The Man of Dangerous Secrets

by Maxwell March

  “You must go away,” she said, her voice muffled with tears. “I’ll write and cancel our engagement tonight. Don’t you see? You’re in serious danger. I must go away. I must shut myself up somewhere, as though I were a—a leper.”

  “Hush, hush, my dear.” The endearment escaped Robin in spite of himself. “Please don’t,” he went on. “I’m all right. Nothing in the world will make me give this thing up now. I’m satisfied that there is some logical if startling explanation for all this, and I’m going to set you free from it if it’s the last thing I do.”

  The final phrase slipped out unconsciously, and she seized upon it.

  “That’s it,” she said. “That’s what I’m so afraid of. They might—might kill you.”

  Conquering an absurd impulse to take her in his arms and to tell her that the matter was immaterial to him so long as she was happy, Robin continued to reason with her gently.

  “My dear, I’m a detective, if you like to look at it that way. A risk like this is part of my job. My life has been in danger from one source or another for the past ten years. I shall be all right. This persecution of you has got to stop. I’m sorry about young Bellew—desperately sorry. I ought to have realized that he was still in danger. As it was, I thought that my announcements would shift their fire. But I see we’re up against a shrewd intelligence.”

  Jennifer was still crying. “I can’t let you go on,” she said. “I feel like a murderess already. Oh, Robin, what shall I do? What shall I do?” She spoke with the weary helplessness of a tired child, and he felt her sway towards him.

  For the rest of the drive she sat with her face hidden against the rough sleeve of his coat, and he sat very still, hardly daring to breathe.

  When they arrived at the big Regent’s Park house he climbed out and half led and half carried the stricken girl into the brilliantly lighted hall.

  The butler, a white-haired man who had been in the service of the family for many years, bustled forward with fatherly concern. At the sight of his anxious old face Jennifer pulled herself together.

  “I’m all right, Williamson,” she said. “Is Daddy in?”

  “In the library, miss. He came in half an hour ago. If you’ll excuse me saying so, I should compose yourself a little before you go in to him. Sir Henry seemed very worried, very worried indeed.”

  Jennifer nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “I will.” Then, turning to Robin, she held out both her hands. “I’m very grateful to you,” she said, and her grey eyes still swimming with tears were raised to his own. “You’ve been most kind—more kind than anyone I’ve ever met. But I can’t let you go through with it.”

  For some moments Robin was silent. Williamson had withdrawn discreetly, and they were alone. He held the slim white hands very firmly in his own.

  “Miss Fern,” he said, using the more ceremonious form of address deliberately, “you’re going to find it very difficult to get rid of me. You’ve employed me on a matter which I am convinced is of the greatest importance. You can’t dismiss me now.”

  Her lips quivered piteously. “God knows I don’t want to,” she said. “But oh, Robin, if any harm should come to you——”

  “How can it?” he said. And then, with a gallantry of which he would certainly not have considered himself capable thirty-six hours before, he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them.

  While she stood looking at him, a half-frightened, half-bewildered expression in her eyes, he turned abruptly and hurried out of the house, hailed a passing taxi, and gave the driver laconic instructions: “Scotland Yard, and drive like hell.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Father and Daughter

  “DADDY, may I come in?”

  Jennifer paused at the doorway of the long, low, book-lined room and looked across the expanse of red and blue Turkey carpet at the man who sat huddled over the carved desk pulled out before the fire.

  Sir Henry Fern raised his head, and for a moment a smile lit up his face. He looked very tired, and there were deep lines of worry engraved upon his heavy features.

  “Why, Jennifer,” he said, “you’re back early. What’s the matter? Did anything happen at the party to send you home so soon?”

  The sharp question came as a surprise to the girl and she frowned.

  “Why, no,” she said. “What could have happened?”

  “Nothing, of course,” he agreed dully. “Come and sit down.”

  She crossed the room obediently and sat down on a low chair by the fire.

  “I was a bit worried about you, as a matter of fact,” she said when the silence had become difficult. “Why didn’t you turn up?”

  He did not answer for some moments, and she repeated her question.

  “Eh, my dear?” he said, swinging round in his chair and facing her. “Oh, I had a headache. I felt I couldn’t sit through one of F. S.’s long ceremonial meals. You were all right, weren’t you? I thought as you had young Grey to look after you you wouldn’t mind.”

  He paused, and as she did not reply he went on lamely: “If I go to one of these formal dinners I eat a lot of things that don’t suit me. I came back here and Williamson found me some cold chicken and a very good glass of ‘98.”

  “But I thought you’d only just come in?”

  He looked startled. “Well, yes,” he admitted. “I had one or two things to do first. I called in at the club and put in an hour talking with Fenton.”

  “You don’t look well,” said the girl suddenly. “Is something worrying you?”

  He turned away from her and thrust his hand through his short grey hair, a gesture of his that she recognized. Suddenly he rose to his feet and paced restlessly up and down the room.

  Jennifer stared into the fire. The room seemed to have become suddenly very cold.

  “Daddy,” she said, “Tony Bellew is dead. Robin told me as we came home in the car.”

  “What?”

  Sir Henry paused in his stride and stared at his daughter, while she, arrested by the horror in his voice, turned to look at him. Whatever effect she had expected her words to make upon the old man, his reaction bewildered her. His face had gone grey, his eyes were dilated, and his mouth had fallen open.

  Jennifer forestalled his flow of questions.

  “I don’t know any details. Robin only told me that he was dead. Oh, Daddy, what does it mean?”

  Sir Henry wiped his face with his handkerchief and came over to the hearthrug.

  “I don’t know, my dear,” he mumbled. “I don’t know.”

  The girl was holding herself with an iron control. She forced herself to rise and stand facing him.

  “Daddy,” she said, “we’ve never openly mentioned this subject, but I feel it’s got to come up now or I shall go mad. What is the reason for this string of tragedies which haunts me?”

  The old man turned away from her. “I don’t know what you mean, my dear,” he said wretchedly.

  She went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

  “But, Daddy, you do,” she said. “You know what I’m saying. What is there about me that makes every man who admires me walk in danger of his life?”

  Sir Henry laid his hand over the girl’s lips.

  “Jennifer, don’t say such things,” he said wretchedly. “You’re hysterical. You’re imagining things.”

  The girl drew back from him, repulsed, and a spasm of pain passed over the old man’s face. He took a half-step towards her, but changed his mind and sat down at his desk.

  “Look here, my dear,” he said, and there was tenderness in his tone despite his efforts to hide it, “I want to talk to you about your engagement. As you know, I’ve never interfered with your life if I could possibly help it, but I do feel that you are young and that marriage is a very important step which should not be taken lightly. Are you in love with this man Grey?”

  There was something that was almost pleading in the very blue eyes. Jennifer dropped her own before it.

  “Robin
is very kind to me.”

  “I know, I know. But do you love him?”

  “I—I think so.” The half-truth was wrung from the girl awkwardly. “Do you want me to give him up?”

  “No, no, I’m not advocating anything so drastic as that.” Sir Henry spoke wretchedly. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. “I only beg you not to hurry. Wait—take your time—take plenty of time. Be very sure before you do anything rash. I like young Grey, but I don’t know anything about him. And above all, Jennifer, put this—this mad idea of yours about your fate, as you call it, out of your mind. Above all, don’t try to find out. Don’t employ anyone to find out.”

  The girl looked up with startled eyes to meet his own fixed upon her earnestly, but in spite of the sternness of his tone and the purposeful harshness of his expression, the emotion which leapt into view at the back of the very blue eyes was stark fear and pleading; fear both for himself and for what was to him much more important, his daughter.

  CHAPTER 6

  Scotland Yard

  “WHENEVER I see you walk into my office with that damned bland friendly look on your face I know you’ve come prying.”

  Inspector Whybrow, standing on the hearthrug of his airy white-walled room at the Yard, spoke cheerfully as he grinned at Robin, who had just entered. The inspector was one of those plump, good-tempered men who look as though any mental exercise would floor them completely. But, as many criminals knew to their cost, that quiet exterior hid one of the most astute brains in the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Robin was a particular favourite of Whybrow’s, and the two had worked together on more than one occasion.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t got on my tail coat,” the inspector went on, eyeing the boy’s sleek shoulders with amusement. “You’re getting very grand these days. Marrying into society, or something, aren’t you?”

  Robin did not smile, and the other man grimaced at the calendar which hung on the wall opposite him and winked as though exchanging a confidence with an old friend.

  “Well, it’s nice of you to come round and see an old policeman pal,” he went on aloud. “What’s up?”

  Robin perched himself on the edge of the battered mahogany desk.

  “I want the inside story of the Anthony Bellew case, Jack,” he said.

  Inspector Whybrow raised his eyebrows. “You’re onto that pretty quick, aren’t you?” he said. “It came in too late for the evening papers, and they haven’t run out a special. What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing at all,” said Robin frankly. “But to tell you the truth, Johnny Danvers was keeping an eye on that fellow Bellew for me, and he phoned me when I was having dinner with my—er—fiancée that the youngster had been found dead. I took Miss Fern home and came straight on. What’s the dope?”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Inspector Whybrow eyed his young friend suspiciously, his little bright eyes sharp beneath their bushy brows. “Let me get this thing straight. You say you’ve had Danvers following Bellew all day? What for?”

  Robin sighed wearily. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Let me have the facts, Jack. Be a good fellow. How did this youngster die? Was it accident, suicide, or murder?”

  The other man’s bushy eyebrows rose to their fullest extent.

  “It isn’t exactly in my province,” he said guardedly. “Mowbray is actually handling the job. He was in here just before you came, and I won’t say we didn’t have a chat about it. But fair’s fair. We pool all information, you know. Is that a bargain?”

  “Of course. But don’t beat about the bush. I tell you I’ve got a very special reason for hearing the facts before I tell you what are, after all, only suspicions on my part.”

  “Well.” The inspector spread out his podgy hands. “Mowbray doesn’t know much yet, naturally. As far as I could gather, the facts which have come to light are these: this lad Bellew came in from a cocktail party about half-past six this evening. He was perfectly sober and seemed very cheerful, so his manservant says. He has a small flat in West Kensington and seems to have lived very comfortably. The manservant doesn’t spend the whole day there, but comes in the morning to give his master his breakfast and to tidy up, and then wanders off to attend to his own business and returns about four to valet the youngster and prepare dinner. On this occasion he put out the whisky and soda and young Bellew’s dress clothes and went out into the kitchen.”

  Robin, who knew it was useless to hurry the inspector when he was outlining a case, waited patiently.

  “At half-past six Bellew came in,” the elder man repeated. “He walked into the dining room, helped himself to a whisky and soda, went into his bedroom to change, collapsed, and was dead before the servant could get a doctor. Poisoned.”

  “The whisky?” said Robin.

  The inspector nodded. “Mowbray thinks so. Anyway, he collared the decanter for analysis. The Doc’s performing an autopsy tonight. He couldn’t tell offhand what poison had been used. Something unusual, he thought. All that he would say was that it was some kind of swift narcotic. There you are. Now let me put a few questions. Don’t worry,” he added, as he caught the boy’s expression. “I know you’re not making an official statement any more than I am. This is just a little chat among friends. First of all, why in the world did you put Danvers onto Bellew?”

  “In strict confidence, I had him watched because I thought he might be in danger.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Robin hesitated, and decided, after a moment’s consideration, that if the inspector was not to be trusted there was no one in the world who was.

  “Well,” he said at last, “it’s an extraordinary yarn, but I witnessed the so-called accident he had on Waterloo Station the other night. In fact, I saved his life.”

  “The devil you did!” The inspector was startled into an admission of surprise. “Anything fishy about the circumstances?”

  “Yes,” said Robin quietly. “A man tried to murder him by throwing him onto the live rail.”

  “Did you see the man?” Inspector Whybrow was alert now, looking for all the world like a Scotch terrier with his ears pricked.

  “Yes.”

  “Recognize him?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “If you say you think so, that means as much to me as another man’s oath. Who was it?”

  “Sir Ferdinand Shawle.”

  “Get away!” Inspector Whybrow’s favourite exclamation of astonishment broke from his startled lips.

  “I only said I thought so.”

  The elder man went over to him and looked into his eyes.

  “Like to do the drunks test?” he inquired.

  Robin permitted a faint worried smile to spread over his face.

  “I feel rather like that myself,” he said. “And remember, this is completely unofficial. I was at a dinner party at Sir Ferdinand’s house when Danvers’ message came through.”

  The inspector was silent for a moment or two. “I’ll keep your name well out of it, of course,” he said. “But thanks for the tip. Unless——” He turned on his heel to regard the young man shrewdly once again. “What are you playing at, Robin? I’ve known you a good many years, but I didn’t know you knew any of the smart set intimately. What’s the inside story of this engagement of yours?”

  Robin regarded the man whom he had cause to think of as his best friend and spoke quietly.

  “This is a dead secret, Jack,” he said. “Miss Fern is a client.”

  A smile of understanding passed over the other man’s face.

  “I see,” he said. He took out his cigarette case and passed it over.

  After they had been smoking for some time in a silence which betokened complete understanding rather than any lack of sympathy, the inspector spoke again.

  “You don’t remember Morton Blount, do you?” he said. “He died just before your time. He was Jennifer Fern’s uncle. They do say that she and her mother were the only people who ever aroused any s
park of feeling in that old misogynist’s heart. He was on the track of something pretty big until he suddenly threw everything up and retired to the country to die. There hasn’t been a man in our line since who could touch him. I’ve often felt there was a story there, if only we could hit on it.”

  Robin did not comment. His mind was still working furiously on the story of Tony Bellew’s death.

  The inspector cut into his thoughts.

  “Thanks for the hint,” he said. “I shall look into it. And if anything transpires I’ll let you know. Some day I may have to ask you for full details. But if I do, you can rely on me to be discreet.”

  He paused and went on again with the speed of one who has made up his mind to say something awkward.

  “In many ways the history of Miss Jennifer Fern has been an extraordinary one,” he said. “Every man who has so much as looked at her has come a cropper. I can’t get Morton Blount and the thought of what he may have discovered out of my mind. Well, you see what I’m driving at, don’t you? Be careful. We can’t do without you just yet.”

  Robin laughed and held out his hand. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m one of the lucky sort. Well, good-night, old man, and thanks for the information. You’ll be hearing from me in a day or so.”

  “Well, I damned well hope so,” said the inspector to the calendar as the door closed behind the young man. He was very fond of Robin.

  Mrs. Phipps was pacing up and down the hall of the Adelphi flat like an outraged white hen when Robin let himself in fifteen minutes later. As soon as she caught sight of him she came forward, on the verge of actually clucking.

  “D’you know the time?” she demanded.

  Robin looked at her in astonishment. “About half-past ten or a quarter to eleven,” he said. “What’s the idea, Phippy? Don’t you like your Robin out late?”

  “Oh, it’s not that, Mr. Grey. You know I wouldn’t be so impertinent.” Mrs. Phipps positively blushed at the inference. “It’s her I’m thinking of. Coming here at this time of night to call on an unmarried young gentleman who, even if he is mixed up with the police, is perfectly respectable, and as nice a young fellow—if you’ll forgive me saying so—as ever I happened to meet. It isn’t that there’s anyone who’ll talk, but it’s the principle of the thing I object to. I mean, you’re younger than I am and very trusting, and probably you don’t know. But——”