regarded his subordinate with genuine admiration.

“I am not too old to learn, Johnson; you have taught me something to-night.” He paused a moment, and added slowly: “You have taught me to distinguish the probable from the possible.”

Johnson rose, feeling he had done well and impressed his sagacity upon his chief.

“I believe, sir, when you think it over you will admit that such a delayed scheme of vengeance would not be carried out, after the lapse of so many years, by a man of ordinary sanity. I admit it might be carried out by a lunatic, or a person half-demented, on the borderland – a man who had brooded over an ancient wrong till he became obsessed.”

Smeaton nodded, in comprehension. His subordinate was developing unsuspected powers.

“Wait a moment, Johnson. We know certain things. We know Bolinski – who wrote the threatening letter – is out of it, so far as active participation is concerned. Lady Wrenwyck is out of it. We know the two who put the dying man in the cab. We know about Farloe and Saxton. We know about the Italian who died at Forest View. We know about the man Whyman, who invited me to stay the night, and disappeared before I was up next morning. You know all these things, everything that has taken place since I took up the case. You have thought it all over.”

“I have thought it all over,” replied Johnson, always deferential and always imperturbable.

“Don’t go yet,” said Smeaton. “Frankly, we seem to have come to a dead end. Have you anything to suggest?”

Johnson’s triumph was complete. That the great Smeaton should seek the advice of a lieutenant, except in the most casual and non-committal way, was a thing unprecedented.

But, following the example of other great men, he did not lose his head. He spoke with his accustomed deliberation, his usual deference.

“The mystery, if it ever is solved, sir, will be solved at Forest View. Keep a watch on that house, day and night.” He emphasised the last word, and looked squarely at his chief.

Smeaton gave a sudden start. “You know Varney is watching it.”

“A clever fellow, sir; relies upon intuition largely and has little patience with our slower methods. He watches it by day – well, no doubt – but he doesn’t watch it by night. Many strange things happen when the sun has gone down.”

Smeaton smiled a little uneasily. “You are relying on intuition now yourself, Johnson. But this conversation has given me food for thought. I will carry out your suggestion. In the meantime understand that, in this last mission, you have done all that is possible. I shall send in a report to that effect.”

Johnson withdrew, well pleased with the interview. He had greatly advanced himself in his chief’s estimation and he had skilfully avoided wounding Smeaton’s amour propre.

The day was fated to be one of unpleasant surprises. A few hours later Varney dashed into his room, in a state of great excitement.

“Astounding news – infernal news!” he cried, dashing his hat down on the table. “But first look at this, and see if you recognise the original.”

He handed Smeaton a snapshot. The detective examined it carefully. Truth to tell, it was not a very brilliant specimen of photographic art.

“The cap and apron puzzled me a little at first,” he said at length. “But it is certainly Mrs Saxton; in other words, I take it, the parlourmaid at Forest View.”

“Just what I suspected,” cried Varney. “I was thinking about the woman, firmly convinced in my own mind that she was different from what she pretended to be. In a flash I thought of Mrs Saxton. I got a snap at her in the garden yesterday morning, without her seeing me, so as to bring it to you for identification.”

“Forest View seems to be the centre of the mystery,” said Smeaton slowly. “Well, this is not the infernal news, I suppose? There is something more to come.”

And Varney blurted out the astonishing tale. “Forest View is empty. They made tracks in the night – while we were all sound asleep.”

Smeaton thought of Johnson’s recommendation to watch the house by night as well as day. He reproached himself for his own carelessness when dealing with such wary adversaries.

“Tell me all about it,” he said sharply.

Varney went on with his story.

“It has been my custom to stroll round there every night about eleven o’clock, when the lights are put out, generally to the minute,” he said. “I did the same thing last evening; they were extinguished a few minutes later than usual, but I did not attach any importance to that.”

“They were packing up, I suppose, and got a little over their time,” observed Smeaton.

“No doubt. I am usually a light sleeper, but I had taken a long cycle ride in the afternoon, and slept heavily till late in the morning. I took my usual stroll after breakfast. The gate was closed, but there were marks of heavy wheels on the gravel, and all the blinds were down. I went up to the door, and rang the bell. Nobody answered.”

“Did they take all the furniture?” queried Smeaton. “No, they could not have moved it in the time.”

“I am certain, from the marks, only one van had gone in and come out. They only removed what was valuable and important. I questioned the local constable. He saw a van pass, going in the direction of London, but had no idea of where it had come from. Some of them, I expect, got into the van, and the others took a circuitous route in the motor.”

Smeaton listened to all this with profound chagrin. He rose and paced the room.

“I am fed up with the whole thing, Varney,” he said, in a despondent voice. “I have followed two clues already that seemed promising, and they turn into will-o’-the-wisps. And now we’ve got to begin all over again with this Forest View lot.”

Varney agreed. As a relief from the strain and tension of this most baffling case, he suggested that Smeaton should dine with him at the Savage Club that night, to talk things over.

After an excellent dinner, they recovered somewhat from the depression caused by the recent untoward events. They went into the Alhambra for an hour, and then strolled up Coventry Street.

They waited at the corner of the Haymarket to cross the street. The traffic from the theatres was very congested, and the vehicles were crawling slowly westward.

Suddenly Smeaton clutched at his companion’s arm, and pointed to a taxi that was slowly passing them beneath the glare of the street lamps.

“Look inside,” he cried excitedly.

Varney took a few quick paces forward, and peered through the closed window. He returned to Smeaton, his face aglow.

“The parlourmaid at Forest View, otherwise Mrs Saxton, by all that’s wonderful!”

“Did you notice the man?”

“No, I hadn’t time. The driver started on at proper speed before I could focus him.”

“Do you know, the face in that gleam of light looked wonderfully like that of Reginald Monkton!” he said. “I committed the number of the taxi to memory. To-morrow, we shall know where it took them.”

Next morning, the taxi-driver was found, and told his tale simply and straightforwardly.

“I picked them up in the Strand, sir, an elderly gent and a youngish lady. I was standing by the kerb, having just put down a fare. They had stepped out of another taxi a few yards below, they waited till it drove away, and then they came up and got into mine. I thought it a bit peculiar.”

“Where did you put them down?”

“At the corner of Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. I asked them if I should wait, but the lady shook her head. The gentleman seemed ailing like; he walked very slow, and leaned heavily on her arm.”

Smeaton tipped the man, who in a few moments left his room.