The Stolen Statesman Part 28

Wingate rose quickly. "Is it far?"

Boyle answered without a shade of embarra.s.sment, "Shepherd's Bush. Not, I regret to say, what you would call a fashionable suburb."

In another two minutes they were in a taxi speeding towards Boyle's residence.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

ONE FACT IS ESTABLISHED.

Boyle had directed the driver to stop at Uxbridge Road Station, where the two roads branch off, the one on the left leading into Chiswick, that on the right pa.s.sing through Hanwell and Uxbridge.

He got out, and insisted on paying the fare, out of his newly-acquired wealth.

"We are now at the beginning of Shepherd's Bush. The Carthorne road, where I live--I should rather say exist--is a few minutes' walk from here. It would have been impossible to direct the driver. It would require the exploring instinct of a Stanley or a Livingstone to track me to my lair," he laughed.

He led Wingate through various mean streets, consisting of two long rows of narrow three-storied houses. Several of them were to let. Most of them bore cards in their windows with the words "Furnished apartments."

Poverty everywhere betrayed its ugly features.

Boyle paused before the door of one of these ill-favoured tenements, and applied a latchkey. Wingate stepped into a narrow hall, covered by a strip of oil-cloth, full of holes, the pattern worn away with hard wear.

An evil-smelling lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a feeble light that was little removed from darkness.

Boyle led him to the end of the pa.s.sage, and took him into a chamber that extended the width of the house. Quickly he struck a match, and lit a lamp.

Wingate felt terribly depressed. But Boyle, fortified, no doubt, by the unexpected possession of those few providential sovereigns, had recovered his accustomed buoyancy. He waved his hand round the faded apartment with a theatrical air.

"Welcome to my poor abode, the present _pied-a-terre_ of Caleb Boyle, once a member of exclusive clubs, and not an unknown figure in London society."

Wingate looked round and shuddered inwardly at what he saw. A horsehair sofa, black and stained with age, a carpet, worn threadbare and full of holes, three cane chairs, one easy-chair, worn and bulged out of shape, a cheap chest of drawers, with half the k.n.o.bs missing. And at the side of the wall opposite the fire-place, a low, narrow single bedstead covered with a darned and patched counterpane. This was flanked by a yellow deal washstand.

Was it possible that anybody who had once lived decently, could draw a breath in this musty and abominable hole? Certainly there was a courage and power of endurance in the man that compelled Wingate's admiration.

Boyle pushed one of the rickety chairs towards his guest, and crossed to a small hanging cupboard, from the recesses of which he produced a black bottle, which he held up to the lamp.

"There is corn in Egypt," he cried gaily; he seemed in the highest spirits amid these depressing surroundings. "We will carouse while the night is still young. I am sorry I have no soda, and I fear all the houses are shut. But the whisky is good."

He poured out two liberal portions, added some water, and drained his off at a draught. Then he stooped, and lifted the lid of a dilapidated tin box.

"Now for the letters," he said.

In a few moments he had found them, tied together in a packet with a thin piece of twine. On a strip of paper within was: "Letters from Charles Bellamy to Caleb Boyle."

Wingate took them, and rapidly scanned the contents of the first two.

There were about a dozen in all. They related to purely business matters, dwelling upon the magnificent prospects of a certain company in which Boyle had taken shares, and exhorting him to patience under the present non-payment of dividends.

Read by the light of subsequent events, they were obviously the letters of a swindler to the victim he had entrapped in his financial meshes.

But, of course, to Wingate the supreme matter of interest was the handwriting. And here, he could not be positive. He had read the threatening letter, and he knew the contents of it by heart. But that was some time ago, and he could not form a mental picture of it.

"Can you trust me with one of those, Mr Boyle, to show to our friend Smeaton, so that he may compare it with a letter in his possession. I think, so far as my memory serves me, they were written by the same man, but I want to see the two together. If you would rather not part with it, bring it down yourself to-morrow to Scotland Yard, and I will meet you there."

Boyle was hurt at the suggestion. "My dear Wingate, take the whole packet, if you wish. After the n.o.ble way in which you have behaved to-night, is it likely I should refuse such a trifling thing?"

"Thanks, they shall be returned to you directly Smeaton has done with them. A thousand thanks, and now I will say good-night. I have to be up betimes to-morrow morning."

He left, after refusing Boyle's earnest request to join him in a final whisky. He fancied there would not be much left in that bottle when the poor broken-down gentleman stumbled into his uninviting bed.

Wingate took the precious packet round to Smeaton next morning. And the detective, after a minute and lengthy examination, declared there could be no doubt that Charles Bellamy was the writer of the threatening letter.

"I will put all the doc.u.ments in the hands of an expert for confirmation," he said, "but I am quite certain in my own mind, and I shall follow up the clue at once."

"You have also another clue, that concerning Lady Wrenwyck," observed Austin. "Strange that we should be indebted to this peculiar creature, Boyle, for both!"

"He seems to grow more useful as we cultivate his further acquaintance,"

said the detective, a humorous smile softening for a moment his rather harsh features.

"To which of the two do you attach the greater importance?" was Wingate's next question.

"It is hard to say. But by following both we may arrive at a solution.

They must be pursued simultaneously and that requires two men.

Personally I think the Bellamy track may produce the better result, and naturally I should like to choose that for myself. On the other hand, the Wrenwyck one requires some experience and _finesse_, both of which qualities I flatter myself I possess. Anyway, I must trust one of the two to a subordinate."

He pa.s.sed, and remained silent for a few moments, then made up his mind.

He rang the bell, and requested that Johnson should come to him at once.

"I have resolved to take the Bellamy clue," he explained to Wingate.

"It will require some research, possibly lengthy communications with the police of other countries. Here I shall be better equipped than a comparatively new man. Johnson has so far acted with great prompt.i.tude in the Wrenwyck matter."

Detective-sergeant Johnson appeared almost immediately, and to him Smeaton issued brief instructions.

"About Lady Wrenwyck. You have lost no time over this, and I want you to follow it up. This is Mr Wingate, before whom we can speak quite freely. Find out where the lady is and, equally important, if she is alone, or with a companion. I exclude, of course, her maid."

Mr Johnson bowed. "I quite understand, sir. I know, as a fact, her maid left with her. She was with her ladyship before her marriage, and is, no doubt, entirely in her mistress's confidence."

The detective paused a second, and then added a little touch of his own which, he was sure, would not be lost on his chief. Besides, it showed his knowledge of high society, and of the ways of ladies who were a trifle unconventional.

"Of course, sir, in circ.u.mstances of a delicate nature, ladies have been known to give their maids a holiday."

"I quite appreciate that point, Johnson. Well, get on to the job at once, and confer with me when necessary."

Johnson withdrew, well pleased that his chief had entrusted him with so important a mission. Smeaton turned to his visitor.

"Well, Mr Wingate, we ought to find out something in the next few days.

I will get on to the track of Bellamy at once. Kindly drop a note to Boyle that I will keep his letters for a little time. Good-bye for the present. I will communicate with you the moment there is anything worth telling."

He set to work at once on the Bellamy _dossier_. Up to a certain point the task was comparatively easy. The man was of Polish origin, his real name being Ivan Bolinski. A little further investigation revealed the fact that he was the elder brother of the Bolinski who lived in the Boundary Road, St John's Wood, the man who had dined with Monkton at the Soho restaurant, and according to the evidence of Davies, the taxi-driver, one of the pair who had hailed his vehicle for the conveyance of the dying man to Chesterfield Street.

So far, the scent seemed a warm one. Bellamy, to give him his a.s.sumed name, was born of an English mother, and, in marked contrast to his brother, betrayed very little of the foreigner in his appearance. He spoke English with a perfect accent.