“Can you tell me anything more about the lady named Craig?” asked Harrison.
“All I know is that she hasn’t got any better, and has bouts of sheer terror when she thinks the devil is really after her.”
“And that’s your Freudian theory?”
“Pretty obvious, I should say. To put it quite bluntly, she misbehaved when she was younger and wrecked her nerves in the process. Now she’s thoroughly ashamed of it and the old remorse complex has got the upper hand.”
“Very glib, my friend,” said Harrison.
“Come, come, Harrison,” returned Peary, somewhat stung by the comment. “The fact that she thinks it the devil proves it. Her old religious training does that. It’s a perfect case.”
“Suppose she had really seen the devil?” asked Harrison, quietly.
Peary collapsed in his chair. “My dear old man,” he said, “you are not surely going to drag the supernatural into it. I never thought I should live to hear you say a thing like that.”
“I’m not dragging in the supernatural. I’m talking common sense.”
“My dear Harrison, is there anything wrong with you?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Peary,” said Harrison, somewhat sharply. “You claim to have a logical brain. You’re supposed to make money because you see the implication of facts when others miss them. You’re supposed to have a knowledge of human nature which makes you a success in criminal cases, and yet you dare to talk all this Freudian balderdash as if you were convinced yourself.”
“Steady on, Harrison,” said the other, “I think it is pretty convincing.”
“Think again, then,” said Harrison. “That list you have been looking at contains the name of Helen Fennel.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t anything strike you now?”
“No.”
“But you told me the story yourself.”
“Good lord,” cried Peary. “What a fool I am. Tommy Fennel’s assailant who looked like the devil.”
“Exactly,” said Harrison. “My dear Peary, that was very slow of you.”
“But I don’t get you, Harrison,” said Peary. “You’re not really suggesting witchcraft.”
“I’m not suggesting anything,’ was the answer, “except that I am surprised when you see two names on one list both connected, in common report at any rate, with a certain sinister personage, you don’t spot the coincidence.”
“But what does your list mean?” asked Peary. “Sorry, Peary, but that’s one thing I can’t tell you for the present,” answered Harrison, and he signalled to Hillyard to join them.
“I know I oughtn’t to worry you, Mr. Harrison,” said Hillyard, approaching with diffidence, “and I expect Peary here had been able to tell Tim how things are going, but I can’t help being a bit anxious myself. I dragged you into it, you know, and I would like to know if you have discovered anything.”
“I’m afraid I’ve no actual progress to report, Hillyard,” said Harrison, “but I feel convinced I’m on the right trail.”
“That’s splendid,” was the enthusiastic reply; “I was it certain you could do it.”
“One point you may be able to help me on,” Harrison went on.
“Anything if I really can be of use to you.”
“Only one question, but rather an important one,” said Harrison, and then, with a look at Peary, “but don’t ask me for an explanation. As you can imagine, I have my own reasons for asking it.”
“I shouldn’t think of worrying you like that, Mr. Harrison,” said Hillyard with great feeling, not noticing the look the other two men gave one another at his answer.
“Was Mrs. Norton friendly with a lady named Betty Craig?” asked Harrison, slowly.
“Oh yes, very,” replied Hillyard, and then hesitated.
“Was she distressed by her illness?”
“You know what happened to Mrs. Craig?” asked the younger man.
“I do.”
“In that case, it’s more easy for me to talk. Sybil watched Betty get steadily worse,” said Hillyard. “I know she tried to help her as far as she could. Indeed, she visited her when most of her friends had given it up as a bad job.”
“So there is no doubt whatever she would know from what Mrs. Craig was suffering?”
“Poor Sybil,” answered Hillyard, “I’m afraid she couldn’t avoid it.”
“Thank you, Hillyard,” said Harrison, warmly. “You’ve been extremely helpful.”
The young man smiled with pleasure and then, realising that he had been given the signal for departure, disappeared in confusion.
“Your sleeve seems to be tolerably full, Harrison,” said Peary, “but I’m blest if I can imagine what is coming out of the hat.”
“Your turn, now,” said Harrison, grimly.
“My turn?”
“Yes, are you doing anything tomorrow morning?”
“Nothing in court. A good deal in chambers.”
“Can you put it off?”
“If worth while. Why?”
“I want you to collect a lady for me,” said Harrison.
“Young and beautiful?”
“I’ve no idea, Peary.”
“Doesn’t sound worth while, then.”
“I can’t do it myself. Nor can Henry, and certainly Eric’s out of the question,” said Harrison. “I shall be more than grateful if you will take it on.”
“What’s she like?”
“I don’t know myself.”
“I suppose you don’t even know her name?” asked Peary.
“Oh, yes,” answered Harrison. “She’s one of the last on the list I showed you. Martha Packard.”
“What a revolting name,” commented Peary.
“Will you do it?”
“Anything to help you, of course, Harrison, but I don’t see how I can collect the said Martha Packard if neither of bus has any idea what she’s like.”
“She has an appointment with a firm of solicitors named Bonnington, Cardew and Bonnington,” answered Harrison. “At eleven o’clock. All you have to do is to be round about their doorway—about half-past ten would give a margin of safety—and ask the lady to come along with you.”
“A nice little job for a respectable criminal barrister, I must say,” said Peary.
“You will spot her all right. I expect it is her first visit, and she’s sure to look around to see if she’s found the right place. That will give you your clue. It’s important, first that she doesn’t see the people she is going to see, and second, that she should see me.”
“You’re in earnest?”
“Absolutely.”
“Suppose she doesn’t want to come with me?”
“I leave that to you, Peary. That’s why I asked you. You’ll be able to persuade her, if anybody can.”
“It’s a queer job, Harrison, but I believe you’ve got something at the back of that old head of yours, so I’ll deliver without fail.”
“Great man,” said Harrison. “Now I must be off.”
“Just one question before you go, my lad,” said Peary, with a huge smile. “Am I to assume that you are protecting Martha from the devil?”
“Precisely,” said Harrison, seriously.
Peary’s smile faded with remarkable speed as he watched Harrison depart. The latter hailed a taxicab outside the club and was soon ringing the bell of the small suburban home occupied by Henry and his mother.
The door was opened by Henry himself who, schooled as he was to the concealment of his feelings, found it difficult not to show some surprise when he found his master on the doorstep. He invited him inside, however, in a tone which implied it to be an everyday occurrence.
Settling Harrison in an easy chair in a diminutive “drawing-room,” Henry announced that he would prepare some tea.
“Where is your mother, Henry?” asked Harrison.
“Gone to the pictures,” was the answer. Harrison tactfully expressed his surprise, knowing the lady to be of serious mien
and increasing years even though a bright twinkle could often be detected in her wise eyes.
“Most unusual, sir,” said Henry. “She doesn’t like them much, but there’s a fellow called Eddie Cantor makes her laugh, sir. Says her funeral hadn’t better pass a cinema where he is being shown or she’ll pop out of the hearse and go in. He’s on at our local place and so off she has gone with a friend.”
Harrison laughed at what Henry thought was rather a damaging domestic admission. The tea was soon procured, and Henry waited for an explanation of the visit.
“It’s the turning point, Henry,” Harrison explained. “I had to come, out of fairness to you. Besides, I want to know what you think.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Harrison thereupon recounted what he had gathered at the Fountain Club and the results of Peary’s study of the list of Bonnington’s callers.
“I’m sorry my notes are at the chambers, sir,” said Henry.
“I think we can get on without them, Henry,” answered Harrison. “We haven’t had very much to go on up to the present. All the time I have inclined to the blackmail theory, as you know, and this settles it. Here we have three women. One goes mad, the second commits suicide, and the third is obviously scared out of the country, and all their names appear as clients at the same solicitor’s office within the last year. The coincidence is strong. But more than that, one of them has gone mad with fright, talks of having seen the devil. Another has her husband attacked by someone alleged to be the devil. We know nothing about Sybil Norton except that some very powerful motive was needed to force her to take her own life. The most powerful motive of all is fear.”
“But the devil, sir,” protested Henry. “This is the twentieth century.”
‘‘I know, Henry.”
“A blackmailer using witchcraft, sir, it isn’t believable?”
“Of course it isn’t, Henry. First of all let us assume it blackmail. Sybil Norton’s old letters were being used to it extort money from her, we feel pretty sure of that. Mrs. Craig had led a pretty bright life before she settled down. It is very likely that she, too, had some episode or even episodes in her past she would prefer to keep decently covered. Lady Fennel is a woman in an outstanding social position. As far as we know, there is no breath of scandal about her. Still she is very vulnerable, more than the ordinary person, isn’t she? And the flight suggests that there is something queer in her case, too.”
“That sounds right, sir.”
“Of course, we can test the whole thing by Martha Packard. If she is in a similar plight and wishes to conceal something or other which might now bring her into discredit, then I think we can presume the whole of this argument proved.”
“Yes, sir. And the devil?”
“Oh yes, the devil, Henry. By the way, what about our little friend of the Oriental surroundings, Miss Dorice Locket?”
“What about her, sir?”
“We agree that she was exceedingly frightened about something, a fear which never left her and which she could hardly control and certainly not conceal. Indeed, Henry, panic terror more than fear.”
“The devil again, sir?”
“Certainly,” answered Harrison. “Why not?”
“I give it up, sir,” said Henry, feebly.
“Give up the riddle just as we are beginning to see the answer, Henry? That’s not like you. This is what I expected you to say to me. We now know that we are up against a tough proposition or, in other words, a man of great skill and cunning. I say man because this preying on women is definitely masculine. He is organising blackmail with the greatest attention to detail and a certain amount of originality. He has obviously thought the whole business out with amazing ingenuity. Indeed he must have made a specialised research into blackmail. He has seen that the old methods are a bit crude and not a little dangerous. The law has helped victims of this kind of crime recently to come forward without publicity—”
“And the women he has chosen are the type who would have been likely to have done that, sir,” broke in Henry, excitedly.
“Quite,” said Harrison. “So he has had to improve on the old methods. Fear of publicity isn’t strong enough. That’s how he must have argued. So he has added another kind of fear to assist in his extortions.”
“That’s great, sir,” cried Henry. “That must be right.”
“Quite seriously, Henry, I don’t believe that a blackmailer would also be a genuine magician. It doesn’t ring true. All we know at present is that the man we’re after has found a remarkable way of frightening his victims, so much so that the devil has been mentioned twice in connection with it.”
“That’s progress, at any rate, sir,” commented Henry.
“It’s our first trail, Henry,” answered Harrison; “but the end of it puzzles me.”
“Why, sir?”
“Henry,” asked Harrison, “isn’t it conceivable that a solicitor would be just the sort of type to make a specialised research into the subject of blackmail?”
“Nothing easier, sir.”
“Who was the last person to telephone to Mrs. Norton?”
“Bonnington, sir.”
“On whose list of callers are the three women we have been discussing?”
“Bonnington’s, sir.”
“Who has done what he could to interfere with my inquiries?”
“Bonnington again.”
“You see, Henry,” went on Harrison, “at every stage the first trail leads to Bonnington.”
“No doubt of that, sir,” said Henry. “It all fits in, and yet I can hardly believe it.”
“That’s the trouble, Henry,” said Harrison, slowly, “I can’t believe it myself.”
II
The Second Trail
Chapter XIII
Martha Packard In Trouble
If names and personalities occasionally coincide, thought Harrison, Martha Packard may be considered an excellent example, as the lady of that name was introduced to him by a somewhat harassed-looking Peary. She was middle-aged and buxom, with little pretension to good looks, carelessly dressed, and with wisps of greying fair hair escaping from a quite unsuitable hat. “Well, here we are,” said Peary, with an effort at cheerfulness.
“I should think so, too,” snapped the lady, indignantly. “Mr. Bonnington might have had the manner to see me at his own office when he has made an appointment for me.” She turned to Harrison and added, “You are Mr. Bonnington, I presume?”
“I am afraid not,” was the reply.
“Then you must be Mr. Cardew,” said the lady.
“I am afraid not, either,” said Harrison. “My name is Clay Harrison.”
“But you said—” The lady turned angrily to Peary.
“I know,” answered the barrister. “We thought it was the easiest way to get you here.”
“Get me here?” she repeated, in still angrier tones. “You said you were taking me to Mr. Bonnington. Very well, I will thank you to do so.”
“I think you had better wait and hear what Mr. Harrison has to say,” returned Peary.
“Certainly not,” she answered. “Please get away from that door. You are a couple of gangsters, anyone can see that, but you won’t frighten me.”
“We are not trying to frighten you,” said Harrison, “although we know that other people are trying to.”
“No one can frighten me,” answered the lady, although the quivering of her mouth belied her statement.
“In fact,” Harrison went on, “my friend here, Mr. Walter Peary—his right name, too—brought you here for your own good.”
“Whatever his name is I can judge my own good for myself.”
“Can you?” asked Harrison.
“I certainly can,” was the definite reply. “Let me go at once or—”
“Or what?” asked Harrison, blandly.
“I shall call the police.”
“You might find that very difficult,” said Harrison. “Still if you must go, I’m not going to
stop you. I would, however, like you to know that your two gangsters are Mr. Walter Peary, a well-known criminal barrister, and. myself, Clay Harrison, a detective in a private way, inquiry agent or whatever else may strike you as a fitting name for such a profession.”
The lady looked intently at each in turn, obviously somewhat undecided, but her indignation seemed to get the upper hand, for she grasped her handbag with grim firmness and moved towards the door. Suddenly she turned and said, in a much more subdued tone, “What do you know?”
“We know that your name is Martha Packard,” answered Harrison, “but not whether it is Miss or Mrs. And that is about all.”
“I thought as much,” said Martha Packard, with hard sarcasm in her tone, “just trying to bluff me.”
“Trying to help you, really,” replied Harrison. “I was telling you only what we know. What we guess is a different matter, but possibly you would like to know that also. We guess that you are afraid of some kind of blackmail.”
Peary looked with surprise at Harrison, and then with even more surprise at Martha Packard, whose cheeks had taken on a green colour. Peary managed to grip her arm firmly as she began to sway, her handbag dropping to the floor. He manoeuvred her to a chair and helped her drink from a glass of water which Harrison handed to him.
“I apologise for being so foolish,” she said, weakly, after a few moments. “My nerves seem to have gone to pieces.”
“We are sorry for you, said Harrison, “we really want to help you.”
“You mean that?” she asked, in a pathetically eager tone.
“Of course.”
“If I could be certain I could trust you,” she said, almost to herself.
“Many people have thanked their stars that they trusted Clay Harrison,” said Peary, solemnly.
“You are a detective, you say?” asked Martha Packard.
“One of the greatest,” said Peary.
“But why take me away from Bonnington’s?” she asked, still not quite convinced.
“For the simple reason,” answered Harrison, “that I do not trust Mr. Bonnington.”
“Why not?”
“I prefer not to say, but, believe me, I have a number of very good reasons.”
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