Chapter XX: Michael Is Convinced

'Taxi, sir?' inquired the hall porter as Michael came down the steps.

Michael shook his head. He wanted to think, and he thought best on the move. He was puzzled. To begin with, he was certain now that Nick was Professor Mitchell's unknown correspondent. That envelope had the name of the Jameson Club stamped on the flap. It was almost obliterated by the seal, but Michael had seen it. He pulled out his pocketbook and searched through the muddle of papers it contained. Surely he had put Nick's card away in it that night they swopped cars in a Suffolk lane? Yes, here it was. 'Mine's beer, too.' Unmistakably the same handwriting. Michael was conscious of a curious feeling of relief. He hadn't realised before just how much he had minded thinking Nick a blackguard.

But--and here lay the puzzle--why had Nick been so silent? It was inconceivable that he should distrust Sir Toby, and if he were suspicious of Michael, why had he given away his identity at that party of Mrs. Lancaster's? Or was the suspect Bobby? Michael chuckled, remembering how offensive he himself had been to the unfortunate amateur detective that afternoon. Well, the first thing to do was to find Nick. Not too easy a proposition. Michael had no hope of finding him in his Jermyn Street flat. He remembered the address on that fateful envelope: 'J. F. Strickland, Esq., 31, Buckingham Gate Mansions'; but, after consideration, he abandoned the idea. This man Strickland would certainly be in the game, and the odds were a hundred to one that he would deny all knowledge of Nick.

Then suddenly a bright idea struck him. Nick's doctor friend--the man he had sent for on the night of the murder. Jerry had liked the man, and had talked about him a good deal. Thorpe. That was the name. Question, how to get hold of him.

Michael stopped and looked round. Just over the way, a few yards down the street, was an Underground station. He crossed the road and, going to the ticket office, changed half a crown into coppers. Thorpe was a common name, he reflected. Then he entered a call-box, taking the telephone directory with him. As he expected, there were dozens of Thorpes, and nine of them were doctors. Michael settled down to ring them all up.

The first two were out, which depressed him, but he continued doggedly. Numbers three, four, and five had not been called in to attend a Professor Mitchell on the morning of May 24th, but the sixth admitted it quite calmly, and added that he remembered the case well. Could Michael call and see him? Certainly; he would be free till six. The address--Michael wrote it down--was somewhere in the wilds of Stepney.

Michael was just about to leave the box when he remembered his invitation to Bobby. He rang up Quebec Street and warned his landlady that he would need supper for two that night. Then with a sigh of relief he emerged into the fresh air and hailed a taxi....

Dr. Thorpe impressed him favourably. He liked the man's shrewd, steady eyes and clear-cut, crisp voice.

'Well, Mr. Doone, what can I do for you?'

'I want you to tell me where I can find Stephen Nicholson.'

Thorpe looked surprised. 'Stephen Nicholson? Who is he?'

'It's all right,' said Michael; 'I'm a friend of his.'

A flicker of amusement lit the doctor's eyes.

'My dear sir, I don't doubt it, but the trouble is, I'm not. I've never even heard of the gentleman.'

There was a moment's silence, and then Michael turned to go.

'Right you are,' he said quietly. 'Sorry to have wasted your time.'

As he reached the door the doctor spoke:

'I don't know what you're driving at, Mr. Doone,' he said, 'but I should like you to believe that I really do not know the man you speak of. I have never heard the name before, to my knowledge. There must be a misunderstanding somewhere.'

Michael halted and surveyed the doctor with his slow, unwinking stare. Then suddenly he grinned.

'Perhaps you know him as "Nick"?' he suggested.

Thorpe's face cleared.

'Good Heavens!' he said, 'is _that_ the man you want? I know him by a good many names, but I never heard him called Stephen Nicholson.'

'Do you know where he is?'

'No, I haven't the least idea, but I expect I shall see him sooner or later. He drifts in here pretty frequently with cases for me.'

'Cases?'

'Yes. Patients. Protégés of his own, mostly from the docks. Sometimes he sends 'em with a note; sometimes he brings 'em himself.' The doctor chuckled. 'Last time he came he was playing the part of a navvy. Talked the purest quayside Cockney, chewed tobacco, and spat into my fire, confound him!'

'What was he up to?' Michael was interested.

'Oh, he'd brought along a woman and a small boy. The woman was underfed, and the child had rickets. Poor little devil, he was half starved, too! He's down at the sea now, in a home, and doing very well, they tell me. Nick's footing the bill, of course.'

'Does he often do that sort of thing?'

'Frequently. He's one of the very few people I've met who can combine philanthropy and intelligence.'

'What else does he do?'

Thorpe looked at him sharply.

'I'm afraid I don't know any more about him,' he said. 'I am a busy man, and singularly uninterested in other people's affairs, except when they concern my work. As I said, I know him by a variety of names, but I've no idea which of them, if any, is his real one. Nor do I care. I consider him a thundering good fellow, and I have no desire to interfere with his private affairs.'

'You're about right,' said Michael slowly, 'but I want to find him. Truth is, he--well, he's in rather a dangerous position, and I want to put him wise.'

'I wish I could help you,' said Thorpe, 'but I honestly have no idea where he is. Look here, if he comes in to see me, I'll tell him what you say. He knows _your_ name, I suppose?'

'Yes, he knows my name,' said Michael. 'Thanks. I'd like you to let him know, if I don't find him myself first. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, Mr. Doone. If I see Nick I'll tell him'.

Michael returned to Quebec Street. It was getting late, and Bobby would certainly arrive early. He always did. As Michael reached his rooms he caught sight of Milly coming down the stairs from Jerry's flat.

'Hullo, Milly! Has Miss Mitchell come back?'

'No such luck! You 'eard anythink of 'er?'

'Not a word. When I saw you coming out of her room I thought she must be back.' His eyes, growing accustomed to the dim light, caught sight of a large brown paper parcel which she was carrying.

'Me? Oh, I bin up ter git 'er washing. Got ter send it to the laundry whether she's 'ome or not, 'aven't I?'

'I suppose so. By the way, did Mrs. Briggs tell you that I'm expecting Mr. Manvers to supper?'

'Yuss. Cold beef an' salid, or 'am an' eggs?'

'Cold beef, I think. It's so hot and stuffy to-night.'

'There'll be a thunderstorm soon, you mark my words,' said Milly. 'Well, I can't stop 'ere chattin', or She'll be after me: "Millicent, I will not 'ave you makin' free with the gentlemen lodgers. You remember your place, an' they'll remember theirs." Wot a 'ope! S'long, Mr. Doone.'

She ran downstairs, whistling, and Michael retired to spread himself out on his sofa with a novel.

As usual, Bobby turned up about seven. He was very pleased with himself, having discovered that an all-night garage in Golders Green had supplied Nick with petrol at one o'clock that morning.

'It was Nicholson's car all right,' he announced. 'The man described it and remembered the number, but the extraordinary thing is that he was alone, and travelling north.'

'Very odd,' said Michael, but was saved from further comment by the entrance of Milly with the supper. Having slapped it down on the table in her usual swashbuckling manner, she fished a note out of her pocket, and handed it to Michael.

'Boy's jus' brought it,' she explained. 'No answer, 'e said.'

Michael opened it. Milly lingered by the door.

'It's from Jerry,' he said.

'Oh, Mr. Doone! Is she all right?'

'What does she say?' demanded Bobby.

'It's short and to the point: "I hope you haven't been too worried about me. All's well, but don't try to find me just yet. I'll write to-night and tell you all about it, and arrange where we can meet. No time for more now."'

'Thank God!' said Bobby.

'If you ask me, I don't believe she meant ter come back yesterday,' said Milly suddenly.

'What on earth makes you think that?' asked Bobby.

'Well, fer one thing, she didn't take 'er latchkey. Miss Mitchell's never forgotten it before.'

'That doesn't prove anything,' said Michael. 'She went out with me, and she knew I had a key.'

'Yuss! Not arf you 'aven't! 'Ow many times 'ave you lorst it since you come 'ere?' demanded Milly swiftly.

'How d'you know she didn't take it?' asked Bobby.

Milly stared at him wide-eyed, and then dropped her voice to a confidential whisper.

'Well, y' see, I 'ad a clue, so ter speak. I seen the key on 'er mantelpiece this mornin', and that sort o' gave me the idea, if yer foller me so far.'

'Go away, Milly!' said Michael.

Milly shrugged her shoulders resignedly.

''E likes the last word, Mr. Doone does. An' the last word's always "Go away!" It ain't wot you'd call a snappy bit o' repartee, but it soots 'im, some'ow. Goo'-bye! Be good.'

The door slammed behind her. Michael and Bobby looked at each other, laughed, and sat down to their supper.

Bobby was full of theories, which he poured out in an endless stream. He had worked out several brilliant ideas to explain Nick's appearance in Golders Green. Michael was frankly bored. He didn't care a hang what Nick had been doing that morning. What _he_ wanted to know was what Nick intended to do next, and above all, where he was to be found.

'I tell you, that's a dangerous man,' said Bobby. 'Sir Toby's a romantic old chap, and he's got sort of attached to his own picture of Vive le Sport, but what I say is, the man's a criminal, and we can't encourage crime, can we?'

Michael yawned. He considered throwing Bobby out, came to the reluctant conclusion that it might be thought a little discourteous, and relapsed into profound meditation, hardly aware of the flow of conversation from his guest. When Bobby finally said that he ought to be going, Michael bade him a polite good-night, but made no attempt to detain him.

'Can you find your own way down?' he asked.

'Oh, rather. Good-night, Michael. May I look in to-morrow to hear what Jerry's got to say?'

'Of course. So long.'

The door shut behind him. Michael returned to his sofa and picked up his book.

As a matter of fact, it was a pity that his natural bad manners had prevented him from going to the door, for Bobby's subsequent movements might have interested him. Young Mr. Manvers walked noisily down six steps, and then very quietly mounted them again. For a moment he stood listening on Michael's landing. There was no one about. Then, very softly, he went up the stairs to the top-floor flat, and entered Jerry's sitting-room. He moved across the room gingerly, and struck a match, shielding it in his hands. On the mantelpiece lay Jerry's latchkey, as Milly had said. Bobby slipped it into his pocket and retraced his steps very cautiously. He moved remarkably quietly for so sturdy a young man, all the way downstairs to the first landing. Then he continued with his usual heavy tread.

Milly was in the hall, studying a trades directory, and she looked up as he arrived.

'Hullo, Milly, what are you d-doing?'

'Lookin' for a plumber,' said Milly shortly. 'Goo'-night, Mr. Manvers.'

'I should have thought you'd have had a tame plumber up your sleeve,' said Bobby. 'Whenever I come here, there always seems to be something wrong with a tap somewhere.'

'Our usual one's out o' sorts,' said Milly. 'We got ter git another. Can y' let yerself out, Mr. Manvers?'

'Oh, rather! What's wrong with your plumber, Milly? A broken heart? I suppose you've been flirting with him.'

Milly lifted her eyes from the directory and regarded Bobby with a cool, disconcerting stare.

'You ain't guessin' well this evenin',' she said.

'Terribly crushing you are! Do tell me about your plumber friend.'

Milly shut the directory with a snap.

''Is wife's 'ad triplets, and 'e's congratulated 'isself into D.T.'s,' she said. 'It all comes o' not knowin' when ter stop. There's the door, Mr. Manvers. Don't slam it after you.'

Bobby let himself out. Milly watched the door shut behind him, and then raced up the stairs to Michael's room.

'Mr. Doone!'

Michael looked up from his book.

'I got a message for yer.'

'Who sent it?'

'There wasn't no name. I was told ter give it yer when you was alone.'

'Well, go ahead.'

'It was askin' yer to call at 31 Buckingham Gate Mansions this evenin'. But I was ter be sure and tell yer to come alone.'

Michael leapt to his feet and looked at his watch.

'It's half-past ten. Blast the man!' he said. 'Where's my hat?'

Milly handed it to him.

'You blastin' the bloke wot sent that message?' she asked.

'No!' Michael grinned. 'I'm blasting the mutt who's been wasting my time this evening.'

'Oh, _'im_!' Milly beamed on him. 'Mr. Bloomin' Manvers. 'E's got a sauce, 'e 'as! I don't think much of 'im, Mr. Doone.'

'Oh, you don't, don't you?' said Michael, fumbling in his pocket to see if he'd got his latchkey.

'No. 'E ain't no good. But you don't believe me when I tells yer wot a bloke's like.'

Michael, halfway through the door, checked for a second and looked at her.

'I'm beginning to think you're not such a bad judge, after all,' he said.

'That's right, Mr. Doone! Now you c'n 'op orf an' tell 'im, so, too. Give 'im my love!'

'Right!' said Michael, and descended the stairs three steps at a time.