Chapter XLI: Florette Complains

Bill was in his room shaving late in the morning, when Bullott rushed in.

“I’ve got a bit of news that will interest you, Holbrook,” he said. “There were three people in that car that left Exeter; I’ve been able to trace them. The driver was a tall man, who will be difficult to identify because his face was covered with goggles, but he is, I believe, Captain Harvey Hale, a man who has been in prison, and a pretty bad character. The second man was, of course, Joshua Laffin.”

“And the third?” asked Bill.

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Not Toby Marsh?” said Holbrook.

“Toby Marsh and no other,” said Bullott. “I’ve been to his lodgings to make absolutely sure, but he hasn’t been there since last night. He was riding with Laffin, and the two were seen talking very confidentially by a policeman as they came into Bath, where the car was garaged at the Hudson Hotel. This confirms the story of the Taunton police and the waiter at Two Bridges, who say there were two men beside the driver.”

“Toby Marsh!” Holbrook was bewildered.

“If I have failed it is my own fault,” said Bullott despondently. “Those gay writers in the newspapers said I was a fool to take this little thief into my confidence--and they are more than justified. Now that it is too late, I have discovered that Laffin and Marsh were old acquaintances. The only conviction that the police have against Marsh is for breaking and entering Laffin’s place in Bath. I’ve been looking at the records of the case, and the story is a simple one. Laffin was, as usual, in a state of poverty, but had some valuable books and old Egyptian manuscripts, which he had insured heavily. The story Marsh told was that he was an acquaintance of Laffin’s, and had been employed by him to commit the burglary with the object of getting the insurance, though the Egyptian papyri were subsequently proved to be practically valueless. Naturally, nobody believed the burglar against a respected local doctor, and Toby was sent down, swearing he would get even with the man who double-crossed him.”

“But why should Marsh have given us all this information about Laffin?”

“Partly for revenge,” said Bullott, “partly, and in the latter stages of the case, to pull the wool over our eyes, or, to put it vulgarly, to kid us along. No, we’ve been sold. There’s no sense in squealing. Are you going with the Stones to America?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

Bill shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said, without heartiness. “In fact, I know I shan’t. You seem to forget that I’m on this story of Laffin----”

“I should go if I were you”--Bullott interrupted him--“because I am!”

“You?”

“Yes, I’ve seen the Chief this morning, and he has decided that I ought to join the party. Do you know what relation Betty Carew is to the doctor?”

Bill was silent.

“That young lady is going to be the candle to the moth. She is the one assistant Laffin can depend upon, unwilling though she may be; for by the law she cannot give evidence against her husband. He married her to silence her; there is an excellent reason--two excellent reasons, in fact--why he should follow her to America.”

“They may be excellent,” said Bill, “but they don’t appear that way to me. Besides, I’ve got another anchor in London. Pips has taken on the reconstruction of the Proud Sons of Ragousa. Maybe there’ll be no Proud Sons to reconstruct after the Secretary of State has taken action. If it isn’t reconstructed it will be wound up, and Pips will be busy. I cannot let his business go to ruin.”

“Nevertheless, you will be well advised to come along with me,” said Bullott.

“Where is Leiff Stone?” asked Bill.

“God knows,” was the grave reply. “I haven’t dared to tell Miss Stone all that I suspect.”

Bill Holbrook did not see him for the rest of the day; he himself was fully occupied with putting into writing the story of the raid on the Priory, and in consultation with Pawter. That worthy man had lost no time in seeing the high officers of state, and had exposed to them all that he knew of the workings of the Order.

“They have no objection to our carrying on, but they insist that the Priors shall not be masked, and that the annual distribution of argosies must be determined by merit and not by chance.”

“That sounds as though most of the money will come to me,” said Bill.

For some reason the depression which had laid on his mind like a cloud during the past few weeks had vanished, and he could trace his relief and cheerfulness to the talk he had had with the girl on the Dartmoor road.

Toward the evening, when he was working at the newspaper office, the City Editor brought him news that the body of Tinker Lane had been found, and later came a prosaic reminder of his own responsibility in the matter, in the shape of a policeman bearing an order to appear before the coroner’s inquest.

Every tape message that reached the office concerning Laffin was brought to him, for now the news that the man was wanted for murder was common property. A reward had been offered for his arrest; every station and port was being watched; but Laffin had disappeared, and though a taxicab driver had been found who had picked up the old woman with the milk jug and the key and had set her down near a City hospital, he was not able to contribute any helpful clue.

It was eleven o’clock at night, and he had handed in his last copy and risen stiffly from his desk, when the bell of the inter-telephone rang and the hall porter told him that there was a lady to see him. His heart jumped.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Miss Florette, sir.”

“Show her up.”

To say that La Florette was in a state of agitation is mildly to describe the half-hysterical, half-furious woman who was shown into his little office. Florette spent a considerable time every day in hiding the traces by which ruthless nature scores the passage of the years, but to-night she had made no attempt to doll up, Bill noticed. Her face was haggard, and the dark lines about her eyes revealed the state of mind into which Laffin’s perfidy had thrown her.

“Has that devil been found?” she asked immediately she came into the room. “Oh, Mr. Holbrook, isn’t it dreadful! All I’ve had from him was five hundred, though he promised faithfully he’d send me a cheque the next morning! I haven’t seen the colour of his money, and the tradesmen’s bills are coming in; it will cost me over two thousand to settle! And it was Van Campe’s fault; he said I’d get publicity out of it, and I haven’t got so much as a line! Whatever am I to do?”

“If you’ll sit down quietly and tell me all about it,” said Bill, “maybe I can help you--as far as publicity goes.”

“Not that kind of publicity,” she said shrilly. “I don’t want anybody to know that it wasn’t my house, or that somebody else was paying the bills! It would ruin me professionally, Mr. Holbrook. I’ve got to think of my career. And Charles says that he won’t pay a penny. I’m ruined, absolutely ruined!”

Bill looked at the ten thousand dollar wristlet she wore, was dazzled by the scintillations of a great, pear-shaped diamond that hung on her breast, and even observed that the hands that gesticulated in despair sent forth strange and beautiful flashes of colour, and in the face of this evidence of “ruin” was not as sympathetic as he might have been.

“It’s not my house at all,” she said; “of course you knew that? Laffin took it because he wanted to find out something about Sir Richard Paxton, who is one of the heads of the Treasury. I don’t understand very much about it, because Stock Exchange business makes my head ache. But it was all about the war that he wanted to know. It seems that we owe America a lot of money.”

“Have you only just discovered that?” asked Bill with gentle irony.

“How was I to know?” she asked impatiently. “Anyway, we _do_ owe America a lot of money, and we have to pay them every year or half-year--I forget which. And he wanted me to find out when the next interest--that was the word, ‘interest’--was to be paid. He said that the British Government had been buying dollars, and he wanted to make sure whether the money was going to America in paper currency or in gold, and I had an awful job to find out, Mr. Holbrook. You’ve no idea how mean these Government people are. And Sir Richard likes me very much indeed--in fact, he’s perfectly dippy about me.”

Bill was listening with all ears now. The mystery of the house in Portman Place was less of a mystery to him.

“I suppose it was because I had this grand house that he was more open and frank with me. It’s curious what snobs people are--but they are, Mr. Holbrook! Anyway, he told me that the money was being sent in paper currency--that’s the term, isn’t it? paper currency?”

“That’s the term,” said Bill, with an assumption of carelessness. “And when is it to be shipped?”

“On the twenty-ninth of July--that’s next week--by the----” she frowned in an effort of memory. “I can never keep ships in my head--it was a curious name----”

“_Escorial_?” asked Bill, his heart beating a little faster.

“That’s it--the _Escorial_. Fifty million dollars! Isn’t it wicked to send all that money to America? They’ll probably spend it on cinemas, which are ruining our profession. Fifty million dollars!” She literally groaned. “And I’ve got twenty tradesmen waiting on my doorstep, and heaven knows where the money’s coming from! I’ve never been so deceived in my life, Mr. Holbrook. He ought to get twenty years for what he did for me. Is there any chance of finding him?” she asked.

“The police are trying very hard to find him.”

“Has he any money? I mean, would it be possible, if he is captured, for him to give me a cheque?” she whimpered. “I’m sure the police would think all the better of him if he paid his obligations. I don’t know which way to turn, and mother’s so upset because her paying guest has gone away, and the police have been to the house looking for him. Really, Mr. Holbrook, I think I shall go mad unless something happens.”

“One moment,” said Bill. “Did you tell Dr. Laffin all that Sir Richard Paxton told you--I mean, about the money going on the _Escorial_?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Of course I did; I told him on Sunday night, just as soon as Sir Richard told me. There wasn’t anything wrong in that, was there?” she asked in sudden alarm.

“I don’t know what view the police will take of it,” said Bill gravely, and La Florette went white.

“Has he been doing something very wrong?”

“I don’t think he could do anything much worse than murder, and you know they want him for that,” said Bill, a little irritably.

“Yes, I know, but has he been stealing money?” asked Florette, to whom the first letter of sin was “$.”

He got rid of her as soon as he possibly could, promising to give her the first news of Laffin’s capture, and to inform her at the earliest possible date as to the doctor’s financial position. He himself left the office a few minutes after La Florette, and, since his mind needed the sedative of exercise, he decided to walk home.

He strolled leisurely up Fleet Street, along the Strand, still bright and populated, for the great hotels had not yet discharged their supper parties; crossed Trafalgar Square, and, acting upon the whim of the moment, turned under the Admiralty Arch and walked along the Mall. At this hour of the night, even the courting couples had disappeared, and beyond the cars and cabs that take a short cut to Victoria, there was little to be seen.

He saw no pedestrians until he overtook a man who was walking slowly towards Buckingham Palace. Something in his gait seemed familiar, and yet he would not have troubled to look into the face, but just as he was abreast of the solitary walker the man gave a short, dry cough, and Bill spun round. For a second only he was in doubt: the sallow face and the short-clipped, black beard were wholly unfamiliar to him. The horn-rimmed spectacles that surmounted the thin nose were equally strange. He hesitated, facing the man.

“What do you want?” said the voice, and that was his mistake.

In an instant Bill Holbrook had gripped him.

“I want you, Dr. Laffin!” he said.

His free hand tore away the beard that hid the cruel mouth. The doctor winced with the pain of it; then without a word, he struck out. His blow caught Holbrook unprepared, and he stumbled backwards, but before Laffin could run, Bill had reached out and caught his coat. For a second they struggled desperately, and then over the man’s shoulder he saw a policeman approaching from the direction of St. James’s.

Laffin’s strength was extraordinary, he fought like a cat, striking out wildly, and wherever his blow fell Bill grunted with the shock of it. And then, as the policeman came up, occurred a maddening accident which was to have such remarkable consequences.

Laffin’s fist had struck Bill full in the mouth. Savagely he hit back; the doctor dodged, and the blow, going across his shoulder, caught the policeman under the jaw and sent him sprawling. In a second he was on his feet, had torn the men apart, flinging the doctor against the railings of the Park and holding Bill in a grip from which there was no escape.

“Take that man, quick! He’s Laffin!” gasped the reporter.

“I’ll take you,” said the officer savagely, and swung him round. “Come a little walk with me!”

“Take him, take him!” yelled Bill, as he saw Laffin, turning on his heel, run like the wind. “He’s wanted for murder!”