The Man of Dangerous Secrets

by Maxwell March

  Putting all her heart into her appeal, she put her arms round the old man’s neck and looked into his eyes, her own as steady and clear as ever they had been.

  “Daddy,” she said clearly, “there’s some mistake, something we can’t understand. Someone or something is trying to separate us. Take me away from here. Keep me with you. Whatever happens, keep me with you.”

  The sincerity of her words had an effect upon both the newcomers, but while Sir Henry was deeply affected the inspector was naturally merely surprised and discomfited even more than before.

  Dr. Crupiner leapt forward.

  “Come, Sir Henry, come,” he said and added in a whisper, “These lucid moments are the most difficult of all to understand. Don’t forget it was only a moment ago that you had evidence yourself of a new and extraordinary delusion.”

  Jennifer continued to cling to her father.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she said wretchedly. “Oh, Daddy.”

  In response to an imploring glance from the doctor, Inspector Whybrow took Sir Henry’s arm and led him almost forcibly across the room.

  The doctor thrust Jennifer down into a chair. For a moment she was rendered completely breathless by the violence of the movement. In that instant Whybrow took Sir Henry out, and Crupiner followed them hurriedly.

  As Jennifer flung herself against the door, beating the panels with her clenched fists, she heard a key turning in the lock from the other side.

  She was left to herself for an hour. By that time her weeping had rendered her exhausted, and despair-engendered apathy had settled down on her once again.

  Nurse Agnes, tight-lipped and uncommunicative, came in to her, and she was taken back once again to her bedroom, where Nurse Edith awaited them.

  The two women undressed the girl forcibly and put her to bed.

  But Jennifer was too weary and too completely wretched to protest very much.

  When she was tucked up firmly on the narrow couch, Nurse Agnes went out of the room, to return with a hypodermic syringe.

  Jennifer roused herself at the sight of it, but all her pleading and objections were in vain. The needle was thrust into her arm and the plunger driven home.

  Gradually the opiate drug took its effect. The figures of the nurses by the bedside grew misty and indistinct. She strove to keep her eyes open, but the narcotic worked swiftly. She felt her lids closing slowly, slowly, and passed into oblivion.

  She came to herself to find the light in the room had faded. It was now nearly dark. Her brain was still drowsy from the drug, but a sixth sense warned her to keep still. She was vaguely aware of voices in the room, lowered voices sunk to husky confidence.

  At first they sounded as though they came from a long way off, but then, as her mind became clearer, words separated themselves from the monotone, and she realized that the two nurses were talking together in a far corner of the room.

  She heard Nurse Agnes laugh. It was a hard, unsympathetic little sound with no amusement in it.

  “He’s got a nerve,” she was saying. “I sometimes wonder how he dares.”

  Then Nurse Edith spoke, and her voice struck the semiconscious girl in the bed as being more kindly than the other.

  “It’s not Crupiner. It’s his master. He drives him, if you ask me.”

  “You keep quiet. We’re not supposed to notice anything that goes on here, and Crupiner’s boss is not supposed to exist—and don’t you forget it. We’re paid our money. We keep our eyes and ears shut. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “All the same, it seems a diabolical thing to do.”

  Nurse Edith’s voice was quivering.

  “It’s worse than murder.”

  Once again the other woman laughed.

  “I don’t suppose that worries Crupiner.”

  “Will he do it himself?”

  The younger woman’s voice was still tremulous as she put the question.

  “Rather not! It’s very tricky, you know. One mistake and you kill, besides the—the other thing. He’s got hold of a young man from one of the big hospitals, a brilliant student I should say. Tempted by the money, I suppose. These youngsters are often inhuman. Their training makes them callous, and they haven’t had time to mellow down.”

  “But to deliberately destroy part of the brain in a sane and healthy girl—oh, it’s horrible!”

  The exclamation was uttered in a half-whisper as the younger nurse made an impulsive gesture.

  The other patted her on the shoulder.

  “You pull yourself together. You’re getting nervous. You’ll never be able to stand this racket if you get squeamish. I heard Crupiner speaking after that interview this morning. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ he said. ‘One day she’ll find someone who’ll listen to her, and then the whole thing’ll come unstuck. There’s only one safe way, and by God I’ll take it.’”

  Jennifer lay rigid, scarcely daring to breathe. The terrible inference contained in this conversation so casually overheard forced itself slowly upon her. “To deliberately destroy part of the brain in a sane and healthy girl.” The words seemed to be written across the universe in letters of fire.

  Jennifer, lying quivering in her prison bed, cut off from those who loved her, deserted and without a friend, knew that the two women whispering together on the opposite side of the room discussed her own fate, the ghastly horror that her enemies had prepared for her.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Wheels of the Law

  “IT’S all very well you sitting there smiling, Inspector, but I can see that you’re really as worried as I am. I’ve got eyes in my head and I’ve never been called a fool, not to me face at any rate. Mr. Robin’s got to be found, and you know it.”

  As Mrs. Phipps finished speaking she resettled herself on the edge of the high-backed chair on which she sat, and her bright bird-like eyes surveyed Inspector Whybrow with quick intelligence.

  The inspector passed his stubby fingers through his short grey hair.

  “My dear lady,” he began for the hundredth time, “what can I do? The boy’s stayed away for a day or two before. He’s principally a policeman, you know, and policemen have to take risks.”

  Mrs. Phipps rose to her feet.

  “Well,” she said, gripping her handbag and umbrella, “I thought you were a friend of his. If anything happens to that boy, Inspector, I’ll have your own law on you. It’s criminal negligence, that’s what it is. Let me tell you something: Mr. Robin has been away before unexpected, but he’s always managed to let me know, and he’s always taken a few things with him, if it was only a toothbrush and a clean pocket handkerchief. Besides, he’s in love with that girl. Don’t you think that if he knew she was ill, and ill she certainly is for want of a better word—out of her senses, I should call it—don’t you think he’d be hovering round her like any decent other young engaged fellow? Of course he would. Now I’m going, and if you don’t bring him back within twenty-four hours I shall—well, I shall take steps.”

  What exactly these mysterious steps were, it was perfectly obvious that Mrs. Phipps had not the remotest notion. It was equally evident, however, that she was extremely perturbed, and not without reason.

  So that when she bustled out of the room, leaving Inspector Whybrow looking after her, he made no attempt to call her back but sat staring in front of him, a gloomy expression on his kindly, good-tempered face.

  “Yes,” he said to himself after a pause. “Yes, well, where do we go to from here?”

  He picked up the telephone from his desk and put a call through to another part of the building.

  After he had finished speaking he got up and wandered up and down the room, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his chin resting on his breast.

  From time to time he glanced out of the window into the bare concrete yard below. His forehead was puckered, and his sharp eyes were darker than usual, and his lips pursed gloomily.

  When the door opened again and Inspector Mowbray came in he looked up inquiringly, but
before the other’s expression his own face darkened again and he sighed.

  “Anything fresh?”

  Mowbray sank into the easy chair by the fire.

  “Nothing at all. I was glad to get your call, though. I would like to have a word or two with you over the case. We’ve gone over that office of Fern’s until I’m sick of the sight of the pattern on the carpet and I feel I know the intimate life history of every fly that’s died on the walls. There’s nothing there at all. Robin Grey’s fingerprints were on the telephone, but that only confirms the telephone message you had from him—and of course there is that small patch of blood on the carpet. Apart from that there’s nothing, not even a cigarette end. The whole thing’s fantastic.”

  Whybrow sat down at the desk and pulled a pad towards him.

  “Let’s go over the facts,” he said. “That evening I had a word with Robin in the Records Department. He promised to come and see me before he went home, but the next thing I heard of him was the phone call from Sir Henry Fern’s office to say that he had discovered the body of a suicide, or what appeared to be a suicide, on the floor there. We got round in what I suppose must have been fourteen minutes, and when we arrived the place was empty, a patch of blood was on the carpet by the desk—still wet, if you remember—Robin’s fingerprints were on the telephone, and a folded scrap of paper was by the instrument. That’s all.

  “Now”—he pulled a sheet of paper towards him—“I’ve gone over the list of disappearances. There are the usual number of girls, a couple of married men, one or two out-of-works, and this.”

  He detached an official form from the pile.

  “Rex Bourbon. The inquiry only came in this morning. He’s a well-known City man, and he went out about six o’clock on the evening in question and hasn’t been heard of since. The inquiry comes from his valet. Apparently his master was not in the habit of going off without due warning, and the man has become alarmed.”

  He paused and regarded his friend solemnly.

  “I think it might be worth your while to discuss this disappearance with Sir Henry. The men were business acquaintances, and I’ve got a hunch that the dead man, who was spirited away from the office in Wych Street, was our friend here.”

  Mowbray made a note on the back of an old letter, but his expression did not betray any great enthusiasm.

  “I’ll certainly try it,” he said. “But frankly, Jack, I’m not even convinced that there was any body there at all. After all, a little blood is no proof of a corpse.”

  “You don’t know Robin,” said the inspector. “I’ve just had the boy’s landlady here, by the way. She’s worried about him, and frankly, so am I. Some of these specialty men like to trot off and do a little investigating on their own, but not Robin Grey. He’s no fool, and he’s got no love of kudos. This is a very mysterious, curious business, Mowbray. It began for us with the murder of Tony Bellew—the papers are getting rather sarcastic about that, I notice, by the way—and Heaven knows where it’s going to end.”

  Inspector Mowbray rose and stretched his legs.

  “We can’t keep Sir Henry Fern under such strict surveillance much longer without arresting him,” he said. “You saw the girl yesterday, didn’t you? Her case is genuine, you say.”

  Inspector Whybrow grimaced at the recollection of his interview with Jennifer on the previous morning.

  “Horribly genuine,” he said. “Frankly one of the most unpleasant things I’ve ever seen in my life. A nice girl, a charming girl, but completely deranged. The father’s in a terrible state. No fake about that reaction. There’s an undercurrent of something very extraordinary there, something I don’t understand at all.

  “I may be getting old, Mowbray,” he went on, “but I’ve got a feeling that sooner or later we shall lay our hands on the key, something quite unexpected, probably, that will unlock the whole mystery door by door. And I fancy when it comes to that even we’re going to be surprised.”

  Mowbray laughed abruptly.

  “You’ve been reading detective stories. Still, I hope you’re right. I’ve had one or two black looks lately, and if the papers don’t irritate you they do me. What does the public think we are? Second-sight experts?”

  Whybrow grunted and, drawing out his pipe, filled it with elaborate care.

  “I’d like to know that boy Robin’s all right,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate your difficulty, Mowbray,” he added as he caught a glimpse of the other’s face. “I do. But it seems to me everyone’s in the same boat. Dennistoun was in here just now. A convict has escaped from Porchester, and there’s a tremendous to-do. It’s the first they’ve had there for ten years. A fellow named Sacret—Wendon Sacret. I don’t suppose you ever heard of him.”

  Mowbray swung round from the window where he had been standing looking down into the yard.

  “Wendon Sacret?” he said. “Yes, I remember. One of the earliest cases I was ever on. Quite a sensational little case. The wife made a dramatic appeal in court, and the prisoner’s answers to the judge got him his sentence doubled.

  “I remember that woman,” he went on, a thoughtful expression coming into his eyes. “Julie Sacret. Very dark, very earnest. I was younger and less disillusioned than I am now, and I remember I thought the fellow was innocent after hearing her appeal.”

  He laughed at his own weakness, and Inspector Whybrow’s comment was interrupted by the arrival of a constable who laid a card on the desk and murmured a few words in Whybrow’s ear.

  When he had finished, the inspector’s eyes were thoughtful.

  “Yes, well, I think I’ll see him,” he said. “Bring him in.”

  Mowbray turned. “I’ll leave you,” he said.

  “I shouldn’t. This is rather curious.”

  Inspector Whybrow was examining the card the policeman had brought in.

  “Look here, what do you make of this? Mr. Ralph Knighton, of Rolls & Knighton, Solicitors, of Quality Passage. You never know—this may be the key we’re waiting for.”

  Inspector Mowbray regarded his friend with gentle astonishment.

  “Rather catching at straws, aren’t you?” he inquired.

  “Perhaps so.” Whybrow nodded gravely. “Perhaps so. But I don’t think so, and I’ll tell you why. When we returned from our rather fruitless visit to Wych Street the other evening, I had the curiosity to find out what it was that Robin had been searching for so diligently in the Records Department. And I discovered that he had been looking up the solicitors with whom Morton Blount, whose name you probably remember, had ever had any private dealings. I know this may seem fantastic to you, but I know Robin well enough to know that he never works on two cases at once. He was onto something, and I rather fancy it was something pretty germane to the issue.”

  “Even so,” said Mowbray, “I don’t quite see where Mr. Knighton comes in.”

  “Rolls & Knighton,” said the inspector solemnly, “were the last people with whom Morton Blount had any business before he died. Now what do you say?”

  Inspector Mowbray said nothing, for at that moment Mr. Ralph Knighton was shown into the room.

  He was a small man, approaching sixty, with a precise, somewhat nervous manner, pale, rather shy, brown eyes, and an evident distaste for his present mission. He looked from one to the other of the two inspectors hesitantly, and Whybrow stepped forward.

  “Let me introduce myself, Mr. Knighton,” he said. “I am Inspector Whybrow. This is my colleague, Inspector Mowbray. Can we be of any service to you?”

  The visitor seated himself before replying. It was evident from his manner that he distrusted his surroundings and that he was considerably put out at finding two inspectors instead of one.

  “I hardly know how to begin,” he said at last. “I’m afraid my coming here is rather unorthodox, but I find myself in a quandary, Inspector, and as I said to my partner, Mr. Rolls, this morning, ‘It seems to me that in a matter of this sort the open hand is the one to play. After all, if one need
s information it is always wisest in the end to go to the fountain head.’ Don’t you agree with me, Inspector?”

  Whybrow smiled faintly and tactfully refrained from pointing out to his legal visitor that he was hardly being very explicit.

  Recovering from his nervousness, Mr. Knighton went on:

  “In spite of forty years in the legal profession I have never before visited Scotland Yard, Inspector. I may say I find it very different from the grim, gloomy building I had expected. We might almost be in my own—er—office.”

  He glanced round the plain walls and neat, comfortable apartment with shy approval.

  Inspector Mowbray stirred impatiently, but Whybrow, who was an adept in the art of allowing people to talk, beamed at the newcomer encouragingly.

  “Very charming, isn’t it?” he said. “Would it be indiscreet to inquire, Mr. Knighton, if by any chance you have called with reference to the business of an old client of yours, Mr. Morton Blount?”

  The little solicitor stiffened visibly. The words had been dropped so casually, and the inspector was still smiling. It was evident that Mr. Knighton wondered if he could believe his ears. Taken completely off his guard, he sat hesitating for some moments, and then, having made up his mind, took the plunge.

  “Well—er, yes, Inspector,” he said. “Although why you should have guessed it I can’t possibly imagine.”

  Inspector Whybrow permitted himself a smile of owlish omnipotence.

  “Ah, we get to know things up here, Mr. Knighton. Mr. Blount, you know, was one of the greatest servants the Yard ever possessed. Inspector Mowbray and I both remember him well, and anything we could do to be of any assistance to you we shall consider a favour granted us.”

  Inspector Mowbray listened to this avowal of disinterested enthusiasm with frank astonishment, but a faint smile passed over his face when he saw the lawyer brighten and a gratified expression appear in his eyes.

  “Well, that’s very fortunate, very fortunate indeed,” he said. “Because, frankly, it makes my position so much easier. At first I was not at all sure how the etiquette of our two professions was going to be affected, but since you are both friends of my deceased client it makes the whole thing much simpler.”