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

invented things come to solicitors for legal advice, and sometimes to get information as to how they can best dispose of their inventions? Well, about nine months ago a man came to me who claimed to have invented a drop-bottle⁠—that is, a bottle from which you could only drop one drop of stuff at a time. He said such a thing was badly wanted, and that there ought to be a pile of money in it. He wanted to know how best to get it on the market. I didn’t know, but I mentioned the matter to one or two people, and a man I know⁠—or knew at that time, for he’s since dead, unfortunately⁠—said that he knew a man who was a sort of commission agent for inventions⁠—took up a good idea, don’t you see, and introduced it⁠—and he promised to bring him to see me. He brought him; the man he brought was, without doubt, the man you describe. His name was not mentioned, but I am sure he was that man. I don’t know what your man is, but I felt sure that the man I am talking about either was or had been a medical man.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “What made you think that?”

“From his conversation⁠—from the remarks he made about the bottle. He didn’t take it up; he said my client was too late and was wrongly informed into the bargain: there was such a thing, and a superior one, already on the market. He went away then, and, as I say, I never heard his name, and I’ve never seen him since.”

“That’s the man we want!” said Hetherwick. “If Matherfield can only lay hands on him! But we shall know more by midnight.”

Outside, he turned to Lord Morradale with a shake of the head.

“We’re no nearer to any knowledge of where the two women are!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, I don’t know!” responded Lord Morradale. “I think we are, you know. You see, if Matherfield nabs those chaps, or even one of them, he or they will see that the game’s up, and will give in and say where their captives are. Odd business, Hetherwick, that people can be kidnapped and imprisoned in broad daylight in London!”

“I don’t think anything’s impossible or odd⁠—in London,” answered Hetherwick dryly. “If one had only the least idea as to which quarter of the town that car was driven, one might be doing something!”

“Lots of subsections in every quarter, and subsections again in each of those,” replied Lord Morradale with equal dryness. “Take some time to comb out this town! No! I think we must trust to Matherfield. Nothing else to trust to, in fact.”

But Hetherwick suddenly thought of Mapperley. He began to wonder what the clerk was after, what his notion had been. Then he remembered Mapperley’s admonition to look out for a message about that time, and excusing himself from Lord Morradale, he jumped on a bus and went along to the Temple. There, in the letter-box, he found a telegram:

Meet me Victoria three o’clock.

Mapperley.

Hetherwick set off for Victoria there and then. But it was only a quarter-past two when he got there, and as he had had no lunch, he turned into the restaurant. There, when he was halfway through a chop, Mapperley found him, and slipped into a chair close by before Hetherwick noticed his presence.

“Thought I might find you in here, sir,” said Mapperley. They were alone in a quiet corner, but the clerk lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well,” he continued, bending across the table, “I’ve done a bit, anyhow.”

“In what way?” asked Hetherwick.

Mapperley produced from his breast pocket some papers, and from amongst them selected an envelope⁠—the azure-tinted envelope which he had picked up from the caretaker’s supper table at St. Mary’s Mansions.

“You recognise this?” he said, with a sly smile. “You know where I got it. This is the envelope which Baseverie took to the caretaker, with the order to enter Madame Listorelle’s flat. You knew that I carried it off, from under the man’s nose, last night. But you didn’t know why. I only laughed when you asked me.”

“Well, why, then?” inquired Hetherwick.

“This reason,” replied Mapperley. “We both noticed that the sheet of paper on which the order had been written by Madame had been shortened⁠—there was no doubt that a printed or embossed address had been trimmed off, rather roughly, too. We noticed that, I say, both of us. But I don’t think you noticed something far more important⁠—far, far more important⁠—for our purposes.”

“No,” admitted Hetherwick. “I didn’t. What?”

“This,” said Mapperley, turning back the broken flap of the envelope. “You didn’t notice that here, on the envelope, is the name and address of the stationer who supplied this stuff! There you are⁠—W. H. Calkin, 85, Broadway, Westminster. You never saw that, Mr. Hetherwick. But I did!”

Hetherwick began to comprehend. He smiled⁠—gratefully.

“Smart of you, Mapperley!” he exclaimed. “I see! And⁠—you’ve been there?”

“I’ve been there,” answered Mapperley. “I saw a chance of tracking these men down. I couldn’t get hold of Calkin till nearly noon, but I got on like a house afire when I did get him. You see,” he went on, “that paper is, to start with, of an unusual tint, in colour. Secondly, it’s of very superior quality, though very thin⁠—intended chiefly for foreign correspondence. Thirdly, it’s expensive. Now, I felt certain its use would be limited, and what I wanted to find out from the stationer was⁠—to whom he’d supplied it. That was easy. He recognised the paper and envelope at once. Of the handwriting on the paper, he knew nothing whatever⁠—Madame’s writing, you know⁠—that he’d never seen before. But he said at once that he’d only supplied that particular make of paper and envelopes to three people, and for each person he’d prepared a die, to emboss the addresses. The embossing had been done at his shop, and he showed me specimens of each. One was for the Dowager Lady Markentree, 120, Grosvenor Gardens. That was