The Man of Dangerous Secrets

by Maxwell March

  “Yes,” said the cripple impatiently. “Yes. And have you noticed anything? Anything remotely unusual or mysterious?”

  “Only one thing. It is so slight and yet so curious that I hardly know whether to mention it or not.”

  The woman was speaking cautiously now, and her dark eyes were large and candid.

  “Several times lately he has received a mysterious visitor late in the evening. The man only comes at night, and he always arrives at the side or garden door. Sir Ferdinand admits him himself and takes him straight into the library. They remain there together for a long time, sometimes two or three hours.”

  “Yes?” The cripple’s eyes were glowing with interest. “Is that all you can tell me?”

  She shook her head. “Not quite all. I have found out who the stranger is. The second time he came I hid myself behind the banisters on the landing, and I caught a glimpse of him framed in the light of the hall in the doorway of the library when Sir Ferdinand was about to show him out.”

  “Who was it? Did you recognize him?”

  The woman nodded.

  “He has an unmistakable face. I have seen it in several illustrated papers.”

  “Who? Who? What’s his name?”

  Madame Julie surveyed her employer frankly.

  “Gordon Frayne,” she said.

  “So!” It was evident that the information had come as a surprise. The cripple sat huddled in his chair, his forehead puckered, his sharp eyes momentarily quiet with thought.

  For Gordon Frayne, as both Caithby Fisher and Madame Julie knew perfectly well, was one of the greatest character actors the world had ever known, the man of whom it was said that in his hands the art of make-up and disguise had reached a height it had never before attained, a man who could deceive a mother concerning her son, or a police inspector concerning a well-known criminal.

  A strange guest indeed for a respectable banker in the position of Sir Ferdinand Shawle.

  “Good-bye, Madame. Forgive me that I do not rise.”

  There was a half-bitter, half-contemptuous tone in the little cripple’s voice as he nodded to Madame Julie as she stood framed in the dark doorway in the panelling.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Fisher.”

  The next moment she was gone, and the man sat alone in the brightly lighted but windowless room, his shrewd, evil little face wearing a strange expression as he looked down into the fire.

  For some time he did not move. Then he brought one skinny hand down upon the arm of his chair with a gesture of one who has arrived at a decision.

  “The boy,” he said softly to himself. “Of course, the boy.”

  He touched a bell push concealed in the marble carvings of the fireplace, and when his magnificent manservant arrived he spoke harshly and with the same ill humour that was always apparent when he addressed the man.

  “When Mr. Grey arrives I will see him here. At once, you understand. Mr. Grey is a very important person to us just now. Do you understand that, Reith? Very important indeed.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Miss Fern Regrets

  “NO, SIR. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think anyone’s in, sir.”

  Old Williamson, Sir Henry Fern’s butler, stood in the doorway looking profoundly uncomfortable. Insofar as he permitted himself to have any private opinions, he was inclined to approve of the young man who had lately become so interested in his master’s daughter, and he very much regretted the duty which compelled him to give his present message.

  Robin, who was paler than usual and on whose round, good-humoured face there sat an anxious expression which ill became it, raised his eyebrows more at the old man’s manner than at his words.

  As soon as he had been able to tear himself away from a long discussion with the two inspectors, he had hurried back to see Jennifer in spite of the lateness of the hour. It was now nearly half-past two, and he was due at Caithby Fisher’s office at three.

  He had come, however, because he was unable to keep away. All through the inspectors’ interminable discussion of the Tony Bellew case he had been haunted by the apparently inexplicable smile which had passed between those two, Jennifer and Sir Ferdinand Shawle.

  Moreover, he wanted to talk to her. That hurried kiss that had passed between them, what had it meant? There was hope in his heart, and fear.

  He stood looking at the old butler in astonishment.

  “But surely,” he said at last, “surely I can come in and wait for her? It’s most important that I see Miss Fern immediately.”

  Old Williamson’s pink face became a shade more rubicund. Evidently he found the situation most embarrassing.

  “I—er—hardly know what to say, sir,” he said. “Perhaps I could put it more plainly. I have received instructions to the effect that Miss Fern and her father will—er—always be out in future to you, sir.”

  “What?” The ejaculation escaped Robin involuntarily.

  Williamson did not like to repeat his statement but stood licking his lips nervously.

  A thousand thoughts were crowding through Robin’s brain. This was the last thing he had anticipated, and he was a little unprepared for the overwhelming sense of dismay which passed over him at the old man’s words.

  “Look here, Williamson,” he said at last, “is Miss Fern actually in the house at the moment?”

  Williamson’s mild blue eyes faltered. “Well—er—yes, sir. To be strictly accurate, she is.”

  Robin pulled out a visiting card from his pocket and scribbled a phrase on the back of it. He stood looking at the message consideringly. After his first moment of panic his brain had become icily clear.

  “I love you. Let me see you.”

  The simple direct words, which gave him away so completely, were, he felt, the only ones possible in the circumstances.

  He thrust the card into Williamson’s hand.

  “Take this up to her. I promise you shan’t regret it.”

  Old Williamson glanced at the card and wavered. Then he nodded.

  “Very well, sir. Will you wait here, please?”

  The old man hurried off, and Robin paced the small outer hall which led into the big reception lounge, his heart bursting. It seemed incredible. It was only a few hours since Sir Henry had been chatting to him about the dinner party and Jennifer had kissed him.

  Williamson was gone an unconscionable time, and the boy remained on tenterhooks. At last, however, he was rewarded by the sight of the portly old man coming down the staircase with more agility than usual. His colour was heightened, Robin noticed, but his face wore that peculiarly wooden expression which seems to be the special possession of the well-trained upper servant.

  He came straight up to Robin and took a deep breath.

  “With Miss Fern’s compliments, sir,” he said, and dropped something into Robin’s palm.

  Robin looked down, and the colour gradually mounted into his face. Lying in his hand were the two halves of his own card on which the message had been pencilled.

  Through the confusion of his mind he heard Williamson’s dry official voice.

  “Will you come this way, sir?”

  Robin followed him blindly. The great hall doors swung open, the cool air of the afternoon blew upon his face, and the next moment he was stumbling down the steps, despair, bewilderment, and shame in his heart.

  He walked straight ahead of him down the road for some time, and it was not until a clock with the hands indicating five minutes to three caught his attention that he pulled himself together with a start.

  After his first setback his natural reaction was one of fierce determination to see the thing through. Robin was tenacious. He was also in love. Deep in his heart he felt that Jennifer, whatever she thought, would never willingly administer such a rebuff to him as the one he had received. Jennifer was innately kind, innately gentle. There was no cruelty to her make-up, no arrogance, no coquetry.

  Caithby Fisher: he remembered the old man with his little wizened face, his curious bright ey
es, and the faint air of mistrust which he had awakened in the boy’s consciousness. Perhaps he would know something.

  He hailed a taxicab and drove to the City. It was late when he arrived at Armaments House—nearly a quarter to four—and as he walked up the imposing flight of steps which led to the entrance he reflected grimly that it would be more than unlikely that the important financier would still be in the mood to see him.

  To his astonishment, however, his card was taken up at once and a suave secretary conducted him to the magnificent old private house behind the modern building where the cripple lived.

  Here there was no delay either, and within three minutes of his arrival Reith, the giant manservant, conducted him into the brilliantly lit windowless room where Caithby Fisher sat huddled up over the fire.

  As Robin came into the room he noticed something which puzzled him. It was a faint, very faint odour of perfume which was vaguely familiar, although he could not place it. For a reason which he could not explain, it was remotely connected in his mind with danger.

  Mr. Fisher’s greeting, however, was warm enough to put any man off his guard.

  “Well, young man,” he said, looking up at him quizzically after they had shaken hands, “you’re late.”

  Robin nodded, but his excuses were cut short by the older man.

  “I know,” he said, “I know. You young men in love—well, I envy you. Sit down, won’t you? Smoke?”

  Robin declined but sat down opposite his host in the chair Madame Julie had so lately vacated.

  But Caithby Fisher was now in a different mood from that which he had adopted with his former visitor. He was smiling, hearty, unmistakably friendly, and as soon as the boy was settled he plunged into business.

  “You may ask me why I asked you to come here,” he began. “I daresay you know enough about business men to realize that they are not often mere philanthropists. In other words, Mr. Grey, they expect their money’s worth.”

  Robin smiled frankly. He was doing his best to keep Jennifer out of his mind and to concentrate on the strange little man before him.

  Caithby Fisher went on.

  “As a matter of fact, young man,” he said, “I arranged this little talk because you and I, Mr. Grey, have a mutual interest and together we may accomplish something.”

  He paused, and the quick bright eyes were bent upon the boy with such a good imitation of shrewd benevolence that even Robin was deceived.

  He had barely time to wonder where this preamble was leading before the man’s next words made him sit bolt upright, every sense in his body alert with interest.

  Caithby Fisher had leant forward and inquired in a soft ingratiating tone: “I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, my boy, but there’s something damned queer worrying that future father-in-law of yours. You’re walking on the edge of a mystery, and by an absolute miracle you are the only man in a thousand capable of putting things straight. Have you noticed anything?”

  Experience had taught Robin caution. “I have been vaguely aware of something,” he said.

  Caithby Fisher appeared perfectly satisfied.

  “Very well. Now look here, you and I can help each other. I shall have to tell you a short but I am afraid not very creditable story. Sir Henry Fern and I are business friends of long standing. Once, many years ago, we had an enemy.”

  He paused, and a far-away expression which was a miracle of acting flickered across his face.

  “There was a woman in the matter, so forgive me if I am not very explicit. Let that rest. Our enemy was a famous man. His name was Blount—Morton Blount—the greatest detective of all time, and Sir Henry Fern’s brother-in-law.”

  Robin was following this story with breathless attention. So far there was nothing to indicate that the man was not telling the truth, and on the whole the yarn sounded very feasible. Moreover, there was, so far as the young man knew, no reason for the cripple to lie.

  “You will wonder why I am taking you into my confidence, but you will see,” he went on. “Morton Blount had a very peculiar form of mania which made him absurdly vindictive, ridiculously cruel. Some years ago he died, and when we read of his death Sir Henry Fern and I both heaved a sigh of relief, believing as we did that the monster who had persecuted us so ruthlessly and for so long was now beyond the power of hurting us further.”

  He paused, and Robin nodded understandingly. After all, the story was not unlikely.

  Caithby Fisher hunched his withered body more tightly in his chair.

  “Unfortunately,” he went on at last, his dry voice sounding oddly convincing, “we discovered that this enemy could strike from the grave.” He leant forward. “Sir Henry Fern—and I, in a lesser degree, you understand—are being blackmailed from the grave.”

  He touched the wheels of his chair so that he moved closer and laid his hand on the boy’s arm.

  “Morton Blount, who begrudged Sir Henry and I something which after all it was not in his own power to attain, left documents with a firm of solicitors with the instructions that these documents be published in a book on the day of Sir Henry Fern’s daughter’s wedding.”

  Robin started. This garbled version of the truth which the man had told had just enough of reality about it to make the genuine facts fit in, and Robin, believing that he had stumbled on the truth, could not repress a movement of interest. The hunchback, seeing that he had won his battle, pressed his point home.

  “Now,” he said, “this is where you can help. This is where you can rid your future father-in-law of his terror and at the same time clear the path for your own marriage. You hold a curiously important position with Scotland Yard, Mr. Grey.”

  Robin nodded. He saw now where the trend was leading, but his quick brain had also seized upon another damning fact. Tony Bellew had been murdered; Sir Henry Fern had been seen coming down from the boy’s flat; it was to Sir Henry Fern’s interest that his daughter should not marry.

  There were other facts that did not fit so well. Caithby Fisher admitted that he too was interested in Jennifer’s remaining single; why dared he admit it?

  The old man answered his question almost before it had formed in his mind.

  “I daresay you’ll wonder at my daring to tell this to you, Mr. Grey,” he said. “But you see, I have seen you with Jennifer and I know you to be in love with her. Moreover I know that if I can convince you of the innocence of myself and Sir Henry I need not fear that I shall not have your cooperation.”

  Robin nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  The shrewd little eyes glinted. “Something very simple. Find out for me the name of the solicitors with whom Morton Blount was likely to leave his most important papers. It’s a very little thing, one of those simple matters that lead to the most important things in the world. In your position at Scotland Yard it should be easy. There are records, private papers. Do you understand? That is all I require : the name of the solicitors.”

  For a long time after the man had spoken, Robin sat silent. He was not a fool, but he was very much in love, and he fancied he saw now an explanation of Jennifer’s refusal to see him. On the whole he was inclined to regard Caithby Fisher as a friend.

  Ten minutes later he walked out of Armaments House, having made a bargain.

  The commissionaire hurried towards him.

  “Taxi, sir?”

  A cab appeared as if by magic.

  “What address, sir?”

  “Scotland Yard.” Robin gave it without thinking. There was a sense of relief at his heart. At last he felt that he had found some clue, however small, which would lead him towards the unravelling of the web which kept the girl he loved from his arms.

  As soon as the taxi moved, the commissionaire turned and, with the air of a man who is acting under important instructions, hurried over to the mysterious little house behind the modern building and gave the information that Mr. Robin Grey had driven straight to Scotland Yard to a wizened, terrible little creature in a wheeled chair who sat a
nd laughed softly to himself.

  CHAPTER 10

  Summons

  “YOU’RE very secretive, my lad. What are you up to?”

  Inspector Whybrow put his head in at the little room in the Records Department at Scotland Yard and regarded his friend quizzically.

  Robin sat at a desk littered high with papers. He looked up and grinned, but his expression was not so open as usual, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the inspector might not approve altogether of his present occupation.

  “Private investigation,” he said.

  Whybrow raised his eyebrows. “Really? Well, I’ve been doing more good than you will poking about in ten-year-old files. I’ve been having another little chat with Sir Henry Fern. In fact I’ve been down at the house for the last two hours.”

  “Have you, though?” Robin’s heart quickened uncomfortably, and in his effort to make his tone sound casual he achieved a stilted note which he feared the inspector would recognize. “Anything fresh?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  The inspector was irritatingly vague.

  “He’s got an alibi. Fellow swears he was at the club all through the afternoon. That doesn’t prove that he didn’t get into the flat earlier in the day, though. Still, I’m inclined to feel you may be right. He seemed a nice old boy. Not a homicidal type at all. All the same there’s something remarkably queer going on there. Something deuced queer. The man Shawle was still there when I went back, and there were doctors in the house.”

  “Doctors?”

  Whybrow nodded. “Something about the girl.”

  The papers fluttered out of Robin’s hand.

  “The girl? Jennifer? Are you sure? Why, she was perfectly all right when I saw her this morning.”

  Whybrow shrugged his shoulders. “You’re in love, my boy,” he said. “Be careful. I’ve never known a detective yet who could do his work when he was in love. Old Morton Blount, the cleverest of ’em all, never looked at a woman. Some early affair put him off ’em, I believe.”

  Robin’s eyes flickered. Here was corroborative evidence of the story at which Caithby Fisher had hinted. The broken romance, the man embittered and eaten up with revenge.