“Yes, but I don’t know nothing about that, mister,” said Palmer eagerly. “I never put it there; I never seen it before.”
“You say so; can you prove it? Of course not. But that satchel will land you in more trouble than all the rest of the stuff put together.”
“Blimy, what was in it?”
“Never mind. Tell me about this man, and nothing more will be said about the satchel. That’s worth a lot if only you knew it.”
“O.K. Name of Marden—John Marden. Don’t know where ’e lives; uses a ’commodation address. ’E’s a burglar and a pretty good one. Only been caught once and then got off light, first offence. Doesn’t work often; when ’e does it’s something big.”
“Known him long?”
“Some years.”
“What’s his accommodation address?”
“I don’t know; ’e uses a different one every time. I can’t remember the las’ one and, anyway, I expec’ ’e calls for ’is letters.”
“I see. Know any more about him?”
“Not much. Except I s’pose ’e’s what you’d call a gentleman,” said Palmer scornfully. “Very ’aughty, ’e can be. Got a little place down in Kent somewhere, I believe.”
“Down in Kent. Where?”
“I dunno. That’s all I do know ’bout ’im.”
Further questions having failed to produce any more results, Hambledon left the receiver to his painful thoughts and got in touch with Bagshott at Scotland Yard.
“I want to talk to a man named John Marden who was, I believe, a burglar at one time; he was convicted once, if I’ve been told the truth. I don’t want him arrested, mind—that’s very important—I just want to talk to him. It would probably be enough if you could find out his present address. . . . Thank you very much, I’m sure you will. By the way, did you find any fingerprints on the vacuum cleaner?”
“Yes, the housekeeper’s and another’s. Neither are among our records.”
“No? Well, we can’t be lucky every time. Good-bye.”
* * *
“I thought it was a bit odd,” said Hambledon to Reck after dinner that evening. “I mean Palmer saying Marden had a little place down in Kent. I immediately wondered who Frog Farm belonged to; I have a suspicious mind. So I rang up dear Sergeant Coot on the telephone and asked him. He told me that Frog Farm belongs to an elderly widow who lives at Hastings. I forget her name, but it isn’t Marden. So unless Marden is an elderly widow in disguise or the elderly widow at Hastings is a burglar in disguise, I was barking up the wrong tree. I thought it was just worth trying.”
“Talking about elderly widows, is there any more news of the mysterious Mrs. Ferne of Princes Square, Bayswater? The lady with the cats.”
“Still leading a sober and upright life. One of her cats died not long ago, and she insisted on having it buried in the hotel garden with a tombstone over it. ‘To dear Heliogabala, a blue Persian. Alas, that spring should vanish with the rose, That youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close.’ ”
“Wunderbar!” said Reck.
* * *
Warnford and Marden, very naturally pleased with the outcome of their efforts, decided to have a little celebration. Dinner somewhere—say the Auberge de France or somewhere like that—and a show in tune with their cheerful mood; they dined early in order not to be too late at the theatre. Hambledon’s instructions to Scotland Yard about picking up Marden had been circulated, but perhaps insufficient emphasis had been laid on the need for tact. Warnford and Marden were in the act of turning off Piccadilly Circus into Shaftesbury Avenue; there were a lot of people on the pavement who jostled them apart for a moment. Marden, just behind his friend, bumped into a thin-faced young man in a raincoat and apologized. The young man, who was a detective upon his lawful occasions, looked at Marden and recognized him instantly, since it so happened that at Marden’s only conviction he had assisted Gunn, now of the Spotted Cow, to make the arrest. For policemen may forget their first love and the house where they were born, but never, while Reason’s lamp still shines within them, their first prisoner. He looked, recognized, and acted precipitately.
“Here,” he said. “I want you.”
Marden immediately fled. He overtook Warnford, dodged through the crowd, and disappeared. Warnford had heard the remark and went into action. As the detective came level with him he tripped him up and fell on him, scrambled to his feet again, holding the detective firmly by the wrist, and yelled for the police. Piccadilly Circus is a good place to call for the police; there are always plenty there. One came, running, and Warnford promptly gave his prisoner in charge.
“This man,” he complained, “jostled me so roughly as to throw me down. Of course he was trying to pick my pockets. There is too much of this sort of thing in London, officer. Take him away and tell him not to.”
“Have you lost anything, sir?” asked the constable, who did not happen to know this particular detective.
“I am a police officer,” said the detective, wriggling in the constable’s grasp. “Let me get my card out.”
The constable hesitated, but Warnford merely sneered. “Police officer! Hark at him. Hang onto him, officer; don’t let him get away with a yarn like that.” Warnford stood under a lamppost and turned out his pockets. A twist of string, cigarette case and matches, loose silver in one pocket, loose coppers in another, a slim wallet with pound notes in it, a small brass bolt with a nut on it, half an inch of sealing wax and a tram ticket. During this time the detective was not silent.
“I am Detective-Inspector Marshall from Scotland Yard.”
“Says you! How’s your brother Snelgrove?”
“If you”—to the constable—“will have the goodness to release my wrist I will——”
Warnford came to the conclusion that this had gone on long enough; Marden was probably a mile away by now. “All right, officer, let him produce it. I’ll catch him if he runs away.”
The detective produced his official card, and Warnford immediately apologized. He said he was most frightfully sorry, Inspector, but how was he to know? A friend of his had had his pocket picked of a perfectly good gold cigarette case just outside the Carlton, of all places, only last Tuesday, or was it Wednesday? No, Tuesday, because it was Wednesday when Toots told him about it, and she said “last night,” by a feller who bumped into him just like that, and old Bob thought nothing of it till he put his hand in his pocket for the case a few minutes later and, dash it, it had gone. So had the feller, of course—miles away by that time. “Made an impression on my mind, Inspector; it did really. So of course when you came butting into me I thought, ‘Ha! Here we are again. Same chap, perhaps.’ So I grabbed you. You see, if you had been the same chap I might have got old Bob’s case back too, mightn’t I? I’m most frightfully sorry, Inspector, but you do understand, don’t you? No ill feeling, and all that? Come and have one with me.”
But the inspector, who had been trying vainly to edge away, declined with regrets and departed upon his original errand. He had given Marden up as a bad job ten minutes earlier, so he merely reported having seen him in Piccadilly Circus and left it at that.
Warnford took it for granted that the evening’s programme was cancelled and went straight home, where he found Marden waiting for him in a state of some agitation.
“You see what’s happened, don’t you? This is that swine Palmer’s work. He has informed the police about me, and they’re after me for the Desmond diamonds and a dozen other things as well, for all I know. I’d leave the country, only I expect they’re watching the ports.” Marden was walking up and down the room. “The first thing to do is to get out of here; there’s no need for you to be dragged into this. You know, I didn’t expect Palmer to do this; receivers don’t generally squeal. They have to come out of jail sometime and they don’t want their late clients waiting for them round every corner with a loaded stick. I suppose he thought he was safe with me; I’m not the murderous type. I’ll bet I’m the only one he spilt
on.”
“He must have been annoyed,” said Warnford thoughtfully. “Does Palmer know you’ve got a house in Kent?”
“Halvings? I’m not sure; he may. I don’t think the police do, though one can never be sure what they know and what they don’t.”
“Let’s chance it,” said Warnford. “I’ll tell Ashling to pack a couple of suitcases at once, and we’ll go down there tonight in the Bentley. It will at least give us a couple of days to think things over. What about it?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Marden. “If Palmer told them I’d got a place in Kent——”
“Did he know the address?”
“No, I don’t think so, but that wouldn’t help. They will circularize the county police to find which of them has a cottage owned by one Marden in his parish, and our local constable’s known me for years. He shoots my rabbits for me. He doesn’t know I’m a burglar, of course; nobody does down there.”
“Pity your name wasn’t Smith; it would take ’em longer to find Mr. Smith of Kent,” said Warnford. “What do we do, then, stay here? I think that’s your best plan, really. Stay indoors and grow a moustache.”
“How long would that take? Three weeks?”
“You can go out after dark, avoiding street lamps,” said Warnford cheerfully.
12. At the Malplaquet
Next morning, as soon after nine as is considered respectable in government offices, Bagshott rang up Hambledon on the telephone.
“About the man John Marden whom you wanted to interview,” he said, “I’m afraid one of my men has made rather a bloomer.” He went on to explain that when he saw a report that Marden had been seen in Piccadilly Circus he sent for the detective in question and heard the full story. He repeated it to Hambledon, who made clucking noises indicative of distress, and Bagshott apologized. “I am sorry,” he said, “very sorry, and the man who did it is even sorrier. I don’t encourage mistakes. Shall I circularize the Kent County Police on the off-chance that it’s true Marden has a place in Kent?”
“No,” said Hambledon thoughtfully, “no, I don’t think so. I’d rather find them in some less official manner.”
“There are the ratepayers’ lists for that county,” suggested Bagshott; “they ought to provide the address. Marden isn’t a common name. I’m afraid that’ll take some time.”
“Never mind, I’ll do it; thanks for the suggestion. It’s a possible line, anyway.”
When three days had passed without a word or a sign from Denton, Hambledon became anxious and asked for news of him from a mutual friend in Ostend. When it was reported that he was missing from the Hotel Malplaquet and that his bedroom had not received him for four nights, Hambledon became more anxious still. He armed himself with one of those peculiar identity cards which Scotland Yard issues to really important officials when they are going upon especially confidential errands and flew to Brussels, where he called upon the Belgian police.
He was received by a roundabout little man with a white moustache and imperial, who glanced at Hambledon’s card and asked how he could have the honour to assist his distinguished English colleague.
“A small matter,” said Hambledon, drawing up his chair and speaking in low but important tones, “but one in which the utmost discretion is necessary. A certain young man, not himself great, but a member of the most distinguished family imaginable—you understand——”
“Ah,” said Monsieur Houys darkly, and nodded several times in a very solemn manner.
“He came to Ostend a week ago for a short holiday and has disappeared. I have been sent over to find him.”
“These young men,” said Monsieur Houys.
“Exactly. There must be no publicity.”
“Of course not.”
“He called himself Mr. Smith,” went on Hambledon.
“They all do,” said Houys wearily. “Or Müller, or whatever is the commonest surname in their country of origin.”
“Discretion,” repeated Hambledon urgently.
“My dear sir, discretion has become the envelope of my immortal soul,” said Houys magnificently. “Where was he heard of last?”
“At the Hotel Malplaquet at Ostend.”
“It is a hotel of the utmost respectability.”
“He always goes to that sort of hotel,” said Hambledon in a resigned tone.
“But, of course, naturally,” said Houys enigmatically. “I will charge myself with the enquiry in person,” he added.
“You are too good,” said Hambledon warmly. “I regret——”
“Not at all. Besides being my duty, it is a pleasure to collaborate with so distinguished——”
“The pleasure is entirely mine and——”
“But the honour is mine alone,” said Houys firmly. “A moment to settle my unimportant affairs—can you leave for Ostend in half an hour’s time?”
They arrived together at the Hotel Malplaquet, and Tommy Hambledon stood back and left the negotiations to the Belgian. Monsieur Houys began by asking the reception clerk for the manager.
“He is not here, m’sieu.”
“Who runs this hotel in his absence, madame?”
“I do.”
“I should like a word with you in private; I suggest the manager’s office. Here is my card, madame.”
The reception clerk was a tall shapely woman with raven-black hair and a remarkably fine complexion. Nevertheless, even her colour changed a little when she looked at Houys’ official card. She rose to her feet and, saying, “If Messieurs would follow me,” swept superbly across the hall with Houys trotting behind and Hambledon bringing up the rear. The manager’s office was a stuffy little room which smelt of cigars, hair oil, and brandy and was principally furnished with a large desk and two safes. The lady begged them to be seated and went on to ask in what way she could serve M’sieu.
“This is a matter in which the utmost discretion is necessary, madame. That is why I desire to see the manager. No doubt you can put me in touch with him.”
“I—I regret exceedingly that that is impossible. I do not know the manager’s address at the moment. He is travelling.” She twisted her fingers together.
“Where to?”
“Touring with friends, m’sieu. I do not know where they are going.”
“When did he go?”
“On Tuesday.”
“That is three days ago, madame,” put in Hambledon. “Did he leave suddenly?”
“I—I think his decision was taken rather suddenly. The opportunity offered——”
“Exactly,” said Houys. “Who were his friends, madame?”
“I do not know, m’sieu. The manager did not tell me who——”
“I think you are fencing with us, madame,” said Houys in a voice which had suddenly become hard. “I am sure of it; your manner does not inspire confidence. I must tell you that it is very unwise to fence with Houys of the Belgian police. Now, when did you know he was going?”
“Not till just before he went,” she said sulkily, but her eyes looked quickly from right to left.
“When do you expect him back?”
“I cannot say——”
“There is something very odd here, madame. Good businessmen do not rush off at a moment’s notice, leaving no address and without saying when they will return. Did he take much money with him?”
“All the money in the hotel,” she answered, giving way suddenly. “It is very worrying—of course there will be the clients’ money at the end of the week, but——”
“Now you are more reasonable, madame; that is well. Tell me all about his leaving.”
“I came into this office to speak to him,” she began, “on Tuesday morning soon after eight, as usual, and I found him with a suitcase packed and his safe door—that one—open; he was taking money out of it. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘I am going away.’ I said, ‘Mon Dieu, why and where to?’ He said he would write to me; he could not explain then; there was no time. He
said something about having been nervous before, but this was too much. I don’t know what he meant, m’sieu. Then he said good-bye and went quickly.” She dabbed at her eyes delicately with a tiny handkerchief.
“Strange,” said Houys, looking at Hambledon.
“Most peculiar,” said Hambledon stolidly, but there was a cold feeling about his heart. What had happened to Denton to frighten the manager so much?
“You say this is his safe,” said Houys. “Whose is the other?”
“It belongs to a regular customer of ours, a friend of the manager’s, a Monsieur Richten.”
“Is he here now?”
“No, he left on Monday night. He comes and goes, m’sieu.”
“What is he like?” asked Hambledon.
“A tall man,” she answered, glancing curiously at Hambledon, “a dark man with a black beard, stiff, pointed like this.” She gestured.
“Nationality?” asked Houys.
“German,” she answered.
“Richten, you said.”
“M’sieu Victor Richten.”
“Thank you, madame,” said Hambledon with a polite bow. He exchanged a significant glance with Houys, who raised his eyebrows and resumed the enquiry.
“You have the keys of the safe, madame?”
“They are here,” she said, producing them from her bag, and immediately broke into elegant sobs. “Find him for me, m’sieu! Find him! I am distracted with anxiety!”
“It is natural,” said Houys gravely. “It is humane; it is fitting. What is there in this safe?”
“Only the business books, m’sieu.”
Houys opened the safe and found, as she had said, account books, store books, and receipts, all in excellent order. There was also a long envelope, sealed but not addressed. Houys slit it open and looked at the document inside.
“Your name, madame?”
“Yvonne Elise Perigoux, widow.” She dried one bright eye with the absurd handkerchief and kept the other intelligently fixed on the document.
“This would appear to be a deed of gift to you of the hotel and all it contains.”
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