Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology/Chapter 9
CHAPTER .
THE SETTLING DAY.
IT seemed to me (perhaps because I was but half-awake) that there was something peculiarly sinister in the sudden ring of the telephone bell which sounded at my bedside, sharply and insistently, in the gloom of that December morning. Incidentally, as I pulled myself up to answer it, I glanced at the clock on my mantelpiece, and noticed that it was already past nine. Then I remembered that I had not got to bed until a long way past midnight, and must have slept much more soundly than I usually did. I felt a sense of comfortable reflection in remembering that, so far as I knew, I had nothing particular to do that morning, and, for the moment, I yawned, and stretched my arms.
The telephone bell rang again. I picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” I said.
A voice which I recognised at once as that of a man, a barrister, of my acquaintance who lived in chambers in the Temple, came through. It sounded hurried, agitated.
“That you, Campenhaye? This is me—Cotherstone. I say—can you come here—my chambers—at once? Just now?”
“I’m not yet out of bed. Will an hour do?”
“No, I want you at once—at once, you understand? Something very serious has happened. I want you here before the police are fetched. Do hurry up!”
“Very well. But what is it?”
“I don’t know. Come quick!”
“I’ll be with you inside twenty minutes,” I answered.
I was living at that time in rooms in Whitehall Court. It took but little time to make a remarkably hurried and primitive toilet, to descend the lift, to hail the first taxi-cab I saw: within a quarter of an hour from hanging up the receiver I was running up the stairs of the old house in King’s Bench Walk in which Cotherstone lived in modest bachelor fashion. Half-way I met Cotherstone himself, and behind him I saw the frightened face of a man who plainly belonged to the class from which college scouts, superior caretakers, and single gentlemen’s gentlemen naturally spring. And if his face wore a frightened expression, Cotherstone’s was an anxious and puzzled one.
“That’s right,” he said, with an obvious sigh of relief, as I ran up. “Here, come into my room a minute—you come too, Grimes. Look here, Campenhaye, I sent for you because I wanted you to have a look into this before we send for the police—they’ll have to be sent for, without doubt.”
“Give me a clear idea of what you’re driving at,” I said.
“All right. There’s a man lying dead in the chambers across there. Old Taplin. Stone dead!”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Practised at the Chancery Bar. Retired, recluse sort of chap, always. I was on little more than speaking terms with him. Oh, he’s quite dead!”
“Why have you sent for me, Cotherstone?” I asked quietly.
“Because—because I think there’s something queer. And as soon as Grimes here fetched me across and I saw—it—I thought of you, and of your reputation as a specialist in criminology, you know, and I thought I’d like you to see things, to look at things, just as they really are, you know, before we sent for the police.”
“But—why?” I repeated.
Cotherstone gave me a queer look which, somehow, seemed to take in the man who stood, silent, watchful, still frightened-looking, near the door.
“Come and see for yourself,” answered Cotherstone.
There was a door across the landing on which appeared a single name painted in white letters on the drab background—Mr. C. B. Taplin. Grimes opened it with a key, which he had carried in his hand; opened another behind it; led us through an outer room into an inner one. There the wick of a tall standard lamp was just flickering out; in what illumination it afforded, and in the pale, fog-laden light which came in between hastily-opened curtains, I saw the dead man.
You might have fancied from a first glance—yes, and from a second!—that he was not dead, but asleep. He sat in a comfortable easy-chair, drawn up to the hearth, on which there still lingered the last faint glow of a wood log; his attitude was that of a man who had dropped into his favourite seat, and unconsciously relapsed into a nap. At his side, within convenient reach, stood a small table whereon was set a decanter of whisky, a syphon of mineral water, and a glass, the contents of which had been scarcely touched. At his feet, on the hearthrug, lay a silver-mounted briar pipe and a copy of the current issue of the Fortnightly Review; they, it was evident, had dropped from his hands, just as if they had dropped as he sank into slumber. I motioned Grimes to draw back the curtains to their full extent, and I went nearer and looked more closely at the still figure in the easy-chair. I found myself regarding a man of apparently fifty to fifty-five years of age; his hair had already assumed a silver-grey tint, and lent distinction and dignity to handsome features of the true legal type. He was a tallish man, slenderly built; and I noticed his well-shaped hands and the small feet, in their silk socks and patent leather slippers. He was in evening dress. On the opposite side of the hearth, thrown carelessly over the back of another easy chair, was an overcoat, a white muffler, gloves, a cloth cap; tilted up against the fender was a pair of dress boots. It seemed evident that he had come into his rooms, thrown off his outer things, got into his slippers, mixed himself a drink, lighted his pipe, sat down to read, and had—died.
I said as much to the two men who stood by. But Cotherstone fidgeted.
“He always struck me as being a sound, strong man, Taplin,” he said. “Didn’t you consider him so, Grimes?”
“I always looked upon Mr. Taplin as being an uncommon healthy gentleman, sir,” answered the man. “He was quite well when he went out to dinner last night, sir.”
“Yes, and I met him crossing Fountain Court on his way to dine,” remarked Cotherstone. “He was all right then.”
“That doesn’t prove that he hasn’t died from purely natural causes,” I said. “It may be—heart-failure. I see nothing for it but to send for the police and a doctor, Cotherstone. What about his relations—friends?”
“All that I know is that he has a cousin, Dr. Francis Taplin, who lives in Wimpole Street,” replied Cotherstone. “I’ve met him—here.”
“Dr. Taplin was in here yesterday, sir,” said Grimes. “Come in soon after Mr. Charles had gone across to the Courts, and followed him there, sir.”
“Well, my dear fellow, telephone to this cousin at once,” I said. “And send Grimes out for the police. I can do nothing.”
Cotherstone muttered something to the man, who thereupon left the room. I looked at Cotherstone; it appeared to me that he seemed to be experiencing some sense of dissatisfaction.
“There’s really nothing to do,” I added. “Except that.”
Cotherstone walked towards the door. He hesitated as he got near it, turned, and looked at the dead man.
“I—I don’t believe that was a natural death,” he said. “He was a very sound and healthy man. I think—all the same, there aren’t any signs of any foul play, are there, Campenhaye?”
“I see none. But if you are so anxious about the matter, get his cousin, the doctor, here. There will, of course, have to be a post-mortem examination. Something may be learnt from that. He may, for instance, have been poisoned. Nothing’s been touched in this room, I suppose?”
“Nothing. Grimes came up here as usual before nine, expecting to find Taplin in bed—that’s his bedroom there—and found—this. Then he rushed to me, and I thought of you; thought that you might see something that the police wouldn’t see. You don’t. Well—I’ll telephone to Francis Taplin.”
I remained in the dead man’s chambers with Cotherstone until the police came, bringing with them a police surgeon. They were shortly followed by Dr. Taplin, who was evidently greatly surprised, and immediately remarked that he should have believed his cousin the last man in the world to be liable to a sudden seizure, adding that he had seen him in the Law Courts only the previous afternoon, and that he then seemed to be in the best of health. He and the police surgeon made a hasty examination of the body and gave it as their opinion that death had occurred some six or seven hours previously—namely, about two or three o’clock in the morning. And then the police, in their own way, began to take note of the surroundings, carefully removing the decanter of whisky, the syphon, and the contents of the glass. And before removing the body, they investigated the pockets of the garments, laying out what they found there in order upon a centre table. To this part of the proceedings I gave particular attention; it seemed to me that from them I might obtain some clue as to where the dead man had passed the last evening of his life.
There was little that was out of the ordinary in the various articles which were taken from the clothing. A dress-watch of an old-fashioned type; a gold pencil-case; a gold-mounted cigar-cutter; a curious old silk-mesh purse, containing several sovereigns and half-sovereigns; some loose silver; a gold cigar-case; these were things that one might reasonably expect to find on a well-to-do man. The only articles found which were at all exceptional were an empty glass phial which had apparently contained digestive tablets and bore on its label the name of a well-known firm of manufacturing chemists, and, in the left-hand pocket of the trousers, a quantity, some twenty or thirty, of little brass discs, coloured red, black and yellow, and ornamented on one side with curious, engraved arabesques.
I looked at these small discs with considerable curiosity, wondering what they were. They were uniform in size, and rather smaller than a sixpenny-piece; they were beautifully finished, and I felt sure that the arabesque work on them was Moorish. Yet they were not coins. What then, were they? And why was the dead man carrying them in his pocket?
Standing there between those busied around the body and the table on which the various articles taken from it had been laid out, I conceived a sudden idea about the little brass discs. And, knowing very well that the police had not counted them, and being aware that they were paying no attention to my doings, I appropriated one of each colour and dexterously slipped the three into my pocket.
There was, of course, the usual coroner’s inquest in the matter of Charles Taplin’s death. There were no sensational facts brought forward. According to the evidence of his cousin, of Cotherstone, of Grimes, of one or two professional friends who knew him, he was a man of very quiet and sober habits, of regular life. There seemed to be no reason why he himself should put an end to his life; no reason why anybody should wish to put an end to it. Nevertheless, I soon saw that there was a suspicion afoot that this was a case of either suicide or murder. And the inquest was adjourned until certain pathological experts could give the result of their thorough investigation of the viscera.
My own impression was that Taplin had died a natural death, and I said so to Cotherstone as we came away from the coroner’s court. But Cotherstone shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I believe there was foul play, I do!”
“And upon what do you found your belief, Cotherstone?” I asked, perhaps a little cynically. “I suppose you have some grounds.”
“None,” he answered. “None. It’s an—an intuition.”
“I’m afraid intuitions don’t go for much in these matters,” I said. “Come—where would your intuition be if these experts tell you that there isn’t the slightest trace of poison in the organs they’ve taken away?”
Cotherstone shook his head again.
“I don’t care,” he replied. “It’s my conviction there was foul play. I felt, thought it from the first. That was why I sent for you. And you don’t seem to find anything out of the common in the affair.”
Now, in plain truth, I did find something out of the common in the affair, but I was not going to confess as much to Cotherstone—just then, at any rate. Ever since I had appropriated them from the little heap on the table of the dead man’s room, I had been asking myself what those little black, red, and yellow discs of engraved brass were, and what they were doing in Taplin’s pocket in what you might call some quantity. I had formulated several theories about them: there was only one which seemed to me to be good. I took these things to be counters which were in use at some house where cards were played a good deal—or at a gaming establishment. Quietly, unobtrusively, I had been trying to gain some knowledge of Charles Taplin’s habits. But all I could learn was that he lived a very quiet, methodical life. He had resided in rooms attached to his chambers in King’s Bench Walk for some years; the man Grimes and his wife had attended to his simple wants. He was in court all day as a rule; he always dined out, five nights out of the seven at his club: he was known at his club as a very quiet and retiring man. Grimes said that, with rare exceptions, he was always at home by half-past eleven, drank one glass of whisky, smoked a pipe, and read a little before retiring at midnight. This did not seem the sort of man who would frequent those secret gambling houses of which the West End of London possesses not a few.
It was at this juncture that I thought of Tregarthen. Tregarthen—he is dead now, killed in a big-game shoot in Uganda—was as much a man of mystery as he was a well-known man about town. Tall, unusually handsome, one of the very best-dressed men in London, rich, of excellent manners and address, always welcomed wherever he went, nobody seemed to know anything much about him. He was believed to have some business in the city—the sort of business that one spends an hour a day over—he lived in one of the most charming sets of rooms in the Albany; he belonged to a couple of the best clubs. Yet no one knew him well—the fact was, he did not allow anyone to know him well. But somehow he had acquired a reputation—that of being the best informed man in town concerning the life of that strange and mysterious underworld which lies beneath the surface froth of London society. I do not know how he acquired that reputation; but it was his, and it clung, increasingly, about him.
I had had some business relations with Tregarthen, and we had taken a sort of fancy to each other—once or twice he had dined with me; once or twice I had dined with him. And now I asked him to a quiet dinner at my rooms, and as we afterwards sat over our coffee I produced the black, red and yellow discs and, without preface, held them out to him, exposed on the open palm of my hand.
“Tregarthen,” I said, “have you ever seen anything like these things before?”
I knew at once that he had. His usual languid insouciance vanished on the instant; he startled visibly, a look of almost incredible surprise came over his face.
“Good God, Campenhaye!” he exclaimed. “Where—where did you get those?”
And he looked at me with a suddenly-aroused, keenly speculative interest, as if I had just returned from, say, the North Pole, or some other place to which men do not usually penetrate.
“Whether I answer your question, Tregarthen,” I replied, “depends on whether you answer some questions of mine. At any rate, you recognise these bits of brass?”
“Certainly I do,” he replied, resuming his nonchalance. “I do! What I am astonished at, is—seeing them in your possession.”
“What are they?” I asked bluntly.
“Oh, I can tell you that. They are counters, used at a certain private gambling hell, here in town.”
“I thought as much. Where is it? Who keeps it? Who goes there? Those are the questions I want you to answer, Tregarthen. It is—between ourselves.”
He nodded.
“Just so. But first—between ourselves—where did you get those things?”
Remembering that the people at New Scotland Yard had some twenty or twenty-five more of the counters in their possession, amongst the late Charles Taplin’s effects, I made no difficulty about telling Tregarthen the truth. He listened in silence, nodding his head now and then.
“Yes,” he said, when I had finished my story. “It is quite plain to me that your man had been there—to this place I spoke of, you know. Well, I myself was there on the night you speak of—I was there from eleven o’clock until one. But, of course, if he had been known to me previously, I should not have recognised him.”
“Why?”
“Because all the people—men and women—who frequent that place wear masks and dominoes, and don’t waste time in unnecessary conversation. I shouldn’t know you.”
I considered matters; meanwhile putting the counters away.
“Tregarthen,” I said, coming to him from the desk in which I had locked them up. “I want to visit this place.”
“Impossible!” he answered.
“Nonsense!” said I. “If Taplin gets into it, I can get into it. You can get me in.”
He looked at me doubtfully.
“What’s your object, Campenhaye?” he asked.
“At present, mere curiosity,” I replied.
“Then—are you willing to pay for your curiosity?”
“To a reasonable amount—yes.”
Tregarthen selected and lighted a second cigar, and for a few moments smoked as if in deep thought.
“Well, I know I can speak freely to you,” he said. “This place, Campenhaye, is the most secret and the most exclusive gambling hell in London—perhaps in Europe. It is run, kept, whatever you like to call it, by a man who is known to the world—at least, to a small section of it—as a rich and benevolent old gentleman who possesses a marvellous collection of books and a fine gallery of pictures. He is a character, that man—he has Spanish, Moorish, and gipsy blood in him—and his name—the one I know him by, at any rate—is Mendoba.”
“Continue,” I said.
“I can introduce you,” he went on slowly. “You will have to pay a hundred guineas entrance fee, and everybody is expected to play. And play is—high. It is very high. This is not an ordinary gambling hell, and things are not done in an ordinary way. Those counters, now. The yellow represents five; the red ten; the black twenty-five pounds: there are others of much higher value. I have seen fifty thousand pounds lost—and won—in a night there—yes, in an hour.”
“I happen to be pretty well off just now,” I said. “Besides, whenever I do engage in games of chance, I am most extraordinarily lucky. The probability is that I shall come away from Mr. Mendoba’s with stuffed pockets.”
“You will have abundant opportunity of stuffing them,” he remarked. “Or, of emptying them. Very well, then. Now, when?”
“As soon as possible.”
“To-morrow night, then,” he said. “We will meet at the Odalium at eleven. All right. But, Campenhaye,” he added, giving me a searching look, “why, really, do you wish to visit this house?”
I shook my head.
“Frankly, Tregarthen, I am at present conscious of but one idea,” I said. “I want—I don’t quite know why—to see the place where Taplin seems to have spent the last hours of his life. And—I suppose it springs from professional instinct—I daresay that I have some notion that I may there get some light on the mystery of his death.”
Tregarthen smiled.
“I daresay you will find sufficient of the mysterious at Mendoba’s,” he remarked. “Very well—to-morrow night. And that, by the by, is a racing night.”
“A racing night?” I said questioningly.
“Never mind—you will find out what that means,” he answered. “Again, by the by, don’t produce those counters there.”
“The counters are under lock and key,” I said. And, when Tregarthen had left, I added to myself:
“Until they are wanted.”
It was a certain street which lies between Park Lane and Berkeley Square to which Tregarthen conducted me just after eleven o’clock on the following night. He walked round from our club—the Odalium—in Piccadilly; he wanted, he said, to give me some particulars of what I was to expect.
“I have already spoken of you to Mendoba,” he said, as we strolled leisurely along (Tregarthen was one of those men who insist on leisureliness in everything). “So there will be no difficulty about your admission. One thing Mendoba insists upon—while his clients conceal their identity from each other by masks and dominoes, he himself must know each. Of course, he knew who and what you are.”
“And made no objection?”
“None. You can pursue your own path—he is indifferent to what his clients do, so long as they keep within his rules.”
“How does he know that I don’t want to expose him and his place?” I suggested.
“Because I gave him my word that you didn’t,” replied Tregarthen coolly. “In fact, as he is a man to be trusted, I told him the truth. Don’t start, my dear fellow—Mendoba knows a thousand secrets. And he keeps them.”
I had full confidence in Tregarthen, so I accepted matters.
“All right,” I said. “Well, what are we going to do? You said something about this being a race night?”
“Yes. Sometimes trente-et-quarante is played; sometimes rouge-et-noir. But now and then—as to-night—there is a form of petits chevaux, which appears to have a particular fascination for the women. I have gone thoroughly into it; as these things go, it is a perfectly straight business. The mechanical arrangements are highly ingenious; they are also above suspicion. I have convinced myself—as you may, if you care to take the trouble—that it is impossible to arrange for the success of any particular horse of the twelve which run. Here the element of pure chance is paramount.”
“You back a horse?”
“You can do which you like. You can turn bookmaker, and give the odds. Or you can back your fancy. Some people prefer one thing; some the other. And—remember this—all the ordinary rules of a racecourse are followed. You can bet for cash, or you can book your bets, and, as they do on the real turf, settle up on the next Monday—at Mendoba’s, of course.”
“They trust each other as far as that?”
“All Mendoba’s clients are people of means with a very big M,” answered Tregarthen sententiously. “He takes care of that. But—here we are. There is nothing for you to do but follow me, for I paid your entrance-fee this afternoon when I called on Mendoba.”
The house which we entered was one of those modern palaces which have recently sprung up in this quarter of the town, and the first glimpse of its interior revealed the elegance which was in keeping with the promise of the fine architecture without. In the outer and inner halls there were several men-servants, in a rich but sober-hued livery; they bowed respectfully to my companion as he led me through their ranks and up a wide staircase to where a tall, elderly man, clad in immaculate evening dress, and wearing the ribbon of some foreign order across his breast, stood as if to receive visitors.
“Mendoba,” whispered Tregarthen.
I treated myself to a keen look at the keeper of the gambling-hell, as we ascended the staircase, and at once recognised him as a man whom I had seen driving and riding in the park. He was of commanding presence, dark-skinned, silver-haired and bearded; his keen eyes, prominent nose, and pose of head and body denoted a man of power and energy. He gave me a polite bow and smile, and stretched out a hand which was extraordinarily supple.
“You wish to go in at once?” he said, addressing Tregarthen. “Yes—I have given instructions.” He turned to me graciously. “I hope you will amuse yourself,” he whispered with another smile.
Tregarthen led me along a narrow picture gallery, heavily carpeted, dimly lighted. At its further end, two men, muscular and hefty fellows, wearing the livery which we had seen downstairs, stood near the door. Their manner was all alert politeness, but I felt that both gave me a searching inspection as I advanced under my companion’s ægis. The door opened; we stepped into another thickly-carpeted corridor, in which the light was still more subdued. And presently Tregarthen drew me aside into an open doorway, switched on an electric light, and revealed a small dressing-room. On the wall hung a number of black masks and of dominos—the latter of black, red, yellow, green, and half a dozen other colours.
“Make your choice, Campenhaye,” he said with one of his sardonic laughs. “Personally, I don’t believe overmuch in this masquerading business, but it lends an air of mystery to the proceedings, and pleases some of the customers, especially the women. Got what you like?”
I selected a mask of black velvet and a black and white domino; certainly, these simple things made a difference.
“Come on, then,” said Tregarthen. “Keep your eyes open. But we’re early.”
Traversing the rest of the corridor, we passed through a heavy divided portière into a salon, all the light in which was deftly thrown upon a long oval table covered with green cloth and fitted up like a racecourse, except that stands and paddocks were absent. But there were starting posts and winning-posts and number-boards, and the imaginary furlongs and the “distance” were marked off, and there, drawn up at an imitation starting-gate, were the horses, each with its jockey and its separate colours. Tregarthen drew me aside as we entered.
“I told you this was absolutely above suspicion,” he said. “I don’t know how it’s done, but I do know that it’s a pure and simple toss up as to which horse wins. Just to amuse myself I once went in for an elaborate study of the results—to see if any particular horse had a run of luck. I got no information out of it—you never know what will win. It’s the biggest gamble I’ve ever seen. And, naturally, it appeals to people who are born gamblers, and who would bet, if they’d nothing else to do, on the odd or even number of the next taxi-cab that came along. Now let’s have a look round until the bell rings for the first race.”
We strolled around the room. Except in the immediate vicinity of the mimic racecourse, everything was in a half-light, but certain things were made out easily. In one alcove, presided over by the liveried servants, was a buffet on which were set out dainty sandwiches, the rarest fruit, choice sweetmeats, wines, spirits, coffee; in another, a highly-respectable gentleman in immaculate evening dress sat behind a grille to sell counters, give change, and to cash cheques. In the recesses were luxurious fauteuils; on the walls magnificent pictures; if this was a hell, it was certainly an elegantly-appointed one. And from the murmurs of well-bred voices, from the occasional flashing of diamonds on white necks and in dainty ears, from the glitter of rings on slender fingers, I judged that those who frequented Señor Mendoba’s rooms were folk of as elegant and luxurious tastes as their present surroundings.
Tregarthen and I shared a pint bottle of champagne at the buffet as a preliminary to our proceedings; when we had finished it, the room had filled up; by that time there must have been quite fifty people present. And suddenly a silvery bell rang, and everybody began to wake into activity. And just as on a real racecourse, those who elected to play the part of bookmakers began to invite custom and to call the odds. Above the babel of voices one, a merry, yet mocking, voice made itself insistent.
“Come to the old firm, ladies and gentlemen!” it shouted. “Don’t forget the old firm in the Yellow Hat, and Black Mask, and the Red Domino! Cash or credit—credit or cash! Two to one on the field—two to one on the fee-yuld!”
Amidst a cackle of laughter which this evoked, I turned to look at the person from whom this appeal, strikingly reminiscent of suburban race-meeting, proceeded. Standing near the imitation starting-gate was a man dressed in the fashion indicated—a high, bell-shaped yellow hat, a black silk mask which concealed every feature of his face save his eyes, the point of his nose, and his lips, and a domino of brilliant red, which enveloped him from neck to ankle. He waved an elegantly-bound note-book, in one hand, a gold-mounted pencil in the other, and from the way in which my fellow masqueraders crowded about him, he seemed to be a favourite.
“Of course you don’t know who that man is?” I asked of Tregarthen.
“No more than you do,” he answered. “All I know is that he never tires of the game. You’d better have a flutter with him. Pick your beast—every horse carries its name printed across its jockey’s shoulders.”
I gave a careless look at the twelve little horses and saw one labelled Diabolo. I approached the queer figure in the brilliant domino; he had mounted himself on a stool, and was just then booking a bet with a lady whose velvet mask was topped by a wealth of beautiful auburn hair, in which there was a seductive shimmer of pearls. And, as he raised his right hand to scribble in his little book, I saw that he had lost nearly the whole of its index finger; it was gone from just beneath the main joint, and the man wrote with his second digit and his thumb.
I drew back into the shade. Where had I seen that maimed hand before? For I had seen it, and recently; I had particularly noted the seamed lines where the flesh had been sewn across the stump. But when—where? Then with a quick leaping memory I got it. Francis Taplin, the doctor, Charles Taplin’s cousin! I had stood by while he examined the dead body in those quiet chambers in King’s Bench Walk, and had noticed that he had lost the index finger of his right hand, and wondered how. And—I was sure that he and the Old Firm were one and the same person, for the curious white seams in the stump had fascinated me as his fingers moved the dead man’s clothing. The same person!—then, what
“Aren’t you going to have a flutter?” asked Tregarthen at my shoulder.
I approached the Old Firm.
“What price Diabolo?” I enquired jocularly.
“Diabolo is two to one—to you, sir,” he replied in the same spirit.
“Fifty, then,” said I.
“Cash or book, sir?” he enquired.
“Book.”
“One hundred pounds to fifty, Diabolo,” he said, opening his book. “What’s your club number?”
Tregarthen had presented me with a little silver badge on which was engraved a letter and a number: X 23; I mentioned letter and number to the Old Firm, and he mentioned his own—S 21. We scribbled the bet in our books, and I turned to the mimic racecourse, round which everybody was congregated. But I was not thinking of the horses; all my thoughts were on that maimed hand behind me.
I do not know how the machinery of the little horses was manipulated, but the starting of them was scrupulously fair. Some of the ladies—any of them who happened to be near the head of the table—plunged their hands into a bag in which there were a number of differently-coloured counters; she who drew out the black one then pressed a button at the edge of the course and the small steeds moved off. Round and round the white rails they went, the fortunes of the race varying as in the real thing, and the excitement growing with each round. And Diabolo won by a length.
“Didn’t I tell you I was a lucky man?” I said to Tregarthen.
I backed a horse named Bingo for the next race, doubling my stake. And Bingo, metaphorically, cantered home. Tregarthen, who had lost on both races, grinned.
“Sheer luck, isn’t it?” he said.
“I shall win again,” I remarked. “See if I don’t.”
“Not you—you’ll go down this time,” he laughed.
“Well, I’m winning three hundred,” I said. “And I’ll have it all on Bucephalus there, if our friend will give me two to one again.”
Our friend was only too pleased to do so: he could not believe that I could spot the winner three times running. So I stood to win six hundred on Bucephalus. And Bucephalus won—easily.
There were other people beginning to take an interest in me, and my doings by that time; the eyes that stared at me through the slits in the masks plainly showed that their owners believed me to possess a rare gift of luck.
“Do tell me which you are going to back this time,” whispered a very pleading and pretty voice—the voice of a slim somebody in a turquoise-blue domino. “I never find a winner, and I lose all my money. Please tell me.”
I threw a careless glance at the steeds.
“Back Diomede,” I whispered. “Diomede will win.”
And I, too, invested my six hundred on Diomede.
“Now, you’ll go down,” said Tregarthen. “Hope you do!”
But Diomede won—by a short head. And the Old Firm laughed queerly, as I turned to him.
“Witchcraft!” he said. “Never mind—you’ll come a cropper, X 23, before the day dawns!”
“I won’t stop, as long as you’ll give me the odds,” I said, and I turned to examine the names of the horses.
To cut a long story short, I was winning nearly ten thousand pounds when the proceedings came to an end. And when the Old Firm, Tregarthen and I, with two or three more men, including Mendoba, who had appeared during the night, went to the buffet for a final drink, and I was being congratulated and chaffed about my extraordinary luck, I made the Old Firm a sporting offer. It was nothing less than to throw a single cast of the dice for double or quits. One of the masqueraders uttered an involuntary exclamation—it was evident that he thought me a fool. But in the eyes of the Old Firm I saw a sudden gleam; I also saw his lips tighten. He was lifting a glass to his mouth, and he arrested its progress as if his arm had suddenly become paralysed.
“One throw,” I repeated. “And—double or quits.”
He raised the glass with an effort, and drained its contents at a gulp.
“Done!” he said.
There was of course dice ready to hand. The salon had cleared of all but ourselves, Tregarthen, Mendoba, and three or four others, one a woman. We gathered round a small table which somebody pushed forward. We tossed a sovereign for first throw; he won the toss. And he threw—nine. It seemed to me that I heard him catch his breath as he did so. But I took the box and threw a six and a five—eleven.
The Old Firm laughed.
“Monday, then, X 23!” he said in the jocular tone which had marked him during the whole of the night. “You’re the devil himself for luck.”
I left Tregarthen at the corner of Mount Street and walked home in the early morning air—it was, I remember, very sharp and frosty. I thought a good deal on my way—always about that maimed hand; about Charles Taplin; about the fact that he had those counters in his pockets; about many things.
On my desk I found a confidential letter from one of the two eminent experts who had been conducting the post-mortem examination. He and I were old schoolfellows, and he had promised to tell me privately what he and the other great man had found out. I tore the envelope open eagerly. There were but a few lines, hastily scribbled inside. The experts had come to the conclusion that Charles Taplin had died swiftly and suddenly as the result of swallowing some poison which had acted instantaneously—but what that poison was they did not know, and could not say.
I went round to my friend, the medical expert, as soon as I had breakfasted next morning, taking his house on the way to my offices in Jermyn Street. I was fortunate in catching him before he set out for his hospital, and knowing how valuable his time was, I went straight to the point.
“So you think Charles Taplin was poisoned?” I began.
“Certain of it,” he replied.
“And yet you can’t say by what particular poison?”
“No, that’s flat. We can’t.”
“No traces of poison?”
“No traces of any poison that we are familiar with. But there are poisons in existence of which we don’t know anything—anything!”
“What makes you think he was poisoned? Might it not have been a natural death?”
“It wasn’t a natural death. He swallowed something which caused instantaneous heart failure. Call it stoppage, paralysis, collapse of the heart, anything you like—that’s what happened. Our impression is that something was swallowed in his first drink from the glass of whisky and soda which stood by his side, almost unconsumed, as you will remember.”
“Well, weren’t there any traces in what remained?”
“None. We analysed what was left in the glass, in the decanter, and in the syphon by every test we could think of. We found nothing. But we are convinced that the man was poisoned, and that the poison used was some subtle drug of which we in this part of the world as yet know nothing at all.”
“You think such poisons are existent?”
“Of course they are! Some of the Eastern nations have knowledge of poisons to which we can’t pretend. So have—or had—the gipsies. So have some of the savage tribes of Africa to which civilisation has not yet penetrated. All we can do is to test for poisons of which we’re cognisant—we can’t say or do anything about a poison of which we’re absolutely ignorant.”
“You’ll tell all that at the adjourned inquest, I suppose?”
“Oh, of course! And a lot of people won’t believe us. But I’m dead sure of what I say—the man was poisoned.”
I went away, reckoning things up. This was Saturday morning. The adjourned inquest was fixed for Tuesday. And Monday was settling day at Mendoba’s, and the Old Firm—who was, I had no doubt, Francis Taplin—was liable to me for nearly twenty thousand pounds.
By this time I had formed a theory and conceived a plan. And to carry out the plan I decided to employ help in the shape of my clerk, Killingley, whom I had good reason to consider one of the very smartest and most reliable young men in London. And after I consulted a medical directory and had made from it a half-sheet of memoranda, I rang for Killingley and gave him his instructions. They were brief. From then until I issued further orders he was to keep an eye on Dr. Taplin, no matter where he went. He was to lay out whatever money he liked; to get what assistance he liked; to do anything he liked, but Dr. Taplin was never to be out of his vision or reach.
When Killingley went out of my private room I felt as if I had locked Dr. Taplin up in my private safe. For I knew Killingley. He was a veritable leech, a bulldog, a limpet; once let him get hold of anything, and he would never let go.
I waited in Jermyn Street until Killingley rang me up from a call-office in the neighbourhood of Cavendish Square, and said, “All right—I’ve got him,” which meant, in plain English, that he had made himself acquainted with Dr. Taplin’s identity, and then I went down to the Temple, and found Cotherstone. To him I communicated the news which I had received from my friend the medical expert. Cotherstone sniffed—a habit of his which indicated a certain supercilious contempt for other people’s mental abilities.
“Of course!” he said. “Didn’t I tell you from the very first that there was foul play!”
“Hang your high-and-mightiness!” said I with a laugh. “Tell me two things, which are of much more importance at the moment; that is, if you can.”
“Well?” he asked. “What?”
“First—was Charles Taplin a wealthy man?”
“I should say he was a well-to-do man; perhaps, a very well-to-do man. He had a very good practice at the Chancery Bar, and he was a man of simple life and tastes.”
“Second—have you any idea who gets his money?”
“Well,” answered Cotherstone slowly. “I don’t suppose it matters if I tell you. I happen to know, because I witnessed the will, not so long ago, and Taplin told me to read it. He left everything to Francis Taplin. And I remember that he remarked to me that his cousin was the only relation he had in the world, as far as he knew.”
“So it was greatly to Francis’s benefit that Charles should die,” I remarked meaningly.
Cotherstone started.
“What are you driving at, Campenhaye?” he asked. “You aren’t surely suggesting that”
Then I told Cotherstone everything. His face grew more and more astonished as I went on; by the time I had finished I saw that he was filled with the same suspicion that had seized upon me.
“What’s your theory?” he asked abruptly.
“That it was in Francis Taplin’s interest to get rid of his cousin,” I answered. “But as to the precise why and wherefore, I’m not sure. Not, perhaps, for the mere inheriting of his estate.”
“Not?” exclaimed Cotherstone.
“Remember!” I said, lifting a finger. “Remember! Charles Taplin was not the white hen you thought him. He was a frequenter of Mendoba’s highly gilt hell. There’s more in this than one would think, Cotherstone.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked after a pause. “Say nothing at the inquest?”
“I hope to say—or do—something before that,” I replied. “I think that there will be developments, possibly on Monday night—settling day.”
Until the Monday night I waited. During the time of waiting I received regular reports from the faithful and watchful Killingley. There appeared to be nothing very remarkable about Dr. Francis Taplin’s daily life, as observed by my clerk. Patients came to him; he went to see patients. On the Saturday evening he was at one of the ultra-respectable clubs; and the Sunday evening he dined at the Ritz in the company of a young and very beautiful woman. And on the next day Dr. Taplin resumed his usual round of duties.
I went to Señor Mendoba’s house alone that Monday night, for I had not seen Tregarthen since we had walked out of it at three o’clock in the morning of the previous Saturday. But I had not been long there when Tregarthen came in and joined me.
“Looking out for the Old Firm?” he said with one of his sarcastic grins. “Let’s see—you’ve twenty thousand to draw, eh?”
“Nineteen thousand, six hundred pounds, precisely,” I answered.
He laughed, half-jestingly.
“Old Firm will have to fork out pretty heavily, then,” he remarked. “I fancy you were not the only successful punter. There are others here who have pleasant reading in their bits of books: they followed your selections.”
He was right there. There was, for example, the slim and slender beauty (at least, I suppose she was beautiful) who had asked me for a tip; she seemed in high glee, and stealing up to me, said sweetly that she hoped I should be as lucky at trente-et-quarante (for which the tables were spread) as I had been with the little horses.
“I’ve three thousand to draw when Old Firm comes,” she said. “Do let me sit by you, or I shall be sure to lose every penny of it before the night’s over—I nearly always do.”
But Old Firm was late in making his appearance. He was not in evidence at half-past eleven, nor at twelve, nor at half-past twelve.
It was a few minutes after the half-hour had struck that the famous raid took place which afforded such splendid copy for the noon editions of next day’s newspapers. It was sprung upon a roomful of absorbed people with startling abruptness. All I knew was that the salon suddenly seemed to be filled with plain-clothes men; that a number of the guests, men, threw off masks and dominos and seized upon fellow-guests; that there was pandemonium of screams, curses, expostulations, and that I myself, having managed to draw aside the inspector in charge, revealed my identity by divesting my face and figure of their concealment. The inspector gasped.
“You, Mr. Campenhaye?” he exclaimed. “Good God! what are you doing here?”
“Pretty much what you’re doing here,” I answered. “I’m after a certain individual.”
“And we’re after several individuals,” he said. “You haven’t any idea where the grey-bearded man who calls himself Mendoba is?”
“I haven’t seen him to-night,” I replied. “He hasn’t shown up. Of course, I may go.”
“Oh, of course! Slip off quietly. Most of our people know you—if they don’t, show them that card.”
I made my way out with little difficulty. Much to my astonishment Tregarthen joined me as I gained the entrance-hall. There were a couple of Scotland Yard men at the front door who knew me and passed me out; to my surprise, they nodded familiarly to my companion, who replied with a whispered jest. Outside I looked at him with a new interest.
“Ho, ho!” I said. “So you’re also known to the police, my friend?”
“Seems like it,” he answered nonchalantly. “Egad, but that was a surprise, all the same, Campenhaye! I hadn’t expected”
At that moment a man whom I recognised as one of Killingley’s most trusted satellites plucked my sleeve, and pushed a twisted scrap of paper into my hand. I unfolded and read a hastily scribbled note:
“Come at once to Wimpole Street—awaiting you.—K.”
To take Tregarthen by the arm and hurry him to the nearest taxi-cab was the work of a moment; a hurried dash through streets and squares brought us to a point near Francis Taplin’s house. I pulled up the chauffeur and we descended and went along on foot, and presently met Cartwright, a man whom I occasionally employed, and in whom Killingley had a profound belief. He hurried up, evidently full of news.
“Mr. Killingley, sir, has followed our man,” he said hastily; “he left the house, carrying a travelling bag, about ten minutes ago, and Mr. Killingley had reason to think he was for Charing Cross. He said, would you follow him there?”
“Come on, Tregarthen,” I said, wheeling my companion round towards a taxi-cab that was just behind us plying for hire. “Anything else, Cartwright?”
“Well, there’s this, sir. Just after our man had set off, and Mr. Killingley had started after him, a cab came up at a big speed, and a man jumped out and ran into the house. He stayed there a few minutes, came out, got into the cab again, and went down the street—he’d pass you, sir.”
“What sort of man?” I asked.
“Tall, elderly, grey beard—fine-looking man, sir.”
I pushed Tregarthen into the taxi-cab, followed him, and bade the driver go to Charing Cross as quickly as possible.
“That’s Mendoba,” I said, as we moved off. “Mendoba! He’s after Taplin.”
“Seems so,” answered Tregarthen lazily. “Well, it’s Mendoba that I want, Campenhaye. The fact is, I’m of your own profession—in a certain fashion. I’ve a commission to get Mendoba, and it’s cost me these years of time and somebody else several thousands of pounds to cultivate the scoundrel, for he is that. And I was just about near the end of everything—such carefully-laid, delicately contrived plans! And I meant to bring it off next week, and now that police raid has spoilt all, I’m afraid. What luck!”
I was too much surprised by this revelation to make any reply just then; besides, my thoughts were elsewhere.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if Mendoba and Taplin were in league,” I said. “A hundred to one that was Mendoba that Cartwright described just now.”
“It’s likely,” answered Tregarthen. “Um! I wish I’d cultivated Old Firm or Taplin rather more. I wonder what we shall find next!”
What we found next was an excited crowd jostling and clamouring round a certain section of the Dover train at Charing Cross. From it Killingley presently emerged, wriggling his way out like an eel, breathless, yet cool as a cucumber. And all around him and us were murmurs and exclamations, and all to one effect—something about a man being dead, shot, murdered.
“It’s our man,” said Killingley, pulling me aside. “It’s Taplin! I’ve had a look through the carriage window. He’s dead, right enough, and shot. It was this way—I followed him down here, and on to the platform, after he’d booked for Paris. But inside the barrier he got ahead, and I was held back by a crush. Then I saw a big man, grey-bearded, that I saw call at Taplin’s on Saturday, force his way through, and go down the platform, and soon after that a shot was heard, and then there were cries about a passenger being found dead—and it’s Taplin, as I say. There’s a Yard man at the carriage door that you know, sir—Beeverstone—get up to him, and he’ll let you see.”
Tregarthen and myself, making use of our height and weight, pushed our way through the crowd to the door of the compartment. And Beeverstone recognised us, and presently when the officials had dispersed the crowd, preparatory to detaching and removing the carriage, we were admitted.
That Francis Taplin lay before us, dead, there was no doubt. We recognised him and his maimed hand at once.
“But do you know anything of this?” asked Beeverstone grimly. “This was thrown on the opposite seat.”
And he held up to us something that proved to be an elegantly-made wig and patriarchal beard, and we both knew then that Señor Mendoba must be a past-master in the art of making-up.
“Quick work!” observed Beeverstone. “Must have followed his man in here, shot him at once, thrown off his wig and beard—all in one piece, you see—and cleared out through that door. Nice job for you gents to find him, and for us, too!”
So there was an end of Francis Taplin, of whose mysterious doings we never found out more than that he had been living a very double—in fact, a very triple—life, and that he doubtless used certain special knowledge of poisons which he had acquired during a long residence in India, to make away with his cousin, and further that it was he who had supplied the police authorities with particulars of what was going on at Mendoba’s, and facilities for making the raid. As for Mendoba, the story of how I helped to bring that extraordinary villain to an account, is one that requires—as all such stories do—its own very particular chapter to itself.