No, he said presently. This removal was carried out by amateurs, who were in a very violent hurry. Those vans were faked bought, perhaps, and repainted with our name. Its evident that they deceived the constable very cleverly.
But the whole affair is so extraordinary? gasped Max, staring at his companion.
Yes. It would appear so. Your friend, the Doctor, evidently wished to get his goods away with the least possible delay and in the greatest secrecy.
But the employment of so many men did not admit of much secrecy, surely!
They were only employed to load. They did not unload. Only the three drivers probably know the destination of the furniture. It was valuable old stuff, I should say, if one is to judge by what is remaining.
Yes, the place was well and comfortably furnished.
Then I really think, sir, that if you suspect foul play its your duty to tell the police. In cases like this an hours delay is often fatal to success in elucidating the mystery. Max was undecided how to act. It was his duty to tell the police his suspicions and show them that blood-stained coat. And yet he felt so certain that the Doctor must in the course of the day take him into his confidence that he hesitated to make a suggestion of foul play and thus bring the affair into public prominence.
The fact that Harmers name had been upon vans not belonging to that firm was in itself sufficient proof that there had been a conspiracy somewhere.
But of what nature was it? What could possibly have been its object? What was Mauds terrible confession!
The expert in removals was examining some litter in the dining-room.
They evidently did not stop to pack anything, he remarked, but simply bundled it out with all possible speed. One fact strikes me as very peculiar.
What is that?
Well, if they wanted to empty the place they might have done so, leaving the curtains up, and the palms and things in the windows in order to lead people to believe that the house was still occupied. Apparently, however, they disregarded that precaution altogether.
Yes. Thats true. The object of the sudden flight is a complete mystery, Max remarked. He had not taken the man to the top room, where, in the cupboard, the womans dress was hidden.
You say that the Doctor was rich. Therefore, it wasnt to escape from an execution threatened by the landlord.
Certainly not.
Well, you may rest assured, sir, that the removal was not effected by professional men. The way in which carpets have been torn up and damaged, curtains torn from their rings, and crockery smashed in moving, shows them to have been amateurs.
They had ascended to the front bedroom, wherein remained a large, heavy old-fashioned mahogany chest of drawers, and he had walked across to them.
Indeed, he added. It almost looks as though it were the work of thieves?
Thieves! Why?
Well look at this. They had no keys, so they broke open the drawers, and removed the contents, he answered. And look across there!
He pointed to a small iron fireproof safe let into the wall a safe evidently intended originally as a place for the lady of the house to keep her jewels.
The door stood ajar, and Max, as he opened it, saw that it was empty.
The curious part of the affair was that Max was convinced within himself that when he had searched the house on the previous night that safe was not there. If it was, then the door must have been closed and concealed.
He remembered most distinctly entering that room and looking around. The chest of drawers had been moved since he was last there. When he had seen them they had been standing in their place concealing the iron door of the safe, which, when shut, closed flush with the wall. Someone had been there since! And whoever it was, had moved the heavy piece of furniture and found the safe.
He examined the door, and from its blackened condition, the twisted iron, and the broken lock, no second glance was needed to ascertain that it had been blown open by explosives.
Whatever valuables Dr Petrovitch had kept there had disappeared.
The theory of theft was certainly substantiated by these discoveries. Max stood by the empty safe silent and wondering.
I noticed downstairs in the study that a board had been prised up, as though somebody has been searching for something, the man from Harmers remarked. Probably the Doctor had something in his possession of which the thieves desired to get possession.
Well, said Max, I must say that this safe being open looks as though the affair has actually been the work of thieves. If so, then where is the Doctor, where is his daughter Maud, and where are the servants?
Yes. I agree. The whole affair is a complete mystery, sir, the other replied. There have been thieves here without a doubt. Perhaps the Doctor knows all about it, but for some reason dare not utter a word of complaint. Indeed, thats my theory. He may be in fear of them, you know. Its a gang that have done it, without a doubt.
And a pretty ingenious gang, too, declared Max, with knit brows.
They evidently made short work of all the furniture. I wonder why they took it, and where it is at present.
If it has gone to a sale room the police could trace it, Max suggested.
Certainly. But suppose it was transferred from the vans it was taken away in to the vans of some depository, and removed, say, to Portsmouth or Plymouth, and there stored? It could be done quite easily, and would never be traced.
Yes. But its a big job to have made a whole houseful of furniture disappear in a couple of hours.
It is not so big as it first seems, sir. Id guarantee to clear a house of this size in one hour, if necessary. And the way they turned out the things didnt take them very long. They were in a desperate hurry, evidently.
Do you think that thieves did the work?
Im very strongly of that opinion. Everything points to it. If I were you Id go back to the police and tell them about the safe, about that chest of drawers, and the flooring in the study. Somebodys been prying about here, depend upon it.
Max stood, still undecided. Did it not seem very much as though the thieves had visited there after Charles Rolfe had fled so hurriedly?
Chapter Eight.
The Pauper of Park Lane
About half-way up Park Lane the one-sided row of millionaires residences that face Hyde Park not far from the corner of that narrow little turning, Deanery Street, stood a great white house, one of a short row. The windows were protected from the sun by outside blinds of red and buff-striped holland, and the first floor sills were gay with, geraniums.
The house was one of imposing importance, and dwarfed its neighbours, being both higher, larger, and more artistic. On the right side dwelt one of Manchesters cotton kings, and on the other a duke whose rent-roll was one of the biggest in the United Kingdoms. The centre house, however, was far more prosperous-looking than the others, and was often remarked upon by country cousins as they passed up and down upon omnibuses. It was certainly one of the finest in the whole of that select thoroughfare where rents alone were ruinous, and where the possession of a house meant that ones annual income must run into six figures. The mere nobility of England cannot afford to live in Park Lane nowadays. It is reserved for the kings of Britains commerce, the Stock Exchange speculator, or the get-rich-quick financier.
Those who read these lines know well the exterior of many of the houses of notable people who live there. Some are in excellent taste, while others betray the blatant arrogance of the man who, risen from penury, has suddenly found himself a controller of Englands destinies, a Birthday Knight, and the husband of a woman whom the papers have suddenly commenced to dub the beautiful Lady So-and-So. Other houses are quiet and sober in their exterior, small, modest, and unobstructive, the town residences of men of great wealth, who, posing as gentlemen, are hoping for a peerage.
Those who read these lines know well the exterior of many of the houses of notable people who live there. Some are in excellent taste, while others betray the blatant arrogance of the man who, risen from penury, has suddenly found himself a controller of Englands destinies, a Birthday Knight, and the husband of a woman whom the papers have suddenly commenced to dub the beautiful Lady So-and-So. Other houses are quiet and sober in their exterior, small, modest, and unobstructive, the town residences of men of great wealth, who, posing as gentlemen, are hoping for a peerage.
The hopes in Park Lane are many. Almost every household possesses a secret ambition, some to shine in Society, other in politics, and some even in literature. The really wealthy man sneers at a baronetcy, an honour which his tea-merchant received last year, and as for a knighthood, well, he can plank down his money this afternoon and buy one just as he bought a cigar half an hour ago in Bond Street. He must have a title, for his wife wants to be known by the name of his country place, and he has secret ambitions for a seat in the Lords. And so in every house in that long, one-sided row are hopes eternal which rise regularly every year towards the end of June.
Diamond, copper, soap, pork, and railway kings who dwell there are a curious assortment, yet the combined wealth of that street alone would be sufficient to pay off our National Debt and also run a respectable-sized kingdom for a year or two.
Almost every man could realise a million sterling, and certainly one of the very wealthiest among them was old Samuel Statham, the man who owned and lived in that house with the red-striped sun-blinds.
While Max Barclay was engaged in his investigations at the deserted house in Cromwell Road, old Sam was standing at the window of his study, a large front room on the ground floor overlooking the Park. It was a quiet, soberly-furnished apartment, the carpet of which was so soft that ones feet fell noiselessly, while over the mantelshelf was a large life-sized Venus by a modern French artist, the most notable picture in the Salon five years ago.
The leather-covered chairs were all heavy and old-fashioned, the books in uniform bindings of calf and gold, and the big writing-table of the early Victorian period. Upon the table stood a great silver candelabra fitted with electric lamps, while littered about the floor were quantities of folded papers and business documents of various kinds.
There was but little comfort about the room. Artistic taste and luxury are commonly associated with Park Lane, therefore the stranger would have been greatly surprised if he had been allowed a peep within. But there was a curious bet about the house.
No stranger had ever been known to pass beyond the big swing-glass doors half-way down the hall. No outsider had ever set foot within.
Levi, the hook-nosed old butler, in his well-cut clothes and spotless linen, was a zealous janitor. No one, upon any pretext whatsoever, was allowed to pass beyond the glass doors. His master was a little eccentric, it was said, and greatly disliked intruders. He hated the inquisitiveness of the modern Press, and always feared lest his house should be described and photographed as those of his neighbours constantly were. Therefore all strangers were rigorously excluded.
Some gossip had got about concerning this. A year ago the wealthy old financier had been taken suddenly ill, and his doctor was sent for from Cavendish Square. But even he was not allowed to pass the rigidly-guarded frontier. His patient saw him in the hall, and there he diagnosed the ailment and prescribed. The doctor in question, a well-known physician, remarked upon old Sams eccentricity over a dinner-table in Mayfair, and very soon half smart London were talking and wondering why nobody was ever invited to the table of Samuel Statham.
In the City, as head of Statham Brothers, foreign bankers, whose offices in Old Broad Street are known to every City man, he was always affable, yet very shrewd. He and his brother could drive hard bargains, but they were always charitable, and the name of the firm constantly figured for a substantial amount in the lists in response to any charitable appeal.
From small beginnings the early days of both brothers being shrouded in mystery they had risen to become what they now were, a house second only to the Rothschilds in financial power, a house whose assistance was sought by kings and emperors, and whose interests were world-wide.
That morning old Sam Statham appeared unusually agitated. Rising at five oclock, as was his habit summer and winter, he had been hard at work for hours when Levi brought him his tiny cup of black Turkish coffee. Then, glancing at the clock upon his desk, he had risen, gone to the window, and gazed out eagerly, as though in search of someone.
It was eight oclock, and there were plenty of people about. But, though he looked up and down the thoroughfare, he was disappointed. So he snapped his thin fingers impatiently and returned to his writing.
His personal appearance was truly insignificant. When, in the street, he was pointed out to people as the great Samuel Statham, they invariably expressed astonishment. There was nothing of the blatant millionaire about him. On the contrary, he was a thin, grey, sad-looking man, rather short of stature, with a face very broad in the brow and very narrow at the chin, ending with a small, scraggy white beard clipped to a point. His cheeks were hollow, his dark eyes sunken, the skin upon his brow tightly stretched, his lips pale and thin, and about his clean-shaven upper lip a hardness that was in entire opposition with his generous instincts towards his less fortunate fellow men.
One of his peculiarities of dress was that he always wore a piece of greasy black satin ribbon, tied loosely in a bow as a cravat. The same piece did duty both by day and at evening.
His clothes, for the most part, hung upon his lean, shrunken limbs as though they had been made for a much more robust man, and his hats were indescribably greasy and out of date. When he went to the City Levi compelled him to put on his best silk hat and a decent frock coat, but often of an afternoon he might be seen sitting alone in the Park and mistaken for some poor, broken-down old man the sadness of whose face compelled sympathy.
This carelessness of dress appears to be one of the inevitable results of great fortune. A man should never be judged by his coat nowadays. The struggling clerk who lives in busy Brixton or cackling Croydon usually gives himself greater airs, and dresses far better than the head of the firm, while the dainty typewriter wears prettier blouses and neater footgear than his own out-door daughters, with their slang, their pals, and their distorted ideas of maiden modesty.
But old Sam Statham had neither kith nor kin. He was a lonely man how utterly lonely only he himself knew. He had only his perpetual calculations of finance, his profit and loss accounts, and occasional chats with the ever-faithful Levi to occupy his days. He seldom if ever left London. Even the stifling August days, when his clerks went to the mountains or the sea, he still remained in London, because, as he openly declared, he hated to mix with strangers.
Curiously enough, almost the only man he trusted was his private secretary, Charlie Rolfe, the smart young man who came there from ten oclock till two each day, wrote his private letters, and was paid a very handsome salary.
Usually old Sam was a very quiet-mannered man whom nothing disturbed. But that morning he was distinctly upset. He had scarcely slept a single wink, and his deep-sunken eyes and almost haggard face told of a great anxiety wearing out his heart.
He tried to add up a long column of figures upon a sheet of paper before him, but gave it up with a deep sigh. Again he rose, glanced out of the window, audibly denounced in unmeasured terms a motor-bus which, tearing past, caused his room to shake, and then returned to his table.