worst?" queried Wingate one day, as Smeaton sat with himin his cosy rooms in Half Moon Street.
"It is too early yet to give a decided opinion, if, in a case of suchcomplexity, one could ever give a decided opinion at all," was thedetective's answer. "But at present things point that way. What wasthe motive underlying the scheme? You can give the answer quickly--thatall inquiries as to the real man are being stifled."
"In other words, that Mr Monkton has been done away with, for motiveswe do not know, by the person or persons who put the man into the taxi?"
Smeaton nodded. "That's what it seems to be at the moment, Mr Wingate.But we should be poor detectives if we pinned ourselves to any onetheory, especially on such evidence--or rather want of evidence--as wehave got at present. Cases as mysterious as this--and there was neverone more mysterious--have been solved by unexpected means. If we canget hold of that driver who brought the dying man to ChesterfieldStreet, 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 hewould 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 thenewspapers."
"Anyway," resumed Smeaton, after a thoughtful pause, "if and when hedoes turn up, we shall know, with our long experience, what sort of acustomer he is. You may rely upon it that if there is anything to begot 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 beany chance of hopefulness at present?
During the few days, however, the police had not been idle. They hadmade a few discoveries, although they were of a nature to intensifyrather 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 mustbe down at the House, the inference being that he would snatch a hastymeal there, in the pause of his Ministerial work.
Instead of that, he had dined about seven o'clock in an obscure littleItalian restaurant in Soho. Luigi, the proprietor, had at oncerecognised him from his portraits in the illustrated papers, and fromhaving seen him at the Ritz, where he had been a waiter.
He had entered the cafe a few minutes before seven, and had lookedround, as if expecting to find somebody waiting for him. Luigi hadtaken him the menu, and he had said he would wait a few minutes beforegiving his order, as a guest would arrive.
On the stroke of seven a tall, bearded man, evidently a foreigner, whowalked with a limp, joined him. Questioned by Smeaton as to thenationality of the man, the proprietor replied that he could not besure. He would take him for a Russian. He was quite certain that hewas neither French nor Italian. And he was equally certain that he wasnot 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 themeal, which was finished in about half-an-hour. Cigars, coffee, andliqueurs were then ordered, and over these they sat till half-pasteight, conversing in the same low tones all the time.
Luigi added that the Russian--if he was of that nationality, as hesuspected--seemed to bear the chief burden of the conversation. MrMonkton played the part of listener most of the time, interjectingremarks now and again.
Asked if he overheard any of the talk between them, he replied that hedid not catch a syllable. When he approached the table they remainedsilent, and did not speak again until he was well out of earshot.
"And you are quite positive it was Mr Monkton?" Smeaton hadquestioned, when Luigi had finished his recital. It had struck him thatLuigi might have been mistaken after all.
Luigi was quite sure. He reminded Smeaton that before taking on thelittle restaurant in Soho he had been a waiter at the Ritz, where he hadoften seen the Cabinet Minister. It was impossible he could bemistaken.
He added in his excellent English, for he was one of those foreignerswho are very clever linguists. "Besides, there is one other thing thatproves it, even supposing I was misled by a chance likeness--though MrMonkton's is not a face you would easily forget--as I helped him on withhis light overcoat he remarked to his friend, `I must hurry on as fastas I can. I am overdue at the House.'"
That seemed to settle the point. There might be a dozen men walkingabout London with sufficient superficial resemblance to deceive anordinary observer, but there was no Member of the House of Commons whocould pass for Monkton.
It was evident, then, that he had gone to that little, out-of-the-wayrestaurant to keep an appointment. The man he met was his guest, asMonkton paid for the dinner. The excuse he made for not dining at homewas a subterfuge. The appointment was therefore one that he wished toconceal from his daughter, unless he did not deem it a matter ofsufficient importance to warrant an explanation.
Monkton's secretary was also interrogated by the detective. He was afat-faced, rather pompous young man, with a somewhat plausible andingratiating manner. He had been with Monkton three years. Sheila hadseen very little of him, but what little she had seen did not impressher in his favour. And her father had owned that he liked him least ofany one of the numerous secretaries who had served him.
This young man, James Farloe by name, had very little to tell. He wasat the House at eight o'clock, according to Monkton's instructions, andexpected, 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 beendisturbed by something. At a few minutes before ten he left, presumablyfor home. When he bade Farloe good-night he still seemed preoccupied.
In these terrible days Austin Wingate's business occupied but secondplace in his thoughts. He was prepared to devote every moment he couldsnatch to cheer and sustain the sorrowing Sheila.
A week had gone by, but thanks to certain instructions given by theauthorities, at the instance of the Prime Minister, who deplored theloss of his valuable colleague, the matter was being carefullyhushed-up.
Late one afternoon, while Smeaton was seated in his bare official roomon the second floor at Scotland Yard, the window of which overlookedWestminster Bridge, a constable ushered in a taxi-driver, saying:
"This man has come to see you, sir, regarding a fare he drove toChesterfield Street the other night."
"Excellent!" exclaimed Smeaton, lounging back in his chair, having beenbusy writing reports. "Sit down. What is your name?"
"Davies, sir--George Davies," replied the man, twisting his capawkwardly in his hands as he seated himself.
Smeaton could not sum him up. There was no apparent look of dishonestyabout him, but he would not like to have said that he conveyed the ideaof absolute honesty. There was something a little bit foxy in hisexpression, and he was decidedly nervous. But then Scotland Yard is anawe-inspiring place to the humbler classes, and nervousness is quite asoften a symptom of innocence as of guilt.
"I only 'eard about this advertisement from a pal this morning. I neverreads the papers," the taxi-driver said.
"Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. Thatgentleman died, you know!"
The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice:
"I've come 'ere, sir, to tell you the truth. I'll tell you all I know,"he added, "providing I'm not going to get into any trouble."
"Not if you are not an accomplice," Smeaton said, his keen eyes fixedupon his visitor.
The man paused and then with considerable apprehension said:
"Well--I don't know 'ow I can be really an accomplice. All I know aboutit is that I was passin' into Victoria Street goin' towards the station,when three gentlemen standin' under a lamp just opposite the entrance
toDean's Yard hailed me. I pulls up when I sees that two of 'em 'ad gotanother gentleman by the arms. `Look 'ere, driver,' says one of 'em,`this friend of ours 'as 'ad a drop too much wine, and we don't want togo 'ome with 'im because of 'is wife. Will you take 'im? 'E lives inChesterfield Street, just off Curzon Street,' and 'e gives me thenumber."
"Yes," said Smeaton anxiously. "And what then?"
"Well, sir, 'e gives me five bob and puts the gentleman into my cab, andI 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 official's reply. "But tellme, Davies. Did you get a good look at the faces of the
The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery Page 6