Avenger — Chapters 13 & 14
SEARCHING THE CHAMBERS
Wrayson took his guest to a popular restaurant, where there was music and a five-course luncheon for three and six.
Their conversation during the earlier part of the meal was limited, for Mr. Sydney Barnes showed himself possessed of an appetite which his host contemplated with respectful admiration.
His sallow cheeks became flushed and his nervousness had subsided, long before the arrival of the coffee.
"I say, this is all right, this place is," he said, leaning back in his chair with a large cigar between his teeth.
"Jolly expensive, I suppose, isn't it?"
Wrayson smiled.
"It depends," he answered.
"I don't suppose your brother would have found it so.
A bachelor can do himself pretty well on two thousand a year."
"I only hope I get hold of it," Mr. Sydney Barnes declared fervently.
"This is the way I should like to live, this is."
"I hope you will," Wrayson answered.
"An income of that sort could scarcely disappear into thin air, could it?
By the bye, Mr. Barnes, that reminds me of a very important circumstance which, up to now, we have not mentioned.
I mean the way your brother met with his death."
The young man nodded thoughtfully.
"Ah!"
he remarked, "he was murdered, wasn't he?
Some one must have owed him a nasty grudge.
Morris always was a one to make enemies."
"I don't know whether the same thing has occurred to you," Wrayson continued, "but I can't help wondering whether there may not have been some connection between his death and that mysterious income of his."
"I've thought of that myself," the young man declared.
"All the same, I can't see what he could have carried about with him worth two thousand a year."
"Exactly," Wrayson answered, "but you see the matter stands like this.
He was in receipt of about £500 every three months, as his bank-book proves.
This sum would represent five per cent interest on forty thousand pounds.
Now, considering your brother's position when he left you at Cape Town, and the fact that you cannot discover at his bankers or elsewhere any documents alluding to property or shares of any sort, one can scarcely help dismissing the hypothesis that this payment was the result of dividends or interest.
At any rate, let us put that out of the question for the moment.
Your brother received five hundred pounds every three months from some one.
People don't give money away for nothing nowadays, you know.
From whom and for what services did he receive that money?"
Mr. Sydney Barnes looked puzzled.
"Ask me another," he remarked facetiously.
"You do not know of any secrets, I suppose, which your brother may have stumbled into possession of?"
"Not I!
He went about with his eyes open and his mouth closed, but I never heard of his having that sort of luck."
"He could not have had any adventures on the steamer, for he came back steerage," Wrayson continued thoughtfully, "and he was in funds almost from the moment he landed in England.
I am afraid, Mr. Barnes, that he must have been deceiving you in Cape Town."
"If I could only have a dozen words with him!"
the young man muttered savagely.
"It would be useful," Wrayson admitted, "but, unfortunately, it is out of the question.
Either he was deceiving you, or he was in possession of something which turned out far more valuable than he had imagined."
"If so, where is it?"
Mr. Sydney Barnes demanded.
"If it was worth that to him, it may be to me."
"Exactly," Wrayson remarked, "but the question of your brother's murder comes in there.
People don't commit a crime like that for nothing, you know.
If it was information which your brother had, it died with him.
If it was documents, they were probably stolen by the person who killed him."
"Come, that's cheerful," the young man declared ruefully.
"If you're guessing right, where do I come in?"
"I'm afraid you don't come in," Wrayson answered; "but remember I am only following out a surmise.
Have you looked through your brother's papers carefully?"
"I've gone through 'em all," Mr. Sydney Barnes answered, "but, of course, I was looking for scrip or a memorandum of investments, or something of that sort.
Perhaps if a clever chap like you were to go through them, you might come across a clue."
"It seems hard to believe that he shouldn't have left something of the sort behind him," Wrayson answered.
"It might be only an address, or a name, or anything."
"Will you come round with me and see?"
Mr. Barnes demanded eagerly.
"It wouldn't take you long.
You're welcome to see everything there is there."
Wrayson called for the bill.
"Very well," he said, "we will take a hansom round there at once."
They left the place a few minutes later, and drove to Battersea.
"There's a quarter to run, the landlord says, so I'm staying here," Barnes explained, as he unlocked the front door.
"I can't afford a servant or anything of that sort of course, but I shall just sleep here."
The rooms had a ghostly and unkempt appearance.
The atmosphere of the sitting-room was stuffy and redolent of stale tobacco smoke.
Wrayson's first action was to throw open the window.
"There isn't a sign of a paper anywhere, except in that desk," the young man remarked.
"You'll find things in a mess, but whatever was there is there now.
I've destroyed nothing."
Wrayson seated himself before the desk, and began a careful search.
There were restaurant bills without number, and a variety of ladies' cards, more or less soiled.
There were Empire and Alhambra programmes, a bundle of racing wires, and an account from a bookmaker showing a small debit balance.
There were other miscellaneous bills, a plaintive epistle from a lady signing herself Flora, and begging for the loan of a fiver for a week, and an invitation to tea from a spinster who called herself Poppy.
Amongst all this mass of miscellaneous documents there were only three which Wrayson laid on one side for further consideration.
One of these was a note, dated from the Adelphi a few days before the tragedy, and written in a stiff, legal hand.
It contained only a few lines: "DEAR SIR,-- "My client will be happy to meet you at any time on Thursday you may be pleased to appoint, either here or at your own address.
Please reply, making an appointment, by return of post.
"Yours faithfully, "W. BENTHAM."
The second document was also in the shape of a letter from a firm of private detective agents and was dated only a day earlier than the lawyer's letter.
It ran as follows: "MY DEAR SIR,-- "In reply to your inquiry, our charges for watching a single person in London only are three guineas a day, including all expenses.
For that sum we can guarantee that the person with whose movements you desire to keep in touch will be closely shadowed from roof to roof, so long as the person remains within seven miles of Charing Cross.
A daily report will be made to you, and should legal proceedings ensue from any information procured by us, you may rely upon any witness whom we might place in the box.
"Trusting to hear from you, "We are, yours sincerely, "McKENNA & FOULDS."
The third document which Wrayson had preserved was the Cunard sailing list for the current month, the plan of a steamer which sailed within a week of the murder, and a few lines from the steamship office respecting accommodation.
"These, at any rate, will give you something to do," Wrayson remarked.
"You can go to the lawyer and find out who his client was who desired to see your brother.
There is a chance there!
You can go to McKenna & Foulds and find out who it was whom he wanted shadowed, and you can go to the Cunard office and see whether he really intended sailing for America."
Mr. Sydney Barnes looked a little doubtful.
"I suppose," he suggested timidly, "you couldn't spare the time to go round to these places with me?
You see, I'm not much class over here, even in Morris's togs.
They'd take more notice of you, being a gentleman.
Good God!
what's that?"
Both men had started, for the sound was unexpected.
Some one was fitting a latch-key into the door!
CHAPTER XIV THE DEAD MAN'S BROTHER
At the sight of the two men who awaited her entrance, the Baroness stopped short.
Whatever alarm or surprise she may have felt at their presence was effectually concealed from them by the thick veil which she wore, through which her features were undistinguishable.
As though purposely, she left to them the onus of speech.
Wrayson took a quick step towards her.
"Baroness!"
he exclaimed.
"What are you--I beg your pardon, but what are you doing here?"
She raised her veil and looked at them both attentively.
In her hand she still held the latch-key by means of which she entered.
"Do you know," she answered quietly, "I was just going to ask you the same thing."
"Our presence is easily explained," Wrayson answered.
"This is Mr. Sydney Barnes, the brother of the Mr. Barnes who used to live here.
He is keeping the flat on for a short time."
The Baroness was surprised, and showed it.
Without a moment's hesitation, however, she accepted Wrayson's words as an introduction to the young man, and held out her hand to him with a brilliant smile.
"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Barnes," she said, "even under such painful circumstances.
I knew your brother very well, and I have heard him speak of you."
[Illustration: "AT THE SIGHT OF THE TWO MEN, THE BARONESS STOPPED SHORT"] Mr. Sydney Barnes did not attempt to conceal his surprise.
He shook hands with the Baroness, however, and regarded her with undisguised admiration.
"Well, this licks me!"
he exclaimed frankly.
"Do you mean to say that you were a friend of Morris's?"
"Certainly," the Baroness answered.
"Why not?"
"Oh!
I don't know," the young man declared.
"I'm getting past being surprised at anything.
I suppose it's the oof that makes the difference.
A friend of Morris's, you said.
Why, perhaps--" He hesitated, and glanced towards Wrayson.
"There is no harm in asking the Baroness, at any rate," Wrayson said.
"The fact of the matter is," he continued, turning towards her, "that Mr. Sydney Barnes here finds himself in a somewhat extraordinary position.
He is the sole relative and heir of his brother, and he has come over here from South Africa, naturally enough, to take possession of his effects.
Now there is no doubt, from his bank-book, and his manner of life, that Morris Barnes was possessed of a considerable income.
According to his bank-book it was £2,000 a year."
The Baroness nodded thoughtfully.
"He told me once that he was worth as much as that," she remarked, "Exactly, but the curious part of the affair is that, up to the present, Mr. Sydney Barnes has been unable to discover the slightest trace of any investments or any sum of money whatever.
Now can you help us?
Did
Morris Barnes ever happen to mention to you in what direction his capital was invested?
Did he ever give you any idea at all as to the source of his income?"
The Baroness stood quite still, as though lost in thought.
Wrayson watched her with a curious sense of fascination.
He knew very well that the subtle brain of the woman was occupied in no fruitless attempt at reminiscence; he was convinced that the Baroness had never exchanged a single word with Morris Barnes in her life.
She was thinking her way through this problem--how best to make use of this unexpected tool.
Their eyes met and she smiled faintly.
She judged rightly that Wrayson, at any rate, was not deceived.
"I cannot give you any definite information," she said at last, "but--" She hesitated, and the young man's eagerness escaped all bounds.
"But what?"
he cried, leaning breathlessly towards her.
"You know something!
What is it?
Go on!
Go on!"
"I think that if I can remember it," she continued, "I can tell you the name of the solicitor whom he employed."
The young man dashed his fist upon the table.
He was pale almost to the lips.
"By God!
you must remember it," he cried.
"Don't say you've forgotten.
It's most important.
Two thousand a year!
--pounds!
Think!"
She turned towards Wrayson.
She wished to conciliate him, but the young man was not a pleasant sight.
"It was something like Benton," she suggested.
Wrayson glanced downward at one of the three documents which he had preserved.
"Bentham!"
he exclaimed.
"Was that it?"
The face of the Baroness cleared at once.
"Of course it was!
How stupid of me to have forgotten.
His offices are somewhere in the Adelphi."
Barnes caught up his hat.
"Where is that?"
he exclaimed.
"I'm off."
Wrayson held out his hand.
"Wait a moment," he said.
"There is no hurry for an hour or so.
This affair may not be quite so simple, after all."
"Why not?"
the young man demanded fiercely.
"It's my money, isn't it?
I
can take out letters of administration.
It belongs to me.
He'll have to give it up."
"In the long run I should say that he will--if he has it," Wrayson answered.
"But before you go to him, remember this.
He has seen the account of your brother's death.
He did not appear at the inquest.
He has taken no steps to discover his next of kin.
Both of these proceedings were part of his natural duty."
"Mr. Wrayson is quite right," the Baroness remarked.
"Mr. Bentham has not behaved as an honest man.
He will have to be treated firmly but carefully.
You are a little excited just now.
Wait for an hour or so, and perhaps Mr. Wrayson will go with you."
Barnes turned towards him eagerly, and Wrayson nodded.
"Yes!
I'll go," he said.
"I know Mr. Bentham slightly.
He once paid me rather a curious visit.
But never mind that now."
"Was it in connection with this affair?"
the Baroness asked him quietly.
Wrayson affected not to hear.
He passed his cigarette case to Barnes, who was stamping up and down the room, muttering to himself.
"Look here, you'd better have a smoke and calm down, young man," he said.
"It's no use going to see Bentham in a state like this."
The young man threw himself into a chair.
Suddenly he sat up again, and addressed the Baroness.
"I say," he exclaimed, "how is it that you have a key to this flat?
What did you come here for this afternoon?"
The Baroness laughed softly.
"Well, I got the key from the landlord a few days ago.
I told him that I might take the flat, and he told me to come in and look at it and return the key--which you see I haven't done.
To be quite honest with you, though, I had another reason for coming here."
The young man looked at her with mingled suspicion and admiration.
She had raised her veil now, and even Wrayson was aware that he had scarcely realized how beautiful a woman she was.
Her tailor-made gown of dark green cloth fitted her to perfection; she was turned out with all that delightful perfection of detail which seems to be the Frenchwoman's heritage.
Her smile, half pathetic, half appealing, was certainly sufficient to turn the head of a dozen young men such as Sydney Barnes.
"I have told you," she continued, "that your brother and I used to be very good friends.
I wrote him now and then some rather foolish letters.
He promised to destroy them, but--men are so foolish, you know, sometimes--I was never quite sure that he had kept his word, and I meant to take this opportunity of looking for myself that he had not left them about.
You do not blame me, Mr. Sydney?
You are not cross?"
He kept his eyes upon her as though fascinated.
"No!"
he said.
"No!
I mean of course not."
"These letters," she continued, "you have not seen them, Mr. Sydney?
No?
Or you, Mr. Wrayson?"
"We have not come across any letters at all answering to that description," Wrayson assured her.
The Baroness glanced across at Barnes, who was certainly regarding her in somewhat peculiar fashion.
"Why does Mr. Sydney look at me like that?"
she asked, with a little shrug of the shoulders.
"He does not think that I came here to steal?
Why, Mr. Sydney," she added, "I am very, very much richer than ever your brother was."
"Richer--than he was!
Richer than two thousand a year!"
he gasped.
The Baroness laughed softly but heartily.
She stole a sidelong glance at Wrayson.
"Why, my dear young man," she said, "it costs me--oh!
quite as much as that each year to dress."
Barnes looked at her as though she were something holy.
When he spoke, there was awe in his tone.
The problem which had formed itself in his thoughts demanded expression.
"And you say that you were a pal--I mean a friend of Morris's?
You wrote him letters?"
The Baroness smiled.
"Why not?"
she exclaimed.
"Women have queer tastes, you know.
We like all sorts of men.
I think I must ask Mr. Wrayson to bring you in to tea one afternoon.
Would you like to come?"
"Yes!"
he answered.
She nodded a farewell and turned to Wrayson.
"As for you," she said under her breath, "you had better come soon if you want to make your peace with Louise."
"May I come this afternoon?"
he asked.
She nodded, and held out her exquisitely gloved hand.
"I knew you were going to be an ally," she murmured under her breath.
"Don't let the others get hold of him."
She was gone before Wrayson could ask for an explanation.
The others!
If only he could discover who they were.
He turned back into the room.
"Do you mind coming down into my flat for a moment, Barnes?"
he asked.
"I want to telephone to the office before I go out with you again."
The young man followed him heavily.
He seemed a little dazed.
In Wrayson's sitting-room, he stood looking about him as though appraising the value of the curios, pictures, and engravings with which the apartment was crowded.
Wrayson, while waiting for his call, watched him curiously.
In his present state his vulgarity was perhaps less glaringly apparent, but his lack of attractiveness was accentuated.
His ears seemed to have grown larger, his pinched, Semitic features more repulsive, and his complexion sallower.
He was pitchforked into a world of which he knew nothing, and he seemed stunned by his first contact with it.
Only one thing remained--the greed in his eyes.
They seemed to have grown narrower and brighter with desire.
He did not speak until they were in the cab.
Then he turned to Wrayson.
"I say," he exclaimed, "what was her name?"
Wrayson smiled.
"The Baroness de Sturm," he answered.
"Baroness!
Real Baroness!
All O. K.
, I suppose?"
"Without a doubt," Wrayson answered.
"And Morris knew her--she wrote letters to him," he continued, "a woman--like that."
