The Stolen Statesman Part 5

"Excellent!" exclaimed Smeaton, lounging back in his chair, having been busy writing reports. "Sit down. What is your name?"

"Davies, sir--George Davies," replied the man, twisting his cap awkwardly in his hands as he seated himself.

Smeaton could not sum him up. There was no apparent look of dishonesty about him, but he would not like to have said that he conveyed the idea of absolute honesty. There was something a little bit foxy in his expression, and he was decidedly nervous. But then Scotland Yard is an awe-inspiring place to the humbler cla.s.ses, and nervousness is quite as often a symptom of innocence as of guilt.

"I only 'eard about this advertis.e.m.e.nt from a pal this morning. I never reads the papers," the taxi-driver said.

"Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. That gentleman died, you know!"

The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice:

"I've come 'ere, sir, to tell you the truth. I'll tell you all I know,"

he added, "providing I'm not going to get into any trouble."

"Not if you are not an accomplice," Smeaton said, his keen eyes fixed upon his visitor.

The man paused and then with considerable apprehension said:

"Well--I don't know 'ow I can be really an accomplice. All I know about it is that I was pa.s.sin' into Victoria Street goin' towards the station, when three gentlemen standin' under a lamp just opposite the entrance to Dean's Yard hailed me. I pulls up when I sees that two of 'em 'ad got another gentleman by the arms. `Look 'ere, driver,' says one of 'em, `this friend of ours 'as 'ad a drop too much wine, and we don't want to go 'ome with 'im because of 'is wife. Will you take 'im? 'E lives in Chesterfield Street, just off Curzon Street,' and 'e gives me the number."

"Yes," said Smeaton anxiously. "And what then?"

"Well, sir, 'e gives me five bob and puts the gentleman into my cab, and I drove 'im to the address, where 'is servant took charge of 'im. Did 'e really die afterwards?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes--unfortunately he did," was the police official's reply. "But tell me, Davies. Did you get a good look at the faces of the two men?"

"Yes, sir. They were all three under the lamp."

"Do you think you could recognise both of them again--eh?"

"Of course I could. Why, one of 'em I've seen about lots o' times.

Indeed, only yesterday, about three o'clock, while I was waitin' on the rank in the Strand, opposite the Savoy, I saw 'im come out with a lady, and drive away in a big grey car. If I'd a known then, sir, I could 'ave stopped 'im!"

CHAPTER FIVE.

CONTAINS SOME CURIOUS FACTS.

At the beginning of the interview, the demeanour of the taxi-driver had betrayed signs of nervousness and trepidation. He had hesitated and stumbled in his speech, so much so that Smeaton, the detective, was still in doubt as to his honesty.

Smeaton, however, was a past-master in the art of dealing with a difficult witness. So rea.s.suring was his manner that at the end of five minutes he had succeeded in inspiring the taxi-driver with confidence.

His nervousness and hesitation were succeeded by loquacity.

Urged to give a description of the two men, he explained, with amplitude of detail, that the man who had come out of the Savoy was of medium height and clean-shaven, with angular features and piercing dark eyes.

He was of striking appearance, the kind of man you would be sure to recognise anywhere. The lady with him was smartly dressed and appeared to be about thirty or under.

"Seems to me I've known 'im about London for years, although I can't remember as I ever drove 'im," he added.

The other man was, Davies said, tall and bearded, and certainly a foreigner, although he could not pretend to fix his nationality.

A tall, bearded man, and a foreigner! Smeaton p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. The description tallied somewhat with that of the person who had dined with Monkton in the little restaurant in Soho.

Davies was dismissed with encouraging words and a liberal _douceur_.

Given Smeaton the semblance of a clue, and he was on the track like a bloodhound.

Within twenty minutes of the taxi-driver's departure, he was interviewing one of the hall-porters at the Savoy, an imposing functionary, and an old friend.

Smeaton had a large and extensive acquaintance among people who could be useful. He knew the hall-porters of all the big hotels. They were men of quick intelligence, keen powers of observation, and gathered much important information. He had unravelled many a mystery with their a.s.sistance.

The detective, standing aside in the hall, described the man as he had been featured by Davies. Did the hall-porter recognise him?

The answer was in the affirmative.

"He's not a man you would be likely to forget, Mr Smeaton," he said.

"He is a pretty frequent visitor here. He lunches two or three times a week, and is popular with the waiters, through being pretty free with his tips. Most times he comes alone. Now and again he brings a guest, but n.o.body we know."

"And his name?" questioned Smeaton eagerly.

"Well, that's the funny part of it," explained the other man. "We get to know the names of the habitues sooner or later, but none of us have ever heard his. He never seems to meet anybody here that he knows, and none of the waiters have ever heard one of his guests address him by name. The maitre d'hotel and I have often talked him over, and wondered who and what he was."

Smeaton showed his disappointment. "That is unfortunate. Let us see if we can be more successful in another direction. Yesterday afternoon, about three o'clock, this man, whose name we don't know, drove away from this place in a taxi, accompanied by a lady. My informant tells me she was smartly dressed, and he puts her age at about thirty, or perhaps less."

The hall-porter indulged in a smile of satisfaction.

"I think I can help you there, Mr Smeaton. I was pa.s.sing through the palm-court at the time, and saw them go out together. We all know the lady very well. She is here pretty often. Sometimes she comes with a big party, sometimes with a lady friend, sometimes with a gentleman.

Her name is Saxton, and she has a flat in Hyde Park Mansions. One of her friends told me she is a widow."

"What sort of a person is she? How would you cla.s.s her? She seems to dress well, and is, I suppose, attractive."

The hall-porter mused a moment before he replied. Like most of his cla.s.s, he was an expert at social cla.s.sification.

"Not one of the `n.o.bs,' certainly," he answered at length, with a smile.

"Semi-fashionable, I should say; moves in society with a small `s.'

Her friends seem of two sorts, high-cla.s.s Bohemians--you know the sort I mean,--and rich middle-cla.s.s who spend money like water."

"I see," said Smeaton. "And she lives in Hyde Park Mansions off the Edgware Road, or, to be more correct, Lisson Grove. She is evidently not rich."

They bade each other a cordial good-day, Smeaton having first expressed his grat.i.tude for the information, and left in the hall-porter's capacious palm a more substantial proof of his satisfaction.

The next thing to be done was to interview the attractive widow. Before doing so, he looked in at Chesterfield Street, and, as he expected, found Wingate and Sheila together.

He told them of the visit of Davies, and his subsequent conversation with the hall-porter at the Savoy.

When he mentioned the name of Saxton, Sheila uttered an exclamation.

"Why, Mr Farloe has a sister of the name of Saxton, a widow! He brought her once to one of our parties, and I remember she was very gushing. She begged me to go and see her at her flat, and I am pretty certain Hyde Park Mansions was the place she named, although I can't be positive."

"Did you go. Miss Monkton?"

"No. As I have told you, I never liked Mr Farloe, and I liked his sister less. She was pretty, and I think men would find her attractive.

But there seemed to me an under-current of slyness and insincerity about her."