‘I remember’—Mr Stebbings unfolded several of his heavy chins to gaze meditatively at the ceiling—‘many years ago suggesting to Miss Mercy Harlow—ahem!—’
It occurred to him that the girl would not know Miss Mercy Harlow and that the name would be without significance; for the great heights to which the living Harlow had risen were outside his comprehension.
‘You used to act for the Harlows once, didn’t you; Mr Stebbings?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Stebbings carefully. ‘It was—er—a great responsibility. I was not sorry when young Mr Stratford went elsewhere.’
He said no more than this, which was quite a lot for Mr Stebbings, but by one of those coincidences which are a daily feature of life she came again into contact with the Harlow family.
Mr Stebbings was dealing with a probate case. A will had been propounded in the court, and was being opposed by a distant relative of the legator. The question turned on whether, in the spring of a certain year the legator had advanced certain money to one of the numerous beneficiaries under the will with the object of taking him out of the country.
Aileen was sent to inspect the cash book, since it was alleged the money had been paid through the lawyers. She found the entry without a great deal of difficulty, and, running down the index to discover if she had missed any further reference, her finger stopped at the words:
‘Harlow—Mercy Mildred. Harlow-Stratford Selwyn Mortimer.’
She would not have been human if she had not turned up the pages. For a quarter of an hour she pored over the accounts of the dead and gone Miss Mercy, that stern and eccentric woman, and then she saw an item ‘To L. Edwins, Ł125.’ An entry occurred four months later: ‘To L. Edwins, Ł183 17s. 4d.’ She knew of Mrs Edwins, and had seen a copy of Miss Mercy Harlow’s will—she had looked it up after the Dartmoor meeting, being momentarily interested in the millionaire.
She turned to Stratford’s account, which was a very small one. Evidently, Mr Harlow made no payments through his lawyers. If an opportunity had occurred she would have asked Mr Stebbings for further information about the family, though she was fairly sure that such a request would have produced no satisfactory result.
Deprived of this interest, Aileen was thrown back upon the dominating occupation of life—her amazement and disapproval of Aileen Rivers in relation to Mr James Carlton.
He knew her address: she had particularly told him the number. Equally true it was that she had asked him only to write on official business. By some miracle she had not been called to give evidence at the inquest and she might, and did, trace his influence here. But even that could not be set against a week’s neglect.
‘Ridiculous’ (said the saner part other, in tones of reprobation). ‘You hardly know the man! Just because he’s been civil to you and has taken you out to dinner twice (and they were both more or less business occasions), you’re expecting him to behave as though he were engaged to you!’
The unregenerate Aileen Rivers merely tossed her head at this and was unashamed.
She could, of course, have written to him: there was excuse enough; and she actually did begin a letter, until the scandalous character of her behaviour grew apparent even to Aileen II.
Saturday passed and Sunday; she stayed at home both days in case—
He called on Sunday night, when she had given up—well, if not hope, at any rate expectation.
‘I’ve been down to the country,’ he said.
She interviewed him in the sitting room, which her landlady set aside for formal calls.
‘Couldn’t you come out somewhere? Have you dined?’
She had dined.
‘Come along and walk; it’s rather a nice night. We can have coffee somewhere.’
Her duty was to tell him that he was taking much for granted, but she didn’t. She went upstairs, got her coat and in the shortest space of time was walking with him through Bloomsbury Square.
‘I’m rather worried about you,’ he said.
‘Are you?’ Her surprise was genuine.
Yes, I am a little. Didn’t you tell me Mrs Gibbins used to confide her troubles to you?’ There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
‘She was rather confidential at times.’
‘Did she ever tell you anything about her past?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Aileen quickly. ‘It was mostly about her mother, who died about four years ago.’
‘Did she ever tell you her Christian name—her mother’s, I mean?’
‘Louisa,’ answered the girl promptly. ‘You’re awfully mysterious, Mr James Carlton. What has this to do with poor Mrs Gibbins?’
‘Nothing, except that her name was Annie Maud, and the letters containing the money, which came to her quarterly, were addressed to “Louisa,” 14 Kennet Road, Birmingham, and readdressed by the postal authorities. A letter came this morning.’
‘Poor soul!’ said the girl softly.
‘Yes.’
It was surprising how well she understood him, remembering the shortness of their acquaintance. She knew, for example, when he was thinking of something else—his voice rose half a tone.
‘Isn’t that strange? Do you remember my telling you of the eighteen thousand policemen and the Brigade of Guards, and the whole congregation of the blessed? And now they are all agitated because Mrs Gibbins’s mother was named Louisa! That discovery—I shouldn’t have asked you, because I knew it already—proved two things: first, that Mrs Gibbins committed a crime some fifteen years ago, and secondly, that this is the second time she’s been dead!’
He suddenly relaxed and laughed softly.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he warned her. ‘I know just the fictional detective whom I am imitating! The whole thing is rather complicated. Did I say coffee or dinner?’
‘You said coffee,’ she said.
The popular restaurant into which they went was just a little overcrowded and after being served they lost no time in making their escape.
They were passing along Coventry Street when a big car rolled slowly past. The man who was driving was in evening dress…they saw the sheen of his diamond studs, the red tip of his cigar.
‘Nobody on earth but the Splendid Harlow could so scintillate,’ said Jim. ‘What does he do in this part of the world at such an hour?’
The car turned to the right through Leicester Square and passed down Orange Street at a pace which was strangely majestic. It was as though it formed part of and led a magnificent procession. The same thought occurred to both of them.
‘He should really travel with a band!’
‘I was thinking that, too,’ laughed the girl. ‘He frightened me terribly the night he came to the flat. I mean, when I opened the door to him. And I’m not easily scared. He looked so big and powerful and ruthless that my soul cowered before him!’
They passed up deserted Long Acre; it was too early for the market carts to have assembled, and the street was a wilderness. Suddenly the girl found her hand held loosely in Jim Carlton’s. He was swinging it to and fro. The severer side of Miss Aileen Rivers closed its eyes and pretended not to see.
‘I’ve got a very friendly feeling for you,’ said Jim huskily. ‘I don’t know why, but I just have. And if you talk about the philandering constabulary, I will never forgive you.’
Three men had suddenly debouched from a side street; they were talking noisily and violently and were moving slowly towards them. Jim looked round: the only man in sight was walking in the opposite direction, having passed them a minute or so before.
‘I think we’ll cross the road,’ he said. He took her arm, and, quickening his step, led her to the opposite sidewalk.
The quarrelling three turned back and Jim stopped. ‘I want you to run back to the other end of Long Acre and fetch a policeman,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Will you do this for me? Run!’
Obediently she turned and fled, and as she did so one of the three came lurching towards him.
‘What’s the idea?’ he said loudly
. ‘Can’t we have an argument without you butting in?’
‘Stay where you are, Donovan,’ said Jim. ‘I know you and I know just what you’re after.’
‘Get him,’ said somebody angrily, and Jim Carlton whipped out the twelve inch length of jambok that he carried in his pocket and struck at the nearest man. As the flexible hide reached its billet the man dropped like one shot. In another second his two companions had sprung at the detective; and he knew that he was fighting, if not for his life, at any rate to save himself from an injury which would incapacitate him for months.
Again the jambok reached home; a second man reeled.
And then a taxicab came flying down Long Acre with a policeman on each footboard…
‘No, not Bow Street,’ said Jim, ‘take them to Cannon Row.’
Aileen was in the taxicab, a most unheroic woman, on the verge of tears.
‘I guessed what they were after,’ said Jim, as they were driving home. ‘It is one of the oldest tricks in the world, that rehearsed street fight.’
‘But why? Why did they do it? Were they old enemies of yours?’ she asked, bewildered.
‘One,’ he said. ‘Donovan.’ He carefully avoided her second question.
The presence of Mr Harlow in his lordly car was no accident. The car which passed down Orange Street was ostensibly carrying him to Vira’s Club, but there was a short cut which brought him through St Martin’s Lane to the end of Long Acre before the two walkers could possibly reach there. What was more important was that it was very clear to Jim that he and the girl were under observation, and had been followed that night from the moment he left the club where he lived, until the attack was delivered.
The reason for the hold-up was not difficult to understand, even supposing he ruled out the very remote possibility that it was associated with Mrs Gibbins’s death. And that he must exclude, unless he gave Mr Harlow credit for supernatural powers.
He saw the girl to her boarding house and went back to Scotland Yard, to find a telegram awaiting him. It was from the detective force of Birmingham, and ran:
‘Your inquiry 793 Mrs Louisa Gibbins, deceased. Letter which came to her regularly every quarter, and which was subsequently readdressed to Mrs Gibbins, of Stanmore Rents, Lambeth, invariably had Norwood postmark. This fact verified by lodger of late Mrs Gibbins of this town. Annie Maud Gibbins’s real name, Smith. She married William Smith, a platelayer on Midland Railway. Further details follow, Hooge. Ends.’
A great deal of this information was not new to Jim Carlton. But the Norwood postmark was invaluable, for in that suburb of London lived Mr Ellenbury. Further details he would not need.
But before that clue could be followed, Jim Carlton’s attention was wholly occupied by the strange behaviour of Arthur Ingle, who suddenly turned recluse, declined all communication with the outside world and, locking himself in his flat, gave himself to the study of cinematography.
CHAPTER 10
IN THE days which followed Jim Carlton was a busy man, and only once during the week did he find time to see Aileen, and then she related one of the minor troubles of life.
A new boarder had come to the establishment where she lived, an athletic young man who occupied the room immediately beneath hers and whose apparent admiration took the form of following tier to her work every morning at a respectful distance.
‘I wouldn’t mind that, but he makes a point of being in the neighbourhood of the office when I come out for lunch, and when I go home at nights.’
‘Has he spoken to you?’ asked Jim, interested.
‘Oh, no, he’s been most correct; he doesn’t even speak at meals.’
‘Bear with him,’ said Jim, a twinkle in his eye. ‘It is one of the penalties attached to the moderately good-looking.’
Jim interviewed the girl’s new admirer.
‘As a shadow you’re a little on the heavy side, Brown,’ he said. ‘You should have found a way of watching her without her knowing.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said Detective Brown, and thereafter his espionage was less oppressive.
It was remarkable that in none of the excursions which Jim Carlton made from day to day did he once see Arthur Ingle. Deliberately he called at those restaurants and places of resort which in the old days were favoured by the man. It would not be a sense of shame or an unwillingness to meet old friends and associates of a more law-abiding life, that would keep him away. If anything, he was proud of his accomplishments, for by his fantastic twist of reasoning he had come to regard himself as a public benefactor.
Nobody had seen him; even the comrades whom it was his joy to address in frowsy Soho halls had not been honoured by speech or presence.
‘It almost looks as if he had gone over to the capitalists,’ said one.
‘I didn’t notice the flags were flying in Piccadilly,’ said Jim.
One night it happened that he found himself walking along the street at the back of Fotheringay Mansions and, looking up, noticed a bright light burning behind the green blind in an upper room. Mr Ingle’s apartment was easily located. There was a narrow parapet to identify the height; the lumber room where the light showed was four windows from the fire escape.
Elk was with him, and to that unenthusiastic man he confided his intentions.
‘He’ll start a squeal about police persecution,’ suggested Elk.
Undeterred, Jim went up in the elevator, though the man in charge discouraged him.
‘I don’t think Mr Jackson is at home,’ he said. ‘A gentleman called an hour ago and knocked twice but could get no answer.’
‘Maybe I can knock louder,’ suggested Jim.
But ring and knock as he did, he had no answer. Yet, as he listened at the letterbox aperture, to make certain that the bell was ringing, he could have sworn he heard a stealthy footstep inside. Why was Ingle hiding?
There was, of course, the possibility that the man was engaged in some new piece of roguery. But from his experience of swindlers, Jim Carlton knew that they were never furtive when they were planning a coup.
The landing was deserted and he could wait without attracting to himself the suspicion of the lift man. Again he stooped and listened; and now he heard a sound which puzzled him-a rapid whirring. He had heard that noise before somewhere, and yet he could not locate or diagnose the sound. It came very faintly as through a closed door…
He saw the ascending light of the elevator and walked to the gate. The car passed to the next floor to discharge its passenger, and then came down to his level.
‘Couldn’t make him hear, I suppose, sir?’ asked the elevator man, with the satisfaction of one whose dire prophecy has been realised. ‘He won’t see anybody these days. Why, he doesn’t even come out for his meals.’
‘He has a servant, hasn’t he?’
‘Not now,’ said the lift-man gloomily, as they sank slowly down the well. ‘Used to have, but she—’ He told the story of Mrs Gibbins. ‘Now he gets his food and stuff delivered. I think Mr Jackson is going in for something unusual,’ he added as they reached the ground floor and he pulled back the gates.
‘What do you mean by “something unusual”?’
The man scratched his head.
‘I don’t know exactly. About four days ago a man came here with a long black box—the sort of thing that they use for carrying films—’
Films! Now Jim Carlton understood. This was the sound he had heard: the whirr of a cine projector!
‘He took it up and left it. I asked him if Mr Jackson was taking on film work, but he said nothing—the man who brought it, I mean. Of course, if I knew for certain that he had any celluloid stored on the premises, I’d have to report it. Fire risk…’
Jim listened without hearing. He was dumbfounded by the discovery. Every man has his secret weakness, but though he had credited Mr Arthur Ingle with many peculiarities, he had never suspected him of a passion for the cinema.
Elk was waiting outside, the stub of a cigar between his t
eeth, a large unfurled umbrella in his hand, and in a few words Jim told him what he had learnt.
‘Pitchers!’ said Elk, shaking his head. ‘Never thought he would lower himself to that! Queer thing how these crooks sort of run to weakness one way or the other. I knew a man, the cleverest safe-breaker in Europe, who’d risk a lagging to get a game of ping-pong! There was another fellow named Moses who had the finest long-firm business in England—’
‘Let us go round and look at the back of the house again,’ Jim interrupted the reminiscences ruthlessly.
The bright light was showing again, clear through the dark green blinds, even as he looked it was extinguished, but when his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could see the reflected glow of another light. It was in this room, then, that Mr Ingle was engaged in his new hobby.
Jim looked naturally at the fire-escape. There was a wall to be scaled, or easier perhaps, a door into the courtyard of the building might be opened with one of his keys. But the door needed no forcing; it was unlocked and gave easy entry to a stone-paved yard, whence a flight of iron stairs led up to the roof. An iron bar was fastened across the rails at the bottom, for what purpose was not clear, since it was possible to get either over or beneath it.
‘Maybe it’s to keep it airtight,’ suggested Elk, ‘or to trip up the fellers that are not burnt to death. Going up?’
Jim nodded, and Inspector Elk followed him from landing to landing until they came level with the floor on which Mr Ingle’s flat was situated. Without a word, Jim Carlton swung himself over the rail and, balancing precariously upon the narrow ledge of stone, felt forward and gripped the nearest window-sill. Progress in front of the windows was an easy matter to one with his nerves: it was in the intervening spaces, where he had to depend for his life upon a fine sense of balance, that the danger lay. Elk watched him anxiously as he moved nearer and nearer to the window, flattening himself against the wall and edging forward inch by inch; in this perilous fashion, he came sidling to the window from behind which came the ceaseless rattle of the projector.
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