The Attic Murder - S. Fowler Wright (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

He remembered that-her promise had not been unconditional, a point which had not previously impressed his mind as much as, perhaps, it should. But, as the hour approached, the doubt grew, and patience became proportionately difficult.

Yet he had sufficient sense not to attempt to keep the appointment before the time she had fixed, and to see that, as she had made so strict a condition of secrecy, there would be no wisdom in walking up and down outside the restaurant for the hour before he was due to enter. He kept away from the immediate neighbourhood of Deal Street until a few minutes to seven, and then walked quickly to it, and through the ground-floor restaurant without haste, but as one who knows where he is going, and in a manner least likely to draw the attention of others upon himself.

As he passed through he observed, with his eyes rather than his mind, two men who occupied a seat by the door, whose faces were vaguely familiar, but he was too preoccupied by the doubt of whether he might be going up to find no more than an empty room to give attention to them.

What had she said? “I may be there, or I mayn’t. It depends.” Those, if his memory did not fail, were her exact words. There was no promise in them.

But by now he was up the narrow twisting stairs, and saw that it was at least sure that he was not approaching an unoccupied room, for a waiter was in the act of leaving the second door on the right, with an empty tray in his hand.

He went up to the door, knocked, and entered.

Augusta Garten was on a couch against the farther wall, her blonde head lying back, a half-smoked cigarette between carmined lips, and her eyes fixed on the ceiling in frowning thought.

Her glance turned lazily toward him, and then changed to a look of terror.

“Why,” she said in a tone of equal anger and fear, “did you come, when I told you not? You must go at once! I’m in danger enough through you, without this.”

But Francis was in no mood to retreat from an angry word, even had he understood her reproach.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “You told me to come.”

“Didn’t you get my letter?”

“Yes. You know I did. That was why I rang you up this morning.”

“Don’t waste time! I mean the second one. But don’t stay talking now. You must go.”

“It doesn’t seem to be a very dangerous place.” He looked round the quiet, comfortable room, in the centre of which a table was laid for three, with a smile which declined to respond to the note of panic in her voice.

“Don’t be an utter fool!” she said sharply. “It isn’t only danger for you. I’ve been suspected ever since you advertised to half London that you were looking everywhere for me.” Her words came rapidly, as though talking against time, as she added: “Tell Inspector Combridge to arrest me tonight at 14 Linfield Street. When I’m safe, I’ll tell him all that he wants to know.

“You’ve seen me in the street and followed me here, and I’ve told you to clear out. I don’t want to see you again as long as I live.”

As she spoke these last words, there was a sound of voices in the corridor, as a waiter directed someone to the room he required. Her voice sank, as she added hurriedly: “You’ve done it now! Don’t believe anything I say, or anyone else. And don’t let yourself be persuaded to stay…” She raised her voice to add: “I’ve told you I don’t want to see you again as long as I live, and you might have the decency to leave a room where no one asked you to come.”

At the same moment, the door opened, and Mr. Jesse Banks entered the room.

Francis looked at him in a natural surprise, but had sufficient presence of mind not to show that he knew him for whom he was. He had, in fact, only seen him casually in court, when he had been pointed out to him as Miss Weston’s employer. Now he wondered, in one instant of doubt, whether Augusta Garten could know him, or in what name or guise he might have penetrated into the counsels of the gang to whom she belonged.

He did not think it singular that he had not heard before that the enquiry agent was so closely upon their track, for it was only from Mr. Jellipot that he received any real confidence. Inspector Combridge might doubt whether he were suffering from imbecility or senile decay, but he would have diagnosed his condition as beyond question or remedy had he become confidential with the convict whose innocence was still one of the uncertain problems that vexed his mind.

Actually, if he would not have been as surprised as Francis Hammerton to see Mr. Banks enter that room, it was only because he was aware of the jealousy which divides the official from the private investigator. Mr. Banks was instructed by the London & Northern Bank. It was to them that his loyalty was due, and to whom his first report should be made. He would be very unlikely to inform Inspector Combridge of the details of what he did, or of the line of enquiry on which he was engaged until its result should appear.

Mr. Banks might not suppose himself to be known to Francis, but he showed at once that Francis was known to him.

“I was not aware,” he said smoothly, “that you would have been a visitor here. Mr. Vaughan, is it not?”

“Mr. Vaughan,” Augusta replied, “has come uninvited into my private room, and I have just told him to clear out.”

“Oh,” Mr. Banks replied, “but I don’t see why you should take that line. Mr. Vaughan’s in an awkward mess. We ought to give him any help that we can. Now he’s here, you might ask him to stay.”

The words were no more than a request, but the tone was that of one who assumed that his wishes would be obeyed.

“Of course,” Augusta replied, “he can stay if you wish. “I’ll ring for another place to be laid.”

Francis hesitated. She had warned him that it would be dangerous for him to remain: that he was to disregard anything that anyone, including herself, might say. She had told him to ask Inspector Combridge to find some pretext for her arrest, so that, he must presume, she could betray those who had ceased to trust her, within the safety of prison walls. She was to be found that night at 14, Pinfold Street? No, it was not that. Linford Street? That seemed nearer, but he did not think it was right. There are so many streets in London! It would be useless to give the Inspector an uncertain name… Probably in a few minutes it would come back to his mind.

In the meantime, he would not go. Everything might depend upon getting that name correctly. It was maddening to think that it could so quickly have left his mind! But it had all been so hurriedly said… And the risk might be much less than Miss Garten feared, not knowing Mr. Banks for the friend of order and law… And Mr. Banks had made it clear that he wished him to stay. He might even be relying upon him for some form of support… He would remain, at the least, until he had recollected that name. Linford — Linton — it had been something like that. Or perhaps he would have an opportunity of asking Augusta again.

These were the thoughts of the fifteen seconds while Augusta rose lazily from the couch, and moved to the bell, and his reply paused. Then he said:

“I don’t want to intrude, but if you’re sure that I shan’t be in the way?”

If Miss Garten wished him to go she gave no sign. She said: “Of course, we can’t let you go at this hour without some dinner. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but I’m frightened of everything since you and Tony got caught… Colonel Driver: ought to be here any minute now. You’ve met him before,” And as she spoke the last member of the little party, a rather heavily-built, middle-aged man, of almost too pronounced a military aspect, entered the room.