CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SILVER TICKET
With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girlaside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into aquiet by-street. He looked down at her as she stood recovering herbreath.
"Yes?" he said quietly.
Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly.
"I want to speak to you," she said. "I must speak to you."
"Yes," said Spargo. "But--the others? Your sister?--Breton?"
"I left them on purpose to speak to you," she answered. "They knew Idid. I am well accustomed to looking after myself."
Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move withhim.
"Tea," he said, "is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned placeclose by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come andhave some."
Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargosaid nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoatpockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he hadinstalled himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the oldtea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hottea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her.
"You want," he said, "to talk to me about your father."
"Yes," she answered. "I do."
"Why?" asked Spargo.
The girl gave him a searching look.
"Ronald Breton says you're the man who's written all those specialarticles in the _Watchman_ about the Marbury case," she answered. "Areyou?"
"I am," said Spargo.
"Then you're a man of great influence," she went on. "You can stir thepublic mind. Mr. Spargo--what are you going to write about my fatherand today's proceedings?"
Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. Heseized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake,and bit a great lump out of it.
"Frankly," he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, "frankly, I don'tknow. I don't know--yet. But I'll tell you this--it's best to becandid--I shouldn't allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in makingup my conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?"
Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of theunconventionality and brusqueness of his manners.
"I'm not wanting to prejudice or bias you," she said. "All I want isthat you should be very sure before you say--anything."
"I'll be sure," said Spargo. "Don't bother. Is the tea all right?"
"Beautiful!" she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at heragain. "Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!--what did you thinkabout--about what has just happened?"
Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberallyornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidyhair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea.
"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I'm no great hand at talking. I canwrite pretty decently when I've a good story to tell, but I don't talkan awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless I've got apen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. WhenI write my article this evening, I'll get all these things marshalledin proper form, and I shall write clearly about 'em. But I'll tell youone thing I do think--I wish your father had made a clean breast ofthings to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had toldeverything when he first went into that box."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because he's now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion aroundhimself. People'll think--Heaven knows what they'll think! They alreadyknow that he knows more about Marbury than he'll tell, that--"
"But does he?" she interrupted quickly. "Do you think he does?"
"Yes!" replied Spargo, with emphasis. "I do. A lot more! If he had onlybeen explicit at first--however, he wasn't. Now it's done. As thingsstand--look here, does it strike you that your father is in a veryserious position?"
"Serious?" she exclaimed.
"Dangerous! Here's the fact--he's admitted that he took Marbury to hisrooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury's foundrobbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off!"
"Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake ofrobbing him of whatever he had on him?" she laughed scornfully. "Myfather is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo."
"May be," answered Spargo. "But millionaires have been known to murdermen who held secrets."
"Secrets!" she exclaimed.
"Have some more tea," said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. "Lookhere--this way it is. The theory that people--some people--will buildup (I won't say that it hasn't suggested itself to me) isthis:--There's some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship,connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury twentyodd years ago. Must be. There's some mystery about your father's life,twenty odd years ago. Must be--or else he'd have answered thosequestions. Very well. 'Ha, ha!' says the general public. 'Now we haveit!' 'Marbury,' says the general public, 'was a man who had a hold onAylmore. He turned up. Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed himto preserve his own secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as ablind.' Eh?"
"You think--people will say that?" she exclaimed.
"Cock-sure! They're saying it. Heard half a dozen of 'em say it, inmore or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course,they'll say it. Why, what else could they say?"
For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Thenshe turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a newinterest in what remained of the tea-cakes.
"Is that what you're going to say in your article tonight?" she asked,quietly.
"No!" replied Spargo, promptly. "It isn't. I'm going to sit on thefence tonight. Besides, the case is _sub judice_. All I'm going to dois to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest."
The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it onSpargo's big fist.
"Is it what you think?" she asked in a low voice.
"Honour bright, no!" exclaimed Spargo. "It isn't--it isn't! I don'tthink it. I think there's a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom ofMarbury's death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot aboutMarbury that he won't tell, but I'm certain sure that he neither killedMarbury nor knows anything whatever about his death. And as I'm out toclear this mystery up, and mean to do it, nothing'll make me more gladthan to clear your father. I say, do have some more tea-cake? We'llhave fresh ones--and fresh tea."
"No, thank you," she said smiling. "And thank you for what you've justsaid. I'm going now, Mr. Spargo. You've done me good."
"Oh, rot!" exclaimed Spargo. "Nothing--nothing! I've just told you whatI'm thinking. You must go?..."
He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stoodvacantly staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on theshoulder. Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him.
"All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!" he said. "Well, it's a pleasantchange to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Lookhere, are you going to start your writing just now?"
"I'm not going to start my writing as you call it, until after I'vedined at seven o'clock and given myself time to digest my modestdinner," answered Spargo. "What is it?"
"Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box,"said Rathbury. "I've got it in my room, and I'd like to examine it formyself. Come on!"
"The thing's empty," said Spargo.
"There might be a false bottom in it," remarked Rathbury. "One neverknows. Here, jump into this!"
He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade thedriver go straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo andhimself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seenhim before.
"What d'ye think of today's doings, Spargo?" he asked, as he proceededto unlock a cupboard.
"I think," said Spargo, "that some of you fellows must have had yourears set to tingling."
"That's so," assented Rathbu
ry. "Of course, the next thing'll be tofind out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. When a manwon't tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was exactlydoing, what his precise relationship with another man was--why, then,you've just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at work onthe life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already--you bet!Well, now, Spargo, here's the famous box."
The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in whichhe had been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back thelid and looked inside, measuring the inner capacity against theexterior lines.
"No false bottom in that, Rathbury," he said. "There's just the outerleather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging stuff, andthat's all. There's no room for any false bottom or anything of thatsort, d'you see?"
Rathbury also sized up the box's capacity.
"Looks like it," he said disappointedly. "Well, what about the lid,then? I remember there was an old box like this in my grandmother'sfarmhouse, where I was reared--there was a pocket in the lid. Let's seeif there's anything of the sort here?"
He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with thetips of his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with asharp exclamation.
"By George, Spargo!" he said. "I don't know about any pocket, butthere's something under this lining. Feels like--here, you feel.There--and there."
Spargo put a finger on the places indicated.
"Yes, that's so," he agreed. "Feels like two cards--a large and a smallone. And the small one's harder than the other. Better cut that liningout, Rathbury."
"That," remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, "is just what I'mgoing to do. We'll cut along this seam."
He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the liningof the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objectswhich he dropped on his blotting pad.
"A child's photograph," he said, glancing at one of them. "But what onearth is that?"
The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin,much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of itwas what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almostobliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction,was the figure of a horse.
"That's a curious object," remarked Spargo, picking it up. "I never sawanything like that before. What can it be?"
"Don't know--I never saw anything of the sort either," said Rathbury."Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah--you see, thephotographer's name and address have been torn away or brokenoff--there's nothing left but just two letters of what's apparentlybeen the name of the town--see. Er--that's all there is. Portrait of ababy, eh?"
Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, acasual glance at the baby's portrait. He picked up the silver ticketagain and turned it over and over.
"Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Let me take this silver thing. I knowwhere I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.''
"All right," agreed the detective, "but take the greatest care of it,and don't tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. Noconnection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember."
"Oh, all right," said Spargo. "Trust me."
He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office,wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his articlethat evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Streetintent on seeking peculiar information.
The Middle Temple Murder Page 14
