Poiccart said nothing. He went religiously from paper to paper, read them in his short-sighted way, and put them aside so that as one pile diminished another pile grew.
‘And I suppose when you’ve finished you’ll put them back where you found them?’ said Leon.
Poiccart did not answer. He was reading a letter.
‘A strange communication, I don’t remember reading this before,’ he said.
‘What is it, Raymond?’ asked George Manfred.
Raymond read.
To the Silver Triangle. Private.
Gentlemen,
I have seen your names mentioned in a case as being reliable agents who can be trusted to work of a confidential character. I would be glad if you would make inquiries and find out for me the prospects of the Persian Oil Fields; also if you could negociate the sale of 967 shares held by me. The reason I do not approach an ordinary share-broker is because there are so many sharks in this profeccion. Also could you tell me whether there is a sale for Okama Biscuit shares (American)? Please let me know this.
Yours faithfully,
J. Rock
‘I recall that letter,’ said Leon promptly. ‘“Negotiate” and “profession” were spelt with c’s. Don’t you remember, George, I suggested this fellow had stolen some shares and was anxious to make us the means by which he disposed of his stolen property?’
Manfred nodded.
‘Rock,’ said Leon softly. ‘No, I have never met Mr Rock. He wrote from Melbourne, didn’t he, and gave a box number and a telegraphic address? Did we hear again from him? I think not.’
None of the three could recollect any further communication: the letter passed with the others and might have remained eternally buried, but for Leon’s uncanny memory for numbers and spelling errors.
And then one night –
A police whistle squealed in Curzon Street. Gonsalez, who slept in the front of the house, heard the sound in his dreams, and was standing by the open window before he was awake. Again the whistle sounded, and then Gonsalez heard the sound of flying feet. A girl was racing along the sidewalk. She passed the house, stopped, and ran back, and again came to a standstill.
Leon went down the narrow stairs two at a time, unlocked the front door and flung it open. The fugitive stood immediately before him.
‘In here – quickly!’ said Leon.
She hesitated only a second; stepping backward through the doorway, she waited. Leon gripped her by the arm and pulled her into the passage.
‘You needn’t be frightened of me or my friends,’ he said.
But he felt the arm in his hand strain for release. ‘Let me go, please – I don’t want to stay here!’
Leon pushed her into the back room and switched on the light.
‘You saw a policeman running up toward you, that’s why you came back,’ he said, in his quiet, conversational way. ‘Sit down and rest – you look all in!’
‘I’m innocent . . . !’ she began, in a trembling voice.
He patted her shoulder.
‘Of course you are. I, on the contrary, am guilty, for whether you’re innocent or not, I am undoubtedly helping a fugitive from justice.’
She was very young – scarcely more than a child. The pale, drawn face was pretty. She was well, but not expensively, dressed, and it struck Leon as a significant circumstance that on one finger was an emerald ring, which, if the stone were real, must have been worth hundreds of pounds. He glanced at the clock. A few minutes after two. There came to them the sound of heavy, hurrying feet.
‘Did anybody see me come in?’ she asked, fearfully.
‘Nobody was in sight. Now, what is the trouble?’
Danger and fear had held her tense, almost capable. The reaction had come now: she was shaking. Shoulders, hands, body quivered pitiably. She was crying noiselessly, her lips trembled; for the time being she was inarticulate. Leon poured water into a glass and held it to her chattering teeth. If the others had heard him, they had no intention of coming down to investigate. The curiosity of Leon Gonsalez was a household proverb. Any midnight brawl would bring him out of bed and into the street.
After a while, she was calm enough to tell her story, and it was not the story he expected.
‘My name is Farrer – Eileen Farrer. I am a typist attached to Miss Lewley’s All-Night Typing Agency. Usually there are two girls on duty, one a senior; but Miss Leah went home early. We call ourselves an all-night agency, but really we close down about one o’clock. Most of our work is theatrical. Often, after a first-night performance, certain changes have to be made in a script – and sometimes new contracts are arranged over supper, and we prepare the rough drafts. At other times it is just letter-work. I know all the big managers, and I’ve often gone to their offices quite late to do work for them. We never, of course, go to strange people and at the offices we have a porter who is also a messenger, to see that we are not annoyed. At twelve o’clock I had a phone message from Mr Grasleigh, of the Orpheum, asking me if I would do two letters for him. He sent his car for me, and I went to his flat in Curzon Street. We’re not allowed to go to the private houses of our clients, but I knew Mr Grasleigh was a client, though I had never met him before.’
Leon Gonsalez had often seen Mr Jesse Grasleigh’s bright yellow car. That eminent theatrical manager lived in some exclusive flats in Curzon Street, occupying the first floor, and paying – as Leon, who was insatiably curious, discovered – £3,000 a year. He had dawned on London three years before, had acquired the lease of the Orpheum, and had been interested in half a dozen productions, most of which had been failures.
‘What time was this?’ he asked.
‘A quarter to one,’ said the girl. ‘I reached Curzon Street at about a quarter after. I had several things to do at the office before I left, besides which he told me there was no immediate hurry. I knocked at the door and Mr Grasleigh admitted me. He was in evening dress, and looked as if he had come from a party. He had a big white flower in the buttonhole of his tail coat. I saw no servants, and I know now there were none in the flat. He showed me into his study, which was a large room, and pulled up a chair to a little table by his desk. I don’t know exactly what happened. I remember sitting down and taking my notebook out of my attache case and opening it, and I was stooping to find a pencil in the case when I heard a groan, and, looking up, I saw Mr Grasleigh lying back in his chair with a red mark on his white shirt-front – it was horrible!’
‘You heard no other sound, no shot?’ asked Leon.
She shook her head.
‘I was so horrified I couldn’t move. And then I heard somebody scream and, looking round, I saw a lady, very beautifully dressed, standing in the doorway. “What have you done to him?” she said. “You horrible woman, you’ve killed him!” I was so terrified that I couldn’t speak, and then I must have got into a panic, for I ran past her and out of the front door – ’
‘It was open?’ suggested Leon.
She frowned.
‘Yes, it was open. I think the lady must have left it open. I heard somebody blow a police whistle, but I can’t remember how I got down the stairs or into the street. You’re not going to give me up, are you?’ she asked wildly.
He leaned over and patted her hand.
‘My young friend,’ he said, gently, ‘you have nothing whatever to fear. Stay down here while I dress, and then you and I will go down to Scotland Yard and you will tell them all you know.’
‘But I can’t. They’ll arrest me!’
She was on the verge of hysteria, and it was perhaps a mistake to attempt to argue with her.
‘Oh, it’s horrible. I hate London . . . I wish I’d never left Australia . . . First the dogs and then the black man and now this . . . ’
Leon was startled, but this was not a moment to question her. T
he thing to do was to bring her to a calm understanding of the situation.
‘Don’t you realize that they won’t blame you, and that your story is such that no police officer in the world would dream of suspecting it?’
‘But I ran away – ’ she began.
‘Of course you ran away,’ he said soothingly. ‘I should probably have run away too. Just wait here.’
He was half-way through dressing when he heard the front door slam and, running down the stairs, found that the girl had disappeared.
Manfred was awake when he went into his room and told him the story.
‘No, I don’t think it’s a pity that you didn’t call me earlier,’ he interrupted Leon’s apology. ‘We couldn’t very well have detained her in any circumstances. You know where she is employed. See if you can get Lewley’s Agency on the telephone.’
Leon found the number in the book, but had no answer from his call.
When he was dressed he went into the street and made his way to Curzon House. To his surprise he found no policeman on guard at the door, though he saw one at the corner of the street, nor was there any evidence that there had been a tragedy. The front door of the flat was fastened, but inserted in the wall were a number of small bell-pushes, each evidently communicating with one of the flats, and after a while he discovered that which bore the name Grasleigh and was on the point of ringing when the policeman he had seen came silently across from the other side of the road. He evidently knew Leon.
‘Good evening, Mr Gonsalez,’ he said. It wasn’t you blowing that police whistle, was it?’
‘No – I heard it, though.’
‘So did I and three or four of my mates,’ said the policeman. ‘We’ve been flying round these streets for a quarter of an hour, but we haven’t found the man who blew it.’
‘Probably I’ll be able to help you.’
It was at that moment that he heard the door unlocked, and nearly dropped, for the man who opened the door to him he recognized as Grasleigh himself. He was in a dressing-gown; the half of a cigar was in the corner of his mouth.
‘Hullo!’ he said in surprise. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Can I see you for a few minutes?’ said Leon when he had recovered from his surprise.
‘Certainly,’ said the ‘dead man’, ‘though it’s hardly the time I like to receive callers. Come up.’
Wonderingly Leon followed him up the stairs to the first floor. He saw no servants, but there was not the slightest evidence to associate this place with the dramatic scene which the girl had described. Once they were in the big study, Leon told his story. When he had finished, Grasleigh shook his head.
‘The girl’s mad! It’s perfectly true that I did telephone for her, and as a matter of fact I thought it was her when you rang the bell. I assure you she hasn’t been here tonight . . . Yes, I heard the police whistle blow, but I never mix myself up in these midnight troubles.’ He was looking at Leon keenly. ‘You’re one of the Triangle people, aren’t you, Mr Gonsalez? What was this girl like?’
Leon described her, and again the theatrical manager shook his head.
‘I’ve never heard of her,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a hoax, Mr Gonsalez.’
Leon went back to join his two friends, a very bewildered man.
The next morning he called at Lewles Agency, which he knew by repute as a well-conducted establishment of its kind, and interviewed its good-natured spinster-proprietress. He had to exercise a certain amount of caution: he was most anxious not to get the girl into trouble. Fortunately, he knew an important client of Miss Lewley’s and he was able to use this unconscious man as a lever to extract the information he required.
‘Miss Farrer is doing night duty this week, and she will not be in until this evening,’ she explained. ‘She has been with us about a month.’
‘How long has Mr Grasleigh been a client of yours?’
‘Exactly the same time,’ she said with a smile. ‘I rather think he likes Miss Farrer’s work, because previous to that he sent all his work to Danton’s Agency, where she was employed, and the moment she came to us he changed his agency.’
‘Do you know anything about her?’
The woman hesitated.
‘She is an Australian. I believe at one time her family were very wealthy. She’s never told me anything about her troubles, but I have an idea that she will be entitled to a lot of money some day. One of the partners of Colgate’s, the lawyers, came to see her once.’
Leon managed to get the girl’s address, and then went on to the City to find Messrs Colgate. Luck was with him, for Colgate’s had employed the Three on several occasions, and at least one of their commissions had been of a most delicate character.
It was one of those old-fashioned firms that had its offices in the region of Bedford Row, and though it was generally known as ‘Colgate’s’, it consisted of seven partners, the names of all of whom were inscribed on the brass plate before the office.
Mr Colgate himself was a man of sixty, and at first rather uncommunicative. It was an inspiration for Leon to tell him of what had happened the night before. To his amazement, he saw the lawyer’s face drop.
‘That’s very bad,’ he said, ‘very bad indeed. But I’m afraid I can tell you nothing more than you know.’
‘Why is it so very bad?’ asked Leon.
The lawyer pursed his lips thoughtfully.
‘You understand that she is not our client, although we represent a firm of Melbourne solicitors who are acting for this young lady. Her father died in a mental home and left his affairs rather involved. During the past three years, however, some of his property has become very valuable, and there is no reason why this young lady should work at all, except, as I suspect, that she wishes to get away from the scene of this family trouble and has to work to occupy her mind. I happen to know that the taint of madness is a cause of real distress to the girl, and I believe it was on the advice of her only relative that she came to England, in the hope that the change of scene would put out of her mind this misfortune which has overshadowed her.’
‘But she has been to see you?’
The lawyer shook his head.
‘One of my clients called on her. Some property in Sydney which was overlooked in the settlement of her father’s estate came into the market. He had a tenth share, it seems. We tried to get in touch with the executor, Mr Flane, but we were unsuccessful – he’s travelling in the East – so we got the girl’s signature to the transfer.’
‘Flane?’
Mr Colgate was a busy man; he had intimated as much. He was now a little impatient.
‘A cousin of the late Joseph Farrer – the only other relative. As a matter of fact, Farrer was staying in Western Australia on his cousin’s station just before he went mad.’
Leon was blessed with an imagination, but even this, vivid as it was, could not quite bridge the gaps in what he suspected was an unusual story.
‘My own impression,’ said the lawyer, ‘and I tell you this in the strictest confidence, is that the girl is not quite . . . ’ He tapped his forehead. ‘She told my clerk, a man who is skilled in gaining the confidence of young people, that she had been followed about for weeks by a black man, on another occasion had been followed about by a black retriever. Apparently, whenever she takes her Saturday stroll, this retriever has appeared and never leaves her. So far as I can discover, nobody else has seen either the black man or the dog. You don’t need to be a doctor to know that this delusion of being followed is one of the commonest signs of an unbalanced mind.’
Leon knew something more than the average about police work. He knew that discovery is not a thing of a dramatic moment, but patiently accrued evidence, and he followed the same line of inquiry that a detective from Scotland Yard would follow.
; Eileen Farrer lived in Landsbury Road, Clapham, and No 209 proved to be a house in a respectable terrace. The motherly-looking landlady who interviewed him in the hall was palpably relieved to see him when he stated the object of his visit.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘Are you a relation?’
Leon disclaimed that association.
‘She’s a very peculiar young lady,’ the landlady went on, ‘and I don’t know what to make of her. She’s been up all night walking about her room – she sleeps in the room above me – and this morning she’s taken no breakfast. I can’t help feeling that there’s something wrong – she’s so strange.’
‘You mean that she’s not quite right in her head?’ asked Leon brutally.
‘Yes, that’s what I mean. I thought of sending for my doctor, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She told me she’d had a great shock. Do you know her?’
‘I’ve met her,’ said Leon. ‘May I go upstairs?’
The landlady hesitated.
‘I think I’d better tell her you’re here. What name?’
‘I think it would be better if I saw her without being announced,’ said Leon, ‘if you will show me the door. Where is she?’
Eileen Farrer was, he learnt, in her sitting-room – she could afford the luxury of an extra apartment Leon tapped at the door and a startled voice asked: ‘Who is it?’
He did not answer but, turning the knob, entered the room. The girl was standing by the window, staring out; apparently the taxi that brought Leon had excited her apprehension.
‘Oh!’ she said in dismay, as she saw her visitor. ‘You’re the man . . . you haven’t come to arrest me?’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the floor was strewn with papers. Evidently she had bought every available newspaper to discover tidings of the crime.
‘No, I haven’t come to arrest you,’ said Leon in an even tone. ‘I don’t exactly know what you could be arrested for – Mr Grasleigh is not dead. He’s not even hurt.’
She stared at him, wide-eyed.
‘Not even hurt?’ she repeated slowly.
The Complete Four Just Men Page 109