CHAPTER XII SIR GEORGE’S VALET

In a back street behind the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly there is a small, quiet-looking public-house which is a great rendezvous for male servants of a superior class. Thither in their leisure moments repair chauffeurs, butlers, valets in good service, to take a moderate amount of refreshment—such men seldom drink to excess—to chat over the news of the day, and very frequently to comment to each other on the characters and doings of their employers.

On the evening following the day on which Lane had held that long conversation with Mr. Morrice recorded in the last chapter, two men sat in a corner of the snug little bar, drinking whisky and soda and talking together in confidential tones.

The one party to the conversation had “gentleman’s gentleman” written all over his manner and appearance. The deferential voice, the trick of lowering his eyes when he spoke, proclaimed the valet who had served in good families. He had not the smug pomposity of the butler nor the breezy open-air demeanour of the driver.

His companion was no other than our old friend the detective, who did not, like his companion, exhibit any signs of his calling, as far as appearance went; he might have been anything—respectable bookmaker, prosperous commercial traveller, well-to-do shopkeeper, whatever you pleased.

In the pursuit of his professional duties Lane penetrated into several circles, outside the higher ones. These he left to Sellars principally, although he had two other occasional assistants of the same class, but less zealous and capable. His object in coming to this quiet little place to-night was to extend his acquaintance, one formed a few nights previously, with the man who was drinking now at his expense, who rejoiced in the popular name of Simmons and was valet to Sir George Clayton-Brookes.

Lane was speaking in answer to some remarks just brought to a conclusion by the valet with the neat, respectable appearance and the low, deferential voice.

“And so you think of shifting. Well, it’s no use staying in a place that doesn’t square with your ideas of comfort.”

“That’s just it, Mr. Cox.” The detective had assumed this name for the purposes of the temporary friendship. “I knew after the first fortnight it wouldn’t suit me at all. But I’ve stayed nine months for reasons. It doesn’t do for a man with my record in good families to go chopping and changing every five minutes, it gets him a bad name.”

Lane signified his approval of this politic conduct, and noting that the valet’s glass was empty, hastened to have it refilled, a proceeding to which Mr. Simmons offered no objection. With his shrewd knowledge of men, his habit of drawing conclusions from small but infallible signs, the detective inclined to the belief that his new friend was an acquisitive kind of fellow, a man who would take all he could get and give as little as he could in return.

“Your health, Mr. Cox.” The man lifted his glass and looked appreciatively at his host, while he gave utterance to further thoughts of his master.

“I don’t say Sir George isn’t all right in the matter of family, although of course we know they’ve come down through his old father playing ducks and drakes with the property. But the truth is, a poor place doesn’t suit a man at my time of life, forty-five last birthday. Wages are nothing; it’s the pickings that enable a fellow to put by and start a snug little place of his own to keep him in his old age.”

A poor place, an absence of “pickings”! This confirmed the banker’s report. As a matter of fact, Lane did not want the banker’s report confirmed, he could rely on it as far as it went. He was on a much deeper game, and with that object he had sought the society of Mr. Simmons in the hope of finding him the sort of person who would help him to play it.

“Now, that’s rather funny,” he said in assumed surprise. “I’ve heard a good deal about Sir George, one way and another, and I was always under the impression he was a wealthy man, had come into a large fortune.”

Mr. Simmons gave a contemptuous sniff. “If he came into a large fortune, and I think I’ve heard something of that tale myself, it was before my time. I’ll bet he hasn’t got any of it left now. I tell you what he does, Mr. Cox, he bluffs a lot, he makes out to most of his acquaintances that he’s got tons of money, and, of course, several of them take his word. I’ve heard him putting the pot on often myself when he didn’t know I was listening.”

An eavesdropper, this quiet, respectable-looking man! If he had the smaller infirmities, he would be pretty certain to have the bigger ones. Such was the thought of the shrewd detective.

“But I’ve always heard he bets high, Mr. Simmons.”

The valet, warmed by his potations, gave another sniff of contempt. “Not he; that’s where he bluffs again. I know it for a fact. I overheard him one morning put a fiver on a horse over the telephone; it won at six to one. That same evening, when I was bringing in the whisky, he told a pal of his right before me he’d laid a hundred. Of course, he didn’t know I’d heard him in the morning. That’s how he got the reputation of wealth, by bluffing, gassing and lying.”

It was clear that Simmons hated his employer with the deadly rancour of a man deprived of his legitimate “pickings,” for he proceeded to further disclosures, not at all redounding to Sir George’s credit.

He emitted a sardonic chuckle. “I overheard a little conversation between him and that precious nephew of his one day, and I soon put the pieces together, though I wasn’t in at the beginning of it. It seems Sir George had changed a cheque for thirty pounds at one of his clubs, in the expectation of some money coming in the next day. Well, the money hadn’t come in, and he was in a frightful stew. ‘If I can’t pay-in the first thing to-morrow morning, I’m done, and I shall be had up before the Committee. The bank won’t let me overdraw five pounds; the manager refused me a week ago when I begged the favour of him.’ That’s your wealthy man. Bah! I’m a poor chap enough, but I believe I could buy him up if he was for sale.”

Lane shrugged his shoulders. “If you weren’t in the know you’d hardly credit it, would you, Mr. Simmons?”

“By George, he was in a stew. I remember his words to his nephew; he almost screamed them; ‘Archie, old boy, you must stand by me, you must get me that money this afternoon, or it’s all up with me.’ Queer sort of thing to say, wasn’t it, Mr. Cox.”

“Very queer,” agreed the detective. “Did you hear young Brookes’s reply? I take it you were listening outside the door.”

“I was,” admitted Mr. Simmons, quite unabashed. It was evident he was a very curious sort of person, and spent a considerable portion of his time eavesdropping. “Young Archie was talking extremely low, and I couldn’t catch very distinctly what he said. But there was a bit of an argument between the two. I thought I caught the words, ‘it’s so soon after the other,’ and then Sir George almost screamed out again, ‘I can’t help that; I tell you it’s got to be done.’”

“An interesting couple,” remarked the supposed Mr. Cox. He was quite sure now of the kind of man Mr. Simmons was. Should he approach him at once or cultivate him a little further before he did so? Being a cautious man and disinclined to do things in a hurry, he chose the waiting policy. So he asked the valet when he would be likely to meet him there again, at the same time proffering another whisky.

“To tell the truth, Mr. Cox, I shall be here for the next three evenings. A bit of luck has come my way. Sir George is going into the country to-morrow morning, and won’t be back till Friday. He isn’t taking me with him, and I don’t know where’s he’s going. No letters or telegrams are to be forwarded.”

“A bit queer he doesn’t want his valet with him, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” replied Mr. Simmons with a knowing expression. “A very dark horse is our respected and wealthy baronet! If he’s going to a swagger country house he takes me fast enough. But it’s not the first time by half a dozen that he’s sloped off like this by himself. He’s after something that he doesn’t want anybody else to know about, you bet. A very queer fish, Mr. Cox.”

So Sir George would be away for a few days; that would just suit Lane’s plans. He must open the campaign with the not too scrupulous valet as soon as possible, but not to-night.

“Look out for me to-morrow evening then, Mr. Simmons. I like this little place, it’s very snug and quiet, and I have very much enjoyed my chats with you. Good-night. Sure you won’t have another before you go?” But the acquisitive valet had that delicacy in him that he declined further hospitality; he had already done himself very well at his companion’s expense, and was perhaps fearful of trespassing too greatly on his good nature.

The next evening they were again in their quiet corner, and Lane opened the ball a few minutes after they had exchanged greetings.

“Now, Mr. Simmons, I am going to be quite frank with you. I didn’t come here by accident. I got to know—it doesn’t matter how—that you were Sir George’s valet, that you frequented this place. If you are so inclined, you are just the man to give me help in a little job I’m after. I’m a detective by profession; here is my card with my name and address. If you have any doubts about the truth of my assertion, I will take you down to Shaftesbury Avenue now and convince you by ocular proof.”

Mr. Simmons scrutinized the card carefully; he was a shrewd and wary fellow, and not one to be easily taken in.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Cox, or rather Mr. Lane, to give you your true name, I had a sort of suspicion all along that you were a ’tec and wanted something out of me. I’ve never seen you in this place before, and you’ve given me a lot of drinks and wouldn’t take one back. Now, sir, if I may speak without offence, a man who meets a stranger doesn’t do all the paying without a motive. Well, sir, let’s come to business. What can I do for you—of course, with safety to myself, and if I do it, what do I get out of it?”

A business-like fellow, a bit of a rogue, in a noncriminal way no doubt! But it was always easier to deal with a rogue than a fool in matters of this kind. There would be no beating about the bush.

Lane briefly explained what he wanted. He wished to examine Sir George’s pass-book; if that was not available, his paying-in slips. Did the valet know where he kept them?

Yes, Mr. Simmons did know. Sir George was in the habit of getting his book every month from the bank, and after examining it, returning it in about three weeks to be made up for the following month. He kept it with his cheque-book and the paying-in slips in one of the top drawers of his writing-table. Sometimes the drawer was locked, more frequently not, for in some matters where the vast majority of men were cautious, the mysterious baronet was singularly careless. At the present moment Mr. Simmons did not know whether it was locked or not, but it would probably be locked before he went away.

“That doesn’t present much difficulty,” said Lane with a calmness that took away his companion’s breath. “If it is not a very complicated lock, and it’s not likely to be if the writing-table is an ordinary sort of one; I can easily pick it.”

Mr. Simmons pursed his lips in perplexity. “But that’s burglary, isn’t it, and spells quod if were caught?”

The detective smiled. “’Pon my soul, I’m not very sure. We have to do this sort of thing sometimes, but we don’t run any very great risk, because the people we do it to have so much to conceal that they daren’t take action. I’m not proposing to take away anything, you know.”

But Mr. Simmons evidently did not like the prospect. He was perfectly unscrupulous in a small way, would not have objected to certain petty pilferings sanctioned by custom and tradition amongst certain members of his profession. One of his grievances against the baronet was that he counted his cigars and his bottles of wine; there was never a chance of getting a free smoke or drink.

But this looked a bigger thing than he expected. He thought very deeply for a few seconds, while Lane cursed him in his heart for a faint-hearted rogue, who let his inclination wait upon his fears.

“Look here,” he said at length. “We haven’t said anything yet about terms. If I do it—and mind you, I’m not very gone on it—what’s the price? It ought to be a good one.”

Lane named a liberal sum, and, truth to tell, it did make the valet’s mouth water, but he was a greedy fellow, and he was determined to try for a bit more. So for a few minutes they haggled till a compromise was effected. But still Simmons was torn in two between his greed and his fear of detection and would not say positively that he would assist.

The detective was a man of resource, he saw that he must adopt different tactics with this cowardly rogue and relieve him from his apprehensions.

“Look here, my friend, I can see you are in a blue funk; you are afraid of what I am certain won’t happen, that Sir George will return unexpectedly, walk into his flat and find me at work. Of course, he has got his key.”

Mr. Simmons wanted to get that money in his possession, and his greed sharpened his wits.

“Yes, he has got his key; he always carries it with him. But I could put the inside latch up, making some plausible excuse for doing so, and while I was going to the door you could put things straight and escape into my room, hide there and be smuggled out as soon as we got a chance. What do you think of that?”

“Quite ingenious,” was the approving answer. No doubt the fellow would have developed a very pretty talent in the domain of “crookdom” if he had been properly trained by a qualified professor.

“Quite ingenious,” repeated Lane; “but I think I can manage it in a way that will avert any danger from yourself if accidents should happen. Now here is my plan. I will explain it as briefly as possible. You won’t appear in the matter at all.”

Mr. Simmons heaved a sigh of relief. He looked at his new friend with an air of admiration; he felt he was in the presence of a master mind.

The detective lucidly explained his scheme. “You meet me at the bottom of the street to-morrow evening at seven o’clock, and hand me the key of the flat. You come on here, I join you in five minutes; we have met here as usual for a chat. I’m in a hurry; I stay with you a quarter of an hour, then hasten off on the plea of having to attend to some urgent business. I go on to the flat, take care that nobody is about, put the key in the door, enter Sir George’s room and do my business. You will sit here for an hour with your pals, then you will leave and meet me, say, in the buffet of Victoria Station, when I will hand you back your key.”

“It sounds all right,” said Mr. Simmons, still speaking dubiously. “But what happens if Sir George ‘cops’ you, and you can’t meet me at Victoria?”

“I’m coming to that, although there’s not the smallest probability that Sir George will ‘cop’ me. If he does, I think I shall have to say something to him that will prevent him from giving me in charge. But whatever happens, all that can be proved against you is indiscretion—mind you, rather unpardonable in a man of your years, but still only indiscretion. So you tumble to it now?”

“I think I’m getting an inkling; but you might explain it fully. You are a clever chap, and you make things seem so clear.”

“You met a very plausible stranger in a certain pub. Give the name to show good faith. Your friends can prove they have seen us talking together. You got rather pals; he stood you a lot of drinks. On this particular evening he gave you a little too much, perhaps put something in it to make you stupid, and while you were losing your wits, picked your pocket of the key and rushed round to the flat, leaving you to recover yourself. So remember, after I leave you to-morrow evening, to be a little foolish in your manner for half an hour or so.”

“Excellent,” cried Mr. Simmons in genuine admiration. “By jingo, you are a knock-out; you think of everything. To-morrow evening, just at the bottom of the street; afterwards here. Now, what do you think of something on account—say a ‘tenner.’”

“I don’t mind a ‘fiver,’” was Lane’s answer; he was not disposed to trust the valet too much. If he got as much as ten pounds safely into his hands he might back out at the last moment and leave the detective in the lurch. “I won’t give it you before all these people; you never know who’s looking. We’ll leave here in about half an hour, and I’ll hand it over when we’re safe out of the street.”

About eleven o’clock the next morning he received a further surprise in connection with this most puzzling case. A note was sent round to him from Mr. Morrice:

“Dear Sir,—Another development! On opening my safe this morning I found that the packet of papers abstracted in the first robbery has been put back, also the bundle of Swiss notes. I suppose the thief found they were of no use to him and obligingly returned them. Come round as soon as you can. I shall be in all day.

“Yours faithfully,
“Rupert Morrice.”