CHAPTER TWENTY
THE ADMISSION
From that moment the insatiable curiosity of the apprentice, unwillingly concealing himself behind the pile of merchandise, was doomed to disappointment; the chief actors in the scene followed at a little distance by the wondering porter who carried the light luggage and watched speculatively by another in charge of their cabin trunks, moved further into the shed to a more private position, and beyond Stainsby's straining ears. He saw exchange of words, gestures, and for a time gathered nothing. But there where the detectives were grouped with their captives strange things were happening.
In the course of his professional career Wedgwood had often been suddenly surprised himself and had just as often seen surprise expressed on the faces of other people. But, much to his astonishment, he had hardly uttered the word forgery when he saw a surprise in Thomas Wraypoole's expression which he knew, beyond doubt, to be genuine. Wraypoole, indeed, laughed—and the laugh was a sneer.
"Forgery?" he exclaimed. "And whose name have I forged! Not yours, I'll warrant!"
Wedgwood gave him a keen look and Wraypoole laughed again—this time with obvious contempt.
"Off it again, Wedgwood!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "And worse than ever, this time!"
"We'll see about that!" said Wedgwood. "Step further this way—I don't want a scene."
"No time to step that way," retorted Wraypoole. "My wife and I are going on that boat! There's all our luggage———"
"You're not going on that boat!" interrupted Wedgwood firmly. "You're going back to London with me! If you'd been on that boat—if you'd got off on it—you'd have been held on arrival at New York. I want you on a charge of forging the verification form of these passports you've just shown. What do you say to that, now?"
But as he snapped out this sharp and direct question Wedgwood had an uncomfortable feeling that he was on some wrong tack. If Wraypoole had looked genuinely surprised a minute before he now looked genuinely incredulous. What was more, the woman at his side who up to now had remained silent, gazing anxiously from one man to the other let out an equally incredulous exclamation: evidently she knew what the detective was talking about and knew he was wrong.
"That's utter nonsense!" retorted Wraypoole. "The verification forms were properly signed by Mr. Morgan Pugh, a solicitor near my old place in Wandsworth Road—my wife and I were present, of course, when he signed them. We went to him because he was close by. What's more, I've his receipt in my pocket for the fee I paid him." He set down a small handbag and after some rummaging in a breast pocket, found a paper and handed it to the detective. "There you are!" he said triumphantly. "What about that?"
"Wedgwood looked closely at the signature of the receipt—which was certainly on Morgan Pugh's notepaper. The signature coincided with that he had seen at the Passport Office, but not with that of the Morgan Pugh he had visited.
"What was this Morgan Pugh like that you saw?" he asked, handing the receipt back. "Describe him!"
"Man about thirty—tallish—slight beard and moustache," answered Wraypoole, promptly.
"A yellowish beard and moustache," corrected Mrs. Wraypoole. "And blue eyes!"
"Had you ever seen him before?" asked Wedgwood. "Ever done business with him?"
"No!" answered Wraypoole. "Never been there before, never set eyes on him before, though he was so near by. My regular solicitors are in the City. I went to this man because I knew that any solicitor would do———"
Wedgwood stopped him. He already had an idea. Somebody—probably a temporary clerk—had personated the real Morgan Pugh, put Wraypoole's money in his pocket, and said nothing about it. But he saw how he could turn this affair to important advantage.
"Come aside, Wraypoole," he said. "Now," he went on, as he drew his man a little way from the others, "I think there has been a mistake—it strikes me the man you saw was not Morgan Pugh at all, but some clerk or other solicitor doing duty for him. Still, I've only your word for it—and there's this warrant! Where are you off to, Wraypoole, and why?"
"New York first—then the Argentine—oil business!" answered Wraypoole. "And it's a bit of a honeymoon—she was my housekeeper; we were married a week ago. I can give you my New York address."
He thrust a card into the detective's hand, and Wedgwood suddenly made up his mind.
"Look here!" he said. "I've been making enquiries about you because your movements have been, to say the least of them, suspicious. But you answer me two questions, truthfully and promptly, and I'll make it right about that warrant instead of detaining you till I've enquired into the Pugh business. First, from whom did that cheque for five thousand pounds come that you had specially cleared at your bank the other day?"
"From a City firm, Ledsham, Castleford and Company, who—secretly, mind you—are going into this oil business with me,"replied Wraypoole, promptly. "Their place is in Queen Victoria Street."
"Very well!" said Wedgwood. "Now the other—and most important! Who was the man you saw John with the evening of the murder? Come now!"
Wraypoole hesitated. Then he caught sight of his wife's agitated face.
"Well, I'll tell you!" he said, suddenly. "But I don't believe he'd anything to do with it. A man named Levigne, a financial chap, who has an office not far from where they were talking, top of Chancery Lane."
"You mean Levigne who's a director of that new Mortover Main Colliery Company?" said Wedgwood. "Lives in Cleveland Square?"
"That's the man! But———"
Wedgwood motioned him to join his wife.
"All right, Wraypoole!" he said. "You should have told me that before! Off you go—you've a quarter of an hour left. And—if your evidence is wanted you'll come across!"
A moment later the inquisitive apprentice saw Wraypoole and his wife actually shake hands with the three detectives, Wedgwood making some evidently humorous remark in the process and hurry with their belongings to the steamer, where they were speedily swallowed up amongst a crowd of fellow-passengers. And stealing out of his hiding-place he made his way to where Wedgwood and the other men were talking, and pulled Wedgwood's sleeve.
"What's that mean?" he demanded. "You've not let them go!"
Wedgwood looked round. He had forgotten Stainsby.
"Been a slight mistake, my lad!" he said. "Never mind—I've got the most valuable bit of information I've had since I started on this business!" He rubbed his hands at the thought of it. "Come on!" he said. "We're just going to have a cup of tea together before I get off to London again—you'll be coming with me, of course."
Stainsby gave another glance at the long, black hull of the liner. There had been no grand dramatic scene, after all!
"I don't understand!" he growled.
"Daresay you don't my lad!" chuckled Wedgwood, who seemed to be in great good humour and immensely pleased with himself. "But you will—you will in time!"
The apprentice followed unwillingly and sat glowering and gumpy while the three detectives chatted and gossiped over their tea. And when later he and Wedgwood boarded the train for London and Wedgwood explained what had taken place with Wraypoole on the landing-stage he shook his head disapprovingly.
"I suppose you know your job better than I do, Mr. Wedgwood!" he muttered. "But I wouldn't have believed a word Thomas Wraypoole said. I should say he stuck Mr. Morgan Pugh's name in those papers himself!"
"Mr. Pugh can settle that matter, my lad," replied Wedgwood. "To-morrow, or next day, or the day after—I'm not particular about that, or when! I got a bit of information from Wraypoole that'll probably help me more than anything I've had so far, and I shouldn't have got it if I hadn't put him in a bit of a temporary fix. But I feel sure my notion's right—Wraypoole didn't see Pugh about these verifications; he saw some man who was deputising for Pugh, and who, knowing that Wraypoole was off, put Wraypoole's money in his pocket, see!"
"So Wraypoole's suspected no longer?" suggested Stainsby.
"I think we can dismiss him!" assented Wedgwood.
"Who's suspected now, then?" demanded the apprentice.
But Wedgwood only laughed. Stainsby had been useful enough, and he should have his reward, but there was no reason why he should be taken into full confidence. For now, consequent on Thomas Wraypoole's tardy admission Wedgwood thought he saw daylight.
Levigne! That, in all probability, was the man he wanted to get hold of—not, perhaps for actual guilt as regards the murder of John Wraypoole, but as one who knew the real truth in the case and could point to the murderer. From an early stage of his investigations, Wedgwood had felt that there was somebody in the background, accessory before or after the crime who could tell a great deal if he or she would, and he had an instinctive feeling now, after Thomas Wraypoole's reluctant admission that Levigne was the man. Levigne was closely concerned with the affairs of the newly-found colliery company; it was he who had negotiated the sale of the Mortover estate to that company; in all likelihood he had a big financial stake in these transactions; possibly he had discovered that John Wraypoole's discoveries about Avice Mortover were likely to jeopardize his position. Anyway, Levigne was the man to go for next. And though it was half-past eight in the evening when Wedgwood got back to London, he parted from his still dissatisfied companion, and hurrying straight from Waterloo to Bayswater, knocked at the door of 581 Cleveland Square, soon after nine o'clock.
For some time nobody answered the detective's summons. While he waited he examined the exterior of the house. It was typical of the houses of that neighbourhood; a stuccoed or painted front, high, narrow, with a portico over the steps of the front door and a railing that shut off the area in front of the basement. He noticed at once that all the front windows were dark; there was not a gleam of light in either upper or lower windows, nor behind the glass panels of the door at which he waited. But looking more closely he saw that there was certainly a light in the basement, and at that he knocked more loudly, and discovering a bell at the side of the door gave it a good pull. A moment later he heard a key turn and a bolt withdrawn; a light was turned up in the hall, and the door opening he found himself in the presence of a young woman dressed as if for going out who stared at him with what he took for suspicion.
"Mr. Levigne at home?" asked Wedgwood promptly. "This is Mr. Levigne's, I think?" The young woman, who had only opened the door sufficiently to reveal her own presence, shook her head, making as if to close it altogether.
"It's Mr. Levigne's, yes," she replied. "But he's not at home."
"Can you tell me what time he's likely to be in?" asked Wedgwood. "I want to see him to-night, particularly."
"I can't say," she answered. "He mightn't be in to-night. Mr. Levigne's often away on business.'
"Can you tell me if I should be likely to find him at his office, in Chancery Lane, to-morrow morning?" enquired the detective. "The matter is important."
The young woman shook her head; Wedgwood saw that she knew nothing about Chancery Lane in relation to Levigne.
"I can't say, I'm sure," she replied. "I don't know anything about the office arrangements." She hesitated a moment, still gazing doubtfully at him. "What name shall I say?" she added.
"Thank you—it's no matter," answered Wedgwood. "I'll contrive to see Mr. Levigne elsewhere."
He lifted his hat and moved off; as he retreated he heard the door locked and bolted again. For a moment or two he lingered, wondering if it would pay him to watch the house a little? But he was already weary with a long day's work, and presently he went away, towards the Underground station at Queen's Road, intending to go home. As he walked into the booking-office he ran into Nottidge.
Nottidge was not only in a hurry, but was obviously excited. The instant he saw the detective he gripped him by the arm and drew him aside.
"The very man!" he exclaimed. "Look here, Wedgwood, I've been telephoning after you all this afternoon—couldn't get any news of you!"
"Been away," said Wedgwood. "What is it?"
"This! At noon to-day I got a letter—woman's handwriting—no signature—saying that if I'd be at the corner of Queen's Road and Westbourne Grove to-night about ninethirty the writer would meet me and give me some information. Of course, it's about my advertisement—first result I've got!"
"So you're going to keep this appointment?" said Wedgwood.
"Of course! Look here—can't you come along? Keep me in sight, you know! And if it's something that seems really important, I'll get the person, whoever she is, to tell the two of us. Come on!"
"Yes," agreed Wedgwood. He turned down Queen's Road at Nottidge's side. "You'd better be careful about what you say, at first. If the woman—if it is a woman—knows I'm a police-officer she may be off. Say I'm a friend of yours—don't mention anything about police or detectives."
"Leave it to me!" agreed Nottidge, eagerly. "I'll work it all right!"
Near the foot of Queen's Road he went forward alone, leaving Wedgwood to follow. The detective, sauntering slowly in his rear, but carefully keeping him in sight, saw him presently joined at the corner by the young woman whom he himself had just seen at the half-opened door in Cleveland Square.