A Mysterious Disappearance

The other moved restlessly in his chair, but yielded. For the remainder of the evening they discussed questions irrelevant to the course of this narrative.

It was late when they separated, but Bruce found Smith sitting up for him at home.

That faithful servitor bustled about, stirring the fire and turning up the lights. Finally he nervously addressed his master:

“Pardon me, sir, but there was a policeman here asking about you to-night, sir.”

“A policeman!”

“Well, sir, a detective – Mr. White, of Scotland Yard. I knew him, sir, though he did not think it. He came about ten o’clock, and asked where you were.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Well, sir,” and Smith shifted from one foot to the other, “I thought it best to let him know the truth, sir.”

“Good gracious, Smith, he is not going to handcuff me. You did quite right. What did he say?”

“Nothing, sir; except that he would call again. He wouldn’t leave his name, but I know’d him all right.”

“Thank you. Good-night. It was unnecessary that you should have remained up. But I am obliged to you all the same.”

The barrister laughed as he went to his room. “Really,” he said to himself, still highly amused, “White will cap all his previous feats by trying to arrest me. I suspect he has thought of it for a long time.”

And Mr. White had thought of it.

CHAPTER XII

WHO CORBETT WAS

“Inexorable Fate!” is a favorite phrase with the makers of books; but Fate, being feminine according to the best authorities, is also somewhat fickle in disposition. Not only is she not invariably inexorable, but at times she delights to play with her poor subjects, to dazzle them with surprise, as it were, to stupefy them with the sense of their sheer inability to foresee or understand her vagaries.

It was Bruce’s turn to receive the sharpest lesson in this respect that he ever remembered.

At breakfast the next morning he selected from a packet of unimportant letters one which required immediate attention. The financiers to whom he had written in conformity with his implied promise to Mr. Dodge had replied favorably with reference to the reconstruction of the Springbok Mine.

They informed Bruce confidentially that a thoroughly reliable man in Johannesburg, to whom they had cabled, reported very strongly in favor of the property. They would await his written statement before finally committing themselves. Meanwhile, if Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) were anxious to get the business advanced a stage, there was no reason why he (Bruce) should not assure them that, subject to the first satisfactory report being confirmed, his clients would underwrite the shares. The whole thing would thus go through in about three weeks. As for Bruce himself, they proposed to give him a commission of five per cent in fully paid shares for the introduction.

“Well, I never!” he laughed. “Now who would have thought such a thing possible? Why, if that rascal Dodge is right and this company is really a sound undertaking, my share of the deal will be £10,000. It seems wildly incredible, yet my friends know what they are writing about as a rule.”

An hour later he was in the city.

A smart brougham stood in front of the now thoroughly renovated offices of Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited), and out of it, at the moment the barrister detached himself from the chaos of Leadenhall Street, stepped the head of the firm.

He was making up the steps when Claude cried:

“Hello, Mr. Dodge, how is the junior partner?”

Dodge stopped, focussed Bruce with his sharp eyes, and smiled:

“Oh, it is you, is it? The young ’un is all right, thanks. Are you coming in?”

“That was my intention.”

“Come along then. I was hoping I would see you one of these days.”

“Has business improved recently?” inquired Bruce, as they entered the inner office.

“Yes, somewhat; but money is very tight still. However, we generally look for a spurt early in the New Year. Why do you ask?”

“No valid reason. A mere hazard.”

“Was it because you saw me drive up in a carriage?”

“Mr. Dodge, I never dreamt that self-consciousness was a failing of the members of the Stock Exchange.”

“Then that was the cause. I guessed it. I have been making inquiries about you, Mr. Bruce, and there is no use in trying to fool you, not a bit.”

“Have you another Springbok proposition on hand?”

“No; bar chaffing. You were the man who ferreted out the truth about that West Australian combination when everybody else had failed. And, now I think of it, you made me talk a lot the last time you were here. However, I am ready. Fire away! I will tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me – ”

“Sh-s-sh! Do not perjure yourself for the sake of alliteration. Besides, it is I who have come to talk this time.”

“About Springboks?”

“Yes. The people I mentioned to you at my previous visit are prepared to underwrite the shares, provided that their agent’s report is as favorable in its entirety as a telegraphic summary leads them to believe.”

“Eh? That’s good news! When will they be in a position to complete?”

“As soon as they hear from South Africa by post. Say three weeks.”

“So long! But suppose I get an offer from some other quarter in the meantime? I cannot keep the proposal open indefinitely.”

“I have not asked you to do so, Mr. Dodge. Let me see – three shillings per share on, say, two hundred thousand shares is £30,000. It is a good deal of money. If any one likes to hand you a cheque for that amount without preliminary investigation, take it by all means.”

The notion tickled Dodge immensely.

“All right, Mr. Bruce. When people of that sort turn up we don’t sell ’em Springboks in the City. But there is no harm in you telling me your clients’ names.”

“Not in the least. They are the Anglo-African Finance Corporation.”

Mr. Dodge whistled. “By Jove, they’re the best backing I could have. This is a good turn, Mr. Bruce, and I shan’t forget it. You see, we’re a young firm, and association with well-known houses is good for us in every sense. I’m jolly glad now that Springboks are all right. It would never have done for me to introduce them to a risky piece of business. I am really much obliged to you. And now, how do we stand?”

“Kindly explain.”

“How much ‘com’ do you want?”

“Nothing.”

Mr. Dodge moved his chair backward several feet in sheer amazement. “Nothing, my dear sir! Nonsense! It is a big affair. Shall we say one per cent in cash, or two in shares. I am not very well off just now, or – ”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself. I have already secured my commission – five per cent in fully paid shares.”

“But the people who put up the money don’t pay for the privilege as a rule.”

“That I know quite well. This case is different. I am not, nor ever have been, a financial go-between.”

“Didn’t you come to see me about the deal in the first instance?”

It was Bruce’s turn to hesitate.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I really wanted to know something about Mr. Corbett, and the Springbok business arose out of it.”

“Ah, that chap Corbett. I have been thinking about him. I wonder who he can be? Anyhow, I owe him my best wishes, as the mention of his name has had such excellent results.”

“Well, that is all,” said Bruce rising.

“Yes, thanks. I must now see about raising the money to pay my own call. I am interested in fifty thousand shares, you know.”

“Then you require some £7,500?”

“Yes. But that will be easy when I can say that the Anglo-African Finance people are with me. Besides, this morning – queer you should call immediately afterwards – I have had some wholly unexpected news.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Dodge was in a talkative vein, and Bruce was in no hurry.

“The very best!” went on Dodge gleefully. “You see, there is another man in this affair with me. I thought he was as stony-broke as I am myself – speaking confidentially, you know – when he suddenly writes to me saying that he had won a pot of money at Monte Carlo and could spare me £2,000. What’s the matter? Beastly trying weather, isn’t it? Try a nip of brandy.”

For once in his life the self-possessed barrister had blanched at a sudden revelation. But this was too much. He felt as though a meteorite had fallen on his head. Nevertheless, he grappled with the situation.

“Ill! No!” he cried. “How stupid of me. I have forgotten my morning smoke. May I light a cigar?”

“With pleasure. You know these. Try one.”

“You were saying – ”

“That’s all. This young fellow, Mensmore his name is, got mixed up with me over a Californian mine. I thought he had lots of coin, so when Springboks came along he and I went shares in underwriting them. The public didn’t feed, so we were loaded. I tried all I knew to get him to pay up, but he absolutely couldn’t. And now at the very moment affairs look promising he writes offering £2,000. More than that, he says, if necessary, he can get the remainder of his half, £1750, from somebody. Where is his letter?”

Mr. Dodge looked on his table. “Oh, here it is. Addressed from ‘Yacht White Heather,’ if you please. Quite swell, eh? Sir William Browne! That’s the covey. I think I will let Sir William have ’em. It’s a good, solid sort of name to have on the share register.”

“I would if I were you,” said Bruce, hardly conscious of his surroundings.

“If you think so, I will. By Jove, this has been a good morning for me. Come and have lunch.”

“No, thanks. I have a lot to attend to. By the way, where did Mensmore live?”

“I don’t know. His address was always at the Orleans Club.”

Somehow, Bruce reached the street and a hansom. As the vehicle rolled off westward he crouched in a corner and tried to wrestle with the problem that befogged his brain.

Was Albert Mensmore Sydney H. Corbett? Was he Mrs. Hillmer’s brother? The “Bertie” she had spoken of meant Albert as well as a hypothetical Herbert. Mensmore was an old schoolfellow of Sir Charles Dyke’s. In all probability he knew Lady Dyke as well. He lived in Raleigh Mansions under an assumed name, and quitted his abode two days after the murder.

Every circumstance pointed to the terrible assumption that at Mensmore’s hands the unfortunate lady met her death. And Bruce had sworn to avenge her memory!

He laughed with savage mirth as he reflected that he himself had helped this man to escape the punishment of Providence, self-inflicted. It was, indeed, pitifully amusing to think how the clever detective had used his powers to befool himself. The very openness of the clue had helped to conceal it the more effectually. Were it not for Dodge and his Springboks he might have gone on indefinitely covering up the criminal’s tracks by his own friendly actions. The situation was maddening, intolerable. Bruce wanted to seize the reins and flog the horse into a mad gallop through the traffic as a relief to his feelings.

Blissfully unconscious of the living volcano he carried within, the cabby on the perch did not indulge in any such illegal antics. He quietly drove along the Embankment and delivered his seething fare at his Victoria-street chambers.

Quite oblivious of commonplace affairs, the barrister threw a shilling to the driver and darted out.

The man gazed at his Majesty’s image with the air of one who had never before seen such a coin. It might have been a Greek obolus, so utter was his blank astonishment.

But Bruce was across the pavement, and cabby had to find words, else it would be too late.

“Here guv’nor,” he yelled, “what the ballyhooley do you call this?”

“What’s the matter?” was the impatient query.

“Matter!” The cabman looked towards the sky to see if the heavens were falling. “Matter!” in a higher key, as a crowd began to gather. “I tykes him from Leaden’all Street to Victoria. ’E gives me a bob, an’ ’e arsks me wot’s the matter. I’d been on the ranks four bloomin’ hours – ”

“Oh, there you are!” and Bruce threw him half-a-crown before he disappeared up the steps.

Mr. White was watching for Bruce’s arrival. He wondered why the barrister was so perturbed, and resolved to strike while the iron was hot. So he, too, vanished into the interior.

CHAPTER XIII

A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE

“If any one calls, I am out,” cried Claude to his factotum, as he crossed the entrance-hall of his well-appointed flat, and flung open the door of his library.

“The guv’nor’s in a tantrum,” observed Smith to his wife, and he settled himself to renew the perusal of Grand National training reports. He had just noticed the interesting fact that last year’s winner had “jumped in for the last mile” in a gallop given to a rank outsider, when the electric bell upset his calculations.

“My master is out,” he said, as he opened the door to find Mr. White standing on the mat.

He was about to close the door again, but the detective planted his foot against the jamb.

“Your master is not out,” he answered. “I saw him come in a minute since. Tell him Mr. White wants to see him.”

Smith’s dignity was superb. “My master may be hin,” he cried, “but ’e told me to say ’e was hout to callers.” The aspirates supplied emphasis.

“Tell him what I say at once,” and Mr. White gave him his best “accessory-after-the-crime” glance.

“I don’t see why I should,” snarled Smith, but the squabble ended when Bruce’s voice was heard —

“Show him in, Smith, but admit nobody else.”

With an air of armed neutrality Smith ushered the representative of Scotland Yard into the library.

“You’re not looking very well, sir,” said White, his round eyes fixed on Bruce with all their power.

“Was it to ask about my health that you came?”

“No, sir, not exactly. But I haven’t seen you for quite a while, and as we are both interested in the same matter I thought I would look you up and compare notes.”

Bruce was annoyed by the interruption. He wanted to think, not to be bothered by official theories. He looked hard at Mr. White, wondering whether he should tell him all he knew and wash his own hands clear of the investigation in future. But there was a second picture before his eyes. He saw Phyllis Browne’s face, not as it was that day at the Tir aux Pigeons, but with the light of happiness in it, with the joyousness of requited and undisturbed love, with the glow reflected from dancing waves, and the tremulous smile of innocent pleasure.

It was hard to believe that such a woman could place her heartfelt trust in a man who was possibly a cold-blooded murderer. Such a combination was unnatural and horrible. Already Bruce was beginning to doubt the evidence of his analytical senses.

Mr. White meanwhile flattered himself by the thought that the other was trying to read his thoughts by looking at him fixedly.

“I have been away from home,” said Bruce at last. “I had occasion to go to the South of France.”

“I thought so. I was sure of it. How do you manage always to get ahead of us?” Mr. White was enthusiastic in his admiring divination.

“You have heard about Sydney H. Corbett?” said the barrister, still keeping that inscrutable, calculating gaze upon the policeman.

“Yes. I am on his track. We may be slow, but we are sure in Scotland Yard. May I ask what luck you have had, sir?”

“In what respect?”

“As if you didn’t go to Monte Carlo to find Corbett yourself! Really, Mr. Bruce, the scent is too hot this time. You might as well give a ‘View halloa’ if you have seen him.”

“Seen Sydney H. Corbett, you mean?”

“That is the gentleman.”

For an instant Mensmore’s future trembled in the balance. Bruce almost framed the words which would have led to his immediate arrest at the next port touched by the White Heather. But the memory of Phyllis Browne, of her agony, of the fearful scandal that must fly through Society on the Riviera, restrained him. There was no hurry. He must have time to think.

“I certainly went to Monte Carlo to discover the identity of that interesting personage, but I came back, Mr. White, as wise as I went. The only trace I found of him was an undelivered letter awaiting him at the Hotel du Cercle.”

“A letter! Wasn’t he there?” Mr. White’s face, notwithstanding its official decorum, betrayed its disappointment. This was an unlooked-for check.

“He had been there. Other letters came for him earlier, and he had received them.”

“But the hotel people – ”

“Did not know him. In fact, there cannot be the slightest doubt that Mr. Corbett concealed his identity at Monte Carlo under another name.”

“It doesn’t matter much,” growled the detective. “We will nab him all the same, if he had fifty names.”

“Possibly. But it is wonderful how a man may be under your very nose, and yet you may miss him.”

During the next few minutes neither man spoke. Bruce smiled cynically at the thought that he was actually shielding Lady Alice’s probable slayer from the minions of the law. He marvelled at himself for his irresolution. Nevertheless, he would wait. Mensmore could not escape him now. Perhaps the business might be managed without the dramatic features which would accompany an immediate arrest. And there were some things that required explanation. If his Monte Carlo acquaintance really killed Lady Dyke, then he was the strangest criminal whom Bruce had ever encountered during the course of his varied career.

The policeman misinterpreted his expression.

“You can’t laugh at us this time, Mr. Bruce,” he cried. “Scotland Yard and yourself evolved the same theory, eh? And we can’t fly off to the South of France as readily as you.”

“Your skill is profound, no doubt. Indeed, I wonder at it, considering the mysterious way in which the missing man left his address at the post-office.”

The other reddened. “That was simple enough, I know; but we were on his track before that.”

“By watching me when I visited his sister.”

“You saw me outside the Jollity Theatre, then?”

“Of course. What did you expect?”

Mr. White recovered his placidity. “There’s no use quarrelling about it,” he laughed. “I did get that wrinkle from you. But how on earth were we to know what to do, when there were seventy-one flats occupied by respectable people, and one closed for months, the caretaker told us.”

“I hope you have ceased your surveillance so far as I am concerned.”

“Honor bright, sir. I won’t do it again. Besides, we must lay hands on Corbett sooner or later.”

“What steps are you taking?”

“The Monte Carlo police are making inquiries. They have his description. It has also gone to America.”

“Why America?”

“Because he spent some time there. He only returned from the States early last year. His sister has not seen him for years, and a rare old row they had when he turned up. He had not much money, so she helped him, and he settled down for a time in the same mansions as herself.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Mrs. Hillmer, and a precious lot of trouble she gave me. She is a clever woman that.”

“It was rather too bad to pester her about it, poor lady.”

“I only followed your lead, sir.”

This was so true that Claude changed the conversation.

“What sort of man is Corbett? Have you his description?”

“Yes. Here it is.” Mr. White produced a copy of the Police Gazette, a publication never seen by the public, but of a large circulation among the police of the United Kingdom. The details were fairly accurate as to Mensmore’s personal appearance, but there was no photograph. Oddly enough, Bruce was pleased on noting this serious deficiency.

“You did not secure his picture?”

“No. Mrs. Hillmer declared that she had not a single photograph of her brother in her possession.”

“Did she – tell you his real name?” the barrister had almost said, but he deflected the question. “Did she give you any hint as to a possible cause for this apparently unnecessary crime?”

“Not a word.”

“Then you did not mention Lady Dyke to her?”

“No. Sir Charles has always implored me to keep his wife’s name out of my inquiries until it became absolutely impossible to conceal it in view of a public prosecution. He wants to know definitely when that time comes.”

“Why?”

The detective did not reply for a moment. When he spoke he leaned forward and subdued his voice. “I am as sure as I am sitting here, sir, that Sir Charles will not live if any disgrace should come to be attached to his wife’s memory.”

“Do you mean that he will kill himself?”

“I do. He has changed a great deal since this affair happened. He is not the same man. He appears to be always mooning about her. And people say that they were not so devoted to one another when she was alive.”

Again did the barrister switch off their talk from an unpleasant topic.

“This description of Corbett is not much use,” he said. “It applies to every athletic young Englishman of good physique and gentlemanly appearance.”

“Quite true. I don’t depend on that for his arrest, but it will be valuable for identification. ‘Blue eyes, light brown hair, fresh, clear complexion, well-modelled nose and chin.’ Some of these things can be changed by tricks, but not all. For instance, there would be no use in smoking a man with black eyes and irregular features.”

“‘Smoking’ him?”

“Oh, that’s our way of putting it. Following him, it means.”

“Suppose the French police don’t succeed in catching him?”

“We will get him at Raleigh Mansions. He is sure to think that Lady Dyke’s fate has never been determined, and he will return when the inquiry has blown over, to all appearance.”

“You have quite made up your mind, then, that Sydney H. Corbett is the murderer?”

“It looks uncommonly like it. At any rate, he knows something about it. If not, why did he bolt to France two days after the crime? Why has he concealed his identity? Why does he take pains to receive his correspondence in the manner he has adopted? And, by Jove! suppose he isn’t in Monte Carlo at all, but in London all the time!”

The inspector glowed with his sudden inspiration, but Bruce kept him to the lower level of realities.

“Corbett is, or was, in Monte Carlo. Of that you may be sure. He, and none other, got the letters sent to the Hotel du Cercle. I cannot for the life of me imagine why he did not take the last one. But let us look at what we know. Lady Dyke, we will say, went to Corbett’s chambers, secretly and of her own accord. That may be taken as fairly established. Thence there is a blank in our intelligence until she appears as a hardly recognizable corpse, stuffed by hands beneath an old drain-pipe in the Thames at Putney. How do you fill up that gap, Mr. White?”

“Simply enough. Corbett, or some other person, persuaded her to voluntarily accompany him to Putney. She was killed there, and not in London. It would be almost a matter of impossibility for any man to have conveyed her lifeless body from Raleigh Mansions to Putney without attracting some notice. One man could not do it. Several might, but it is madness to imagine that a number of people would join together for the purpose of killing this poor lady.”

“The seemingly impossible is often accomplished.”

“Do you really believe, then, that she met her death in London?”

“I have quite an open mind on the question.”

“You forget that she had resolved early that day to visit her sister at Richmond, and Putney is on the direct road. What more reasonable than to assume – ”

“Beware of assumptions! You are assuming all the time that Corbett was a principal in her murder.”

“Very well, Mr. Bruce. Then I ask you straight out if you don’t agree with me?”

“I do not.”

This declaration astounded the barrister himself. Often the mere utterance of one’s thoughts is a surprise. Speech seems to stiffen the wavering outlines of reflection, and the new creation may differ essentially from its embryo. It was so with Bruce in this instance.

Ever since Mr. White’s arrival had aroused him from the positive stupor caused by the stock-broker’s unwitting revelation, Claude Bruce had been slowly but definitely deciding that Mensmore did not kill Lady Dyke. He had seen him, unprepared, facing death as preferable to dishonor. At such moments a man’s soul is laid bare. With the shadow of a crime upon his conscience Mensmore’s actions could not have been so genuine and straightforward as they undoubtedly were.