"I dare say," said Tommy angrily, "she's probably been in with them from the start. I shouldn't wonder if she stole those papers from Danvers to begin with."
"I'm darned if she did!" shouted Julius. "She's my cousin, and as patriotic a girl as ever stepped."
"I don't care a damn what she is, but get out of here!" retorted Tommy also at the top of his voice.
The young men were on the point of coming to blows. But suddenly, with an almost magical abruptness, Julius's anger abated.
"All right, son," he said quietly, "I'm going. I don't blame you any for what you've been saying. It's mighty lucky you did say it. I've been the most almighty blithering darned idiot that it's possible to imagine. Calm down"--Tommy had made an impatient gesture--"I'm going right away now--going to the London and North Western Railway depot, if you want to know."
"I don't care a damn where you're going," growled Tommy.
As the door closed behind Julius, he returned to his suit-case.
"That's the lot," he murmured, and rang the bell.
"Take my luggage down."
"Yes, sir. Going away, sir?"
"I'm going to the devil," said Tommy, regardless of the menial's feelings.
That functionary, however, merely replied respectfully:
"Yes, sir. Shall I call a taxi?"
Tommy nodded.
Where was he going? He hadn't the faintest idea. Beyond a fixed determination to get even with Mr. Brown he had no plans. He re-read Sir James's letter, and shook his head. Tuppence must be avenged. Still, it was kind of the old fellow.
"Better answer it, I suppose." He went across to the writing-table. With the usual perversity of bedroom stationery, there were innumerable envelopes and no paper. He rang. No one came. Tommy fumed at the delay. Then he remembered that there was a good supply in Julius's sitting-room. The American had announced his immediate departure, there would be no fear of running up against him. Besides, he wouldn't mind if he did. He was beginning to be rather ashamed of the things he had said. Old Julius had taken them jolly well. He'd apologize if he found him there.
But the room was deserted. Tommy walked across to the writing-table, and opened the middle drawer. A photograph, carelessly thrust in face upwards, caught his eye. For a moment he stood rooted to the ground. Then he took it out, shut the drawer, walked slowly over to an arm-chair, and sat down still staring at the photograph in his hand.
What on earth was a photograph of the French girl Annette doing in Julius Hersheimmer's writing-table?
CHAPTER XXII IN DOWNING STREET
THE Prime Minister tapped the desk in front of him with nervous fingers. His face was worn and harassed. He took up his conversation with Mr. Carter at the point it had broken off. "I don't understand," he said. "Do you really mean that things are not so desperate after all?"
"So this lad seems to think."
"Let's have a look at his letter again."
Mr. Carter handed it over. It was written in a sprawling boyish hand.
"DEAR MR. CARTER,
"Something's turned up that has given me a jar. Of course I may be simply making an awful ass of myself, but I don't think so. If my conclusions are right, that girl at Manchester was just a plant. The whole thing was prearranged, sham packet and all, with the object of making us think the game was up--therefore I fancy that we must have been pretty hot on the scent.
"I think I know who the real Jane Finn is, and I've even got an idea where the papers are. That last's only a guess, of course, but I've a sort of feeling it'll turn out right. Anyhow, I enclose it in a sealed envelope for what it's worth. I'm going to ask you not to open it until the very last moment, midnight on the 28th, in fact. You'll understand why in a minute. You see, I've figured it out that those things of Tuppence's are a plant too, and she's no more drowned than I am. The way I reason is this: as a last chance they'll let Jane Finn escape in the hope that she's been shamming this memory stunt, and that once she thinks she's free she'll go right away to the cache. Of course it's an awful risk for them to take, because she knows all about them--but they're pretty desperate to get hold of that treaty. BUT IF THEY KNOW THAT THE PAPERS HAVE BEEN RECOVERED BY US, neither of those two girls' lives will be worth an hour's purchase. I must try and get hold of Tuppence before Jane escapes.
"I want a repeat of that telegram that was sent to Tuppence at the Ritz. Sir James Peel Edgerton said you would be able to manage that for me. He's frightfully clever.
"One last thing--please have that house in Soho watched day and night. "Yours, etc., "THOMAS BERESFORD."
The Prime Minister looked up.
"The enclosure?"
Mr. Carter smiled dryly.
"In the vaults of the Bank. I am taking no chances."
"You don't think"--the Prime Minister hesitated a minute--"that it would be better to open it now? Surely we ought to secure the document, that is, provided the young man's guess turns out to be correct, at once. We can keep the fact of having done so quite secret."
"Can we? I'm not so sure. There are spies all round us. Once it's known I wouldn't give that"--he snapped his fingers--"for the life of those two girls. No, the boy trusted me, and I shan't let him down."
"Well, well, we must leave it at that, then. What's he like, this lad?"
"Outwardly, he's an ordinary clean-limbed, rather block-headed young Englishman. Slow in his mental processes. On the other hand, it's quite impossible to lead him astray through his imagination. He hasn't got any--so he's difficult to deceive. He worries things out slowly, and once he's got hold of anything he doesn't let go. The little lady's quite different. More intuition and less common sense. They make a pretty pair working together. Pace and stamina."
"He seems confident," mused the Prime Minister.
"Yes, and that's what gives me hope. He's the kind of diffident youth who would have to be VERY sure before he ventured an opinion at all."
A half smile came to the other's lips.
"And it is this--boy who will defeat the master criminal of our time?"
"This--boy, as you say! But I sometimes fancy I see a shadow behind."
"You mean?"
"Peel Edgerton."
"Peel Edgerton?" said the Prime Minister in astonishment.
"Yes. I see his hand in THIS." He struck the open letter. "He's there--working in the dark, silently, unobtrusively. I've always felt that if anyone was to run Mr. Brown to earth, Peel Edgerton would be the man. I tell you he's on the case now, but doesn't want it known. By the way, I got rather an odd request from him the other day."
"Yes?"
"He sent me a cutting from some American paper. It referred to a man's body found near the docks in New York about three weeks ago. He asked me to collect any information on the subject I could."
"Well?"
Carter shrugged his shoulders.
"I couldn't get much. Young fellow about thirty-five--poorly dressed--face very badly disfigured. He was never identified."
"And you fancy that the two matters are connected in some way?"
"Somehow I do. I may be wrong, of course."
There was a pause, then Mr. Carter continued:
"I asked him to come round here. Not that we'll get anything out of him he doesn't want to tell. His legal instincts are too strong. But there's no doubt he can throw light on one or two obscure points in young Beresford's letter. Ah, here he is!"
The two men rose to greet the new-comer. A half whimsical thought flashed across the Premier's mind. "My successor, perhaps!"
"We've had a letter from young Beresford," said Mr. Carter, coming to the point at once. "You've seen him, I suppose?"
"You suppose wrong," said the lawyer.
"Oh!" Mr. Carter was a little nonplussed.
Sir James smiled, and stroked his chin.
"He rang me up," he volunteered.
"Would you have any objection to telling us exactly what passed between you?"
"Not at all. He thanked me for a certai
n letter which I had written to him--as a matter of fact, I had offered him a job. Then he reminded me of something I had said to him at Manchester respecting that bogus telegram which lured Miss Cowley away. I asked him if anything untoward had occurred. He said it had--that in a drawer in Mr. Hersheimmer's room he had discovered a photograph." The laywer{sic} paused, then continued: "I asked him if the photograph bore the name and address of a Californian photographer. He replied: 'You're on to it, sir. It had.' Then he went on to tell me something I DIDN'T know. The original of that photograph was the French girl, Annette, who saved his life."
"What?"
"Exactly. I asked the young man with some curiosity what he had done with the photograph. He replied that he had put it back where he found it." The lawyer paused again. "That was good, you know--distinctly good. He can use his brains, that young fellow. I congratulated him. The discovery was a providential one. Of course, from the moment that the girl in Manchester was proved to be a plant everything was altered. Young Beresford saw that for himself without my having to tell it him. But he felt he couldn't trust his judgment on the subject of Miss Cowley. Did I think she was alive? I told him, duly weighing the evidence, that there was a very decided chance in favour of it. That brought us back to the telegram."
"Yes?"
"I advised him to apply to you for a copy of the original wire. It had occurred to me as probable that, after Miss Cowley flung it on the floor, certain words might have been erased and altered with the express intention of setting searchers on a false trail."
Carter nodded. He took a sheet from his pocket, and read aloud:
"Come at once, Astley Priors, Gatehouse, Kent. Great developments--TOMMY.
"Very simple," said Sir James, "and very ingenious. Just a few words to alter, and the thing was done. And the one important clue they overlooked."
"What was that?"
"The page-boy's statement that Miss Cowley drove to Charing Cross. They were so sure of themselves that they took it for granted he had made a mistake."
"Then young Beresford is now?"
"At Gatehouse, Kent, unless I am much mistaken."
Mr. Carter looked at him curiously.
"I rather wonder you're not there too, Peel Edgerton?"
"Ah, I'm busy on a case."
"I thought you were on your holiday?"
"Oh, I've not been briefed. Perhaps it would be more correct to say I'm preparing a case. Any more facts about that American chap for me?"
"I'm afraid not. Is it important to find out who he was?"
"Oh, I know who he was," said Sir James easily. "I can't prove it yet--but I know."
The other two asked no questions. They had an instinct that it would be mere waste of breath.
"But what I don't understand," said the Prime-Minister suddenly, "is how that photograph came to be in Mr. Hersheimmer's drawer?"
"Perhaps it never left it," suggested the lawyer gently.
"But the bogus inspector? Inspector Brown?"
"Ah!" said Sir James thoughtfully. He rose to his feet. "I mustn't keep you. Go on with the affairs of the nation. I must get back to--my case."
Two days later Julius Hersheimmer returned from Manchester. A note from Tommy lay on his table:
"DEAR HERSHEIMMER,
"Sorry I lost my temper. In case I don't see you again, good-bye. I've been offered a job in the Argentine, and might as well take it. "Yours, "TOMMY BERESFORD."
A peculiar smile lingered for a moment on Julius's face. He threw the letter into the waste-paper basket.
"The darned fool!" he murmured.
CHAPTER XXIII A RACE AGAINST TIME
AFTER ringing up Sir James, Tommy's next procedure was to make a call at South Audley Mansions. He found Albert discharging his professional duties, and introduced himself without more ado as a friend of Tuppence's. Albert unbent immediately.
"Things has been very quiet here lately," he said wistfully. "Hope the young lady's keeping well, sir?"
"That's just the point, Albert. She's disappeared." You don't mean as the crooks have got her?"
"In the Underworld?"
"No, dash it all, in this world!"
"It's a h'expression, sir," explained Albert. "At the pictures the crooks always have a restoorant in the Underworld. But do you think as they've done her in, sir?"
"I hope not. By the way, have you by any chance an aunt, a cousin, a grandmother, or any other suitable female relation who might be represented as being likely to kick the bucket?"
A delighted grin spread slowly over Albert's countenance.
"I'm on, sir. My poor aunt what lives in the country has been mortal bad for a long time, and she's asking for me with her dying breath."
Tommy nodded approval.
"Can you report this in the proper quarter and meet me at Charing Cross in an hour's time?"
"I'll be there, sir. You can count on me."
As Tommy had judged, the faithful Albert proved an invaluable ally. The two took up their quarters at the inn in Gatehouse. To Albert fell the task of collecting information There was no difficulty about it.
Astley Priors was the property of a Dr. Adams. The doctor no longer practiced, had retired, the landlord believed, but he took a few private patients--here the good fellow tapped his forehead knowingly--"balmy ones! You understand!" The doctor was a popular figure in the village, subscribed freely to all the local sports--"a very pleasant, affable gentleman." Been there long? Oh, a matter of ten years or so--might be longer. Scientific gentleman, he was. Professors and people often came down from town to see him. Anyway, it was a gay house, always visitors.
In the face of all this volubility, Tommy felt doubts. Was it possible that this genial, well-known figure could be in reality a dangerous criminal? His life seemed so open and aboveboard. No hint of sinister doings. Suppose it was all a gigantic mistake? Tommy felt a cold chill at the thought.
Then he remembered the private patients--"balmy ones." He inquired carefully if there was a young lady amongst them, describing Tuppence. But nothing much seemed to be known about the patients--they were seldom seen outside the grounds. A guarded description of Annette also failed to provoke recognition.
Astley Priors was a pleasant red-brick edifice, surrounded by well-wooded grounds which effectually shielded the house from observation from the road.
On the first evening Tommy, accompanied by Albert, explored the grounds. Owing to Albert's insistence they dragged themselves along painfully on their stomachs, thereby producing a great deal more noise than if they had stood upright. In any case, these precautions were totally unnecessary. The grounds, like those of any other private house after nightfall, seemed untenanted. Tommy had imagined a possible fierce watchdog. Albert's fancy ran to a puma, or a tame cobra. But they reached a shrubbery near the house quite unmolested.
The blinds of the dining-room window were up. There was a large company assembled round the table. The port was passing from hand to hand. It seemed a normal, pleasant company. Through the open window scraps of conversation floated out disjointedly on the night air. It was a heated discussion on county cricket!
Again Tommy felt that cold chill of uncertainty. It seemed impossible to believe that these people were other than they seemed. Had he been fooled once more? The fair-bearded, spectacled gentleman who sat at the head of the table looked singularly honest and normal.
Tommy slept badly that night. The following morning the indefatigable Albert, having cemented an alliance with the greengrocer's boy, took the latter's place and ingratiated himself with the cook at Malthouse. He returned with the information that she was undoubtedly "one of the crooks," but Tommy mistrusted the vividness of his imagination. Questioned, he could adduce nothing in support of his statement except his own opinion that she wasn't the usual kind. You could see that at a glance.
The substitution being repeated (much to the pecuniary advantage of the real greengrocer's boy) on the following day, Albert brought back the first piec
e of hopeful news. There WAS a French young lady staying in the house. Tommy put his doubts aside. Here was confirmation of his theory. But time pressed. To-day was the 27th. The 29th was the much-talked-of "Labour Day," about which all sorts of rumours were running riot. Newspapers were getting agitated. Sensational hints of a Labour coup d'etat were freely reported. The Government said nothing. It knew and was prepared. There were rumours of dissension among the Labour leaders. They were not of one mind. The more far-seeing among them realized that what they proposed might well be a death-blow to the England that at heart they loved. They shrank from the starvation and misery a general strike would entail, and were willing to meet the Government half-way. But behind them were subtle, insistent forces at work, urging the memories of old wrongs, deprecating the weakness of half-and-half measures, fomenting misunderstandings.
Tommy felt that, thanks to Mr. Carter, he understood the position fairly accurately. With the fatal document in the hands of Mr. Brown, public opinion would swing to the side of the Labour extremists and revolutionists. Failing that, the battle was an even chance. The Government with a loyal army and police force behind them might win--but at a cost of great suffering. But Tommy nourished another and a preposterous dream. With Mr. Brown unmasked and captured he believed, rightly or wrongly, that the whole organization would crumble ignominiously and instantaneously. The strange permeating influence of the unseen chief held it together. Without him, Tommy believed an instant panic would set in; and, the honest men left to themselves, an eleventh-hour reconciliation would be possible.
"This is a one-man show," said Tommy to himself. "The thing to do is to get hold of the man."
It was partly in furtherance of this ambitious design that he had requested Mr. Carter not to open the sealed envelope. The draft treaty was Tommy's bait. Every now and then he was aghast at his own presumption. How dared he think that he had discovered what so many wiser and clever men had overlooked? Nevertheless, he stuck tenaciously to his idea.
The Secret Adversary Page 19
