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

Chapter Nine.
Rumours in London

Some few days had elapsed, and the Monkton mystery remained in the same deep obscurity. The inquest had been resumed, and an “open verdict” was returned by the jury. But nothing as yet had been published in the Press. All that the public knew was by an obscure paragraph which stated that the Colonial Secretary had been suffering from ill-health, and, having been ordered complete rest by his doctor, he had gone abroad.

The body of the dead man had not been identified. There was nothing to prove conclusively the cause of death, so the matter was left in the hands of the police for investigation.

Some little progress had been made in the direction of Bolinski. Luigi, the proprietor of the restaurant in Soho, had been taken to the Boundary Road in St. John’s Wood, and had waited for the mysterious foreigner to come out of the house.

When he appeared, limping along with that peculiar gait of his, Luigi unhesitatingly declared that he was the man who had dined on the eventful night with the missing Mr Monkton. He could have identified him anyway by his features and figure, but the dragging walk left no room for doubt. Luigi, like Wingate, had noticed it at once.

A few facts about him were established. He was either a bachelor or a widower, as the only other occupants of the house were a married couple, also foreigners, who looked after the establishment. Inquiries in the neighbourhood proved that he spent about half the week there, going up to business every morning.

They tracked him to his office in the city, a couple of rooms on the second floor of a big block of recently erected buildings in the vicinity of Liverpool Street Station. His staff was small, consisting of a young clerk of about eighteen, and a woman of about thirty-five, by her appearance a Jewess of foreign, probably Polish, nationality.

The name Bolinski was inscribed in large latters on a plate outside the door. No business or profession was stated. Patient investigation revealed the fact that he was supposed to be a financial agent, was connected with certain small, but more or less profitable, enterprises abroad, and had a banking account at the head office of one of the biggest banks in England.

Such facts as these rather deepened the mystery. What circumstances had produced an even momentary association between Reginald Monkton, a statesman of more than ordinary eminence, a man of considerable fortune, with a financier of fifth or sixth rate standing, who lived in a small house in St. John’s Wood.

While the Russian was being subjected to these investigations, the other man. Stent, had suddenly absented himself from the Savoy. This was annoying, as Smeaton had sworn to hunt him to his lair, with the aid of his old ally, the hall-porter.

Mrs Saxton was still being kept under strict surveillance, but she, too, was lying very low. She left the flat very seldom, and her movements had in them nothing suspicious. Her brother, James Farloe, went there every day, but she did not appear to be in further communication with Bolinski. Nothing had come to light since those two telegrams despatched to Brighton.

In the meantime rumour was growing in every direction, more especially in political and club circles. What had become of Monkton? Why was he no longer in his place in the House of Commons? Why had his name disappeared from the Parliamentary reports? Was he really ill and abroad?

At no place was the subject discussed with greater interest than at that celebrated resort of intellectual Bohemianism, the Savage Club. Here were gathered together the brightest spirits of the stage, the Bar, and modern journalism with its insatiable appetite for sensational news and thrilling headlines.

Prominent amongst the journalistic section was Roderick Varney, a brilliant young man of twenty-eight, of whom his friends predicted great things. After a most successful career at Oxford, he had entered the Middle Temple, and in due course been called to the Bar.

Having no connection among solicitors, briefs did not flow in, and he turned his attention to the Press. Here he speedily found his true vocation. He was now on the staff of a powerful syndicate which controlled an important group of daily and weekly newspapers.

The bent of his mind lay in the direction of criminal investigation. On behalf of one of the syndicated newspapers, he had helped to solve a mystery which had puzzled the trained detectives of Scotland Yard.

Thinking over the Monkton matter, he had come to the conclusion that there might be a great “scoop” in it.

Unfortunately, he knew so little of the actual facts; there were such slender premises to start from. Rumours, more or less exaggerated, were not of much use to him, and those were all that he had at his disposal.

And then, as he sat in the smoking-room of the Savage, overlooking the Thames, a big idea occurred to him. He would go to headquarters at once, to Chesterfield Street, and ask for Miss Monkton. He would send in a brief note first, explaining his errand.

He had dined, and it was getting on for half-past eight. No time to lose. In under ten minutes from the time the idea had struck him, he was at the door of Reginald Monkton’s house.

Grant showed him into the library, and took in the note. Sheila and Wingate had dined together, and were sitting in the drawing-room.

The sad events had drawn them so closely together that they might now be said to be acknowledged lovers. Austin had never made any pretence of his regard for her, and Sheila was no longer reserved or elusive.

She handed him the letter, and Wingate read it carefully.

“I know the man a little,” he said, when he had gathered the contents. “I belong to the Savage, and go there occasionally. He has the reputation of a brilliant journalist, and has written one or two quite good books on the subject of criminology. Suppose we have him in, and see what he wants. Smeaton is a first-class man, no doubt, but this chap unearthed the Balham mystery that baffled Scotland Yard; all London rang with it, at the time. A fresh brain might help us.”

Sheila yielded to her lover’s suggestion. Privately, she thought etiquette demanded that they should first ring up to consult Smeaton as to whether the newcomer should be shown the door or not. But Wingate had been so good, so tender to her in her hour of trial, that she did not like to oppose him.

Varney came in and at once made a good impression upon her. He was quite a gentleman; his voice and manner showed unmistakable signs of cultivation.

He plunged at once into the matter without insincere apologies.

Plenty of rumours were flying about, he explained, many of them, no doubt, quite baseless; most, or all of them, exaggerated. He had a faculty for this kind of investigation, and had been successful in a very complicated and baffling case at Balham. If they would give him first-hand information he would be pleased to place his services at their disposal.

“You know, of course, that nothing will be allowed to appear in the Press,” said Wingate, when the young journalist had finished. “The Home Secretary has given instructions to that effect.”

Varney admitted he was under the impression something of the kind had occurred. Otherwise his chief would have sent for him at once.

“So you see I am not out for immediate kudos,” he said, with a very frank smile. “Under different circumstances I daresay I should act very much like any other enterprising journalist anxious to establish a reputation.”

There was a moment’s pause. Wingate looked at Sheila, and she returned his glance of inquiry. Should they trust this singular young man, who spoke with such apparent frankness? Or should they refer him to the detective-inspector who had the case in hand?

Varney perceived their natural hesitation, and hastened to turn it in his favour.

“Let us make a bargain,” he said, in a voice of real heartiness. “Forget for the moment that I am a predatory journalist, on the prowl for sensational news. Just consider me as a man who has a bent for this particular form of investigation, and takes a delight in it. Treat me as a friend, and I will prove myself worthy of your confidence, and help you as far as my brains and resources will permit.”

It was Sheila who spoke first, with her woman’s impulse. “Austin,” she said, “I think we may trust Mr Varney.”

The journalist bowed. “Many thanks. Miss Monkton,” He smiled a little as he added: “Ring up my old friend Smeaton, who, I know, has charge of the case, and get his permission if you like. You know, that was your first thought – was it not?”

Sheila blushed. “Yes, you are quite right, it was. How did you guess?”

“Very easily. By putting myself in your place, and imagining how I should think and act under similar circumstances.”

Then Wingate followed his sweetheart’s lead.

“Well, Mr Varney, I agree with Miss Monkton. We accept you as an ally, without reference to Smeaton. What do you want us to do?”

“I want you to tell me, as fully as you can, everything that has happened, in the minutest detail, from the night of Mr Monkton’s strange disappearance until the present moment.”

It was a long recital. Varney listened attentively and made notes from time to time, as some point struck him. But he did not make many. He seemed to possess a marvellous and retentive memory.

The narrative finished, Varney rose.

“Thanks, I have got it all clear. Now, all this will want thinking over, and it will take me some hours. As soon as I have established something to work upon I will communicate with you. We don’t often see you at the Savage, Mr Wingate, or we might meet there.”

“I have not much leisure,” was Wingate’s reply, “and all I have at my disposal is at Miss Monkton’s service for the present.”

“I quite understand.” He could not fail to read in the slight glow on Sheila’s cheek that the pair were lovers. “Well, good-night. Many thanks for the cordial reception you have given me. I shall do my best. I shall hope to earn the compliments of my old friend Smeaton once again.”

It was close upon ten o’clock when he left the house in Chesterfield Street. Though it was summer time, the night was a dark one. There was no moon, and heavy clouds obscured the stars.

A man stepped out from under the street lamp nearly opposite, and walked quickly in the direction of Curzon Street. Varney had seen him many times in the House of Commons, and recognised him at once. It was James Farloe, the secretary.

Varney followed him up Curzon Street, through the narrow passage that runs past Lansdowne House. For a moment Farloe halted, as if undecided which direction to take. Then, his mind made up, he turned northward, and made his way into Oxford Street.

He walked along there for a little while, then crossed over to the north side, and, turning up one of the numerous side streets, took a devious route into Edgware Road.

It immediately struck Varney that he was going to visit Mrs Saxton at Hyde Park Mansions. In that case, he would have had his hunt for nothing. Smeaton had his men stationed there, and he was not wanted.

However, he would make sure, before he gave up the chase, and he was afterwards glad that he had not jumped too readily at conclusions.

It soon became apparent that this was not Farloe’s destination, for he passed Chapel Street, and continued straight along the Edgware Road till he came to where it joins on to Maida Vale. Here he turned to the right, and was immediately in the St. John’s Wood district.

Varney was now pretty certain in his own mind as to the secretary’s goal, and a few moments more confirmed his conjectures. He halted at a house in the Boundary Road, and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by a tall man, whom Varney at once recognised as Bolinski, from the description given of him by Wingate.

He waited about for an hour, but Farloe did not come out. Theirs was evidently a long conference. The secretary was apparently the channel of communication between the Russian and Mrs Saxton. This accounted for the sudden cessation of telegrams. The astute lady had found out she was being watched.

Varney walked back to Baker Street Station, where he took a ticket for Charing Cross, the nearest halting-place for the Savage Club in the Adelphi.

“I wonder if Smeaton has left Farloe altogether out of his calculations,” was his inward comment on the night’s proceedings. “But it can’t be; he is too old a bird for that. Well, it’s evident he is in with the gang, whoever they are – as well as his sister.”

Chapter Ten.
In the Lobby of the House

The weeks had slipped by. Smeaton was not at all satisfied with the progress he was making. His inquiries had led him into a cul-de-sac. The absence of the man Stent from the Savoy worried him. It looked as though the man had received a hint from Mrs Saxton, and taken the alarm. In addition, he had constant inquiries from the Home Secretary as to what progress he was making.

He paid a visit to Chesterfield Street to talk over matters. Before he left, Sheila screwed up her courage to tell him of Varney’s visit, and their acquiescence in his proposal to investigate on his own account.

She had expected that he would display resentment at their having taken such a step before consulting him. But, to her relief, he did nothing of the kind.

“Varney is a rather clever young chap,” he admitted, “and if he devoted himself entirely to detective work, and acquired plenty of experience, I believe he would be as good as, if not better than, many of us. In the Caxley mystery he certainly got on the right track, while we went blundering on wrong lines altogether. And the revelations in the Balham affair were entirely due to him.”

“He spoke very highly of you,” said Sheila, with woman’s finesse. “I am glad you don’t think we did wrong.”

“Not at all, my dear young lady. Tell him not to hesitate to come to me – if he is in need of any special facilities that I can give.”

“No news of Mrs Saxton, I suppose?” asked Sheila, as Smeaton was on the point of leaving the drawing-room.

“None at all. She is at home, and nobody seems to go near her but her brother. I told you how she put me on the wrong scent about Stent. Once or twice I have thought of going there again and taxing her with it. But what would be the good? She would still stick to her story that she knew next to nothing about him. In giving me the St. Albans clue she would swear she had mixed him up with somebody else. My men seem cooling their heels to no purpose. She knows she is being watched, and she won’t give us a chance. I expect she does all her necessary work on the telephone, and we must attend to that point at once.”

Next morning Mrs Saxton aroused herself from her apparent inactivity, and gave her watchers a big surprise, which added to Smeaton’s growing dissatisfaction with the state of affairs.

At about eleven o’clock her maid whistled up a taxi. Mason, the head detective on duty, immediately communicated with his own taxi-driver, waiting in readiness round the corner, and entered the cab, giving instructions to follow the other when it started.

She came out without any luggage, simply carrying a small vanity bag. She might be going shopping, to pay a visit, to send a telegram, or a hundred-and-one things. His duty was to follow her.

The woman’s cab drove down the Edgware Road, crossed the Park, and stopped at the Hyde Park Tube Station. Here Mrs Saxton paid the fare, and went into the booking-office. Mason at her heels. She took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus, and Mason did the same. They went down together in the same lift, Mrs Saxton near the door of exit, he at the other end of the lift.

He was puzzled as to her movements. If she wanted to get to Piccadilly Circus, why had she taken this roundabout route? The taxi would have taken her there direct.

The train was full. For a few seconds he was separated from her by a surging and struggling crowd blocking the entrances to the long cars. By dint of hard fighting he managed to get in the same carriage.

So far, luck seemed in his favour. It was a non-stop train, and went past Down Street. At the next station, Dover Street, he saw her turn half round, and cast a furtive glance in his direction. She was evidently debating within herself if she would chance getting out there.

While thus deliberating, the train re-started. At Piccadilly Circus there was a considerable exodus, as there always is. The process of disembarking was slow, owing to the number of passengers.

They both emerged into Jermyn Street, and went along to the Haymarket. Here she looked round, apparently for a taxi, but there was not one in sight. It struck him, as he caught a side glimpse of her features, that she was looking worried and harassed. Evidently his persistent dogging had shaken her nerves.

She walked slowly, with the deliberate gait of a person who was perturbed, and thinking hard. She entered a big drapery shop, where Mason was compelled to follow her for reasons.

Had it been an ordinary kind of shop, he would have waited outside, till she came out. This particular establishment, however, had two entrances, one in Regent Street and one in Piccadilly. She knew this, of course, and would slip out of the one he was not watching. So he followed her in.

Having bought a pair of long cream gloves she glanced furtively around, and then left the shop, passing into Regent Street. Afterwards she spent some time looking into the shop windows up and down that busy thoroughfare, ultimately returning to the Piccadilly Tube Station, where she took a ticket for Knightsbridge, Mason following all the while.

Her face was wan and haggard with the relentless chase, but her eyes expressed indomitable resolution. They seemed to flash across at him as they sat in the same car the unspoken message: “I will outwit you yet.”

At Knightsbridge both watcher and watched ascended in the same lift, with its clanging lattice gate, and it was quite plain that Mrs Saxton was now in a quandary how to escape. In a careless attitude she passed from the street back into the booking-hall, where she pretended to idle up and down, as though awaiting someone. Now and then she looked up at the clock as though anxious and impatient.

Mason believed her anxiety to be merely a ruse, but was both surprised and interested when a small ragged urchin entering the place suddenly recognised her, and handed her a note.

She took it eagerly, and without examining it crushed it hurriedly into her little black silk bag, giving the little fellow a shilling, whereupon he thanked her and ran merrily out.

Next instant Mason slipped forth after the lad in order to question him, leaving the woman safely in the booking-hall. In a few seconds he stopped the boy and asked good-humouredly who had given him the letter.

“A gentleman in Notting ’Ill,” was the urchin’s prompt reply. “I don’t know ’im. ’E only said that a lady in a big black ’at, and dressed all in black and carryin’ a bag, would be waitin’ for me, and that I were to give the note to ’er.”

“Is that all you know, my good lad?” Mason inquired quickly, giving him another shilling.

“Yus. That’s all I knows, sir,” he replied.

While speaking, the detective had kept his eye upon the booking-hall, and swiftly returned to it, only, however, to find that the woman was not there.

The descending lift was full, the lattice gates were closed and it had just started down when he peered within.

In the lift was Mrs Saxton, who, with a smile of triumph, disappeared from his view.

Mason, in a sorry and chastened frame of mind, took the next lift, which, as always happens under such circumstances, was unusually long in arriving. To him, it seemed an eternity.

He got down to the platform, in time to see the tail of a departing train. Mrs Saxton had not waited in the booking-hall in vain. She had two minutes’ start of him, and he might hunt London over before he would again find her.

Only one thing was certain: Mrs Saxton was certainly a very clever woman, who, no doubt, had prepared that very clever ruse of the arrival of the letter, well-knowing that the messenger must draw off the detective’s attention, and thus give her time to slip away.

That same evening James Farloe, who had been chatting in the Lobby of the House of Commons with a couple of Members of the Opposition, was suddenly called aside by Sir Archibald Turtrell, Member for North Canterbury, who, in a low, mysterious whisper, asked:

“Look here, Farloe, is this rumour true?”

“What rumour?” inquired the private secretary, who was a well-known figure about the House, as are those of all secretaries to Ministers of the Crown.

“Why, that Mr Monkton is missing, and that he is not at Cannes as the papers say. Everyone is discussing it.”

The sleek, well-dressed young man in a morning suit with a white slip within his waistcoat, laughed sarcastically, as he replied:

“I wonder. Sir Archibald, who it is who spreads such ridiculous rumours. I had a letter from Mr Monkton only this morning from Cannes. That’s all I know.”

“And yet a telegram that I sent to the Beau Site yesterday has been returned to-night undelivered!”

For a second Farloe held his breath. Serious inquiry was apparently being made by Members of the House, in spite of all the precautions of the Home Secretary.

“Oh,” he replied, with well-feigned carelessness. “The Colonial Secretary left the Beau Site over a fortnight ago. People were worrying him, so his doctor sent him to a furnished villa.”

“What is his address?”

“I’m very sorry. Sir Archibald, but I am unable to give it. I have instructions to that effect,” was the secretary’s cautious reply. “If you give me your note, or write to his club, I will see that it is attended to. Doctor Monier wrote me three days ago asking me not to send his patient any matters concerning public affairs that might worry him.”

“But his daughter still remains in Chesterfield Street,” observed the Baronet. “It is strange she is not with him. The rumour is growing that Monkton has disappeared, and that the police are searching for him.”

“I know,” laughed the other. “I have heard so. It is all too ridiculous. The truth has already been published in the Press. Mr Monkton has had a very serious nervous breakdown, and is on the Riviera – even though it is summer.”

“You are quite certain of that – eh, Farloe?”

“Why should I tell you an untruth?” asked the secretary blandly.

They were standing near the Members’ post-office, and the Baronet, having exchanged a nod with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, who was just passing into the House itself, gazed full into the secretary’s eyes.

“Tell me, Farloe – tell me in strict confidence,” he urged. “I’ll not whisper a word, but – well, do you happen to know anyone of the name of Stent?”

The young man hesitated, though he preserved the most complete and remarkable control.

“Stent? Stent?” he repeated. “No. The name is quite unfamiliar to me.”

“Are you quite certain? Think.”

“I have already thought. I have never heard that name,” was the reply.

“You are quite positive that he is not acquainted with Mr Monkton in some peculiar and mysterious way?”

“How should I possibly know? All the Colonial Minister’s friends are not known to me. Mr Monkton is a very popular man, remember. But why,” he added, “do you ask about this man Stent?”

“Because it is told to me that he is a mysterious friend of Monkton’s.”

“Not as far as I am aware,” declared Farloe. “I certainly have no knowledge of their friendship, and the name is so unusual that one would certainly recollect it.”

The Baronet smiled. Farloe, seeing that he was unconvinced, was eager to escape from any further awkward cross-examination.

“I really wish that you would be frank with me,” said Sir Archibald, who was one of Britain’s business magnates and a great friend of Monkton’s. “I am informed that this person Stent is in possession of the true and actual facts concerning the Minister’s curious disappearance.”

Farloe realised that something was leaking out, yet he maintained a firm attitude of pretended resentment.

“Well, Sir Archibald,” he protested. “I cannot well see how I can be more frank with you. I’ve never heard of this mysterious person.”

“H’m!” grunted the Baronet, unconvinced. “Perhaps one day, my dear Farloe, you will regret this attempt to wriggle out of a very awkward situation.” Then, after a pause, he added: “You know quite as well as I, with others, know, that my friend Monkton is missing!” and the Baronet turned abruptly, leaving Farloe standing in the Lobby. He passed the two police constables and the idling detective, and entered the House itself.

Farloe, utterly aghast at Sir Archibald’s remarks and the knowledge he evidently possessed, walked blindly out of St. Stephen’s full of grave thoughts.

Not only were the police hot upon the trail which might lead them to the astounding truth concerning the death of the man who, dressed in the Colonial Minister’s clothes, had expired in the house in Chesterfield Street, but the facts were being rumoured that night in the world of politics, and to-morrow the chattering little world which revolves in the square mile around Piccadilly and calls itself Society, would also be agog with the sinister story.

At the corner of Dean’s Yard, not a hundred yards from where the taxi-man Davies had been hailed and the unidentified stranger had been put into his cab, Farloe found a passing taxi and in it drove to his rooms, a cosy little first-floor flat in Ryder Street, St. James’s.

So eager was he that, without taking off his hat, he went at once to the telephone on his writing-table and asked for “trunk.” Ten minutes later he spoke to somebody.

“Get in your car, and come here at once!” he said. “There’s not an instant to be lost. I’ll wait up for you, but don’t delay a moment. I can’t talk over the ’phone, but the situation is very serious. Bring a suit-case. You may have to go to the Continent by the nine o’clock train in the morning.”

He listened attentively to the reply.

“Eh – what? Oh! – yes. I sent a boy with a letter to Knightsbridge station. She’s got away all right. Do get here as quickly as you can – won’t you? Leave your car in some garage, and walk here. Don’t stop the car outside. I’ll leave the hall-door ajar for you. No – I can’t tell you anything more over the ’phone – I really can’t.”