CHAPTER IX.
MR. SMITH IS BURGLED.
Cæsar sent for Smith that afternoon again, and this time the man went to No. 409 Portland Place, and was shown by a footman into the handsome library where Cæsar was waiting with every evidence of impatience.
“Welland must be found,” he greeted the other. “I have put the matter into the hands of a private-detective agency, and I have told them to go ahead, regardless of expense. I am satisfied that the man is still living, because he was seen by one of my agents in York, only two years ago.”
“Then why the devil did you send me to search for him?” demanded Smith unpleasantly.
“On the off chance of his having communicated with that address,” he said, and probably he was speaking the truth.
“There are two men who may be at the back of this Number Six folly. One is old Gale's son”
“Gale's son is in the Argentine,” interrupted Smith. “He is farming on a ranch.”
“Where did you find that out?” demanded Cæsar.
“It was easy,” said the other. “The officials of the bank you robbed”
“I robbed?” said Cæsar quickly.
“Somebody robbed,” said Smith, with a wave of his hand. “It is hardly important who did it. At any rate, these officials are in touch with young Gale, who apparently has undertaken to restore all the money that the bank lost. So you can rule out Gale.”
“Then it must be Welland,” said Cæsar. “It must be Welland! My information from Scotland Yard is beyond doubt. The man who calls himself Number Six”
“It may as well be a woman,” said Smith.
“No woman would dare,” said Cæsar. “No woman would dare! No, it is Welland. It is an amateur who got into touch with the chief of the intelligence bureau and persuaded him to let him take on the job. Remember, they have nothing against me at Scotland Yard. They have no proof; they know nothing of any crime that I might have committed. They have only a suspicion, an uneasiness—nothing more.”
Smith agreed with him. There was no sense in disagreeing with him.
“Go back to Ross,” Cæsar said abruptly. “I will attend to Welland. He has had no visitors?”
“Ross? None.”
“Nobody has been to see him?”
Smith shook his head. He could lie as well as Cæsar Valentine. After all, he had certain interests of his own to look after, and did not apologize, even to himself, for the deception. Much more must happen in the tangled skein of Cæsar's affairs before Smith revealed his hand: Cæsar had the satisfaction of having him under his thumb. Smith also had a thumb, and was greatly desirous of meeting his employer on level terms.
Mr. Smith loved life as dearly as any, and he knew that every ounce of weight he could bring to bear upon this singular man at the psychological moment was so much life insurance, The mystery of Mr. Ross and his inexplicable visit to No. 409 Portland Place, in Cæsar's absence, had yet to be solved.
“What would you have done, supposing you hadn't met me?” he asked him suddenly. “Your unhappy Ernest would have been a poor substitute in this game!”
“Ernest served his purpose,” said the other coldly. “He performed certain duties which were essential, but he had a valet's mind. Poor Ernest!” he said softly.
He was not being hypocritical, thought Smith, on his way back to the hotel. Indeed, Smith was certain that the man was profoundly sorry that the necessity had arisen for removing a troublesome servant. There must have been certain coarse fibers in Cæsar's composition which responded to this uncouth little man and his crudities.
What villainies Ernest performed Smith was never able to discover, but that was because the full range of Cæsar's activities had never been wholly revealed. Smith came into the Borgia's life at the climax of a great plot which had been developing for years, and Cæsar had had to get that money to live in the style he regarded as necessary for his comfort, and the unwilling contributors to his income had been drawn from all stages of society.
Watching Mr. Ross was a monotonous business, and Smith pined for a more active life, and did not disguise his feelings from Cæsar when he met him the next morning.
“I'm sorry I can't give you a throat to cut every day,” said Cæsar sardonically. “You will attend to Mr. Ross.”
“Mr. Ross spends most of his time in the Reform Club reading dull English magazines,” complained Tray-Bong with some slight exasperation. “I have already got wet through watching those infernal premises.”
“Continue,” said Cæsar definitely. That evening he telephoned, through, in a state of excitement.
“He's found!”
“Who?”
“Welland—I'm going to see him,” it almost sounded as though Cæsar's voice was shaking. “He was picked up in Manchester—he is staying at a poor lodging in the suburbs.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Smith awkwardly. He did not know what else he could say. “You are seeing him?” But Cæsar had hung up his receiver. He had abrupt habits.
Whatever Mr. Smith thought of this interview is not known. He had troubles of his own next day, as he discovered on returning to his hotel. In twelve months' sojourn in the French capital he had acquired a reputation and a nickname, which is more than some people better placed than he could boast. But he was only human, and had the strongest objection to his trunks and his private writing case being ransacked by amateur hands. Only an amateur would cut off the lock of the new leather portfolio he had bought the day before, and leave its contents to litter his dressing table. Only an amateur would go through his clothes without replacing them upon the hocks where they rightly belonged.
Smith sent for the manager of Bilton's Hotel and showed him the chaos which the visitor had left, and the manager was duly apologetic. He did not remember any strange man or woman coming to the hotel, nor did the chambermaid. The only stranger who had put in an appearance was “the young lady who called on Mr. Ross”—and she, of course, was too young-ladylike to commit this act of vandalism.
At the mention of the young lady, Mr. Smith's mind grew calmer. He had a fear that some misguided, but well-meaning, officer from Scotland Yard had taken it upon himself to substantiate a passing suspicion. The active and intelligent young officers who pass into the criminal investigation department are prone to be zealous, and Smith would have hated to have been compelled to call upon the steely eyed Mr, Hallett with a complaint against his promising boys.
Obviously an amateur's work, thought he, as he again inspected the evidence of the hasty search; for there was a little smear of blood on the blotting pad.