CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE MORNING GOWN
Wedgwood did no more that afternoon. For the first time since the Handel Street affair had been put into his hands he, to use his own expression, slacked off—his mental powers were becoming weary through sheer inability to see his way clear to any solution of the mystery. He put the whole thing out of his head, treated himself to a good dinner and to an evening at the theatre, and as a result of his festivities, woke next morning keener than ever to go on with his work. If he could only get a firm grip on one of the many strings. . . .
He was down to the Passport Office as soon as its doors opened at ten o'clock, and within a quarter of an hour he had made a discovery. Within the last week a passport had been granted to Thomas Wraypoole, and endorsed for the United States and for the Argentine Republic. But at the same time a similarly endorsed passport had been granted to Mrs. Thomas Wraypoole, described as Thomas Wraypoole's wife. This puzzled Wedgwood: he had been given to understand that Thomas was a bachelor, whose establishment was kept up by a housekeeper. Was this a recent marriage—and if the bride and bridegroom were off on what was probably a flight as well as a honeymoon, to which of the two Americas had they gone—North or South? And from which English port—there were several to choose from: Southampton, Liverpool, London, Plymouth; it would take a small army of men to watch the departure of steamers from those places, supposing the fugitives were not off already. Still, something must be done—and in the idea of doing it, he went off to see the man who had signed the verifications requisite for both passports.
This was a solicitor, Mr. Morgan Pugh, whose office was in Wandsworth Road, and not far from Thomas Wraypoole's old warehouse. Mr. Pugh, a youthful gentleman who had apparently just commenced practice, was at liberty, said his one office-boy, and the detective was shown in to him.
"I called, Mr. Pugh, to make an enquiry," said Wedgwood, after explaining who he was. "You recently signed the verifications necessary for the issuing of two passports—one to Mr. Thomas Wraypoole, the other to his wife."
Mr. Pugh started, and stared at his visitor incredulously.
"I?" he exclaimed. "No, indeed! I don't know Mr. or Mrs. Wraypoole—never heard of them!"
"Mr. Wraypoole, until yesterday, had a business—oil and colour warehouse near here," answered Wedgwood. "But I've seen your signature to these verifications! Your signature and address!"
"Then you've seen forgeries!" said Mr. Pugh. "I've never signed a verification for a passport in my life—never even seen a form! You say you've seen my signature?" He seized pen and paper and dashed off his name. "Was that it?"
"No!" exclaimed Wedgwood. "The name, of course, but not the writing. So—Wraypoole must have forged your name to those documents?"
"Looks like it," agreed Mr. Pugh. "Where is Wraypoole?"
"I wish I knew!" said the detective. He made his adieu and went off. "I'll let you know when I find him!" he added, with a significant smile as he opened the door. "You shall know, quick enough!"
"Thank you!" said Mr. Pugh. "Deeply interested, I'm sure!"
Wedgwood went off muttering to himself. So Thomas was bold enough to do that, was he? Well, that was a serious offence; he'd get him for that, anyhow, if he could only catch him. But this wife—who was she? Thinking that the housekeeper, turned over to Gregson with Stainsby and the furniture, might know, he went down the road to the warehouse.
The door of the warehouse was open, and a tall, somewhat distracted-looking man, in a much-stained overall, was standing in the middle of the floor, glancing around at the various goods as if either estimating their worth or thinking that they needed more orderly arrangement.
"Mr. Gregson?" enquired Wedgwood.
"That's me, sir—what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?" asked the new occupant. "Bit out of order here, yet, sir—I only came into possession yesterday."
Before answering Wedgwood looked about him. He expected to see Stainsby, but Stainsby was not visible. He went closer to Gregson and gave him a look which implied a desire for confidence.
"You bought this business from Thomas Wraypoole, Mr. Gregson, didn't you?" he said. "Can you tell me where Thomas Wraypoole is?"
"Not the least idea, sir! He mentioned to me once that he thought of taking up an agency in Germany. Another time I once heard him say that he'd ideas of going in for the oil trade in Russia. I don't know where he's gone."
"Have you known him long?" enquired the detective.
"Matter of three or four years, sir—just in the trading way."
"Do you know his wife?"
Gregson looked surprised.
"Wife? He hadn't a wife, sir. Bachelor, he was—he'd a housekeeper to look after this place. And———"
"Look here, Mr. Gregson!" broke in Wedgwood. "I'd better tell you who I am. I'm a police-officer—detective, you know—and I want Thomas Wraypoole! I want him in relation to more than one matter. And I should like to see that housekeeper you mention—I think she might give me some information. Is she in?"
Gregson who had stared his surprise at Wedgwood's first intimation, made a gesture with his hands.
"She isn't!" he answered. "I don't know where she is. She cleared clean out of this place yesterday afternoon, and I've never seen her since. So did the apprentice—young varmint! I've never seen him since! Both gone—confound 'em."
"When did Stainsby go?" demanded Wedgwood. He suddenly remembered his vision of the apprentice in the taxi-cab near Westminster Bridge. "What time?"
"Can't say!" replied Gregson. "I had to go out yesterday afternoon—I've still got my old business down Whitechapel way. They were both here when I left at two o'clock—when I came back at six they were flown! Dutch leave!"
"You think they've run away?" suggested Wedgwood.
"That's just what I do think!" agreed Gregson. "Nice conduct! And awkward for me. No help—and of course the living-rooms, upstairs, want seeing to."
"To be sure," said Wedgwood. "By the by, have you any objection to my having a look round those rooms?"
"Not a bit, sir, as long as you don't want me to go round with you! Go up with pleasure. And so," he suddenly added as he opened a door at the side of the warehouse, "so you're wanting Wraypoole? For what, now?"
Wedgwood shook his head.
"In connection with such a very serious matter, Mr. Gregson, that I don't like to say what till I get more evidence," he answered. "I suppose you've heard of the murder of his brother in Handel Street, recently?"
"Good lord! You don't mean to say you suspect him of that!" exclaimed Gregson. "Come, come, I couldn't think that of him! He's a bit of a plausible chap, Thomas, but I don't think I could bring myself to believe that of him! His own brother!"
"I don't say I believe he murdered his brother," said Wedgwood. "But I think he knows something about it—may have had knowledge of it, after the fact."
Gregson leaned back against the door which he had just opened, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, showed an inclination to talk.
"Well, now," he said, "he's mentioned that sad affair to me. We've talked about it."
"You have, eh?" exclaimed Wedgwood, pricking up his ears. "What did he say about it?"
"We had a talk about it not so long ago, one night when he came to see me in Whitechapel about my buying this business," continued Gregson. "We went out and had a friendly glass together, and he talked about it. Now I come to think of it he mentioned you—that is, if you're Mr. Wedgwood?"
"I am!" assented the detective. "What did he say about me?"
"That you were on the wrong tack! The police, he said, had a genius for that sort of thing———"
"Did he say what he thought was the right one?" asked Wedgwood. "That's more to the point!"
"He didn't! But he did tell me this—if it's any use to you. He said that he himself had a very good idea indeed as to who it was that actually killed his brother, but that he was so convinced that it would be utterly and absolutely impossible to prove it that he wasn't going to say anything. It was one of those murders, he said, the secret of which never would be discovered."
Wedgwood turned towards the staircase.
"Oh!" he said dryly. "Well, I'm not of his opinion, Mr. Gregson. And if I am on the wrong tack, the best thing I can do is to hit the right one. Now I'll just have a look round."
"You'll find it a bit untidy up there, I fear," said Gregson. "That hussy went off leaving the rooms anyhow."
Wedgwood went up the stairs, wondering about certain of the things the new occupant of the premises had just said, and particularly about Thomas Wraypoole's remarks as to himself. He turned into what was evidently the principal sitting-room of the place and looked about him. There, as Stainsby had said, was some good furniture; Gregson had certainly got a bargain in getting business and belongings for three hundred pounds—to Wedgwood's thinking that wholly inadequate price was a sure proof of Thomas's desire to conclude the transaction and get away. But what Wedgwood wanted was something that would give him an idea of where it was that Thomas had gone or was going. And suddenly he made a discovery, or rather a suggestion was thrust upon him. On a side-table, at the miscellaneous contents of which he threw a casual glance, lay a small pile of those ornate and well-illustrated pamphlets the great shipping companies issue and spread broadcast. And amongst them was something more pertinent to his business—a number of Cunard labels, some for use on cabin trunks, some for heavier luggage to be consigned below. Perhaps not much in these things . . . but it looked as if Thomas Wraypoole had not only been contemplating an Atlantic voyage but had been given a handful of labels for his baggage. What Wedgwood now handled were the labels that had not been wanted.
After a further general look round the sitting-room, the detective passed on to the bedrooms. He opened the door of one which was obviously Stainsby's—he recognized a suit of the apprentice's, lying folded on a chair. Wanting nothing there he passed to another, which he saw to have been Thomas Wraypoole's. There he made a closer examination. And he saw at once that if Thomas had flown he had left most of his old feathers behind him. There were drawers full of clothes and linen; he appeared to have taken nothing, or little, of his personal apparel. Toilet articles were left on the dressing table, the room, indeed, looked as if its regular occupant was expected to step into it at any moment. And it, at any rate, was quite tidy—the bed made; everything in its place; towel on the rack, water in the jug.
But the next room, a woman's, was in utter confusion, as if its late occupant had left it in a hurry. Garments were thrown here and there; drawers and trunks lay open; there was evidence that various things had been hurriedly selected out of other things and the discarded objects left anyhow; on the bed lay certain articles of feminine attire which apparently had been exchanged for others of a similar sort and cast aside: it needed little more than a glance to see that in this room a woman had hastily dressed herself for a journey and had had no time to put the place straight before she went.
Wedgwood stood for a moment looking round him. He was recreating the scene which had taken place there the previous afternoon; visualizing the missing housekeeper's hurried preparations for flight. Probably she had set off when Gregson and Stainsby were both out; probably Stainsby, returning, had caught sight of her going away, and had followed her; probably Stainsby was following her in the taxi-cab in which he, Wedgwood, had seen him at the Surrey end of Westminster Bridge. In that case where were they now—and why hadn't Stainsby communicated with him?
Suddenly the detective stepped forward and picked up the gown which had been thrown anyhow across the bed—a morning gown of blue linen. He held it up for a moment; then thrust a hand into the side pocket.
"If there's anything it'll be here!" he muttered. "And—it is here!"
He drew out a crumpled scrap of paper—a telegram. In another second he had read it at a glance, noting that its date was that of the previous day.
Catch 5.30 Waterloo will meet Southampton West 7.16.
Wedgwood laughed as he threw the gown back on the bed and put the telegram in his own pocket.
"They always forget something!" he murmured. "Leave something behind. Um! Handed in at Southampton, eh? And to meet at Southampton? Very good! Then that means———"
He turned swiftly, hurried down to the warehouse, and making a hasty adieu to Gregson, walked quickly along the street till he came to a newsagent's shop, where he bought a Times and a railway time-table. A glance at the shipping news in the Times, another glance at the timetable, and he turned to find a taxi-cab. The taxi-cab sped him to Waterloo; the 11.30 from Waterloo set him down at Southampton at 1.27. And there, as he stepped from the door of his carriage he saw Stainsby on the platform, staring about him obviously on the watch for somebody.