Corner House — Chapter IX, The Missing Notes; Chapter X, A Policy of Silence
CHAPTER IX. THE MISSING NOTES.
It was late in the afternoon before Prout hit upon the trail he was looking for.
He had been keeping the telegraph and the telephone busy.
The scent was still hot, and it was just possible that he might come upon some trace of the missing notes before they left the country.
At any rate, it could only have been hours since they found their way into the hands of the murdered man.
According to his letter, he had received £400 in gold--probably the result of some blackmailing transaction--after which he had hastened to turn them into banknotes for transmission, probably abroad.
Now there is only one place of business where a man can turn so large a sum of money into notes, and that place must be a bank.
There are a great many banks in London, and the difficulty in finding the right one was enhanced by the fact that nobody besides Prout knew that there was anything wrong about these particular notes.
On the face of it, the transaction was a very casual one.
It was nearly four o'clock before Prout raised the trail.
On the previous day but one a cashier at the National Credit Bank had changed £400 in gold into notes for a stranger who answered to the description of the murdered man.
Prout dashed down to Leadenhall Street in a fast hansom.
The cashier was a little nervous, but quite willing to speak freely.
"I remember the transaction perfectly well," he said.
"We do a lot of money-changing and that kind of thing, as our foreign connection is a large one.
I should not have heeded the matter but for noticing the curious disfigurement of the man's hands."
"Covered all over with orange blotches, eh?"
asked Prout.
"Quite so.
The man was all twisted from his hip, and he had a crooked nose."
"You needn't say any more," Prout said crisply.
"That's the man.
You changed the gold for the victim of the Corner House tragedy.
Got the numbers?"
The numbers were forthcoming, of course--190753 to 190832, the first half of which eighty £5 notes had been alluded to in the murdered man's letter.
"So far so good," Prout remarked.
"It's not a very pleasant experience, but I am sorry I have not finished yet.
I shall have to trouble you to come as far as Raven Street with me and identify the body."
It was well over at length, but the mild little cashier had nothing to say except that he really must go over to the Raven's Arms and have a little brandy.
Abstemious man as he was, he felt it was necessary.
Presently the blood came back to his face again, and his dilated pupils contracted.
"That's the man, sergeant," he said.
"And I hope I have seen the last of him.
Are you going to advertise those notes?"
Prout replied for the present he had no intention of doing anything of the kind.
The thief knew nothing about the letter, or he assuredly would have destroyed it.
He would imagine that he had got off scot free with his booty, and thus might walk into the trap prepared for him.
"We shall lie low for the present," Prout said.
"And I will ask you to do the same.
You may mention this matter to your manager, but not to another soul.
I'll try and get down before five and see your manager myself."
It was not a bad day's work, and it spurred on Prout to fresh endeavours.
He carefully examined the fireplace, he tested the windows, but nothing rewarded his endeavours beyond a blacklead-brush thrown into the corner of the scullery together with a cake of blacklead recently opened.
"Now where does this come in?"
he asked himself.
"There isn't a grate in the house that has been touched for years.
And this cake is not quite dry yet.
And a bit of yellow soap in the tray over the sink that would be as hard as a chip if it had been here since the people left.
But it hasn't. Murderer may have washed his hands, which is exceedingly likely, but what did he want blacklead for?"
Prout looked keenly around him.
He opened the back door into a yard that gave on to a lane at the back of the house.
The bricks were damp and mossy, and on them was something that looked like the print of wheels.
The door leading to the lane was wide, and on the edge on both sides something patchy glistened.
Prout touched it with his fingers.
"Now what does it mean?"
he asked himself.
"What game were they playing?"
The black edging of the gate-posts was fresh blacklead.
The little discovery gave a new twist to Prout's thoughts as he drove down to the National Credit Bank.
He had no particular object save to see the manager and impress upon him that in the interests of justice the whole thing must be kept a profound secret.
There was no difficulty about that: the cashier was indignant, for he had already given his promise on the matter.
"Not that you will ever see those notes again, sir," Prout said.
"By this time they are probably on their way to the Continent, whence they may begin to dribble back one by one in the course of months.
Still, one never can tell."
The manager was sympathetic; at the same time he looked at the clock, which was drawing very near to closing time.
There was a lull outside in the traffic.
Prout took up his hat and prepared to depart.
But the same moment his friend, the cashier, came rushing in.
His eyes were gleaming behind his spectacles.
"A most extraordinary thing, sir," he stammered.
"Those notes that Sergeant Prout came about just now are----" "Get on," the manager said impatiently, "Get on."
"Have been paid in to the credit of a customer, or part of them."
"Numbers?"
Prout snapped.
"Which part of them?"
"190753 to 190792," the cashier replied.
"Every note," Prout cried, "every blessed note mentioned in the dead's man's letter."
CHAPTER X. A POLICY OF SILENCE.
Gilbert Lawrence lighted a cigarette and waited for Bruce to speak.
It wanted some little time to luncheon.
The doctor's statement was likely to add piquancy to the meal.
"Well, one hears some queer things," the novelist said at length.
"I've been fascinated with that corner house for years.
As I told you before, I built up a romance round it.
Some day I mean to take the papers out of my pigeonhole and work it up."
"Did you ever put me in it?"
Bruce asked gravely.
"Well, upon my word, I fancy it was something like it," said Lawrence.
"There was a hero like yourself, only he wasn't a doctor, and a girl like Hetty.
Also there was a mysterious assignation in the corner house after midnight, and, as a matter of course, a body.
None of these stories are complete without a body."
Bruce chafed under the flippancy.
He was quite undecided what to do.
Beyond all question the patient whom he had attended under such mysterious circumstances was the murdered man.
Was it his duty at once to go to the police and tell them all he knew?
On the other hand he had no desire to violate professional confidence.
Certainly the lovely Spaniard and the people of the house could have nothing to do with the murder.
If they had, they would never have called in a doctor's aid and paid him a handsome fee to save the life of that poor dissipated wretch.
It must have happened after they had gone.
"Tell us all about it," Lawrence asked eagerly.
Bruce related his story without going into details.
Rarely had a raconteur a more flattering audience.
Most men would have laughed the whole thing to scorn.
But the novelist knows the vast possibilities of life, and Lawrence paid his companion the compliment of believing every word that he said.
"Upon my word, a most remarkable thing," he exclaimed.
"You have said that before."
Bruce replied irritably.
"What I am thinking about at present is my own awkward position.
Shall I go to the police and tell them everything or shall I respect confidence?"
"Pursue a policy of masterly inactivity," Lawrence suggested after a thoughtful pause.
"Say nothing for the present.
The matter has not been brought before you officially yet.
There will be an inquest, which will only last a few minutes, for the simple reason that the police will ask for an adjournment.
Meanwhile I will go and have a chat with the man who has the case in hand.
If the time comes when you must speak, why speak, of course."
Bruce fell in with this suggestion, and sat down to lunch with what appetite he could.
He was terribly disturbed and uneasy.
He was dining that night with Countess Lalage, who was giving one of her brilliant little parties.
There would be a chance of a cosy little chat with Hetty afterwards, but all the same as Bruce dressed he wished that he was not going.
Even the great beauty and the refinement of his surroundings failed to soothe him this evening.
Usually this kind of thing pleased him.
He noticed vaguely that the Countess was dressed in some cloudy lace, all like sea foam, and that the dark eyes were unusually brilliant and glittering.
There was a score of guests in the drawing-room, all laughing and chatting together.
Hetty was there also, looking, to Bruce's eyes, the sweetest and prettiest of them all.
She owed nothing to artificial beauty.
"I owe you a deep apology," the Countess whispered, as she held Bruce's hand.
"I was exceedingly rude to you the other night.
I ought to have waited for your ice, and more especially, I ought to have waited to congratulate you.
I am very glad for Hetty's sake.
She is a good girl, and I shall miss her."
The voice ran true and clear; there was deep sincerity in the eyes of the speaker.
Bruce was melting, despite himself.
Hetty must be wrong.
A brilliant woman like that would never throw herself at the feet of a mere doctor.
Nobody could look in her eyes and doubt her goodness and truth.
"It is very good of you to say so," Bruce murmured feebly.
The Countess pushed him from her with a merry smile.
"You are distant tonight," she said.
"Go and talk to Hetty.
Not that I am going to let her monopolise you all the evening.
I am too jealous of your reputation for that.
Now go and make the most of your time."
Hetty looked up shyly.
There was a faint little smile on her face.
She wore a single stone diamond heart on her breast.
But for this Bruce would not have known how quickly she was breathing.
"What is it?"
he asked.
"What is the matter, sweetheart?"
Hetty smiled up into her lover's face.
From under her long lashes she could see that Leona Lalage was regarding her intently.
"Talk in an ordinary manner," she whispered; "say anything foolish--the sort of bald nonsense young men chatter in drawing-rooms.
And don't forget that the Countess is watching every gesture intently."
"She struck me as being rather nice," Bruce replied.
"And I am quite sure that she was sincere in her congratulations."
Hetty said nothing further on that head.
The Countess was a wonderful actress.
She would have deceived the strongest, coolest head in the world.
But even that magnificent actress could not blind a woman's instinct.
"Perhaps," Hetty said, after a long pause.
"Perhaps.
And yet something tells me that you are in great danger.
Smile and say something foolish--I feel those eyes going through me.
That woman loved you, and you never gave her a thought.
You passed her by for me.
And who would look at me when she was about?"
"I would for one," Bruce laughed.
"I am not fond of your tempestuous woman.
Have there been any other signs and manifestations?"
"Don't laugh at me, Gordon," Hetty whispered.
"I knew there was something wrong with that dreadful corner house.
You have heard of the tragedy?"
Bruce nodded.
He would keep his secret for the present even from Hetty.
In any case this was not the place to discuss the great adventure.
"Well, I fancy I can tell you more about it," Hetty went on.
"Only you must not look so interested.
Try and assume the idiotic expression of a lover on the stage.
Last night I could not sleep.
I have been terribly restless lately.
I got up to fetch a book from the schoolroom, which is in the front at the top of the house.
The blind was up, the window was not closed, so I looked out.
The air was so cool that it did my head good.
I was there about a quarter of an hour.
I heard the noise of a door being closed and whispers on the pavement.
Those people had come out of the corner house, two of them--a man and a woman."
"What time would that be?"
Bruce asked as casually as possible.
"About half-past-four.
It must have been about that time, because just after I got back to my room the clock struck five.
A motor car came up, one of the quietest I have ever heard.
As the woman got in she stumbled, and the man swore at her.
Then there was the strangest thing, the dull side of the motor car gleamed in places like silver, as if something had been rubbed off it by the woman as she fell.
What do I think it was?
Well, so far as I could make out, the car was all hung with black crape."
