The Rayner-Slade Amalgamation Part 17

"Clear as noonday, sir," answered Gaffney. "I understand--I've been at that sort of game more than once."

"All right," said Appleyard. "I leave it to you. Take every care--I don't want this man to get the least suspicion that he's followed.

And--" He hesitated, considering his plans over again. "Yes," he went on, "there's just another detail that I may mention--it'll save time.

This hunchback gentleman's name is Rayner--Mr. Gerald Rayner. Can you remember it?"

"As well as my own," answered Gaffney. "Mr. Gerald Rayner. I've got it."

"Very good. Now, then, can you trust this friend of yours?" asked Appleyard. "Is he a chap of common sense?"

"It's my own brother," replied Gaffney. "Some people say I'm the sharper of the two, some say he is. There's a pair of us, anyhow."

"That'll do," said Appleyard. "Now, wherever you see this Mr. Rayner set down, let your brother get out of your cab and take particular notice if he goes into any shop, office, flats, buildings, anything of that sort which bears his name--Rayner. D'you see? I want to know what his business is. And now that you know what I want, you and your brother put your heads together and try to find it out, and come to me when you've done, and I'll make it worth your while. You'd better go now and make your arrangements."

Gaffney went away, evidently delighted with his commission, and Appleyard turned to his business of the day, wondering if he was not going to waste the chauffer's time and his own money. Next morning he purposely hung about the Pompadour until the time for Rayner's departure arrived; from one of the front windows he saw the hunchback enter his brougham and drive away; at the same moment he saw a neat private cab, driven by Gaffney, and occupied by a smart-looking young gentleman in a silk hat, come along and follow in quite an ordinary and usual manner. And on that he himself went to Gresham Street and waited.

Gaffney and his brother turned in during the morning, both evidently primed with news. Appleyard shut himself into his office with them.

"Well?" he asked.

"Easy job, Mr. Appleyard," replied Gaffney. "Drove straight through the Park, Const.i.tution Hill, the Mall, Strand, to top of Arundel Street.

There he got out; brougham went off--back--he walked down street. So my brother here he got out too, and strolled down street after him. He'll tell you the rest, sir."

"Just as plain as what he's told," said the other Gaffney. "I followed him down the street; he walked one side, I t'other side. He went into Clytemnestra House--one of those big houses of business flats and offices--almost at the bottom. I waited some time to see if he was settled like, or if it was only a call he was making. Then I went into the hall of Clytemnestra House, as if I was looking for somebody. There are two boards in that hall with the names of tenants painted on 'em. But there's not that name--Gerald Rayner. Still, I'll tell you what there is, sir--there's a name that begins with the same initials--G.R."

"What name?" asked Appleyard.

"The name," replied the second Gaffney, "is Gavin Ramsay--Agent."

CHAPTER XVII

THE PHOTOGRAPH

Allerd.y.k.e went off to Hull, post-haste, because of a telephone call which roused him out of bed an hour before his usual time. It came from Chettle, the New Scotland Yard man who had been sent down to Hull as soon as the news of Lydenberg's murder arrived. Chettle asked Allerd.y.k.e to join him by the very next express, and to come alone; he asked him, moreover, not to tell Mr. Franklin Fullaway whither he was bound. And Allerd.y.k.e, having taken a quick glance at a time-table, summoned Gaffney, told him of his journey, bade him keep his tongue quiet at the Waldorf, wrote his hasty note to Appleyard, dressed, and hurried away to King's Cross. He breakfasted on the train, and was in Hull by one o'clock, and Chettle hailed him as he set foot on the platform, and immediately led him off to a cab which awaited them outside the station.

"Much obliged to you for coming so promptly, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e," said the detective. "And for coming by yourself--that was just what I wanted."

"Aye, and why?" asked Allerd.y.k.e. "Why by myself? I've been wondering about that all the way down."

Chettle, a sleek, comfortable-looking man, with a quiet manner and a sly glance, laughed knowingly, twiddling his fat thumbs as he leaned back in the cab. "Oh, well, it doesn't do--in my opinion--to spread information amongst too many people, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e," he said. "That's my notion of things, anyway. I just wanted to go into a few matters with you, alone, d'ye see? I didn't want that American gentleman along with you. Eh?"

"Now, why?" asked Allerd.y.k.e. "Out with it!"

"Well, you see, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e," answered the detective, "we know you.

You're a man of substance, you've got a big stake in the country--you're Allerd.y.k.e, of Allerd.y.k.e and Partners, Limited, Bradford and London. But we don't know Fullaway. He may be all right, but you could only call him a bird of pa.s.sage, like. He can close down his business and be away out of England to-morrow, and, personally, I don't believe in letting him into every secret about all this affair until we know more about him. You see, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e, there's one thing very certain--so far as we've ascertained at present, n.o.body but Fullaway, and possibly whoever's in his employ, was acquainted with the fact that your cousin was carrying those jewels from Russia to England. n.o.body in this country, at any rate.

And--it's a thing of serious importance, sir."

Just what Appleyard had said!--what, indeed, no one of discernment could help saying, thought Allerd.y.k.e. The sole knowledge, of course, was with Fullaway and his lady clerk--so far as was known. Therefore--

"Just so," he said aloud. "I see your point--of course, I've already seen it. Well, what are we going to do--now? You've brought me down here for something special, no doubt."

"Quite so, sir," answered Chettle composedly. "I want to draw your attention to some very special features and to ask you certain questions arising out of 'em. We'll take things in order, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e. We're driving now to the High Street--I want to show you the exact spot where Lydenberg was shot dead. After that we'll go to the police-station and I'll show you two or three little matters, and we'll have a talk about them. And now, before we get to the High Street, I may as well tell you that on examining Lydenberg's body very little was found in the way of papers--scarcely anything, and nothing connecting him with your cousin's affair--in fact, the police here say they never saw a foreign gentleman with less on him in that way. But in the inside pocket of his overcoat there was a postcard, which had been posted here in Hull. Here it is--and you'll see that it was the cause of taking him to the spot where he was shot."

Chettle took from an old letter-case an innocent-looking postcard, on one corner of which was a stain.

"His blood," he remarked laconically. "He was shot clean through the heart. Well, you see, it's a mere line."

Allerd.y.k.e took the card and looked at it with a mingled feeling of repulsion and fascination. The writing on it was thin, angular, upright, and it suggested foreign origin. And the communication was brief--and unsigned--

"High Street morning eleven sharp left-hand side old houses."

"You don't recognize that handwriting, of course, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e?" asked Chettle. "Never seen it before, I suppose?"

"No!" replied Allerd.y.k.e. "Never. But I should say it's a foreigner's."

"Very likely," a.s.sented Chettle. "Aye, well, sir, it lured the man to his death. And now I'll show you where he died, and how easy it was for the murderer to kill him and get away un.o.bserved."

He pulled the cab up at the corner of the High Street, and turned southward towards the river, looking round at his companion with one of his sly smiles.

"I daresay that you, being a Yorks.h.i.+reman, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e, know all about this old street," he remarked as they walked forward. "I never saw it, never heard of it, until the other day, when I was sent down on this Lydenberg business, but it struck me at once. I should think it's one of the oldest streets left in England."

"It is," answered Allerd.y.k.e. "I know it well enough, and I've seen it changed. It used to be the street of the old Hull merchants--they had their houses and warehouses all combined, with gardens at the back running down to the river Hull. Queer old places there used to be in this street, I can tell you when I was a lad!--of late years they've pulled a lot of property down that had got what you might call thoroughly worm-eaten--oh, yes, the place isn't half as ancient or picturesque as it was even twenty years ago!"

"There's plenty of the ancient about it still, for all that," observed Chettle, with a dry laugh. "There was more than enough of it for Lydenberg the other day, at any rate. Now, then, you remember what it said on the postcard--he was to walk down the High Street, on the left-hand side, at eleven o'clock? Very well--down the High Street he walks, on this side which we are now--he strolls along, by these old houses, looking about him, of course, for the person he was to meet. The few people who were about down here that morning, and who saw him, said that he was looking about from side to side. And all of a sudden a shot rang out, and Lydenberg fell--just here--right on this very pavement."

He pulled Allerd.y.k.e up in a narrow part of the old street, jointed to the flags, and then to the house behind them--an ancient, ramshackle place, the doors and windows of which were boarded up, the entire fabric of which showed unmistakable readiness for the pick and shovel of the house-breaker. And he laid a hand on one of the shattered windows, close by a big hole in the decaying wood.

"There's no doubt the murderer was hidden behind this shutter, and that he fired at Lydenberg from it, through this hole," he said. "So, you see, he'd only be a few feet from his man. He was evidently a good shot, and a fellow of resolute nerve, for he made no mistake. He only fired once, but he shot Lydenberg clean through the heart, dead!"

"Anybody see it happen?" asked Allerd.y.k.e, staring about him at the scene of the tragedy, and thinking how very ordinary and commonplace everything looked. "I suppose there'd be people about, though the street, at this end, anyway, isn't as busy as it once was?"

"Several people saw him fall," answered Chettle.

"They say he jumped, spun round, and fell across the pavement. And they all thought it was a case of suicide. That, of course, gave the murderer a bigger and better chance of making off. You see, as these people saw no a.s.sailant, it never struck 'em that the shot had been fired from behind this window. When they collected their thoughts, found it wasn't suicide, and realized that it was murder, the murderer was--Lord knows where! From behind these old houses, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e, there's a perfect rabbit-warren of alleys, courts, slums, twists, and turns! The man could slip out at the back, go left or right, mix himself up with the crowd on the quays and wharves, walk into the streets, go anywhere--all in a minute or two."

"Clever--very clever! You've no clue?" asked Allerd.y.k.e.

"None; not a sc.r.a.p!" replied the detective. "Bless you, there's score of foreigners knocking about Hull. Scores! Hundreds! We've done all we can, the local police and myself--we've no clue whatever. But, of course, it was done by one of the gang."

"By one of the gang!" exclaimed Allerd.y.k.e. "Ah you've got a theory of your own, then?"

Chettle laughed quietly as they turned and retraced their steps up the street.

"It 'ud be queer if I hadn't, by this time," he answered. "Oh yes, I've thought things out pretty well, and I should say our people at the Yard have come to the same conclusion that I have--I'm not conceited enough, Mr. Allerd.y.k.e, to fancy that I'm the only person who's arrived at a reasonable theory, not I?"

"Well--what is your theory?" asked Allerd.y.k.e.