The Rayner-Slade Amalgamation, J. S. Fletcher [best fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

sentence. "Aye, that's true enough. All right—I'll speak to Gaffney, when I go back. And look here—as you're so well known to this woman, Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow, whichever her name is, you'd better not show up at the Waldorf at any time in my company, eh?"

"Of course," said Appleyard. "You trust me for that! What we've got to do must be done as secretly as possible."

Allerdyke rose to go, but turned before he reached the door.

"There's one thing I'm uneasy about," he said. "If—I say if, of course—if these folks—I mean the lot that's behind this woman, for I can't believe that she's worked it all herself—have got those jewels, won't they want to clear out with them? Isn't delay dangerous?"

"Not such delay as I'm thinking of," answered Appleyard firmly. "She's cute enough, this lady, and if she made herself scarce just now, she'd know very well that it would excite suspicion. Don't let's spoil things by being too previous. We've got a pretty good watch on her, you know. I should know very quickly if she cleared out of the Pompadour; you'd know if she didn't turn up at Fullaway's. Wait a bit, Mr. Allerdyke; it's the best policy. You'll come here to-morrow?"

"Eleven o'clock in the morning," replied Allerdyke. "I'll fix it with
Gaffney to-night."

He went back to the Waldorf, summoned Gaffney to his private room, and sent him to arrange matters with his brother. Gaffney accepted the commission with alacrity; his brother, he said, was just then out of a job, having lost a clerkship through the sudden bankruptcy of his employers; such a bit of business as that which Mr. Appleyard had entrusted to him was so much meat and drink to one of his tastes—in more ways than one.

"It's the sort of thing he likes, sir," remarked Gaffney, confidentially. "He's always been a great hand at reading these detective tales, and to set him to watch anybody is like offering chickens to a nigger—he fair revels in it!"

"Well, there's plenty for him to revel in," observed Allerdyke grimly.

Plenty! he said to himself with a cynical laugh when Gaffney had left him—aye, plenty, and to spare. He spent the whole of that evening alone, turning every detail over in his own mind; he was still thinking, and speculating, and putting two and two together when he went to bed at eleven o'clock. And just as he was about to switch off his light a waiter knocked on his door.

"Gentleman downstairs, sir, very anxious to see you at once," he said, when Allerdyke opened it. "His card, sir."

Allerdyke gave one glance at the card—a plain bit of pasteboard on which one word had been hastily pencilled—

CHETTLE. CHAPTER XX NUMBER FIFTY-THREE

Chettle!—whom he had left only that morning in Hull, two hundred miles away, both of them agreed that the next step was still unseen, and that immediate action was yet problematical. Something had surely happened to bring Chettle up to town and to him.

"Show Mr. Chettle up here at once," he said to the waiter. "And here—bring a small decanter of whisky and a syphon of soda-water and glasses. Be sharp with 'em."

He pulled on a dressing-gown when the man had gone, and, tying its cord about his waist, went a step or two into the corridor to look out for his visitor. A few minutes elapsed; then the lift came up, and the waiter, killing two birds with one stone, appeared again, escorting the detective and carrying a tray. And Allerdyke, with a sly wink at Chettle, greeted him unconcernedly, ushered him into his room and chatted about nothing until the waiter had gone away. Then he turned on him eagerly.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Something, of course! Aught new?"

For answer Chettle thrust his hand inside his overcoat and brought out a small package, wrapped in cartridge paper, and sealed.

He began to break the seals and unwrap the covering.

"Well, it brought me up here—straight," he said. "I think I shall have to let our people at the yard know everything, Mr. Allerdyke. But I came to you first—-I only got to King's Cross half an hour ago, and I drove on to you at once. Well see what you think before I decide on anything."

"What is it!" repeated Allerdyke, gazing with interest at the package.
"You've found something of fresh importance, eh!"

Chettle took the lid off a small box and produced Lydenberg's watch and postcard on which the appointment in the High Street had been made. He sat down at the table, laying his hand on the watch.

"After you left me this morning," he said, "I started puzzling and puzzling over what had been discovered, what had been done, whether there was more that I could do. I kept thinking things over all the morning, and half the afternoon. Then it suddenly struck me—there was one thing—that I'd never done and that ought to have been done—I don't know why I'd never thought of it till then—but I'd never had this photograph out of the watch. And so I went back to the police-station and got the watch and opened it, and—look there, Mr. Allerdyke!"

He had snapped open the case of the watch as he talked, and he now detached the photograph and turning it over, laid the reverse side down on the table by the postcard.

"Look at it!" he went on. "Do you see?—there's writing on it! You see what it says? 'This is J.A. Burn this when made use of.' You see? And—it's the same handwriting as that on this card, making the appointment! Here, look at both for yourself—hold 'em closer to the light. Mr. Allerdyke—that was all written by the same hand, or I'm—no good!"

Allerdyke went close to the electric globe above his dressing-table, the photograph in one hand, the postcard in the other. He looked searchingly at both, brought them back, and laid them down again.

"No doubt of it, Chettle," he said. "No doubt of it! It doesn't need any expert to be certain sure of that. The same, identical fist, without a shadow of doubt. Well—what d'ye make of it? Here—have a drink."

He mixed a couple of drinks, pushed one glass to the detective, and took the other himself.

"Egad!" he muttered, after drinking. "Things are getting—hottish, anyway. As I say, what do you make of this? Of course, you've come to some conclusion?"

"Yes," answered Chettle, taking up his glass and silently bowing his acknowledgments. "I have! The only one I could come to. The man who sent this photograph to Lydenberg, to help him to identify your cousin at sight, is the man who afterwards lured Lydenberg into that part of Hull High Street, and shot him dead. In plain words, the master shot his man—when he'd done with him. Just as he poisoned the Frenchwoman—when he'd done with her. Mr. Allerdyke, I'm more than ever convinced that these two murders—Lydenberg's and the French maid's—were the work of one hand."

"Likely!" assented Allerdyke. "It's getting to look like it. But—whose? That's the problem, Chettle. Well, I've done a bit since I got back this afternoon. You've had something to tell me—now I've something to tell you. I've found out who it was that James gave the photograph to!"

Chettle showed his gratification by a start of pleased surprise.

"You have—already!" he exclaimed.

"Already!" replied Allerdyke. "Found it out within an hour of getting back in here. He gave it"—here, though the door was closed and bolted, and there was no fear of eavesdroppers, he sank his voice to a whisper—"he gave it to Fullaway's secretary, the woman we discussed, Mrs. Marlow. That's a fact. He gave it to her just before he set off for Russia."

Chettle screwed his lips up to whistle—instead of whistling he suddenly relaxed them to a comprehending smile.

"Aye, just so!" he said. "I was sure it lay somewhere—here. Fullaway himself, now—does he know?"

"James gave it to her in Fullaway's presence," replied Allerdyke. "She's a bit of a photographer, I understand—they were talking about photography, I gathered, one day when James was in Fullaway's office, and James pulled that out and gave it to her as a specimen of my work."

"All that came out in talk this afternoon?" asked Chettle.

"Just so. Ordinary, casual talk," assented Allerdyke.

"No suspicion roused?" suggested Chettle.

"I don't think so. Of course, you never can tell. I should say," continued Allerdyke, "that she's as deep and clever as ever they make 'em! But it was all so casual, and so natural, that I don't think she'd the slightest idea that I was trying to get at anything. However, I found this much out—she couldn't produce the photograph. Said she'd taken it home. Well—there we are! That's part one of my bit of news, Chettle. Now for part two. This woman's leading a double life. She's Mrs. Marlow as Fullaway's secretary and here at his rooms and on his business; where she lives she's Miss Slade. Eh?"

Chettle pricked his ears.

"When did you find that out?" he asked. "Since you left me this morning?"

"Found it out this afternoon," replied Allerdyke, with something of triumph. He had been strolling about the bedroom up to that moment, but now he drew a chair to the table at which Chettle sat and dropped into it close beside his visitor.

"I'll tell you all about it," he went on. "You said at Hull yesterday that you'd always found Yorkshiremen sharp and shrewd—well, this is a bit more Yorkshire work—work of my manager here in town—Mr. Appleyard. Listen!"

He gave the detective a clear and succinct account of all that Appleyard and his satellites had done, and Chettle listened with deep attention, nodding his head at the various points.

"Yes," he said, when Allerdyke had made an end, "yes, that's all right, so far. Good, useful work. The thing is—can you fully trust these two young men—your chauffeur and his brother?"

"I could and would trust my chauffeur with my last shilling," answered Allerdyke. "And as for his brother, I'll take my man's word for him. Besides, they both know—or Mr. Gaffney knows—that I'm a pretty generous paymaster. If a man does aught for me, and does it well, he profits to a nice penny!"

"A good argument," agreed Chettle. "I don't know that you could beat it, Mr. Allerdyke. Well, well—we're getting to something and to somewhere! Now, as you've told me all this, I'll just keep things quiet until I've met you and your manager to-morrow, with these two Gaffneys—we'll have a conference. I won't go near the Yard until after that. Eleven o'clock to-morrow, then, at your warehouse in Gresham Street."

He presently replaced the watch and the postcard in an inner pocket, and took his leave, and Allerdyke, letting him out, walked along the corridor with him as far as the lift. And as Allerdyke turned back to his own room, the third event of that day happened, and seemed to him to be the most surprising and important one of all.

What made Allerdyke pause as he retraced his steps along the corridor, pause to look over the balustrade to the floor immediately below his own, he never knew nor could explain. But, just as he was about to re-enter his room, he did so pause, leaning over the railings and looking down for a moment. In that moment he saw Mrs. Marlow.

A considerable portion of the floor immediately beneath him was fully exposed to the view of any one leaning over the balustrade as Allerdyke did. This was a quiet part of the hotel, a sort of wing cut away from the main building; the floor at which he was looking was given up to private suites of rooms, one of them, a larger one than the others, being Fullaway's, which filled one side of the corridor; the others were suites of two, in some cases of three rooms. As he looked over and down, Allerdyke suddenly saw a door open in one of these smaller suites—open silently and stealthily. Then he saw Mrs. Marlow look out, and she glanced right and left about her. The next instant, she emerged from the room with the same stealthiness, closed and locked the door with a key which she immediately pocketed, slipped along the corridor, and disappeared into Franklin Fullaway's suite. It was all over in less than a minute, and Allerdyke turned into his own door, smiling cynically to himself.

"She looked right and left, but she forgot to look up!" he muttered. "Ah! those small details. And what does that mean? Anyway, I