Chapter XII: Is Even More Mysterious

When, about nine that evening, I entered the Gambrinus Hall, that German brasserie in Regent Street, the place was nearly filled with men and a sprinkling of women, some drinking beer and others eating German dishes. Above the dark-panelled wainscotting were many trophies of the chase, while the whole interior was essentially Teuton in character. It was one of the principal rendezvous of the German colony in London, for there one could obtain genuine Bavarian beer, and lager brewed in Pilsen itself.

It was one of Whitlock's haunts at evening. There are certain places in that vicinity upon which Scotland Yard keeps an open eye each night, not because they are in the least ill-conducted, but because into certain very comfortable beer-halls around Leicester Square there often drop men who are "wanted." Indeed, it is a well-known fact to the Criminal Investigation Department that any escaping foreigner arriving in London will, sooner or later, make his way there, and thus fall under the active surveillance of the detectives nightly on duty.

So cleverly is the eye of the police kept upon all who enter that the public never suspect. It is only perhaps when some old thief or criminal, who, believing himself quite safe, has dropped in for a drink and to hear the music, suddenly looks up to recognise, in alarm, a detective seated at the next table, probably one of a merry party of both sexes. Without the fair sex, indeed, the police would often fail, and many a dangerous criminal has been arrested half an hour after the sign or word given by some well-dressed, good-looking girl who, ascending the steps, has disappeared into the jostling night crowd in the vicinity of the Empire.

Whitlock was never on duty about those places. He left it to the younger men. When a man "wanted" was found, he was informed, and then came upon the scene to direct the future movements of the watchers.

The _habitués_ of the Gambrinus were not of the same class, of course, as those of certain other establishments close by, and as I entered I saw Whitlock seated with a gentlemanly-looking man in a blue serge suit, over in a far corner, smoking and calmly playing dominoes.

"Evening, Keene!" he exclaimed, as I approached. "You know my friend--don't you?"

I smiled in recognition, greeted him, and took a seat at his side. Whitlock had not pronounced the other's name, for he was Detective-Inspector Kennedy, a well-known officer.

Beer was brought for me, and I watched their game.

"We shan't be very long," Whitlock replied, deeply interested, for dominoes were his chief recreation. I myself often played with him when we had nothing better to do.

"Anything special?" I whispered, surprised that they should both be there together.

He made a movement with his eyebrows which at once put me upon my guard. I lit a cigarette, and, while pretending to be deeply immersed in their game, glanced around at the dozens of men and women at the tables.

Presently, while Kennedy was shuffling the dominoes, Whitlock leant towards me, whispering--

"We have something on. Your name is Hammond, and you are clerk in a coal merchant's at Cardiff. My name is Hopkinson--understand?"

"Yes," I answered excitedly. "Upon whom are you keeping observation?"

"Don't look. But at the third table on your right is an ugly little old man, reading the _Globe_. He'll be joined, we expect, by another man presently. Remember, don't take any notice of them. I shan't look in the old man's direction any more. You can watch and give me word." And he commenced another game, apparently absorbed in it.

That Whitlock should have Kennedy with him showed that they were engaged upon some important case. Why, too, had he invited me to meet him there?

"Has this anything to do with the Barnes affair?" I whispered, as soon as I got a chance.

"We hardly know yet. Just remain quiet. I want to see the old man's friend."

Presently, after I had idled a few moments over an evening paper, I, with pretended disinterestedness, obtained a good look at the old fellow. About sixty, with sharp, thin features, a short white beard and moustache, his keen dark eyes searched hither and thither, while every few moments he turned towards the door, in eager expectation of the arrival of his friend. Well-dressed in frock-coat and buff waistcoat, he wore a silk hat slightly tilted, which gave him a jaunty, reckless appearance. But he was very short of stature, and though I could not see plainly because he was seated, I believed that he was a little deformed.

On his finger as he smoked glittered a fine diamond, and the drink before him--a small glass of that Danzig liqueur with tiny particles of gold floating in it--showed him to be an epicure. Another man, a stranger to him, was seated at the same table--a young City man who had called in for a rapid drink _en passant_.

Who, I wondered, was the old man?

There was certainly nothing about his exterior to suggest the criminal. In my life I had met thousands of quiet old men such as he. The only feature about his appearance was the unusual keenness and brightness of his eyes, and the sporting manner in which he wore his hat. Yet that abomination of dress, the silk hat, getting askew by accident, will impart, even to a Wesleyan preacher, the air of the man-about-town.

In the position in which I was sitting the old man did not notice me. I tried to imagine what profession he could be, and put him down at last as some successful tradesman--a jeweller, perhaps, on account of that very fine diamond. That he was a bit of a dandy was evidenced by the way in which he carefully dusted some tobacco-ash from his vest with a dark-green silk handkerchief. The deliberate and careful manner in which he selected a fresh cigar from his case also showed his habit of smoking only the best of weeds.

My two friends were too immersed in their game to take any notice--or, at least, pretended to be so.

"I fancy he's not coming, old chap," Kennedy remarked, speaking into his dark beard, as he bent to pick up one of the dominoes that had fallen.

"The old man is fidgeting," I said; "keeps looking up at the clock."

"Oh, he'll come," declared Whitlock; "keep the game up."

And so the clicking dominoes were again shuffled, while I sat in wonder as to what connection this old man could have with those two dead women at Barnes, and trying to speculate as to what was about to happen.

Time went slowly on. Customers came and went, but we still remained. The clock showed half-past ten. I had intended to look in at the Oxford as usual to see Daisy do her "turn," but she had already been on, and was no doubt well on her way home.

Hour by hour, as I thought of the woman whom I loved so devotedly, I could not help the recollection of that little miniature arising within me. Its connection with all those extraordinary discoveries in that empty house was utterly inscrutable. Could it have been stolen from her? Or had she lost it and feared to tell me, lest I might believe that she treated my love-token with carelessness? The latter solution was, to me, the most probable. She might have left it in one or other of the dressing-rooms in rushing from hall to hall, as she sometimes had to do when she had two, or even three, engagements nightly. Often she appeared at the Canterbury in Westminster Bridge Road, the Palace of Varieties at Hammersmith, and the Holborn on the same night, and this, of course, meant a great rush in a hired brougham from one hall to the other in order to get "booked in" at the proper time by the stage-managers.

What more probable than that my dainty little love should have lost it, and that the finder had, for some purpose at present unknown, concealed it where I had discovered it?

Yes. I decided that on the morrow I would approach her, and get her to tell me the truth. To exist in this uncertainty further was quite useless. I saw that the point had sorely puzzled Whitlock, and it should therefore be at once cleared up.

"I'm afraid he's changed his mind," Kennedy remarked to his colleague, beneath his breath. "It's getting on for eleven, and we can't sit here much longer without arousing the old man's suspicion."

"The manager knows who I am," Whitlock answered. "I daresay he's wondering why we're here so long."

"The old man won't stay much longer," I remarked. "He's just taken a telegram from his pocket and read it as though to reassure himself of the appointment."

"That means he'll wait another ten minutes," Whitlock said.

"Are you going to introduce me?" I inquired presently, recollecting what he had said about my name.

"We may. I don't yet know. Till the other man comes I can't decide how I shall act."

"Do you intend making an arrest?" I asked, excited at the prospect of a dramatic scene.

"Arrest! Well, not here--at anyrate," was my friend's response. "We generally like to do things quietly when we can, you know," he added, with a significant smile.

"What's the old chap's name?"

"He's got half a dozen, hasn't he?" Kennedy asked of his colleague.

"Quite. He's a crook--and a pretty clever one; though he don't look it."

"By Jove, yes," remarked Kennedy, still speaking into his beard, pretending to contemplate his hand of dominoes before playing. "He's worked one or two very smart games in his time, hasn't he?"

"Yes; and a pretty tough customer into the bargain," added Whitlock. "I wonder if our other friend will come? I'm tired. I left home at six this morning."

"I was at the office at half-past eight," said Kennedy.

The manager of the restaurant passed to and fro, but gave no sign of recognition to Whitlock. He never spoke to him unless the inspector spoke first. A detective-sergeant whom I knew well by sight entered and called for some beer, but, noticing his two superiors, drank, rose, and departed without even a nod of acknowledgment.

Whitlock and Kennedy were evidently playing a cunning game, while the well-dressed old man, apparently anxious over the non-arrival of his friend, was utterly unconscious of the surveillance upon him.

It was getting late. Eleven o'clock had struck, and the place was now filling rapidly with people from the theatres and music-halls in the vicinity, whose habit it was to go there for a snack prior to taking the motor 'buses and tubes to the suburbs. Still the old man remained, calmly smoking a cigar and gazing upon the life and bustle about him.

The diamond on his thin, bony finger attracted me, and each time he removed his cigar from his lips it shone with a thousand brilliant hues. It was an ill-gotten jewel without a doubt.

At a quarter past eleven the old man's patience was, I saw, exhausted. He had read a number of evening papers, looked at several foreign illustrated journals, and had a number of drinks, yet his friend had not put in an appearance.

His whole demeanour was that of a man who feared a contretemps. He kept his keen eyes ever upon the entrance from Regent Street, with brows somewhat knit, half of disappointment, half of dread.

I was bending, watching the play of my two companions when a sudden movement of the old man attracted my attention.

He had raised his hand and risen, while upon his grey countenance spread a bright look of recognition.

I glanced eagerly towards the doorway. Whitlock raised his eyes at the same moment.

Open-mouthed and speechless I sat there, utterly astounded. Was I dreaming?

I recognised in an instant that this vigil of Whitlock's was in connection with the Barnes affair, but the matter had now assumed a phase utterly and entirely mysterious.

I watched the old man greet the new-comer. I was utterly dumbfounded, breathless and mystified, for I had, in that brief moment, made an amazing and startling discovery--one that was so strange as to be utterly incredible--one that staggered belief.