The King of Diamonds: A Tale of Mystery and Adventure

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XIX.

  _Philip Anson Redivivus._

  Next morning Mason trudged off to Scarsdale at an early hour. Heascertained that Green had quitted the Fox and Hounds Inn in time tocatch the first train.

  He returned to Grange House with the dogcart and drove Grenier toScarsdale with his luggage, consisting of Philip's portmanteau and hisown, together with a hatbox.

  He touched his cap to Grenier, when the latter smiled affably on himfrom the luxury of a first-class carriage, and he pocketed a tip with agrin.

  A porter was also feed lavishly, and the station master was urbanityitself as he explained the junctions and the time London would bereached.

  Left to himself, Mason handed over the dogcart to the hostler at theinn, paid for its hire, and again walked to the deserted farm. Hesurveyed every inch of the ground floor, carefully raked over the ashesin the grate, scrubbed the passage with a hard broom and water, packedsome few personal belongings in a small bag, and set out again, afterlocking the door securely, for a long tramp over the moor. Nine miles ofmountain road would bring him to another line of railway. Thence hewould book to London, and travel straight through, arriving at thecapital late at night, and not making the slightest attempt tocommunicate with Grenier en route.

  There was little fear of comment or inquiry caused by the disappearanceof the inhabitants of the Grange House.

  He and "Dr. Williams" were the only residents even slightly known to thedistant village. Such stores as they needed they had paid for. The housewas hired for a month from an agent in the county town, and the rentpaid in advance. It was not clear who owned the place. The agent kept iton his books until some one should claim it.

  As the murderer walked and smoked his reflections were not quitecheerful, now that he could cry "quits" with Philip Anson.

  His experiences of the previous night were not pleasant. Neither he norGrenier went to bed. They dozed uneasily in chairs until daylight, andthen they admitted that they had committed Anson's body to the deep in amoment of unreasoning panic.

  He might be found, and, even if he were not identified, that confoundedpoliceman might be moved to investigate the proceedings of the curiousvisitors to Grange House.

  That was the weak part of their armor, but Grenier refused to admit theflaw.

  "A naked man found in the sea--and he may never be found--has notnecessarily been thrown from a balcony three hundred feet above sealevel. The notion is grotesque. No constabulary brain could conceive it.And who is he? Not Philip Anson; Philip Anson is alive. Not Dr.Williams; any Scarsdale man will say that. And your best friend, Mason,would not take him for you."

  But Mason was not satisfied. Better have buried the corpse on the lonelyfarm--in the garden for choice. Then they would know where he was. Thesea was too vague.

  Of pity for his victim he had not a jot. Had Philip Anson pitied him, orhis wife, or his two children? They, too, were dead, in all probability.While in London he had made every sort of inquiry, but alwaysencountered a blank wall of negation. John and William Mason, even ifthey lived, did not know he was their father. They were lost to himutterly.

  Curse Philip Anson. Let him be forgotten, anyway. Yet he contrived tothink of him during the nine weary miles over the moor, during the longwait at the railway station, and during the slow hours of the journey toLondon.

  On arriving at York, Grenier secured a palatial suite at the StationHotel, entering his name in the register as "Philip Anson."

  He drove to the post office and asked if there was any message for"Grenier."

  Yes. It read:

  "Family still at Penzance. Persuaded friend that letter was only intended to create unpleasantness with uncle. He took same view and returned to town. Will say nothing."

  Unsigned, it came from a town near Beltham. Grenier was satisfied. Helit a cigarette with the message.

  At a branch post office he dispatched two telegrams.

  The first to Evelyn:

  "Will remain in the North for a few days. Too busy to write to-day. Full letter to-morrow. Love.

  "PHILIP."

  The second, to Mr. Abingdon:

  "Your message through Miss Atherley noted. Please suspend all inquiries. Affair quite unforeseen. Will explain by letter. Address to-day, Station Hotel, York.

  "ANSON."

  Then he entered a bank and asked for the manager.

  "My name may be known to you," he said to the official, at the same timehanding his card.

  "Mr. Anson, Park Lane--the Mr. Anson."

  "I suppose I can flatter myself with the definite article. I am stayinghere some few days, and wish to carry out certain transactions requiringlarge sums of money. I will be glad to act through your bank, on specialterms, of course, for opening a short account."

  "We will be delighted."

  "I will write a check now for five thousand pounds, which kindly placeto my credit as soon as possible. Shall we say--the day afterto-morrow?"

  "That is quite possible. We will use all expedition."

  "Thank you. You understand, this is merely a preliminary. I will need amuch larger sum, but I will pay in my next check after hearing fromLondon. I am not quite sure about the amount of my private balance atthe moment."

  The bank manager assured him there would be no difficulty whatever undersuch conditions.

  Grenier obtained his passbook and check book, after writing a check onLondon before the other man's eyes.

  For a small amount, an introduction would have been necessary. Inthe case of Philip Anson, the millionaire, a man who handled thousandsso readily, it was needless. Moreover, his procedure wasunexceptionable--strictly according to banking business.

  Grenier rushed off to the station, caught a train for Leeds, went to thebank of a different company with different London agents, and carriedthrough the same maneuver.

  He returned to York and secured the services of the hotel typist. Hewrote to Philip's bankers:

  "I am transacting some very important private business in the North of England, and have opened temporary accounts with the ---- Bank in York and the ---- Bank in Leeds, and I shall need a considerable sum of ready money. Possibly I may also open accounts in Bradford and Sheffield. To-day I have drawn two checks for five thousand pounds each. Kindly let me know by return the current balance to my credit, as I dislike overdrafts and would prefer to realize some securities."

  The next letter ran:

  "MY DEAR ABINGDON: Excuse a typewriter, but I am horribly busy. The Morlands' affair is a purely family and personal one; it brings into activity circumstances dating far back in my life and in the lives of my parents. Sir Philip is not dying, nor even dangerously ill. Lady Louisa is in Yorkshire, and I am making arrangements which will close a long-standing feud.

  "Write me here if necessary, but kindly keep back all business or other communications, save those of a very urgent character, for at least a week or perhaps ten days.

  "Sorry for this enforced absence from town. It simply cannot be avoided, and I am sure you will leave a detailed explanation until we meet. I have signed the inclosed annual report of the home. Will you kindly forward it to the secretary? Yours sincerely,

  "PHILIP ANSON."

  Grenier dictated this epistle from a carefully composed copy. Heunderstood the very friendly relations that existed between Philip andhis chief agent, and he thought that in adopting a semi-apologetic,frankly reticent tone, he was striking the right key.

  The concluding reference to the Mary Anson Home was smart, he imagined,while the main body of the letter dealt in safe generalities.

  Naturally, he knew nothing of the conversation between the two men onthis very topic a couple of months earlier.

  But Langdon's ample confessions had clearly revealed Philip's attitude,and the unscrupulous scoundrel was willing now to dare all in hisattempt to gain a fortune.
r />   While he was dining a telegram was handed to him:

  "You forgot to send your address, but Mr. Abingdon gave it to me. So grieved you are detained. What about blue atom?

  "EVELYN."

  Did ever woman invent more tantalizing question than that concludingone? What was a blue atom? No doubt, creation's scheme included blueatoms, as well as black ones and red ones. But why this reference to anyparticular atom? He tried the words in every possible variety ofmeaning. He gave them the dignity of capitals. BLUE ATOM. They becamemore inexplicable.

  In one respect they were effective. They spoiled his dinner. He hadsteeled himself against every possible form of surprise, but he wasforced to admit that during the next three days he must succeed inpersuading Evelyn Atherley that Philip Anson was alive, and engaged inimportant matters in Yorkshire. That was imperative--was his scheme tobe wrecked by a blue atom?

  Moreover, her query must be answered. His promise to write was, ofcourse, a mere device. It would be manifestly absurd to send her atypewritten letter, and, excellently as he could copy Philip'ssignature, he dared not put his skill as a forger to the test ofinditing a letter to her, no matter how brief. Finally he hit upon acompromise. He wired:

  "Stupid of me to omit address. Your concluding sentence mixed up in transmission. Meaning not quite clear. Am feeling so lonely.

  "PHILIP."

  Then he tried to resume his dinner, but his appetite was gone.

  In postal facilities, owing to its position on a main line, York is wellserved from London. At 9 P. M. two letters, one a bulky package andregistered, reached him.

  The letter was from Mr. Abingdon. It briefly acknowledged his telegram,stated that a man in the Athenaeum, who knew Sir Philip Morland, hadinformed him, in response to guarded inquiries, that the baronet wasexceedingly well off, and called attention to some important leasesinclosed which required his signature.

  The other note was from Evelyn. It was tender and loving, and containeda reference that added to the mystification of her telegram.

  "In the hurry of your departure yesterday," she wrote, "we forgot to mention Blue Atom. What is your opinion? The price is high, certainly, but, then, picture the joy of it--the only one in the world!"

  And, again, came another message:

  "I referred to Blue Atom, of course. What did the post office make it into?

  "EVELYN."

  Blue Atom was assuming spectral dimensions. He cursed the thingfluently. It was high priced, a joy, alone in solitary glory. What couldit be?

  He strolled into the station, and entered into conversation with aplatform inspector.

  "By the way," he said, casually, "have you ever heard of anything calleda blue atom?"

  The man grinned. "Is that another name for D. T.'s, sir?"

  Grenier gave it up, and resolved to postpone a decision until the nextmorning.

  By a late train Philip's portmanteau arrived. It was locked, and the keyreposed in the safe. Green, it ultimately transpired, solemnly openedthe safe in the presence of the housekeeper and butler, locked it againwithout disturbing any of the other contents, and handed the key to thebutler, who placed it in the silver pantry.

  In the solitude of his room, Grenier burst the lock. The rascal receivedone of the greatest shocks of his life when he examined the contents--aquantity of old clothing, some worn boots, a ball of twine, a bedcoverlet, a big, iron key, the tattered letters, and a variety of oddsand ends that would have found no corner in a respectable rag shop.

  He burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

  "Ye gods and little fishes!" he cried. "What a treasure! The Clerkenwellsuit, I suppose, and a woman's skirt and blouse. Old-timers, too, bytheir style. His mother's, I expect. He must have been fond of hismother."

  At that moment Jocky Mason, beetle-browed and resentful, was reading aletter which reached his lodgings two hours before his arrival, in anenvelope bearing the ominous initials--O. H. M. S.

  It was from the Southwark Police Station.

  "SIR: Kindly make it convenient to attend here to-morrow evening at 8 P. M. Yours truly,

  "T. BRADLEY, Inspector."

  The following day it was Mason's duty to report himself under histicket-of-leave, but it was quite unusual for the police to give apreliminary warning in this respect. Failure on his part meant arrest.That was all the officials looked after.

  "What's up now?" he muttered. "Anyway, Grenier was right. This gives mea cast-iron alibi. I'll acknowledge it at once."

  His accomplice, hoping to obtain sleep from champagne, consumed thecontents of a small bottle in his bedroom, while he scanned the columnsof the local evening papers for any reference to a "Seaside Mystery" onthe Yorkshire coast.

  There was none. Anson's body had not been recovered yet.

  Before going to bed, he wound Philip's watch. He examined it now withgreater interest than he had bestowed on it hitherto.

  Although silver, it appeared to be a good one. He opened the case toexamine the works. Inside there was an inscription:

  "Presented to Philip Anson, aged fifteen years, by the officers and men of the Whitechapel Division of the Metropolitan Police as a token of their admiration for his bravery in assisting to arrest a notorious burglar."

  Beneath was the date of Mason's capture.

  "Where was I ten years ago?" he mused.

  He looked back through the soiled leaves of a sordid record, and foundthat he was then acting in a melodrama entitled "The Wages of Sin."

  And the wages of sin is death! The drama insisted on the full measure ofBiblical accuracy. Altogether, Grenier lay down to rest under unenviableconditions.

  He dreamed that he was falling down precipices, and striking sheets ofblue water with appalling splashes. Each time he was awakened by theshock.

  But he was a hardy rogue where conscience was concerned, and he sworehimself to sleep again. Rest he must have. He must arise with steadyhead and clear brain.

  He was early astir. His first act was to send for the Yorkshire morningpapers. They contained no news of Philip Anson dead, but the local sheetchronicled his arrival at York.

  This was excellent. The banker would see it. A few printed lines carrygreat weight in such matters.

  Then he signed the leases, dispatched them in a typewritten envelope andtelegraphed:

  "Documents forwarded this morning. Please meet wishes expressed in letter."

  "Surely," he reflected, "Abingdon will not give another thought to myproceedings. Philip Anson is not a boy in leading strings."

  He wired to Evelyn:

  "Sorry for misunderstanding. Blue Atom must wait until my return."

  Here was a way out. Whatever that wretched speck of color meant, itcould be dealt with subsequently.

  But Evelyn's prompt reply only made confusion worse confounded:

  "Delay is impossible. The man has put off the duchess two days already."

  So a man, and a duchess, and a period of time were mixed up with a blueatom. He must do something desperate; begin his plan of alienationsooner than he intended. He answered:

  "Too busy to attend to matter further. Going to Leeds to-day. Letters here as usual."

  And to Leeds he went. Residence in York was a fever--a constant fret. InLeeds he was removed from the arena. He passed the afternoon and eveningin roaming the streets, consumed with a fiery desire to be doing,daring, braving difficulties.

  But he must wait at least another day before he could lay hands on anyportion of Philip Anson's wealth save the money stolen from his pockets.

  At the hotel there was only one letter and no telegrams.

  The London bankers wrote:

  "We beg to acknowledge yours of yesterday. Your cash balance at date is twelve thousand four hundred and ten pounds nine shillings one penny. Your securities in our possession amount to a net value at to-day's prices of about ni
ne hundred and twenty thousand pounds, including two hundred and fifty thousand pounds Consols at par. We will forward you a detailed list if desired, and will be pleased to realize any securities as directed.

  "Kindly note that instructions for sale should be given in your handwriting, and not typed."

  There was joy, intoxicating almost to madness, in this communication,but it was not unleavened by the elements of danger and delay.

  His signature had been accepted without demur; he could control anenormous sum without question; these were the entrancing certaintieswhich dazzled his eyes for a time.

  But it was horribly annoying that a millionaire should keep his currentaccount so low, and the concluding paragraph held a bogey, not whollyunforeseen, but looming large when it actually presented itself.

  The memorandum in Philip's handwriting on Evelyn's letter was now thriceprecious. He hurriedly scrutinized it, and at once commenced to practicethe words.

  "Devonshire" and "Sharpe" gave him the capitals for "Dear Sirs." He wasat a loss for a capital "C," but he saw that Philip used the simplestand boldest outlines in his caligraphy, and he must risk a "C" withoutthe upper loop. In "Lady M.," too, he had the foundation of the "L" toprecede the requisite figures. Soon he framed a letter in the fewestwords possible:

  "Yours of to-day's date received. Kindly sell Consols value one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and place the same to my credit."

  He copied it again and again, until it was written freely andcarelessly, and every letter available compared favorably with theoriginal in his possession. Then he posted it, thus saving a day,according to his calculations.

  With this missive committed irrecoverably to the care of his majesty'smails, Victor Grenier's spirits rose. Now, indeed, he was in thewhirlpool. Would he emerge high and dry in the El Dorado of gilded vicewhich he longed to enter, or would fortune consign him to Portlandagain--perchance to the scaffold? He could not say. He would not feelsafe until Philip Anson was a myth, and Victor Grenier a reality, withmany thousands in the bank.

  Already he was planning plausible lies to keep Mason out of his fairshare of the plunder. A few more forged letters would easily establishthe fact that he was unable to obtain a bigger haul than, say, fiftythousand pounds.

  And what did Mason want with twenty-five thousand pounds? He was agnarled man, with crude tastes. Twenty, fifteen, ten thousand would beample for his wants. The sooner he drank himself to death the better.

  With each fresh cigar Mason's moiety shrank in dimensions. The murderwas a mere affair of a vengeful blow, but this steady sucking of themillionaire's riches required finesse, a dashing adroitness, the superbimpudence of a Cagliostro.

  But if his confederate's interests suffered, the total fixed inGrenier's original scheme in nowise became affected.

  He meant to have a hundred thousand pounds, and he firmly decided not togo beyond that amount. His letter to the bankers named one hundred andfifty thousand pounds, and he calculated that by stopping short attwo-thirds of the available sum he would not give any grounds forsuspicion or personal inquiry.

  Yet he would shirk nothing. Mr. Abingdon and Miss Atherley must beavoided at all events; others he would face blithely. He took care tohave ever on the table in his sitting room a goodly supply of wines andspirits.

  If anyone sought an interview, it might be helpful to sham a slightdegree of intoxication. The difference between Philip drunk and Philipsober would then be accounted for readily.

  But rest--that was denied him. It was one thing to harden himselfagainst surprise; quite another to forget that disfigured corpseswirling about in the North Sea.

  He wished now that Philip Anson had not been cast forth naked. It was ablunder not to dress him, to provide him with means of identificationwith some unknown Smith or Jones.

  When he closed his eyes he could see a shadowy form wavering helplesslyin green depths. Never before were his hands smeared with blood. He hadtouched every crime save murder.

  Physically, he was a coward. In plotting the attack on Philip, he hadtaxed his ingenuity for weeks to discover some means where he need notbecome Mason's actual helper. He rejected project after project. Thething might be bungled, so he must attend to each part of theundertaking himself, short of using a bludgeon.

  He slept again and dreamed of long flights through space pursued bydemons. How he longed for day. How slowly the hours passed after dawn,until the newspapers were obtainable, with their columns of emptinessfor him.

  A letter came from Evelyn. It was a trifle reserved, with an impulse totears concealed in it.

  "I asked mother for fifty pounds," she wrote, "so the Blue Atom incident has ended, but I don't think I will ever understand the mood in which you wrote your last telegram. Perhaps your letter now in the post--I half expected it at mid-day--will explain matters somewhat."

  He consigned Blue Atom to a sultry clime, and began to ask himself whyMr. Abingdon had not written. The ex-magistrate's reticence annoyed him.A letter, even remonstrating with him, would be grateful. This silencewas irritating; it savored of doubt, and doubt was the one phase ofthought he wished to keep out of Mr. Abingdon's mind at that moment.

  As for Evelyn, she mistrusted even his telegrams, while a bank hadaccepted his signature without reservation. He would punish her withzest. Philip Anson's memory would be poisoned in her heart long beforeshe realized that he was dead.