The Charing Cross Mystery, J. S. Fletcher [portable ebook reader .txt] 📗

me something about the object of my visit⁠—let’s find a corner and smoke.”

Installed in an alcove in the big smoking-room, Hollis read Kenthwaite’s letter.

“What is it you’re after?” he asked. “Kenthwaite mentions that my knowledge of Sellithwaite is deeper than his own⁠—naturally, it is, as I’m several years older.”

“Well,” responded Hetherwick. “It’s this, briefly. You’re aware, of course, of what befell your late Police-Superintendent in London⁠—his sudden death?”

“Oh, yes⁠—read all the newspapers, anyway,” assented Hollis. “You’re the man who was present in the train on the Underground, aren’t you?”

“I am. And that’s one reason why I’m keen on solving the mystery. There’s no doubt whatever that Hannaford was poisoned⁠—that it’s a case of deliberate murder. Now, there’s a feature of the case to which the police don’t seem to attach any importance. I do attach great importance to it. It’s the matter of the woman to whom Hannaford referred when he was talking⁠—in my presence⁠—to the man who so mysteriously disappeared. Hannaford spoke of that woman as having been through his hands ten years ago. That would be some experience he had here, in this town. Now then, do you know anything about it? Does it arouse any recollection?”

Hollis, who was smoking a cigar, thoughtfully tapped its long ash against the edge of his coffee-cup. Suddenly his eyes brightened.

“That’s probably the Whittingham case,” he said. “It was about ten years ago.”

“And what was the Whittingham case?” asked Hetherwick. “Case of a woman?”

“Of a woman⁠—evidently an adventuress⁠—who came to Sellithwaite about ten years ago, and stayed here some little time, in this very hotel,” replied Hollis. “Oddly enough, I never saw her! But she was heard of enough⁠—eventually. She came here, to the White Bear, alone, with plenty of luggage and evident funds. I understand she was a very handsome woman, twenty-eight or thirty years of age, and she was taken for somebody of consequence. I rather think she described herself as the Honourable Mrs. Whittingham. She paid her bills here with unfailing punctuality every Saturday morning. She spent a good deal of money amongst the leading tradesmen in the town, and always paid cash. In short, she established her credit very successfully. And with nobody more so than the principal jeweller here⁠—Malladale. She bought a lot of jewellery from Malladale⁠—but in his case, she always paid by cheque. And in the end it was through a deal with Malladale that she got into trouble.”

“And into Hannaford’s hands!” suggested Hetherwick.

“Into Hannaford’s hands, certainly,” assented Hollis. “It was this way. She had, as I said just now, made a lot of purchases from Malladale, who, I may tell you, has a first-class trade amongst our rich commercial magnates in this neighbourhood. Her transactions with him, however, were never, at first, in amounts exceeding a hundred or two. But they went through all right. She used to pay him by cheque drawn on a Manchester bank⁠—Manchester, you know, is only thirty-five miles away. As her first cheques were always met, Malladale never bothered about making any inquiry about her financial stability; like everybody else he was very much impressed by her. Well, in the end, she’d a big deal with Malladale, Malladale had a very fine diamond necklace in stock. He and she used to discuss her acquisition of it: according to his story they had a fine old battle as to terms. Eventually, they struck a bargain⁠—he let her have it for three thousand nine hundred pounds. She gave him a cheque for that amount there and then, and he let her carry off the necklace.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Hetherwick.

“Just so!” agreed Hollis. “But⁠—he did. However, for some reason or other, Malladale had that cheque specially cleared. She handed it to him on a Monday afternoon; first thing on Wednesday morning Malladale found that it had been returned with the ominous reference to drawer inscribed on its surface! Naturally, he hurried round to the White Bear. But the Honourable Mrs. Whittingham had disappeared. She had paid up her account, taken her belongings, and left the hotel, and the town, late on the Monday evening, and all that could be discovered at the station was that she had travelled by the last train to Leeds, where, of course, there are several big main lines to all parts of England. And she had left no address: she had, indeed, told the people here that she should be back before long, and that if any letters came they were to keep them until her return. So then Malladale went to the police, and Hannaford got busy.”

“I gather that he traced her?” suggested Hetherwick.

Hollis laughed sardonically.

“Hannaford traced her⁠—and he got her,” he answered. “But he might well use the expression that you mentioned just now. She was indeed through his hands⁠—just as a particularly slippery eel might have been⁠—she got clear away from him.”

V The Police Return

Hetherwick now began to arrive at something like an understanding of a matter that had puzzled him ever since and also at the time of the conversation between Hannaford and his companion in the train. He had noted then that whatever it was that Hannaford was telling, he was telling it as a man tells a story against himself; there had been signs of amused chagrin and discomfiture in his manner. Now he saw why.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “She was one too many for him. Then?”

“A good many times too many!” laughed Hollis. “She did Hannaford completely. He strove hard to find her, and did a great deal of the spadework himself. And at last he ran her down⁠—in a fashionable hotel in London. He had a Scotland Yard man with him, and a detective from our own police-office here, a man named Gandham, who is still in the force⁠—I’ll introduce you to him tomorrow. Hannaford, finding that Mrs. Whittingham had a suite of rooms in this hotel⁠—a big West End place⁠—left his two men downstairs, or outside, and went up to see her alone. According to his own account,