The Mayfair Mystery

by Frank Richardson

  ‘Marvellous!’ she answered.

  ‘I suppose,’ he continued, ‘that there’s practically nothing that man can’t do?’

  Miss Clive smiled.

  ‘Well, if a man can cure cancer, I should think he would have no difficulty in curing a cold in the head.’

  ‘It is proved,’ said the detective, ‘that he can deal with disease. I wonder whether he would be successful in cases of bad habits.’

  ‘Such as?’ she inquired.

  ‘Drink or drugs,’ he hazarded.

  She looked curiously at him. A questioning glance came from her eyes.

  ‘Do you know of anybody who suffers from either of these curses?’

  ‘No, no,’ he answered quickly. ‘No one in particular. I only put the question generally.’

  Harding entered.

  With the words, ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow at the Temple,’ he dismissed Smallwood.

  He was on the point of flinging his arms round Miriam when she drew back.

  ‘What did you ask me in here for?’ she inquired.

  ‘I wanted to kiss my darling.’

  ‘No doubt,’ she responded, with something very like a sneer on her lips. ‘But why did you require the presence of a detective?’

  He was on the point of lying.

  ‘That man is not…’

  ‘Pardon me,’ she interposed, ‘Smallwood is one of the smartest detectives that ever retired from the Force.’

  He was baffled.

  How on earth did Miriam know that Smallwood was a detective? He put the question:

  ‘Yes, he’s a detective. But how did you know?’

  She laughed:

  ‘I flatter myself that I can always detect detectives.’

  ‘Yes. But you can’t detect their names. How did you know he was Smallwood?’

  ‘I will tell you,’ she answered, ‘if you will tell me why you had him here.’

  He lied awkwardly.

  ‘A friend of mine wants to employ him.’

  ‘What friend?’ she asked quickly. ‘Tell me immediately. Don’t stop to think.’

  At a venture he answered: ‘Frederick Robinson.’

  She patted him on the face with her fan.

  ‘What the dickens does he want a detective for? I suppose he wants to find out why Sir William Clarke-Odgers wears whiskers. George, you have lied to me,’ she continued. But she did not appear angry. ‘You have not told me the truth in this matter. I shall not tell you the truth as to how I know that Smallwood is a detective.’

  ‘Confound it!’ he replied, ‘these are nice relations between a man and a woman who are in love with each other! Miriam, I insist on an explanation. No man can stand this sort of thing.’ He looked carefully at her. But to his delight he detected none of the symptoms mentioned in the book on forensic medicine.

  She pursed her lips and sighed prettily.

  ‘You’re not going to throw me over, are you? And you’re not going to make a row, are you? I love you very, very much.’ She threw her arms around him, and kissed his face passionately. ‘Darling, it’s ten days since I saw you.’

  ‘Why is it ten days? It’s your own fault.’

  ‘Sit down by me on the sofa,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t let us go to the Carlton yet. Order the dinner in half an hour. The motor can wait.’

  He hesitated. She drew his head down, and pressed his lips against her neck.

  He was conquered. He telephoned to the Carlton, ordering dinner in half an hour.

  ‘But what will your servants think?’ he asked uneasily.

  ‘I don’t care a damn,’ she replied, ‘what the men think. I have not seen you for ten days.’

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  THE ACCIDENT

  THE thing happened in an instant.

  When he came to, he found himself surrounded by useless people with wide-open eyes. He fainted again, and when his eyes opened he found himself in a four-wheel cab with a policeman and another man. His first words were:

  ‘Where is she?’

  The other man said:

  ‘Oh, she’s all right. How are you feeling yourself?’

  Harding answered that he felt very much shaken.

  The other man passed his hands over his arms and legs. ‘Do you think that any bones are broken?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Harding nodded.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To Charing Cross Hospital.’

  ‘I would sooner be taken home.’

  ‘I think the best plan would be to take you to the hospital. Do you live far from here?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘South Audley Street. Excuse me, but who are you?’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ and the man gave his name, Dr Oakley-Williams. ‘I happened to be passing when the accident occurred.’

  ‘Frankly,’ Harding said, ‘I don’t think there is anything seriously the matter with me. You had better take me to my house.’

  So he was driven home. The doctor and the policeman helped him up to his room. He gave the policeman a sovereign, and the two were left alone.

  The doctor administered brandy, undressed him, and put him to bed. Then he examined him with great care, and the result was very satisfactory.

  ‘You’ve had a marvellous escape. A few flesh wounds, and that’s all. I’m afraid you’ll be horribly stiff for a day or two. But, all things considered, you’ve had a wonderful escape.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was standing just by Swan & Edgar’s when your motor-brougham came along Piccadilly. A motor-’bus coming up Regent Street skidded and crashed into your brougham and overturned it.’

  ‘And the lady?’ he asked, sitting up in bed eagerly. ‘What has happened to her?’

  The doctor looked thoughtfully at him before answering.

  ‘She isn’t hurt. But as she was insensible, it seemed best to take her to Charing Cross Hospital.’

  ‘Are you quite sure,’ he asked, ‘that nothing has happened to her? She is my fiancée.’

  ‘No, no, no. Make your mind easy on that point.’

  ‘And the servants?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ he replied. ‘I was so busy looking after you. I’m afraid they’ve both been hurt. Now, don’t you ask any more questions. What you need is sleep. Can I do anything more for you?’

  ‘No, thanks. Yes, stop. There is something you can do for me. I shall be very much obliged if you will go down to Charing Cross Hospital and see how Miss Clive is.’

  The doctor hesitated. Then he said at last:

  ‘Certainly, if you wish it.’

  ‘If I wish it! Good God, certainly I wish it! A man naturally wants to know how his fiancée is.’

  ‘And do you want me to come back tonight?’

  ‘The sooner the better, sir.’

  ‘Would you like your man to sit up with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Try and get some sleep.’

  ‘I shan’t get any sleep until you come back.’

  The doctor was gone an hour. Directly he opened the bedroom door he felt the barrister’s eyes upon him. Nervously he spoke:

  ‘I have just ascertained from your man that you are Mr Harding, the—if I may say so—the eminent K.C.’

  Harding frowned.

  ‘I hoped you had ascertained the condition of Miss Clive.’

  The other answered:

  ‘She’s going on as well as can be expected.’

  Harding sat up in bed.

  ‘Look here, there’s nothing the matter with me. I’m in full possession of my faculties, and there’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t tell me the truth. Mind you, if you don’t tell me the truth—and I’m perfectly convinced that you don’t want to tell me the truth out of mistaken kindness—I shall know at once. Out with it, man. What is the matter with her? Tell me; is she alive?’

  There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his hands were gripp
ing the bedclothes in agony.

  ‘Oh, yes, she’s alive.’

  ‘Thank God! But is she in danger?’

  ‘Her life is not in danger.’

  ‘Out with it. Tell me, what’s the matter.’

  ‘Her leg is broken.’

  ‘You are still keeping something back.’

  ‘And her skull is…fractured.’

  He moaned, and fell back, pale as death on the pillows.

  ‘What a fool I was to tell him,’ said the doctor to himself. ‘But he’s the sort of man one has to tell the truth to.’

  But Harding had not fainted.

  With a great effort he spoke again.

  ‘Swear to me that you have told me the worst.’

  On this point he was reassured.

  ‘I will go and see her at once,’ he said, sitting up laboriously in bed. But the effort was too much for him. ‘No, I’m weaker than I thought. I must wait till tomorrow.’

  The next morning Smallwood appeared at nine-thirty. But before that, Harding had read the papers. The accident was described at great length, and the description of Miriam’s condition tallied with the report made by Dr Oakley-Williams. The papers, however, he was pleased to see, exaggerated the misfortune which had befallen him. According to one, both his legs were broken, according to another, his skull was fractured; according to a third, it seemed improbable that he would recover. If they exaggerated in his case, it might well be that they would exaggerate in Miriam’s case.

  Smallwood was all sympathy.

  ‘I suppose, sir, you don’t want me to watch the Charing Cross Hospital?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘You’re looking a little pulled down, sir, but not much, after what you’ve gone through.’

  ‘I’m not in the least pulled down. I’m getting up in a minute and going to the hospital to see Miss Clive.’

  Then an idea struck him.

  ‘I want you to take a note round to Sir Clifford Oakleigh. I want him to go immediately to the hospital and see Miss Clive.’

  The detective shook his head.

  ‘There is a curious rumour about Sir Clifford Oakleigh. It seems that the King sent for him last night and no one knows where he is.’

  ‘That isn’t curious in the case of Sir Clifford. Probably, after the tension of the last few days, he has gone somewhere to amuse himself.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s very erratic, sir.’

  ‘Not for a genius,’ answered his friend. ‘Get me that blotting-pad and my stylographic pen.’

  Thereupon he wrote a note.

  While he was writing it, Smallwood stated that from his observations made last night, he was perfectly convinced that Miss Clive did not take morphia.

  ‘So am I,’ said the K.C. ‘Take that round to Sir Clifford and wait for an answer. Go in a cab. By the time you’re back I shall be dressed.’

  The detective went out.

  On his return, it was evident from his face that he brought grave news. The butler at Harley Street had informed him that his master had gone out the previous evening at about seven o’clock, a few minutes after the departure of the Emperor, and that he had not returned.

  ‘I know where we shall find him,’ said Harding.

  They drove to King Street. They rang once, twice, three times, but could get no answer. Five times, six times they rang. The house appeared entirely deserted.

  ‘Well, it’s no good,’ said Harding at last. ‘I’m only wasting time. I had better go down to the hospital. Can I drop you anywhere?’

  ‘No thank you, sir.’

  He got into a cab and went down to the hospital.

  The house-surgeon received him very sympathetically.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said gravely, ‘that you won’t be able to see Miss Clive.’

  ‘Has there been a relapse?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I have very bad news for you, Mr Harding. Mind you, there’s no danger. But we have been compelled to amputate Miss Clive’s leg.’

  ‘Good God!’ he cried, ghastly pale. ‘How far up?’

  ‘Above the knee.’

  ‘How far above the knee?’

  ‘Only just above the knee.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ he murmured. ‘And the fracture?’

  ‘Oh, the fracture’s very slight. She has a wonderful constitution. She has been considerably shaken, of course, but there is really nothing at all to be alarmed at.’

  The K.C. stared at the surgeon.

  ‘But she will be a cripple for life.’

  ‘Oh, my dear sir,’ said the other, ‘in these days the loss of a leg is not much.’

  Harding interposed. ‘It is a terrible thing for a woman.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied the other, cheerily; ‘with an artificial leg she will be able to walk with a scarcely perceptible limp.’

  ‘When can I see her?’

  ‘I should think in two days. I will send you a report every two hours, if you like.’

  Harding thanked him, and gave him his address in the Temple.

  ‘Can I do nothing? I hope she is comfortable.’

  ‘Oh, yes, far more comfortable than she would be at home. She has a private room, of course, and she has the best care in the world.’

  ‘Without casting the slightest disparagement on you or the staff of Charing Cross Hospital I should very much like my friend Sir Clifford Oakleigh to see her.’

  ‘That can easily be arranged.’

  ‘I’m afraid it can’t.’ Harding explained the difficulty that stood in the way of securing the great man’s presence. ‘By the by, I want to ask you a question,’ he added. ‘This is, of course, entirely between ourselves, but I have heard it suggested that Miss Clive takes morphia, or has taken morphia.’

  The other shook his head and laughed.

  ‘My dear sir, dismiss that idea from your mind. There is not a mark of a syringe on her anywhere. Besides, her eyes prove that she has never been addicted to drugs. Oh, no, no. Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, that’s a great relief to me.’

  Then he went back to the Temple.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  ‘SOMETHING IS ON HER MIND’

  THE great topic of conversation during that day and the next was the disappearance of Sir Clifford Oakleigh. The fact that an eminent K.C. and his fiancée had narrowly escaped death sank into insignificance in the face of the astounding behaviour of the greatest surgeon in the world, who had vanished suddenly, when the King had sent for him with a view to bestowing on him some great honour. Telegrams from all parts of the world, offering huge sums, were despatched to Harley Street. A pork king in Chicago was alleged to have offered him a million pounds to cure his daughter of consumption.

  But there was no Clifford Oakleigh.

  The butler at Harley Street could only say that his master had gone out on the Tuesday evening, wearing a frock-coat and top-hat, and carrying a gold-headed cane.

  On Friday morning Detective-Inspector Johnson, accompanied by P. Barlow, forced the door of his house in King Street. The house, such parts of it as were furnished, appeared in good order. P. Barlow pointed out to Johnson that in all probability a charwoman attended to the house. Johnson glared at Barlow.

  On the hat-stand Barlow found a pair of gloves. He suggested that these might be Sir Clifford Oakleigh’s gloves. Johnson assumed that they were, but denied that their discovery had any important bearing on the case.

  P. Barlow felt discouraged. He hesitated to point out that among the sticks in the hat-stand were two gold-headed ones. Johnson maintained that eminent surgeons were often presented with gold-headed sticks by grateful patients.

  ‘But,’ said P. Barlow, ‘don’t you think that one of these might be the stick he brought with him from Harley Street?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Johnson, ‘if he had a gold-headed stick here why should he bring another from Harley Street?’ Then he added something which sounded very like ‘pooh’. Nevertheles
s, he took the two sticks and the pair of gloves, told Barlow to remain on duty, and left the building.

  He proceeded at once to Harley Street, where he saw the butler.

  Instantly the servant identified one of the sticks and the gloves as those which his master had worn on the night of Tuesday. Thereupon Johnson informed the newspaper men of the wonderful clue which he had discovered. Sir Clifford Oakleigh had gone from Harley Street to King Street. That much was clear. From King Street he had gone, without gloves and without a stick, somewhere which was not clear.

  The papers were loud in the praise of Johnson, not only for his wonderful skill in discovering clues, but for his admirable sense in communicating them to the police.

  When he returned to King Street he blamed Barlow for not having had a lock put on the door.

  Barlow said a new lock was not necessary, because there were bolts on the door. Johnson explained to Barlow that he was not a man of great intellectual calibre. Barlow became so downhearted that he scarcely liked to mention the fact that he had found a silk hat on one of the chairs.

  ‘Now that is an important fact,’ said Johnson. ‘Why the dickens didn’t you tell me of that before?’

  P. Barlow said he did not know.

  Then Johnson examined the hat.

  ‘This,’ said he at last, after opening the leather lining, ‘is Sir Clifford Oakleigh’s hat.’

  ‘How on earth can you tell?’ inquired Barlow.

  Johnson explained.

  ‘On the inside of the hat is written in ink, in ink, mind you, “Sir Clifford Oakleigh”, and underneath it “17RI”. Now, that alone,’ he added, ‘would be sufficient to make one suspect that the hat belongs to Sir Clifford Oakleigh.’

  ‘But what does “17RI” mean?’ inquired Barlow.

  Johnson considered.

  ‘That is probably put there to throw us off the track. I have no hesitation in saying that that is Sir Clifford Oakleigh’s hat. I must, however, proceed by steps. Have you noticed anything further about the hat, Barlow?’

  ‘It is to my thinking,’ replied the other man, ‘an ordinary gent’s top-hat.’

  Johnson looked scornfully at him.

  ‘You have failed to observe that the hat was made, or, at any rate, sold, by Lincoln & Bennett. I will proceed at once to Lincoln & Bennett’s and inquire if they are in the habit of supplying hats to the gentleman. You, Barlow, will remain here tonight. In the morning, if the charwoman comes, you must detain her. I will order some food to be sent in to you.’