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

If it was Monkton, as he believed, why had he gone to Chesterfield Street? And having gone there, why had he alighted at the corner, instead of driving up to the house?

In a few moments he took up the telephone receiver and asked for the number of Mr Monkton’s house.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Still More Mystery

Grant answered the ’phone in Chesterfield Street. To Smeaton’s inquiry, he replied that Miss Monkton had just left the house with Mr Wingate. They were lunching out somewhere, but she had left word that she would be back about three o’clock.

“Any message, sir?” he concluded.

“No, thank you. Grant. I want to see her rather particularly. I’ll look round about three o’clock. I suppose she’s likely to be pretty punctual?”

Grant replied that, as a rule, she kept her time. He added, with the privileged freedom of an old servant: “But you know, sir, when young folk get together, they are not in a great hurry to part. And poor Miss Sheila hasn’t much brightness in her life now. I don’t know what she would do if it wasn’t for Mr Wingate.”

About two o’clock Varney walked into Smeaton’s room at Scotland Yard. He had taken an early morning train to Forest View, to find out what he could concerning the mysterious flitting. He had interviewed the house-agent at Horsham, and had learned a few facts which he communicated to the detective.

There had been mystery about the man who called himself Strange from the beginning. When he proposed to take the house, he had been asked for references, according to the usual custom. He had demurred to this, explained that he did not care to trouble his friends on such a matter, and made a counter-proposition. He would pay a quarter’s rent at once, and every three months pay in advance.

The landlord and the house-agent both thought this a queer proceeding, and were half inclined to insist upon references. But the house had been to let for some time, and the loss of rent was a consideration. The man Strange might be an eccentric sort of person, who disliked putting himself under an obligation, even of such a trifling kind. They gave him the benefit of the doubt, feeling so far as the money was concerned that they were on the safe side.

Another peculiar thing about Mr Strange was that, during the whole of his residence at Forest View, he had never been known to give a cheque. The landlord’s rent was paid in banknotes, the tradesmen’s accounts in gold and silver.

Smeaton put an obvious question: “Have they heard anything from Stent?”

“I am coming to that now, and here is more mystery, as might naturally be expected,” was Varney’s answer. “A young man called at the house-agent’s late yesterday afternoon. He was described to me as a youngish, well-dressed fellow, rather thick-set and swarthy. I take it, we know nothing of him in connection with this case?”

Varney looked at Smeaton interrogatively. The detective shook his head.

“No; you have been told of everybody I know.”

“Well, this chap came with a queer sort of story,” Varney went on. “He explained that he was a friend of Stent, I should say Strange. Two or three days ago Strange had received an urgent summons from abroad, which admitted of no delay. He had posted off at once to Croydon, got hold of a furniture dealer there, brought him back, and sold the furniture to him. He was to fetch it before the end of the week. Strange had given this fellow a letter to the agent, authorising him to let the dealer have the furniture, and hand him the proceeds, less a sum of twenty-five pounds which had been paid as deposit. Out of these proceeds the agent was to deduct the sum accruing for rent, the tenancy being up in four months’ time – and keep the balance till Strange sent for it, or gave instructions for it to be sent to him!”

“And, of course, nothing more will be heard of Stent,” interrupted Smeaton. “The balance will lie in the agent’s hands unclaimed.”

“It looks like it,” said Varney. “The agent thought it all sounded very fishy, although this young fellow carried it off in a pretty natural manner. It was only when he was asked to give his name and address that he showed any signs of embarrassment. But, after a moment’s hesitation, it came out pat enough. He was a Mr James Blake, of Verbena Road, Brixton, by profession an insurance agent.”

“A false name and address, of course?” queried Smeaton.

“Yes and no,” replied Varney. “I got up to Victoria about twelve o’clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was a plate on the door, ‘James Blake, Insurance Agent.’ I rang the bell and asked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there. Fortunately he was in.”

“And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone to Horsham?”

“Certainly not. He was a man of about forty-five with a black beard. In five minutes he told me all about himself, and his family, a wife and two daughters. One was a typist in the city, the other an assistant in a West End hat shop. Our dark-faced friend apparently picked the name out of the directory at random, or knew something of the neighbourhood and its residents. We may be quite sure Horsham will not see him again for a very long time. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Stent went round the day before, and paid up all the tradespeople.”

“No want of money,” observed Smeaton. “They evidently didn’t ‘shoot the moon’ on account of poverty. There’s no doubt they spotted you, and guessed they were under observation.”

“It looks like it,” admitted Varney reluctantly. Smeaton had uttered no word of reproach, but it was a blow to the young man’s pride to know that he had allowed his quarry to escape.

“Well, we must think this over a bit, before we can decide on further steps,” said the detective at length, in a desponding tone. “I am off to Chesterfield Street in a few moments, to see if I can learn anything fresh there. We know that Mrs Saxton was at the corner of the street last night, if we are not positive about her companion.”

Grant opened the door to him when, on the stroke of three, he alighted from a taxi.

Half-an-hour went by, and still Sheila did not make her appearance. Smeaton began to fidget and walk up and down the dining-room, for he hated waiting for anybody. Then the door-bell rang. He rose and hastened into the hall, just as Grant opened the door.

He saw a dark-haired young woman, neatly dressed in navy blue, standing there. He thought there was a slight tremor of nervousness in her voice as she asked if Miss Monkton was at home.

Grant explained that she was out, but he expected her back every minute. Would she come in and wait?

Apparently she was on the point of doing so, when she caught sight of Smeaton standing in the background.

Her face flushed, and then went pale. She drew back, and her nervousness seemed to increase. It was impossible for her to keep her voice steady. “No – no, thank you,” she stammered, as she edged back. “It is of really no importance. I will call another day – to-morrow perhaps.”

“What name shall I say?” asked Grant, surprised at her agitation.

She grew more confused than ever. “I won’t trouble you; it doesn’t matter in the least. I mean. Miss Monkton would not know my name, if I told it you.”

With a swift gesture, she turned and fled. She had been nervous to start with, but Smeaton’s steady and penetrating gaze seemed to have scared her out of her wits.

The detective chatted for a moment or two with Grant, but made no comment upon the strange visitor. Still, it struck him as a curious thing, as one more of the many mysteries of which this house was so full. Would the young woman come back to-morrow, he wondered?

Five minutes later Sheila and her lover arrived. They had spent the best part of the morning in each other’s company, and had lingered long over their lunch. But Wingate was loth to part from her, and insisted upon seeing her home.

She was puzzled, too, at the advent of this dark-haired young woman. “Oh, how I wish I had been a few minutes earlier,” she cried. “I shall worry about it all night.”

“Strange things seem to happen every day,” grumbled Smeaton. “A very mysterious thing happened at the corner of this street last night.”

Then he told them briefly of the midnight move from Forest View, of his dinner with Varney, and how they had seen Mrs Saxton in the taxi-cab in Coventry Street; of the taxi-driver’s story that he had driven her to the corner of Chesterfield Street, where she had got out, and dismissed the cab.

“But surely she was not alone,” cried Sheila.

“A man was with her, but the cab passed too rapidly for us to get a look at him,” replied Smeaton evasively. After all, it was only a suspicion, he could not be positive.

He paused a second, and went on hesitatingly.

“I can’t imagine what her motive could be in coming so near. I came round to-day because I had an idea that she might have called here on some pretext.”

“But, if she had done so, of course I should have rung you up,” said Sheila quickly.

“Well, I could have been sure of that too, if I had thought it out.” Smeaton’s manner was strangely hesitating, it seemed to them, not knowing that he was only revealing half of what was in his mind. “I hardly know why I came at all. I think the case is getting on my nerves. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Let me know if that young woman calls again, and if her visit concerns me in any way.”

He left, and when he had gone Sheila turned to her lover. “Mr Smeaton was very peculiar to-day, wasn’t he, Austin? He gave me the impression of keeping something back – something that he wanted to tell and was afraid.”

Austin agreed with his well-beloved. There was certainly something mysterious about the great detective that afternoon.

Meanwhile Smeaton walked back to his office, more puzzled and baffled than ever. Why on earth had Mrs Saxton and her companion driven to Chesterfield Street? And what had become of the other inmates of Forest View?

Chapter Twenty Six.