A Mysterious Disappearance by Louis Tracy (read a book .txt) 📖

that you might make something to keep the pot boiling.

“But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this time I will try not to be too sanguine. There have been big gold discoveries in this country. It is now firmly believed that all our land is auriferous, and the scoundrel who sold us this beggarly ranch has tried to upset our title. Thanks to your foresight, he was knocked out at the first round. So I may soon have big news for you. By Jove, won’t it be a change if we both become rich! And won’t we all have a time in Paris! However, I must not promise too much. I have been taught caution by repeated failures. Write by return, and say if this reaches you all right.

“Your faithful friend,
“Sydney H. Corbett.”

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, when Bruce had slowly mastered the contents of the letter.

“Think! I am too dazed to think.”

“We can now learn all about him from America.”

“About whom?”

“About Corbett, of course.”

“Then did Corbett travel by the same mail as this letter in order to murder Lady Dyke? It is dated October 15th, and she was killed November 6th. It takes twelve days, at the quickest, for a letter to come here from Wyoming. And Corbett, the writer of it, not the receiver, must have travelled in the same steamer, or its immediate successor.”

Mr. White’s face fell, but he stuck to his point:

“Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have seen the secretary to the company that owns these flats. Corbett took the rooms for six months from September first. When asked for references he gave his sister’s name, and as she banks with the National—and she has always paid her rent for five years—it was good enough. Still, I must confess that Corbett could hardly be in Wyoming in October if he lived here in September and in November.”

The barrister answered between his set teeth: “Yes, it is rather puzzling.”

“Perhaps the letter was left there as a plant.”

“An elaborate one. It must have been conceived a month before the murder.”

“But suppose it never came from Wyoming. We have no proof that it was written in America.”

“We have proof of nothing at present.”

“Well, Mr. Bruce, have you a theory? This is the place where you ought to shine, you know.”

“I have no theory. I must think for hours, for days, before I see my way clear.”

“Clear to what, sir.”

“To telling you how, when, and where to arrest the murderer of Lady Dyke.”

“So this find of mine is of great importance?”

“Undoubtedly. I remember its contents sufficiently, but you will let me see it again if necessary?”

“With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You never returned that small bit of iron to me. You recollect I lent it to you some time since.”

“Perfectly. Come with me. I will model it in wax and give it to you.”

“All right, sir; but as we are here I may as well continue my search. I may drop on something else of value.”

Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the detective had completely rummaged the cabinet. The reading of that queer epistle from Corbett to “Bertie”—from the real Simon Pure to the sham one—from one man to his double—had stopped him at the very threshold of disclosure.

The document impressed him as being genuine. If so, who on earth was Corbett, and why had Mensmore taken his name, if that was the solution of the tangle?

Whatever the explanation, he would not jump to a conclusion. The web had closed too securely round Mensmore to allow of escape. Hence, Bruce could bide his time. Another week might solve many elements in the case now indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.

The detective finally satisfied himself there was nothing else in the cabinet. He approached the fireplace, peered into every vase on the over-mantel, picked with his penknife at the back of the frame to feel for other letters, and in doing so several times kicked the fender.

The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of method would note the missing portion of the iron “dog.”

“Surely,” he thought, “he will see it now,” as Mr. White bent to examine the ashes, and actually took the poker from the very support itself in order to rake among the cinders.

The other even scrutinized the fire-irons, but the too obvious fact that, so to speak, stared him in the face, escaped notice. He was quite wrapped up in his theory that Lady Dyke had been killed at Putney, and not in Sloane Square.

At last he quitted the room, and walked off to the small apartments at the end of the main corridor.

Instantly Bruce sprang forward, fell on his knees, and intently examined the iron rest with a strong lens. It bore no unusual signs in the locality of the break. Taking some wax from his pocket, he took a slight impression of the fracture.

When Mr. White returned, he found the barrister sitting in his chair, still smoking, and with set face and fixed eyes.

Soon afterwards they quitted the flat, carefully leaving all things as they found them. They said little on their way to Victoria Street, for Bruce was trying to explain Mensmore’s attitude at Monte Carlo, and the detective was considering the best use to which he could put that all-important letter.

Besides, Mr. White attributed his companion’s silence to annoyance. Had not he, White, laid hands on the only direct piece of evidence yet discovered as to Corbett’s identity, and this in defiance of Bruce’s spoken philosophy? He could afford to be generous and not to worry his amateur colleague with questions.

Thus they reached the barrister’s chambers. Bruce asked the other to sit down for a moment while he obtained a model of the small lump of iron. He took it into his bedroom, fitted in into the wax impression obtained at Raleigh Mansions, and noted that the two coincided perfectly.

He handed the bit of iron to White without comment.

The latter said: “It had better remain in my keeping now, sir, but if you want to see it again, of course I will be glad—”

“I shall never want it again,” said Bruce, and his voice was harsh and cold, for he had seldom experienced such a strain as the last hours had given him. “It is an accursed thing. It has caused one death already, and may cause others.”

“I sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged,” cried the detective, “for this affair is the warmest I have ever tackled. However, I’ll get him, as sure as his name’s Corbett, if he has forty aliases and as many addresses.”

Smith let Mr. White out. The latter, halting for a moment at the door, said quietly, “Is your name Corbett?”

“No, it ain’t, any more than yours is Black. See?”

Each man thought he had had his joke, so they were better friends thenceforth, but Mr. White was thoughtful as he passed into the street.

“This is a funny business,” he communed. “There isn’t enough evidence against Corbett to hang a cat, yet I think he’s the man. And Bruce is a queer chap. Was he cut up about me finding the letter, or has he got some notion in his head. He’s as close as an oyster. I wonder if he did dine at Hampstead on the evening of the murder, as he said at the inquest? I must inquire into it.”

CHAPTER XV MRS. HILLMER HESITATES

“I wonder if I shall have such exciting times to-day as I had yesterday,” said Bruce to himself, as he unfolded his Times next morning at breakfast.

Affairs had so jumbled themselves together in his brain the previous evening that he had abandoned all effort to elucidate them. He retired to rest earlier than usual, to sleep soundly, save for a vivid dream in which he was being tried for his life, the chief witnesses against him being Mrs. Hillmer, Phyllis Browne, and Jane Harding, the latter varying her evidence by entertaining the Court with a song and dance.

The weather, too, had improved. It was clear, frosty, and sunlit—one of those delightful days of winter that serve as cheerful remembrances during periods of seemingly interminable fog overhead and slush beneath.

During a quiet meal he read the news, and, with the invaluable morning smoke, settled himself cosily into an armchair to consider procedure.

In the first place he carefully weighed those utterances of Mensmore at Monte Carlo, which he could recall, and which seemed by the light of later knowledge, to bear upon the case.

Mensmore had alluded to “family troubles,” to “worries,” and “anxieties,” that practically drove him from England.

Some of these, no doubt, referred to the Springbok speculation. Others, again, might have meant Mrs. Hillmer or some other presently unknown relative. But in Mensmore’s manner there was nothing that savored of a greater secrecy than the natural reticence of a gentleman in discussing domestic affairs with a stranger.

This man had practically been snatched from death. At such a moment it was inconceivable that he could cloak the remorse of a murderer by the simulation of more honorable motives, in themselves sufficiently distressing to cause him deliberately to choose suicide as the best way of ending his difficulties.

The policeman had summarized the testimony against Corbett as insufficient to curtail the remarkable powers of endurance of a cat. But to Bruce the case against Mensmore, alias Corbett, stood in clearer perspective. Now that he calmly reasoned the matter he felt that the balance of probabilities swung away from the hypothesis that Mensmore was the actual slayer of Lady Dyke, and towards the theory that he was in some way bound up with her death, whether knowingly or unknowingly it was at present impossible to say.

The new terror to Bruce was Mr. White.

“Why, if that animated truncheon knew what I know of this business he would arrest Mensmore forthwith. If he did, what would result? A scandal, a thorough exposure, possibly the ruin of Mensmore’s love-making if he be an innocent man. That must be stopped. But how, without forewarning Mensmore himself?—and he may be guilty. Chance may favor White, as it favored me, in disclosing the identity of the missing Corbett. And what of the real Corbett? What on earth has he got to do with it, and why has Mensmore taken his name? If ever I get to the bottom of this business I may well congratulate myself. The sole result of all my labor thus far may be summed up in a sentence—I have not yet come face to face with the man whom I can honestly suspect as Lady Dyke’s murderer. Not much, my boy!”

Claude uttered the last sentence aloud, startling Smith, who was clearing the table.

“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Smith.

“Oh, nothing. I was only expressing an opinion.”

“I thought, perhaps, sir, you was thinkin’ of Mr. White.”

“What of him?”

“Your remark, sir, hexactly hexpresses my hopinion of ’im.”

Smith was not a badly educated man, but the least excitement produced an appalling derangement of the letter “h” in his vocabulary.

“Mr. White is a sharp fellow in his own way, Smith.”

“Maybe, but why should ’e come pokin’ round ’ere pryin’ into your little affairs-deecur?”

“My what?”

“Sorry, sir, but that’s what a French maid I once knew called ’em. Flirtations, sir. Mashes.”

“Smith, have you been drinking?”

“Me, sir?”

“Well, explain yourself. I never flirted with a woman in my life.”

“That’s what I told ’im, sir. ‘My master’s a regular saint,’ says I, ‘a sort of middle-aged ankyrite.’ But Mr. White ’e wouldn’t ’ave it at no price. ‘Come now, Smith,’ says ’e, ‘your guv’nor’s pretty deep. ’E’s a toff, ’e is, an’ knows lots of lydies—titled lydies.’ ‘Very like,’ says I, ‘but ’e doesn’t mash ’em.’ ‘Then what price that lydy who called for ’im in a