The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  Martin shrugged his shoulders.

  “She endured it,” he replied. “They were married and went out the next week to India. The governor never saw her again, though he frequently went to Butilata. When the Rajah died she came to England. She doesn’t suspect that we played the part we did, or we shouldn’t have her account.”

  Tom shivered.

  “It is not a nice story,” he said. “I could wish that we had made our money in some other way.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Martin gruffly. “We didn’t make it out of the girl. It is true that the governor put himself right with the Rajah over that business.”

  Tom laughed again, but this time there was a little note of hardness in his merriment.

  “Butilata died a comparatively poor man, though his wife seems to have plenty of money—probably she bagged the Butilata pearls—good luck to her, poor girl!” he said dryly. “But if the Rajah of Butilata became poor, the firm of Covent Brothers became correspondingly rich. Did your father oblige the Rajah in any other way?”

  The other shot a suspicious glance at him.

  “If you’re being sarcastic you’re wasting your breath. I merely want to point out to you that this business, which you regard as the safest investment you could find, was re-established by a fluke. Now be sensible, Tom.” He came round the desk and sat on a corner, looking down at the other. “Here we have a prospect of making a million by the use of a little common sense. I tell you, Rumania is a country of the future, and these oil properties which have been offered to us will be worth a hundred per cent more than we can get them for today—and that in a year’s time.”

  Still Tom Camberley shook his head.

  “If you want to invest money, why not approach your clients?” he said. “We have no right whatever to touch their reserves or engage in any speculation which is not to the advantage of those who trust us with their balances. I notice, too, from the memo you sent me that you have earmarked the balance of this very woman—the Ranee. Surely you have done the woman sufficient injury?”

  Martin Covent slipped down from the table with a snort.

  “Anyone would think, to hear you speak,” he said sarcastically, “that we were the Bank of England or one of the big joint stock concerns. Can’t you get it in your head that we are bankers and merchants, and being bankers and merchants, we are necessarily speculators?”

  “Speculate with your own money,” said the other doggedly, and Martin Covent slammed out of the office.

  His cousin sat deep in thought for five minutes, then he pushed a bell. A little while later the door opened and a girl came in. He noticed with surprise that she was wearing a coat and hat, and looked up at the clock.

  “Gracious heavens!” he said in comical despair. “I hadn’t the slightest idea it was so late, Miss Mead.”

  The girl laughed. Tom noticed that she had a pretty laugh, that her teeth were very white and very regular, and that when she laughed there were pleasant little wrinkles on each side of the big grey eyes. He had duly noted long before that her complexion was faultless, that her figure was slim, and that her carriage and walk were delightfully graceful. Now he noticed them all over again, and with a start realized that he had got into this habit of critical and appreciative examination.

  The girl noticed too, if the faint flush which came to her cheeks meant anything, and Tom Camberley rose awkwardly.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Miss Mead,” he said. “I won’t keep you now that it is late.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” said the girl. “I have no particular engagement. Did you want me to type a letter?”

  “Yes—no,” said Tom, and cursed himself for his embarrassment. “The fact was, I wanted to see the Ranee of Butilata’s account.”

  The girl smiled and shook her head.

  “Miss Drew has the accounts, you know, Mr. Camberley. I only deal with the correspondence.”

  Tom Camberley did know. When he had pressed the bell he had had no plan in his mind, and was as far from any definite scheme now.

  “Where does the Ranee live?” he asked.

  “I can get that for you,” said the girl, and disappeared, to return in a few minutes with a slip of paper.

  “The Ranee of Butilata, Churley Grange, Newbury,” she read.

  “Do you know her?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “All her business is done by Miss Drew, who goes down to see her,” she said. “Miss Drew told me that she is always veiled—she thinks that there is some facial disfigurement. Isn’t it rather dreadful an English girl marrying an Indian? Would you like to see Miss Drew in the morning?”

  “No, no,” he said hastily. He had no desire to discuss the matter with Miss Drew. Miss Drew had complete control of the accounts, and he suspected her of enjoying more of his partner’s confidence than he did. To him she was a statuesque, cold-blooded plodder with a mathematical mind, who was never known to smile, and he was a little in awe of the admirable Miss Drew.

  “Sit down,” he said, and after a second’s hesitation the girl obeyed.

  Tom walked to the door and shut it—a proceeding which, if it aroused any apprehension in the girl’s mind, did not provoke any objection.

  “Miss Mead,” he said, “I am going to take you into my confidence. In fact, I am going to ask you to do something just outside your duty, and I am relying upon you to keep the matter entirely to yourself.”

  She nodded, wondering what was coming next.

  “The Ranee is not one of our richest clients,” he said. “But she has a large deposit account with us, and she has frequently invested money on our advice in certain speculative propositions which have been put before her. My partner and I have a scheme for buying up a block of oil properties in Rumania, and he—Mr. Covent—has told me that her highness is willing to invest to any extent.”

  He was doing something which he knew was unpardonable. Not only was he suspecting his partner of a lie, but he was conveying his suspicion to an employee in the firm. In his doubt and uncertainty he had blundered into an act which had the appearance of being dishonourable; for he was now within an ace of revealing the secrets of partnership, which should not go outside.

  He looked round apprehensively towards the door through which his partner had disappeared. He knew, however, that Martin was a creature of habit, and by now would be driving away in his car, and that there was no fear of interruption. The girl was waiting patiently. To say that she was not curious would be to mis-state her attitude. She had need of patience, for it was some time before he spoke; but when he did speak, his mind was made up.

  “I want you to do me a favour,” he said, “and undertake an unusual mission. Will you go down to Churley Grange tonight and see the Ranee?”

  “Tonight?” said the girl in surprise.

  He nodded.

  “I have told you that this business is confidential, and I don’t think it is necessary to emphasize that fact. I want you to see her as from me, and ask her the amount she wishes to invest in Rumanian Oils. You can say we have mislaid her letters, and that I have sent you down before the office opens in the morning so that no mistake shall be made. If she expresses surprise, and cannot recollect having authorized us to invest money in Rumanian Oils, I want you to pretend that there is some mistake and that you were not quite certain whether she was the client concerned, and use your native wit to get out of the situation as well as you can. You quite understand?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I understand a little,” she smiled. “But wouldn’t it be better to see Miss Drew in the morning? She deals with the Ranee.”

  Tom shook his head.

  “No, no,” he said. “I want you to get down, and I don’t want Miss Drew to know anything about it, nor my partner.”

 
He looked at his watch.

  “The trains to Newbury are fairly frequent, I think,” he said, “and at any rate we will look up the time-table.”

  There was a train down in an hour; the last train back reached Paddington at half past eleven.

  “I will be waiting for you at the station with a car,” he said. “Here is five pounds for expenses. Now will you do this for me?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Camberley,” said the girl, and then, with a smile in her eyes, “It sounds horribly mysterious, but I just love mystery.”

  “And I just hate it,” said Tom Camberley.

  II

  The Ranee

  Churley Grange was five miles from Newbury Station—a piece of information which Dora Mead received with mixed feelings. Fortunately there were taxis at the station, and Tom Camberley had given her sufficient money to meet any contingency.

  It was dark when she turned from the main London road into a side road which bore round in the direction of Reading. Churley Grange was a Georgian mansion which stood on the main London road. It was a big house with very little land attached, and that enclosed by a high brick wall which hid the house from the road. A pair of big green gates, flanked by a smaller wicket gate, gave admission to the grounds, and these were closed when the cab drew up. Dora Mead looked for a bell, and for some time failed to find one. Then she discovered a small knob by the side of the wicket gate, and painted the same colour so as to be almost indistinguishable, and pressed it. She had to wait a few minutes before the gate was opened by a dark-looking man, evidently an Indian.

  He wore a blue uniform coat with small metal buttons bearing some sort of crest. This she noticed in the brief time he stood surveying her.

  “Is this the Ranee of Butilata’s house?” she asked.

  The man nodded.

  “I have some important business with her,” said Dora.

  “Have you an appointment?” demanded the gatekeeper. He pronounced his words so carefully that she knew for certain that he was not English, even if his swarthy countenance had not already betrayed the fact.

  The girl hesitated.

  “Yes,” she said boldly.

  “Where are you from?” asked the man.

  She was about to say London, but changed her mind.

  “Newbury,” she replied.

  “Come in,” said the man curtly, and locked the door behind her.

  She found herself in a beautiful garden and was conducted across a well-kept lawn to a flight of steps leading to the main door of the building. Here she was handed over to another servant, also a man, and, like the first, an Indian. The gateman said something to the other in a low voice, and the second servant led her through a wide hall into the drawing-room.

  It might have been the drawing-room of a palace. It was certainly the home of one to whom money was no object. The room was illuminated by lights concealed in the cornices, the ceiling was beautifully carved in plaster in the Moorish style, and long blue silk curtains covered its three windows. The floor was of polished parquet, on which a number of costly rugs were spread, and one gorgeous screen of exquisite workmanship, which she judged to be Eastern, was so arranged that it hid a second door in one corner of the room.

  She was admiring the taste and beauty of the furnishings when she heard a rustle of garments behind her and half turned. Instantly there was a cry, a click, and the room was in darkness.

  The girl stepped back in alarm.

  “Please don’t be afraid,” said a muffled voice. “The fuses have broken.”

  “I could believe that if I hadn’t seen your hand turn the light out,” said Dora, making an heroic attempt to keep her voice steady. “Are you the Ranee of—of Butilata?”

  “That is my name,” said the voice; “wait, I will get candles.”

  The door opened and closed, and she heard voices in the hall. Then the mysterious hostess returned.

  “Why have you come here and what do you want?” she asked.

  “I will discuss my business in the light,” said Dora. She was shaking from head to foot, for there was something about this house and its gloomy servants which had struck a chill of terror to her soul—something now in the strange conduct of the mistress of the house which filled her with blind panic. She heard the creak of the door opening, but this time she did not see the dim light in the hall, and she knew that it had been purposely extinguished.

  The hair at the nape of her neck began to rise, her scalp tingled with terror. Springing forward, she pushed the woman aside and groped for the switch. Her fingers were on the lever, when a cloth was thrown over her head and she was jerked violently to the floor. She opened her mouth to scream, but a big hand covered it, and then she fainted.

  * * *

  —

  Tom Camberley paced the arrival platform at Paddington in an uncomfortable frame of mind. He had cursed himself for sending the girl on such an errand, and had consigned his partner, who had aroused these suspicions and doubts in his mind, to the devil and his habitation.

  When the train drew in, a little of this discomfort vanished.

  The girl was in a carriage at the rear of the train, and when he saw her at a distance he quickened his step. It was not until he was half a dozen paces from her that he saw her face in the light of an overhead electric lamp.

  “My God!” he said. “What has happened?”

  She was as white as death, and swayed when he took her arm so that she nearly fell.

  “Take me home,” she whispered.

  His car was waiting in the station yard, and it was not until the girl was approaching her Bloomsbury lodgings that she could find her voice to tell him of the events of the evening.

  “When I recovered consciousness,” she said, “I was in the cab. The driver told me that the gateman had brought me out and said that I had fainted, and that the lady thought I had better sit in the open air for a little while until I recovered.”

  “You don’t remember what happened after you fainted?”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful! I never felt so afraid in my life,” she whispered.

  “Did you see the Ranee?”

  “No, I did not see her. Please God I will never see her. She is a dreadful woman.”

  “But why, why?” asked the perplexed young man. “Why did she do this?” Then, remembering the girl’s distress: “You don’t know how sorry I am, Miss Mead, that I have exposed you to this outrage. I will see the Ranee myself and demand some explanation. I will…”

  He remembered that he was not in a position to demand any explanation, and that it was more likely, if this matter was exposed, that he would be called upon to furnish some account of Dora Mead’s mission to the Anglo-Indian Princess.

  “Please don’t speak about it,” said the girl, laying her hand on his arm. “I want to forget it. I was terrified to death, of course, but now it is all over I am inclined to see the humorous side of it.”

  Her obvious distress belied this cheerful view, but Tom Camberley was silent.

  “I don’t understand it,” said the girl, returning to the subject herself. “It was so amazingly unreal that I feel as if I have had a very bad dream. Here we are,” she said suddenly, pointing to a house, and Tom leaned forward and tapped the window, bringing the car to a standstill.

  The sidewalks of the street were deserted, and the girl shivered a little as she descended from the car.

  “Do you mind waiting a little while,” she begged, “while I open the door? My nerves have been upset by this business.”

  “Isn’t your landlady up?” he asked, and she shook her head.

  “This is a block of tiny flats,” she said. “Mine is on the second floor.”

  Her hand was shaking so that he had to take the k
ey and open the door for her.

  “I insist upon coming up to your room, at any rate,” he said, “to see that you are all right. You can’t imagine how sorry I am that you have had this unhappy experience.”

  She demurred at first to his suggestion that he should go upstairs with her, but presently agreed, and he followed her up two flights, until they came to the door of the little flat. Again he had to use the key for her.

  “I’ll wait here while you put your lights on,” he said. “Lights are great comforters.”

  She went inside, and suddenly he heard an exclamation of surprise. Without waiting for an invitation he followed her in. She was in a small sitting-room and was staring helplessly from side to side, as well she might, because the room had evidently been ransacked. The floor was covered with a litter of papers which had evidently been thrown from a small pigeon-hole desk against the wall. The drawers were open and articles of attire were scattered about; pictures were hanging awry as though somebody had been searching behind them.

  They looked at each other in silence.

  “Somebody’s been here,” said Tom unnecessarily, then stooped to pick something from the floor. It was a small brass button, bearing on its face an engraved design.

  Tom Camberley turned it over and over in his hand.

  “This crest seems familiar,” he said, and the girl took the button from his hand.

  She looked from the button to her employer.

  “It is the crest of the Ranee of Butilata,” she said.

  III

  To Dissolve a Partnership

  Dora was early at the office the next morning, but there was one before her, a slim, pretty girl of twenty-six, who looked up under her level black eyebrows as Tom Camberley’s secretary came into the office. She noted the girl’s tired eyes and white face, but made no comment until she had hung up her coat and hat, then, waiting until Dora was seated at her desk, she lit a cigarette and swung round in her swivel chair.

  If Dora saw the movement she took no notice. Martin Covent’s confidential stenographer could not by any stretch of imagination be described as her friend. At the same time, she always felt that Grace Drew was not ill-disposed towards her, and had she been in a less perturbed frame of mind, she would have responded more quickly to this unaccustomed action on the part of her fellow worker.