A Mysterious Disappearance by Louis Tracy (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

be reasoning out some plan of action in a dazed fashion. When decision came she said in low tones:

“You must leave me now, Mr. Bruce. I must have time. When I am ready I shall send for you.”

He knew instinctively that it was hopeless to plead with her. Frivolous, volatile women of her stamp often betray unusual strength of character in a supreme crisis.

“You are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.

“Maybe. But I must be alone. I am not deceiving you. When I have determined something which is not now clear to me, I will send for you. It may be that I shall speak. It may be that I shall be silent. In either case I only can judge—and suffer.”

“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before we part. Did you know of Lady Dyke’s death before to-day?”

She came to him and looked him straight in the face, and said: “I did not. On my soul, I did not.”

Then he passed into the hall; and even the shock of this painful interview did not prevent him from noting the flitting of a shadow past a distant doorway, as some one hurried into the interior of a room.

In their excitement they forgot that their voices might attract attention, and ladies’ maids are proverbially inquisitive.

CHAPTER XVI FOXEY

The keen, cold air of the streets soon restored the man to his habitual calm. He felt that a quiet stroll would do him good.

As he walked he pondered, and the more critically he examined Mrs. Hillmer’s change of attitude the less he understood it.

“For some ridiculous reason,” he communed, “the woman believes her brother guilty. Now I shall have endless trouble at getting at the truth. She will not be candid. She will only tell me that which she thinks will help him, and conceal that which she considers damaging. That is a woman’s way, all the world over. And a desperately annoying way it is. Perhaps I was to blame in springing this business too hastily upon her. But there! I like Mrs. Hillmer, and I hate using her as one juggles with a self-conceited witness. In future I shall trouble her no more.”

A casual glance into the interior of Sloane Square Station gave him a glimpse of the barrier, and he recognized the collector who had taken Lady Dyke’s ticket on that fatal night when she quitted the Richmond train.

Rather as a relief than for other cause he entered into conversation with the official.

“Do you remember me?” he said.

“Can’t say as I do, sir.” The man examined his questioner with quick suspicion. The forgotten “season” dodge would not work with him.

“Maybe you remember these?” said Bruce, producing his cigar-case.

“Now, wot’s the gyme?” said the collector to himself. But he smiled, and answered: “Do you mean by the look of ’em, sir?”

“Good!” laughed Claude. “Take three or four home with you. Meanwhile I am sure you remember me coming to see you last November concerning a lady who alighted here from Victoria one foggy evening and handed you a ticket to Richmond?”

“Of course I do, sir. And the cigars are all right. There was a lot of fuss about that lydy. Did she ever turn up?”

“Not exactly. That is to say, she died shortly after you saw her.”

“No! Well, of all the rummy goes! She was a fine-looking woman, too, as well as I rec’llect. Looked fit for another fifty year. Wot ’appened to ’er.”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“An’ ’ave you been on the ’unt ever since, guv’nor?”

“Yes, ever since.”

“She’s dead, you s’y?”

“Yes.”

“But ’ow’d you know she’s dead, if you ’ain’t seen ’er since?”

“I have seen her. I saw her dead body at Putney.”

“At Putney! Well, I’m blowed!”

A roar from beneath, the slamming of many doors, and the quick rush of a crowd up the steps, announced the arrival of a train. “Pardon, sir,” said the man, “this is the 5.41 Mansion House. But don’t go aw’y. There’s somethin’—Tickets, if you please.”

In a minute the collector had ended his task. While sorting his bundles of pasteboards he said:

“Nobody ever tell’d me that before. An’ you ain’t the only one on ’er track. Are you in the police?”

“No.”

“I thought not. But some other chaps who kem ’ere was. None of ’em ever said the lydy was dead.”

“Why; what matter?”

“Oh, nothin’, but two ’eads is better’n one, if they’re only sheep’s ’eads.”

“Undoubtedly. The rule is all the more reliable when one of them belongs to a shrewd chap like you.”

The collector grinned. He understood that he was being flattered for a purpose, yet he liked it.

“That’s one w’y of lookin’ at it,” he said, “but if this affair’s pertickler, why, all I can s’y is it’s worth somethin’ to somebody.”

“Certainly. Here’s a sovereign for a start. If you can tell me anything really worth knowing I will add four more to it.”

“Now, that’s talkin’. I’m off duty at eight o’clock, an’ I can’t ’ave a chat now because I expect the inspector any minute.”

“Suppose you call and see me in Victoria Street at nine?”

“Right you are, sir.”

Bruce gave the man his address and recrossed the square. Few people were abroad, so he walked straight to the first door of Raleigh Mansions and made his way to the fourth floor.

Had he been a moment later he must have seen Mrs. Hillmer, closely wrapped up, leave her residence unattended. Her carriage was not in waiting. She walked to the cabstand in the square and called a hansom, driving back up Sloane Street.

Her actions indicated a desire to be unobserved even by her servants, as in the usual course of events the housemaid would have brought a cab to the door.

But the barrister, steadily climbing up the stairs, could not guess what was happening in the street. He soon opened Mensmore’s door, and noted, as an idle fact, that the expected gust of cold air was absent.

There was no light on this landing, so he was in pitch darkness once he had passed the doorway. There was no need to strike a match, however, as he remembered the exact position of the electric switchboard—on the left beyond the dining-room door.

He stepped cautiously forward, and stretched forth his hand to grope for the lever. With a quick rush, some two or three assailants flung themselves upon him, and after a fierce, gasping struggle—for Bruce was a strong man—he was borne to the floor face downwards, with one arm beneath him and the other pinioned behind his back.

“Look sharp, Jim,” shouted a breathless voice. “Turn on the light and close the door. We’ve got him safe enough.”

They had. Two large hands were clutched round his neck, a knee was firmly embedded in the small of his back, another hand gripped his left wrist like a vice, while some one sat on his legs.

He could not have been collared more effectually by a Rugby International team.

The third man found the electric light and turned it on.

“Now, get up,” said some one, “and don’t give us any more trouble. It’s no use.”

The barrister, who had had his wind knocked out of him, rose to his knees. Then, as the light fell upon the horrified face of Mr. White, he vainly essayed to keep up the pretence of indignation. Once fairly on his feet, he nearly collapsed with laughter. He leaned against the wall, and, as his breath came again, he laughed until his sides ached.

Meanwhile the detective was crimson with rage and annoyance. His two assistants did not know what to make of the affair.

“What’s wrong, Jim?” said one at last. “Isn’t this Corbett?”

“No, of course it’s not,” was his angry growl.

“Then who the —— is it?”

“Oh, ask me another! How on earth could I guess, Mr. Bruce, that you’d come letting yourself in here with a latchkey?”

Claude was still holding his sore ribs and could not answer; but the policeman who had questioned White caught the name. He recognized it, and grinned at his companion.

“What did you want here, anyhow?” snarled the infuriated detective, as he realized that his great coup would be retailed with embellishments through every police station in the metropolis.

“I w-wanted you to ar-r-rest me, W-White,” roared Claude. “I s-said you would, and you have.”

“Confound it, how could you know I was here?”

“You were sure to wait here for a man who probably will not return for months.”

“Was I, indeed? Well, you have yourself to blame if you are hurt. I hope my mates did not treat you too badly?”

“What?” cried the one who had not yet spoken. “He gave me such a punch on the bread-basket that I’ve only just recovered my speech.”

“I think we’re about quits,” said the other, surveying a torn waistcoat and broken watch-chain.

“I shall be black and blue all over to-morrow,” said Bruce; “but if you are satisfied I am. Come, Mr. White, bring your friends and we will open a bottle of wine. We all want it. Corbett won’t be here to-night. Just now he is in Wyoming.”

“How do you know?”

“By intuition. I am seldom mistaken.”

“But why didn’t you call out just now when you came in?”

“I hadn’t a chance. You were on me like a thousand of bricks. I must confess that if Corbett were in my shoes he would be a doomed man.”

White didn’t know whether to believe Bruce or not. He was genuinely angry at the incident, but the barrister did not want to convert him into an enemy, and he vaguely felt that a catastrophe was imminent, and a false move by the police might do irretrievable mischief.

“Well, inspector,” he said, “I must confess that this time you have got the better of me. I did not know you were here. I looked in for the purpose of quietly studying the ground, as it were, and I was never more taken by surprise in my life. Moreover, your plan was a very clever one, in view of the fact that Corbett might return at any moment.”

The detective became more amiable at this praise from the famous amateur, for Bruce’s achievements were well known to his two colleagues.

“I suppose you wondered what had happened,” he said with a smile.

“I thought my last hour had come. I am only sorry that Corbett himself did not have the experience.”

“Do you really believe he is in the States, sir?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Then he must have returned there since he wrote that letter.”

“That is the only solution of the difficulty.”

“Hum. It’s a pity.”

“Why?”

“I would sooner prefer to arrest him on this side. To get him by extradition is a slow affair, and probably means a trip across the Atlantic.”

Good-humor being now restored, the party quitted the flat and adjourned to a neighboring hotel, where the barrister started White on the full, true, and particular account of his pursuit and capture of the Winchmore Hill burglars, an exploit which was the pride of the detective’s life.

At the end of a bottle of champagne and a cigar they all parted excellent friends, but Bruce did not attempt to revisit Raleigh Mansions that night.

Instead, he partook of a quiet meal at a restaurant, and hurried to his chambers to await the advent of the ticket-collector.

Punctual to the hour, this new witness arrived, and was admitted by Smith in obedience with previous instructions. The man was somewhat awed by the surroundings and the appearance of a servant in livery, but Bruce quickly put him at his ease.

“Come, sit near the fire. Do you drink whisky and soda? That box contains your favorite cigars. Now, tell me all you know about this business.”

“I can’t s’y as I know anythink about it, sir, but by puttin’ two and two together it makes four sometimes—not always.”

“Quite right. You’re a philosopher. Let me hear the two two’s. We will see about