“Who are you?” The demand was more peremptory this time.
“My name is Gilbert Chertsey.”
“Profession?”
“I’m a novelist.”
It seemed that the merest flicker of a smile passed over the other’s stern mouth.
“A novelist—well, what are you doing here?”—and then, as Chertsey moved aside—“put your hands over your head! No nonsense!”
When Chertsey hesitated, the other crossed to him with startling speed. The novelist had the incredible sensation of feeling a revolver thrust against his heart. He obeyed the bizarre command, conscious that the other had noticed the bloodstain on his hand. The man said nothing, but his expression was significant.
“Sit in that chair and tell me everything you know about this”—he pointed with his left hand to the figure on the floor. “One moment!” Kneeling, the speaker examined the body of Baintree.
“Dead,” he said.
“Yes.”
The other showed his teeth.
“Who killed him?”
“I haven’t the least idea—I can assure you I didn’t. Possibly——”
“Possibly—what?” The inquisitor had his deeply-lined face out-thrust.
Chertsey felt himself hating the man almost as much as he feared him.
“Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me who you are,” he said.
The thin lips parted in a mirthless smile.
“That can wait,” was the reply; “in the meantime, let me assure you, Mr. Chertsey, that I occupy a position which entitles me to take up my present attitude. Unless the explanation of your presence in this flat is thoroughly satisfying, I shall have you immediately arrested….What is that on your hands? I must hear all your movements to-night.”
Chertsey pulled himself together. It was absurd to be afraid.
“I dined at the Club——”
“What Club?”
“The Mayflower.”
A nod.
“After dinner a party of us played billiards and then went back to the smoking-room to talk. Someone—Ringwood I think—wanted to know if I was doing another novel. I said yes, but that I wasn’t getting on very fast.”
“Where does this lead?”
Chertsey kept his temper.
“If you will excuse me,” he replied, “I am coming to the point.”
The other growled: “Quickly, then!”
“I can fully understand that my work has no possible interest for you,” commented the novelist, “but as it was my present book which brought me here to-night I had to mention the fact. Mr. Robert Baintree was, I understand, a great traveller.”
“Possibly.”
Chertsey endeavoured to remain unruffled.
“It was Ringwood—a friend of his—who sent me along to see Mr. Baintree to-night. Ringwood——”
“What Ringwood?”
“The Harley Street nerve specialist. He told me he was at Repington with Baintree.”
“Did he tell you anything else?” There was a snapped eagerness about the question.
“He said that Baintree knew Europe from one end to the other and that if I wanted local colour for the Constantinople scenes in my new novel he was the man to see. Ringwood was good enough to ring up Baintree and fix an appointment. I was to drop in here at 10:30 to-night.”
“And you kept this appointment?”
“I did….But, I say, it’s very disconcerting not to know to whom I am talking….”
“Don’t let that affect you—please continue your story. I find it very interesting.” It was impossible to decide if the man was being grimly facetious.
“All right, I have already told you I kept the appointment. As a matter of fact, I was five minutes too early; when I entered the lift on the ground-floor I looked at my watch and saw that it was exactly twenty-two minutes past ten.”
“There was no-one else in the lift?”
“No. I came up alone. Then——”
“Well?” growled the listener.
Chertsey winced. He was now reaching the crucial point of his narrative, and he realized that his conduct did not reflect the greatest credit on himself.
“There is a small brass plate outside this flat door with ‘Baintree’ on it. I rang the bell and waited. But no-one came and so I rang again. It was then that it happened——”
“What happened?” The listener was bending forward.
“The door suddenly opened and a man rushed out.”
A sharp intake of breath came from the direction of the other chair.
“Describe him.”
“I am afraid I can’t. You see, he was past me in a flash.”
“Didn’t you notice anything about him?” The inquiry was rasped.
“Nothing—except that he had his overcoat collar turned up and that the upper part of his face was hidden by a soft felt hat turned down.”
“You didn’t follow him?—— Good God, man, why didn’t you follow him? He had just committed a murder!”
“Look here,” complained Chertsey, “I’m not going on any longer unless I can put my hands down. For one thing I want a smoke.” He lowered his hands without waiting for the permission and thrust them into his overcoat pockets. From these he drew out a pipe and tobacco pouch. The stain on the fingers was a horrible reminder, but he filled his pipe, regardless of the revolver by which he was still menaced.
“How was I to know the man was a murderer?” He had filled his pipe somewhat unsteadily, had got it going by this time, and still kept his hands down. “Baintree was a stranger to me; it was no concern of mine if he entertained men who were eccentric enough to leave his flat as though the place was on fire. As a matter of fact, however ridiculous it may sound now, that was the thought which came to me—the flat was on fire and this man was rushing out to get assistance.”
“What about the telephone?”
Chertsey shrugged.
“Of course; I have already said that it sounds ridiculous. But this is the first time I have actually come into contact with…murder.”
Lifting his hand, he found that his forehead was wet. The strain was beginning to tell. Who was this questioner, and why did he not give some hint of his identity? He was tempted to make a rush for the door in spite of the revolver. After all, he was innocent. Why should he tolerate such treatment?
“You did not disturb anything here?”
“Nothing. Let me finish. The fleeing man had left the flat door open. I walked inside—you understand I was vaguely suspicious; that was why I entered without ringing again. As I stepped into the hall I called out: ‘Mr. Baintree’; but no answer came. Then I stepped into the first room I came to—this one.”
“Was the light on?”
“No. The room was in darkness. That strengthened the feeling I had that something was wrong—very wrong. I found the switch after a little while and then I saw—that! I knew it to be the body of the man I had come to see because Ringwood had described Baintree.
“At first,” continued the novelist, “I was bewildered, especially when, after stooping to examine how badly Baintree was injured, I found this”—he held up his right hand—“on my fingers. I realized that possibly I might be suspected of the crime myself, but I was just going to the telephone to ring up the Police when you entered. What I have told you is the truth,” he concluded.
The other rose.
“You have withheld nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Then,” said the other, placing the revolver back into his pocket, “you may go after giving me your address. Where do you live?”
“128B, Hertford Street, Mayfair. Practically round the corner.”
With the receipt of this information the other appeared to lose all interest in him.
“Good night, Mr. Chertsey.”
The novelist hesitated. He did not know if he were justified in leaving this man who refused to give any account of himself in the flat.
The other spoke sharply.
“There is one fact I must impress upon you before you go, Mr. Chertsey. It is that this affair to-night must not be discussed with anyone. It will be necessary for you to give me your promise on that point.”
Chertsey bridled.
“You take a great deal for granted. I know absolutely nothing about you. Suppose I refuse?”
“Then, believe me, you will find yourself in a somewhat uncomfortable position.”
“Oh—go to the devil!” His patience was exhausted. The interest which he had formerly experienced about this stranger had been replaced by annoyance. So exasperated that he felt he could not trust himself to say anything further, he opened the door. A minute later he was in the street, walking rapidly towards his own rooms.
It wasn’t until the following morning that he found the thing. Going through the pockets of his evening kit, his fingers touched something soft. It proved to be a thin, black leather pocket-case. As it did not belong to him, Chertsey was puzzled. Although he had no clear recollection on the point, the only conclusion to which he could come was that he must have found the case on the floor of the murder-room the previous night and inadvertently placed it in his pocket.
It had a clear connection with the crime, no doubt, and his first inclination was to open the case, but he overcame the desire. Directly after breakfast he got into the taxi which had been ordered and gave an address: “New Scotland Yard.”
The official to whose room he was conducted listened attentively to everything he said, before picking up the case. He asked only one question:
“Do you know what this contains, Mr. Chertsey?”
“I do not. You see it does not belong to me.”
“Quite so. Well—thank you, Mr. Chertsey.” The speaker rose, intimating that the interview might be considered over.
“I hope I did right in bringing it here?”
“Certainly. You did quite right. Thank you once again.”
“If I had only known where to find the mysterious gentleman who cross-examined me last night in Mr. Baintree’s flat I would have gone to him.”
“Quite so.”
“Am I committing a breach of official etiquette in asking where that gentleman can be found?”
The Scotland Yard official walked to the door and held it open.
“I’d forget all about this affair if I were you,” was his reply.
Chertsey stalked out.
* * *
—
He would have been only too pleased to forget, but he could not dismiss the affair. He dealt professionally in mystery—his novels were of the “shocker” class—and the death of Robert Baintree contained all the elements to enchain a writer’s attention. The escape of the supposed murderer, the finding of the body in that hushed room, the appearance of the unyielding, grim-visaged inquisitor, the peculiar reticence of the fellow at Scotland Yard—these were the circumstances which kept the tragedy fixed in his mind.
It was the secrecy of the whole thing which was so baffling. Much as he hated the idea, he expected to be besieged by reporters, but none of the newspapers even printed the story of Robert Baintree’s death. So far as any publicity was concerned, the tragedy might not have happened. More and more strange!
That night he sought out Ringwood. The latter looked worried. Naturally enough, Chertsey commenced to talk about his experience. Long before he had finished his story, the Harley Street specialist, after glancing uneasily over his shoulder—and this was in the ultra-respectable atmosphere of the Mayflower Club—caught his arm.
“If I were you, old man, I’d forget everything about that business—try to persuade yourself it never happened.”
“What the devil are you talking about? Wasn’t it through you that I went to see Baintree?”
“Yes, yes. But—well, the truth is, old man, I can’t tell you what I know—and you’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
Chertsey looked at him squarely.
“Do you know who that man—Grim-face—was?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And you won’t tell me?”
“I can’t…have another drink?”
“To hell with you and your drinks!”
Reaching home disgruntled and annoyed, his servant told him a gentleman was waiting.
“What’s his name?”
“He didn’t give any name, sir. I said you were certain to be home by eleven, and he decided to wait.”
“I don’t exactly care for people who are afraid to give their names being allowed to wait in my rooms, Dixon.”
“There’s nothing suspicious about this gentleman, sir. But a very masterful type. He just brushed past me.”
“Short, thin man?”
“Yes, sir—very grey.”
Grim-face!
So it proved.
“I called, Mr. Chertsey, to thank you for handing over that case to Scotland Yard. You did not look inside it, you say?”
“I made that statement to the official at Scotland Yard, and, in the ordinary way, I usually endeavour to speak the truth.”
Grim-face looked as though he contemplated a rebuke.
“Why did you not tell me about this case in the flat last night?” he went on.
“I say, excuse me not asking you before—but won’t you have a drink?”
“I do not want a drink, thank you.”
Chertsey continued to smile.
“I do wish you would have a drink. I’ll tell you why; before I insult a man I always like to give him a drink.”
“Do you intend to insult me?”
“I most certainly do. I’m going to answer one more question—the one you have just asked—and then I’m going to tell you to go to the devil. Do you imagine that I intend to spend the rest of my life being cross-examined by you?—a man whose name I do not even know? Now for the answer: I have no clear recollection of having picked up the black leather case which I took to Scotland Yard but the strong probability is that I found it on the floor of the room in Baintree’s flat and that I inadvertently placed it in my pocket. Now—do you mind going? You irritate me.”
For the first time since he had known him, the other smiled.
“I can quite understand you being irritated, Mr. Chertsey. My name,” he added, “is Sir Harker Bellamy, and I am a Departmental Chief of the British Intelligence Department.”
Chertsey became penitent.
“I say,” he stammered, “forgive me for being such a fool….I might have known….”
“There is sufficient reason why Robert Baintree’s death and everything connected with it should not be talked about. The essential quality about our work is its secrecy. I should not have said as much, Mr. Chertsey, if circumstances had not brought you into this business. And now I’ll wish you good night.”
Chertsey motioned to an easy-chair by the side of the glowing fire.
“Can’t you stay a few more minutes, sir?…just long enough to smoke a cigarette? I—I rather wanted to ask you a favour.”
The expression of Sir Harker Bellamy was non-committal as he tapped the cigarette he had taken from the cedarwood box.
Chertsey was nervous.
“What I am going to say may sound very ridiculous,” he started, “but I should like to be allowed to take a hand, if it is at all possible, in trying to solve the mystery of Robert Baintree’s death. A man cannot have such an experience as I had two nights ago without feeling it. As you have said yourself, circumstances brought me into the affair. They brought me into it against my will, it’s true, but, once in, I should like to stay in.”
The only sign th
e other made was to flick the ash off his cigarette. It was not encouraging, but Chertsey went on:
“I don’t mind confessing that my motive is not an entirely unselfish one. For months I have been fed up with the commonplace—ordinary existence, ordinary travel—but there was something so dastardly about Baintree’s death that I should welcome the chance, for its own sake as it were, to get a hand on that beastly murderer. I’m expressing myself damned badly, I know, but——”
Bellamy rose and flung his cigarette-stub into the fire.
“Better stick to your novel-writing, Chertsey,” he said.
“Does that mean——?”
“It means that novel-writing is considerably safer.”
“I speak four languages. I am very fit——”
“Good night—sorry.”
Grim-face was gone.
* * *
—
To every man at times comes a dangerous mood. One is inclined then to break with the settled order of ordinary existence. Life becomes stale and pallid; whatever tang it may once have held is gone. It is this chafing which sends some men into the Divorce Court, others into Africa to shoot lions.
A week before Chertsey had entered the open door of Robert Baintree’s flat in Half Moon Street, he had crossed from New York in the Berengaria. The sea had upset him; made him restless. He had bought a number of novels at Brentano’s in Fifth Avenue the last afternoon, but he had found it impossible to read one of them. Concentration of any sort was out of the question; he just loafed and he found even this fretting to the nerves.
He could have flirted, of course, but none of the would-be amourettes, whether married, single or widows, appealed. Even intense boredom—or whatever it was which was making him irritable—was preferable to an insipid love affair.
His mood of discontent became intensified during the first week in London. Usually he returned from a cross-Atlantic trip with a sense of renewed vigour and fresh interest. “Now,” he would say to himself as he stepped back into his comfortable study, “for some work….”
The Big Book of Espionage Page 43
