Rogue's Holiday

by Maxwell March

  The other man laughed softly. “It has turned out very well for us,” he said.

  Sir Leo shook his head. “Don’t talk about it,” he said. “You frighten me. You’re such a cold-blooded customer—I’d never have dared to go through with this thing if it hadn’t been for you.”

  It is interesting to record that Saxon Marsh looked slightly flattered by this announcement.

  “Not at all,” he said. “It was common sense. When we were in great need of a large sum of money and three hundred thousand pounds lay to our hands, it would have been criminal not to use it.”

  Sir Leo passed his hand through his short white hair.

  “How much did we—did we——”

  “Use?” suggested Marsh. “It’s a prettier word than ‘embezzle.’ Let me see: to date, about eighty thousand pounds. Nothing to worry about at all. I hope I may be forgiven if I confess that I overheard some of your interview with the Major. I should like to congratulate you on the way you handled him. He’ll take his twenty pounds a week and ask no questions. We have only to get them married, and we’re safe. Not a pleasant person, the Major, but infinitely preferable to that foolish young Mr.—let me see, what was his name?—Ingleton-Gray.”

  Sir Leo spun round. “For heaven’s sake, be quiet,” he said. “It’s the same police inspector, you know. He may have followed me down here. I saw he wasn’t satisfied at the club.”

  Saxon Marsh smiled placidly. “I don’t think that matters in the least,” he said. “Scotland Yard has the disadvantage of requiring cast-iron proof before it interferes with respectable men. In fact,” he went on, “the way things have worked out has been really extraordinary. The very eccentricities of the will, the fact that the girl has no capable relations, and the clause which makes you sole trustee, have put the whole thing into our hands.”

  “I wonder why he made it,” said Sir Leo suddenly. “Why leave a fortune to the husband?”

  “Silas Gillimot was a very extraordinary man,” said Saxon Marsh. “I knew him. He believed that no woman was capable of handling money, and he believed in early marriages. It seemed to him the most natural thing in the world to leave his money to the man Judy Wellington married, if he should marry her without knowing of the fortune before she was twenty-five. Oh yes, Sir Leo, I think we have to congratulate ourselves on the way things are turning out.”

  “She is twenty-four now,” said Sir Leo slowly. “Twenty-four and six months. If the thing hadn’t been so imminent I don’t know whether I’d have done it.”

  Saxon Marsh took out a silver cigarette case and drew from it a long scented Turkish cigarette.

  “You’ve done the only thing a sensible man could do,” he said. “The only thing you have to fear is something going wrong before she marries. If she reaches her twenty-fifth birthday, remember, the fortune goes...”

  Sir Leo nodded and his dark eyes flickered. “Yes,” he said. “That must never happen.”

  Still puffing at his impossible cigarette, Saxon Marsh rose and joined his friend by the window. For some time the two men stood looking at the scintillating scene without. Waves of music came to them, and soft laughter and voices rose up from the floodlighted beach.

  Saxon Marsh sighed. “Quite romantic,” he said. “Has it ever occurred to you, Sir Leo, that it’s very fortunate that the charming Miss Wellington should be such an invalid? The healthy modern young woman is not so easy to manage, and if she once took the bit between her teeth she might give us quite a lot of trouble.”

  Sir Leo grunted. “There’s no point in conjecture of that sort,” he said. “The girl is an invalid. I never saw anyone who looked so ill in all my life. There’s no doubt about her state of health, Marsh, is there?”

  Saxon Marsh threw his cigarette out of the window and watched its shining arc disappear into the shrubbery below.

  “I wonder,” he said softly. “I wonder.”

  CHAPTER IV

  A Policeman’s Lot

  INSPECTOR DAVID BLEST was facing the fact that he had fallen as deeply in love as any youngster with his first sweetheart.

  The discovery alarmed him considerably, but he did not lose his head. David Blest was a practical young man with practical ambitions and ideas. He realized that the one girl in the world might very well be suspicious of him, since he had not thought to mention his calling to her, though during their brief afternoon together there had seemed quite enough to talk about without discussing his work.

  But he also realized that she was in considerable danger of a fatal and, in the circumstances, wholly incomprehensible mésalliance, and it was this aspect of the affair which was engaging his attention at the moment.

  A call to Scotland Yard had established one thing: nothing definite was known against Deane at present, and although his name had been mentioned in an inquiry from Yorkshire, nothing further had transpired.

  Having drawn a blank, David was on his way to have an informal and friendly chat with Major Deane at his hotel. That hotel, he had already discovered, was not the Queen’s. The Major had not been quite so frank at their meeting on the day before as it had appeared at the time.

  Westbourne, although a popular and prosperous seaside town, had not a great variety of hotels. The mammoth Arcadian and its sister, the Queen’s, catered for most of the wealthier patrons, and the poorer holiday maker was not encouraged by the townsfolk.

  Johnny Deane’s choice, therefore, lay between four or five small, select establishments, for David guessed that he would not patronize one of the hundreds of boarding houses and pensions which filled the side streets.

  At the moment Inspector Blest was headed for the Empress, which overlooked the Municipal Gardens, just the quiet, respectable place in which the Major would feel most at home. David’s jaw set grimly as he anticipated the interview. Inspector Blest had made up his mind: Deane was going to talk.

  He paused outside the old-fashioned entrance and bought a paper from a street vendor.

  The booking clerk, an aged, bespectacled individual, smiled at his question.

  “Major Deane?” he said. “Oh yes, he’s staying here. But he’s not in yet. See, his keys are still on the board. If you’d sit down in the vestibule there, sir, you’d catch him as he came in.”

  There seemed nothing else for it, and David settled down on one of the hard plush sofas which lined the mirrored walls. The place was very nearly deserted. Although the Empress was filled to capacity, most of its patrons preferred to take their amusement in the ballroom of the Arcadian and the Queen’s, using the Empress merely as a place to eat and sleep.

  He had been sitting there for some time, looking out through the wide-open doorway into the street beyond, when he heard his own name uttered in a husky confidential whisper.

  He looked up sharply to see an elderly, somewhat lugubrious individual standing before him. This person had come up softly in enormous rubber-shod boots, and David, catching sight of him, smiled.

  Although to the best of his knowledge he had never seen the man before in his life, the type was unmistakable. The red, slightly sad face, the closely cropped grey hair, the heavy figure clad in shiny blue serge, and above all the outrageous boots: the young Inspector would have known him anywhere for what he was, the house detective.

  Seeing David smile, the newcomer looked gratified.

  “I thought you wouldn’t mind me speaking to you, sir,” he said, “but I was a sergeant at the Yard once meself—oh, long before your time. But I’ve still got some old friends there, and I get to know all the new faces. My name’s Bloomer,” he went on. “Ex-Sergeant Bloomer. I don’t suppose you’re down here on a case, sir?”

  He spoke so wistfully that it was all David could do to hide his amusement.

  “Well, no, I’m afraid I’m not, exactly,” he said. “I’m on leave.”

  “Oh, I see.” The hope died out of ex-Sergeant Bloomer’s eyes, and he sighed. “It’s a deadly life,” he confessed after a pause. “Nothing ever ’appens dow
n ’ere. I’ve been down ’ere five years and never had anything more exciting than a case of petty larceny. But I read all about you, sir. That was a smart piece of work, if you’ll excuse me saying so, when you caught the Eldorado murderer.”

  David had no desire to discuss his past exploits, especially at such a time, but in spite of his own troubles he had enough compassion left to sympathize with this sad old watchdog whose great days were over.

  It also occurred to him that he might possibly be useful.

  “You’ve got a man staying here called Deane,” he said. “Major Deane.”

  “Oh?” The ex-sergeant looked interested. “Has he been up to anything? He’s leaving tomorrow. Going over to the Arcadian, I heard. I didn’t take to him meself. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really notice ’im much. Don’t tell me,” he went on with dismay, “that I’ve been sitting ’ere all these years waiting for something to ’appen and ’ave missed something going on right under me nose?”

  David shook his head. “Don’t worry, Sergeant,” he said. “He hasn’t done anything at all, yet. I just wanted a word with him, that’s all.”

  “I see. I get you, sir.” Bloomer looked very knowing. “I’ll keep an eye on ’im meself. He should be in at any time now. So he’s an interesting bird, is he?” he went on thoughtfully. “Well, that’s the second. Still, they often turn out to be disappointing,” he continued after a pause. “I’m always getting me hopes raised by seeing a familiar face. And then what do I find about ’em? They’ve been going straight since I left the Force. Not a stain on their characters.

  “I’ll tell you who we ’ave got ’ere, sir.” A certain amount of animation had come into his tone, and he settled himself beside David on the couch. “He only came today. Walked in calm as you please. I don’t suppose he thought there was a soul who’d recognize ’im. But I did. I never forget a face.”

  “Oh?” said David. He was bored by the old man’s garrulousness but had not the heart to snub him.

  Bloomer lowered his voice and spoke with great solemnity.

  “The Fenchurch Street case.”

  “Eh?” David looked at him in surprise. The words meant nothing to him.

  “The Fenchurch Street case,” repeated the house detective. “Oh, it was long before your time. It must be twenty years ago. But it made a great stir at the time. Young fellow with a good position in a firm of solicitors, very much the gentleman ’e was, was arrested on a charge of burgling ’is own office. It was evident that the job ’ad bin done from the inside, and it was really a choice between ’im and another fellow. The night watchman was badly hurt, though, and in the end we collared this fellow and ’e went down for seven years.

  “Of course, ’e’s changed now. That’s twenty years ago. It’s thirteen years since ’e came out. But I recognized ’im as soon as ’e came in here this morning. Oh, I’d know ’im anywhere. I never forget a face.”

  “That’s interesting,” said David, trying hard to sound sincere. “What was his name?”

  Bloomer looked crestfallen.

  “That’s what’s worrying me,” he said. “I can’t remember. I could find out, of course, by looking up the case. But there, it’ll come back to me. He calls himself Birch now, Lionel Birch. But that’s not right. That wasn’t ’is name then. I’m really waiting ’ere to ’ave another good look at ’im. Per’aps when I see ’im again the name’ll pop into me ’ead.

  “That was always my trouble,” he went on with a burst of confidence. “Never forgot a face, but never remembered a name.”

  He shook his head sadly, and David looked away.

  They had been sitting in silence for some moments when ex-Sergeant Bloomer coughed warningly.

  “There ’e is, sir,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Just getting out of that taxi outside. See ’im? That soldierly-looking chap with the white ‘air. That’s the man I’ve been telling you about. ’E served seven years at Dartmoor. ’E doesn’t look it, does ’e?”

  David glanced out of the open doorway to see a distinguished-looking man, albeit somewhat shabbily dressed, stepping out of a cab. From where he sat David could see the sharp, piercing eyes and careworn but still aquiline features.

  There was something interesting about the face, and he continued to watch the man with idle curiosity.

  Instead of paying off the driver, the newcomer gave him some instructions. Then he turned back to the body of the cab and spoke to someone inside.

  It was at that moment that a girl leaned out and kissed the old man. The brilliant lights of the hotel sign fell upon her face, and ex-Sergeant Bloomer’s hoarse whisper reached David.

  “Well!” he said. “Fancy that! At his time of life too.”

  But Inspector Blest remained where he was, staring before him, blank bewilderment settling down upon him for the second time that day.

  For the face of the girl who had leaned out of the taxicab to kiss the distinguished-looking man about whom ex-Sergeant Bloomer had made such interesting revelations was the face of Judy Wellington.

  The cab drove away, and the man whom Bloomer had called Lionel Birch advanced slowly down the red-carpeted hall.

  After he had assimilated the first shock David watched the newcomer curiously. It was obvious that the man was absorbed in his own thoughts and that they were not altogether pleasant, for he walked slowly, and his eyes were fixed gloomily in front of him.

  As he came nearer, David had his first impressions confirmed. The man who now called himself Lionel Birch had at one time been handsome and was still distinguished. It was true that his years in prison had left their mark upon him, but it was evident that, unlike so many men of his class, his spirit had not been broken by the degradation, nor had his innate dignity been entirely destroyed.

  When the newcomer was halfway across the hall he stopped abruptly and seemed for the first time to become aware of the small lizard-skin case he carried, for an exclamation of dismay escaped him as he looked down at it.

  David followed his glance, and if he had ever entertained any doubts concerning the identity of the girl in the taxi they vanished instantly. The case provided irrefutable proof. It was Judy’s. He had seen it on her knee in his own car only that afternoon.

  It was quite obvious what had happened: The older man had been carrying the box for the girl and had inadvertently brought it with him on getting out of the cab, and, since it contained the main ingredients of Judy’s “disguise,” David could well understand his concern if he shared her secret.

  He watched him hurry back to the doorway and glance helplessly down the now empty road. At first it seemed that he would go off in pursuit, but he changed his mind and came back past the two policemen.

  “ ’E’s pinched ’er ’andbag,” whispered Sergeant Bloomer excitedly. “I wonder——”

  David kicked him. “Don’t be an ass,” he said softly, and Bloomer was silent.

  The newcomer had now paused at the reception desk, and from where they sat they could hear his request, put forward in a pleasant, cultured voice which reminded David unaccountably of another voice he had heard lately but which he did not instantly place.

  “I’ve just made a very foolish mistake,” Mr. Birch was saying. “A lady gave me a lift back in her cab. I carried this case for her, and, like a complete idiot, I’ve brought it in with me. She’s staying at the Arcadian. Could you send a boy down with it at once?”

  The elderly bespectacled soul behind the counter looked faintly shocked.

  “It’s past ten, sir,” he said. “Nearly eleven. I’m afraid I’ve got no boys on duty now.”

  He spoke civilly but managed to convey that he regretted the guest’s unreasonableness in making such a request rather than his own inability to accommodate him.

  A faint touch of colour appeared on the older man’s cheek bones.

  “But surely there’s someone?” he said gently. “You could get me a messenger, perhaps? One of those post office people. I must send this down to th
e Arcadian immediately. It’s most important.”

  The clerk looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid there’s no one here, sir,” he said firmly. “It’s very late, you see.” He added, glancing meaningly towards the door: “It’s a very fine night, sir.”

  The inference was very clear, and Mr. Birch’s colour deepened as in his brown eyes there appeared an inexplicable embarrassment.

  “Er—yes,” he said. “Yes, it is. But I don’t think I’ll go myself.”

  Matters seemed to have come to an impasse. The clerk was anxious to be polite but determined not to be helpful, and the old man stood hesitating.

  David rose impulsively. He had come to see Johnny Deane, it was true, but Deane could wait. After all, was there not Bloomer to keep an eye on him? While here, thrust into his very hands, was an opportunity to obtain the one thing that in his heart he wanted most in the world: five minutes’ private conversation with Judy, minutes in which to explain.

  He stepped forward.

  “Excuse me,” he said smiling, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your difficulty. I’m staying at the Arcadian myself. I came up here for a few minutes’ conversation with a friend—” his glance indicated the ex-sergeant, who swelled visibly with pride at the description—”and I’m going back there now. I should be delighted to take anything back for you, if I may.”

  Birch turned to him. David’s voice and appearance were completely convincing, and the older man smiled. His gratitude and relief were quite extraordinary, and in spite of the very questionable introduction he had had to him, David felt a genuine liking for the man.

  “That’s really extremely kind of you, my dear sir,” he said eagerly. “If you wouldn’t mind handing this case in at the office at the Arcadian and having it sent up to Miss Judy Wellington, I should be extremely grateful. I’m afraid the poor child may be lost without it.”

  The quiet, cultured voice again struck a chord in David’s memory, but it was so disconcerting to find that the sound of Judy’s name on a stranger’s lips gave him an altogether unaccountable thrill that he gave the similarity no further thought.