A Mysterious Disappearance

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER II

  INSPECTOR WHITE

  Lady Dyke had disappeared.

  Whether dead or alive, and if alive, whether detained by force or absentof her own unfettered volition, this handsome and well-known leader ofSociety had vanished utterly from the moment when Claude Bruce placedher in a first-class carriage of a Metropolitan Richmond train atVictoria Station.

  At first her husband and relatives hoped against hope that someextraordinary tissue of events had contributed to the building up of amystery which would prove to be no mystery.

  Yet the days fled, and there was no trace of her whereabouts.

  At the outset, the inquiry was confined to the circle of friends andrelatives. Telegrams and letters in every possible direction suggestedby this comparatively restricted field showed conclusively that not onlyhad Lady Dyke not been seen, but no one had the slightest clue to themotives which might induce her to leave her home purposely.

  So far as her distracted husband could ascertain, she did not owe apenny in the world. She was a rich woman in her own right, and herbanking account was in perfect order.

  She was a woman of the domestic temperament, always in close touch withher family, and those who knew her best scouted the notion of any pettyintrigue which would move her, by fear or passion, to abandon all sheheld dear.

  The stricken baronet confided the search only to his friend Bruce. Hebrokenly admitted that he had not sufficiently appreciated his wifewhile she was with him.

  "She was of a superior order to me, Claude," he said. "I am hardly ahome bird. Her ideals were lofty and humanitarian. Too often I was outof sympathy with her, and laughed at her notions. But, believe me, wenever had the shadow of a serious dispute. Perhaps I went my own way alittle selfishly, but at the time, I thought that she, on her part, wassomewhat straight-laced. I appreciate her merits when it is too late."

  "But you must not assume even yet that she is dead." The barrister wascertain that some day the mystery would be elucidated.

  "She is. I feel that. I shall never see her on earth again."

  "Oh, nonsense, Dyke. Far more remarkable occurrences have beensatisfactorily cleared up."

  "It is very good of you, old chap, to take this cheering view. Only, yousee, I know my wife's character so well. She would die a hundred timesif it were possible rather than cause the misery to her people andmyself which, if living, she knows must ensue from this terribleuncertainty as to her fate."

  "Scotland Yard is still sanguine." This good-natured friend wasevidently making a conversation.

  "Oh, naturally. But something tells me that my wife is dead, whether byaccident or design it is impossible to say. The police will cling tothe belief that she is in hiding in order to conceal their own inabilityto find her."

  "A highly probable theory. Are your servants to be trusted?"

  "Y--es. They have all been with us some years. Why do you ask?"

  "Because I am anxious that nothing of this should get into the papers. Ihave caused paragraphs to be inserted in the fashionable intelligencecolumns that Lady Dyke has gone to visit some friends in the Midlands.For her own sake, if she be living, it is best to choke scandal at itssource."

  "Well, Bruce, I leave everything to you. Make such arrangements as youthink fit."

  The barrister's mobile face softened with pity as he looked at hisafflicted friend.

  In four days Sir Charles Dyke had aged many years in appearance. No onewho was acquainted with him in the past would have imagined that theloss of his wife could so affect him.

  "I have done all that was possible, yet it is very little," said Bruce,after a pause. "You are aware that I am supposed to be an adept atsolving curious or criminal investigations of an unusual class. But inthis case, partly, I suspect, because I myself am the last person who,to our common knowledge, saw Lady Dyke alive on Tuesday night, I amfaced by a dead wall of impenetrable fact, through which my intellectcannot pierce. Yet I am sure that some day this wretched business willbe intelligible. I will find her if living; I will find her murderer ifshe be dead."

  Not often did Claude Bruce allow his words to so betray his thoughts.

  Both men were absorbed by the thrilling sensations of the moment, andthey were positively startled when a servant suddenly announced:

  "Inspector White, of Scotland Yard."

  A short, thick-set man entered. He was absolutely round in every part.His sturdy, rotund frame was supported on stout, well-moulded legs. Hisbullet head, with close-cropped hair, gave a suggestion of strength tohis rounded face, and a pair of small bright eyes looked suspiciously onthe world from beneath well-arched eyebrows.

  Two personalities more dissimilar than those of Claude Bruce andInspector White could hardly be brought together in the same room.People who are fond of tracing resemblances to animals in human beingswould liken the one to a grey-hound, the other to a bull-dog.

  Yet they were both masters in the art of detecting crime--the barristersubtle, analytic, introspective; the policeman direct, pertinacious,self-confident. Bruce lost all interest in a case when the hidden trailwas laid bare. Mr. White regarded investigation as so many hours on dutyuntil his man was transported or hanged.

  The detective was well acquainted with his unprofessional colleague, andhad already met Sir Charles in the early stages of his present quest.

  "I have an important clue," he said, smiling with assurance.

  "What is it?" The baronet was for the moment aroused from his despondentlethargy.

  "Her ladyship did not go to Richmond on Tuesday night."

  Inspector White did not wait for Bruce to speak, but the barristernodded with the air of one who knew already that Lady Dyke had not goneto Richmond.

  Mr. White continued. "Thanks to Mr. Bruce's remembrance of the number ofthe ticket, we traced it at once in the clearing office. It was given upat Sloan Square immediately after the Richmond train passed through."

  Bruce nodded again. He was obstinately silent, so the detectivequestioned him directly.

  "By this means the inquiry is narrowed to a locality. Eh, Mr. Bruce?"

  "Yes," said the barrister, turning to poke the fire.

  Mr. White was sure that his acuteness was displeasing to his cleverrival. He smiled complacently, and went on:

  "The ticket-collector remembers her quite well, as the giving up of aRichmond ticket was unusual at this station. She passed straight outinto the square, and from that point we lost sight of her."

  "You do, Mr. White?" said Bruce.

  "Well, sir, it is a great thing to have localized her movements at thathour, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is. To save time I may tell you that Lady Dyke returned to thestation, entered the refreshment room, ordered a glass of wine, whichshe hardly touched, sat down, and waited some fifteen minutes. Then shequitted the room, crossed the square, asked a news-vendor where RaleighMansions were, and gave him sixpence for the information."

  His hearers were astounded.

  "Heavens, Claude, how did you learn all this?" cried the baronet.

  "Thus far, it was simplicity itself. On Wednesday evening when no newscould be obtained from your relatives, I started from Victoria,intending to call at every station until I found the place where sheleft the train. The railway clearing officer was too slow, Mr. White.Naturally, the hours being identical in the same week, the firstticket-collector I spoke to gave me the desired clue. The rest was amere matter of steady inquiry."

  "Then you are the man whom the police are now searching for?" blurtedout the detective.

  "From the railway official's description? Possibly. Pray, Mr. White, letme see the details of my appearance as circulated through the force. Itwould be interesting."

  The inspector was saved from further indiscretions by Sir Charles Dyke'splaintive question:

  "Why did you not tell me these things sooner, Claude?"

  "What good was there in torturing you? All that I have ascertained isthe A B C of our search. We are at a loss for the m
otive of your wife'sdisappearance. Victoria, Sloane Square, or Richmond--does it matterwhich? My belief is that she intended to go to Richmond that night. Why,otherwise, should she make to the footman and myself the same unvaryingstatement? Perhaps she did go there?"

  "But these houses, Raleigh Mansions. What of them?"

  "Ah, there we may be forwarded a stage. But there are six main entrancesand no hall porters. There are twelve flats at each number, seventy-twoin all, and all occupied. That means seventy-two separate inquiries intothe history and attributes of a vastly larger number of persons, inorder to find some possible connection with Lady Dyke and her purposelyconcealed visit. She may have remained in one of those flats fiveminutes. She may be in one of them yet. Anyhow, I have taken thenecessary steps to obtain the fullest knowledge of the inhabitants ofRaleigh Mansions."

  "Scotland Yard appears to be an unnecessary institution, Mr. Bruce,"snapped the detective.

  "By no means. It is most useful to me once I have discovered a criminal.And it amuses me."

  "Listen, Claude, and you, Mr. White," pleaded the baronet. "I imploreyou to keep me informed in future of developments in your search. Theknowledge that progress is being made will sustain me. Promise, I askyou."

  "I promise readily enough," answered Bruce. "I only stipulate that youprepare yourself for many disappointments. Even a highly skilleddetective like Inspector White will admit that the failures are morefrequent than the successes."

  "True enough, sir. But I must be going, gentlemen." Mr. White wasdetermined to work the new vein of Raleigh Mansions thoroughly beforeeven his superiors were aware of its significance in the hunt for herlost ladyship.

  When the detective went out there was silence for some time. Dyke wasthe first to speak.

  "Have you formed any sort of theory, even a wildly speculative one?" heasked.

  "No; none whatever. The utter absence of motive is the most puzzlingelement of the whole situation."

  "Whom can my wife have known at Raleigh Mansions? What sort of placesare they?"

  "Quite fashionable, but not too expensive. The absence of elevators anddoorkeepers cheapens them. I am sorry now that I mentioned them toWhite."

  "Why?"

  "He will disturb every one of the residents by injudicious inquiries.Each housemaid who opens a door will be to him a suspicious individual,each butcher's boy an accomplice, each tenant a principal in theabduction of your wife. If I have a theory of any sort, it is that thefirst reliable news will come from Richmond. There cannot be theslightest doubt that she was going there on Tuesday night."

  "It will be very odd if you should prove to be right," said Sir Charles.

  Again they were interrupted by the footman, this time the bearer of atelegram, which he handed to his master.

  The latter opened it and read:

  "What is the matter? Are you ill? I certainly am angry.--DICK."

  He frowned with real annoyance, crumpling up the message and throwing itin the fire.

  "People bothering one at such a time," he growled.

  Soon afterwards Bruce left him.

  True to the barrister's prophecy, Inspector White made life miserable tothe denizens of Raleigh Mansions. He visited them at all hours, and, insome instances, several times. Although, in accordance with hisinstructions, he never mentioned Lady Dyke's name, he so pestered theoccupants with questions concerning a lady of her general appearancethat half-a-dozen residents wrote complaining letters to the companywhich owned the mansions, and the secretary lodged a protest at ScotlandYard.

  Respectable citizens object to detectives prowling about, particularlywhen they insinuate questions concerning indefinite ladies intailor-made dresses and fur toques.

  At the end of a week Mr. White was nonplussed, and even Claude Bruceconfessed that his more carefully conducted inquiries had yielded noresult.

  Towards the end of the month a sensational turn was given to events. Thebody of a woman, terribly disfigured from long immersion in the waterand other causes, was found in the Thames at Putney.

  It had been discovered under peculiar circumstances. A drain pipeemptying into the river beneath the surface was moved by reason of somesanitary alterations, and the workmen intrusted with the task werehorrified at finding a corpse tightly wedged beneath it.

  Official examination revealed that although the body had been in thewater fully three weeks, the cause of death was not drowning. The womanhad been murdered beyond a shadow of a doubt. A sharp iron spike wasdriven into her brain with such force that a portion of it had brokenoff, and remained imbedded in the skull.

  If this were not sufficient, there were other convincing proofs of foulplay.

  Although her skirt and coat were of poor quality, her linen was of aclass that could only be worn by some one who paid as much for a singleunder-garment as most women do for a good costume; but there were nolaundry marks, such as usual, upon it.

  On the feet were a pair of strong walking boots, bearing the stampedaddress of a fashionable boot-maker in the West End. Among a list ofcustomers to whom the tradesman supplied footgear of this size andcharacter appeared the name of Lady Dyke.

  Not very convincing testimony, but sufficient to bring Sir Charles tothe Putney mortuary in the endeavor to identify the remains as those ofhis missing wife.

  In this he utterly failed.

  Not only was this poor misshapen lump of distorted humanity whollyunlike Lady Alice, but the color of her hair was different.

  Her ladyship's maid called to identify the linen--even the policeadmitted the outer clothes were not Lady Dyke's--was so upset at therepulsive nature of her task that she went into hysterics, protestingloudly that it could not be her mistress she was looking at.

  Bruce differed from both of them. He quietly urged Sir Charles toconsider the fact that a great many ladies give a helping hand to Naturein the matter of hair tints. The chemical action of water would--

  The baronet nearly lost his temper.

  "Really, Bruce, you carry your theories too far," he cried. "My wife hadnone of these vanities. I am sure this is not she. The mere thought thatsuch a thing could be possible makes me ill. Let us get away, quick."

  So a coroner's jury found an open verdict, and the poor unknown wasburied in a pauper's grave.

  The newspapers dismissed the incident with a couple of paragraphs,though the iron spike planted in the skull afforded good material for atelling headline, and within a couple of days the affair was forgotten.

  But Claude Bruce, barrister and amateur detective, was quite sure in hisown mind that the nameless woman was Alice, Lady Dyke.

  He was so certain--though identification of the body wasimpossible--that he bitterly resented the scant attention given thematter by the authorities, and he swore solemnly that he would not restuntil he had discovered her destroyer and brought the wretch to the barof justice.