Part 10 (1/2)
”And a pretty ingenious gang, too,” declared Max, with knit brows.
”They evidently made short work of all the furniture. I wonder why they took it, and where it is at present.”
”If it has gone to a sale room the police could trace it,” Max suggested.
”Certainly. But suppose it was transferred from the vans it was taken away in to the vans of some depository, and removed, say, to Portsmouth or Plymouth, and there stored? It could be done quite easily, and would never be traced.”
”Yes. But it's a big job to have made a whole houseful of furniture disappear in a couple of hours.”
”It is not so big as it first seems, sir. I'd guarantee to clear a house of this size in one hour, if necessary. And the way they turned out the things didn't take them very long. They were in a desperate hurry, evidently.”
”Do you think that thieves did the work?”
”I'm very strongly of that opinion. Everything points to it. If I were you I'd go back to the police and tell them about the safe, about that chest of drawers, and the flooring in the study. Somebody's been prying about here, depend upon it.”
Max stood, still undecided. Did it not seem very much as though the thieves had visited there after Charles Rolfe had fled so hurriedly?
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE PAUPER OF PARK LANE.
About half-way up Park Lane--the one-sided row of millionaires'
residences that face Hyde Park--not far from the corner of that narrow little turning, Deanery Street, stood a great white house, one of a short row. The windows were protected from the sun by outside blinds of red and buff-striped holland, and the first floor sills were gay with, geraniums.
The house was one of imposing importance, and dwarfed its neighbours, being both higher, larger, and more artistic. On the right side dwelt one of Manchester's cotton kings, and on the other a duke whose rent-roll was one of the biggest in the United Kingdoms. The centre house, however, was far more prosperous-looking than the others, and was often remarked upon by country cousins as they pa.s.sed up and down upon omnibuses. It was certainly one of the finest in the whole of that select thoroughfare where rents alone were ruinous, and where the possession of a house meant that one's annual income must run into six figures. The mere n.o.bility of England cannot afford to live in Park Lane nowadays. It is reserved for the kings of Britain's commerce, the Stock Exchange speculator, or the get-rich-quick financier.
Those who read these lines know well the exterior of many of the houses of notable people who live there. Some are in excellent taste, while others betray the blatant arrogance of the man who, risen from penury, has suddenly found himself a controller of England's destinies, a Birthday Knight, and the husband of a woman whom the papers have suddenly commenced to dub ”the beautiful Lady So-and-So.” Other houses are quiet and sober in their exterior, small, modest, and un.o.bstructive, the town residences of men of great wealth, who, posing as gentlemen, are hoping for a peerage.
The hopes in Park Lane are many. Almost every household possesses a secret ambition, some to s.h.i.+ne in Society, other in politics, and some even in literature. The really wealthy man sneers at a baronetcy, an honour which his tea-merchant received last year, and as for a knighthood, well, he can plank down his money this afternoon and buy one just as he bought a cigar half an hour ago in Bond Street. He must have a t.i.tle, for his wife wants to be known by the name of his country place, and he has secret ambitions for a seat in the Lords. And so in every house in that long, one-sided row are hopes eternal which rise regularly every year towards the end of June.
Diamond, copper, soap, pork, and railway ”kings” who dwell there are a curious a.s.sortment, yet the combined wealth of that street alone would be sufficient to pay off our National Debt and also run a respectable-sized kingdom for a year or two.
Almost every man could realise a million sterling, and certainly one of the very wealthiest among them was old Samuel Statham, the man who owned and lived in that house with the red-striped sun-blinds.
While Max Barclay was engaged in his investigations at the deserted house in Cromwell Road, old Sam was standing at the window of his study, a large front room on the ground floor overlooking the Park. It was a quiet, soberly-furnished apartment, the carpet of which was so soft that one's feet fell noiselessly, while over the mantelshelf was a large life-sized Venus by a modern French artist, the most notable picture in the Salon five years ago.
The leather-covered chairs were all heavy and old-fas.h.i.+oned, the books in uniform bindings of calf and gold, and the big writing-table of the early Victorian period. Upon the table stood a great silver candelabra fitted with electric lamps, while littered about the floor were quant.i.ties of folded papers and business doc.u.ments of various kinds.
There was but little comfort about the room. Artistic taste and luxury are commonly a.s.sociated with Park Lane, therefore the stranger would have been greatly surprised if he had been allowed a peep within. But there was a curious bet about the house.
No stranger had ever been known to pa.s.s beyond the big swing-gla.s.s doors half-way down the hall. No outsider had ever set foot within.
Levi, the hook-nosed old butler, in his well-cut clothes and spotless linen, was a zealous janitor. No one, upon any pretext whatsoever, was allowed to pa.s.s beyond the gla.s.s doors. His master was a little eccentric, it was said, and greatly disliked intruders. He hated the inquisitiveness of the modern Press, and always feared lest his house should be described and photographed as those of his neighbours constantly were. Therefore all strangers were rigorously excluded.
Some gossip had got about concerning this. A year ago the wealthy old financier had been taken suddenly ill, and his doctor was sent for from Cavendish Square. But even he was not allowed to pa.s.s the rigidly-guarded frontier. His patient saw him in the hall, and there he diagnosed the ailment and prescribed. The doctor in question, a well-known physician, remarked upon old Sam's eccentricity over a dinner-table in Mayfair, and very soon half smart London were talking and wondering why n.o.body was ever invited to the table of Samuel Statham.
In the City, as head of Statham Brothers, foreign bankers, whose offices in Old Broad Street are known to every City man, he was always affable, yet very shrewd. He and his brother could drive hard bargains, but they were always charitable, and the name of the firm constantly figured for a substantial amount in the lists in response to any charitable appeal.
From small beginnings--the early days of both brothers being shrouded in mystery--they had risen to become what they now were, a house second only to the Rothschilds in financial power, a house whose a.s.sistance was sought by kings and emperors, and whose interests were world-wide.
That morning old Sam Statham appeared unusually agitated. Rising at five o'clock, as was his habit summer and winter, he had been hard at work for hours when Levi brought him his tiny cup of black Turkish coffee. Then, glancing at the clock upon his desk, he had risen, gone to the window, and gazed out eagerly, as though in search of someone.