The Charing Cross Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📕

that clerk of yours discovers about this man. There may be something in it⁠—in the meantime I’m hard at work on my own clues.”

“Any luck?” asked Hetherwick.

“Scarcely that. But, as I say, we’re at work. The five-pound note is a difficult matter. Given in change, of course, at Vivian’s Night Club⁠—but they tell me there that it’s no uncommon thing to change ten, twenty, and even fifty-pound notes for their customers⁠—it’s a swell lot who forgather there⁠—and of course they’ve no recollection whatever about that particular note or night. Still, the fact remains⁠—that note came through Vivian’s, and through one of its frequenters, to Granett, and I’m in hopes.”

“And the medicine bottle?” suggested Hetherwick.

“Ah, there is more chance!” responded Matherfield, with a lightening eye. “That’s only a question of time! I’ve got a man going round all the chemists in the West Central district⁠—stiff job, for there are more of ’em than I believed. But he’s bound to hit on the right one eventually. And then⁠—well, we shall have a pretty good idea, if not positive proof, as to how Granett got hold of the stuff that poisoned him.”

“I suppose there’s no doubt that there was poison in that bottle?” inquired Hetherwick.

“According to the specialists, none,” replied Matherfield. “And in the glass too. What sort of poison, I don’t know⁠—you know what these experts are⁠—so mysterious about things! But they have told me this⁠—the stuff that settled Granett was identical with that which finished off Hannaford. That’s certain.”

“Then it probably came from the same source,” said Hetherwick.

“Oh, my notion is that the man or men who poisoned one man poisoned the other,” exclaimed Matherfield. “And at the same time. At least, I think Granett got his dose at the same time⁠—probably carried it off in his pocket and drank it when he got home. But⁠—we shall trace that bottle! Let me know what you find out about this man Baseverie, Mr. Hetherwick⁠—every little helps.”

Hetherwick duly coached Mapperley in the part he wanted him to play, and Mapperley, with money in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth, lounged off to Victoria on the following Friday morning. His principal saw nothing and heard nothing of him all that day.

XI Lady Riversreade

As Hetherwick was breakfasting next morning, Mapperley, outwardly commonplace and phlegmatic as ever, walked into his room.

“Brief outline first, Mapperley,” commanded Hetherwick, instinctively scenting news. “Details later. Well?”

“Spotted him at once at Victoria,” said Mapperley. “Followed him down there. He was at Riversreade an hour. Then went back to Dorking⁠—had lunch at Red Lion. He stopped there till four o’clock, lunching and idling. Went back to town by the 4:29, arriving 6:50. I followed him then to the Café de Paris. He dined there and hung about till past ten. And then he went to Vivian’s Night Club.”

Hetherwick pricked up his ears at that. Vivian’s Night Club!⁠—here, at any rate, seemed to be a link in the chain of which Matherfield believed himself to hold at least one end. The five-pound note found on Granett had been traced to Vivian’s Night Club: now Mapperley had tracked Lady Riversreade’s mysterious visitor to the same resort.

“To Vivian’s Night Club, eh, Mapperley?” he said. “Let’s see?⁠—where is that?”

“Entrance is in Candlestick Passage, off St. Martin’s Lane,” replied Mapperley with promptitude. “Club’s on first floor⁠—jolly fine suite of rooms, too!”

“You’ve been in it?” suggested Hetherwick.

“Twice! Not last night, though. You didn’t give me any further orders than to see where he went finally, after returning to town. So, when I’d run him to earth at Vivian’s, I went home. I argued that if he was wanted further, Vivian’s would find him.”

“All right, Mapperley. But before that? You followed him to Riversreade Court?”

Mapperley grinned widely.

“No!⁠—I did better than that. I was there before him⁠—much better that, than following. I spotted him quick enough at Victoria, and made sure he got into the 10:10. Then I got in. As soon as we got to Dorking, I jumped out, got outside the station and chartered a taxi and drove off to Riversreade Court. I made the driver hide his cab up the road: I laid low in the plantation opposite the entrance gates. Presently my lord came along and drove up to the house. He was there the best part of an hour; then he drove off again towards Dorking. I followed at a good distance: kept him in sight, all the same. He got out of his conveyance in the High Street: so did I. He went into the Red Lion: so did I. He had lunch there: so had I. After that he lounged about in the smoking-room: I kept an eye on him.”

“I suppose he didn’t meet anybody?”

“Nobody!”

“Well, and at the Café de Paris? Did he meet anybody there?”

“He exchanged a nod and a word here and there with men⁠—and women⁠—that came in and went out. But as to any arranged meeting, I should say not. I should say, too, that he was well known at the Café de Paris.”

“Did he seem to be a man of means? You know what I mean?”

“He did himself very well at lunch and dinner, anyway,” said Mapperley, with another grin. “Bottle of claret at Dorking, and a pint of champagne at the Café de Paris⁠—big cigars, too. That sort of man, you know.”

Hetherwick considered matters a moment.

“How do you get in to this Vivian’s Night Club?” he asked suddenly.

“Pay!” answered Mapperley laconically. “At the door. Some nonsense about being proposed, but that’s all bosh! Two of you go⁠—say Brown and Smith. Brown proposes Smith and Smith proposes Brown. All rot! Anybody can get in⁠—with money.”

“And what goes on there?”

“Dancing! Drinking! Devilry! Quite respectable, though,” replied Mapperley. “Been no prosecutions, anyway⁠—so far.”

“What time does it open?”

“Nine o’clock,” answered Mapperley, with a suggestive grin. “In the old days it didn’t open till after the theatres. But now⁠—earlier.”

“Really not a nightclub at all⁠—in the old acceptation of the term,” suggested Hetherwick. “Evening, really?”

“That’s about it,” agreed