Chapter X: Shows a Tight Corner

Much to Whitlock's annoyance and chagrin, the whole of the "Evenings," the _Herald_ excepted--reproduced the intelligence received by the Plymouth paper regarding his discoveries at the empty house at Barnes.

At half-past five that evening I was seated in his room at Scotland Yard, listening to his outspoken denunciation of the Press.

"If we could only discover who was the author of that confounded telegram!" he exclaimed at last, with a sigh. "Depend upon it that the man who sent the wire knows all about the tragedy and is implicated in it. He has given out the details with some ulterior object, but what it is I can't, for the life of me, make out."

"Is it with the object of shielding somebody whom you may later on suspect?" I queried.

"I think not. Why, for instance, should he put us on the track of that box?"

"In order to implicate innocent persons," I suggested.

"Maybe--maybe," he exclaimed, in his quick, decisive way. "Nothing can be learned regarding the message down at Plymouth. The editor of the _Evening Express_ accepted and printed the news, believing it, of course, to have emanated from the Central News Agency."

"And the contents of the box?"

"Well, as regards the birth certificate, we've already discovered something. It appears that from 1872 to 1881, at the house in Mina Road, Old Kent Road, there lived a man named Drayton and his wife. Drayton, who worked at the Bricklayers' Arms goods station, was killed by a light engine. His widow, with her boy, Francis Douglas, then about five years of age, took furnished rooms with an old lady in Albany Road, and lived there until about three years ago. At that time young Drayton was a smartly-dressed young fellow, whose profession or business was something of a mystery. His hours were very irregular, and by the neighbours it was believed that he lived by betting or gambling."

"And where did they move to? He supported his mother, I presume?"

"Yes. But it seems that this Francis fell deeply in love with a pretty young girl still in her teens. For a year before they moved away he used to meet her in secret, and it was their habit to stroll together of an evening about the dark roads of Camberwell and Lewisham. She never once went to her lover's house, and my informant, the next-door neighbour, tells me that she was an exceedingly pretty and lady-like girl. She attracted attention as being about to throw herself away upon this somewhat erratic and reckless young fellow."

"And you haven't traced his present whereabouts?"

"Not yet. They left Albany Road quite suddenly about three years ago, old Mrs Drayton telling the neighbours that her son had business in America and that she was to accompany him. A few months after their departure the landlady died and the furniture was sold, so of Francis Douglas Drayton all traces are lost."

"But you are still making inquiries?"

"I've had four men at work hard ever since yesterday. At present we have found no record of Drayton's marriage," he said. "My idea is, if possible, to discover his wife's friends--if he has married--and find out from them where he is at present. But the registers at Somerset House have been searched in vain."

I recollected the old gold watch, the string of child's blue beads, and--ah, yes!--my own picture!

"And the letter from Erna to Carl?"

Whitlock pulled a wry face.

"Difficult--very difficult to discover anything regarding that. No envelope, no date, and no surnames. Hundreds of Ernas have stayed at the Nord in Cologne. And I wonder how many thousand Carls there are in that city! No, my dear Keene. On the German side we shall discover nothing. It is here, in London, that the clue will be found." Then, looking me straight in the face with his dark, serious eyes, he added, "To tell the truth, that little portrait of yourself puzzles me very much. I never cease thinking about it."

"Neither do I, Whitlock."

"Have you any idea how it came there?"

"None whatsoever."

"The portrait was originally a love-token, of course," he said. "I know, Keene, that you will pardon me prying like this into your private affairs, but, as you see, it is imperative. And we are such good friends that you know I mean no offence."

I hesitated for a few moments, not knowing what to reply.

"It was a love-token, as you surmise."

"And have you any objection to me knowing the identity of the lady?"

"Yes, Whitlock. I think that is a rather unfair question--at least at present," I said. "I thought you had left the solution of that point to me?"

"So I have. But--well, I confess that my curiosity is much aroused by this most inexplicable feature of the case," he said, leaning both his elbows upon the small writing-table whereat he was seated.

"I have promised to do my utmost to discover by what means, and with what motive, the portrait was placed where I found it," I declared. "Therefore, would it not be as well to allow me to continue my inquiry undisturbed?"

"Most certainly, Keene. I really meant no insinuations. My curiosity is but natural, I think you'll admit."

"Perhaps you suspect me?" I laughed.

"No, I don't," he answered, in a hard voice, as he rose from the table and went to the telephone at the opposite wall. "I suspect somebody else."

"Who?" I gasped. Did he, I wondered, refer to Julian Little?

"At present that must be my own affair," was his answer. "This case bristles with extraordinary features, each one more curious and more puzzling than its predecessors. The utter absence of motive all round affords us nothing tangible to work upon, while the fact that there is one person in the background aware of the whole circumstances, and prompting us in our inquiries, makes the affair a--well, an uncanny one, to say the least."

"Could it be this man Drayton himself who forged the name of the Central News?" I hazarded.

"Hardly. I'm inclined to think that the farther we endeavour to penetrate this mystery the more complete will become the puzzle. In all my twenty-five years in the police I've never had a case so chock-full of riddles as this. If I knew to whom you'd given the little portrait it would assist me immensely," he added.

"I could hardly betray a lady and bring suspicion upon her of being an accessory, especially when it may be a lady for whom I entertain affection," I said.

"You must love her, or you wouldn't give her your portrait to wear," he said, smiling at my rather lame excuse.

"And for that very reason I refuse to, at present, tell you her name, my dear Whitlock."

"Well, all I hope is that at the adjourned inquest they'll return a verdict," he remarked, for, like all detectives, he disliked the public inquiry, fearing always lest some fact should be given in evidence which might put the culprit upon his guard. Many a murderer has escaped justice through injudicious evidence being given at an inquest. For that very reason he was now roundly abusing the Press for republishing that report from Plymouth.

"Why, in Heaven's name, haven't you editor-people a little more discretion?" he cried, having answered the telephone. "They surely must know that to publish such a report will hamper me!"

"How were they to know?" I asked. "The facts might have been actually gathered by a reporter of the Central News."

"Yes," he said, after a moment's reflection, "you're right. But I wonder, now that the first forged message has been so successful, whether this mysterious journalist--evidently no amateur--will venture another telegram?"

"I wonder. But certainly he won't dare to send to Plymouth again."

"I don't know--I rather think he will. But I fancy the Plymouth editor will not print the intelligence, now that he knows through us that the other message was not genuine. I have asked him, if he receives anything, to re-telegraph it to me here at once."

"By Jove!" I said, "I'd dearly love to know who it is who is so fully aware of everything at that weird empty house over at Barnes."

"So should I. He could identify both the dead girls, no doubt. Hasn't it struck you that to send such a message to Plymouth he must be a professional journalist?"

"Yes," I said rather hoarsely, for his words showed me plainly that he more than ever suspected Julian.

Little was certainly in London when that message was despatched. He had been Daisy's friend from girlhood. I recollected her start of surprise when she had discovered something in the report of the inquest. But what that something was I could form no idea.

I told my friend of my good fortune in being transferred to the staff of special correspondents of the _Daily Herald_, whereupon he said, in a tone of regret--

"Then you'll be deserting us soon, I suppose, and travel incessantly on the Continent?"

"I expect so. But though, of course, the advancement is gratifying, my heart is entirely in my present work."

"Just as your friend Mr Little's heart is always across the Channel--eh? By the way, when does he leave again?"

"He left yesterday--for Servia."

"Left yesterday?" he echoed, glancing at me sharply. "He went off suddenly, then?"

"As he always does. When I got back last night I found a note he had left for me. He's gone to Belgrade."

Whitlock took up a pen and twisted it between his fingers.

"And when will he be back?"

"That's quite uncertain. He predicts some political trouble, I think."

Whitlock was thoughtful. His suspicion of Julian was very marked. Julian was my friend, and I confess that I resented Whitlock's manner. All my present success as a journalist I owed to Julian Little, and I felt certain that it was he who had carried out a promise made long ago and had spoken on my behalf to the Chief.

I was about to go, when the detective-inspector said--

"I do urge upon you, Keene, to try at once and solve the mystery of that little portrait of yourself."

This I promised him, explaining that, though I was no longer connected with the _Evening Herald_, I should continue to "do" the Barnes mystery for the morning paper while awaiting orders to go abroad. Then I gripped the great detective's hand, and strolled back to my lonely chambers in Gray's Inn.

As I went along the Embankment and up Norfolk Street to Chancery Lane I reflected that, at any moment, I was now liable to be sent abroad to any spot between Ostend and Ekaterinburg, or from Archangel to Villa San Giovanni, and for an indefinite period.

Wakeley, the brilliant journalist, who, as news editor of the _Daily Herald_, had brought that journal up to its present greatness; the man to whom the public owed all the exclusive intelligence, daily "scoops," and interesting "stories" with which the paper was filled; the man whose name had never appeared once in the journal, and who was therefore unknown, had, when I had seen him that morning, congratulated me heartily.

"Now, Keene," he had said, "you have the chance which thousands of other men will never get. Look at Little! His name is a household word. Yours will become the same if you are shrewd, exercise forethought, and give us good, sound stories that can't be contradicted by Reuter. I'll send you away very soon, so keep your traps ready packed always. But while you're waiting you might keep on the Barnes affair. Start on that to-morrow for us. Let's see; what's your telephone number?"

And he had taken it down in a book at his elbow and dismissed me with a final, "Well, good luck to your future, Keene."

My future! What was it to be? Would that I had been able to open the closed book and see all that was in store for me! Had I been able to do this, how differently I would have acted! I should have been forearmed against my enemies and enabled to combat them with their own weapons.

I entered my chambers and dressed prior to going down to the Savage to dine among kindred spirits. I intended to afterwards go as usual to the Oxford and watch my dainty little love do her "turn."

I had just sat down to write a letter when the telephone rang. It was old Marvin, who had returned home.

"I say, Keene," he said, "I suppose you've succeeded in getting the loan of that portrait from Whitlock? We must publish it to-morrow morning. Now, even if you are on the 'Daily,' you must let us have that. Don't give it to Wakeley, remember, because it was I who suggested the 'scoop.'"

I reflected for a moment. How could I give my own portrait for publication in connection with such a tragedy?

"Are you there?" he continued.

"Yes."

"You heard what I said. Have you got the portrait?"

I hesitated.

"Yes," I answered.

"Then send it along to Jalland, at the office, at once, and say from me that the block must be ready at 7.30 in the morning. Good-night."

And next instant he rang off.

What was I to do? How should I act?

Marvin wanted a picture to publish.

I crossed the room to a small chest of drawers in which I kept a quantity of old papers, newspaper-cuttings, and other odds and ends. From there I took out a _carte-de-visite_ of a young reporter named Bingham, who had come to London about a year ago from Birmingham, and who had soon afterwards died of consumption.

I held it in my hand. Poor fellow! He and I had been the best of friends.

What harm could result if the _Evening Herald_ published it? At any rate, it would puzzle the man who forged that curious telegram to Plymouth.

The mere fact of mystifying him appealed to me and decided me.

So, with a scribbled note to Jalland, I placed it in an envelope and despatched it by boy-messenger.

It was an ingenious fraud upon the public, I admit, but its results were destined to be stranger indeed than even I had imagined.