CHAPTER XXI
MR. GAVIN SMEATON
I walked into a room right at the top of the building, wherein a youngman of thirty or thereabouts was sitting at a desk, putting together aquantity of letters which a lad, standing at his side, was evidentlyabout to carry to the post. He was a good-looking, alert, businesslikesort of young man this, of a superior type of countenance, very welldressed, and altogether a noticeable person. What first struck me abouthim was, that though he gave me a quick glance when, having first tappedat his door and walked inside his office, I stood there confronting him,he finished his immediate concern before giving me any further attention.It was not until he had given all the letters to the lad and bade himhurry off to the post, that he turned to me with another sharp look andone word of interrogation.
"Yes?" he said.
"Mr. Gavin Smeaton?" asked I.
"That's my name," he answered. "What can I do for you?"
Up to that moment I had not the least idea as to the exact reasons whichhad led me to climb those stairs. The truth was I had acted on impulse.And now that I was actually in the presence of a man who was obviously avery businesslike and matter-of-fact sort of person, I felt awkward andtongue-tied. He was looking me over all the time as if there was a wonderin his mind about me, and when I was slow in answering he stirred a bitimpatiently in his chair.
"My business hours are over for the day," he said. "If it's business--"
"It's not business in the ordinary sense, Mr. Smeaton," I made shift toget out. "But it is business for all that. The fact is--you'll rememberthat the Berwick police sent you a telegram some days ago asking did youknow anything about a man named John Phillips?"
He showed a sudden interest at that, and he regarded me with aslight smile.
"You aren't a detective?" he inquired.
"No--I'm a solicitor's clerk," I replied. "From Berwick--my principal,Mr. Lindsey, has to do with that case."
He nodded at a pile of newspapers, which stood, with a heavy book on topof it, on a side table near his desk.
"So I see from these papers," he remarked. "I've read all I could aboutthe affairs of both Phillips and Crone, ever since I heard that my nameand address had been found on Phillips. Has any further light beenthrown on that? Of course, there was nothing much in my name and addressbeing found on the man, nor would there be if they were found on anyman. As you see, I'm a general agent for various sorts of foreignmerchandise, and this man had likely been recommended to me--especiallyif he was from America."
"There's been no further light on that matter, Mr. Smeaton," Ianswered. He had pointed me to a chair at his desk side by that time,and we were mutually inspecting each other. "Nothing more has beenheard on that point."
"Then--have you come purposely to see me about it?" he asked.
"Not at all!" said I. "I was passing along this street below, and I sawyour name on the door, and I remembered it--and so I just came up."
"Oh!" he said, looking at me rather blankly. "You're staying inDundee--taking a holiday?"
"I came to Dundee in a fashion I'd not like to follow on any otheroccasion!" said I. "If a man hadn't lent me this suit of clothes and asovereign, I'd have come ashore in my undergarments and without a penny."
He stared at me more blankly than ever when I let this out on him, andsuddenly he laughed.
"What riddle's all this?" he asked. "It sounds like a piece out of astory-book--one of those tales of adventure."
"Aye, does it?" said I. "Only, in my case, Mr. Smeaton, fact's been a lotstranger than fiction! You've read all about this Berwick mystery in thenewspapers?"
"Every word--seeing that I was mentioned," he answered.
"Then I'll give you the latest chapter," I continued. "You'll know myname when you hear it--Hugh Moneylaws. It was I discovered Phillips'sdead body."
I saw that he had been getting more and more interested as wetalked--at the mention of my name his interest obviously increased. Andsuddenly he pulled a box of cigars towards him, took one out, andpushed the box to me.
"Help yourself, Mr. Moneylaws--and go ahead," he said. "I'm willing tohear as many chapters as you like of this story."
I shook my head at the cigars and went on to tell him of all that hadhappened since the murder of Crone. He was a good listener--he took inevery detail, every point, quietly smoking while I talked, and neverinterrupting me. And when I had made an end, he threw up his head with asignificant gesture that implied much.
"That beats all the story-books!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad to see you'resafe, anyway, Mr. Moneylaws--and your mother and your young lady'll beglad too."
"They will that, Mr. Smeaton," I said. "I'm much obliged to you."
"You think that man really meant you to drown?" he asked.
"What would you think yourself, Mr. Smeaton?" I replied. "Besides--didn'tI see his face as he got himself and his yacht away from me? Yon man is amurderer!"
"It's a queer, strange business," he remarked, nodding his head. "You'llbe thinking now, of course, that it was he murdered both Phillips andCrone--eh?"
"Aye, I do think that!" said I. "What else? And he wanted to silence mebecause I'm the only living person that could let out about seeing him atthe cross-roads that night and could prove that Crone saw him too. My ownimpression is that Crone went straight to him after his talk with me--andpaid the penalty."
"That's likely," he assented. "But what do you think made him turn on youso suddenly, yesterday, when things looked like going smoothly abouteverything, and he'd given you that stewardship--which was, of course, tostop your mouth?"
"I'll tell you," I said. "It was Mr. Lindsey's fault--he let out too muchat the police-court. Carstairs was there--he'd a seat on the bench--andMr. Lindsey frightened him. Maybe it was yon ice-ax. Mr. Lindsey's gotsome powerful card up his sleeve about that--what it is I don't know. ButI'm certain now--now!--that Carstairs took a fear into his head at thoseproceedings yesterday morning, and he thought he'd settle me once and forall before I could be drawn into it and forced to say things that wouldbe against him."
"I daresay you're right," he agreed. "Well!--it is indeed a strangeaffair, and there'll be some stranger revelations yet. I'd like to seethis Mr. Lindsey--you're sure he'll come to you here?"
"Aye!--unless there's been an earthquake between here and Tweed!" Ideclared. "He'll be here, right enough, Mr. Smeaton, before many hoursare over. And he'll like to see you. You can't think, now, of how, orwhy, yon Phillips man could have got that bit of letter paper of yourson him? It was like that," I added, pointing to a block of memorandumforms that stood in his stationery case at the desk before him. "Justthe same!"
"I can't," said he. "But--there's nothing unusual in that; somecorrespondent of mine might have handed it to him--torn it off one of myletters, do you see? I've correspondents in a great many seaports andmercantile centres--both here and in America."
"These men will appear to have come from Central America," I remarked."They'd seem to have been employed, one way or another, on that PanamaCanal affair that there's been so much in the papers about these last fewyears. You'd notice that in the accounts, Mr. Smeaton?"
"I did," he replied. "And it interested me, because I'm from those partsmyself--I was born there."
He said that as if this fact was of no significance. But the news made meprick up my ears.
"Do you tell me that!" said I. "Where, now, if it's a fair question?"
"New Orleans--near enough, anyway, to those parts," he answered. "But Iwas sent across here when I was ten years old, to be educated and broughtup, and here I've been ever since."
"But--you're a Scotsman?" I made bold to ask him.
"Aye--on both sides--though I was born out of Scotland," he answered witha laugh. And then he got out of his chair. "It's mighty interesting, allthis," he went on. "But I'm a married man, and my wife'll be wantingdinner for me. Now, will you bring Mr. Lindsey to see me in themorning--if he comes?"
"He'll come--and I'll bring him," I ans
wered. "He'll be right glad to seeyou, too--for it may be, Mr. Smeaton, that there is something to betraced out of that bit of letter paper of yours, yet."
"It may be," he agreed. "And if there's any help I can give, it's at yourdisposal. But you'll be finding this--you're in a dark lane, with somequeer turnings in it, before you come to the plain outcome of all thisbusiness!"
We went down into the street together, and after he had asked if therewas anything he could do for me that night, and I had assured him therewas not, we parted with an agreement that Mr. Lindsey and I should callat his office early next morning. When he had left me, I sought out aplace where I could get some supper, and, that over, I idled about thetown until it was time for the train from the south to get in. And I wason the platform when it came, and there was my mother and Maisie and Mr.Lindsey, and I saw at a glance that all that was filling each was sheerand infinite surprise. My mother gripped me on the instant.
"Hugh!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here, and what does all thismean? Such a fright as you've given us! What's the meaning of it?"
I was so taken aback, having been certain that Carstairs would have gonehome and told them I was accidentally drowned, that all I could do was tostare from one to the other. As for Maisie, she only looked wonderinglyat me; as for Mr. Lindsey, he gazed at me as scrutinizingly as my motherwas doing.
"Aye!" said he, "what's the meaning of it, young man? We've done yourbidding and more--but--why?"
I found my tongue at that.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Haven't you seen Sir Gilbert Carstairs? Didn't youhear from him that--"
"We know nothing about Sir Gilbert Carstairs," he interrupted. "The factis, my lad, that until your wire arrived this afternoon, nobody had evenheard of you and Sir Gilbert Carstairs since you went off in his yachtyesterday. Neither he nor the yacht have ever returned to Berwick. Whereare they?"