*CHAPTER XXIII*
*THE CRY IN THE NIGHT*
Marigold, hoping against hope, went each day from Wimbledon to the bank,where she sat adding and subtracting figures--always wondering. Eachmorning, after a hurried breakfast, she dashed to the station and hungupon a swaying strap till she got to the City. Each evening sherepeated the same experience home.
Gerald was missing. No further word had come nom him. She waited aseach day passed--waited eagerly, but he gave no sign. Each day she wentto eat her frugal meal at the same little place, but his familiar figurenever appeared in the doorway, as she knew it so well. His sister hadheard nothing, and at Mincing Lane they were beginning to think that hehad simply left his post without notice, perhaps in order to betterhimself.
For Marigold the days passed wearily enough. Where was he? True, he hadsent her reassuring telegrams, but even they had ceased! He had givenno address, therefore she was unable to reply.
She was, of course, in utter ignorance that her lover was on the highseas bound for the Far East, and that the reassuring telegrams she hadreceived were forgeries.
The abnormal brain of Bernard Boyne worked quickly, and ever withcriminal intent. He was possessed of the criminal "kink," and was alsopossessed of a super-mind for the evasion of any attempt at detection.Such men, "Jack the Ripper" of London, "Romer" of Madrid, "LightningLasky" of New York, and the "Ermito" of Rome--all of them famouscriminals who have never been discovered by the police of Europe, thoughtraps were set for them by the dozen--were exactly on a par with thehumble insurance agent of Hammersmith, the highly popular "Busy Boyne."
One evening, three days after the news had been forthcoming concerningthe death of Mrs. Morrison, Marigold went over to see her aunt atHammersmith, arriving there about seven o'clock.
"Hulloa, my dear!" shouted old Mrs. Felmore, when she entered thedownstairs kitchen. "Well, and how have you been, eh? Heard anythingof Mr. Durrant yet?"
"Not a word, auntie," replied the girl wearily.
"And funny enough Mr. Boyne's gone away. I haven't seen him these lastthree days. I can't think where he can be. I have a kind of feelingthat something must have happened to him," said the deaf old woman.
"Why, auntie?" asked the girl, placing her hand-bag upon the table andsinking into a chair.
"Well, he's never gone away like this before. He always tells me whenhe intends being away."
"When was he at home last?"
"Three days ago. He went out in the evening, and he's not returned.I've had to feed poor little Nibby, or he'd be starving," replied thewoman.
"Yes, auntie, it is curious that Mr. Boyne isn't back."
"It's so lonely here. I get such creepy feelings at night, dear," saidthe woman. "It's bad enough to be here all day alone, but--well, Idon't know, but I have a feeling that something is going to happen."
That feeling would have been greatly increased had she but known that,not ten minutes before, Boyne had stood at the corner of the street andwatched the girl enter his house. Indeed, he had waited outside thebank, and had seen Marigold come out. Then he had followed her, andwith satisfaction, when she had taken the underground to Hammersmith.
As he followed her in the crowd along the street, he muttered somesinister words beneath his breath:
"I have dealt with your lover, young lady," he growled to himself. "NowI must lose no time in dealing with you. You have only yourselves toblame for trying to poke your noses into my private affairs!"
Then he watched her disappear down the area steps, and afterwardscrossed the bridge, and made a call upon a man he knew who lived inCastelnau Mansions.
Old Mrs. Felmore got her niece some cold meat and tea, for the girl hadtaken off her coat and hat, having decided to spend the evening with heraunt.
Much of their conversation concerned Gerald Durrant. The abrupt mannerof his departure was, of course, a complete mystery, but the old womaninwardly had her doubts. What more likely than that Durrant, like somany other young men, had grown suddenly tired of Marigold and had"faded out," sending those reassuring telegrams in order to lighten theblow which he knew the poor girl would receive? This, indeed, was herfixed opinion, though naturally she said nothing of it to her niece.
"Auntie," said the girl presently, "I can't help feeling that somethingserious has happened to Gerald. I seem to become more apprehensive dayby day, until I can't work--I can only sit and think--and think!"
"No, no, dearie," exclaimed the old woman cheerfully. "You mustn't letit get on your nerves. Those telegrams he sent told you not to worry.And I wouldn't--if I were you! It will all come right in the end."
"Ah!" sighed the girl. "Will it?--that is the question. Time is goingby, and we hear nothing."
"He's probably in Paris--or somewhere--on some confidential business forhis firm."
"But his firm know nothing of his whereabouts."
"Well, if he had gone on some secret business they would naturallyprofess ignorance," the woman pointed out.
"Do you know, I'm half inclined to go to the police and consult them,"Marigold said.
"Ah! That's not a bad idea!" her aunt replied. "Go to the headpolice-station just outside the Broadway, and ask their opinion. Theywould take his description and advise you what to do, no doubt. I'd goto-morrow."
"I shan't have time to-morrow," the girl said. "I'll go round now. It'sonly nine o'clock." And, putting on her hat and coat, she went along tothe headquarters of the T Division of Metropolitan Police.
But as she passed along the streets a dark figure went noiselesslybehind her--the sinister figure of Bernard Boyne. She was going in thedirection of the Underground Railway station, hence he concluded thatshe was on her way home.
He, however, received a rude and sudden shock when he saw her haltbeneath the blue lamp, and ascend the steps of the police-station.
"Phew!" he gasped aloud. "Whatever is she there for? To give evidenceagainst me--to put the police upon my track! By Jove! There's no timeto lose. It must be done to-night!"
Next instant he turned, and going to the railway station he obtained aleather handbag from the cloak-room, and hastened with it back to hishouse. He wore rubber heels to his shoes, and moved swiftly and almostnoiselessly.
In the darkness he ascended the steps, and opened the front door withhis key. There was no light in the hall, and he could see through theVenetian blind of the kitchen that Mrs. Felmore was below.
Without passing into the sitting-room, he went straight upstairs to themysterious apartment in which the hooded figure lived in secret. First,he placed his handkerchief over his mouth, and then, opening the door,passed in and switched on an electric torch which he produced from hispocket.
Without hesitation he unlocked the heavy bag, and took therefrom a longnarrow deal box, which he opened, apparently to make certain thatnothing was broken within, and then, placing it upon a table, drew downa little electric switch which was fitted at one end of the box.
Afterwards, scarcely looking around, he left the room, relocked thedoor, and crept out of the house without anyone having seen or heardhim, old Mrs. Felmore being quite unconscious of her master's secretvisit.
Back at the end of Hammersmith Bridge, Boyne glanced at his watch; then,chuckling to himself, he hurried to the police-station, in order towatch Marigold farther in case she had not already left.
When the girl had told the sergeant on duty the reason of her visit, shewas passed upstairs into a room, where she was seen by the Inspector ofthe Criminal Investigation Department attached to the Division, aclean-shaven, fresh-complexioned man, who listened to her story veryattentively.
From time to time he took notes of names and addresses.
"Have you any of the telegrams which the missing man sent you?" he askedpresently.
From her handbag she produced two of the messages, which he readcarefully.
"And since the twenty-third of last month
you've not seen him?" heasked.
"No," replied the girl.
"And in Mincing Lane they have heard nothing since the receipt of thelast telegram?"
"Nothing--neither has his sister."
The inspector looked her straight in the face, and said:
"I presume, Miss Ramsay, that this gentleman was a particular friend ofyours, eh?"
Marigold blushed slightly and responded in the affirmative.
"Is there any reason you suspect why he should have gone away sosuddenly? Did you--well, did you quarrel with him, for instance?"
"Not in the least. We were the best of friends," she answered. "I camehere to ask whether you could assist me in finding him."
The clean-shaven man drew his breath, and gravely shook his head.
"I fear that we shall be unable to help you," he replied.
"Why? He is missing. Surely the police can trace him!" she cried indisappointment.
"No. He is _not_ missing," was his answer. "The fact that he sentthose telegrams is sufficient to show that he is keeping out of the wayfor some purpose best known to himself. He has, no doubt, some secretfrom you."
"Secret from me?" she echoed in dismay. "No, we both had a secret."
The inspector only smiled. He, of course, thought she alluded to thefact that they were lovers.
She saw his amusement, and wondered whether she dare be frank and tellhim of their suspicions concerning Mr. Boyne. Yet the thought flashedacross her mind that the story of his visits to that upstairs room,clothed in that strange garb, would never be credited. The Londonpolice hear strange stories from hour to hour, many of them the resultof vivid imaginations, of hearsay, or deliberate attempts to incriminateinnocent persons. Malice is at the bottom of half the fantastic storiestold by women to officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, andMarigold saw that even though she told the truth, it would not bebelieved. Yet could she eliminate the real reason why her suspicionshad first been aroused? She resolved to be frank, therefore after abrief pause, she said:
"The secret shared by Mr. Durrant and myself was concerning a certainman, resident close by here."
"Oh! And what is it?" asked the officer eagerly.
"Well, we have certain suspicions regarding a gentleman named Boyne, wholives in Bridge Place."
"Boyne? Why, not old Bernie Boyne the insurance agent?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Oh--well, he's well known about Hammersmith," was the inspector'sdiscreet reply. "What about him?"
"There is something about him that is mysterious," declared the girl."Very mysterious."
"And what's that?"
"Well, Mr. Durrant was helping me to watch his movements when hesuddenly disappeared!"
"Ah! That's interesting. Did Boyne know you were watching?"
"No. He had no suspicion. We watched him go to two houses, one in PontStreet, and the other in Upper Brook Street," Marigold said. "At nighthe dresses smartly and goes into the West End."
"A good many men do that, miss. By day they earn their money honestlyby hard work, and at night fritter it away up West. I don't really seewhat there is in that. Isn't there anything else you know?"
Marigold hesitated. She feared to tell him of the strange disguise.
"Well, my aunt is Mr. Boyne's housekeeper, and I know that a room at thetop of the house is kept locked."
"A good many upstairs rooms are kept locked. There's nothing much inthat, I think."
"But I heard noises inside--a human cry!"
The inspector looked at her with disbelief written upon his rosycountenance.
"Are you quite sure of that, Miss--er--Miss Ramsay?" he asked seriously.
"Yes. I heard it," was her firm reply.
"Ah! Then, because of that you and Mr. Durrant believed that Boyne hassomebody in hiding upstairs. Is that so?"
She replied in the affirmative.
"And you don't think Boyne discovered that you were watching him? If hedid, I think he would have resented it very much, for I've met Boyneonce or twice. Indeed, I passed him in King Street an hour ago."
"You passed him! Perhaps he's back then. My aunt hasn't seen him forthree days."
"Well, I saw him in King Street to-night, but he didn't see me." Then,after a pause, he added: "I think, miss, you're mistaken regarding Mr.Boyne. I only know him slightly, but I know in what respect he is heldin the neighbourhood, and how his praises are upon everyone'slips--especially the church people."
"Then you don't think that he has anything to do with Mr. Durrant'sdisappearance?"
"Not in the least. I should dismiss that idea from my mind at once."
"But how about that locked room?"
"Your aunt will be able to fathom that if she keeps her eyes open," hesaid. "And as for Mr. Durrant, you'll no doubt hear from him very soon.To me it seems perfectly clear that he has some hidden motive forkeeping out of the way. Are his accounts at the office all right, forinstance?"
"Quite in order."
"Blackmail may be at the bottom of it. That accounts for the mysteriousdisappearance of lots of men and women."
"But who could blackmail Mr. Durrant?"
"Ah! you don't know. A little slip, a year or so ago, and the screw isnow being put on by those who know the truth. Oh! that is an everydayoccurrence in London, I assure you, Miss Ramsay."
"Then you can't help me to find him?" she asked eagerly, after a briefsilence.
"I don't see how we can act," was the officer's answer. "Had hedisappeared without a word we would, of course, circulate hisdescription and a photograph--if you have one?"
"Yes, I have one," she said anxiously.
"Good. But that is useless to us, for the simple reason that, afterleaving you, he has sent you messages telling you not to worry. In faceof that, how can we assume that anything tragic has happened to him?No, my dear young lady," he added. "I fear we cannot help youofficially, much as I regret it."
Five minutes later Marigold descended the stairs, and walked out intothe dark road utterly disconsolate and disappointed. Gerald wasmissing, yet the police would raise not a finger to assist her intracing him!
Yet, after all, as she walked back to Bridge Place, she saw quiteclearly that there was much truth in the detective-inspector's argument.Gerald had not suddenly disappeared and left no trace. He had urged hernot to worry, and the inspector had advised her to keep on hoping forhis return.
Later she sat in the kitchen with her aunt, and related all that hadpassed at the police-station.
"I quite agree with the inspector," declared the deaf old woman. "Thepolice can't search for every man who goes away and sends telegramssaying he has gone. You see, Mr. Durrant hasn't committed any crime,for instance. So there's no real reason why the police should act. Ifhe hadn't sent telegrams the case would be so different."
With that view the girl, greatly distressed and broken, had to agree.
It was then nearly ten o'clock, and at her aunt's suggestion Marigoldresolved to stay the night and keep the old woman company.
"You can have the same room you had a little time ago," she said. "Itis aired, for I always keep hot-water bottles in it in case it may bewanted. If you went home now, you wouldn't get there till half-pasteleven. Besides, it's more cheerful for me. I'm beginning to hate thisplace now Mr. Boyne never comes near."
"The inspector said he saw Mr. Boyne in King Street to-night," Marigoldsaid.
"Bosh! my dear," was old Mrs. Felmore's prompt reply. "He wouldn't bein King Street without coming home. It was somebody else he saw, nodoubt." And that was exactly what Marigold herself thought.
Soon after half-past ten, Mrs. Felmore put out the light, and they bothwent to bed.
For half an hour Marigold lay awake thinking it all over, and thinkingof the last occasion she had slept in that room, and of the mysteriouschamber upstairs whence had issued those strange human cries. Then, atlast, tired out, she dropped off to sleep.
How long she slept she knew not, but suddenly she was awakened by men'sshouts, and next instant found the room full of smoke. There was aroaring noise outside. Half suffocated she groped her way to the doorfrantically, only to find the staircase above in flames.
"Auntie! auntie!" she yelled, not recollecting that her aunt was deaf,but by dint of fierce courage she got to the old lady's room. As sheentered the door, Mrs. Felmore, half choking, met her in the red lightthrown by the flames, and together they sprang down the staircase, alongthe hall, and, after fumbling with the chain upon the door, dashed outof the house to where a number of people, including three policeconstables, were awaiting the arrival of the fire brigade.
Meanwhile the top floor of the house was burning fiercely, the flamesgoing up through the roof for many feet, and as there was rather a highwind, the sparks were flying everywhere.
Bernard Boyne's long deal box had sent petrol about the room of mysteryat the time to which it had been set, and already all evidence of whatwas contained there, and of the mysterious origin of the fire, had beenobliterated.
The insidious death-dealer had hoped to include Marigold and hishousekeeper in that relentless plot to destroy all that mightincriminate him.
But he was mistaken. Marigold Ramsay, though in her night attire--andwho had fainted in the arms of a constable--had escaped unscathed!