“You’re not going to get my Frog by a process of elimination, Elk, and you can save yourself a whole lot of trouble if you cut out the idea that cross-examining me will produce good results.”
“I never thought anything so silly,” said Elk. “But John Bennett gets me guessing. If he were the Frog, he couldn’t have been in Johnson’s sitting-room last night.”
“Not unless he motored to Doncaster to catch an alibi train,” said Dick, and then: “I wonder if the Doncaster police are going to call in headquarters, or whether they’ll rely upon their own intelligence department.”
“About what?” asked Elk surprised.
“Mabberley Hall, which is just outside Doncaster, was burgled last night,” said Dick, “and Lady FitzHerman’s diamond tiara was stolen—rather supports your theory, doesn’t it, Elk?”
Elk said nothing, but he wished most fervently that he had some excuse or other for searching John Bennett’s bag.
XXIII - A MEETING
Heron’s club had been temporarily closed by order of the police, but now was allowed to open its doors again. Ray invariably lunched at Heron’s unless he was taking the meal with Lola, who preferred a brighter atmosphere than the club offered at midday.
Only a few tables were occupied when he arrived. The stigma of the police raid lay upon Heron’s, ‘and its more cautious clients had not yet begun to drift back. It was fairly well known that something had happened to Hagn, the manager, for the man had not appeared since the night of the raid. There were unconfirmed rumours of his arrest. Ray had not troubled to call for letters as he passed through the hall, for very little correspondence came to him at the club. He was therefore surprised when the waiter, having taken his order, returned, accompanied by the clerk carrying in his hand two letters, one heavily sealed and weighty, the other smaller.
He opened the big envelope first, and was putting in his fingers to extract the contents when he realized that the envelope contained nothing but money. He did not care to draw out the contents, even before the limited public. Peeping, he was gratified to observe the number and denomination of the bills. There was no message, but the other letter was addressed in the same handwriting. He tore this open. It was innocent of address or date, and the typewritten message ran:
“On Friday morning you will assume a dress which will be sent to you, and you will make your way towards Nottingham by road. You will take the name of Jim Carter, and papers of identification in that name will be found in the pockets of the clothes which will reach you by special messenger to-morrow. From now onward you are not to appear in public, you are not to shave, receive visitors or pay visits. Your business at Nottingham will be communicated to you. Remember that you are to travel by road, sleeping in such lodging-houses, casual wards or Salvation Army shelters as tramps usually patronize. At Barnet, on the Great North Road, near the ninth milestone, you will meet another whom you know, and will accompany him for the remainder of the journey. At Nottingham you will receive further orders. It is very likely that you will not be required, and certainly, the work you will be asked to do will not compromise you in any way. Remember your name is Carter. Remember you are not to shave. Remember also the ninth milestone on Friday morning. When these facts are impressed upon you, take this letter, the envelope, and the envelope containing the money, to the club fireplace, and burn them. I shall see you.”
The letter was signed “Frog.”
So the hour had come when the Frogs had need of him. He had dreaded the day, and yet in a way had looked forward to it as one who wished to know the worst.
He faithfully carried out the instructions, and, under the curious eyes of the guests, carried the letter and the envelopes to the empty brick fireplace, lit a match and burnt them, putting his foot upon the ashes.
His pulse beat a little quicker, the thump of his heart was a little more pronounced, as he went back to his untouched lunch. So the Frog would see him—was here! He looked round the sparsely filled tables, and presently he met the gaze of a man whose eyes had been fixed upon him ever since he had sat down. The face was familiar, and yet unfamiliar. He beckoned the waiter.
“Don’t look immediately,” he said in a low voice, “but tell me who is that gentleman sitting in the second alcove.” The waiter looked carelessly round.
“That is Mr. Joshua Broad, sir,” he said.
Almost as the waiter spoke, Joshua Broad rose from his seat, walked across the room to where Ray was sitting.
“Good morning, Mr. Bennett. I don’t think we have met before, though we are fellow-members of Heron’s and I’ve seen you a lot of times here. My name is Broad.”
“Won’t you sit down?” Ray had some difficulty in controlling his voice. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Broad. Have you finished your lunch? If not, perhaps you’ll take it with me.”
“No,” he said, “I’ve finished lunch. I eat very little. But if it doesn’t annoy you, I’ll smoke a cigarette.”
Ray offered his case.
“I’m a neighbour of a friend of yours,” said Broad, choosing a cigarette, “Miss Lola Bassano. She has an apartment facing mine in Caverley House—I guess that’s where I’ve seen you most often.”
Now Ray remembered. This was the strange American who lived opposite to Lola, and about whose business he had so often heard Lola and Lew Brady speculate.
“And I think we have a mutual friend in—Captain Gordon,” suggested the other, his keen eyes fixed upon the boy.
“Captain Gordon is not a friend of mine,” said Ray quickly. “I’m not particularly keen on police folk as friends.”
“They can be mighty interesting,” said Broad, “but I can quite understand your feeling in the matter. Have you known Brady long?”
“Lew? No, I can’t say that I have. He’s a very nice fellow,” said Ray unenthusiastically. “He’s not exactly the kind of friend I’d have chosen, but it happens that he is a particularly close friend of a friend of mine.
“Of Miss Bassano,” said Broad. “You used to be at Maitlands?”
“I was there once,” said Ray indifferently, and from his tone one might have imagined that he had merely been a visitor attracted by morbid curiosity to that establishment.
“Queer cuss, old Maitland.”
“I know very little of him,” said Ray.
“A very queer fellow. He’s got a smart secretary, though.”
“You mean Johnson?” Ray smiled. “Poor old philosopher, he’s lost his job?”
“You don’t say? When did this happen?” Mr. Broad’s voice was urgent, eager.
“The other day—I don’t know when. I met Johnson this morning and he told me. I don’t know how the old boy will get on without Philo.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” said Broad softly. “You surprise me. I wonder he has the nerve, though I don’t think he’s lacking in that quality.”
“The nerve?” said the puzzled Ray. “I don’t think it requires much nerve to fire a secretary.”
A fleeting smile played on the hard face of the American.
“By that I meant that it requires nerve for a man of Maitland’s character to dismiss a man who must share a fair number of his secrets. Not that I should imagine there would be any great confidence between these two. What is Johnson doing?”
“He’s looking for a job, I think,” said Ray. He was getting a little irritated by the persistence of the stranger’s questions. He had a feeling that he was being “pumped.” Possibly Mr. Broad sensed this suspicion, for he dropped his flow of interrogations and switched to the police raid, a prolific source of discussion amongst the members of Heron’s.
Ray looked after him as he walked out a little later and was puzzled. Why was he so keen on knowing all these things? Was he testing him? He was glad to be alone to consider this extraordinary commission which had come to him. The adventure of it, the disguise of it, all were particularly appealing to a romantic young man; and Ray Bennett lacked nothing in the matter of romance. There was a certain delightful suggestion of danger, a hint almost as thrilling of lawlessness, in these instructions. What might be the end of the adventure, he did not trouble to consider. It was well for his peace of mind that he was no seer; for, if he had been, he would have flown that very moment, seeking for some desolate place, some hole in time ground where he could lie and shiver and hide.
XXIV - WHY MAITLAND CAME
Ella Bennett was cooking the dinner when her father Ed came in, depositing his heavy camera on the floor of the sitting-room, but carrying, as was usual, his grip to the bedroom. She heard the closing of the cupboard door and the turning of the lock, but had long ceased to wonder why he invariably kept his bag locked in that cupboard. He was looking very tired and old; there were deeper lines under his eves, and the pallor of his cheeks was even more pronounced.
“Did you have a good time, father?” she asked. It was the invariable question, and invariably John Bennett made no other reply than a nod.
“I nearly lost my camera this morning—forgot it,” he said. “It was quite a success—taking the camera away with me—but I must get used to remembering that I have it. I found a stretch of country full of wild fowl, and got some really good pictures. Round about Horsham my opportunities are limited, and I think I shall take the machine with me wherever I go.”
He seated himself in the old chair by the fireplace and was filling his pipe slowly.
“I saw Elk on the platform at King’s Cross,” he said. “I suppose he was looking for somebody.”
“What time did you leave where you were?” she asked. “Last night,” he replied briefly, but did not volunteer any further information about his movements.
She was in and out of the kitchen, laying the table, and she did not speak to him on the matter which was near her heart, until he had drawn up his chair, and then:
“I had a letter from Ray this morning, father,” she said. It was the first time she had mentioned the boy’s name since that night of horrible memories at Heron’s Club.
“Yes?” he answered, without looking up from his plate.
“He wanted to know if you had his letter.”
“Yes, I had his letter,” said John Bennett, “but I didn’t answer it. If Ray wants to see me, he knows where I am. Did you hear from anybody else?” he asked, with surprising calm.
She had been dreading what might follow the mention of Ray’s name.
“I heard from Mr. Johnson. He has left Maitlands.” Bennett finished his glass of water and set it down before he replied.
“He had a good job, too. I’m sorry. I suppose he couldn’t get on with the old man.”
Should she tell him? she wondered again. She had been debating the advisability of taking her father into her confidence ever since—
“Father, I’ve met Mr. Maitland,” she said.
“I know. You saw him at his office; you told me.”
“I’ve met him since. You remember the morning I was out, when Captain Gordon came—the morning I went to the wood? I went to see Mr. Maitland.”
He put down his knife and fork and stared at her incredulously.
“But why on earth did you see him at that hour of the morning? Had you made arrangements to meet him?”
She shook her head.
“I hadn’t any idea that I was going to see him,” she said, “but that night I was wakened by somebody throwing a stone at the window. I thought it was Ray, who had come back late. That was his habit; I never told you, but sometimes he was very late indeed, and he used to wake me that way. It was just dawn, and when I looked out, to my astonishment, I saw Mr. Maitland. He asked me to come down in that queerly abrupt way of his, and, thinking it had something to do with Ray, I dressed and went out into the garden, not daring to wake you. ‘We walked up the road to where his car was. It was the queerest interview you could imagine, because he said—nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, he asked me if I’d be his friend. If it had been anybody else but Mr. Maitland, I should have been frightened. But he was so pathetic, so very old, so appealing. He kept saying ‘I’ll tell you something, miss,’ but every time he spoke he looked round with a frightened air. ‘Let’s go where we can’t be seen,’ he said, and begged me to step into the car. Of course I refused, until I discovered that the chauffeur was a woman—a very old woman, his sister. It was a most extraordinary experience. I think she must be nearly seventy, but during the war she learnt to drive a motorcar, and apparently she was wearing one of the chauffeur’s coats, and a more ludicrous sight you could not imagine, once you realized that she was a woman.
“I let him drive me down to the wood, and then: ‘Is it about Ray?’ I asked. But it wasn’t about Ray at all that he wanted to speak. He was so incoherent, so strange, that I really did get nervous. And then, when he had begun to compose himself and had even made a few connected remarks, you came along in Mr. Elk’s car. He was terrified and was shaking from head to foot! He begged me to go away, and almost went on his knees to implore me not to say that I had seen him.”
“Phew!” John Bennett pushed back his chair. “And you learnt nothing?”
She shook her head.
“He came again last night,” she said, “but this time I did not go out, and he refused to come in. He struck me as a man who was expecting to be trapped.”
“Did he give you any idea of what he wanted to say?”
“No, but it was something which was vitally important to him, I think. I couldn’t understand half that he said. He spoke in loud whispers, and I’ve told you how harsh his voice is.”
Bennett relit his pipe, and sat for a while with downcast eyes, revolving the matter in his mind.
“The next time he comes you’d better let me see him,” he said.
“I don’t think so, daddy,” she answered quietly. “If he has anything very important to say, I think I ought to know what it is. I have a feeling that he is asking for help.”