The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery
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then a tall, bearded man camealong. There was something peculiar in his gait: he seemed to walkstiffly with one leg.
He proceeded slowly in the direction of the post-office, and entered theswing-doors. A chill came over the ardent Wingate as he recognised thatthe man might be merely going in to buy stamps, or send a wire--not toreceive one.
He stole across from the opposite side of the street, where he had beenmarching up and down for such an interminable time, and peered throughthe glass door.
A thrill of exultation swept through him as he saw the young woman handthe stranger a telegram, which he opened, read rapidly, and then thrustin his breast pocket. Wingate at once darted back to his previous post.
At a respectful distance he followed the stranger with the peculiarlimping walk. They came on to the sea front, and his quarry finallydisappeared into that well-known hostelry, "The Old Ship."
It was now much more than an even chance, taking all the circumstancesinto consideration, that this was the man who was in communication withMrs Saxton, and that the telegram he had seen him read was from her.
The man, further, answered to the description given by Davies of one ofthe two men who had hailed his taxi at Dean's Yard. The taxi-driver hadsaid nothing about the peculiarity in his walk, which had impressedWingate at once, probably for the obvious reason that Davies had not hadan opportunity of observing it. He had only seen him for a couple ofminutes, during which time he was occupied in taking instructions forthe disposal of his fare.
"The Old Ship" had been a favourite resort of Wingate's for some years.In fact, until within the last few months, when his business occupationshad permitted less leisure, there was hardly a week in which he had notmotored down there.
The manager he knew well, also the head-waiter, and two or three of hissubordinates. If the man he was tracking was staying there, it would bethe easiest thing in the world to make a few judicious inquiries ere heagain 'phoned Smeaton. The first person he met, as he stepped into thehall, was Bayfield, the portly and rubicund head-waiter himself.
"Good-day, Mr Wingate. Very pleased to see you, sir. We were sayingonly the other day that you had quite deserted us."
"Been awfully busy, Bayfield; couldn't get away. But it was such alovely day that I made up my mind I would rush down for a breath offresh air."
"Quite right, sir," cried the cheerful Bayfield, in an approving voice."It will do you good. All work and no play--you know the old proverb,sir--eh? You are staying the night, I hope?"
Wingate hesitated. "I didn't intend to when I started from town.Anyway, I will have dinner, and make plans afterwards. Have you manypeople stopping here?"
"Never knew the house so empty, although, of course, we don't expect tohave many this time of year. A lot of people come in to the _tabled'hote_, but at the moment, in the house itself, we've only an elderlycouple, a few stray people, and a foreign gentleman, who has been avisitor, on and off, for the last few months."
It was a fine opportunity to engage Bayfield in conversation upon thesubject of the "foreign" gentleman, and pick up what he could. Bayfieldwas a chatty, old-fashioned creature nearly seventy, and could betrusted not to exhibit undue reticence when unfolding himself to acustomer whom he had known for some years.
But Wingate made up his mind not to press matters too much. He wouldprospect a little on his own account first, before he availed himself ofthe head-waiter's loquacity.
A minute later he entered the smoking-room, lit another cigar, andprepared to cogitate over matters. At the moment of his entrance therewas nobody else in the apartment. A few seconds later the beardedstranger came in, rang the bell, ordered something, and seated himselfbefore a small writing-table in the corner of the room. Then he pulledfrom his breast pocket a bundle of papers.
He read through some of them, various letters and memoranda they seemedto be, slowly and carefully, and laid them aside after perusal, makingnotes meanwhile.
Then, almost, but not quite, at the end of the packet, came the telegramwhich he had received at the post-office. He placed this on the top ofthe little pile, and went on with what remained.
It was a tantalising moment for Austin. There was the telegram withinsix feet of him. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain. An ideaoccurred to him. He stumped his cigar upon the ash-tray, till it failedto emit the feeblest glow. He had already observed that, throughcarelessness, nearly every match-box in the room was empty.
Noiselessly he stole across the few feet of space that divided him fromthe stranger, and stood on his right hand. Another document had beenlaid upon the pile, and only the corner of the telegram was peepingforth. A second or two sooner, and he could have read it. He was fullof chagrin.
"Excuse me, sir, but can you oblige me with a match? They don't seem toprovide them in this establishment."
The visitor turned, and for a moment regarded him keenly. What he sawseemed to impress him favourably: an open, honest English face,perfectly candid eyes that looked into his own, without a suspicion ofguile in their direct gaze.
"With pleasure, sir. They seem very remiss."
He spoke with a slight foreign accent, but his tones were cultivated,and his manner was courtesy itself. He held out his match-box. Wingatefancied his glance travelled uneasily to the pile of papers upon thetable.
The young man turned half round to strike the match. There was hardlyanything of the telegram to read, so obscured was it by the letter lyingon the top of it, in which he was not interested.
But what he could see, with his abnormally quick vision, was sufficient.The signature showed distinctly, the same that had appeared on theprevious wire--the name MAUDE!
He bowed and withdrew. The foreigner finished his examination of thepile of correspondence he had produced, gathered it up, and transferredit to his breast pocket. Then, with a courteous smile to Wingate, hequitted the room.
The young man breathed a sigh of relief. He was both astonished anddelighted at his own resource, at the extent of his discovery. Thecontents of the telegram could be obtained by Smeaton at his leisure.
What he, Austin Wingate, amateur detective, had proved was that themysterious man who was staying there was the same person who was incommunication with Maude, otherwise Mrs Saxton, of Hyde Park Mansions.
He had done good spade work. Of that he was sure. It was now half-pastseven. Plenty of time to 'phone Smeaton, tell him what he haddiscovered, and inquire how he was to proceed.
The detective decided on his campaign without a moment's hesitation.
"Well done, Mr Wingate, an excellent result," he said over the wire."Stay the night and keep the fellow under observation. We must have himidentified. I will send Davies down by the first train to-morrowmorning. I will 'phone you full instructions, say, in a couple ofhours. Meet him at the station in the morning, smuggle him into thehotel as quickly as you can; I leave the details to you. Let him seeour foreign friend, and say if he is the man we think him to be." Hepaused a moment, then added:
"You say the manager and Bayfield are well-known to you. They are alsoold friends of mine. I have unearthed more than one mystery with theirhelp. Mention my name, show them my card, if you think it will easematters. They will give you any assistance you want. Once again,bravo, and well-done. I'll ring you up as soon as I have fixed Davies."
Wingate felt he was walking on air as he returned to the hotel. Withhis new-born cunning he had not 'phoned from "The Old Ship," but fromthe post-office.
The dining-room was not at all full. The elderly couple and theforeigner sat at their respective tables. A few other people weredotted about.
At the end of an hour Wingate had the room to himself, with thehead-waiter, his old friend, hovering around, ready for a prolongedchat.
"I'm rather interested in that foreign chap, Bayfield," he saidcarelessly. "What do you know about him? Is he a quiet sort ofAnarchist, or what?"
Bayfield was quite ready to communicate all he knew, in conf
identialwhispers, for Wingate was always very popular with his inferiors. Hegave himself no airs, and he was more than liberal with tips.
"He's a bit of a mystery, sir, but he's a very quiet sort of agentleman. He began coming here about three months ago. I should say,since he started, he has stayed two or three days out of every week. Hehas heaps of letters. Sometimes he goes off at a minute's notice, andthen we have to send his letters after him."
"Where does he live, and what's his name?"
"He lives in the Boundary Road, St John's Wood, and his name isBolinski; a Russian, I suppose. All their names seem to end in `ski' or`off.'"
So his name was Bolinski, and he lived in Boundary Road, St John'sWood. Here was valuable information for Smeaton. Wingate chatted alittle longer with Bayfield, and then went for a walk along the