Missing or Murdered (21 page)

When he awoke again he glanced at once out of the carriage window, only to discover that he had been asleep for a very short time and that there was now another passenger in the carriage fast asleep, with a felt hat pulled well down over his face to exclude the light from the lamp overhead. Vereker glanced casually at the man's burly figure and discovered to his surprise that it was shaking in an unaccountable manner. Then the felt hat seemed to be thrust further forward by a backward motion of the head and fell on the floor, disclosing the face of Detective-Inspector Heather, who was shaking with laughter.

“Well I'm damned!” exclaimed Vereker, laughing in turn. “You again, Heather. I really believe you are shadowing me now.”

“Hardly that, Mr. Vereker,” replied the detective genially, “but there's such a thing as the convergence of two parallel lines if we are to believe the latest theories of people who wish to put Mr. Euclid in his place.”

“I'm too conservative to believe any new theory, Heather. Euclid was always good enough, I might say too good for me. By the way, have you laid hands on Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin yet. I bear him a distinct grudge for having deceived me so thoroughly.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Drayton C. Bodkin, we've got him all right.”

“Good, how did you catch him, and where?”

“Well, to let you into a very great secret, Mr. Vereker, we never lost sight of him for a moment.”

“Splendid, Heather, there are no flies on Scotland Yard, to use one of Mr. Bodkin's own phrases. Where did you run him to earth?”

“He came right to Scotland Yard after leaving 10 Glendon Street.”

“What an ass!” exclaimed Vereker.

“Not by any means. He's one of our brightest men. I don't know what I'd do without him.”

“Very little, I should say,” remarked Vereker with supreme sang-froid, “but he errs on the side of inquisitiveness. Did he tell you I was a very informative young man?”

Inspector Heather smiled wryly. The only thing he could tell me about you, Mr. Vereker, was that you kept as nice a drop of whisky as any man he knew.

Vereker burst into loud laughter. “He was the thirstiest detective I've ever played host to.”

At this juncture the train ran into Waterloo Junction, where Inspector Heather, after a warm handshake, was about to leave Vereker when his eye suddenly caught sight of the bandage around his burned wrist.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, unable to conceal a look of surprise. “What on earth have you been doing to your wrist?”

Vereker was at once on the alert. Had Heather guessed by any chance how he had come by his injury? It was impossible, but nevertheless he was determined to disclose nothing to the astute inspector.

“Oh, merely a sprain,” he said carelessly.

“How did you manage that?” asked Heather, with what appeared to be inordinate curiosity.

“Oh, one of Layham's old cars backfired when I was starting her,” lied Vereker glibly.

“Well, good-bye for the present. We shall meet again shortly, no doubt,” said the detective, and departed with a strangely puzzled look on his face.

“Now I wonder what's pricked old Heather's curiosity about my injured wrist?” asked Vereker of himself when alone again, and for some moments he gazed at the bandage and pondered. Then, with a sudden start, he exclaimed: “Good Lord, fancy my having forgotten! But it's impossible—there's no connection, no motive. Yet it's a strange coincidence; no wonder it intrigued Heather!”

Vereker was lost in thought. It had been revealed to him in a flash how keenly observant the detective officer was and how little escaped his marvellous memory. He was so absorbed in reverie that it was some time before he was aware that the train had arrived at Charing Cross Station.

Before returning to Glendon Street, Vereker was obliged to visit his flat to resume once more his disguise of the Rev. Passingham Patmore that he had so rapidly discarded before catching the train to Fordingbridge Junction. He felt, however, that it would now be unnecessary to play the rôle of a cleric much longer—this indeed might be the last occasion. He would call again at Mrs. Parslow's, get the few things he had taken there, pay his bill and return once more to his flat. He felt there would be little else to do at Mrs. Parslow's. Farnish would hardly call there again, and, to a certain extent, he had placed Farnish and knew fairly well the extent to which the trusted old butler was involved in the Bygrave case. Nor did he think that Winslade would venture to visit Glendon Street in the hope of meeting Lord Bygrave. Winslade would, as he himself had said, make no further move without hearing from his uncle, to whom he looked for future instructions.

As Vereker strolled lazily westwards his mind reverted to David Winslade with increased uneasiness. The shaky story he had retailed gathered further sinister significance from Mary Standish's attitude and distressed frame of mind. Vereker would have given something to know just how much she was cognizant of with regard to her lover's connexion with the disappearance of his uncle. Enough indeed to perturb her unduly. And why tears and depression without some very grave reason? All along Vereker had had, in spite of his former belief in Winslade, some haunting suspicion that he might be inculpated. In every crime there was motive, sometimes unintelligible to the normal mind, but still a motive. Of all the persons connected with the Bygrave mystery, Winslade was the man who would benefit most by his uncle's disappearance. Vereker had hastily thrust this from his mind during the initial stages of his investigation, but gradually every other line of inquiry had broken down under his keen inspection and flung him back ruthlessly on the one which was most distasteful to him. For, in spite of himself, he liked Winslade and could not readily bring himself to believe that he had had any hand in the disappearance of his uncle against the latter's will.

The difficulty now was to pursue this line of inquiry. Winslade had been trapped into a visit to Glendon Street, and had on the spur of the moment concocted a story which cleared himself and branded his uncle as a murderer. If it had not been deliberately thought out beforehand it seemed a clever impromptu fabrication. There were two methods which Vereker felt he might pursue. He must either try to discover what had become of the body of Mr. Twistleton, if he had been killed, or Mr. Twistleton alive. In his own mind, from certain deductions he had made after his visit to the Mill House, he was convinced that Mr. Twistleton was alive. Should he discover Mr. Twistleton he would soon arrive at the true part played by David Winslade in the perplexing drama. If Winslade and Twistleton had acted in collusion to ensure Lord Bygrave's disappearance the problem would then be solved. The second line to pursue was to keep a very guarded eye on Winslade, and through him discover Lord Bygrave's whereabouts.

There were, however, many little facts which pointed to a much more complex solution of the mystery, but for the time being he chose to keep them in reserve. Those facts would not sufficiently cohere to give him a definite conception of the whole business, but as every day passed he seemed to acquire a clearer view. One or two links were missing in the chain of deduction; should he alight on them, he felt that he could swiftly bring matters to a head. There was nothing for it but perseverance and unlimited patience. On arriving at his flat he was surprised to find that some one was in occupation. As he thrust his latch-key into the lock he heard the sound of movements inside, and on opening the door a pronounced odour of frying steak and onions assailed his nose.

“Who's that?” came a voice from the studio beyond.

“Who the devil are you?” asked Vereker, a smile flitting across his features, for the voice was familiar to him.

“Look here, Vereker, it's most inconsiderate of you to turn up like this! I'm afraid I can't put you up in your own flat at present—there's no room; you'll have to go to an hotel. Will you kindly come to Mahomet, for Mahomet can't come to you; he's busy with a steak and onions. I wouldn't spoil them for a ransom—my reputation as a cook— Damn the fat, it scalds like the devil!”

Vereker passed into the studio to find Ricardo, enveloped in his painter's overall, busy over the stove with a frying-pan.

“Lord, what a stench! By the way, how did you manage to get in, Ricky?”

“Got the key from Stimson—spun him a yarn that I had your permission and so forth. I'd have written to you, but didn't know just where you were.”

“Have you been kicked out of your digs in Oliver Street?”

“No, my dear old landlady has retired on her ungodly profits; given up the house and gone to live by the wild waves.”

“I suppose there's some difficulty in finding a new place nowadays?”

“One unsurmountable difficulty: I've no money until the governor sends me my monthly cheque. It was a bit of luck my meeting Aubrey Winter yesterday. I hovered about the door of his club about tea-time, and indirectly he bought me this steak and onions. It's a ghastly world for a literary genius.”

“You're an improvident devil, Ricky. I suppose your last bean was swallowed by the peach you were raving about the last time I met you.”

 “Molly Larcombe, do you mean? Ah, well,
de mortuis nil
—” replied Ricardo sadly.

“Good heavens, you don't mean to say she's dead!” remarked Vereker with surprise.

“No, not in the accepted sense. Only she's dead as far as I'm concerned. After I'd taken the trouble to fall madly in love with her and proposed, she'd the callousness to tell me that she couldn't possibly marry a man who hadn't at least a thousand a year. I believe she's fond of me, but as she put it, rather unkindly, I think, it wouldn't be quite fair of me to expect her to wait until the twenty-first century. Lord, but I wish I had that wrist-watch I bought her in a moment of bewildered infatuation!”

“Unromantic thought, Ricky.”

“Perhaps; but look at the pabulum it represents. A man must have food. At present I can do without romance as represented by the modern young woman. Henceforth I'm a cynic, Vereker. No more calf-love for me. The chrysalis that might have burst into an amorous poet shows a grave disposition to become a mere degraded, case-hardened man of the world. I shall write novels in the French manner yet.”

“Never, old son, never; you're incurable. How long do you intend to stay here?”

“Until the financial horizon clears, Vereker. I can easily make myself a comfortable bed in the studio; I've got two overcoats, and my portmanteau makes quite a serviceable pillow. Do you think I'd be in your way?”

“In my way, Ricky? You know me better than that, old man. Make yourself at home; there's an army camp-bed and bedding parcelled up in my dressing-room. We can feed together if you'll give a hand at the cooking. When we get tired of our own culinary efforts we'll go down to Jacques. Are you doing any work?”

“Writing like a popular novelist—at a godless pace. Will you share this steak and onions?”

“No, I'm going to lunch out. I have to go to 10 Glendon Street. I may be back this evening.”

“Ah, Mrs. Parslow's—that reminds me. Do you know, I believe I saw Lord Bygrave leave 10 Glendon Street yesterday evening when I called—only to find you had gone.”

“Impossible, Ricky!”

“I don't think I'm mistaken. You know I only saw Bygrave once, but I've got a wonderful memory for faces.”

“I know you have; but I feel certain you've made a mistake.”

“No, Vereker, the more I think of it the surer I am that it was Bygrave. I was terribly excited about the business; so much so that I was quite at loss to know what to do—so I went and had a drink.”

Vereker stood as if petrified. “That beats creation!” he exclaimed. “And to think that I could not have been gone more than an hour or so when he called! Well, I'm going to Mrs. Parslow's at once. If I don't return to-night don't be surprised. Stock the larder, Ricky. Order the comestibles at Wharton's Stores; I have an account there. So long for the present.”

“God bless you, old horse! By the way, do you like tinned lobster? Because I do.”

But the remark remained unanswered, for Vereker had retired to his dressing-room and closed the door. When he emerged again, dressed as the Rev. Passingham Patmore, he found Ricardo ravenously devouring his fried steak and onions.

“I'm going, Ricky—take the helm while I'm away, and don't starve yourself. Also try and do some work: you've been playing too long, you know.”

“True, oh, padre—bye-bye. If you don't return by evensong I'll know you're not coming back. If you do there'll be lobster mayonnaise Ricardo for supper.”

On leaving his flat Vereker took a taxi at once to Glendon Street. Ricardo's story of having seen Lord Bygrave calling at that address had excited him more than his appearance disclosed, or than he would have cared to admit. Again and again he cursed his luck that he had not been in. Still, he would question Mrs. Parslow and get every scrap of information out of her that was possible. At last he seemed to be nearing the conclusion of his long and baffling quest, and the thought seemed to instil into him new enthusiasm and spur him on to fresh effort. So eager was he to reach Glendon Street that the inevitable delays at the congested street crossings irritated him beyond measure: never had a taxi journey seemed such a sluggish affair. At length he arrived and, having paid his fare, shot up the steps two at a time. Mrs. Parslow was in and seemed glad to see him.

“Any news while I've been away, Mrs. Parslow?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; good news as far as I'm concerned. Mr. Henry Parker arrived last night to see if anyone had left a letter for him. He seemed very disappointed that a Mr. Winslade, whom you know, hadn't left some word for him.”

“Quite so, Mrs. Parslow; I understand. Did he leave any address to which his letters might be forwarded?”