Smeaton nodded. Thats what it seems to be at the moment, Mr Wingate. But we should be poor detectives if we pinned ourselves to any one theory, especially on such evidence or rather want of evidence as we have got at present. Cases as mysterious as this and there was never one more mysterious have been solved by unexpected means. If we can get hold of that driver who brought the dying man to Chesterfield Street, we may light upon something useful.
If he was an accomplice, as seems possible, he will never turn up, said Wingate gloomily.
Accomplice or not, I think the reward will tempt him, replied Smeaton, even if he has to make up his tale before he comes. I expected he would come forward before now. But one of two things may have happened. Either he may be cogitating over what he shall say when he does come, or he may be an ignorant sort of fellow, who hardly ever reads the newspapers.
Anyway, resumed Smeaton, after a thoughtful pause, if and when he does turn up, we shall know, with our long experience, what sort of a customer he is. You may rely upon it that if there is anything to be got out of him, we shall get it, whether it proves valuable or not.
It was not a very cheering interview, certainly, but how could there be any chance of hopefulness at present?
During the few days, however, the police had not been idle. They had made a few discoveries, although they were of a nature to intensify rather than tend to a solution of the mystery.
They had established one most important fact.
Monkton had excused himself from dining at home on the plea that he must be down at the House, the inference being that he would snatch a hasty meal there, in the pause of his Ministerial work.
Instead of that, he had dined about seven oclock in an obscure little Italian restaurant in Soho. Luigi, the proprietor, had at once recognised him from his portraits in the illustrated papers, and from having seen him at the Ritz, where he had been a waiter.
He had entered the café a few minutes before seven, and had looked round, as if expecting to find somebody waiting for him. Luigi had taken him the menu, and he had said he would wait a few minutes before giving his order, as a guest would arrive.
On the stroke of seven a tall, bearded man, evidently a foreigner, who walked with a limp, joined him. Questioned by Smeaton as to the nationality of the man, the proprietor replied that he could not be sure. He would take him for a Russian. He was quite certain that he was neither French nor Italian. And he was equally certain that he was not a German.
The new arrival joined Mr Monkton, who at once ordered the dinner. Neither of the men ate much, but consumed a bottle of wine between them.
They talked earnestly, and in low tones, during the progress of the meal, which was finished in about half-an-hour. Cigars, coffee, and liqueurs were then ordered, and over these they sat till half-past eight, conversing in the same low tones all the time.
Luigi added that the Russian if he was of that nationality, as he suspected seemed to bear the chief burden of the conversation. Mr Monkton played the part of listener most of the time, interjecting remarks now and again.
Asked if he overheard any of the talk between them, he replied that he did not catch a syllable. When he approached the table they remained silent, and did not speak again until he was well out of earshot.
And you are quite positive it was Mr Monkton? Smeaton had questioned, when Luigi had finished his recital. It had struck him that Luigi might have been mistaken after all.
Luigi was quite sure. He reminded Smeaton that before taking on the little restaurant in Soho he had been a waiter at the Ritz, where he had often seen the Cabinet Minister. It was impossible he could be mistaken.
He added in his excellent English, for he was one of those foreigners who are very clever linguists. Besides, there is one other thing that proves it, even supposing I was misled by a chance likeness though Mr Monktons is not a face you would easily forget as I helped him on with his light overcoat he remarked to his friend, I must hurry on as fast as I can. I am overdue at the House.
That seemed to settle the point. There might be a dozen men walking about London with sufficient superficial resemblance to deceive an ordinary observer, but there was no Member of the House of Commons who could pass for Monkton.
It was evident, then, that he had gone to that little, out-of-the-way restaurant to keep an appointment. The man he met was his guest, as Monkton paid for the dinner. The excuse he made for not dining at home was a subterfuge. The appointment was therefore one that he wished to conceal from his daughter, unless he did not deem it a matter of sufficient importance to warrant an explanation.
Monktons secretary was also interrogated by the detective. He was a fat-faced, rather pompous young man, with a somewhat plausible and ingratiating manner. He had been with Monkton three years. Sheila had seen very little of him, but what little she had seen did not impress her in his favour. And her father had owned that he liked him least of any one of the numerous secretaries who had served him.
This young man, James Farloe by name, had very little to tell. He was at the House at eight oclock, according to Monktons instructions, and expected, him at that hour. He did not come in till after half-past, and he noticed that his manner was strange and abrupt, as if he had been disturbed by something. At a few minutes before ten he left, presumably for home. When he bade Farloe good-night he still seemed preoccupied.
In these terrible days Austin Wingates business occupied but second place in his thoughts. He was prepared to devote every moment he could snatch to cheer and sustain the sorrowing Sheila.
A week had gone by, but thanks to certain instructions given by the authorities, at the instance of the Prime Minister, who deplored the loss of his valuable colleague, the matter was being carefully hushed-up.
Late one afternoon, while Smeaton was seated in his bare official room on the second floor at Scotland Yard, the window of which overlooked Westminster Bridge, a constable ushered in a taxi-driver, saying:
This man has come to see you, sir, regarding a fare he drove to Chesterfield Street the other night.
Excellent! exclaimed Smeaton, lounging back in his chair, having been busy writing reports. Sit down. What is your name?
Davies, sir George Davies, replied the man, twisting his cap awkwardly in his hands as he seated himself.
Smeaton could not sum him up. There was no apparent look of dishonesty about him, but he would not like to have said that he conveyed the idea of absolute honesty. There was something a little bit foxy in his expression, and he was decidedly nervous. But then Scotland Yard is an awe-inspiring place to the humbler classes, and nervousness is quite as often a symptom of innocence as of guilt.
I only eard about this advertisement from a pal this morning. I never reads the papers, the taxi-driver said.
Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. That gentleman died, you know!
The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice:
Ive come ere, sir, to tell you the truth. Ill tell you all I know, he added, providing Im not going to get into any trouble.
Not if you are not an accomplice, Smeaton said, his keen eyes fixed upon his visitor.
The man paused and then with considerable apprehension said:
Well I dont know ow I can be really an accomplice. All I know about it is that I was passin into Victoria Street goin towards the station, when three gentlemen standin under a lamp just opposite the entrance to Deans Yard hailed me. I pulls up when I sees that two of em ad got another gentleman by the arms. Look ere, driver, says one of em, this friend of ours as ad a drop too much wine, and we dont want to go ome with im because of is wife. Will you take im? E lives in Chesterfield Street, just off Curzon Street, and e gives me the number.
Yes, said Smeaton anxiously. And what then?
Well, sir, e gives me five bob and puts the gentleman into my cab, and I drove im to the address, where is servant took charge of im. Did e really die afterwards? he asked eagerly.
Yes unfortunately he did, was the police officials reply. But tell me, Davies. Did you get a good look at the faces of the two men?
Yes, sir. They were all three under the lamp.
Do you think you could recognise both of them again eh?
Of course I could. Why, one of em Ive seen about lots o times. Indeed, only yesterday, about three oclock, while I was waitin on the rank in the Strand, opposite the Savoy, I saw im come out with a lady, and drive away in a big grey car. If Id a known then, sir, I could ave stopped im!
Chapter Five.
Contains some Curious Facts
At the beginning of the interview, the demeanour of the taxi-driver had betrayed signs of nervousness and trepidation. He had hesitated and stumbled in his speech, so much so that Smeaton, the detective, was still in doubt as to his honesty.
Smeaton, however, was a past-master in the art of dealing with a difficult witness. So reassuring was his manner that at the end of five minutes he had succeeded in inspiring the taxi-driver with confidence. His nervousness and hesitation were succeeded by loquacity.
Urged to give a description of the two men, he explained, with amplitude of detail, that the man who had come out of the Savoy was of medium height and clean-shaven, with angular features and piercing dark eyes. He was of striking appearance, the kind of man you would be sure to recognise anywhere. The lady with him was smartly dressed and appeared to be about thirty or under.
Seems to me Ive known im about London for years, although I cant remember as I ever drove im, he added.
The other man was, Davies said, tall and bearded, and certainly a foreigner, although he could not pretend to fix his nationality.
A tall, bearded man, and a foreigner! Smeaton pricked up his ears. The description tallied somewhat with that of the person who had dined with Monkton in the little restaurant in Soho.
Davies was dismissed with encouraging words and a liberal douceur. Given Smeaton the semblance of a clue, and he was on the track like a bloodhound.
Within twenty minutes of the taxi-drivers departure, he was interviewing one of the hall-porters at the Savoy, an imposing functionary, and an old friend.
Smeaton had a large and extensive acquaintance among people who could be useful. He knew the hall-porters of all the big hotels. They were men of quick intelligence, keen powers of observation, and gathered much important information. He had unravelled many a mystery with their assistance.
The detective, standing aside in the hall, described the man as he had been featured by Davies. Did the hall-porter recognise him?
The answer was in the affirmative.
Hes not a man you would be likely to forget, Mr Smeaton, he said. He is a pretty frequent visitor here. He lunches two or three times a week, and is popular with the waiters, through being pretty free with his tips. Most times he comes alone. Now and again he brings a guest, but nobody we know.
And his name? questioned Smeaton eagerly.
Well, thats the funny part of it, explained the other man. We get to know the names of the habitués sooner or later, but none of us have ever heard his. He never seems to meet anybody here that he knows, and none of the waiters have ever heard one of his guests address him by name. The maître dhôtel and I have often talked him over, and wondered who and what he was.
Smeaton showed his disappointment. That is unfortunate. Let us see if we can be more successful in another direction. Yesterday afternoon, about three oclock, this man, whose name we dont know, drove away from this place in a taxi, accompanied by a lady. My informant tells me she was smartly dressed, and he puts her age at about thirty, or perhaps less.
The hall-porter indulged in a smile of satisfaction.
I think I can help you there, Mr Smeaton. I was passing through the palm-court at the time, and saw them go out together. We all know the lady very well. She is here pretty often. Sometimes she comes with a big party, sometimes with a lady friend, sometimes with a gentleman. Her name is Saxton, and she has a flat in Hyde Park Mansions. One of her friends told me she is a widow.
What sort of a person is she? How would you class her? She seems to dress well, and is, I suppose, attractive.
The hall-porter mused a moment before he replied. Like most of his class, he was an expert at social classification.
Not one of the nobs, certainly, he answered at length, with a smile. Semi-fashionable, I should say; moves in society with a small s. Her friends seem of two sorts, high-class Bohemians you know the sort I mean, and rich middle-class who spend money like water.
I see, said Smeaton. And she lives in Hyde Park Mansions off the Edgware Road, or, to be more correct, Lisson Grove. She is evidently not rich.
They bade each other a cordial good-day, Smeaton having first expressed his gratitude for the information, and left in the hall-porters capacious palm a more substantial proof of his satisfaction.
The next thing to be done was to interview the attractive widow. Before doing so, he looked in at Chesterfield Street, and, as he expected, found Wingate and Sheila together.
He told them of the visit of Davies, and his subsequent conversation with the hall-porter at the Savoy.
When he mentioned the name of Saxton, Sheila uttered an exclamation. Why, Mr Farloe has a sister of the name of Saxton, a widow! He brought her once to one of our parties, and I remember she was very gushing. She begged me to go and see her at her flat, and I am pretty certain Hyde Park Mansions was the place she named, although I cant be positive.
Did you go. Miss Monkton?
No. As I have told you, I never liked Mr Farloe, and I liked his sister less. She was pretty, and I think men would find her attractive. But there seemed to me an under-current of slyness and insincerity about her.
It was rather a weakness of Wingates that he credited himself with great analytical powers, and believed he was eminently suited to detective work. So he broke in:
Perhaps Miss Monkton and I could help you a bit, by keeping a watch on this woman. I have time to spare, and it would take her out of herself.
Smeaton repressed a smile. Like most professionals, he had little faith in the amateur. But it would not be polite to say so.
By all means, Mr Wingate. We can do with assistance. Phone me up or call at Scotland Yard whenever you have anything to communicate. Now, I think I will be off to Hyde Park Mansions and see what sort of a customer Mrs Saxton is. A taxi bore him to his destination, and in a few moments he was ringing at the door of the flat.
A neat maid admitted him, and in answer to his inquiries said her mistress was at home.
What name shall I say, please? she asked in a hesitating voice. He produced his case and handed the girl a card.
Of course, you know I am a stranger, he explained. Will you kindly take this to Mrs Saxton, and tell her that I will take up as little of her time as possible.
After the delay of a few moments, he was shown into a pretty drawing-room, tastefully furnished. The lady was sitting at a tea-table, and alone.
Please sit down, she said; her tones were quite affable. She did not in the least appear to resent this sudden intrusion into her domestic life. Lily, bring another cup. You will let me offer you some tea?