by AnonYMous
“Excellently!” replied Vansittart.
And so it was arranged.
Next day, when Featherstone’s motor spun up the smoothly-gravelled drive to the fine old Jacobean house which called him master a keen-eyed young man in rough tweeds was standing in the porch.
“All safe, Mr Blake?” was Featherstone’s first eager question, as he jumped out and warmly shook the other’s hand.
Sexton Blake nodded.
“Right as rain,” he replied cheerfully. Then, in a lower voice: “Remember, I’m not Blake here, Mr Featherstone. Just now my name’s Roper.”
Featherstone looked annoyed.
“I’m awfully sorry! I won’t forget again,” he said quickly. “But I’m surprised that nothing’s happened yet. Every day I’ve been expecting to hear of a raid.”
“I wish they’d hurry up,” said Blake. “I can’t stay here for ever, you know. I’ve other work to do. A week more is my limit. I must go on Saturday.”
Featherstone’s face fell.
“I wish to goodness Dudley would start if he’s going to,” he said irritably. “The only time I’ve managed to forget it was the last two nights. I met a man at the hotel called Vansittart, an American millionaire, but much more decent than the usual rich Yankee. Be and I dined together twice, and he talked so well he took my mind off my troubles. Clever man too. He’s coming down tomorrow to show me his snuff-boxes. I hope he’ll stay a few days.”
“It’ll be a good thing to have someone to cheer you up,” agreed Blake. “You’re worrying too much. If you were wise, you’d take my advice and put the picture away in a safe deposit for a few months.”
Featherstone’s face darkened.
“Nothing will induce me to do anything of the kind!” he exclaimed violently. “It would be a confession of weakness. When we were youngsters Dudley nearly bullied the life out of me. He sha’nt have the satisfaction of thinking I’m afraid of him now!”
II.
“It’s one of the queerest businesses I was ever mixed up in,” said Blake to himself, as he strolled through the Fancourt Park on the following afternoon. “This Dudley Featherstone is the sort of ruffian who rather appeals to me. Kicked out, disgraced, and disinherited, he makes a fortune by one big gamble, and then calmly announces to his brother that he is going to have the Vandyck by fair means or foul. Hallo! Who’s this?” he broke off as a man in gaiters and corduroys came hurrying across the turf towards him.
The newcomer was one of the keepers, full of story of a rough-looking chap he’d seen sneaking about in Hedland Wood.
“Arter pheasants’ eggs, sir, I’ll lay a shilling! I be going to tell the master.”
“Didn’t you try to catch him?” asked Blake sharply.
“’Course I did, sir! But he ran like a hare.”
“Take me down and show me exactly where it was.”
The keeper looked rather surprised at the sharp command. But his master’s orders had been plain. Mr Roper was to be obeyed.
He turned and led the way. Blake’s trained eye soon laid him on the track of the intruder, and he followed it as far as the road, Here, in the wind-blown dust, the trail was impossible to follow, and, somewhat out of temper, the detective returned to the house.
As he climbed the ha-ha steps a motor drove up, and he arrived at the door in time to be introduced by his host to “my American friend Mr Vansittart.”
The latter had in his hand a small but heavy bag.
“I’ve brought the snuff-boxes,” he said with a smile.
“After dinner we’ll have a look at them,” said Featherstone. “Meanwhile let me show you your room.”
At dinner Vansittart talked brilliantly. He was evidently a man who had been everywhere and seen most things. Paris, Rome, Vienna, New York—he knew them all equally well.
When dinner was over Featherstone suggested that they should have coffee in the picture-gallery.
“The Vandyck is well lighted,” he said. “You can see it as well by night as by day.”
“All right,” replied the American. “I’ll run up to my room, get the snuff-boxes, and join you in a minute.”
The gallery at Fancourt was on the first floor. It was a long and lofty room, lit by three great mullioned windows. Portraits of generations of Featherstones covered the walls, but the place of honour in the centre was held by the Vandyck.
This picture, which had all the stately dignity of Rubens’ greatest pupil, represented the famous cavalier Sir Anthony Featherstone, mounted, and in full armour. Sir Anthony, knighted on the field of battle by Charles I, had been the founder of the Featherstone family and the builder of Fancourt.
For two and a half centuries the picture had descended from father to son, and Blake could well understand the feelings of Dudley Featherstone, disinherited in favour of his younger brother, and barred for ever from the ownership of the old home and its glorious associations.
“It’s worth stealing,” said Vansittart at last, after gazing for quite three minutes at the masterpiece of the great Jacobean artist. “But, all the same,” he added with a laugh, “it’s not the sort of job that any self-respecting Bill Sikes would care to tackle. You seem to have taken every possible precaution, Mr Featherstone.”
“I am not running any needless risks,” smiled Featherstone. “Look at these windows!” He pulled back a curtain, and showed the window covered with a shutter of latticed steel. “Then, I have electric alarm wires around the picture itself, and all the doors and windows are protected by the very latest in bolts and safety catches. No, the burglar who tries to steal the Vandyck will have his work cut out.”
“Now that I’ve seen your treasure you shall see mine,” said Vansittart, opening his bag and taking out a dozen exquisite old snuff-boxes, which he laid on the table.
He gave a full and particular history of each box, and his stories were so interesting that when the clock on the mantelpiece chimed twelve all three men were genuinely astonished.
“You’ll be on the look-out tonight Blake?” whispered Mr Featherstone, as he said “Good-night!”
“You bet!” was the detective’s brief but comprehensive reply.
III.
Blake used to say that he slept like a watch-dog—with one eye open. But on this particular night he never went to bed at all. Changing his dress-clothes for a suit of grey flannel and tennis shoes, he sat down in a comfortable chair and picked up his pet copy of The Seven Seas.
One struck, then two. Blake began to grow a little restless.
“Wonder if I’m mistaken?” he muttered.
Another quarter of an hour passed. Then a slight rustling sound in the passage brought him to his feet. His keen eyes gleamed with the light of battle, and opening the door, which swung silently on well-oiled hinges, he glided out into the corridor.
He was just in time to see a figure faintly outlined against the window at the far end turn noiselessly down a cross-passage that led to the picture gallery.
Blake was after it like a shot. Years of training had taught him to move with a silent speed that only a cat could equal.
The picture gallery door was at the far end of the cross-passage. As he turned the corner Blake saw the tiniest gleam of light flicker on the dark oak panelling. He paused.
Next minute there was a slight click. The light vanished.
“Knows his job!” chuckled Blake noiselessly. Then, instead of following the intruder, he turned straight buck, and made for the door of Vansittart’s room.
It was closed. He tried the handle. It turned easily. Blake entered, closed the door again, and flashed an electric pocket lamp.
The room was empty, but the window was open, and on the sill lay a coil of thin but immensely strong silk rope. Near the rope was the bag.
Blake opened it. The snuff-boxes were inside, each wrapped separately in
tissue paper.
“They’re genuine, anyhow!” said Blake, with a twinkle in his eye. And emptying all the boxes out of the bag, he stuffed them into his pockets. Then he rapidly filled the bag with lumps of coal from the scuttle, closed it again, and leaving the rope and bag exactly where be had found them, hurried back to his own room.
He put out the candle by which he had been reading and, leaving the door ajar, sat down and listened quietly.
In about five minutes there came again the cautious tread which he had heard before. But Blake did not move. The steps passed into Vansittart’s room, but the detective sat still where he was. The door was closed but all Blake did was to get up and begin undressing.
In less than five minutes he was in bed, and two minutes later sleeping more soundly than for many nights past.
IV.
“Hallo! What’s up?” growled Blake.
Someone was shaking him savagely by the shoulder.
“What’s up?” repeated Featherstone furiously. “You lie here, snoring like a hog when the picture you’re paid to take care of is stolen!”
“Are you sure?” asked Blake coolly as he slipped out of bed and donned dressing-gown and slippers.
“Sure? Haven’t I seen it with my own eyes?” shrieked Featherstone harshly. “It’s been cut out of its frame in the night!”
“Let’s go and have a look,” said Blake, who seemed quite undisturbed by the other’s emotion.
Featherstone led the way at a run. Sure enough, when they reached the gallery, the grey morning light fell upon an empty frame. The canvas had been cut clean out of it with a sharp knife.
Blake regarded it coolly.
“Any idea who did it?” he asked quietly.
Featherstone swung round on him savagely.
“Are you mad?” he cried. “That’s what I’ve been paying you to find out. Dash me if I ever trust a detective again!”
He would have said more but Blake had left him and gone to the far end of the gallery, where a great oak chest stood against the wall. Producing a key he unlocked this, and took therefrom a roll of canvas tied with string.
Opening it be held up before the eyes of the amazed Featherstone the Vandyck portrait.
“W-w-what’s it mean?” gasped the man.
“That’s your picture all right, isn’t it?” asked Blake.
Featherstone examined it.
“Yes,” he said. “I—I apologise, Blake! But, hang me if I can make head or tail of it!”
“It’s simple enough,” replied Blake, with a twinkle of amusement in his keen eyes. “While you were away I took the liberty of asking a young artist friend down. He painted a copy of the Vandyck—a copy which you yourself last night could not tell from the original. That’s what your brother’s burglar stole.”
“But who stole it? How did he get in?”
“You let him in yourself. It was your American friend, Vansittart.”
Featherstone’s jaw dropped.
“Impossible!” he gasped.
“Go to his room, then, and see. My dear sir, I spotted him the minute I set eyes on him as Lex Manley, the cleverest curio thief in two continents. He knows as much about art as any living connoisseur. He collects himself.”
“Then that explains the snuff-boxes,” said Featherstone, crestfallen.
“Which reminds me,” replied Blake. “I paid young Winwood fifty pounds for the copy; but I think these will cover the bill.”
He pulled out the snuff-boxes, and piled them on the table.
“Fair exchange is no robbery!” he said with a laugh. “On the whole, I think we’ve come out a bit to the good.”
A HOLIDAY TASK
June 5, 1909
I.
Sexton Blake paced the platform of Little Hesslewood Junction, a station on the Great Southern, nearly two hundred miles from London, and forty-four from the seaport of Barquay.
The smile which, played upon his keen face showed his thoughts were pleasant. In fact, the famous detective was treating himself to a holiday, and had driven in from the farm where he was staying to meet his old friend Bathurst, who was going to share his vacation.
“Oh, here she is at last!” he muttered, as the 9.30, brilliantly lit, came out of the tunnel beyond the station and rolled up to the platform.
Before it had stopped, a figure sprang from a carriage and ran towards Blake.
“Delighted to see you!” cried Blake. “Where’s your kit?”
“In front, I believe.”
They were hurrying towards the luggage-van when a woman in front of them uttered a scream, and Blake was just in time to catch her and save her from falling.
“Oh, he’s dead!” she moaned, pointing at the carriage immediately opposite.
In the corner, close by the window, under the strong glow of the roof lamp, a man lay huddled in a shapeless heap. One glance was enough to show that he was dead. He had been cut to pieces.
In the far corner of the carriage was another man. His face was white, save for a smear of blood across one cheek, his eyes were fixed and glassy, and he seemed barely conscious of his surroundings. A long-bladed knife lay on the seat by his side.
“Stand back!” shouted a guard, as people came rushing from every side. “Police! Send for the police!”
Blake, whose idea was not to be mixed up in the dreadful business, lifted the fainting woman bodily in his arms, and took her into the waiting-room, where he left her in the charge of an attendant. Then he escaped, and as the porters were quite beside themselves, he and Bathurst together collected the latter’s luggage, piled it up on the fly, and ordered the man to drive home.
“Wonder what he killed him for?” said Bathurst thoughtfully.
“Don’t wonder, Bathurst! Let’s forget the whole business. This is holiday time, remember.”
He began to talk about the fishing, and that night the subject of the murder was not mentioned again.
But they were not to be allowed to forget so easily. At breakfast next morning, Farmer Corey, their landlord, came stumping in.
“Have ’ee heard, gennelmen?” he cried. “There’s been a terrible business in Hesslewood. Chap found stabbed in the train. I brought ’ee the paper.”
Bathurst thanked him, and took the paper.
“Hallo!” he exclaimed. “This is funny! The chap swears he didn’t do it.”
“What, the man with the blood on his face?”
“Yes. Angus Clibborn is the name he gives. His story is that, when he got into the train at Barquay he was alone. At the last minute two men jumped in. As soon as the train was well out of Barquay they both seized him, and one held him while the other chloroformed him. When he came to the train was already slowing into Hesslewood, one man had disappeared, the other lay dead in the opposite corner of the carriage.”
“Does he give any reason for the alleged attack upon himself?” said Blake.
“Yes; they stole his hag.”
“What was in it?”
“That’s the odd part of it,” replied Bathurst. “Nothing! But, all the same, he seems to have set great value on the bag. Be says it was a new invention of his own. It was burglar-proof. He patented it some weeks ago. What is more, he maintains that whoever took it will certainly be found.”
Blake’s forehead knitted.
“An extraordinary story!” he said. “For if he had already got his patent, his assailants could have no possible object in stealing his invention. But enough of this, Bathurst! Come on down to the river!”
He was taking his rod from its case when the deep hum of a motor car came from the road. Next moment an elderly man came hurrying up the garden path, and met Blake in the porch.
“Mr. Sexton Blake, I believe?” said the newcomer.
“That’s my name, sir,” replied Blake.
&n
bsp; “My name is Gaunt,” said the other. “I am a director of the Great Southern. I know you are holiday-making, Mr. Blake, but I have come to beg you of your kindness to clear up the mystery of the horrible crime.”
“Is there a mystery?” asked Blake. “On the face of it, the case seems clear.”
“As to the perpetrator, yes. We have him under lock and key. What we want is the reason of the murder. Mysteries, Mr. Blake, are the worst possible advertisements for a railway.”
Blake laid down his rod with a sigh. “Very well, Mr. Gaunt, I’ll do what I can. Just wait till I change my things.”
In less than five minutes Blake and Bathurst were seated in Mr. Gaunt’s car.
II.
“What do the police think?” was Blake’s first question, as they whirled rapidly towards Hesslewood.
“Their theory is that the crime is one of revenge,” replied Mr. Gaunt. “The murdered man is certainly a foreigner. The accused, Angus Clibborn he calls himself, admits that he has lived in Italy all his life. His father was a Scottish engineer, employed on the Calabrian Railway. We all know that Calabria is a nest of secret societies. What more likely than that Clibborn, having some private wrong to avenge, followed his man and killed him at the first opportunity?”
“Odd that he should then make no attempt to escape.”
“How could he? The 9.30 averages nearly fifty miles an hour all the way from Barquay.”
“There is no stop or slow on the journey?”
“None! The first stop is Hesslewood.”
“If I remember right,” said Blake, “your line runs through level country most of the way.”
“Quite so. There are only two gradients—the drop into and the rise from the valley of the Longbourne, and neither of those is severe.”
“You attach no importance to the story of the hag?”
Mr. Gaunt shrugged his shoulders.
“Surely, the prisoner’s story is hardly worth taking seriously. At the same time, the plate-layers were warned all down the line at daybreak this morning, and the permanent way has already been searched. We shall find a wire at the station if anything has been found.”
