The Charing Cross Mystery - J. S. Fletcher (ereader with android .txt) 📗

I’ll see that the Imperial Safe Deposit people are warned and that this entrance is carefully watched tomorrow morning. But⁠—the thing may have been done already! There’s been plenty of time since the ladies were carried off.”

“No!” said Lord Morradale. “Nothing’s happened so far. I called in at the Imperial Safe Deposit as I came here; they had neither seen Madame Listorelle nor had any communication from her today. And now the place is closed for the night.”

“Did you warn them, then?” inquired Matherfield.

“I didn’t. I thought it best to see you first,” replied Lord Morradale. “The warning and the rest of it will come best from you.”

“Very good, my lord. Much obliged to your lordship for looking in,” said Matherfield. “We’ll keep you posted up in anything that happens⁠—at Hill Street. Now,” he continued, when Lord Morradale had left the office, “we’ll get along to Westminster, Mr. Hetherwick, to the Green Archer and its landlord, Killiner.”

The Green Archer proved to be a respectable tavern which boasted a saloon bar. Behind the glass screens of this they found a middle-aged, sharp-eyed man, who at the sight of his visitors immediately opened the door of a parlour in the rear and ushered them into privacy. He pointed silently to a copy of the bill asking for news of Ambrose.

“Aye!” said Matherfield. “Just so. I had your message. You think you know this man?”

“From this description of him in that bill, yes,” replied the landlord. “I think he’s a man⁠—gentleman, by all appearances⁠—who used to come into my saloon bar pretty regularly during this last six months. Since the end of last summer, I should say, up to about three weeks or so ago.”

“Not since then, eh?” asked Matherfield. “Three weeks?”

“About that. No⁠—he hasn’t been in for quite that. But up to then he’d been in, well, four or five days a week. Handsome, fine man⁠—in fact, you’ve described him exactly there. I never knew who he was⁠—used to pass the time o’ day with him, you know, but that was all. He always came in about the same time⁠—one to one-thirty. He’d have sometimes a glass of bitter ale and a sandwich or two; sometimes a whisky and soda and two or three biscuits. Stood and had his snack and went away. Never talked much. I took him for some gentleman that had business hereabouts, and just wanted a bite and a sup in the middle of the day, and turned in here for it. But I don’t know what business he could be concerned in round here. He hadn’t the tradesman’s look on him, you understand. I should have said he was a professional man of some sort. Always very well dressed, you know⁠—smart. However, I did notice one peculiar thing about him.”

“What now?” asked Matherfield. “It all helps!”

“Well,” said the landlord, “I noticed that his hands and fingers were stained⁠—all sorts of colours. Sometimes it was more noticeable than at others. But there it was.”

“Um!” remarked Matherfield. He exchanged a knowing glance with Hetherwick. And when, a few minutes later, they left the tavern, he turned to him with an air of assurance. “I’m beginning to feel the end!” he said. “Feel it, if I don’t see it. Stained fingers, eh? We’ve heard of them before, Mr. Hetherwick. And I’ll tell ye what it is. Somewhere about this very spot there’s some place where men are dabbling⁠—secretly, I should think⁠—with chemicals, and Ambrose is one of ’em, and perhaps Baseverie another, and it was there that Hannaford and that man Grannet had been that night, and where they were poisoned⁠—and there, too, no doubt, these two ladies are at this minute! Well⁠—come to my place first thing in the morning.”

Hetherwick, at a loss what to do further that night, went away and dined, and, that done, strolled home to his chambers. There was a light in his parlour, and when he opened the door he found Mapperley, evidently awaiting him, and with Mapperley a curly-headed, big-nosed, beady-eyed young Jew.

XXI The Order in Writing

Hetherwick realised at once that Mapperley had news, and was waiting there to communicate it. But he looked not so much at Mapperley as at Mapperley’s companion. Mapperley, as Hetherwick had remarked to more than one person in the course of those proceedings, concealed his sharpness under an unusually commonplace exterior; he looked, as a rule, like a young man whose ideas rarely soared above a low level. But the Jew was of a different aspect⁠—Hetherwick was not quite sure whether he was rat or ferret. There was subtlety and craft written all over him, from his bright beady eyes to his long, thin, dirty fingers, and before Mapperley spoke his employer felt sure that in this son of Israel the clerk had found a valuable associate.

“Hullo, Mapperley!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “Waiting for me? You’ve some news, I suppose?”

Mapperley, grave and formal, pointed a finger at the Jew.

“Mr. Isidore Goldmark, sir,” he said. “Friend of mine. I got him to give me a bit of assistance in this Baseverie and Vivian affair. The fact is, sir, he knows Vivian’s⁠—don’t you, Issy?”

“Thome!” replied Mr. Goldmark, with a grin.

“And he knows Baseverie, too,” continued Mapperley. “By sight, anyhow. So I got him⁠—for a consideration⁠—to watch for Baseverie’s next appearance on that scene, and then, when he did come, to keep an eye on him⁠—trick him, in fact. And Issy’s seen him tonight, Mr. Hetherwick, and followed him. Then Issy came to me, and I brought him here.”

“Good!” said Hetherwick. “Sit down, both of you, and I’ll hear about it.” He dropped into his own easy chair and again regarding the Jew decided that he was probably a creditable witness. “What do you do at Vivian’s?” he asked. “Employed there?”

Mr. Goldmark glanced at Mapperley and smiled knowingly. Mapperley nodded.

“All confidential, Issy,” he said reassuringly. “Going no further.”

“Of course this is all confidential⁠—and secret,” remarked Hetherwick. “I only want to know the precise connection between Vivian’s and Mr. Goldmark.”

“It’th a thort of themi-official,