The Man of Dangerous Secrets

by Maxwell March

“As far as we know, he left his home about five o’clock on the evening of the seventeenth and has not been heard of since.”

  He glanced up and was surprised to see a grim little smile playing round her mouth.

  “Don’t be afraid, Inspector,” she said. “I’m not quite a foolish old woman who is simply out to waste your time, although I may look like one. My brother, as you know, is a good deal younger than I am, and, although we’ve drifted apart in later years, when he was a boy and a young man I looked after him very much as a mother might have done.

  “Under the will of an uncle we both came into considerable fortunes, his larger than mine. Since his disappearance I have made it my business to go into his affairs.

  “There’s no need to look shocked, Inspector,” she added briskly, and the old detective got a glimpse of the forthright personality which made her bank manager and her agents respect Miss Bourbon’s temerity and determination.

  “I’ve gone through all his private papers,” she went on calmly. “You may think I’ve taken this step rather hurriedly, but, although neither a fool nor a sentimentalist, Inspector, I am a person of strong instincts, and I have an unshakable conviction that my brother is dead.

  “You can regard this as old woman’s chatter if you like, but the fact remains that I myself, being convinced of his death, am particularly anxious to know the cause of it, so that if there should be any person in this world who is to blame, that person may be mercilessly punished.”

  A gleam of ferocity had appeared in the blue eyes, and the Inspector reflected that he would not like to cross this indomitable old lady if it could be helped.

  She sat regarding him coldly, no trace of emotion on her finely chiselled face.

  “In the course of my investigations,” she went on, her clear businesslike voice sounding odd in the delicate femininity of her surroundings, “I have made one or two interesting discoveries. My brother was very near to financial ruin when he disappeared, so near that I should not be surprised—although naturally such a discovery would shock me considerably—if I learned he had committed suicide.

  “Moreover,” she went on, her voice sinking, “I have discovered, and I have got documents to prove, that during the last ten years he had been bled white by a firm whose name would astound you were I to tell it.

  “I do not wish to speak too strongly, Inspector, and I know enough about the law of libel to realize that I am putting myself in a delicate position by saying this much to you, but I want to give you every assistance in your search for my brother, and I think it is only right to tell you that from information which I hold I have formed the opinion that it is a corpse for which you must seek.

  “My brother either committed suicide or was murdered. The documents which I hold show a record of something suspiciously like blackmail. My brother may have been killed when, driven to desperation, he threatened to make public the whole story of his dwindling fortunes. Or he may have died by his own hand, but in that case I assure you, Inspector, there are men in London today who are as guilty of his death as if they had struck him down with their own hands.”

  The inspector, listening to this peroration, could not help but be impressed by the almost passionate sincerity in the old lady’s voice.

  Moreover, her last announcement had interested him considerably.

  He hesitated and then embarked upon the first of the unprofessional things which were to mark that strange day’s adventures.

  “Miss Bourbon,” he said, “just for a moment, I wonder if you could forget that I am a police officer and regard me as a professional man in whose discretion you can trust? Let me know the name of this firm of whom you speak, and I promise you that you will never regret your confidence.”

  She hesitated, and he saw her looking at him closely, sizing him up, her shrewd blue eyes fixed thoughtfully upon his face.

  “Inspector,” she said softly, “have you ever heard of a man called Sir Henry Fern?”

  Whybrow’s wooden face did not move a muscle, but the old woman was not to be deceived.

  “I see you have,” she said. “Well, Inspector, there are documents among my brother’s papers which prove that during the past ten years he has paid over eighty thousand pounds to the firm of which Sir Henry Fern is the head, and there is absolutely nothing to show that he ever obtained anything in return. Except, of course,” she added, significantly, “silence.”

  Some minutes later the inspector rose to take his leave. The quiet voice with its damning accusation was still ringing in his ears.

  “Of course,” he said, “should the question ever arise, the documents could be examined by our own experts?”

  “The documents can be examined by anyone,” she said. “They are in a safe deposit at the moment, pending further developments. Good-bye, Inspector. Thank you for coming. I shall hold you to your promise and trust to your discretion.”

  The inspector took her hand.

  “You won’t be disappointed, madam,” he said. “The information you have given me is very valuable and may lead to the unravelling of one of the most extraordinary stories of crime which has ever been told.”

  As he drove back to the Yard he remained deep in thought. Gradually the net seemed to be closing round white-haired, good-tempered-looking Sir Henry Fern. So far there was nothing definite, but the circumstantial evidence was piling up.

  Inspector Whybrow was puzzled. Never had his instincts and his intellect been so much at variance. His brain told him that even if the powerful machinery of the Yard could not fix the guilt of at least one murder upon Sir Henry Fern’s shoulders, the man was assuredly responsible.

  Yet his instincts told him that Sir Henry was more sinned against than sinning. His natural impulse was to trust, even to like, the man. He could not understand it.

  On reaching the Yard he hurried up to his room. For days now he had been expecting a cable from the Canadian police. As his eye lighted upon his desk his face cleared. There was the familiar form spread out to catch his eye when he came in.

  As he read the crudely printed lines his satisfaction grew:

  “PLAYBILL BELIEVED LOCATED, COPY COMING FIRST MAIL. SANDERSON.”

  Whybrow screwed up the message and hurled it into the fireplace. That was that, then. Soon that avenue would be explored.

  He turned to the other documents on his desk that had accumulated during his two-hour absence.

  One of them caught his eye, and he pounced upon it. It was a neatly typed copy of a letter which had come to him from the Post Office branch of the C. I. D.

  It is generally known that when the police are watching a suspected person his correspondence is examined before being delivered at his door. This is usually done unostentatiously, and very often the suspect is completely unaware of such surveillance.

  The letter which the inspector held was a copy of one which had been delivered to Sir Henry Fern that morning. For days now all his mail had been searched, but this was the first missive which the careful watchers at the other end had thought fit to send on to the inspector.

  “Dear Fern,” it began, “I am anxious to have a word or two with you in private somewhere soon. Acting on the instructions of our mutual correspondent, I am therefore writing to make an appointment with you, as I feel there are several points which we ought to discuss. As I know you will agree with me that it would not be advisable for us to meet openly either at my house or yours at the present time, I have decided that the lounge of the De Rigueur Hotel, at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, the 20th, will meet our purpose.

  “As you have probably heard, this place is already in the hands of the receivers and is closing its doors early next week.

  “I hear from the City that they have done little or no business since they opened, and therefore we shall be, I imagine, completely alone.

  “Sincerely,

  “CAITHBY FISHER.”

  The inspector read the message through slowly for the second time. Then he glanced thought
fully at the calendar on the wall opposite him.

  A big red “20” glared back at him from the printed page.

  “Four o’clock at the De Rigueur. ... Caithby Fisher, the head of Armaments, Limited.”

  He threw the letter down upon the desk again. There was a chance, of course, that it referred to an ordinary business appointment which had nothing to do with the dark matters which Whybrow was investigating.

  But there was an undercurrent of command in the tone of the note which put that idea out of the inspector’s mind.

  He thrust the copy into his private file and glanced up at the clock. It was now five minutes to two. In an hour and a half, he decided, he would set out for the De Rigueur.

  For some moments he toyed with the idea of persuading Mowbray to go along with him, but decided against it. After all, it was something of a wild-goose chase.

  Caithby Fisher was a new angle on the case as far as he was concerned. He wondered how many more important men would be found to be linked up with the mysterious business.

  Wise old man that he was, however, he put the matter from his mind until it was time to act.

  Later on in the afternoon, Detective Sergeant Dennistoun, a keen-eyed, red-headed junior of whom great things were expected, dropped in for a chat.

  “We can’t locate that fellow Sacret,” he said. “We had a very likely call from a local bobby down on the east coast. I believe they had some sort of a chase, but it didn’t amount to anything. I’m working on the wife angle at the moment. I’ve been reading up the trial, and if we can only trace that woman we shall find him. I’m sure of it. Still, he’s giving us a run for our money.”

  “Poor devil,” said Inspector Whybrow unprofessionally, and added as he saw the shocked expression on the younger man’s face, “When you get as old as I am, my lad, you’ll find yourself being sorry for people more often than not. There’s something terrific about the efficiency of the Yard. We always win in the end.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Any news of the Bellew murderer?”

  Dennistoun could not resist the dig, and had the satisfaction of seeing his senior’s face grow a shade more rubicund.

  “No,” said Inspector Whybrow. “Not yet. But we’ll get him in the end. We always do.”

  “I wish I felt as sanguine as you do about our friend the convict.”

  Dennistoun went out grinning, and Inspector Whybrow reached for his hat.

  As he went down the staircase to the street he reflected that he was growing old. Personal considerations, he knew, should never enter into business, but the thing that was really worrying him more than his professional reputation or anything else was the fate of his young friend Robin Grey, of whom he had heard nothing for too long.

  Much too long, he decided, as he strode down the pavement, and there was a gloomy, worried expression at the back of his eyes.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Incredible Occurs

  “PERHAPS you’d care to sit over here, sir? You’ll be well out of a draught.”

  The head waiter conducted his guest across the vast empty lounge, which for all its magnificence was badly lit and somehow very forlorn.

  The Hotel De Rigueur had been one of the most sensational failures of recent speculative business. A huge company had been floated to pay for its site, its ornate steel and granite facade, its thousand bedrooms, its gilded salons, and its stupendous opening night, but the public had not responded and the shareholders had lost their money.

  There were many reasons given for the fiasco. Some blamed the slump, others the vicinity, and some more superstitious spoke of the bad luck which had attended it from the day a workman had broken his neck in falling from a scaffolding during its erection.

  But the fact remained that the place had not caught on, the receivers had stepped in, and within a week the magnificent doors were to be closed to the public.

  Save for the waiter and the rather haggard but still handsome-looking old man who followed him, the lounge was empty.

  Sir Henry Fern allowed himself to be settled in a corner protected by a huge draught screen and a modernistic pot of giant flowers.

  The waiter went away, his lank drooping form looking singularly lonely and pathetic as it traversed this wealth of unwanted splendour.

  But Sir Henry Fern had no thought for his surroundings. His eyes were fixed on the gilt clock over the ornate fireplace, and his heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

  On the other side of the screen, and arranged in a position from which he could see the face of the old man reflected in a mirror opposite, as well as overhear anything he might say, Inspector Whybrow also waited.

  He was a little conscious of the lack of dignity of his present position, but his profession, he reflected gloomily, was not a dignified one, and if justice was to be served he knew from experience that it was useless to be too squeamish.

  Sir Henry Fern made an interesting study. He sat hunched up, his arms resting upon the table in front of him, his head bowed. He had grown much whiter in the past two weeks, and the inspector was surprised to see that he looked shrunken. His clothes hung upon him loosely, and there were deep circles beneath his eyes.

  While he was waiting, the policeman had time to admire Caithby Fisher’s choice of a rendezvous. Had he not seen the letter and made his arrangements with the waiter, no one might ever have known of this strange meeting.

  His attention was distracted by a little commotion at the far end of the room as a figure in a wheeled chair appeared in the doorway.

  The hunchback was even more repellent swinging along in his mobile little chair, a grey plaid rug tucked well round his knees, than he had ever seemed before, and Whybrow was conscious of a sense of dislike as he caught sight of him.

  On catching sight of Sir Henry the cripple had waved the head waiter aside and now came speeding up the aisle, one hand outstretched.

  He settled himself at the table, and Whybrow was irritated to find that the position he had taken hindered the inspector’s view of Sir Henry’s face.

  Both men were now reflected in the mirror, but only fitfully as they moved or bent closer to speak more confidentially.

  From where he sat, however, their conversation was easily overheard.

  The cripple seemed in excellent spirits. He began with a torrent of small talk about the weather, the hotel, and everything else, but as soon as the waiter had brought them coffee and each man had lighted a cigar, the talk suddenly took a more interesting turn.

  “You have news for me from the Dealer?”

  It was Sir Henry who spoke, and his voice was colourless with the apathy of one who already has had too much to bear.

  “Well”—the hunchback spread out his gnarled hands, and his dry voice sank a tone or so lower—“in a way, yes. The Dealer is particularly anxious about the fate of Rex Bourbon, who, as you may know, disappeared some few days ago. He thought you might know something.”

  Sir Henry sat up with what the inspector felt sure was a genuine start of surprise.

  “I? Why on earth should I know?”

  The cripple bent nearer.

  “You’ve had no inquiries? No interviews with relations, friends, secretaries? No one has come to your office?”

  “No one. Why should they? I didn’t know Bourbon very well, you know.”

  Sir Henry did not seem to be at all aware that he was treading on dangerous ground, and the listening inspector was conscious of a sense of bewilderment. Either Sir Henry Fern was a remarkable actor or the accusations which Rex Bourbon’s sister had made against him only that morning were monstrously untrue.

  “I see.”

  The man in the wheeled chair seemed satisfied.

  “I am sure the Dealer will be interested.”

  A convulsive shudder went through the older man, and neither his companion nor the listening inspector was prepared for the change which came over him.

  “The Dealer!” he burst out, raising his voice unconsciously in his
exasperation. “I can’t stand it any longer, Fisher! Death, imprisonment, torture, anything is better than the life I’m leading now. I’m at the end of my tether.”

  The cripple’s palm was laid over his hand, and Whybrow caught the whispered words of warning.

  “Hold your tongue, you fool. Not so loud. D’you realize what you’re saying?”

  Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders.

  “I have nothing to hide,” he said, lowering his voice obediently. “I’m just finished, that’s all. Do you know, Fisher, there’s only one thing I care about in this world, and that’s my daughter? And they’ve got her, the fiends! They’ve driven her out of her mind. By some devilment which I don’t pretend to understand, that sweet lovely child has become—become——”

  His voice faltered, and he did not finish the sentence.

  “I can’t even see her now,” he went on pathetically after a pause. “They say she’s too ill for me to see her. They say the sight of me might so incense her that I should ruin the chances of her ever getting well again. I tell you I’m helpless. I don’t know what to do. I think I shall go mad.”

  “Pull yourself together, Fern.”

  There was something menacing in the cripple’s tone, some underlying power which made the inspector stare hard at his reflection in the mirror. In his long experience he had heard that tone once or twice before, and it had always boded trouble.

  After remaining silent for some moments Sir Henry got his voice under control and began to speak in the soft, penetrating monotone of one who has been driven to the last verge of despair.

  “I’m through with it, Fisher,” he said. “Death may be better than disgrace, but this life is unendurable. To go on living in my present circumstances is more than I can face.”

  “Suicide? Surely not.”

  Whybrow scarcely heard the whispered suggestion, but it struck him that there was a faint tinge of hope in the tone.

  The baronet’s reply was unexpected. He laughed savagely.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not a coward—or at least not that sort of a coward. I’m going to the police with all I know of the story. Let the whole thing come out, and if the Dealer gets me, then he does. But at any rate my girl will be safe. She’ll be able to marry the man she loves, if they haven’t half killed her already. This thing’s got to stop, Fisher, and the sooner the better.”