Part 22 (1/2)

At last the hunted and haunted wretch persuaded himself that ”the Yard” meant to be merciful. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he finished the whisky and soda and remained silent.

”Good!” said Winter more cheerfully. ”I sha'n't call you Maselli again if you don't behave. Now, how long have you lived in Gloucester Mansions?”

”Four months, sir. Ever since my marriage.”

Winter smiled. The man had gone straight from the gates of Portland to some woman who was waiting for him! He was an old offender, but had proved slippery as an eel--hence a stiff sentence when caught; but penal servitude had conquered him.

”Has Miss Eileen Garth lived in No. Eleven during those four months?”

was the next question.

”Yes, sir--two years or more, I believe. Her mother mentioned something of it to my wife one day.”

”Her mother? Same name?”

”Yes, Mrs. Garth.”

”How do they live?”

”The daughter was learning to be a stage dancer; but they've come into a settled income, and that idea is given up.”

”Any male relations?”

”None that I know of, sir. Eileen is engaged to be married. I haven't heard the gentleman's name, but I've seen him scores of times.”

”Scores of times--in four months?”

”Yes, sir, every second or third day. That is, I either meet him or know he is there because Mrs. Maselli and Mrs. Garth are friendly, and there is constant coming and going across the landing.”

”Is he a man of about thirty, middle height, lanky black hair, smooth dark face, sunken eyes, high cheek bones--rather, shall I say, Italian in appearance?”

Maselli was surprised, and showed it.

”Why, sir, you've described him to a nicety,” he said.

”Very well. Next time he is there to your absolute knowledge, slip out and telephone the fact to me at Scotland Yard. If I'm not in, ask for Mr. Furneaux. You remember Mr. Furneaux?”

A sickly smile admitted the acquaintance. Furneaux had recognized the same artist's hand in each of many realistic forgeries, and it was this fact which led to the man's capture and conviction.

”If neither of us is at home, inquire for Mr. Sheldon,” went on Winter. ”Note him. He's a stranger to you. If you fail to get hold of any of us, say simply that Signor Maselli would like to have a word at our convenience. It will be understood. We sha'n't bother you. Give another call next time the visitor is in Mrs. Garth's flat, and keep on doing this until you find one of the three on the line. Don't use the telephone in Shaftesbury Avenue near the Mansions, because the boy in charge there might be suspicious, and blab. That is all. You are not doing Mrs. Garth or her daughter an ill turn, so far as I can judge. Keep a still tongue. Silence on your part will meet with silence on mine.... Oh, dash it, have another drink! Where's your nerve?”

Signor Giovanni Maselli was crying. A phantom had brushed close, but was pa.s.sing; nevertheless, its shadow had chilled him to the bone.

Winter walked back to Scotland Yard, and found that Sheldon had gone, leaving a note which read: ”Mr. Robert Fenley is at 104, Hendon Road, Battersea Park.” He was tempted to have a word with Furneaux, but forbore, and tackled some other departmental business. It was a day fated, however, to evolve the unexpected. About a quarter to four the telephone bell rang, and Maselli informed him that Miss Garth's fiance had just arrived at Gloucester Mansions.

”Excellent,” said Winter. ”In future, devote your energies to legitimate engraving. Good-by!”

He rushed out and leaped into a taxi; within five minutes he was at the door of No. Eleven once more. Let it not be imagined that he had not weighed the possible consequences of thrusting himself in this fas.h.i.+on into Hilton Fenley's private affairs. Although the man had summoned the a.s.sistance of Scotland Yard to elucidate the mystery of his father's death, that fact alone could not secure him immunity from the law's all-embracing glance. Winter agreed with Furneaux that the profession of a private banker combined with company promotion is too often a cloak for roguery in the City of London, and the little he knew of the Fenley history did not tend to dissipate a certain nebulous suspicion that their record might not be wholly clean.

The theft of the bonds had been hushed up in a way that savored of unwillingness on Mortimer Fenley's part to permit the police to take action. The man's tragic death might well be a sequel to the robbery, and, granted the impossibility of his elder son having committed the murder, there was nothing fantastic in the notion that he might be a party to it.