I can bear neither the thought of being a thankless burden to you and to our dear children nor, for myself, of being a witless thing!
I am going to end it. I can only hope that you will forgive your loving wife,
ALICE.
Anthony turned in his chair and looked at Pike. He said:
“And exhibit Three, that you couldn’t bring?”
“Exhibit Three, sir,” Pike said, “was a lot of charred paper in the grate of Lady Ballister’s room. The fragments were analyzed. The report was—very thick paper on thin pasteboard, with one highly glazed surface.”
Anthony shrugged. “Whatever that means, a bonfire’s in order. It all fits, doesn’t it?” He flicked a finger at the cheque stubs. “A woman spends about thirty-five pounds a month for years; then suddenly draws large cheques to Self, increasing in amount from a hundred to five hundred, every few weeks. She burns papers and kills herself, leaving an overwritten letter which doesn’t ring at all true. It’s all according to Cocker.”
Pike nodded, his long face lugubrious. “Meaning the lady’s suicide was caused by blackmail, sir? Yes sir.”
Anthony looked at him. “What’s the matter, Pike? Blackmail fits.”
Pike said slowly: “What you want it all to mean, sir, is that this KJB Agency was behind the blackmail. Am I right?”
“Shades of Dupin!” said Anthony and grinned. “Pike, you’re no policeman; you’ve got too much imagination.”
“Am I right though, sir?” Pike was insistent.
Anthony said: “You are indeed! I was wondering when you’d make the sum of KJB plus Murch, plus KJB plus Ballister come out as KJB equalling blackmail.” He looked at Pike and found no lightening of the gloom in the long face. “What I’m wondering now, Pike, is why you’re so sad about it all.”
Pike twisted uneasily in his chair. “For a whole heap of reasons, sir. And they’make a pretty muddle in a man’s head, if I may say so. First, there’s——”
Anthony interrupted. “Hold those horses, Pike; they’re getting away with you. Your only trouble’s this: you feel—probably rightly—that however much we probe we won’t be able to fix this Ballister blackmail on KJB and that, therefore, probing will only warn them that they’re under suspicion and give them a chance to cover up l’affaire Murch so that we’ll never get at it.”
“That’s it, sir. That’s just it.” Pike was animated. “You see——”
Again Anthony cut him short. “Wait. That’s just half your worry. The second half’s this: if we don’t probe this Ballister case how are we going to get hold of anything at all against KJB which will serve as a handle for us in the forthcoming Murch business?” He surveyed Pike with benignity. “There you are. Your trouble in a nutshell. No fee.”
Pike lost himself in frowning thought. After a moment he smiled, a little ruefully. He said:
“You’re right, sir. That’s all there was to it. But it’s plenty, at that, when you come to look at it.”
“So don’t,” said Anthony.
Pike stared. “Beg pardon, sir?”
“Don’t come to look at it. Don’t look at it. Don’t consider it at all. Cancel the Ballisters, poor people. And incidentally, please Sir Charles, who certainly would fight tooth and nail to rebut all evidence of blackmail.”
Pike got to his feet. He was fidgety, a most unusual state for him. He said vehemently:
“But then we’ve got nothing to work on from this KJB end. We——”
Anthony said: “Preserve absolute calm. We want KJB. First—forgetting the Ballisters—we need to prove to ourselves that KJB is nasty but without frightening KJB into being nice. Then we want to catch KJB red handed. Yes?” Pike stopped the jerky walk with which he had been pacing from desk to window. He said almost savagely:
“All right, sir; I’ll forget the Ballister case. That puts us back to where you said we weren’t to go near KJB or do anything at all about them!”
Anthony nodded. “Exactly.”
Pike almost glared at him. He said in a voice which came near to a shout:
“Then we can’t do anything!”
“Exactly,” said Anthony again. “You can’t.” There was the slightest extra emphasis on the pronoun.
“Eh?” said Pike sharply. And then: “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you’ve got somebody onto KJB yourself?” Anthony nodded.
“Oh!” said Pike. His face was expressionless but he stood still and very straight.
Anthony said: “Don’t collect umbrage. Remember that I came in on this after Scotland Yard had refused to listen to Mr Garrett. Therefore I had to be unorthodox. Stay to lunch and PH show you the results.”
CHAPTER XIV
PIKE STAYED. They lunched at one and after the meal went into the drawing room. They talked, but not at all of the matter uppermost in their minds.
At a quarter past three they were joined by Flood. He nodded to Anthony and grinned at Pike and shook hands. Pike said with a sound akin to a sniff:
“I’m not surprised!” But he smiled.
Flood looked at Anthony. “All ready,” he said.
They moved towards the door, Anthony leading.
Pike said: “And where’s our Mr Dyson?”
“Busy,” said Flood. “Quite the bee!”
They went downstairs and into the library once more. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows and the centre lights were on. Over the bookshelves at the end of the room nearer the door was hung a white sheet. At the other end of the room, by the french windows, stood a cinematographic projector. Beside it was a small, bald-headed man with the appearance and manner of the skilled worker. A few feet in front of the projector, facing the sheet, were three chairs.
“Walk up!” said Flood. “Walk up! See the Wonderful Movin’ Pitchers! The most sensational fillum of the century! Man Huntin’ in the Kensington Wilds!”
“Shut up!” said Anthony and sat himself upon the middle chair and motioned Pike to one side of him and Flood to the other. He turned and looked over his shoulders at the man by the projector. “Ready when you are,” he said.
There was a click and the lights went out. There was a whirring sound from the projector and then a broad swathe of white light illuminating the sheet.
“Modern Detective Methods!” said Flood beneath his breath. “Collecting Clues with the Camera!”
Pike grunted. He settled himself in his chair and dug his hands into his pockets and stared at the sheet.
Upon it there appeared a picture. It occupied the centre third of the sheet. It had, apparently, been taken from very close to its subject. It showed bricks—the mortar between them considerably crumbled—surrounding the dark and rectangular mouth of an open doorway. At the top of the picture, in the middle, hung something which looked like a batten of wood. Upon the right-hand jamb of the doorway, not quite halfway down the picture, appeared a card, enlarged upon the sheet to vast dimensions, upon which was lettered in black the word ENTER.
Anthony said: “Pike, you’re looking at what is technically called a close-up of the front doorway of Number 14 Brabazon Road, South Kensington. That thing at the top is the base of the KJB signboard. Although the angle of the picture indicates that the camera was higher than its subject, it looks as if it had been close. Actually, however, it was in a first-floor window of Number 11 on the other side of the street—with a special telescopic lens on it——”
He broke off. There had come a sudden darkening of the picture and for an instant the little scene had been blotted out by a dark mass which had appeared on the left-hand side and then swept over. But at once the mass moved and diminished as it went away from the camera. It was the back of a man in the cap and high-collared coat of a chauffeur. The back vanished into the doorway and was swallowed up in the dark maw.
A flicker . . . and then, this time coming out of the dark mouth of the doorway, a figure again. The same figure, this time viewed from the front. The chauffeur’s cap was at a jaunty angle. The bright butto
ns on the dark uniform coat glinted in the sunshine. Every feature of the clean-shaven, square-cut, hard yet youthful face was absolutely clear. The figure halted for a moment. The thin lips pursed themselves into what must have been a jaunty whistling and then hands were raised while big gauntleted gloves were drawn onto them. Then, giantlike, the figure surged forward. . . . The head was lost, the coat filled the screen. . » . Once more the doorway was untenanted. . . .
“Stop!” said Anthony over his shoulder.
A whirring and a click. The blade of light from the projector was cut off. Another click and the centre lights of the room went up.
Anthony looked at Flood.
Flood turned over the pages of a small red notebook in his hand. He read:
“Fourth October—that’s yesterday. Ten forty-one A.M. Second visitor. Drove up in Rolls-Royce saloon, Number GW-8439Y. Time between entering and departing—seven minutes. Unable to follow owing to car. Car belongs to Lord Charles Montfort, 34 Lennox Street and Bickleigh Towers, Hertfordshire. Chauffeur’s name Thompson. Been in service with Montfort four months. Finish.”
Pike grunted.
“Right!” said Anthony over his shoulder.
Once more the centre lights went out and, following the whirring noise, the beam of the projector came again and once more the doorway was upon the screen.
The next figure, which showed first back and then face, was a woman. She was fat and middle aged and dressed, with a certain neatness, in the manner of a past decade of domestic service. Once more, at Anthony’s order, the film was stopped and the room lights came on. Once more Flood read from his little book. He said:
“Yesterday again. . . . In fact, all these are yesterday’s because today’s won’t be developed in time. . . . Third visitor. Eleven-three A.M. Time between entering and departing fifteen minutes. Not chosen as suitable for following.”
“Right!” said Anthony again, over his shoulder. . . , This time it was a nursemaid clothed in a uniform which seemed to be not quite large enough for her. The back was enormous, the face almost nauseatingly maternal. . . . Flood read:
“Fourth visitor. Eleven-thirty A.M. Time between entering and departing—seven minutes. Followed. She was alone. Walked back to Emperor’s Gate and took a bus to corner of Morden Gardens and Fulham Road. Entered Number 9 Morden Gardens by servants’ entrance. Ascertained to be nursemaid to the three children of Mrs Charles Frampton. Been in place for seven months. No known prospect of leaving.”
The next was a girl as small and trim as the last occupant of the screen had been stout and untidy. She was bareheaded and wore a dark coat which covered the white apron and black clothes of the parlourmaid. . . .
Flood read: “Fifth visitor. Twelve-five P.M. Time between entering and departing, nine minutes. Followed. Walked round the corner into Emperor’s Gate and entered Number 98. Ascertained to be parlourmaid in household of Count Feralli. Been in place for two months. No known prospect of leaving.”
“Right!” said Anthony again . . . and the process went on.
2
It was over. The library was normal again and the sheet taken down and the little man and the projector gone.
Pike said, speaking for the first time since the film had come to an end:
“That’s very interesting, sir.” He looked at Anthony with puzzled eyes: “But I must confess I don’t see where it gets us. Particularly as I understand Mr Garrett hasn’t seen the pictures.”
Anthony said: “He’ll see them tomorrow.”
“And you think . . .” Pike began.
Anthony interrupted. “No. I’d bet that he won’t recognize any of these backs.”
“Oh!” said Pike and then, in a tone frankly bewildered, “Then I don’t see what you’re driving at, sir. I suppose the pictures might be useful—but only if we ever got to the point where we could act in regard to KJB. And we’re a long way off that.”
Anthony said: “Consider, Pike, and you’ll find that those pictures do advance our knowledge.” He looked at Flood. “Correct me if I go wrong. . . . Yesterday there visited KJB thirteen persons. Four of these were in uniform and all of these four were followed and/or inquired into. In all cases we find that the persons are in good work, are not under notice and have not given notice. Four out of thirteen . . . let’s see . . . that’s over thirty per cent. Now I maintain that if KJB were only the respectable little business which it proclaims itself it would be impossible for it to have, in one day, thirty per cent of uniformed visitors not wanting jobs.” He looked at Flood. “For further information we will apply to Agent X-13. He will tell us what happened today; the pictures won’t be ready until tomorrow.”
Flood grinned. He looked at Pike with a twinkle in his eyes. He said:
“I’ve got the details up to two-thirty this afternoon.” He put a hand to his pocket and brought the little red notebook out again and opened it. “From nine forty-five this morning until two-thirty this afternoon there were fourteen visitors, seven of ’em in uniform.”
“Fifty per cent today,” said Anthony.
Flood said: “We followed four but missed t’others. They overlapped, you see. The four were a couple of parlourmaidish sorts, a footman——”
Anthony interrupted: “Footman?”
Flood said: “Something of the sort. Had a soft hat and light overcoat, but underneath a livery suit with metal buttons. You’ll see tomorrow.”
“Go on,” said Anthony.
“And the fourth was another nursemaid. She had a perambulator with a kid in it. I did her. Works in Number 17 Pierpont Gardens, South Kensington. Name’s Jessie Brice. Very popular with the other servants. Been in the place six months and no one’s heard anything about her leaving.”
“Next?” said Anthony.
Flood said: “I only did one. Dyson had the others. Mine was the man. Works for Sir Harry Goodenough—that’s the big steel man. Been in the place two months. Seems set. No discoverable question of him leaving. . . . Now Dyson’s two women. One was a Fulham job—cook. The other was lady’s maid to Nona Moon. Both been at the jobs three months. No talk of going.”
Anthony looked at Pike. “So there!” he said. “On two ordinary days over forty per cent of the visitors to KJB are uniformed, in work and seem to have no prospect of being out of work. Why, then, do they go there? Normally servants only visit agencies to get jobs! When they’re in work they try and forget the agency, often to the point of forgetting to pay.”
Pike rubbed reflectively at his lower jaw. “Yes sir. Put like that, it’s odd.” He spoke slowly. “But it still doesn’t get us anywhere. All we can say is, as I see it, that it’s another queer thing to add to our list of queer things about KJB. It certainly doesn’t give what I think we want—something we can take action on.”
Anthony smiled. “Wait, Pike, wait!”
Pike pulled down one side of his mouth in a half-rueful smile. He said: “You’re up to something, sir, I can see that. I suppose you can’t tell me what it is.”
“God forbid!” said Anthony. “You’re too respectable. And you’re paid to uphold the law as she is rather than as she ought to be.”
“Antiquated,” said Flood and shook his head solemnly. “Antiquated.”
Pike glared at him. “As for you, you’ve probably broken the law a dozen times in the last six hours on these inquiries.
And as for your friend Dyson——”
“Messrs Flood and Dyson,” said Flood with dignity, “are citizens of unimpeachable virtue. You’re referring to two mechanics from the gas company.”
Pike looked at Anthony again. “So you won’t tell me what you’re up to, sir.”
Anthony said: “You wouldn’t countenance it. And the commissioner would have a fit. Into your private ear, though, I’ll whisper two little words. French words. Agents provocateurs !”
CHAPTER XV
AT 10:30 A.M. on the morning of Friday, the seventh of October, Miss Rose Parfitt was being taxi-borne from the heights of St
John’s Wood towards Waterloo Station. Upon Miss Parfitt’s round and homely face was a broad smile like that of a child suddenly elated by an unexpected treat. In Miss Parfitt’s bag was a five-pound note which she had not earned and beside the driver of the taxi was Miss Parfitt’s trunk of yellow tin. Miss Parfitt was entering upon an unexpected and therefore doubly delightful holiday.
At 10:45 A.M. Miss Ada Brent entered the vestibule of Lords’ Mansions, St John’s Wood. Behind her trailed a taxi driver bearing a trunk which might have been sister to that of Miss Rose Parfitt. Miss Ada Brent was of an age somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. She was of good figure and pretty, with a rather lavishly powdered face. She was neatly but soberly dressed in black.
Miss Brent had a few words with the commissionaire, who then superintended the setting down of Miss Brent’s trunk and watched Miss Brent with approving eye while she paid the taxi driver.
“Fourteen A, is it?” said Miss Brent and made play with her large dark eyes.
The commissionaire said that it was 14A; that Miss . . . ?
“Brent,” said Miss Brent and smiled.
“Ah!” said the commissionaire boldly and in military fashion twirled his fierce moustache and smiled. “Mine’s Stubbs. Sergeant Stubbs. Eric Stubbs.”
Miss Brent smiled, showing pretty teeth between very red lips.
“You’ll see to my box then?” said Miss Brent and was assured and got herself to the lift and was raised rapidly to the sixth floor.
2
“I don’t think you’ll find it a hard place,” said Mrs Bellingham. “The man at the agency spoke very highly of you and, judging by your references, I think we’ll suit each other admirably.” She smiled. “I consider myself very lucky to get you on such short notice.”
“Yes madam,” said Miss Brent and allowed herself a civil answering smile which did not touch her eyes. “Thank you, madam.”
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