CHAPTER TWELVE
MR. PATELLO
For a moment the detective stood staring at the door through which Nottidge had vanished. Then he laughed softly.
"That chap's in love!" he murmured. "He means business! Well———"
Going out into the hall he rapped on the panelling at the head of the stair; the landlady put her head out of a door at its foot.
"He's gone, ma'am," said Wedgwood. "Just a word with you before I go. If Miss Mortover should return here," he went on as the woman rejoined him, "you must communicate with me—here's my card—at once."
"I'm sure I should be very glad to see her back!" said the landlady. "It would relieve me of a deal of anxiety. You don't know into whose hands she may have fallen—a quiet, well-behaved girl like that!"
"Nice girl, is she?" suggested Wedgwood.
"One of the nicest, mister!" affirmed the landlady. "I never saw anything but the nicest disposition in her!"
"Well, we'll do our best to find her," said Wedgwood as he made for the door. "And so, I'm sure, will that young fellow who's just been. Don't forget, now, to let me know at once if you hear anything."
He went out into the night wondering what to do next, and speculating on the reason of Avice Mortover's sudden disappearance. That she had been inveigled away was certain—but who was the woman? Not Janet Clagne—for Janet Clagne three nights ago was in Derbyshire. But Janet Clagne had a sister here in London—Mrs. Patello. Was it possible that Mrs. Patello was the tall, spare woman, heavily veiled, in whose company Avice Mortover had left her lodgings? Possible, of course—and the possibility presently put Wedgwood into a taxicab and sent him hurrying away to that London suburb called Tooting.
Acacia Terrace, Tooting, proved to be one of those suburban thoroughfares of which outer London can boast its hundreds—a street of small houses built to a pattern, and every one so like its fellow that neither can be distinguished save by name or number. It is the ambition—or seems to be the aim—of all the dwellers in these houses to carry uniformity to the extremest degree. The little front gardens are all alike; the blinds are all alike; the curtains are all alike; the inserted glass panels in the front doors seem to have been cut out of one sheet; the doors and wood-work are all painted the same colour: any resident in such a street might well be excused if he were found entering the house of a neighbour under the impression that its threshold was his own. And if the inquisitive could penetrate behind the cheap lace curtains—between which, in every case, a pensive aspidistra lifts its leaves from a pot placed on an antimacassared table—he would find that all the front parlours are alike; small, four-square tanks in which a suite of cheap but showy furniture is stiffly disposed against the walls, and the mantelpiece is crowded with ornaments which he will itch to break and family photographs that show how ill-favoured most folk are, and wherein there is an atmosphere, impossible to describe but speedily assertive, which is a sure proof that this, the Sanctum Sanctorum of the establishment is like a lot of other truly British things, only for use on Sunday.
It was in a room of this dispiriting description that Wedgwood found himself at the end of his somewhat lengthy ride. He had been admitted to Number 59 by a girl in whom he saw a close resemblance to Mattie Patello. There was a portrait of Mattie on the mantelpiece; he recognized it at once. There were others of the family, obviously of the family; there was even one of Janet Clagne, taken in her best raiment by a photographic artist—so styled—at Derby. And on the walls of this dismal front-parlour there were two enlarged photographs which the detective felt sure to represent the master of the house and his wife. He examined that which he took to be of Mrs. Patello with great care—Mrs. Patello certainly bore a strong resemblance to her sister, Mrs. Clagne; perhaps they were twins, thought Wedgwood. And as far as he could judge from a three-quarter length portrait, Mrs. Patello, like Janet Clagne, was tall and spare of figure, and, in his opinion, fitted in very well with the general description of the woman in whose company Avice Mortover had left Mornington Crescent.
The detective was turning from this work of art to that which depicted a gentleman whom he conceived to be Mr. Patello when the door opened and Mr. Patello himself entered. He was the sort of man who, in the privacy of his own house, wears list slippers, a disreputable coat, and an old smoking-cap; these furnishings of his outer man were all there in company with a mild and watery eye, a furtive manner and a general air of amiable incompetence, and Wedgwood was quick to notice them, and noticing them, to understand Miss Mattie Patello's references to her paternal parent.
"Sorry to intrude upon you, Mr. Patello," he began as the master of the house stood before him, nervously rubbing a pair of delicate-looking hands and blinking wonderingly at his visitor. "I called to see if you could give me a little information. The fact is, sir, I'm a police-officer—my card, Mr. Patello—and I'm enquiring into the disappearance of a young lady who left her lodgings three evenings ago and has never been heard of since. Name of Mortover, Mr. Patello."
Mr. Patello started and stared: Wedgwood saw that his surprise was real.
"Mortover?" he said wonderingly. "I know that name, to be sure, sir! But I can't say I know any young lady of that name. An uncommon name, too, sir, is that!"
"Very uncommon, I believe, Mr. Patello—I never heard it till recently. This young lady's name is Avice Mortover. You don't know her?"
"Never heard of anybody of that name, Avice Mortover, in my life, sir! Who is she?"
Wedgwood, who had carefully considered his plan of action during his ride to Tooting, went straight to the point.
"Well, Mr. Patello, to be frank with you, I've already made certain discoveries in the course of my investigations. This young lady, Avice Mortover, is the daughter—and only child—of one Matthew Mortover and his wife Louisa Patello. And—as the last-mentioned name is so uncommon—I take it that Louisa Patello was a relation of yours."
Mr. Patello nodded.
"My sister, sir!" he answered. "And she did marry Matthew Mortover—oh, yes, I'm aware of that. And so—there was a child, was there? Dear me—and the child's this young lady you're talking of. Dear me!"
"You weren't aware of the child's existence, then, Mr. Patello?"
Mr. Patello waved his visitor to a seat and took one himself.
"I was not, sir!" he replied with emphasis. "Of course, if this young lady is the daughter of my sister Louisa, she's my niece, but I can honestly say that until you told me of it I didn't know it! The fact is, I've never even heard of my sister Louisa for—oh, I don't know how many years! Never, at any rate, since she married Matthew Mortover. That was the very last I ever heard of her. I don't even know if she's dead or alive!"
"This young lady's mother is dead, Mr. Patello."
"Well, sir, as I say, I didn't know it! I've no objection to telling you what I do know if it can be of any use in your efforts to trace this young lady. Our family, Patellos, hails from the North—the Peak district in Derbyshire, but such of us as are left—now only a brother of mine and myself—if Louisa is dead—left that region long ago to try our fortunes elsewhere. Louisa went out to Canada. A year or two after she'd gone she wrote to me to the effect that she'd met a young Derbyshire man, Matthew Mortover, there and had married him. From that day to this I've never heard a word of her or him. We know something of that Mortover family, for my wife's sister Mrs. Clagne, has been housekeeper at Mortover Grange for many years—ever since her husband died, in fact, and of course we hear news occasionally—Mrs. Clagne was here not long ago, and she took one of my daughters back there with her, for a holiday. I'm given to understand that when old Mr. Gilson Mortover died, everything that was possible was done to find Matthew who'd married my sister, but it was all no use. Nobody has ever heard of him, nor of his wife, my sister, till now! And now—you say he left a daughter, and she's missing. Very strange, sir!"
"There are some very strange features in the case, Mr. Patello, and some that I needn't go into now. I'm sure, however, that the young lady I've mentioned is the daughter of Matthew Mortover and your sister Louisa, and I'm very anxious to find her. You feel confident that the present Mortovers know nothing about her?"
Mr. Patello shook his head with convinced assurance.
"I'm quite sure of that, sir!" he said. "If anything had been known at Mortover Grange of the existence of this young lady we should have heard of it from my sister-in-law, Mrs. Clagne, when she was here recently. Mrs. Clagne, is, so to speak, the presiding genius of that house! The present Mortover is a young man who was brought up from infancy by Mrs. Clagne—she's a mother to him and naturally knows and has a good deal to do with all his affairs. No, sir—the existence of a child of Matthew Mortover was certainly not known to Mrs. Clagne when she was here, or I should have heard of it."
"You don't think Mrs. Clagne may have mentioned it to Mrs. Patello, your wife?" suggested Wedgwood.
"I'm quite sure nothing of that sort was mentioned, sir. My wife would tell you so herself if she were at home. But she's away just now visiting a sick friend. No, sir—I'm as sure as a man can be of anything that the existence of a child of Matthew Mortover's and Louisa Patello's is absolutely unknown to Patellos and Mortovers! It comes to me, that news, as a genuine surprise. And what's more, sir, knowing as I do something of the Mortover family and their affairs, I can foresee complications, legal complications, if this young lady really is what she claims to be, according to you—Matthew's daughter. Oh, yes!"
"What sort of complications, Mr. Patello?" asked Wedgwood. He had long since formed a decided opinion that his host was both honest and candid, and he now wanted to draw him out. "Legal, eh?"
"Legal, sir!" affirmed Mr. Patello with a vigour which surprised his listener. "Legal! For, as I said before, sir, I know something of the Mortover family history, and I know that old Gilson Mortover, father of Matthew, never made a will and therefore died intestate. Now, sir, all the property the Mortovers ever had to bless themselves with was land—real estate. Never worth anything, sir, that land until lately—poor, dank, unprofitable land, good for nothing but for a few sheep and cattle to scratch a miserable bite out of. But now—now, sir, coal's been discovered under it, and—ah!"
Mr. Patello opened out his hands as if to indicate heaps of gold. Wedgwood made a show of interest.
"Indeed, Mr. Patello?" he said. "Mineral wealth, eh—beneath the surface. And as the old gentleman you mentioned died without a will———"
"That property, sir, passed to his eldest son, Matthew, and if this girl you speak of is Matthew's only child, it's hers, hers—the daughter of my sister Louisa, and my niece! I must see into it, sir! I know what I'm talking about, for before I went into the sugar-broking I was a solicitor's clerk and I know the law! If what you say is true the rightful owner of Mortover is not the lad Philip, but his cousin Louisa Patello's daughter. I'm obliged to you, sir, for coming to see me, and you'll oblige me further by keeping me informed. That girl, sir, must be found!"
Wedgwood promised Mr. Patello that he would keep him fully posted up in the affair of Avice Mortover, and after a few more words on the matter, went away. He was convinced of Mr. Patello's transparency and ingenuousness—but Mrs. Patello was still an object of possible suspicion. And chancing across a police-sergeant at the corner of Acacia Terrace, he introduced himself and getting into conversation asked him if he knew anything of the tenants of Number 59.
"Folks with the queer name?" answered the sergeant. "Patello? Yes, know 'em well enough! Father, mother, three daughters. Father's a quiet old chap who toddles off to the City of a morning and toddles back again of an evening—harmless. Girls play the piano all day—that sort!"
"Do you know the mother by sight?" asked Wedgwood.
"Well enough! Tall, thin woman. Looks as if she bossed the lot of 'em," said the sergeant. "You know the sort—wears the breeches, I should say!"
"It's taxing your memory," observed Wedgwood, "but have you ever seen Mrs. Patello in a heavy fur coat that came down to her ankles?"
"I have!" replied the sergeant, readily. "Saw her in it only last week, when that cold snap was on! Yes!"
Wedgwood left the deserts of Tooting with a distinct impression and a profound belief. The impression was that Mr. Patello was not taken into the confidence of Mrs. Patello and Mrs. Clagne; the belief was that Mrs. Patello was the woman who had lured Avice Mortover away from Mornington Crescent. The next thing was to hit on a trail. And that, he said to himself, was going to be a pretty stiff job. For at present he couldn't see a single mark or impress in the ground he must needs traverse.
There was nothing to be done now till next morning. But when that came and Wedgwood at his breakfast table opened his newspaper, he saw that somebody had been busy. For there, in staring letters in the personal column, were the words One Thousand Pounds Reward, and following close upon them the name Avice Mortover.