CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NIPPY NOTTIDGE
Wedgwood as a lone bachelor living in lodgings had a habit of reading his morning newspaper as he breakfasted; his practice was to prop it up against the coffee-pot after pouring out his first cup. But on this occasion he had no sooner seen the words in big capitals than he laid down his knife and fork and seizing the paper in both hands leaned back in his chair and read the advertisement through from its first line to its last.
There was that in the advertisement which not only absorbed the detective's attention, but tickled his sense of humour. Its very phraseology suggested that it had been drafted hurriedly, probably as its originator stood at the counter of a newspaper office. But there was plenty of it. It set out that Avice Mortover, whose personal appearance was fully described, had left her lodgings in Mornington Crescent at such and such an hour on such and such a night in company with a woman who was also described, down to the heavy veil and long fur coat, and that she had not been heard of since. It set forth, too, that Miss Mortover's disappearance was possibly connected with the recent affair in Handel Street, W. C. And it wound up by offering a reward of one thousand pounds—spot cash—to anyone who would produce the said Avice Mortover or give information that would lead to her restoration to her friends—application to be made direct, in person, to James Nottidge, Nottidge House, Belsize Park, N.W. 3.
Wedgwood read the advertisement twice—hurriedly, the first time; carefully, the second, and then, careless of the fact that his bacon was going cold and his fried eggs congealing, he made for the door, called his landlady's boy, and thrusting a shilling into his hand bade him go forth and buy all the principal morning papers. There was a newsagent's close at hand and within five minutes the detective was in possession of several prints and rapidly turning them over. And—as he had more than half expected—he found the advertisement prominently displayed in every one of them.
"Cost him a tidy penny, that!" muttered Wedgwood. "Well—there's nothing like doing a job thoroughly when you once start! I could see he was an eccentric chap, too! Fairly gone on that girl, evidently. There's one thing certain—that advertisement will sharpen the eyes and ears of a vast lot of people, and Mr. James Nottidge'll be answering his bell all day—usually for nothing!"
Then, reflecting that he himself had better be doing something, he finished his breakfast, prepared for going out, and having rolled his umbrella and fitted his hat and gloves to a nicety, set forth for Mornington Crescent, reflecting on matters as he walked along. By that time Wedgwood had arrived at a fixed opinion as regards the matter he had in hand. John Wraypoole had been murdered because he had discovered a secret about Avice Mortover: the person or persons responsible for his murder were also responsible for Avice Mortover's sudden disappearance. To track down one was to track down the other. And in his view of things the woman who had taken Avice Mortover away from her lodgings, doubtless on some plausible pretext, was Mrs. Patello. Mrs. Patello—in league, he felt sure, with her sister Mrs. Clagne. And Mrs. Patello had got to be found.
He had no expectation of news at Mornington Crescent, and he got none. Miss Mortover had not returned, nor had the landlady heard from her. But she had seen Nottidge's advertisement in the paper and was full of amazement at the sum offered as a reward.
"Ought to produce some information, certainly," agreed Wedgwood. "Now, did Miss Mortover ever mention this young man to you, ma'am!"
"Well, she did just say there was a young gentleman," admitted the landlady. "That was the very evening she disappeared. She was shy about it—but she did make mention of it. A well-to-do young man, evidently!"
"Quite so, ma'am—able to put down a thousand of the best, anyway!" said the detective. "And a man who can produce a thousand pounds at will has a few more thousand pounds in reserve—you may be sure of that!"
"Well, I'm sure I hope she'll be found, and safe," sighed the landlady. "Such a nice thing for a girl that's earned her own living, to get a rich husband!"
Wedgwood refrained from saying that if all went well, Miss Mortover would prove a highly desirable prize in the marriage market; he bade the landlady communicate with him if she heard anything of her missing lodger and went off to Hunter Street. And as he was about to enter the police-station he came face to face with Thomas Wraypoole.
Thomas Wraypoole looked angry—or, perhaps, puzzled to the verge of annoyance. He had a folded newspaper in his left hand, and as he caught sight of the detective he pointed to it with his right.
"Here, what's the meaning of this?" he demanded, without preface. "I came straight here to ask you that! You've seen it, of course. This advertisement about a missing girl—Avice Mortover. What's it mean? How's she connected with my brother's death?"
"Come inside, Mr. Wraypoole," answered Wedgwood. "I'd be glad of a few minutes talk with you. Now," he continued when he had conducted the oil and colour merchant to a private room, "if you'll look again at the advertisement, you'll see that it doesn't say that this girl was connected with your brother's death—murder, I prefer to phrase it. What it does say is that her disappearance—which we think is really abduction—is connected with his murder: believed to be connected, that is."
"Don't see much difference!" said Thomas. "Who is she? What's the connection?"
Wedgwood did not immediately answer that question. He was wondering how far he could take Thomas Wraypoole into his confidence. Suddenly he remembered that Avice Mortover's disappearance and Nottidge's advertisement would remove a good deal of the curtain he had kept drawn.
"Mr. Wraypoole!" he said. "I believe you and your brother originally came to London from the Netherwell neighbourhood, in Derbyshire?"
"Well, what if we did?" demanded Thomas.
"You were young, I know, but not so young that you weren't familiar with the names of people and places thereabouts. Don't you remember a family near Netherwell of the name of Mortover?"
"Can't say that I do, now. No!"
"Your brother did!"
"Likely! John was that sort. Always crazed about the history of the old place—antiquary, d'you see. Pedigrees—genealogical stuff—old parchments—deeds—that sort of rubbish. He used to read about it at the British Museum and the Rolls office. Didn't interest me a bit, that—I'm a business man. He was interested in our birthplace, and in its people. I wasn't! But what if there is a family down there called Mortover—same name as this girl? What's that got to do with what happened to John!"
Wedgwood suddenly made up his mind.
"I'll tell you, Mr. Wraypoole!" he said, looking steadily at his visitor. "Your brother John was murdered because he'd come into possession of a secret relating to the Mortover family! He was—silenced!"
Thomas Wraypoole stared—but Wedgwood found it impossible to decide whether he was surprised or incredulous.
"D'ye mean to say that's a fact, Wedgwood?" he asked. "Fact?"
"Well, it's an opinion which I feel sure will become a fact," replied the detective. "I've no doubt of it."
"What was the secret?" asked Thomas.
"That this young woman who's now missing is the rightful owner of the Mortover property near Netherwell," answered Wedgwood. "That'll all come out, now! And, Mr. Wraypoole, it's my belief that when you were asked by your brother to meet him on the evening of his murder, you were to be told about his discovery of that secret. He may have had some reason for telling you."
"Well—I never did meet him," said Thomas.
"So you have always said," remarked Wedgwood, dryly. "And of course we've taken your word. But if you want plain truth, Mr. Wraypoole, I've wondered myself, if you've ever told me all you really know about that evening! Now I'll tell you something I'd like to know. I'll accept your word that you never met your brother, to speak to! But . . . did you see him that evening?"
Thomas Wraypoole started. Then he glanced at the door.
"All safe!" said Wedgwood. "Come now—between ourselves?"
"Well, between ourselves, then!" replied Thomas. "Yes—I did see him! Only see him, mind you."
"Where?"
"That I won't say. It was on my way to meet him."
"Why didn't you speak to him?"
"Because he was in conversation with another man."
"Did you know the other man?"
"I did—well enough!"
"Who was he—who is he?"
"No! You'll not get that out of me, Wedgwood, for anything!"
"But why not? Between ourselves!"
"No, not between ourselves. I'm not going to drag innocent people into trouble. If I told you who this man was you'd be after him at once, and I know, of course, that it would be just a bit of talk that he'd be having with John."
"I should only ask him for information—if he could give any."
"He couldn't give any. I know that. I've seen him since—several times. He and John had just met casually in the street. No!"
"And instead of stopping to speak, although you knew John wanted to see you, you passed these two———"
"I didn't pass them. I chanced to see them on the other side of the street. I went on—to where I expected to meet John."
"And John never came?"
"He never came!"
"Then, for anything you know, he may have gone somewhere with this man!"
Thomas remained silent: it seemed to Wedgwood that some new train of thought had been aroused in him. He suddenly rose from his chair.
"I'm not going to tell you who that man was, Wedgwood, if that's what you're after," he said with decision. "At any rate, not now! But I'll promise you this! If I think it's necessary—and I'll admit that your last remark's a pertinent one—that John may have gone somewhere with him—I will! But that's all—at present."
He went away without another word, and before Wedgwood had time to reflect on what had passed between them, Mr. James Nottidge was announced. A question was off his lips before he had well crossed the threshold.
"Heard anything?" he asked anxiously.
"Nothing definite," replied Wedgwood. "You're more likely to hear something first after that advertisement. You lost no time!"
"My way! They called me Nippy Nottidge at school. Stuck to me, too, that has. If there's a thing to be done, do it quick! That's my motto!"
"Must have cost you a lot of money that advertisement, Mr. Nottidge!"
"Nothing to what this business has cost me in anxiety—fact! I say—can't you suggest something? What are you doing—the police?"
"You haven't left me much to do in the publicity line," said Wedgwood. "Do you realize that that advertisement of yours will be re-printed as news in every paper in England? Something'll come of it. But if you'll sit down I can tell you what I did last night after seeing you."
Nottidge listened avidly to the detective's account of the Patello household.
"You think Mrs. Patello's the woman, then?" he asked eagerly, when Wedgwood had made an end. "Why not be after her?"
Wedgwood smiled at his visitor's obvious eagerness.
"How would you do that, now, Mr. Nottidge?" he asked. "If you go a-hunting, you know, you've got to locate your fox first!"
"You mean you've got to take your hounds where a fox is likely to be found!" answered Nottidge. "Go where Mrs. Patello's likely to be found—or heard of!"
"If you can suggest where," said Wedgwood still smiling. "Eh?"
"I reckon old man Patello knows that!" declared Nottidge. "Try that!"
"And I reckon he doesn't!" retorted Wedgwood. "Mrs. P. no doubt told him that she was going to see a sick friend, as he said to me. But I regard the sick friend as a myth!"
Nottidge rubbed the tip of his nose with the knob of his walking stick during a moment's reflection.
"Well, I'll bet there's some news of Mrs. Patello to be got at her own house, anyway!" he said at last. "And if not there what about another place—this Mortover Grange you tell me of. For, if I know anything—I mean if I can put two and two together—I reckon this Janet Clagne woman knows something about her sister's movements! In the plot—that's about it!"
"Now there I am with you!" exclaimed Wedgwood. "My belief is that Mrs. Patello and Janet Clagne have worked———"
Before he could say more a police-constable put his head into the room and looked enquiringly from Wedgwood to his visitor.
"Telephone call," he said. "Somebody's asking if a Mr. Nottidge is here? If so it's his housekeeper wants to speak to him."