by Frank Froest
She spread out her hands—they were firm white hands—in an expressive gesture of hopelessness.
‘There is no one,’ she said. ‘With the exception of Robbins, the page-boy, they have all been with us for years. It is ridiculous to suppose that any of them had a hand in it.’
Again that whiff of scent. It was the pungent odour of smelling-salts. Foyle’s eyes dropped for a second to the empty fire-grate. He raised his expressionless face to the girl’s.
‘What time does the household retire?’ he asked.
‘Usually about eleven.’
‘You—pardon me—are not engaged?’
She shook her head laughingly.
‘Oh, dear, no. But I don’t quite see what that has to do with it?’
The detective laughed frankly and held out his hand.
‘It wasn’t mere vulgar curiosity, Miss von Haussen. I wanted to know if there might be any privileged visitor by any chance. Good-bye, and thank you so much.’
He bowed himself out with an idea beginning to germinate in his mind. But he did not permit whatever theory he might have formed to possess him entirely. Neither he nor Milford left the neighbourhood of Clarges Street until a telephone call had brought a couple of unobtrusive young men from the Grape Street police station. Foyle met them a little out of view of the house, and gave them curt, definite instructions. For the rest of the day one or the other of them was never out of sight of the Count von Haussen’s house.
Milford was cynical over the whole business.
‘It looks to me like a put-up job,’ he confessed frankly. ‘The servants haven’t had a hand in it, that I’ll swear. But we know that whoever got at that safe did it with a key. I’m inclined to think that the Count could say where those pearls are if he wanted to. But he’ll draw the insurance money before they’ll turn up.’
The chief detective chuckled.
‘Don’t you think that if this was a bogus business the safe would have been ripped to pieces?’ he asked. ‘Just take my tip, Milford, and let everyone who comes out of that house be kept under observation for a while. We’ll get those pearls back or call me a Dutchman. Hello, here’s Bond Street! I’ll leave you here. I want to go and get some smelling-salts.’
He strode away. Milford pulled at his moustache.
‘Smelling-salts?’ he repeated to himself. ‘Well, I’m hanged.’
On the mantelpiece in Heldon Foyle’s room at the Yard stood three green bottles of smelling-salts. Since his first visit to Clarges Street he had been content to leave the investigation of the missing pearls case to Inspector Milford. He knew that an inquiry on parallel lines had been opened by the corps of detectives employed by Lloyd’s assessors. He rarely interfered personally in a case unless it was of extreme importance, or unless it came beyond the ability of the man in whose charge it was.
But the Clarges Street developments he watched with considerable interest, so far as the formal daily reports of those engaged allowed. And at last, after three days, came Milford, his face wrinkled and worried.
He sank into a chair that his superior indicated with a long breath that was almost a sigh.
‘Well?’ demanded Foyle.
The other brushed back his hair from his forehead.
‘It’s that von Haussen affair, sir. That girl’s at the bottom of it somehow, though it beats me how. The night before last was when we first began to get on to her. She came out of the house about half-past eleven or so, and took a taxi-cab. Perring, who was on duty, followed her. She went to a place in Bloomsbury Street and let herself in with a latch-key. She was there ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, then she returned home. Of course, we made inquiries about the people staying at the place, and they all seem decent folk enough. I had it out with Miss von Haussen the next day. She declared that I was drunk or mad—and that she knew no one in Bloomsbury Street, and that at the time she was supposed to be there she was in bed. Of course I had to go cautiously, for Perring did not see her face, although he’s certain that it was she. What does she want gadding about at that time, and with the latch-key of a strange house too?’
Foyle was turning over the pages of a report that the inspector had given to him. Attached to it was a list of the occupants of the boarding-house, with pithy remarks giving detail of their avocations. He ran a finger over the list meditatively.
‘There’s nothing to indicate which of these people she went to see, I suppose?’ he asked.
Milford’s heel tapped the floor.
‘There are nine boarders there—seven men and two women. We have questioned them all, and they all deny knowledge of the girl. There’s no reason to suppose it should be one person more than another.’
‘I’ve a mind to look at this place,’ said Foyle. ‘Let the matter rest till you hear from me, Milford.’
It was an hour after this conversation that a military looking man who used a walking-stick to assist a slight lameness, whose gold-rimmed eyeglass encircled a blue eye, and whose moustache had been carefully waxed, limped along Bloomsbury Street. It was very exceptional for Heldon Foyle, or any of his men for that matter, to use disguises that might get out of order. It is wonderful what a change can be wrought in a man by a change of clothes, a different method of arranging the hair or moustache.
The card sent into the house he at last selected bore the inscription:
MAJOR JACOB DAVIS
WRINGTON
It brought him into the presence of a stern-faced, broad-built lady, whose black silk dress rustled as she rose with all the stateliness of a Bloomsbury landlady to receive him. His story had been well prepared. He had just been invalided from the Indian army, and wanted to secure permanent rooms. He had heard of her from a friend of his whose name he could not recollect.
Thus it was that Major Jacob Davis, otherwise Heldon Foyle of the C.I.D., became a lodger in the boarding-house of Mrs Albion.
He was a popular guest. Every morning he would limp away—to his club, he said, returning at half-past six in the evening. He would play chess, take a hand at bridge, discuss politics, or tell stories of Indian frontier life with an engagingly modest air. He became the recipient of many confidences, but he seemed drawn most of all to Mr Horace Levith, an artist, whose bedroom adjoined his own, and who used one of the top attics of the house as a studio.
Gradually the two became in the habit of smoking a farewell pipe together after the others had retired, and once or twice they shared a bottle of wine together in the privacy of Foyle’s bedroom. Levith was not averse to a bottle of Beaune at anyone’s expense, and Major Davis was an enjoyable companion.
But never was the soldier invited into Levith’s private room; and he knew, by demonstration, that the doors of both the studio and the bedroom were invariably kept locked. To a man of Foyle’s calibre, however, that mattered little. He merely bided his time.
There are always ways and means open to a man of determination who is willing to take risks. In France and other countries a detective is covered by law in whatever he may do. In England an officer has sometimes to commit a technical illegality to achieve his ends.
Heldon Foyle had no shadow of legal right to use a false key to gain access to Levith’s room. Strictly, he was stealing when he took a photograph from the dressing-table, smiled at the inscription on the back, and put it in his pocket.
Only one other thing he did before he left. A green-tinted smelling-salt bottle stood on a small dressing-table. He lifted the stopper, smelt it, and squinted within. Then he compared it with those three green bottles which had for a time adorned the mantelpiece of his office at Scotland Yard.
‘It’s not exactly the same, but it will have to do,’ he muttered.
Then he left, locking the door carefully behind him.
It was with Milford that Heldon Foyle called upon Count von Haussen. He was quite sure what might happen, and a reliable witness could do no harm. The dapper little German received them at once.
‘No news, I suppose?�
�� he asked gloomily.
Foyle smiled at him.
‘Did you ever hear of a Mr Horace Levith?’ he retorted.
‘I don’t recall the name,’ said the Count, frowning, a little puzzled. ‘Wait a moment—no, I can’t remember it,’
‘Well, he is an artist living at a Bloomsbury boarding-house. I have taken the liberty of ordering him to be brought on here as soon as he returns. Ah, there is a ring! That should be he now. Perhaps you’ll answer the door, Milford?’
The inspector slipped out. When he came back he was accompanied by two men—one a detective-sergeant, the other Levith. The artist was pale, and stared at Foyle with unfeigned astonishment as he came into the room.
‘What is the meaning of this—this outrage?’ he demanded angrily.
But Count von Haussen had leapt to his feet.
‘It is Ethel’s drawing-master!’ he exclaimed. ‘Levith—yes, that is the name. I could not remember. Why have you brought him here, Mr Foyle? Did he steal the pearls? Is—’
Foyle quieted him with a wave of the hand.
‘Keep still a minute, Count,’ he said. ‘He did not steal them; but he received them.’
‘It’s a lie!’ burst from the artist. ‘I know nothing. You can search me—search my rooms. You can’t prove it.’
Ignoring him, Heldon Foyle brought from his pocket a green smelling-salts bottle. He removed the stopper and shook the contents out on the table. Glowing iridescent against a green tablecloth was a string of pearls. Levith clutched at a chair to support himself.
‘You see that I have already searched your rooms,’ Foyle said coldly. Then turning to von Haussen, he continued: ‘There were reasons why you should have an explanation before we charge this man. It was luck that gave me a hint before I knew that the jewels were gone. As soon as I knew all the particulars it was obvious that the robbery must have been executed at least with the connivance, if not actually by, someone in the house. I had seen a woman, whom I afterwards learnt to be Miss von Haussen, surreptitiously leave one evening—sit still, Count, I have not finished yet! That gave me an excuse for regarding her with suspicion when I knew a crime had been committed. The servants might have been guilty, but their opportunities were limited compared to hers.
‘I was not satisfied with her manner when I questioned her, and it was then I came to the conclusion that my suspicions were well founded. I noticed that a bottle of smelling-salts had been recently emptied in her fire-grate. It had not been broken, for it and the salts would have been removed at the same time as the broken glass. Evidently she had emptied a smelling-bottle for some purpose. If it were needed as a hiding-place for the jewels, I could understand it. A smelling-bottle would not arouse suspicion.
‘I let the matter rest, and had her watched. Once again she left the house surreptitiously, and was traced to a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. There we were at a loss for a time because there were many people in the house, and we could not definitely determine which she had gone to. I took apartments there myself and for a week made myself acquainted with all the inmates. One of the reasons that made me fix on Levith as the culprit was that he always kept his rooms locked. I got him out of the way on a pretext, and, as I expected, I found the jewels hidden in a smelling-salts bottle. I left a similar bottle so as not to arouse his suspicions should he return before I was ready.
‘I had got from him some particulars of his life. He had been a drawing-master. He was a Devonshire man. He was, I knew, hard up. It was not difficult to suppose that Miss von Haussen had been his pupil at some time, and that they had become lovers. You would have objected to your adopted daughter becoming engaged to a drawing-master, I suppose?’
‘Most decidedly,’ said von Haussen, his lips tightening.
‘I thought so. It was, as I say, evident that the man was hard up. Whether he persuaded her or she did it on her own initiative, I don’t know, but the fact remains that she got the jewels and they were taken to him. I suppose they were only waiting for a suitable opportunity to dispose of them. Here is a photograph I found on his dressing-table.’
It was a portrait of Ethel von Haussen, and scribbled on the face of it were the words: ‘To my husband.’
Von Haussen wheeled round on the artist.
‘That is so?’ he demanded. ‘You are married?
Levith bowed his head.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It is all my fault. We were married two years ago. I should have dissuaded her when she wanted to take the jewels. She argued that it was only anticipating matters, they would be hers anyway in a little while.’
The Count bit his lip, and stared straight in front of him. Presently he rose and abruptly left the room. He returned in a few minutes.
‘It was not what I had hoped for my daughter,’ he said dully. ‘But what is to be will be. At any rate, I have to thank you, Mr Foyle.’
The chief detective was standing.
‘Not at all,’ he returned. ‘I take it you will refuse to prosecute this man?’
‘Of course. Good-day, Mr Foyle. Good-day, Mr Milford.’
‘Good-day, Count von Haussen.’
Out in the street Foyle jerked his head back at the house.
‘At any rate, we’ve saved those people the airing of a scandal,’ he said.
XII
THE ‘CON’ MAN
IT is not every man who can stare unexpectedly into the business end of an automatic without changing countenance. I say unexpectedly, for Bond Street at midday is the last place in which a hold-up is liable to occur. Yet Detective-Inspector Ansoll smiled as he lounged opposite the broad-shouldered man who held a pistol peeping from under a well-cut morning coat.
No one of the hundreds passing to and fro paid more than a casual glance to the two men outside the tobacconist’s window engaged in apparently idle conversation. For Coyne’s pistol was invisible to anyone but the man whose attention it was meant to engage, and he seemed unconcerned.
‘That you, Wolf?’ he said serenely. ‘I shouldn’t play about with that sort of thing. It’s liable to go off, and think what a horrid mess it would make. I didn’t know you were a gun man.’
‘I reckon it is liable to go off,’ agreed the other grimly. ‘Especially if you try to put any of the funny dope over on me. See.’
Wolf Coyne did not look like a desperate character. There were a thousand men abroad in the West End that morning who might have stepped out of the same mould as he. He had kindly hazel eyes, thick iron-grey hair, a well-kept iron-grey moustache, and there was no man living who could dress better or assume better manners at will. Just at present he had dropped his manners and something of his carefulness of speech.
‘Look here, Ansoll,’ he went on. ‘I’ve been after you a long time, and this has got to stop right now. I’m not putting any bluff across. You’re gunning for me, but I don’t stand for it—see. I’m trying to cut loose from the old game, and sooner than be driven back by any grafting son of a policeman who tries to fasten his teeth into me I’d shoot hell into you.’ He thrust his face forward viciously. ‘Get that. I wonder I don’t get you now while I’ve got a chance.’
Ansoll made a deprecating gesture. ‘I shouldn’t, Wolf,’ he said mildly.
No one would have guessed that he took the other’s threat seriously. Coyne had only one defect from the crook’s point of view. He sometimes lost his temper. Indeed, some thousands of miles away, in the United States, there were at least a couple of men who would bear the marks of his anger to their dying day.
‘They say it’s an unpleasant death,’ went on the detective cheerfully. ‘They’ve got a contrivance to strap you up, and they read part of the burial service over you while you’re still alive, and then you stand on the drop and they put a white cap over your face—Why, hello, Jimmie! Shake hands with Mr Coyne. Wolf, this is Mr Cotterill, one of my sergeants.’
The menacing muzzle of the pistol had disappeared as though by magic into Coyne’s trousers-pocket. His face lighted with a deli
ghtful smile that had charmed many hundreds of pounds from unwary pockets. He thrust out a delicately-manicured hand.
‘How do you do, Mr Cotterill?’ he said pleasantly. ‘Pleased to know you. I’ve got to run away now. We’ll run across each other sometime, I suppose, Ansoll. So long.’
He strolled away, tapping gently with his gold-headed cane at the side of his boot. Ansoll grinned as he looked after him, and saw him warmly shake hands with a middle-aged, eye-glassed man on the other side of the road.
‘See that, Jimmie! I wonder what Lord Dalgaren would say if he knew that his pal had a gun on me a few seconds ago, and was half a mind to batter my brains all over Bond Street. It looks to me as if he’s getting worried, Jimmie.’
Mr James Arthur inhabited a suite of rooms overlooking the river on the first floor of the Palatial Hotel; and since the Palatial Hotel charges its guests sixpence a breath, it will be evident that Mr Arthur was a man of means. If one had been sufficiently curious one might also have learned that he was a man of standing, for his intimates stretched right away into the topmost pinnacles of society. Still further one might have learned that Mr James Arthur had unimpeachable introductions from generals, from bishops, from the High Commissioner of a remote settlement, and from the President of a South American Republic.
Knowing all this, one would have been surprised to learn that Scotland Yard took an interest in Mr James Arthur—so great an interest that, since he stepped ashore at Liverpool, he had been watched over with as much paternal care as if he had been of Royal blood. The attentions of the detectives had not been obtrusive, but Mr James Arthur alias Wolf Coyne, had felt worried by an observation which he divined rather than saw. It is so harassing to one’s plans to be treated like a gold-brick man.
The essence of Mr Arthur’s grievance was, that he was a gold-brick man. So he was classed in the archives of Mulberry Street along with sawdust men, green-goods men, and other crude practitioners who could as easily have sprouted wings as have attained to the eminence of the Palatial Hotel. Yet since a knowledge of human nature is the greatest asset of ‘con’ men, whatever their degree, Mr James Arthur was rightly classified. He had a genius for divining a man’s (or a woman’s) weak point, and a facility for using the knowledge to his own advantage.