The Man Who Knew Read online

  CHAPTER VIII

  SERGEANT SMITH CALLS

  The big library of Weald Lodge was brilliantly lighted and nobody hadpulled down the blinds. So that it was possible for any man who troubledto jump the low stone wall which ran by the road and push a way throughthe damp shrubbery to see all that was happening in the room.

  Weald Lodge stands between Eastbourne and Wilmington, and in the wintermonths the curious, represented by youthful holiday makers, are few andfar between. Constable Wiseman, of the Eastbourne constabulary,certainly was not curious. He paced his slow, moist way and merelynoted, in passing, the fact that the flood of light reflected on thelittle patch of lawn at the side of the house.

  The hour was nine o'clock on a June evening, and officially it was onlythe hour of sunset, though lowering rain clouds had so darkened theworld that night had closed down upon the weald, had blotted out itspleasant villages and had hidden the green downs.

  He continued to the end of his beat and met his impatient superior.

  "Everything's all right, sergeant," he reported; "only old Minute'slights are blazing away and his windows are open."

  "Better go and warn him," said the sergeant, pulling his bicycle intoposition for mounting.

  He had his foot on the treadle, but hesitated.

  "I'd warn him myself, but I don't think he'd be glad to see me."

  He grinned to himself, then remarked: "Something queer aboutMinute--eh?"

  "There is, indeed," agreed Constable Wiseman heartily. His beat was alonely one, and he was a very bored man. If by agreement with hisofficer he could induce that loquacious gentleman to talk for a quarterof an hour, so much dull time might be passed. The fact that SergeantSmith was loquacious indicated, too, that he had been drinking and wasready to quarrel with anybody.

  "Come under the shelter of that wall," said the sergeant, and pushed hismachine to the protection afforded by the side wall of a house.

  It is possible that the sergeant was anxious to impress upon hissubordinate's mind a point of view which might be useful to himself oneday.

  "Minute is a dangerous old man," he said.

  "Don't I know it?" said Constable Wiseman, with the recollection ofsundry "reportings" and inquiries.

  "You've got to remember that, Wiseman," the sergeant went on; "and by'dangerous' I mean that he's the sort of old fellow that would ask aconstable to come in to have a drink and then report him."

  "Good Lord!" said the shocked Mr. Wiseman at this revelation of theblackest treachery.

  Sergeant Smith nodded.

  "That's the sort of man he is," he said. "I knew him years ago--atleast, I've seen him. I was in Matabeleland with him, and I tell youthere's nothing too mean for 'Ready-Money Minute'--curse him!"

  "I'll bet you have had a terrible life, sergeant," encouraged ConstableWiseman.

  The other laughed bitterly.

  "I have," he said.

  Sergeant Smith's acquaintance with Eastbourne was a short one. He hadonly been four years in the town, and had, so rumor ran, owed hispromotion to influence. What that influence was none could say. It hadbeen suggested that John Minute himself had secured him his sergeant'sstripes, but that was a theory which was pooh-poohed by people who knewthat the sergeant had little that was good to say of his supposedpatron.

  Constable Wiseman, a profound thinker and a secret reader of sensationaldetective stories, had at one time made a report against John Minute forsome technical offense, and had made it in fear and trembling,expecting his sergeant promptly to squash this attempt to persecute hispatron; but, to his surprise and delight, Sergeant Smith had furtheredhis efforts and had helped to secure the conviction which involved afine.

  "You go on and finish your beat, Constable," said the sergeant suddenly,"and I'll ride up to the old devil's house and see what's doing."

  He mounted his bicycle and trundled up the hill, dismounting beforeWeald Lodge, and propped his bicycle against the wall. He looked for along time toward the open French windows, and then, jumping the wall,made his way slowly across the lawn, avoiding the gravel path whichwould betray his presence. He got to a point opposite the window whichcommanded a full view of the room.

  Though the window was open, there was a fire in the grate. To thesergeant's satisfaction, John Minute was alone. He sat in a deeparmchair in his favorite attitude, his hands pushed into his pockets,his head upon his chest. He heard the sergeant's foot upon the graveland stood up as the rain-drenched figure appeared at the open window.

  "Oh, it is you, is it?" growled John Minute. "What do you want?"

  "Alone?" said the sergeant, and he spoke as one to his equal.

  "Come in!"

  Mr. Minute's library had been furnished by the Artistic FurnitureCompany, of Eastbourne, which had branches at Hastings, Bexhill,Brighton, and--it was claimed--at London. The furniture was of dark oak,busily carved. There was a large bookcase which half covered one wall.This was the "library," and it was filled with books of uniform bindingwhich occupied the shelves. The books had been supplied by a greatbookseller of London, and included--at Mr. Minute's suggestion--"TheHundred Best Books," "Books That Have Helped Me," "The EncyclopediaBrillonica," and twenty bound volumes of a certain weekly periodical ofinternational reputation. John Minute had no literary leanings.

  The sergeant hesitated, wiped his heavy boots on the sodden mat outsidethe window, and walked into the room.

  "You are pretty cozy, John," he said.

  "What do you want?" asked Minute, without enthusiasm.

  "I thought I'd look you up. My constable reported your windows wereopen, and I felt it my duty to come along and warn you--there arethieves about, John."

  "I know of one," said John Minute, looking at the other steadily. "Yourconstable, as you call him, is, I presume, that thick-headed jackass,Wiseman!"

  "Got him first time," said the sergeant, removing his waterproof cape."I don't often trouble you, but somehow I had a feeling I'd like to seeyou to-night. My constable revived old memories, John."

  "Unpleasant for you, I hope," said John Minute ungraciously.

  "There's a nice little gold farm four hundred miles north of Gwelo,"said Sergeant Smith meditatively.

  "And a nice little breakwater half a mile south of Cape Town," said JohnMinute, "where the Cape government keeps highwaymen who hold up theSalisbury coach and rob the mails."

  Sergeant Smith smiled.

  "You will have your little joke," he said; "but I might remind you thatthey have plenty of accommodation on the breakwater, John. They eventake care of men who have stolen land and murdered natives."

  "What do you want?" asked John Minute again.

  The other grinned.

  "Just a pleasant little friendly visit," he explained. "I haven't lookedyou up for twelve months. It is a hard life, this police work, even whenyou have got two or three pounds a week from a private source to add toyour pay. It is nothing like the work we have in the Matabele mountedpolice, eh, John? But, Lord," he said, looking into the firethoughtfully, "when I think how I stood up in the attorney's office atSalisbury and took my solemn oath that old John Gedding had transferredhis Saibach gold claims to you on his death bed; when I think of theamount of perjury--me a uniformed servant of the British South AfricanCompany, and, so to speak, an official of the law--I blush for myself."

  "Do you ever blush for yourself when you think of how you and your palsheld up Hoffman's store, shot Hoffman, and took his swag?" asked JohnMinute. "I'd give a lot of money to see you blush, Crawley; and now, forabout the fourteenth time, what do you want? If it is money, you can'thave it. If it is more promotion, you are not fit to have it. If it is aword of advice--"

  The other stopped him with a motion of his hand.

  "I can't afford to have your advice, John," he said. "All I know is thatyou promised me my fair share over those Saibach claims. It is a payingmine now. They tell me that its capital is two millions."

  "You were well paid," said John Minute shortly.


  "Five hundred pounds isn't much for the surrender of your soul'ssalvation," said Sergeant Smith.

  He slowly replaced his cape on his broad shoulders and walked to thewindow.

  "Listen here, John Minute!" All the good nature had gone out of hisvoice, and it was Trooper Henry Crawley, the lawbreaker, who spoke. "Youare not going to satisfy me much longer with a few pounds a week. Youhave got to do the right thing by me, or I am going to blow."

  "Let me know when your blowing starts," said John Minute, "and I'll sendyou a bowl of soup to cool."

  "You're funny, but you don't amuse me," were the last words of thesergeant as he walked into the rain.

  As before, he avoided the drive and jumped over the low wall on to theroad, and was glad that he had done so, for a motor car swung into thedrive and pulled up before the dark doorway of the house. He was overthe wall again in an instant, and crossing with swift, noiseless stepsin the direction of the car. He got as close as he could and listened.

  Two of the voices he recognized. The third, that of a man, was astranger. He heard this third person called "inspector," and wonderedwho was the guest. His curiosity was not to be satisfied, for by thetime he had reached the view place on the lawn which overlooked thelibrary John Minute had closed the windows and pulled down the blinds.

  The visitors to Weald Lodge were three--Jasper Cole, May Nuttall, and astout, middle-aged man of slow speech but of authoritative tone. Thiswas Inspector Nash, of Scotland Yard, who was in charge of theinvestigations into the forgeries. Minute received them in the library.He knew the inspector of old.

  Jasper had brought May down in response to the telegraphed instructionswhich John Minute had sent him.

  "What's the news?" he asked.

  "Well, I think I have found your Mr. Holland," said the inspector.

  He took a fat case from his inside pocket, opened it, and extracted asnapshot photograph. It represented a big motor car, and, standing byits bonnet, a little man in chauffeur's uniform.

  "This is the fellow who called himself 'Rex Holland' and who sent thecommissionaire on his errand. The photograph came into my possession asthe result of an accident. It was discovered in the flat and hadevidently fallen out of the man's pocket. I made inquiries and foundthat it was taken by a small photographer in Putney, and that the manhad called for the photographs about ten o'clock in the morning of thesame day that he sent the commissionaire on his errand. He was probablyexamining them during the period of his waiting in the flat, and one ofthem slipped to the ground. At any rate, the commissionaire has no doubtthat this was the man."

  "Do you seriously suggest that this fellow is Rex Holland?"

  The inspector shook his head.

  "I think he is merely one of the gang," he said. "I don't believe youwill ever find Rex Holland, for each of the gang took the name in turnto take the part, according to the circumstances in which they foundthemselves. I have been unable to identify him, except that he went bythe name of Feltham and was an Australian. That was the name he gave tothe photographer with whom he talked. You see, the photograph was takenin High Street, Putney. The only clew we have is that he has been seenseveral times on the Portsmouth Road, driving one or two cars in whichwas a man who is probably the nearest approach to Rex Holland we shallget.

  "I put my men on to make further investigations, and the Haslemerepolice told them that it is believed that the car was the property of agentleman who lived in a lockup cottage some distance fromHaslemere--evidently rather a swagger affair, because its owner had anelectric cable and telephone wires laid in, and the cottage was alteredand renovated twelve months ago at a very considerable cost. I shall beable to tell you more about that to-morrow."

  They spent the rest of the evening discussing the crime, and the girlwas a silent listener. It was not until very late that John Minute wasable to give her his undivided attention.

  "I asked you to come down," he said, "because I am getting a littleworried about you."

  "Worried about me, uncle?" she said, in surprise.

  He nodded.

  The two men had gone off to Jasper's study, and she was alone with heruncle.

  "When I lunched with you the other day at the Savoy," he said, "I spoketo you about your marriage, and I asked you to defer any action for afortnight."

  She nodded.

  "I was coming down to see you on that very matter," she said. "Uncle,won't you tell me why you want me to delay my marriage for a fortnight,and why you think I am going to get married at all?"

  He did not answer immediately, but paced up and down the room.

  "May," he said, "you have heard a great deal about me which is not veryflattering. I lived a very rough life in South Africa, and I only hadone friend in the world in whom I had the slightest confidence. Thatfriend was your father. He stood by me in my bad times. He never worriedme when I was flush of money, never denied me when I was broke. Wheneverhe helped me, he was content with what reward I offered him. There wasno 'fifty-fifty' with Bill Nuttall. He was a man who had no ambition, noavarice--the whitest man I have ever met. What I have not told you abouthim is this: He and I were equal partners in a mine, the Gwelo Deep. Hehad great faith in the mine, and I had none at all. I knew it to be oneof those properties you sometimes get in Rhodesia, all pocket andoutcrop. Anyway, we floated a company."

  He stopped and chuckled as at an amusing memory.

  "The pound shares were worth a little less than sixpence until afortnight ago."

  He looked at her with one of those swift, penetrating glances, as thoughhe were anxious to discover her thoughts.

  "A fortnight ago," he said, "I learned from my agent in Bulawayo that areef had been struck on an adjoining mine, and that the reef runsthrough our property. If that is true, you will be a rich woman in yourown right, apart from the money you get from me. I cannot tell whetherit is true until I have heard from the engineers, who are now examiningthe property, and I cannot know that for a fortnight. May, you are adear girl," he said, and laid his hand on her arm, "and I have lookedafter you as though you were my own daughter. It is a happiness to meto know that you will be a very rich woman, because your father's shareswas the only property you inherited from him. There is, however, onecurious thing about it that I cannot understand."

  He walked over to the bureau, unlocked a drawer, and took out a letter.

  "My agent says that he advised me two years ago that this reef existed,and wondered why I had never given him authority to bore. I have norecollection of his ever having told me anything of the sort. Now youknow the position," he said, putting back the letter and closing thedrawer with a bang.

  "You want me to wait for a better match," said the girl.

  He inclined his head.

  "I don't want you to get married for a fortnight," he repeated.

  May Nuttall went to bed that night full of doubt and more than a littleunhappy. The story that John Minute told about her father--was it true?Was it a story invented on the spur of the moment to counter Frank'splan? She thought of Frank and his almost solemn entreaty. There hadbeen no mistaking his earnestness or his sincerity. If he would onlytake her into his confidence--and yet she recognized and was surprisedat the revelation that she did not want that confidence. She wanted tohelp Frank very badly, and it was not the romance of the situation whichappealed to her. There was a large sense of duty, something of thatmother sense which every woman possesses, which tempted her to thesacrifice. Yet was it a sacrifice?

  She debated that question half the night, tossing from side to side. Shecould not sleep, and, rising before the dawn, slipped into her dressinggown and went to the window. The rain had ceased, the clouds had brokenand stood in black bars against the silver light of dawn. She feltunaccountably hungry, and after a second's hesitation she opened thedoor and went down the broad stairs to the hall.

  To reach the kitchen she had to pass her uncle's door, and she noticedthat it was ajar. She thought possibly he had gone to bed and left thelight on, and her han
d was on the knob to investigate when she heard avoice and drew back hurriedly. It was the voice of Jasper Cole.

  "I have been into the books very carefully with Mackensen, theaccountant, and there seems no doubt," he said.

  "You think--" demanded her uncle.

  "I am certain," answered Jasper, in his even, passionless tone. "Thefraud has been worked by Frank. He had access to the books. He was theonly person who saw Rex Holland; he was the only official at the bankwho could possibly falsify the entries and at the same time hide histrail."

  The girl turned cold and for a moment swayed as though she would faint.She clutched the jamb of the door for support and waited.

  "I am half inclined to your belief," said John Minute slowly. "It isawful to believe that Frank is a forger, as his father was--awful!"

  "It is pretty ghastly," said Jasper's voice, "but it is true."

  The girl flung open the door and stood in the doorway.

  "It is a lie!" she cried wrathfully. "A horrible lie--and you know it isa lie, Jasper!"

  Without another word, she turned, slamming the door behind her.