Okewood of the Secret Service Part 20

"I am tired," she sighed and all her haughty manner returned, "let the old woman show me to my room. I will take dejeuner with you at one o'clock."

Desmond bowed and stepping out into the hall, called the housekeeper. Old Martha shuffled off with the girl, leaving Desmond staring with vacant eyes into the fire. He was conscious of a feeling of exultation, despite his utter weariness and craving for sleep. This girl, with her queenly ways, her swiftly changing moods, her broad gusts of pa.s.sion, interested him enormously. If she were the quarry, why, then, the chase were worth while! But the end? For a brief moment, he had a vision of that frail, clinging figure swaying up against some blank wall before a file of levelled rifles.

Then again he seemed to see old Mackwayte lying dead on the landing of the house at Seven Kings. Had this frail girl done this unspeakable deed? To send her to the gallows or before a firing-squad--was this to be the end of his mission? And the still, small voice of conscience answered: "Yes! that is what you have come here to do!"

Old Martha came shuffling down the staircase. Desmond called to her, remembering that he did not yet know where his bedroom was.

"Will you light me up to my room, Martha?" he said, "I want to be sure that the sheets are not damp!"

So saying he extinguished the lamp on the table and followed the old woman upstairs.

CHAPTER XII. AT THE MILL HOUSE

Clad in a suit of Mr. Basil Bellward's pyjamas of elaborate blue-flowered silk, Desmond lay propped up in bed in Mr.

Bellward's luxuriously fitted bedroom, sipping his morning coffee, and studying with absorbed interest a sheet of blue foolscap. A number of papers lay strewn about the eiderdown quilt. At the head of the bed a handsome Sheraton bureau stood open.

As the French say, Mr. Bellward had refused himself nothing. His bedroom was most tastefully furnished. The furniture was mahogany, every piece carefully chosen, and the chintz of curtains and upholstery was bright and attractive. A most elaborate mahogany wardrobe was fitted into the wall, and Desmond, investigating it, had found it to contain a very large a.s.sortment of clothes of every description, all new or nearly so, and bearing the name of a famous tailor of Cork Street. Folding doors, resembling a cupboard, disclosed, when open, a marble basin with hot water laid on, while a curtained door in the corner of the room gave access to a white tiled bathroom. Mr.

Bellward, Desmond had reflected after his tour of the room on his arrival, evidently laid weight on his personal comfort; for the contrast between the cheerful comfort of his bedroom and the musty gloom of the rooms downstairs was very marked.

A bright log fire hissed on the open hearth and the room was pleasantly warm. Old Martha's coffee was excellent, and Desmond, very snug in Mr. Bellward's comfortable bed, noted with regret that the clock on the mantel-shelf marked a quarter to twelve.

But then he thought of the tete-a-tete luncheon that awaited him at one o'clock and his face cleared. He didn't mind getting up so much after all.

He fell again to the perusal of the doc.u.ments which he had found, as indicated in the note from headquarters, in the desk by the bed. They were enclosed in two envelopes, one large, the other small, both without any superscription. The large envelope enclosed Mr. Bellward's dossier which consisted of a fairly detailed account of his private life, movements, habits and friends, and an account of his arrest. The small envelope contained Desmond's eagerly expected orders.

Desmond examined the papers in the large envelope first. From them he ascertained that the house in which he found himself was called The Mill House, and was situated two and a half miles from the station of Wentfield on the Great Eastern Railway in Ess.e.x.

Mr. Bellward had taken the place some eight years before, having moved there from the Surrey hills, but had been wont to spend not more than two months in the year there. For the rest of the time he traveled abroad, usually pa.s.sing the winter months on the Riviera, and the spring in Switzerland or Italy. The war had brought about a change in his habits, and Harrogate, Buxton and Bath had taken the place of the Continental resorts which he had frequented in peace time.

When in residence at The Mill House, Mr. Bellward had gone up to London nearly every morning, either walking or going by motor-cycle to the station, and not returning until dinner-time in the evening. Sometimes he pa.s.sed the night in London, and on such occasions slept at a small hotel in Jermyn Street. His dossier included, a long and carefully compiled list of the people he knew in London, mostly men of the rich business set, stockbrokers, manufacturers, solicitors, and the like. Against every name was set a note of the exact degree of intimacy existing between Bellward and the man in question, and any other information that might serve Bellward's impersonator in good stead. Desmond laid this list aside for the moment, intending to study it more closely at his leisure.

Of intercourse with his neighbors in, the country, Mr. Bellward apparently had none. The Mill House stood in a lonely part of the country, remote from the more thickly populated centres of Brentwood and Romford, on the edge of a wide tract of inhospitable marshland, known as Morstead Fen, intersected by those wide deep ditches which in this part of the world are known as d.y.k.es. At this stage in the report there was a note to the effect that the rector of Wentfield had called twice at The Mill House but had not found Mr. Bellward at home, and that his visits had not been returned. There were also some opinions apparently culled locally regarding the tenant of the Mill House, set out something in this wise:--

"Landlord of the Red Lion, Wentfield: The gentleman has never been to the Red Lion, but sometimes orders my Ford car and always pays regularly.

"The Stationmaster at Wentfield: A gentleman who keeps himself to himself but very liberal with his money.

"Sir Marsham d.y.k.es, of The Chase, Stanning: A d.a.m.ned unsociable churlish fellow.

"Mr. Tracy Wentfield, of the Channings, Home Green: A very rude man. He slammed the front door of the house in my face when I went to ask him for a contribution to our Cottage Hospital. It is not my habit to repeat idle gossip, but they do say he is a heavy drinker."

There was a lot more of this sort of thing, and Desmond turned from it with a smile to take up the account of Bellward's arrest.

It appeared that, about a fortnight before, on the eve of the departure for France of a very large draft of troops, a telegram was handed in at the East Strand telegraph office addressed to Bellward. This telegram ran thus:

"Bellward, Bellward Hotel, Jermyn Street.

"Shipping to you Friday 22,000 please advise correspondents.

"Mortimer."

The authorities were unable to deliver this telegram as no such an hotel as the Hotel Bellward was found to exist in Jermyn Street. An examination of the address showed clearly that the sender had absent mindedly repeated the addressee's name in writing the name of the hotel. An advice was therefore addressed to the sender, Mortimer, at the address he had given on the back of the form, according to the regulations, to inform him that his telegram had not been delivered. It was then discovered that the address given by Mortimer was fict.i.tious.

Suspicion being thus aroused, the telegram was forwarded to the Postal Censor's department whence it reached the Intelligence Authorities who promptly spotted the connection between the wording of the telegram and the imminent departure of the drafts, more especially as the dates tallied. Thereupon, Mr. Bellward was hunted up and ultimately traced by his correspondence to The Mill House. He was not found there, but was eventually encountered at his London hotel, and requested to appear before the authorities with a view to throwing some light on Mortimer. Under cross-examination Bellward flatly denied any knowledge of Mortimer, and declared that a mistake had been made. He cited various well known city men to speak for his bona-fides and protested violently against the action of the authorities in doubting his word. It was ultimately elicited that Bellward was of German birth and had never been naturalized, and he was detained in custody while a search was made at The Mill House.

The search was conducted with great discretion, old Martha being got out of the way before the detectives arrived and a careful watch being kept to avoid any chance of interruption. The search had the most fruitful results. Hidden in a secret drawer of the Sheraton desk in Bellward's bedroom, was found a most elaborate a.n.a.lysis of the movements of the transports to France, extremely accurate and right up to date. There was absolutely no indication, however, as to whence Bellward received his reports, and how or to whom he forwarded them. It was surmised that Mortimer was his informant, but an exhaustive search of the post office files of telegrams despatched showed no trace of any other telegram from Mortimer to Bellward save the one in the possession of the authorities. As for Mortimer, he remained a complete enigma.

That, summarised, was the gist of the story of Bellward's arrest.

The report laid great stress on the fact that no one outside half a dozen Intelligence men had any knowledge (a) of Bellward being an unnaturalized German, (b) of his arrest.

Desmond's orders, which he reserved to the last were short and to the point. They consisted of five numbered clauses.

"1. You will have a free hand. The surveillance of the house was withdrawn on your arrival and will not be renewed.

"2. You will not leave the house until further orders.

"3. You will keep careful note of any communication that may be made to you, whether verbal or in writing, of whatever nature it is. When you have anything to be forwarded, ring up 700 Slanning on the telephone and give Bellward's name. You will hand your report to the first person calling at the house thereafter asking for the letter for Mr. Elias.

"4. If help is urgently required, ring up 700 Stanning and ask for Mr. Elias. a.s.sistance will be with you within 15 minutes after. This expedient must only be used in the last extremity.

"5. Memorize these doc.u.ments and burn the lot before you leave the house."

"Handy fellow, Mr. Elias," was Desmond's commentary, as he sprang out of bed and made for the bathroom. At a quarter to one he was ready dressed, feeling very scratchy and uncomfortable about the beard which he had not dared to remove owing to Nur-el-Din's presence in the house. Before he left the bedroom, he paused a moment at the desk, the doc.u.ments of the Bellward case in his hands. He had a singularly retentive memory, and he was loth to have these compromising papers in the house whilst Nur-el-Din was there. He took a quick decision and pitched the whole lot into the fire, retaining only the annotated list of Mr. Bellward's friends. This he placed in his pocket-book and, after watching the rest of the papers crumble away into ashes, went downstairs to lunch.

Nur-el-Din was in the drawing-room, a long room with two high windows which gave on a neglected looking garden. A foaming, churning brook wound its way through the garden, among stunted bushes and dripping willows, obviously the mill-race from which the house took its name. The drawing-room was a bare, inhospitable room, studded here and there with uncomfortable looking early Victorian armchairs swathed in dust-proof cloths. A fire was making an unsuccessful attempt to burn in the open grate.

Nur-el-Din turned as he entered the room. She was wearing a gray cloth tailor-made with a white silk, blouse and a short skirt showing a pair of very natty brown boots. By contrast with her ugly surroundings she looked fresh and dainty. Her eyes were bright and her face as smooth and unwrinkled as a child's.

"Bon jour," she cried gaily, "ah! but I am 'ungry! It is the air of the country! I love so the country!"

"I hope you slept well, Madame!" said Desmond solicitously, looking admiringly at her trim figure.

"Like a dead man," she replied with a little laugh, translating the French idiom. "Shall we make a leetle promenade after the dejeuner? And you shall show me your pretty English country, voulez-vous? You see, I am dressed for le footing!"

She lifted a little brown foot.

They had a delightful luncheon together. Old Martha, who proved to be quite a pa.s.sable cook, waited on them. There was some excellent Burgundy and a carafe of old brandy with the coffee.

Nur-el-Din was in her most gracious and captivating mood. She had dropped all her arrogance of their last interview and seemed to lay herself out to please. She had a keen sense of humor and entertained Desmond vastly by her anecdotes of her stage career, some not a little risque, but narrated with the greatest bon-homie.

But, strongly attracted as he was to the girl, Desmond did not let himself lose sight of his ultimate object. He let her run on as gaily as she might but steadily, relentlessly he swung the conversation round to her last engagement at the Palaceum. He wanted to see if she would make any reference to the murder at Seven Kings. If he could only bring in old Mackwayte's name, he knew that the dancer must allude to the tragedy.

Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduced the old comedian's name herself.

"The only pleasant memory I shall preserve of the Palaceum," she said in French, "is my meeting with an old comrade of my youth.

Imagine, I had not seen him for nearly twenty years. Monsieur Mackwayte, his name is, we used to call him Monsieur Arthur in the old days when I was the child acrobat of the Dupont Troupe.

Such a charming fellow; and not a bit changed! He was doing a deputy turn at the Palaceum on the last night I appeared there!

And he introduced me to his daughter! Une belle Anglaise! I shall hope to see my old friend again when I go back to London!"

Desmond stared at her. If this were acting, the most hardened criminal could not have carried it off better. He searched the girl's face. It was frank and innocent. She ran on about Mackwayte in the old days, his kindliness to everyone, his pretty wife, without a shadow of an attempt to avoid an unpleasant topic. Desmond began to believe that not only did the girl have nothing to do with the tragedy but that actually she knew nothing about it.