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

the platform at Waterloo was thronged when Hetherwick and Rhona came out of the restaurant at ten minutes past eight. Hetherwick was inquiring as to which platform the Southampton train would come in at when he felt a light touch on his arm. Turning sharply he saw Robmore. Robmore gave him a quiet smile, coupled with an informing wink.

“Guess you’re on the same job, Mr. Hetherwick,” he said. “Wire from Matherfield, eh?”

“Yes,” replied Hetherwick. “And you?”

“Same here,” assented Robmore. “Just to say I was to be here for the eight-twenty⁠—with help,” he added significantly. “I’ve got the help; there’s four of us round about. Heard anything of those ladies, Mr. Hetherwick?”

“Here is one of them,” replied Hetherwick, indicating Rhona. “They’re safe. You’ll hear all about it later. But this business⁠—what do you make of Matherfield’s wire? Has he failed?”

“I’ll tell you what I make of it,” answered Robmore. “I think you’ll find that Baseverie is on the train, with Matherfield and Quigman in close attendance. For some reason of his own, Matherfield means to arrest Baseverie here⁠—here! That’s how I figure it. They’ve seen Baseverie there and decided to follow him back to town. As soon as that train’s in⁠—”

A sudden, sharp exclamation from Rhona interrupted him and made both men turn to her. She clutched Hetherwick’s arm, at the same time pointing with the other hand across the space behind them.

“Baseverie⁠—himself!” she said. “There⁠—under that clock! See! He’s going towards the gates!”

With a swift and unceremonious gesture Robmore laid a hand on Rhona’s shoulder, twisted her round and drew her amongst a group of bystanders.

“Keep out of sight, miss!” he muttered. “He’ll know you! Now, again⁠—which man. That with the pale face and high hat? I see him. Good to remember, too. All right! Stop here, you two. If he moves in this direction, Mr. Hetherwick, move away anywhere. Wait!”

Robmore slipped away. A moment later they saw him speak to a couple of quiet-looking men, who presently glanced at Baseverie. Hetherwick was watching Baseverie, too. Baseverie, quiet, unconcerned, evidently wholly unsuspicious, had taken up a position at the exit through which the Southampton passengers must emerge; he was smoking a cigar, placidly, with obvious appreciation.

“You’re certain that’s the man?” whispered Hetherwick.

“Baseverie? Positive!” declared Rhona. “As if I could mistake him! I’ve too good reason to remember his whole appearance. But⁠—here! Daring!”

“Well,” said Hetherwick, “something’s going to happen! Keep back⁠—keep well back! We can see things from here without being seen. If he caught sight of you⁠—”

Robmore came strolling back and joined them.

“All right!” he murmured. “Four pairs of eyes, beside ours⁠—that’s three pairs more⁠—on him! My men are close up to him, too. See ’em? One, two, three, four! All round him, though he doesn’t know. I shan’t let him go, whether Matherfield turns up or not. Cool customer, eh?”

“The train’s due,” said Hetherwick. He had Rhona’s hand within his arm, and he felt it tremble. “Yes,” he whispered, bending down to her, “that’s how I feel. Tense moment, this. But that scoundrel there⁠—”

Baseverie was glancing at the big clock. He turned from it to the platform behind the gates, looking expectantly along its lighted surface. The others looked, too. A minute passed. Then, out of the gloom at the further extremity of the vast station, an engine appeared, slowly dragging its burden of carriages and came sighing like a weary giant up the side of the platform. The passengers in the front compartments leapt out and began filing towards the exit.

“Now for it,” muttered Robmore. “Keep back, you two! My men’ll watch him⁠—and whoever’s here to meet him, for he’s expecting somebody.”

Nothing happened for the first minute. The crowd of discharged passengers, men and women, civilians, soldiers, sailors, filed out and went their ways. Gradually it thinned. Then Hetherwick’s arm was suddenly gripped by Rhona for the second time, and he saw that she was staring at something beyond the barrier.

“There!” she exclaimed. “There⁠—the man in the grey coat and fawn hat! That’s the man who drove the car! See! Baseverie sees him!”

Hetherwick looked and saw Baseverie lift a hand in recognition of a young, fresh-faced man, who was nearing the ticket-collectors, and who carried in his right hand a small, square parcel. But he saw more. Close behind this young man came Matherfield on one hand and Quigman on the other. They drew closer as he neared the gate, and on its other side the detectives drew closer to Baseverie.

“Now then,” whispered Robmore, and stole swiftly forward.

It was all over so swiftly that neither Hetherwick nor Rhona knew exactly how the thing was done. Before they had realised that the men were trapped, or the gaping bystanders had realised that something was happening under their very noses, Baseverie and his man were two safely handcuffed prisoners in the midst of a little group of silent men who were hurrying both away. Within a moment captors and captives were lost in the outer reaches of the station. Then the two watchers suddenly realised that Matherfield, holding the square parcel in his hand, was standing close by, a grim but highly satisfied smile in his eyes. He held the parcel up before them.

“Very neat, Mr. Hetherwick, very neat indeed!” he said. “Uncommonly neat⁠—eh?”

But Hetherwick knew that he was not referring to the parcel.

XXVII The Assurance

Rhona went back to her old quarters at the little hotel in Surrey Street for that night, and next morning Hetherwick came round to her, with an armful of newspapers. Finding her alone, he laid them on the table at her side with a significant nod of his head at certain big black letters which topped the uppermost columns.

“Matherfield must have given plenty of informing news to the pressmen last night,” he remarked with a grim smile. “It’s all in there⁠—his own adventures at Southampton yesterday; mine and Robmore’s in Westminster, and all the rest of it. I believe the newspaper people call this sort of thing a story⁠—and a fine story it