Strand, sir, an elderly gent and a youngishlady. I was standing by the kerb, having just put down a fare. Theyhad stepped out of another taxi a few yards below, they waited till itdrove away, and then they came up and got into mine. I thought it a bitpeculiar."
"Where did you put them down?"
"At the corner of Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. I asked them if Ishould wait, but the lady shook her head. The gentleman seemed ailinglike; he walked very slow, and leaned heavily on her arm."
Smeaton tipped the man, who in a few moments left his room.
If it was Monkton, as he believed, why had he gone to ChesterfieldStreet? And having gone there, why had he alighted at the corner,instead of driving up to the house?
In a few moments he took up the telephone receiver and asked for thenumber of Mr Monkton's house.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
STILL MORE MYSTERY.
Grant answered the 'phone in Chesterfield Street. To Smeaton's inquiry,he replied that Miss Monkton had just left the house with Mr Wingate.They were lunching out somewhere, but she had left word that she wouldbe back about three o'clock.
"Any message, sir?" he concluded.
"No, thank you. Grant. I want to see her rather particularly. I'lllook round about three o'clock. I suppose she's likely to be prettypunctual?"
Grant replied that, as a rule, she kept her time. He added, with theprivileged freedom of an old servant: "But you know, sir, when youngfolk get together, they are not in a great hurry to part. And poor MissSheila hasn't much brightness in her life now. I don't know what shewould do if it wasn't for Mr Wingate."
About two o'clock Varney walked into Smeaton's room at Scotland Yard.He had taken an early morning train to Forest View, to find out what hecould concerning the mysterious flitting. He had interviewed thehouse-agent at Horsham, and had learned a few facts which hecommunicated to the detective.
There had been mystery about the man who called himself Strange from thebeginning. When he proposed to take the house, he had been asked forreferences, according to the usual custom. He had demurred to this,explained that he did not care to trouble his friends on such a matter,and made a counter-proposition. He would pay a quarter's rent at once,and every three months pay in advance.
The landlord and the house-agent both thought this a queer proceeding,and were half inclined to insist upon references. But the house hadbeen to let for some time, and the loss of rent was a consideration.The man Strange might be an eccentric sort of person, who dislikedputting himself under an obligation, even of such a trifling kind. Theygave him the benefit of the doubt, feeling so far as the money wasconcerned that they were on the safe side.
Another peculiar thing about Mr Strange was that, during the whole ofhis residence at Forest View, he had never been known to give a cheque.The landlord's rent was paid in banknotes, the tradesmen's accounts ingold and silver.
Smeaton put an obvious question: "Have they heard anything from Stent?"
"I am coming to that now, and here is more mystery, as might naturallybe expected," was Varney's answer. "A young man called at thehouse-agent's late yesterday afternoon. He was described to me as ayoungish, well-dressed fellow, rather thick-set and swarthy. I take it,we know nothing of him in connection with this case?"
Varney looked at Smeaton interrogatively. The detective shook his head.
"No; you have been told of everybody I know."
"Well, this chap came with a queer sort of story," Varney went on. "Heexplained that he was a friend of Stent, I should say Strange. Two orthree days ago Strange had received an urgent summons from abroad, whichadmitted of no delay. He had posted off at once to Croydon, got hold ofa furniture dealer there, brought him back, and sold the furniture tohim. He was to fetch it before the end of the week. Strange had giventhis fellow a letter to the agent, authorising him to let the dealerhave the furniture, and hand him the proceeds, less a sum of twenty-fivepounds which had been paid as deposit. Out of these proceeds the agentwas to deduct the sum accruing for rent, the tenancy being up in fourmonths' time--and keep the balance till Strange sent for it, or gaveinstructions for it to be sent to him!"
"And, of course, nothing more will be heard of Stent," interruptedSmeaton. "The balance will lie in the agent's hands unclaimed."
"It looks like it," said Varney. "The agent thought it all sounded veryfishy, although this young fellow carried it off in a pretty naturalmanner. It was only when he was asked to give his name and address thathe showed any signs of embarrassment. But, after a moment's hesitation,it came out pat enough. He was a Mr James Blake, of Verbena Road,Brixton, by profession an insurance agent."
"A false name and address, of course?" queried Smeaton.
"Yes and no," replied Varney. "I got up to Victoria about twelveo'clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was aplate on the door, `James Blake, Insurance Agent.' I rang the bell andasked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there.Fortunately he was in."
"And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone toHorsham?"
"Certainly not. He was a man of about forty-five with a black beard.In five minutes he told me all about himself, and his family, a wife andtwo daughters. One was a typist in the city, the other an assistant ina West End hat shop. Our dark-faced friend apparently picked the nameout of the directory at random, or knew something of the neighbourhoodand its residents. We may be quite sure Horsham will not see him againfor a very long time. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Stent wentround the day before, and paid up all the tradespeople."
"No want of money," observed Smeaton. "They evidently didn't `shoot themoon' on account of poverty. There's no doubt they spotted you, andguessed they were under observation."
"It looks like it," admitted Varney reluctantly. Smeaton had uttered noword of reproach, but it was a blow to the young man's pride to knowthat he had allowed his quarry to escape.
"Well, we must think this over a bit, before we can decide on furthersteps," said the detective at length, in a desponding tone. "I am offto Chesterfield Street in a few moments, to see if I can learn anythingfresh there. We know that Mrs Saxton was at the corner of the streetlast night, if we are not positive about her companion."
Grant opened the door to him when, on the stroke of three, he alightedfrom a taxi.
Half-an-hour went by, and still Sheila did not make her appearance.Smeaton began to fidget and walk up and down the dining-room, for hehated waiting for anybody. Then the door-bell rang. He rose andhastened into the hall, just as Grant opened the door.
He saw a dark-haired young woman, neatly dressed in navy blue, standingthere. He thought there was a slight tremor of nervousness in her voiceas she asked if Miss Monkton was at home.
Grant explained that she was out, but he expected her back every minute.Would she come in and wait?
Apparently she was on the point of doing so, when she caught sight ofSmeaton standing in the background.
Her face flushed, and then went pale. She drew back, and hernervousness seemed to increase. It was impossible for her to keep hervoice steady. "No--no, thank you," she stammered, as she edged back."It is of really no importance. I will call another day--to-morrowperhaps."
"What name shall I say?" asked Grant, surprised at her agitation.
She grew more confused than ever. "I won't trouble you; it doesn'tmatter in the least. I mean. Miss Monkton would not know my name, if Itold it you."
With a swift gesture, she turned and fled. She had been nervous tostart with, but Smeaton's steady and penetrating gaze seemed to havescared her out of her wits.
The detective chatted for a moment or two with Grant, but made nocomment upon the strange visitor. Still, it struck him as a curiousthing, as one more of the many mysteries of which this house was sofull. Would the young woman come back to-morrow, he wondered?
Five minutes later Sheila and her lover arrived. They had spent thebest part of the morning in ea
ch other's company, and had lingered longover their lunch. But Wingate was loth to part from her, and insistedupon seeing her home.
She was puzzled, too, at the advent of this dark-haired young woman."Oh, how I wish I had been a few minutes earlier," she cried. "I shallworry about it all night."
"Strange things seem to happen every day," grumbled Smeaton. "A verymysterious thing happened at the corner of this street last night."
Then he told them briefly of the midnight move from Forest View, of hisdinner with Varney, and how they had seen Mrs Saxton in the taxi-cab inCoventry Street; of the taxi-driver's story that he had driven her tothe corner of Chesterfield Street, where she had got out, and
The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery Page 34
