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

the letter and envelope to Mapperley, who was holding out a hand.

“Well,” he said. “I wish ye’d just let me have a look into Madame’s flat. There’s something seriously wrong, and⁠—”

“Oh, you can do that⁠—‘long as I’m with you,” said the caretaker readily. He rose and led the way to the left, and presently ushered them into a smart flat and turned on the electric light. “Don’t see nothing wrong here,” he observed. “The chap wasn’t here ten minutes, and he carried nothing heavy away, whatever he had in his pockets.”

Hetherwick and Mapperley looked round. Everything seemed correct and in order⁠—the surroundings were those of a refined and artistic woman, obviously one who loved order and system. But on a desk that stood in the centre of the sitting-room a drawer had been pulled open, and in front of it lay scattered a few sheets of Madame Listorelle’s private notepaper, with her engraved address and crest. Near by lay some envelopes, similarly marked. And with a sudden idea in his mind, Hetherwick picked up a sheet or two of the paper and a couple of envelopes and put them in his pocket.

A few minutes later, once more in the cab which they had kept waiting, and on the way to Hill Street, whither Hetherwick had bidden the driver go next, Mapperley turned to his employer with a sly laugh, and held up something in the light of a street lamp by which they were passing.

“What’s that?” asked Hetherwick.

“The order written by Madame Listorelle,” answered Mapperley, chuckling. “The caretaker didn’t notice that I carried it off, envelope and all, under his very eyes! But I did⁠—and here it is!”

“What do you want to do with it?” demanded Hetherwick. “What’s your notion?”

But Mapperley only chuckled again and without giving any answer restored the azure-tinted envelope and its contents to his pocket.

XXII The Highly-Respectable Solicitor

Lord Morradale, who kept up honest, country-squire habits even in London, had gone to bed when Hetherwick and Mapperley arrived at his house, but he lost little time in making an appearance, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and listened eagerly to Hetherwick’s account of the recent transactions.

“Force!” he muttered, nodding his head at each point of the story. “Force! got it out of her by force. That is, if the order’s genuine.”

Mapperley produced the sheet of paper, which he had filched under the caretaker’s eyes, and silently handed it over.

“Oh, that’s Madame Listorelle’s handwriting!” exclaimed Lord Morradale. “Hers, without doubt. Difficult to imitate, of course. Oh, yes⁠—hers! Well, that proves what I’ve just said, Mr. Hetherwick⁠—force! She’s in their power⁠—with the young lady, Miss⁠—Miss⁠—Featherstone, to be sure⁠—and they’ve made her write that. Next, they’ll make her write an order on the Imperial Safe Deposit. We must be beforehand with them there. Early⁠—early as possible in the morning. Meet me at Matherfield’s⁠—I think he’s pretty keen. Bless me! what a pack of villains! Now I wonder where, in all London, these unfortunate ladies are?”

“That’s precisely what all this ought to help us to find out,” remarked Hetherwick. “I’m not so much concerned about the valuables these men are after as about the safety of⁠—”

Lord Morradale gave him a quick, understanding glance.

“Of Miss Featherstone, eh?” he said. “I see⁠—I see! And I’m concerned, too, about Madame Listorelle. Well, this, as you say, ought to help. But look here⁠—we must be cautious⁠—very cautious! We mustn’t let Matherfield⁠—you know what the police are⁠—we mustn’t let him be too precipitate. Probably⁠—if a man comes to the safe place, he’ll go away from it to where these scoundrels are. We must follow⁠—follow!”

“I agree,” said Hetherwick.

“Nine o’clock, then, at Matherfield’s,” concluded his lordship. “And may we have a strong scent, a rousing one, and a successful kill!”

With this bit of sporting phraseology in their ears, Hetherwick and Mapperley returned to the Middle Temple and retired for the rest of the night, one to bed, the other to a shakedown on the sitting-room sofa. But when Hetherwick’s alarm clock awoke him at seven-thirty and he put his head into the next room to rouse the clerk, he found that Mapperley had vanished. The cushions, rugs, and blankets with which he had made himself comfortable for the night were all neatly folded and arranged⁠—on the topmost was pinned a sheet of brief-paper, with a message scrawled in blue pencil.

You won’t want me this morning; off on an important notion of my own. Look out for message from me about noon.

M.

Muttering to himself that he hadn’t the least idea as to what his clerk was about, Hetherwick made a hurried toilet, and an equally hurried breakfast, and hastened away to meet Matherfield and Lord Morradale. He found these two together, and with them a quiet, solemn-faced individual, clad in unusually sombre garments, whom Matherfield introduced as Detective-Sergeant Quigman. Matherfield went straight to business.

“His lordship’s just told me of your adventure last night, Mr. Hetherwick,” he said, “and I’m beginning to get a sort of forecast of what’s likely to happen. It was, of course, Baseverie who went to madame’s flat last night⁠—that’s settled. But what do you suppose he went for?”

“Can’t say that I’ve worked that out,” answered Hetherwick, with a glance at the others. “But I imagine that he went there to get, say, certain keys⁠—having forced Madame Listorelle to tell him where they were. The keys of her safe at the Deposit place, I should think.”

“No!” replied Matherfield, shaking his head knowingly, and with a sly smile at Quigman. “No, not that. I’ll tell you what he went for⁠—a very simple thing. He went to get some of Madame’s private notepaper! He knew well enough that if he was to take an order on that Safe Deposit to allow the bearer access to Madame’s safe it would have to be what the French, I believe, call en régle⁠—eh? Written on her own notepaper in her own handwriting, and so on. See?”

“I think you’re right, and I think he got