by Molly Thynne
The voice was that of Gilroy.
“Fenn speaking. What is it?”
“Look here, Fenn, a pretty rotten thing’s happened. I’m speaking from the Piccolo Restaurant. I asked Miss Braid to dine with me here tonight and arranged to call for her at her rooms. I’d nearly reached them when I passed a chap who was standing on the other side of the road and recognized him. He was one of your men, that fellow Garrison, who used to be in your room at Scotland Yard. I had a suspicion of what he was up to, and I took a squint out of Miss Braid’s window after I got in. He was still there, and he was obviously watching the house. I didn’t say anything to Miss Braid, but I kept my eyes open, and he’s here now, in this restaurant, sitting at a table near the door. What are you going to do about it?”
“Have Garrison on the mat for making such a conspicuous ass of himself. He ought to know better than that by now.”
Fenn’s tone was not conciliatory. He was tired and jaded, and had spent the afternoon fighting a black depression.
“Good lord, you don’t mean to say it’s your doing?” Gilroy’s voice was hot with resentment. “I made sure some fool department or other had been butting in behind your back. I say, old chap, you’ll have to call him off! The next thing will be that she’ll notice something, and what do you suppose she’ll think then? She’s feeling rotten enough already over this business.”
“Oblige me by going back to your dinner, Robert, and leaving me to handle this case in my own way,” said Fenn wearily.
Gilroy exploded.
“You can’t take that line, Fenn! Either you believe she’s innocent or you don’t! Considering the things—”
Fenn cut him short.
“Don’t be a fool, Robert! Or, if you must make an ass of yourself, come and do it here instead of over the telephone! As for Garrison, I’ll call him off to-morrow if I think fit. If you take my advice you’ll say nothing of this to Miss Braid.”
He rang off before Gilroy could answer. He saw no reason to tell him that he had already written to Jill Braid, asking her to call on him at his office, without fail, next morning.
CHAPTER X
Fenn cast a wary glance at Jill Braid as she came into his office next morning, but it was evident from her manner that Gilroy, in spite of his indignation, had kept his discovery of the ubiquitous Garrison to himself. Her greeting was as natural and friendly as usual, and if she felt any misgivings as to the reason of Fenn’s hasty summons she did not show them.
Intent on getting an unpleasant business over as soon as possible, he opened his drawer and took out the four notes he had received from the bank. As he spread them out before her he watched her face closely, only to find that she was regarding his manoeuvres with a faint, amused smile on her lips.
“What a pleasant sight!” she said. “Have you got any more like that, Mr. Fenn?”
In spite of himself, Fenn’s official attitude relaxed.
“As a matter of fact,” he retorted, “that was the very question I was going to ask you. But, first of all, I wish you’d tell me where you got these.”
“But they aren’t mine,” she answered, with a little frown of perplexity. “I haven’t lost any money that I know of.”
“I don’t suppose you’d recognize them, but these were paid by you to your landlady last Wednesday. I’ve got a special reason for wishing to know where they came from.”
Her face cleared.
“I can tell you that exactly,” she answered frankly. To his relief she did not show the slightest sign of embarrassment. “My grandfather gave them to me.”
“When?”
She hesitated.
“So much has happened since that it’s difficult to remember. He came to my rooms. It was the first time he’d ever been there.”
Then, as the recollection came to her—
“Of course! It was the day before he died. Why he came, I don’t know exactly, but I fancy he’d seen a drawing of mine in a paper I work for, and liked it. At any rate, he spoke of it and said something about my talents being wasted. I told him frankly that I couldn’t afford to do anything else. He was extraordinarily nice and sympathetic,” she finished sadly. “I wished I’d realized before that he could be like that. And when he left, he just took out his pocket-book and gave me the money.”
“How much did he give you?” asked Fenn.
“Twenty pounds. It was an immense sum for me. I hadn’t had so much money in my pocket for a long time. You see, one of my best papers had changed hands, and the result had been a new fashion editor. That’s always fatal to a free-lance like myself.”
“You were pretty hard up then, I gather?”
“I was broke,” she answered frankly. “I owed for my rent and various other things besides. My grandfather’s visit seemed like a sort of miracle at the time.”
Fenn glanced at the calendar that stood on his table.
“Your grandfather’s visit took place on Monday, November the fifth,” he said. “If you owed money for your rent the natural thing would have been for you to pay it on the following Wednesday, which, I understand, is the day your landlady collects her rents. Can you give me any reason why you didn’t do this?”
Jill glanced swiftly at him as though there were something in his voice she did not understand. For the first time in the course of the interview she looked troubled.
“I forgot,” she said simply. “Tuesday was so awful, and next day I could think of nothing but grandfather and what had happened to him. Mrs. Sutherland, the landlady, is a decent old thing, and she knew that I was upset, and didn’t bother me. Then, having missed one rent day, I suppose I naturally waited for the next.”
“Did you pay any other bills out of the money Sir Adam gave you?”
“Yes. There was a milk bill and some money I owed to a little restaurant that sometimes lets me have meals on tick.”
“Can you tell me how much you’ve got left of the twenty pounds? I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got to try to get this clear.”
“I can tell you exactly,” she answered. “I was making up my accounts last night. I’ve got seven pounds, thirteen shillings left. Mr. Fenn, is there anything queer about those notes?”
“Nothing. But they are part of a batch that was issued to your grandfather by his bank, and we naturally had to account for them.”
She nodded abstractedly. Then, as the result of her reflections—
“You mean that the person who killed my grandfather might have taken them?” she said slowly. “I don’t wonder you wanted to see me.”
“It seemed advisable to hear your explanation,” agreed Fenn guardedly.
She gave a little sigh.
“I don’t seem to have much luck, do I?” she murmured, and she looked so pitifully young and helpless that Fenn’s heart smote him. He tried to infuse a reassuring note of confidence into his voice as he answered her.
“It’s just as well you had a convincing explanation to offer. That was all that was needed.”
But his words lacked conviction, and he knew it as he met her eyes. They were wide with apprehension, but they did not waver.
“All that you needed, you mean,” she said gravely. “I believe you do know I’m speaking the truth. But I can see how it must look to other people. I’m in a pretty bad hole, aren’t I, Mr. Fenn?”
“You’re innocent, and that’s half the battle,” he hedged, with a smile so full of kindness and good-comradeship that a little of the dread was lifted from her heart. “There’s one thing, though, I want you to remember. Anything you can tell me, not only about that night, but about your dealings with your grandfather in the past week or so, may be of use to me. If I’d known about that money, for instance, I need never have dragged you down here to-day. Why didn’t you tell me before about it?”
“I never thought about it. There were so many things to put it out of my head. But I see what you mean. If there’s anything that occurs to me, I’ll come to you at once.”
“That’s a bargain, then,” he said. “And now about those notes. If you’ll let me have them, I’ll see that you get the equivalent in cash. Are they at your rooms? Then I’ll call for them. Let me see, to-morrow’s Sunday. Shall I find you at home in the morning? Good. Then I’ll come about eleven,” he said cheerfully, as he shook hands and accompanied her to the door.
But it was as well for her that she did not see his face as he moved heavily back to his seat at the table.
Gilroy was waiting for her in a little underground restaurant in Victoria Street. He kept a sharp eye on the door as he greeted her. Had he but known it, Garrison, the C.I.D. man, had been called off by Fenn that morning, and his substitute, who was at that moment settling himself comfortably in the first-floor window of a teashop on the other side of the street, had never, as yet, crossed his horizon. It was unlikely, therefore, that his feelings would be lacerated again.
“Well, how did you get on?” he demanded, as he helped her off with her coat.
“Mr. Fenn was a dear. He always is,” she answered. “Let’s forget it for a little, please. It’s all so beastly.”
She did not allude to the subject again till they had finished lunch and were sitting over their coffee.
“I’m beginning to lose my nerve, I think,” she said suddenly. “I know now what it must be like to feel that every policeman you pass in the street is against, instead of for you. Until now, I’ve always looked upon them as being there for my own special convenience and protection.”
“Considering that one of your oldest and best friends is a policeman—” began Gilroy banteringly.
But she cut him short.
“Don’t laugh, please,” she said, and there was a tenseness in her voice that he did not like. “I’ve kept telling myself, all along, how absurd the whole thing is, but now I’m frightened. It’s like being trapped. Whichever way I look, there’s no way out. Mr. Fenn’s worried too. He did his best to hide it, but I knew.”
Gilroy tried to reassure her, much as Fenn had done, but his methods, too, lacked conviction. He was consumed with a quite unreasoning rage against the detective for having frightened her.
“I’m fed up with police methods,” he exclaimed angrily. “Old Fenn’s a good sort and I know he’s doing his best, but it’s about time he arrived at something definite.”
Jill’s colour rose.
“I don’t see what more he could do,” she said warmly. “I don’t suppose any one’s ever had a better friend than he’s been to me over this business. I’m not so blind as he thinks, and I’ve been wondering lately whether, if any one else had been in charge of the case, I should be at liberty now.”
Gilroy, who knew how near she was to the truth, had no wish to pursue the subject. He capitulated.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Only I’m beginning to think there’s a good deal to be said for the system they have abroad. There they can arrest people on suspicion, and it’s up to them to clear themselves. In Italy there’d be a dozen people in prison over a case like this.”
“Which would be all right if the murderer happened to be among them. And there’s one thing you forget.”
“And that is?”
“That I should be one of the dozen people in prison,” she retorted.
They were both homeward-bound and he walked with her to her rooms. Half-way down King’s Road he halted abruptly.
“Now, where’s he off to?”
She followed his eyes and saw Johnson on the other side of the road, walking briskly in the direction of Sloane Square. He was carrying a couple of suitcases and was clad in garments of suspicious newness. Equally suggestive was the festal appearance of the tall, handsome girl who accompanied him.
“If Johnson wasn’t married this afternoon, I’ll eat my hat!” exclaimed Gilroy. “I wonder where they are going.”
“Margate, probably, judging by the lady’s clothes. I can’t imagine Johnson married, somehow.”
“I wonder if Fenn knows he’s leaving London? Probably not, poor innocent,” gibed Gilroy, whose soreness against the detective had not completely evaporated. “And he’ll tell us afterwards that he had been meaning to keep him under observation. By that time Johnson will be in Boulogne!”
He was being childishly petulant, and he knew it, but the sight of Sir Adam’s servant carrying his luggage openly to the station, under the noses of a dozen constables, made him feel fractious.
“But there’s nothing against Johnson, is there?”
“Nothing definite, but I don’t fancy Fenn wants to lose sight of him just at present. It might be as well to ring him up. Only, the last time I interfered, he told me to leave him to conduct this case in his own way, and I’m uncommonly inclined to take him at his word. I’ll tell you what I should like to do, though!”
Something in his voice made Jill turn and stare at him. To her surprise, his usually serious face was alight with impish glee.
“I’d give something to have a look at Johnson’s rooms! And now that the coast’s clear it seems a shame not to take the opportunity. It would be fun to steal a march on old Fenn. If you’re game, we’ll do it!”
An answering spark lit up Jill’s eyes.
“I don’t see how we’re to get in, though,” she said doubtfully.
“That’s not worrying me,” answered Gilroy. “I’m wondering how we’re to get hold of his address without rousing Fenn’s suspicions.”
“I’ve got it,” said Jill unexpectedly. “He gave it to Mr. Compton, the lawyer, when he left the flat, and I made a note of it, in case I heard of any one wanting a valet.”
She opened her bag and took out a tiny notebook. Gilroy looked over her shoulder.
“We’re in luck,” he said cheerfully. “It’s just round the corner. Come on!”
Ten minutes later, somewhat to Jill’s surprise, they were standing in Johnson’s little sitting-room.
She had not expected it to be so easy, but, fortunately for them, Johnson’s landlady had proved to be of the fat, easy-going kind. Also, she was already slightly bemused by her Saturday libations.
“’E’s gone to Brighton,” she announced, in answer to Gilroy’s inquiry. “And ’e won’t be back for a week, so ’e said. Didn’t you know as ’e was gettin’ married to-day? Fine goin’s on, there’s been, up at ’is wife’s aunt’s place. Married from there, they was, and I must say she give ’em a lovely clock. Solid marble, with two of them angels in gold on it.”
“We thought the wedding was on Monday,” stated Gilroy mendaciously. “This is Miss Braid. He used to work for her grandfather, and she had a special reason for wanting to see him. It’s a bit of bad luck for him that we should have missed him. You haven’t his address, I suppose?”
“’E left it on a card on the mantelpiece in ’is room. If you’ll step in, I’ll give it to you.”
They followed her into a front room on the ground floor. The address was, as she had said, on the mantelpiece. So was the clock that had aroused the landlady’s admiration. Gilroy rose still further in her estimation by his shameless eulogy on its beauty.
“It would save time if we could write a letter here and post it on our way back,” he said. “I suppose you couldn’t oblige us with an envelope? I’ve got a pen and a half-sheet of paper in my pocket.”
His quick eye had already spotted a rack containing a couple of dusty envelopes.
“There’s one ’ere, if you can make do with it,” said the landlady. “And ’e did ’ave a blotter, but I don’t know where ’e kept it.”
Gilroy was skilfully manoeuvring Jill into a chair at the round table that stood in the middle of the room.
“Don’t trouble,” he said. “We can manage, if you don’t mind Miss Braid’s writing it here.”
The woman moved to the door.
“You’re welcome,” she assured him. Then, over her shoulder, “p’raps you won’t mind lettin’ yourselves out.”
“Not a bit,” was Gilroy’s hearty rejoinder.
/> They heard her heavy footsteps lumbering down the stairs into the basement.
Gilroy went quickly to the door and closed it. He did not latch it, however.
“If she comes back we’re bound to hear her,” he said. “You might just address that envelope and stick it up, then we shall have something to show for our visit if we see her again.”
He cast a swift glance round the room.
“There’s nothing here. Step lightly if you move, by the way. She’s probably just underneath.”
He opened the built-in cupboard that stood by the fireplace.
“Nothing here. I wonder if that’s his bedroom.”
“What are you looking for?” asked Jill, who was watching his movements with mingled amusement and apprehension.
“A hat-box. Probably one of those old-fashioned leather contraptions. I shan’t know for certain till I see it. Good egg, this is his bedroom. Will you stay here and listen for all you’re worth, while I have a look round. Let me know if you hear any one.”
He disappeared through the communicating door into the room beyond.
Jill stood by the table, feeling more uncomfortable each moment, and wishing, with all her heart, that he would come back. There was a parcel lying on the table with a letter tucked under the string with which it was tied. A belated wedding present, she decided. In her nervousness she slipped the envelope out, and stood turning it over and over in her hands while she listened anxiously for the sound of the landlady’s feet on the stairs. But there was no movement from below.
When Gilroy came back into the room and peered at her through his thick glasses he gave a low chuckle at the sight of her face.
“Cheer up,” he said. “The worst’s over! But I’m afraid we’ve wasted our time. It’s not there.”
She looked down, and for the first time realized that she had been holding the letter in her hand. At the sight of it she gave an exclamation of dismay.
“It’s open,” she said. “It must have come unstuck while I was fiddling with it!”