Mr. Poiret listened attentively.
“How are we to unravel this mystery?” asked the detective.
“In some way or other we will find out, if you will be our ally.”
Unlike most men, Poiret was pleased to busy himself about a marriage and he was cheered to find himself mixed up in so romantic a drama.
“Poiret, he is entirely at your, how do you say, beck and call,” he answered. “Have you any plan?”
“Not yet, but I will soon. As far as Miss Burgh le Marsh is concerned, Mr. Crawley will write to her, asking for an explanation and you will see her tomorrow and if she is well enough, give her his note.”
The proposal was a startling one and the detective didn’t entertain it favorably.
“Non,” he said, “Poiret, he does not think that would do at all.”
“Why not? However, let us leave it to Mr. Crawley.”
Robert, thus addressed, stepped forward and said, “I don’t think that it would be delicate to let Miss Burgh le Marsh know that her secret is known to anyone else than ourselves.”
The detective nodded in agreement.
“If,” continued Robert, “Mr. Poiret will be good enough to ask Georgette to meet me at the corner of the street, I will be there.”
“Bon,” said the detective. “Poiret, he will give your message to Mademoiselle Georgette.” He broke off his speech suddenly and said a little shriek, as he noticed that the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to twenty to twelve. “Mon Dieu!” he cried, “Poiret, he is going to the opera and now he is not even dressed.” And, with a coquettish gesture, he twirled his cane and ran out of the room, shouting as he descended the stairs, “Poiret, he will call here tomorrow, Monsieur Ingoldmells, on his way to the restaurant for the lunch,” and disappeared like lightning.
Robert and his host sat in front of the fire and talked for a long time. It seemed strange that two men, who had met that morning for the first time, would now be on such intimate terms of friendship, but such was the case, because a mutual feeling of admiration and respect had sprung up in their hearts.
Mr. Ingoldmells wanted to send Robert home in his car, but this the young man declined and merely borrowed an overcoat to protect himself from the harshness of the weather.
“Tomorrow,” he said, as he made his way home, “Georgette will tell us all she knows, provided that, that charming Frenchman does not forget all about our existence before then.”
Mr. Poiret, however, could be relied on. On his return from the opera he would not even go to bed, lest he would oversleep and the next day Robert found Georgette waiting at the agreed upon place and learnt, to his great grief, that Felicia had not yet regained consciousness.
The young woman promised to meet Robert morning and evening in the same place and give him more information. For two whole days Miss Burgh le Marsh’s condition stayed unchanged and Robert spent his time between his own studio, Kensington and Mr. Ingoldmells’s mansion, where he frequently met Mr. Poiret.
But on the third day Georgette informed him, with tears in her eyes that Felicia was struggling with a severe attack of fever. Georgette and Robert were so interested in their conversation, that they didn’t notice Carlton. He had gone out to post a letter to Berrick.
Georgette whispered to Robert, “The doctor said that the crisis would take place today, be here at five this evening.”
Robert staggered like a madman to Mr. Ingoldmells’s house and so agitated was he that his friend insisted on him resting for a while and would not, when five o’clock arrived, allow Robert to go to the appointment alone.
As they turned the corner, they saw Georgette hurrying toward them.
“She is saved, she is saved!” she said. “She has fallen into a deep sleep and the doctor says that she will recover.”
Robert and Ingoldmells were elated by this news, but they didn’t know that they were watched by two men, Berrick and Carlton, who didn’t let one of their movements escape them.
Warned by a short note from Carlton, Berrick had driven swiftly to Joe Kippax’s pub. When the servant informed Berrick that the crisis was over, he took a deep breath of relief, because he no longer feared that the frail structure that he had built up with such patient care for twenty long years would be shattered at a blow by the grim hand of death. He frowned, however, when he heard of Georgette’s daily conversations with the young man, whom Carlton called “Miss’s lover.”
“Ah,” he said, “if I could only be present at one of those conversations!”
Carlton took a neat-looking watch out of his pocket and said, “It is just the hour of their meeting and as the place is always the same, you…”
“Come, then,” interjected his boss. They went out and reached the location in no time. The street was admirably suited to their purpose, because close by were several trees and bushes.
“Let us hide behind one of these bushes,” said Carlton. Night was drawing in, but objects could still be distinguished and after five minutes Carlton whispered, “Look, there comes Georgette and there is the lover, but he has a pal with him tonight. What can she be telling him? He seems overcome by anguish.”
Berrick immediately understood the truth. It would be a difficult task to interfere with the love of a man, who seemed so deeply in love.
“So,” said Berrick savagely, “the crybaby is your young lady’s lover? We must find out who he is.”
Carlton gave a haughty smirk.
“The day before yesterday, as I was smoking my pipe outside, I saw him walking down the street. I thought as I had nothing to do, I might as well see who he was and where he lived, so, sticking my hands in my pockets, I followed him. I saw him go into a house. I went straight to the landlady with my tobacco pouch and said, “I picked this up. I think that the gentleman dropped it. Do you know him?” “Of course I do,” she said. “He’s a painter, lives on the fourth floor and his name is Mr. Robert Crawley.”
“Was the house in New Burlington Street?” interjected Berrick.
“You’re right, sir,” answered the man, taken a little aback. “It seems, sir, that you’re better informed than I am.”
Berrick didn’t notice the man’s surprise, but he was struck with the strange persistency with which Crawley seemed to cross his plans. He now knew that Selma’s friend and Miss Burgh le Marsh’s lover was one and the same person.
Berrick concentrated all his attention on Crawley.
The latter said something to Georgette, which caused the young woman to raise her hands to heaven, as though in alarm.
“Who is the other man?” Berrick asked.
“Don’t you know?” answered the servant. “Why, that is Mr. Ingoldmells.”
“What? The man, who was to marry Felicia?”
“Yes.”
Berrick was not easily disturbed, but this time he knew his plans were on shaky ground.
“Ingoldmells and this painter are friends?”
Georgette left the young men and went back to the house. They walked away.
“Mr. Ingoldmells takes his dismissal easily enough,” observed Berrick.
“He was not dismissed. He was the one, who broke off the engagement.”
Berrick was unable to hide the terrible blow that this information caused to him. He took leave of Carlton. He was completely staggered, because after thoroughly believing that the game was won, he now knew that it could easily be lost.
“That fool!” he said, as he clenched his fists. “This boy will not mar my plans? Watch out! If you walk in my path, you will find that the road leads to your own destruction.”
Dr. Willoughby had a long time ago given up arguing with Berrick. He had been ordered not to let Will out of his sight and he obeyed this command literally. He had taken him to dine at Mr. Walter Pitstone’s house, though the host himself was not there. From there he took Will to his club. Finally he wound up forcing the young man to accept a bed at his house.
They both slept late. They were sitti
ng down to a hearty breakfast, when the butler announced Old Man Davidson. He made his appearance with the same smile on his face, which Will remembered so well from the boarding house on Pollard Street. The sight of him threw the young man into a state of fury. “At last we meet,” he cried, springing to his feet. “I have an account to settle with you.”
“With me?” asked Old Man Davidson with a puzzled smile.
“Yes! I was accused of theft by that old hag, Mrs. Clemens, because of you.”
Old Man Davidson shrugged his shoulders.
“Dear me,” he said calmly, “I thought that Mr. Berrick had explained everything. Aren’t you in love with a new girl now, a Miss Rhiannon?”
Will blushed red and sat down quietly. Willoughby roared with laughter.
“I regret having disturbed you, doctor,” resumed Old Man Davidson, “but I had strict orders to see you.”
“Is there anything new then?”
“Yes, Miss Burgh le Marsh is out of danger. Mr. Yelvertoft should go after her at once.”
The doctor raised his glass of wine. “To the speedy marriage of our dear friend the lord and Miss Felicia,” he said cheerily.
Old Man Davidson continued, “I’m also directed to tell Mr. Will not to leave this house, but to send for his luggage and stay here.”
Willoughby looked sufficiently annoyed at this news that Old Man Davidson hastened to add, “Only as a temporary measure. I’m on the lookout for rooms for him now.”
Will looked delighted at the idea of having a home of his own.
“Good!” said the doctor merrily. “And now, my dear Davidson, as you’ve followed all your orders, stay and breakfast with us.”
“Thanks for the honor, but I’m very busy with the Count of Sissinghurst and must see Mr. Grain at once.” As he spoke he gave a little sign, which Will didn’t catch. Willoughby accompanied him to the door of the hallway. “Don’t leave that boy alone,” said Old Man Davidson. “I will see about him tomorrow. Meanwhile prepare him a little.”
“I understand,” answered Willoughby. “Give my kind regards to that dear gentleman, Mr. Grain.”
Mr. Grain was well known in London. His real name was Raymond Malpas. He had started life as a cook on the Bangor Express. Unfortunately a breach of the Eighth Commandment, thou shalt not steal had caused him to suffer incarceration for a period of three years. On his release he bloomed into a private detective and a blackmailer. Jealous husbands would ask the private detective for help. Evidence in hand the blackmailer would go to the unfaithful wife and obtain a handsome price from her for his silence.
Berrick and Grain had met in one such affair. They feared each other, so they had tacitly agreed not to cross each other’s path in that great wilderness of crime, London. But while Grain knew nothing of Berrick’s schemes, the former was very well acquainted with the ex-cook’s business. He knew that the income from blackmailing erring wives from Clapham or Ealing could not cover Grain’s expenses. He dressed extravagantly, kept several cars, played cards and bet on the dogs. “Where does he get his money from?” asked Berrick. After some investigating, he succeeded in solving the riddle.
Old Man Davidson, after leaving the doctor’s house, soon arrived at the luxurious residence of Mr. Grain and rang the bell.
A fat woman answered the door. “Mr. Grain is out,” she said.
“Can you tell me where I can find him? It is of the utmost importance that I should see him at once.”
“He didn’t say where he was going to.”
“Perhaps he is at the school,” said Old Man Davidson blandly.
The fat woman was taken aback by this suggestion. “What do you know about that?” she asked.
“Come, is he there?”
“I think so.”
“Thank you. I will call on him there,” said Old Man Davidson, as he turned away. He knew that if he caught the worthy man in the midst of his little business, he would be freer in his language and not so guarded in his admissions.”
The old man went to his task with a passion. He walked through a portion of the city unknown to the greater number of Londoners, Mile End. The streets were narrow and hardly afforded room for vehicles and densely crowded with small iron works. Old Man Davidson seemed to know the place well and went on until he reached his destination. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he halted before a large, three-storied house, standing on a piece of ground surrounded by an old wooden fence. The house had something sinister and gloomy about it and for a moment Old Man Davidson paused as if he could not make up his mind whether to enter it, but at last he did so.
The interior was as dilapidated as the outside. There were two rooms on the ground floor, one of which was strewn with straw, with a few filthy-looking blankets spread over it. The next room was used as a kitchen. In the center was a long table. An old man with his head enveloped in a dirty red handkerchief and grasping a big wooden spoon, was stirring the contents of a large pot in which potatoes and carrots were cooking. On a small bed in a corner lay a young woman. Every now and then a shiver convulsed her body. Her face was deadly pale and her hands almost transparent. Her eyes glittered with the wild delirium of illness. Sometimes she would give a deep groan. The old man would turn angrily and threaten to strike her with his wooden spoon.
“I’m hungry,” pleaded the young woman.
“Then next time do as you’re told,” answered the old man harshly.
Old Man Davidson felt uneasy at this scene and gave a gentle cough to announce his presence. The old man, grey and shrunk from old age turned around on him with an angry snarl. “What do you want here?” he growled.
“Your master.”
“He has not yet arrived and may not come at all. Whatever your business is, you can see the professor.”
“And where is he?”
“In the music-room,” answered the man contemptuously.
Old Man Davidson went to the stairs, which were so dingy as to make an ascent a work of danger. As he ascended higher, he became aware of a strange sound. It was something between the grinding of scissors and the snarling of cats. Then a moment’s silence, a loud noise and a cry of pain. Old Man Davidson walked to a rickety door. He opened it and found himself in what the old man downstairs had called the music-room. The whitewashed walls were covered with scrawls and drawings in charcoal. A suffocating, nauseous odor of cheap perfume sprang up, overpowering the smell from the neighboring factories. There was no furniture except for a broken chair. Against the wall stood three young women. Old Man Davidson noticed their clothes, which gave away their occupation. In the middle of the room was a man, tall and erect, with a flat, ugly face and long, greasy hair hanging down on his shoulders. He had a violin and was obviously giving the young women dance lessons. Old Man Davidson at once guessed that this was the professor.
“It is your turn now, Mary Jane,” he said.
Mary Jane, a pretty little woman with big blue eyes, had just seen Old Man Davidson in the doorway and pointed him out to the professor.
The professor turned quickly around and found himself face to face with Old Man Davidson, who had come quickly forward, his hat in his hand.
Had the professor seen a ghost, he could not have started more violently, because he didn’t like strangers.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Reassure yourself, sir,” said Old Man Davidson, after having for a few seconds enjoyed his evident terror, “I’m the intimate friend of the gentleman, who employs you and have come here to discuss an important matter of business with him.”
The professor breathed more freely.
“Take a chair, sir,” he said, offering the only one in the room. “The boss will soon be here.”
But Old Man Davidson refused the offer, saying that he didn’t want to intrude, but would wait until the lesson was over.
“I have nearly finished,” said the professor. “It’s almost time to let these scamps have their soup.”
Then turning to his p
upils, who were giggling, he said, “There, that is enough for today, you can go.”
The young women didn’t hesitate for a moment, but tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get away.
Old Man Davidson looked interested, because the scene was an entirely new one.
The professor raised his eyes to heaven.
“Teach,” he said, “as I might teach them, they just don’t have it.”
A step was heard on the stairs and the professor said, “Here’s the boss. He never comes up here, because he’s afraid of the stairs. You had better go down to him.”
The former cook appeared before Old Man Davidson in all his appalling vulgarity as the latter descended the stairs. The owner of the dance school was a stout, red-faced man, with an insolent mouth and a cynical eye. He was expensively dressed and wore a profusion of jewelry. He was startled at seeing Old Man Davidson, whom he knew to be Berrick’s right-hand man.
“A thousand thunders!” he thought. “If he sent him here for me, I must take care,” and with a friendly smile he extended his hand to Old Man Davidson. “Glad to see you,” he said. “Now, what can I do for you, because I hope you’ve come to ask me to do something?”
“A mere trifle,” answered Old Man Davidson.
“I’m sorry that it is not something of importance, because I have the greatest respect for Mr. Berrick.”
This conversation had taken place near the window and was interrupted now and then by the shouts and laughter of the women. Grain took Old Man Davidson by the arm and led him into a little side-room, which he dignified by the name of his office. There was nothing in it but three chairs, a table and a few shelves containing ledgers.
“You’re here for business, I presume,” said Grain.
Old Man Davidson nodded. The two men seated themselves at the table, gazing keenly into each other’s eyes, as though to read the thoughts that moved in their busy brains.
“How did you find out about my little school down here?” asked Grain.
“Luck,” said Old Man Davidson carelessly. “I go about a good deal and hear many things. For instance, you’ve taken every precaution, you can take. Though you’re the owner, the name of the husband of your housekeeper is on all documents. Now, if anything untoward happened, you would vanish and only he would be prey for the police.”
Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12) Page 13