The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

by William Le Queux

front,returning in time to receive the detective's message 'phoned to thehotel.

  At this juncture he thought it was wise policy to take both the managerand Bayfield into his confidence. He showed them Smeaton's card, andexplained that for reasons he was not at liberty to disclose, he wantedto identify Bolinski. A man was coming down for that purpose by anearly train to-morrow morning, and he wanted to smuggle him into thehotel as early as possible.

  The manager smiled. "That's all right, Mr Wingate. Inspector Smeatonis an old friend of mine, and I have helped him a bit here, and more inLondon. Our friend breakfasts on the stroke of half-past nine. Getyour man in here a little before nine, and Bayfield will take him incharge, and give him a glimpse of the distinguished foreigner."

  Next morning the taxi-driver Davies arrived, attired in a brand newsuit, and looking eminently respectable in mufti.

  Wingate met him at the station, piloted him to "The Old Ship," andhanded him over to the careful guardianship of the astute Bayfield.

  At nine-thirty, Bolinski, fresh and smart, came down to his breakfast,seating himself at his usual table. Davies crept in, and took a goodlook at him, unobserved by the object of his scrutiny.

  Wingate was waiting in the hall, with the manager. The face of Davieswas purple with emotion and the pleasurable anticipation of further andsubstantial reward.

  "That's the man, right enough, sir!" he said in an excited whisper."I'd swear to him out of a thousand if they was all standin' before me."

  CHAPTER NINE.

  RUMOURS IN LONDON.

  Some few days had elapsed, and the Monkton mystery remained in the samedeep obscurity. The inquest had been resumed, and an "open verdict" wasreturned by the jury. But nothing as yet had been published in thePress. All that the public knew was by an obscure paragraph whichstated that the Colonial Secretary had been suffering from ill-health,and, having been ordered complete rest by his doctor, he had goneabroad.

  The body of the dead man had not been identified. There was nothing toprove conclusively the cause of death, so the matter was left in thehands of the police for investigation.

  Some little progress had been made in the direction of Bolinski. Luigi,the proprietor of the restaurant in Soho, had been taken to the BoundaryRoad in St John's Wood, and had waited for the mysterious foreigner tocome out of the house.

  When he appeared, limping along with that peculiar gait of his, Luigiunhesitatingly declared that he was the man who had dined on theeventful night with the missing Mr Monkton. He could have identifiedhim anyway by his features and figure, but the dragging walk left noroom for doubt. Luigi, like Wingate, had noticed it at once.

  A few facts about him were established. He was either a bachelor or awidower, as the only other occupants of the house were a married couple,also foreigners, who looked after the establishment. Inquiries in theneighbourhood proved that he spent about half the week there, going upto business every morning.

  They tracked him to his office in the city, a couple of rooms on thesecond floor of a big block of recently erected buildings in thevicinity of Liverpool Street Station. His staff was small, consistingof a young clerk of about eighteen, and a woman of about thirty-five, byher appearance a Jewess of foreign, probably Polish, nationality.

  The name Bolinski was inscribed in large latters on a plate outside thedoor. No business or profession was stated. Patient investigationrevealed the fact that he was supposed to be a financial agent, wasconnected with certain small, but more or less profitable, enterprisesabroad, and had a banking account at the head office of one of thebiggest banks in England.

  Such facts as these rather deepened the mystery. What circumstances hadproduced an even momentary association between Reginald Monkton, astatesman of more than ordinary eminence, a man of considerable fortune,with a financier of fifth or sixth rate standing, who lived in a smallhouse in St John's Wood.

  While the Russian was being subjected to these investigations, the otherman. Stent, had suddenly absented himself from the Savoy. This wasannoying, as Smeaton had sworn to hunt him to his lair, with the aid ofhis old ally, the hall-porter.

  Mrs Saxton was still being kept under strict surveillance, but she,too, was lying very low. She left the flat very seldom, and hermovements had in them nothing suspicious. Her brother, James Farloe,went there every day, but she did not appear to be in furthercommunication with Bolinski. Nothing had come to light since those twotelegrams despatched to Brighton.

  In the meantime rumour was growing in every direction, more especiallyin political and club circles. What had become of Monkton? Why was heno longer in his place in the House of Commons? Why had his namedisappeared from the Parliamentary reports? Was he really ill andabroad?

  At no place was the subject discussed with greater interest than at thatcelebrated resort of intellectual Bohemianism, the Savage Club. Herewere gathered together the brightest spirits of the stage, the Bar, andmodern journalism with its insatiable appetite for sensational news andthrilling headlines.

  Prominent amongst the journalistic section was Roderick Varney, abrilliant young man of twenty-eight, of whom his friends predicted greatthings. After a most successful career at Oxford, he had entered theMiddle Temple, and in due course been called to the Bar.

  Having no connection among solicitors, briefs did not flow in, and heturned his attention to the Press. Here he speedily found his truevocation. He was now on the staff of a powerful syndicate whichcontrolled an important group of daily and weekly newspapers.

  The bent of his mind lay in the direction of criminal investigation. Onbehalf of one of the syndicated newspapers, he had helped to solve amystery which had puzzled the trained detectives of Scotland Yard.

  Thinking over the Monkton matter, he had come to the conclusion thatthere might be a great "scoop" in it.

  Unfortunately, he knew so little of the actual facts; there were suchslender premises to start from. Rumours, more or less exaggerated, werenot of much use to him, and those were all that he had at his disposal.

  And then, as he sat in the smoking-room of the Savage, overlooking theThames, a big idea occurred to him. He would go to headquarters atonce, to Chesterfield Street, and ask for Miss Monkton. He would sendin a brief note first, explaining his errand.

  He had dined, and it was getting on for half-past eight. No time tolose. In under ten minutes from the time the idea had struck him, hewas at the door of Reginald Monkton's house.

  Grant showed him into the library, and took in the note. Sheila andWingate had dined together, and were sitting in the drawing-room.

  The sad events had drawn them so closely together that they might now besaid to be acknowledged lovers. Austin had never made any pretence ofhis regard for her, and Sheila was no longer reserved or elusive.

  She handed him the letter, and Wingate read it carefully.

  "I know the man a little," he said, when he had gathered the contents."I belong to the Savage, and go there occasionally. He has thereputation of a brilliant journalist, and has written one or two quitegood books on the subject of criminology. Suppose we have him in, andsee what he wants. Smeaton is a first-class man, no doubt, but thischap unearthed the Balham mystery that baffled Scotland Yard; all Londonrang with it, at the time. A fresh brain might help us."

  Sheila yielded to her lover's suggestion. Privately, she thoughtetiquette demanded that they should first ring up to consult Smeaton asto whether the newcomer should be shown the door or not. But Wingatehad been so good, so tender to her in her hour of trial, that she didnot like to oppose him.

  Varney came in and at once made a good impression upon her. He wasquite a gentleman; his voice and manner showed unmistakable signs ofcultivation.

  He plunged at once into the matter without insincere apologies.

  Plenty of rumours were flying about, he explained, many of them, nodoubt, quite baseless; most, or all of them, exaggerated. He had afaculty for this kind of investigation, and had been successfu
l in avery complicated and baffling case at Balham. If they would give himfirst-hand information he would be pleased to place his services attheir disposal.

  "You know, of course, that nothing will be allowed to appear in thePress," said Wingate, when the young journalist had finished. "The HomeSecretary has given instructions to that effect."

  Varney admitted he was under the impression something of the kind hadoccurred. Otherwise his chief would have sent for him at once.

  "So you see I am not out for immediate kudos," he said, with a veryfrank smile. "Under different circumstances I daresay I should act verymuch like any other enterprising journalist anxious to establish areputation."

  There was a moment's pause. Wingate looked at Sheila, and she returnedhis glance of inquiry. Should they trust this singular young man, whospoke with such apparent frankness? Or should they refer him to thedetective-inspector who had the case in hand?

  Varney perceived