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

“That was got at Vivian’s!” interrupted Hetherwick quickly.

“To be sure!” assented Mapperley. “But we know that Hannaford had been at Vivian’s⁠—with Baseverie⁠—undoubtedly. Taken there by Baseverie, which makes me certain that for two or three days before his death he’d been in touch with both Baseverie and Ambrose. Hannaford got that fiver in change at Vivian’s. And he gave it to Granett, on hearing his story. But he did something else⁠—something that was far more important⁠—that is far more important⁠—to us!”

“What?” asked Hetherwick.

“He turned back to the place he’d just left, and took Granett with him!” answered Mapperley with confidence. “He knew Granett was a trained and qualified chemist; he thought he could get him a job with these men who, presumably, were going to take up his own invention. It would be little more than half-past ten then. Where else than at this place are Hannaford and Granett likely to have been between that time and the time at which they got into your carriage at St. James’s Park? Of course they were there⁠—with Ambrose and Baseverie.”

“As you put it⁠—highly probable,” said Hetherwick. “Two and a half hours⁠—doing what?”

“Ah, now we come to the real thing!” exclaimed Mapperley. “My own belief is that Hannaford was fatally poisoned when he left those two men the first time! They’d two objects in poisoning him⁠—or, to put it another way, he’d entrusted them with two secrets⁠—one about Madame Listorelle; the other about his invention. They wanted to keep both to themselves and to profit by both. The invention, no doubt, has considerable value⁠—Hannaford believed it had, anyway. They thought they could blackmail Madame and her sister, Lady Riversreade. So, before Hannaford left them the first time, they poisoned him⁠—cleverly, subtly, devilishly⁠—knowing that so many hours would elapse before the poison worked, and that by that time he’d be safe in bed at his hotel and would die in his sleep. But⁠—he went back to them again, and took another man with him! So⁠—that man had to die, too!”

Hetherwick thought awhile in silence.

“All very good theory, Mapperley,” he said at last. “But⁠—it may be nothing but theory. Why did Granett run off at Charing Cross?”

“Because Granett knew that Ambrose lived in John Street, close by,” replied Mapperley with promptitude. “He may have known it before; he may not have known it until that evening. But⁠—he knew it! Most likely he thought that Ambrose had returned home from the place in Westminster: Ambrose may have left there before Hannaford and Granett did. Anyway, we may be reasonably certain that when Granett left you with the dying or dead man, he ran off to Ambrose’s flat⁠—a few minutes away.”

“Why didn’t he come back?” demanded Hetherwick. “I’m only wanting to get at probabilities.”

“I’ve thought of that, too,” replied Mapperley. “I think he found Ambrose out. But by that time he’d had time to reflect. He knew something was wrong. He knew that if he went back, he’d find the police there, and would be questioned. He might be suspected. And so⁠—he went home, with the bottle in which Ambrose had given him a drop of whisky for himself. And⁠—died in his sleep, as they thought Hannaford would.”

“Why should Ambrose have that bottle down at Westminster?” asked Hetherwick.

“Why shouldn’t he?” retorted Mapperley. “A man who’s taking a tonic takes it at least three times a day⁠—regularly. He’d have his bottle with him. Probably there are several similar empty bottles there at that place.”

“Where is that place?” exclaimed Hetherwick. “Where?”

“Got to be found,” said Mapperley, as the cab came to a stand. “But⁠—here’s this!”

Hetherwick led his companion across Paddington Green and to the house from which he and Matherfield had watched the flats opposite. Late as it was, the lodging-house keeper was up, and lent a willing ear to Hetherwick’s request that he should go with him to his friend the caretaker of the Mansions. That functionary was at supper. He continued to sup as Hetherwick, morally supported by the lodging-house man, explained matters to him, but at last he allowed his cheek to bulge with unswallowed food and turned a surprised and knowing eye on his principal visitor.

“Blamed if I didn’t wonder whether it was all OK with that chap!” he exclaimed, banging the table with the haft of his knife. “For all he was quite the gentleman, I somehow suspicioned him! And yet, he’d a straight tale to tell: come here on Madame’s behalf, to get something for her out of her rooms, had her keys, and give me a note from her saying as how I was to allow the bearer to go up to her flat! What more could I expect⁠—and what could I do⁠—under the circs? I asks yer!”

“Oh, he had a note, had he?” inquired Hetherwick. “In Madame’s writing?”

The caretaker laid down his knife, and thrusting his hand in his breast-pocket, drew forth an envelope and silently handed it over. It was an azure-tinted envelope, of a very good quality of paper, such as is only sold in high-class stationery shops, and the sheet inside matched it in tint and quality. But Hetherwick at once noticed something about that sheet; so, too, did Mapperley, peering at it from behind his elbow. About an inch and a half had been rather roughly cut off at the top; obviously some address had been engraved, or embossed, or printed on the missing portion. As for what was written on the sheet, it was little⁠—a simple order that the caretaker should allow bearer to go into Madame Listorelle’s flat.

“You recognised that as Madame’s handwriting?” suggested Hetherwick.

“Oh, that’s her fist, right enough, that is!” replied the caretaker. “I knew it at once. And no wonder! I ain’t no scholard, not me!⁠—but I knows enough to know that it ’ud puzzle one o’ them here forgers as ye reads about to imitate that there sort o’ writing⁠—more like as if it had been done with a wooden skewer than a Christian pen! Oh, that’s hers.”

Hetherwick handed