Then he found himself looking at that rough map they’d drawn for him at the police station earlier in the day. His eye ran along that main thoroughfare—first shop, second shop . . . post office! Had that anything to do with it? Was it a letter Fewne had received? If so, it must have been poste restante.
He hopped up, grabbed his hat and coat, and fairly scurried along the High Street. At the post office he saw the postmaster and said his little piece. This time his credentials were checked before inquiries were made.
“No, sir. Nobody of that name.”
“On neither Monday nor Tuesday?”
“No, sir. Neither day.”
Travers thanked him and was turning away. Then he realized the mistake he’d made.
“Oh, it’s possible he didn’t give his name as ‘Fewne.’ Would you mind checking it again for the Monday only? He was a very quiet-spoken man; charming manner and voice; and he had on a felt hat and grey overcoat.”
The photo was taken again, and this time there was a bit of luck. According to the assistant, the gentleman had given the name of Alveston—D. Alveston—and had taken over a foolscap envelope bearing that name. Travers was delighted. Fewne had given two thirds of his name—D. Alveston Fewne—and had taken over what was presumably a business letter. And he hadn’t returned to the hotel to read it. Then where had he read it? Probably in a tea shop. Then would he go forward or back? Undoubtedly forward—or else he’d have gone the whole way back to the hotel.
Again he was lucky. Fifty yards beyond the post office was the sort of place Fewne would choose; through the window one could see spotless coloured tea cloths, flowers, and basket chairs. The proprietress told a story that confirmed his new hypothesis. The gentleman had come in—it was dusk at the time—and had ordered teacake and a pot of China tea. She had taken the order personally, and just as she re-entered the room, some five minutes after, she was in time to see him rush from the room without his hat; his expression one that positively scared her. She’d set down the tray and hurried to the door but was far too late. What she did therefore was to give a boy a penny and tell him to hurry after the gentleman with the hat. When she returned to the shop she thought she’d done a foolish thing. The gentleman might have gone out, leaving his hat, because he’d seen a friend pass. However, he hadn’t returned; and that, in fact, was the last she’d seen of him.
It was a trifle early, but Travers ordered some tea and cake and sat there for some time, trying to recreate the atmosphere. But that was hopeless. However well the trail of Fewne had been followed, the fact remained that the end was a cul de sac. Fewne’s brainstorm had been due to that letter—that was a reasonable assumption—but to discover either who had sent it or what had been its contents was quite a different matter. There had been no trace of it in the pagoda—either in the desk or in his pockets.
But what else might be reasonably deduced? He jotted down every idea that seemed anyhow relevant and arrived at the following: The letter had come from somewhere which was a day and a half’s post—or half a day’s post. Fewne had expected it to be at the post office in the afternoon and not in the morning. That was why he had left for Folkestone after lunch on a winter’s day.
Very well, then. Fewne had known he was going to be in Folkestone that Monday, and he’d had the letter sent there. But why all the secrecy? Why send it to Folkestone—and under an assumed name? And it was presumably a business letter. Now surely that meant that the sender couldn’t be aware of Fewne’s real name—and had been given his instructions orally? Such instructions couldn’t have been given in writing, under his real name and from the Little Levington address. And when had Fewne had an opportunity of giving anybody such oral instructions? Surely only in London the previous Saturday! The thing to do, then, was to trace his movements from the time he’d left the Isis Club. He might even have spoken of his intentions to the secretary or someone he knew. And if the letter had been posted from London very late on the Sunday night, it couldn’t have reached Folkestone before Fewne expected it. Travers gave a nod of satisfaction. The logic seemed sound; in any case, the matter was worth a trial. London, therefore, seemed to be the order—and at once!
He called again at the police station before he left. A further idea had occurred to him. That theory of Braishe’s might as well be inquired into. If Fewne had cut the telephone—and Travers was pretty sure he hadn’t—then he must have had the necessary pliers. True, he might have got them from the garage, on that occasion when he’d been seen coming from there in the absence of Bruce; but then again he might not.
“Keep the photos for a bit,” he told the superintendent. “And could one of your men make inquiries as to whether he bought a pair of pliers or wire cutters? On the Tuesday, that’d be.”
It was about half-past four when he left in the Isotta, driving at what was, for him, a snail’s pace. The roads were treacherous, and he wanted to think rather than concentrate. Once more he reviewed the day’s doings, step by step; then tried to correlate them with problems that were still unsolved. Why, for instance, had Fewne, at the very end of his novel, wasted a day on going to London, another on his return, and so on, all without a word being written? Then suddenly Travers clicked his tongue in annoyance. One big mistake had been made. Suppose it had been something in The Times that Fewne had seen—the thing, perhaps, that he’d made Isabel Lake see—then it hadn’t been in the Saturday’s issue that he’d seen it, but the Friday’s; since those final words must have been written on the Friday. On the Saturday Fewne had had no time to see The Times before he’d left for town. In that case Pollock ought to have been asked for the issues beginning with the Friday. However, that could soon be put right by a check through The Times files at the club.
Travers instinctively trod on the accelerator. Then came another idea, so startling that he let the car slow to a standstill. Preposterous, of course! Fewne would never do a thing like that! And yet . . . but The Times would solve that problem, too. Travers set her going again, and this time the car really travelled. As soon as he drew up before the club steps he found himself darting up the stairs like a man possessed.
CHAPTER XX
THE DEAD SPEAK
TRAVERS was up too early the following morning, after one of those nights when, afraid of over-sleeping, one wakes at all hours. In the smoke room after breakfast he still found himself with an hour to spend before he could test these overnight discoveries. Not that they promised too well; they were far too nebulous for that.
First had come that wonder whether after all Franklin’s suggestion—and his own—had been right. Would a man like Fewne—sensitive, one to whom the least crudeness or vulgarity would be abhorrent—have contemplated for his heroine so drastic a solution as the employment of a private detective agency? Isabel Lake might, perhaps, have done such a thing through ignorance—or through a sudden whim caused by a glimpse of an advertisement. And the fact remained, recorded in Fewne’s own words, that whatever it was that Isabel Lake had intended to do, it had been a sudden glance at The Times that had prompted the resolve.
The Times of the Friday week had, moreover, two such advertisements.
THRING & MABBERLEY 33a, Gt. Took St., undertake confidential inquiry work of all kinds. Tact and discretion guaranteed. First-class references. Phone. Cav. 4336.
BEWLAY’S DETECTIVE AGENCY, 173 Courthope Sq., W.C. 2, undertake confidential inquiries and detective work of all kinds. Blackmail a specialty. Consultations free. Phone Oxford 1145.
Of these the former seemed much the more likely. There was about it an air of respectability and solidity that might have appealed to Fewne and his heroine. In any case, there’d be no harm in making a few discreet inquiries.
The second discovery was a link with the first and arose out of the same issue of The Times. He had hunted it through for anything which by its literary bearing might have attracted Fewne’s attention, and once more found nothing which might have prompted a dying man to make a last desperate and eve
n frenzied attempt to write a letter. Travers was deciding, indeed, that The Times was not the source of Fewne’s impulse, when the juxtaposition of ideas sent him off in another direction. Fewne wanted to write a letter. Then what of the correspondence in the paper?
There one thing struck him as decidedly unusual—though its interest for Fewne was none too apparent. A senior officer of the C. I. D. had written a letter which, to a novelist, must have been rather intriguing in its references to fidelity and craftsmanship. And Braishe had been under the impression that Fewne had been worrying about local colour. After that, of course, the sequence was plain. What local colour was Fewne not exactly sure of? Surely—and Travers had to smile at the idea—the office of a private inquiry agent was the last thing in the world with which he was likely to be acquainted. And if so, why shouldn’t Fewne, after reading that letter, have been determined to be sure of his local colour by paying a visit to—say—Thring & Mabberley?
The whole idea arrived so spontaneously that Travers trifled with it for some time before rejecting it. Then he toyed with it again. After all, it was a perfectly good theory—with one flaw only. It didn’t explain why Fewne was so pathetically eager—even in the last moments of his breakdown—to write a letter himself to the editor of The Times. But then, as he consoled himself, that could be explained later, if the examination of the theory warranted it. The whole thing was so hopelessly vague. Fewne probably hadn’t visited the offices of any inquiry agent, whereupon the business could be abandoned straightaway.
Next came the reading of the inquest reports, with nothing at all electrifying. As far as Travers could see, Wharton hadn’t made Braishe commit himself; in other words, there was nothing in print to show Crashaw as proof that Braishe had broken his part of the contract. Then Wharton most likely had some other statement with which to confront Crashaw. One of the pair would soon be realizing that he was being driven into a corner, and whoever realized it first would be bound to incriminate the other. What the hold was that Crashaw had over Braishe, Travers had a shrewd idea. He knew—he was almost certain he knew—what Crashaw had heard in the night. The problem, and an infinitely more important one, was what Crashaw had seen. And if Braishe was shielding somebody else, there was a short cut which would be only too apparent to Wharton—to get that somebody to speak.
Travers had no difficulty in discovering the offices of Messrs. Thring & Mabberley. The clerk took in his card and was back in a minute.
“Mr. Mabberley will see you, sir.”
He found himself in the presence of a dapper-looking man, obviously as shrewd as they make ’em. His clothes and the room were much of a muchness—both severely “city.” The first thing Travers really spotted was that his name had been recognized, and, he rather suspected, his face too. Mabberley stood tapping the card on his fingernails as he gave the conventional welcome.
Travers gave his best smile. “Sorry to be a nuisance to you, Mr. Mabberley, but I’m here on behalf of Scotland Yard. Just a trifling matter.” He produced the photo. “Did this gentleman by any chance make a professional call on you, say, last Saturday week? Everything in strictest confidence, of course.”
The other took the photo. At the first look his face changed so curiously as to be almost comical. Then with an, “Excuse me!” he went over to the desk and picked up a copy of the Daily Record. Travers wondered why, till he remembered the inquest report and the photo of Fewne on the front page. Then, with the realization he had a sudden feeling of elation which went as soon as it came, and left behind it a vague foreboding. As he watched Mabberley comparing the two photos his heart started to race like a mad thing.
The inquiry agent gave a quick look, nodded, then consulted a card index. In half a minute he was waving Travers to a seat and brandishing a small foolscap dossier.
“Now, Mr. Travers; am I correct in saying the photo you showed me was that of Mr. Denis Fewne?”
“That’s right. The one who died suddenly a day or two ago. I was down there at the time.”
“Really! A friend of yours, may I ask?”
“Not precisely. We were members of the same house party. I knew him pretty well, of course.”
“And why exactly do you want the information?” Travers smiled. “Scotland Yard want the information. I’m merely a special emissary who happens to be making inquiries along certain lines. You and I can talk the whole thing over here and now, or, if you prefer it, you can come round to the Yard. In any case, I expect you’ll want to check my bona fides.”
“Oh, no!” Mabberley nodded briskly. “Not in your case, Mr. Travers.” He passed over the cigarettes, lighted one himself, and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll take your word as man to man about the confidential nature of this affair. It was a funny thing, you know, you showing me that photo! I saw the picture in the Record this morning, and I kept saying to myself, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that chap somewhere before!”’
“It’s a very bad photo,” said Travers. “Probably an old one resurrected.”
“And he didn’t come here under the name of Fewne.”
Travers smiled apologetically. “Mr. Mabberley, you’re keeping a hungry man smelling a meal! Tell me all about it—all he did and everything!”
“Quite so! Well, it was on the Saturday at about eleven-thirty he came here. Usually I shouldn’t have been here myself on a Saturday—just after Christmas, too—only I did happen to be here at the time. My clerk said a Mr. Alveston would like to see me, so I said, ‘Bring him in!’ and—er—he came in. Perfectly charming man he seemed to be; most delightful voice and manner, but very shy and—well, nervy. I don’t mind telling you I put him down as an author—highbrow, probably—and I wasn’t far out, though I didn’t think so when I looked him up and couldn’t find his name.”
Travers nodded. “Excellent shot, as you say!”
“Yes. . . . Well, I spoke to him as usual; you know, ‘What can I do for you,’ and all that, and all the time his eyes kept going round this room. Then he caught my eye and apologized; said it was all very novel and interesting. Then he asked if we watched people, and I said of course we did; that was what we were here for. Then he sort of hemmed and hawed and hesitated. Between ourselves I thought he didn’t like coming up to the scratch; you know, all very infra dig. and so on, so I assured him everything’d be very confidential, and we’d guarantee tact and secrecy. Also I rather hinted at divorce proceedings, because that was what I guessed he was driving at. However, he assured me it wasn’t that; matter of fact, he seemed to think that idea rather funny. Then he said, ‘Could you watch somebody and give me a report?’
“I said most decidedly we could, and got out my pad ready to write. I said, ‘What name?’ Oh!’ he said, ‘Alveston, D. Alveston!’ So I said, ‘Not your name! The name of the person you want to have watched.’ Then he sort of dried up again, as if he was doing a bit of hard thinking. I was watching his face pretty closely at the time to see if I could gather anything; then all at once he gave a funny sort of smile as if he was tickled to death with something. Then he said, ‘Oh! it’s a Mr.—’” Mabberley broke off to consult the notes—‘“a Mr. Braishe. Martin Braishe. He’ll be at the Isis Club at twelve-thirty probably, but he’s now at the Colonial Office.’ I asked him to describe personal appearance and so on; then I hopped up to set a man going, as there wasn’t any too much time. When I got back he was still here. He said, ‘I want a report—the barest outline will do—up to to-morrow at midday, and when can I have it?’ Then we arranged about getting it off on the Sunday night and where it was to go to—”
“Poste restante y Folkestone.”
“That’s right!”
“And you told him it wouldn’t get there till the afternoon.”
“I did.”
Travers nodded. “Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Mabberley. Carry on, please.”
“Well, that’s all there is to it. He paid a tenner on account and promised to look in after he got the report, and pay or receive the balance ei
ther way.”
“Quite! I’d like to congratulate you, if I may. Your memory’s perfectly marvellous.”
The other smiled and shook his head. “We have to remember things in this office—and form rapid decisions. Merely habit.”
“You’re too modest,” said Travers. “And this report. Have you a copy handy?” He left the rest unsaid. Not only was Mabberley paying no attention; he was turning over the typewritten pages of the report with a concentration that was of far greater moment. Then he grabbed the paper and ran his eyes staringly over that. When he finally leaned back again in his chair it was to let out a deep breath.
“This is going to be a bad business, Mr. Travers!”
“It is!” said Travers. “An extraordinarily bad business!”
Mabberley’s face showed every sign of annoyance and alarm.
“Can’t make out why I didn’t spot it! But of course you’ll understand it was merely a routine case for us; sort of thing that happens every day. I couldn’t be expected, really—”
“Of course you couldn’t!” said Travers consolingly “Er—may I see the report?”
The other hesitated tantalizingly. “Yes . . . I think you might see it. It looks as if it might cost this man Braishe his life. I mean, I suppose she was the woman?”
Travers nodded—and held out his hand. As he sat reading the three or four quarto sheets Mabberley watched him. He read stolidly through, with never a comment, but when he’d handed back the tiny file he sat for a good minute like a man who’s had a sudden and extraordinary blow. It was only when Mabberley spoke, that he roused himself.
“I take it this man Braishe killed Mirabel Quest?”
Travers looked at him. “But why should Braishe want to kill her, even if Fewne did know—” He broke off. No reason whatever for Mabberley to know everything. And Fewne was dead—and Mirable Quest as well.
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