CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WHAT DID MRS. PATELLO WANT?
Leaving Nottidge to consider his next movement, Wedgwood hurried back to Hunter Street as fast as a taxi-cab could carry him. He anticipated little from another meeting with Mr. Patello, but the mention of Mrs. Patello's name had aroused a good deal of curiosity in him. Until a few minutes before his departure from Nottidge House he had stuck to his theory that Mrs. Patello, as the result of certain machinations known only to herself and her sister Mrs. Clagne, was the tall, spare woman in a long fur coat who had lured Avice Mortover away from her lodgings.
There was nothing in the statement of Marco the waiter and Hobson the cab-driver to controvert that theory. But when he heard that Mrs. Patello had called to see him at the police-station he began to be doubtful: it was scarcely likely, he thought, that Mrs. Patello would come seeking a police-officer if she had been mixed up in what to say the least of it was a doubtful proceeding. Still—he did not know Mrs. Patello. Mrs. Patello might be one of those persons who are endowed with a double share of craft and ingenuity; she might be coming to see him with the idea of ascertaining exactly how much he, as the detective in charge of the case, really knew: he had known instances of that sort in his time. And when he walked into the room in which Mr. and Mrs. Patello sat awaiting his arrival he made a careful inspection of his lady visitor, and as a result decided that she was a worthy second to her sister Janet Clagne in respect of her possession of those qualities which may be summed up in one word—cunning. He saw, too, that whoever the woman was who had called on and gone away with Avice Mortover from Mornington Crescent, Mrs. Patello, as far as outward appearance was concerned, fitted in well with the description given by the landlady and Marco the waiter. She was tall, she was sparę of figure; she wore a fur coat that came down to her ankles. All this struck the detective so much that as soon as he had said good morning to his visitors, he begged them to excuse him a moment, left the room and seeking out a colleague gave him some instructions.
"Look here!" he said, drawing the man to the street door. "Do something for me, at once! Get a taxi. Drive to Cipriani's Restaurant, in Tottenham Court Road. Ask for a waiter named Marco. Tell him the man who saw him just now at Mr. Nottidge's house wants to see him immediately. Bring him back here. When you get here stay with him outside, strolling in front until I come out with a man and woman who've come to see me. Tell him to take a good, close look at the woman, but don't attract her attention. Understand?"
The other man understood and hurried off, and Wedgwood returned to his callers and closed the door on them and himself.
"Now, Mr. Patello?" he said quietly. "What brings you and your wife here?"
Mr. Patello, who it was easy to see was a mere cypher in the presence of his better-half, looked helplessly in her direction. But Mrs. Patello was only too ready to act as spokesman.
"Well, you see, Mr. Wedgwood," she began in a soft, silky voice that seemed strangely in contrast with her vinegary appearance. "My husband came to see me early this morning in consequence of your calling on him last night, when, of course, I was not at home. For the last few days I've been nursing a sick friend of mine—Mrs. Parkinson, of Mavisdale Avenue, Clapham Common—which is why you didn't find me at Tooting. Now, Mr. Patello was so much upset by what you told him last night that he came to me and told me all about your conversation as soon as he'd breakfasted this morning, and as a result, and though Mrs. Parkinson is really not fit to be left, I came here with him to see you."
"What about?" asked Wedgwood, curtly.
Mrs. Patello's thin lips smiled, and she inclined her head to one side with something of archness.
"Well, of course, Mr. Wedgwood, you'll allow that what you told Mr. Patello must needs be very disquietening to us," she answered. "I mean—to us as a family. This young woman that you speak of, and that's being advertised for in the newspapers, you know."
"What about her?" enquired Wedgwood.
"Well, according to you or to what she told you, she's the daughter of Matthew Mortover and of his wife Louisa, who was my husband's sister," replied Mrs. Patello. "If that's so it's a queer thing in my opinion that none of her relations had ever heard of her!"
"According to my information," said Wedgwood, "and to what Mr. Patello told me last night, none of you had ever heard of either Matthew or Louisa since they were married!"
"That is so, Mr. Wedgwood," agreed Mrs. Patello. "But they were far away—in Canada, we believed. Now according to the information you afforded to Mr. Patello last night, Matthew died over there, and his widow, my sister-in-law Louisa, came back to England, and here to London, soon after his death bringing with her their only child, this girl we're hearing about. Well, now, why didn't Louisa, Mrs. Matthew Mortover as she was, communicate with her relations? She'd know of the Mortovers, of Mortover Grange, in Derbyshire; she'd also know of her own family, the Patellos. And Patello, Mr. Wedgwood, is, I believe, a very uncommon name—Louisa could easily have traced my husband, her brother. Why didn't she? Why was nothing ever heard of her until this girl comes forward to say what she does—that she's Matthew and Louisa's daughter and that her father and mother are both dead?"
"Can't say!" answered Wedgwood. "No idea, Mrs. Patello. I know nothing about the family secrets. My only concern in this is that it has to do with a much more serious affair—the murder of Mr. John Wraypoole."
Mrs. Patello shook her head.
"Oh, well, of course, Mr. Wedgwood, I know nothing about that!" she said. "Excepting what I've read in the papers. My only concern is about this young woman. I say it's a very strange thing that neither Mortovers nor Patellos had ever heard of her until now. My husband never had; I never had; my sister Mrs. Clagne never had. Nobody had!"
"Are you sure your sister Mrs. Clagne never had?" asked Wedgwood.
"I'm sure of this, Mr. Wedgwood—my sister Mrs. Clagne was visiting us at Tooting not so very long ago, and stayed with us some days, and she didn't know of it then! She may know of it now, for she gets a London paper down there, regular, and I'm sure there was plenty about this girl in every paper yesterday! But she didn't know when she was at Tooting or she'd have mentioned the matter to me, of course."
"Did Mrs. Clagne ever mention Mr. John Wraypoole to you?" asked Wedgwood, permitting himself a direct question. "I mean—when she was staying with you?"
Mrs. Patello looked her astonishment, and the detective watching her narrowly, came to the conclusion that it was genuine.
"John Wraypoole? The man that was murdered? Never! How should my sister know anything about him?" she exclaimed. "Of course she didn't!"
"No 'of course' about it, Mrs. Patello!" retorted Wedgwood. "Your sister, I understand, is housekeeper to Mr. Philip Mortover at Mortover Grange, near Netherwell. Now John Wraypoole came from that neighbourhood."
"So do a great many other people, Mr. Wedgwood," said Mrs. Patello. "I could name many here in London. But that proves nothing. Mrs. Clagne never mentioned Mr. John Wraypoole to me. Nor did she mention this young woman who calls herself, I'm told, Avice Mortover! There was nothing known of her, then—I mean at the time my sister was here."
Wedgwood remained silent for a few minutes. He was thinking; fitting things together. He knew, as a result of his investigations at Netherwell, that Janet Clagne was in London—that is to say, at Tooting—at the time of Wraypoole's murder; that just previous to that she had been in conversation with Wraypoole at Mrs. Chipchase's shop in Netherwell; and that there was strong presumption that when she and Wraypoole separated at the tea-shop door they arranged a meeting at the Russell Square Tube Station on the very evening on which, as it turned out, Wraypoole met his death. So—either Mrs. Patello was lying, with consummate art, or Janet Clagne had kept things strictly to herself.
"Why should you be concerned, Mrs. Patello, about this girl Avice Mortover?" he asked suddenly. "How does the fact that she's turned up affect you?"
Mrs. Patello gave him a swift glance, which transferred itself to Mr. Patello. And Mr. Patello, who during the conversation between his wife and the detective had remained in obscurity, sucking the handle of his umbrella, uttered a sort of mournful exclamation, expressive of unrest. Mrs. Patello nodded, and spoke.
"Well, of course, Mr. Wedgwood," she said in a voice that was meant to be confidential, "of course, in these family matters there always is wheels within wheels: you'll know that as well as I do, and I daresay a great deal better, as you're a professional gentleman. You see, it's this way—I believe Mr. Patello told you last night that we know that old Gilson Mortover died intestate. He did—there's no doubt of it. Now Matthew survived him and was eldest son. And if this girl really is Matthew's only child———"
"She's a claim, and a strong one, to the Mortover property," interrupted Wedgwood. "Just so, Mrs. Patello! If she establishes that claim, it's hers. Well?"
"That's not agreeable to our plans, Mr. Wedgwood! You see," continued Mrs. Patello, her voice growing more suave, "the fact is, me and my sister Janet, Mrs. Clagne, has practically arranged a marriage between my daughter. Mattie and Mr. Philip Mortover. Such a match would be to the benefit of all parties concerned. But a marriage with Philip Mortover as things are is one matter, and as they might be, if this girl turns him out of house and land is another! Do you follow me, Mr. Wedgwood?"
"Very well indeed, Mrs. Patello!" answered the detective. "You don't want your daughter to marry a poor man!"
"I don't indeed, Mr. Wedgwood, and I want to know what Philip Mortover's real position is!" assented Mrs. Patello. "As I say, Philip Mortover, as owner of Mortover Grange and appurtenances and vendor of land that has valuable minerals under it is one thing, but Philip Mortover, penniless younger son of a younger son, is quite another! I daresay you've daughters of your own, Mr. Wedgwood, and you'll understand me!"
"I understand you, Mrs. Patello—very well indeed!" said Wedgwood. "The appearance of Miss Avice Mortover, only child of Matthew Mortover, elder son of Gilson, materially alters matters!"
"It does indeed—if she really is that," assented Mrs. Patello. "And there's another thing, Mr. Wedgwood. This Mortover Main Colliery Company, now?"
"What about it, Mrs. Patello?" asked the detective, pricking his ears anew. "How does that come in?"
Mrs. Patello inclined her head to one side and smoothed the fur of her coat about her knee, regarding its texture as if it was something of which she was appraising the value. "Well, Mr. Wedgwood," she replied slowly, "and of course between ourselves—me and Mr. Patello are not wealthy people. But we always had a bit of money, and we've saved a bit more, and the fact is, my sister, Mrs. Clagne, has so cracked up this new colliery company to us that we've realized all we had and put the lot into it—shares, you know. And———"
"Mrs. Clagne persuaded you to do that, did she?" interrupted Wedgwood. "Such confidence in it, eh?"
"Well, of course, being on the spot and knowing all the gentlemen that's interested in it she has!" assented Mrs. Patello. "And to be sure, the experts are all agreed that it's one of the richest veins of coal ever struck in this country! Anyhow, Mr. Wedgwood, that's what me and Mr. Patello have done!"
"Has Mrs. Clagne put anything into it?" asked the detective. He was keenly alert by that time, realizing that Mrs. Patello was affording him valuable information instead of getting anything out of him. "Has she invested money in it?"
"She has, Mr. Wedgwood—no secret about that," replied Mrs. Patello. "Mrs. Clagne, although she is and has for many years been housekeeper to young Mortover, as she was to Stephen before him, has money of her own. Clagne, he was a jeweller in Derby, and in a very good way of business, and he left her all he had—a nice thing! And she has invested largely in this Mortover Main Colliery Company, and one of her reasons in recently visiting us was to advise us to do the same. And we'd no hesitation, for I know my sister well enough to be sure that she'd risk nothing—she's as keen on money as anybody can be. And don't you see, Mr. Wedgwood, if this young woman really is the true owner of that Mortover property, why then, there'll be all sorts of complications arise, and perhaps our money mayn't be safe, and—and to put it in a nutshell, Mr. Wedgwood, can you really tell us whether this girl really is who she says she is—Matthew Mortover's daughter?"
Wedgwood rose to his feet. He realized what Mrs. Patello had come for. But he still had a lingering doubt about her.
"Can't say, Mrs. Patello," he answered. "She says she is. No doubt she has proofs—papers, and so on. But—she's disappeared. I don't know where she is. And that's all I can tell you."
Presently he conducted husband and wife to the outer door. From its steps he looked across the street and saw his fellow-detective in company with Marco. They were smoking cigarettes as they lounged about; there was nothing in their appearance to excite suspicion. But Wedgwood saw the waiter look over Mrs. Patello with a keen, searching glance, and when she and Mr. Patello had gone round the next corner he beckoned him to come across.
"Is that the lady you saw at Cipriani's Restaurant?" he asked sharply. "Be sure, now!"
Marco shrugged his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
"No!" he answered. "At first I think, yes—then I make sure, no! What you call—eh—similar in figure, fur coat, so on. But not the same face—oh, no! Not the same woman at all—no—no!"
Wedgwood went back into the police-station and fell to discussing matters with the inspector to whom he had retailed all his previous news. They talked things over until their heads began to ache: finally, the inspector delivered himself of an opinion. Wedgwood, he said, must somehow persuade, or tempt, or force Thomas Wraypoole to tell him who the man was that he, Thomas, had seen in conversation with his brother John on the evening of the murder, and that man must be found.
"Considering all one now knows," said the inspector, "what you've got to do is to trace John Wraypoole's movements and account for every scrap of his time and in whose company that time was spent, between the moment in which Thomas saw him talking to that man, whoever he is, and his arrival at Miss Tandy's flat! Get on to that, Wedgwood!"
The name of Miss Tandy had scarcely been mentioned by the inspector when a policeman poked his head into the room and announced Miss Tandy herself.