The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

Chapter Eleven.
Mainly Concerns Mr Stent

James Farloe hung up the telephone receiver, and, lighting a cigar, sat down to think, while wailing for his visitor.

He was rather a good-looking young fellow, but, examined closely, his face was not prepossessing. There was a certain furtive expression about him, as of a man continually on the watch lest he should betray himself, and the eyes were shifty. His sister was probably as insincere as himself, but, on the whole, she made a better impression.

He was too perturbed to sit for long, for, truth to tell, his thoughts were not pleasant company. Two or three times he got up and paced the room, with a noiseless stealthy tread that was characteristic of him. Then, tired of the monotony of waiting, he selected a book from the limited store in a small revolving bookcase, and tried to read.

But the words danced before his unquiet eyes, and conveyed no meaning. Again and again he had to resort to his noiseless pacings of the thickly-carpeted room, to allay the tedium of waiting.

But the slow minutes passed at last. He drew out his watch, noted the time, and drew a sigh of relief. It was one-thirty a.m.

“He can’t be long now,” he muttered. “At this hour of the night he can put on any speed he likes. He’s an obstinate devil, but he would be pretty sure to start straight away, after my urgent summons.”

Even as he spoke, the figure of a man in a motor-cap and heavy overcoat was stealing quietly along Ryder Street. A moment more, and footsteps were heard on the stairs.

Farloe hastened to open the hall-door of his cosy little suite, and closed it noiselessly after the entrance of his visitor. They nodded to each other. The man advanced, and stood under the electric light suspended from the middle of the ceiling.

He was of medium height, well-dressed, and of gentlemanly appearance. He had aquiline features, and piercing dark eyes.

He was the man who had been identified by Davies the driver as one of the two who had put the dying man in his taxi at Dean’s Yard, with instructions to drive him to Chesterfield Street – the man known to the police, through the information given by Mrs Saxton, by the name of Stent.

They did not waste time in preliminary remarks or greetings; they were probably too old acquaintances to indulge in such trivial formalities, but proceeded to business at once.

“So she got clear away?” remarked the man known as Stent. “I always said she was one of the smartest women in England. How did she outwit the detective?”

Farloe smiled. “It was beautifully simple,” he replied. “She ’phoned me up in the morning to say she was starting in a few moments, and that she was sure this fellow would hang on to her as long as he could. She asked me if I could suggest any way of outwitting him. At the moment I couldn’t.”

Stent darted a glance at his companion which was not exactly one of appreciation. “Your sister is quicker at that sort of thing than you,” he said briefly.

Farloe did not appear to notice the slight conveyed in the words and tone, and went on in his smooth voice:

“I expect so. Anyway, she had it cut and dried. She was going to lead him a nice little dance till it was time to get rid of him. She would take him down to Piccadilly Circus, trot him about there for some little time, and then get back to the Knightsbridge Tube Station.”

“Yes – and then?”

“I was to send a boy with a note to the Tube station at a certain time. I picked up a boy, giving him a full description of her, and packed him off. All happened as she expected. The man was tempted away by the boy, out of whom he could get nothing that would be of any use to him, and for a few moments left her unwatched. Hers was a bold stroke. While he was interviewing the urchin, she slipped into a descending lift, and left Mr Detective glaring at her from outside.”

Stent laughed appreciatively. “Well done!” he remarked. “But I have no doubt she would have hit upon something else had that failed.”

Farloe assented briefly. He was very fond of his sister, but it had always been rather a sore point with him to know that she had impressed everybody with the fact that she was much the cleverer and subtler of the two.

There was a brief pause. Then Farloe pointed to the table, upon which stood glasses, a decanter of whisky, and a syphon of soda-water.

“Help yourself, and sit down while we chat,” he said pleasantly. “I’m sorry to have brought you out so late.”

Stent helped himself liberally to the spirit, took a long draught, and sat down in one of the two big saddle-bag chairs. When he had entered the room, Farloe had noticed certain signs of irritation. Perhaps the soothing influence of the whisky helped to restore him to a more equable frame of mind. Anyway, when he answered Farloe his voice was quite smooth and amiable.

“Yes, I was deucedly put out at having to start off at a minute’s notice. If I hadn’t said good-bye to nerves long ago, you would have made me feel quite jumpy, with your talk about bringing a suit-case with me, and having to cross the Channel. Now let me know the meaning of it all. I’ve brought the suit-case in the car. Tell me,” he urged, fixing the younger man with his keen piercing gaze. Farloe shifted a little uneasily under that intense glance. Somehow, he never felt quite at his ease in Stent’s presence.

“I haven’t your nerves, or, rather the want of them, that I admit. And perhaps I take fright a little too easily. Still, I think you ought to be informed of this: that certain people are beginning to know – well – a bit too much.”

Stent’s hard, resolute mouth curved in a smile that was half incredulous, half contemptuous.

“Certain people always know too much – or too little. In this case, I should say it was the latter.”

But Farloe stuck to his guns. “I was tackled to-night at the House by Sir Archibald Turtrell. You know of him, of course?”

The other nodded. There was vindictiveness in his tone, as he replied: “A regular old cackler and bore.”

“I don’t dispute he is both, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he pushed me very hard with some searching questions. I parried them as best I could, but from his last remarks I could see he didn’t believe a word I was saying.”

Stent shifted uneasily in his chair; his ill-humour was evidently returning.

“My dear Farloe, you must excuse me for saying that you don’t always act with the greatest discretion. Why the devil do you want to go to the House at all for, laying yourself open to be cross-examined by anybody and everybody you meet? Look how differently your sister has acted; she has lain as low as possible, and finally shown them a clean pair of heels. I don’t advise you to do exactly the same, for obvious reasons, but it would be advisable to keep very much out of the way till things have blown over.”

The younger man was evidently not thin-skinned, or he would have indulged in some outburst at those very candid remarks. Stent went on, in his hard, but not altogether unpleasant voice:

“It has often struck me that this sort of thing is not quite suitable to a man of your temperament. But now you are in it, you must cultivate the art of keeping your nerves in better order, as I have done. Don’t start at shadows. What you have told me doesn’t disturb me in the least; it is just what might be expected.”

“You haven’t forgotten that young beggar Varney is on the track?” put in Farloe quietly. “I saw him go into Monkton’s house as late as yesterday. He is more to be feared than Smeaton, in my opinion.”

“I don’t care a snap of the finger for the young pup,” cried the other, in his most obstinate voice, and a tightening of the resolute jaw that was so well-matched with the dark, piercing eyes.

Farloe waited till his companion’s momentary irritation had subsided, then he put a question.

“You are quite sure that the police have not traced you yet?”

“Absolutely,” came Stent’s reply. He added, in his grimmest manner; “I’ve not given them a chance.”

They talked on for a long time, the elder man combating sometimes half humorously, sometimes with ill-concealed irritation, the pessimism of the other. At length when he rose it was nearly three o’clock.

“You will let me put you up for the night,” urged Farloe.

“To be in time for the Paris train in the morning?” laughed the other. “No, thanks, my friend. I want to be somewhere else about that time.”

He had drunk a good deal during the interview, and Farloe knew that he was getting into one of those dare-devil moods, in which it was rather dangerous to play with him, or to cross him.

“As you please,” he said, a little sullenly. “I hope you are quite right in your confidence that they have not got on our tracks yet.”

“Make your mind easy, my dear chap. Your sister took care of that by putting our friend Smeaton on a wrong scent. I have often laughed when I thought of them hunting every nook and corner around St. Albans for the gentleman with whom she had only a casual acquaintance.”

Farloe made no reply. Stent held out one hand, and with the other clapped the young man on the shoulder with rough good humour.

“Good-night, old man. Go to bed and sleep soundly, for I’m going. And, I say, don’t bring me out again on a midnight ride like this unless there is very strong reason. Now, just a last word – and I say it in all seriousness – I am not a bit discouraged by what you have told me. Let them smell about, but they’ll find nothing.”

He turned to the door, and fired a parting shot:

“Now, you follow my advice not to give way to idle fancies, and you’ll turn out as well as any of us. And we shall all be proud of you. Once again, good-night.”

As he spoke the last word, the telephone bell rang, and he paused, and turned round.

Farloe looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Past three, by Jove! There’s only one person would ring me up at this time of night. It’s Maude. Perhaps it is important; you had better stay a moment,” he said.

Stent stayed. Farloe took off the receiver, and listened for a little time to the voice at the other end. Although Stent could not distinguish the words, now and then he caught an inflection that he recognised. Farloe’s conjecture was right. It was Mrs Saxton who had rung him up.

Then Stent heard the young man’s reply.

“Hold on a minute, he is here. He was just going when you rang.”

He beckoned to Stent. “She wanted me to send you word that she wished to meet you. You can arrange it with her yourself.”

They talked for a few seconds. At one of her remarks Stent laughed heartily. He turned to Farloe.

“She is suggesting that we don’t make it the Knightsbridge Tube Station.” Then he turned again to the instrument.

“That was a capital move of yours; your brother has just been telling me about it. Really, I think just now it might be as convenient a place as any; they would never think you would have the cheek to go there again so soon. Let us meet at the old spot. That’s safe enough. To-morrow then. All right. Good-bye.”

Chapter Twelve.
The Occupier of Forest View

When Mason, Detective-Sergeant, C.I.D., with crestfallen air narrated the history of his adventures with the elusive Mrs Saxton, he had expected his chief to indulge in a few sarcastic comments. But Smeaton only shrugged his shoulders expressively. After all, he had come off only second best in his encounter with her himself.

“A very clever woman, Mason,” he said, after some hesitation. “I found that out at the start. It means she has made a bolt of it. It will be some time before Hyde Park Mansions sees her again.”

He was right. Three days elapsed, and the fugitive did not return. On the fourth, Mason, acting in accordance with instructions, went boldly up to the flat and rang the bell.

The neat-looking maid told him that her mistress had gone abroad.

Mason affected to be very much put out. “Dear me, it’s very annoying. I wanted to see her on most urgent business. Can you oblige me with her address?”

“She didn’t leave one, sir. She said she would be back in a month or six weeks, and would be travelling about from place to place all the time. She told us that any letters could wait till her return.”

Mason observed her sharply while she gave this information in quite a natural manner. She seemed a simple, innocent kind of girl. Of course, she might be in league with the escaped woman, but he was rather inclined to believe she was telling the truth.

Mrs Saxton had begun to find the atmosphere a trifle uncomfortable, and had duped her servants with this story of going abroad, he reasoned with himself. She might give London itself a wide berth, but she was somewhere near where she could be in pretty close touch with her friends. Of that he was certain.

Things, therefore, were at a deadlock as concerned Stent and this woman.

Meanwhile, young Varney, confident that Farloe was a mysterious and important connecting link, kept a steady watch upon the chambers in Ryder Street.

For the first three days his exertions went unrewarded. But on the fourth he followed Farloe in a taxi to the Great Eastern Hotel, in Liverpool Street, where he was joined by a man whom, by his strongly marked aquiline features and piercing eyes, he suspected to be the elusive Stent.

When the pair left the hotel, he followed them. It was the luncheon hour, and the city streets were crowded. For full five minutes he kept them in sight, and then he became separated and lost them.

On the second occasion he was more fortunate. About three o’clock one afternoon the pair came forth from Farloe’s chambers, and together walked leisurely, talking earnestly the while.

As far as Victoria Station they went together to the Brighton line. There they parted. The elder man entered the booking-hall of the London and Brighton line, and asked for a ticket to Horsham. Varney did the same.

It was a slow train, and half-empty. When Horsham was reached, only three passengers alighted: himself, the man he was watching, and a young woman.

He inquired of the ticket-collector if at any place near he could hire a cycle, as he thought of coming down for a week’s holiday, and would like to explore the country for an hour or so.

The man directed him to a shop close by. He seemed a very civil young fellow, and Varney chatted with him for a few seconds.

“By the way,” he said, as he moved away. “That gentleman who went out just now – isn’t he Mr Emerson, the well-known barrister?”

The young man shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Strange has recently come to live here, about five months ago. He’s taken Forest View, an old-fashioned house a mile and a half away.”

“Curious,” remarked the amateur detective, in a voice of well-feigned surprise. “Really, how very easily one may be mistaken. I see Mr Emerson three or four times each week, and I could have sworn it was he.”

The ticket-collector smiled civilly, but made no reply. He was not interested in this sudden creation of Varney’s lively imagination.

The journalist crossed to the cycle shop and there hired a machine, paying down the usual deposit. He wheeled it until he met a small boy, from whom he inquired the whereabouts of Forest View.

He was on the right road, the boy informed him. The house with green iron gates lay on the left-hand side. His machine would take him there in a few minutes.

However, he did not mount it, as in that case he would quickly overtake Mr Strange, who was proceeding there on foot. He preferred that this gentleman should get there first, so as to give him an opportunity of having a good look round.

Twenty minutes’ easy walking brought him to the big iron gates of Forest View. He had seen the man disappear within, about a couple of hundred yards in front of him. There was not a soul in sight; he could reconnoitre at his leisure.

The house, old-fashioned, low and rather rambling, lay well back from the white high road, at right angles to it. A thick hedge led up to within a few feet of the entrance. It seemed to boast a fair piece of ground, at least three acres. The entrance to some rather dilapidated stabling was lower down the road.

He felt a sense of triumph. Smeaton, he knew, was still searching for Stent, and he, the amateur, had forestalled him. Was he right, after all, in his surmise that by some curious lapse the man of wider experience had left Farloe out of his calculations, and the man Stent was identical with the man Strange?

His survey finished, he mounted his machine, and rode along, thinking out his plans.

“Find a nice comfortable inn somewhere near, but not too close, pose as an artist out for a brief holiday, and find out all there is to be found about the mysterious Mr Strange,” was the result of his meditations.

A mile lower down the road he came upon a small, old-fashioned inn, with a swinging sign, and trailing roses over the porch and walls. There he entered, and called for some refreshment.

“Thirsty with your ride – eh, sir?” asked the landlord pleasantly.

“A bit, although I haven’t ridden very far yet. I hired a machine in the town in order to have a look round. I want a week’s holiday badly, and I should like to hit upon some quiet quarters about here. It seems a nice piece of country.”

The landlord pricked up his ears. “Perhaps it’s the George in Horsham you might prefer.”

“Oh dear no! I want an old-fashioned inn, like this. But I suppose you don’t take guests?”

The fat landlord glanced at him hesitatingly. Varney was attired in a well-cut Norfolk suit, and his plush Homburg hat must have hailed from Bond Street. He looked the sort of man for a fashionable hotel, not an obscure bacon-and-egg inn.

“Well, sir, we do now and again. We don’t pretend to do you like the big places with French dishes and that sort of thing. But my wife is a good plain cook, and you won’t get better meat and chickens than we have.”

Terms were soon arranged. Varney – or Mr Franks as he announced himself to the landlord – would come down to-morrow, bringing with him a few sketching materials.

Next day Varney returned with a portable easel, and other paraphernalia appertaining to his supposed art. He had not been in the house half-an-hour before he engaged the landlord in a conversation about the local gentry. And it was soon deftly focussed upon the owner of Forest View.

Mr Peter Chawley was by nature a gregarious and communicative soul. He was only reticent when policy or prudence counselled such a course of action.

“Mr Strange has been here about five months,” he informed young Varney, in his fat, somewhat wheezy voice, “but we don’t know very much about him. When he first came, he used to go up to London pretty often, but for some time he has hardly stirred out of the house.”

“Has he any acquaintances in the place?”

Mr Chawley shook his head. “Doesn’t want any, so he told the Vicar when he called upon him. Said he had come here for a quiet life, and wanted to get away from his business in London and the friends he had already. Of course, that was a pretty broad hint – so nobody called. He doesn’t deal with anybody here for a pennyworth of matches. Gets everything from London.”

“What household has he? And is he a widower, or bachelor, or married?”

“Told the Vicar he was a widower. He has three maids: the cook, a middle-aged woman, housemaid, and parlourmaid – all three he brought with him. The gardener’s a local man, a young chap, and comes in here once in a while; but he knows no more than the rest of us. He hardly ever enters the house, and the maids don’t chatter.”

Forest View was a household that evidently kept its own secrets. The maids did not chatter, even to the young local gardener. Mystery here, thought Varney, without a doubt. It was his business to fathom it. Was he really Stent? That was the point.

“He got the house pretty cheap,” went on Mr Chawley, who was not easily stopped when he indulged in reminiscence, “because it had been unlet for five years. It’s a funny old place, all nooks and corners, without any modern convenience. Some people say it’s haunted, and I’ve heard that there is a secret room in it, like what they used to hide the priests in in the old days.”

A mysterious house, with a mysterious owner, truly, thought Varney, as the landlord rambled on.

“Does he have anybody to see him?”

“He never seems to have had but one visitor, a gentleman rather older than himself. He used to run down for two or three days at a time. For some time now he’s been staying with him altogether.”

Varney pricked up his ears. Was he going to discover anything useful?

“Do you know his friend’s name?” he asked eagerly.

“No, sir. The gardener has never heard it, but then, as I say, he hardly ever goes inside the house.”

The next day, and the day after, Varney watched Forest View closely. From the roadway he had a fairly clear view of the sloping lawn. But neither its occupier nor his visitor were tempted out by the beautiful weather. They were certainly an extraordinary pair to shut themselves up in a gloomy house on these bright sunshiny days.

On the third day, however, both emerged from their seclusion, and sauntered on to the lawn. The visitor seemed to stoop slightly, and walk with the languid air of a man who had recently recovered from an illness.

They walked about only for a little while, and, as they went back into the house, Varney, from his hiding-place behind the hedge, heard Mr Strange say:

“Well, if you think you feel fit enough, we will walk into Horsham after lunch. We can drive back. It may do you good.”

An idea had formed itself in Varney’s brain, fitting in with one of the theories he had formed about this remarkable case.

A little after one o’clock the supposed artist stole through the door of the inn, a basket in one hand, a good-sized bag in the other.

A few yards down the road he disappeared up a side road, crossed a field, and advanced towards an old disused barn which he had noted on the previous day, and slipped inside.

A few moments later there issued a strange and shabbily dressed figure, with a slouching walk. On his left arm hung a basket, full of roses, which had been bought a short time ago from Mrs Chawley. They were so beautiful, Varney told her, that he must paint them.

In the guise of a decrepit flower-seller he limped along to the narrow main street of Horsham, and hung about till the pair from Forest View arrived, when he faced them and advancing towards them with his basket before him, he whined when he had got up to them:

“Buy a bunch of roses, sir. Threepence a bunch. All fresh picked, sir.”

“No,” said Strange gruffly, “we don’t want any, got lots of them,” and the pair turned away in ignorance that within that basket, concealed by the flowers, was a small detective camera by which a snapshot of both of them had already been cleverly secured in secret.

Varney made his way back at once to the old barn, where he discarded his shabby jacket and cap.

Early next morning he was on his way to Smeaton. He had a hope that his investigations had been fruitful, but he could not be sure. Certainly the face and figure of the man Strange answered to the description of the person named Stent whom Scotland Yard had been unable to trace.

Having developed and printed the photograph at his own rooms, he was shown into Smeaton’s bare official sanctum which overlooked Westminster Bridge, when the celebrated official rose and gripped his hand.

“Well, Varney?” he asked, “have you done anything in the Monkton mystery – eh?”

“Yes. A bit. Look here. Is this Stent – or not? If it is. I’ve found him.”

The detective took the damp print and examined it curiously in the light by the window.

“Well – the only man who can really identify it is our friend at the Savoy Hotel. Let’s take a taxi and go and see him.”