Grey Mask

CHAPTER XXI

They went to the cinema. Charles did not see very much of the film. What on earth were they to do with the girl? Margaret was out all day. Would Greta sit at home like a good little girl and twiddle her thumbs? “I don’t think,” said Charles. He gazed gloomily at a close-up of a glad-eyed heroine embracing a strong, silent hero. The embrace seemed to last an unconscionable time.

They came out into a fine drizzle of rain. Charles felt himself touched on the arm. He looked round and saw an old lady in a black cloak and an old-fashioned bonnet. She was holding up an umbrella, but she held it tilted sideways so that Charles could see her face. Under the meekly banded hair Miss Maud Silver’s nondescript eyes looked at him.

For a yard or two they walked side by side. The umbrella was no longer tilted, but a small, old voice spoke from beneath it:

“Jaffray is just ahead of us-there, beyond the big man in the overcoat. I’d like you to follow him. He’s going to meet someone.”

Charles said, “All right,” and looked round for the rest of his party. Archie was in the road waving to a taxi; Margaret and Greta on the kerb.

He reached Margaret, said good-night hurriedly, and pursued the deaf man. It was easy enough to keep him in view without being remarked as long as the pavement was so crowded; one had only just to keep one’s own place in the stream and move with it. Presently, however, there was no stream, and Charles fell back a little. Mr. Jaffray got into a Hammersmith bus, and as he went inside, Charles thought it as well to go outside.

At Hammersmith Broadway Jaffray got out and walked again. Charles kept the other side of the narrow street. It went on drizzling, but Jaffray had no umbrella, nor had Charles. He reflected that an umbrella was the best disguise in the world.

Jaffray walked on and on. Charles had been wondering whether the man was merely going home; but he passed the turning that led to Gladys Villas and kept on at the same steady pace. When he came to the Great West Road, he turned on to it and kept on walking. Charles began to wonder whether he meant to walk to Slough-or Bath. However, after a quarter of a mile Jaffray stopped, took out a watch, looked at it, and began to walk slowly up and down.

Charles felt at a disadvantage. There is no cover on the Great West Road. Pedestrians are sufficiently few in number to attract attention, and every inch of the roadway and the spaces beside it were continually lit up by the glare of passing headlights. The place was about as public as the middle of an empty ball-room, and almost as brightly lighted.

Jaffray walked up and down, and Charles lurked as far from the track of the headlights as he could. Ten minutes passed. Charles decided that he had no vocation for the life of a sleuth; it appeared to him unutterably dreary, boring, flat, and dull. If it hadn’t been so damp, he would have sat down, gone to sleep-and finished the night as a drunk at the nearest police station. This exhilarating thought had just occurred to him, when something happened.

A large Daimler coming from London slowed down as it passed him and stopped near Jaffray. It stopped at the moment that Jaffray was shaking out an unusually large white handkerchief.

Charles meandered slowly toward the car. It had a London number. He noted it. By the time he had done this, Jaffray was in the car, and the car was off.

One cannot pursue a Daimler on foot. Charles went home in a most disgruntled mood.

On Monday morning he visited Miss Silver. She had finished the grey stockings, and was knitting something small, white, and fleecy that looked like a baby’s boot. She nodded to Charles and went on knitting,

“Sit down, Mr. Moray. Did you follow Jaffray?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What happened?”

Charles told her what happened. She nodded again.

“Yes, I knew it would be the Great West Road, and I didn’t think my make-up was altogether suitable. Did you see who was in the car?”

“One man.”

“Did you see his face?”

The busy needles stopped for a moment as she asked the question.

“He was wearing dark goggles,” said Charles.

Miss Silver went on knitting.

“I wish you had seen his face-but it can’t be helped.”

“I’ve got the number of the car.”

“So have I,” said Miss Silver. “Jaffray bought it on Friday.”

“Jaffray bought it!”

“Jaffray bought it from Hogstone and Cornhill. He paid for it in notes and took it away on Saturday afternoon to a garage in the Fulham Road.”

“Who fetched it away?” said Charles.

“Jaffray did. He called for it about eight o’clock on Saturday evening.”

Charles frowned.

“Jaffray called for it, but someone else drove it down the Great West Road and picked Jaffray up at eleven o’clock-”

“Of course I don’t know,” said Miss Silver; “but Jaffray probably parked the car somewhere, and the owner picked it up.”

“Who is the owner?”

“I wish you had seen his face,” said Miss Silver.

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know. I have the numbers of the notes. I will try and trace them back.” There was a pause. Then she said, ”Have you anything to tell me, Mr. Moray?”

Charles said, “No,” and then added, “I’ve things to ask you. I want to know more about the servants in the Standing household.”

“Who do you want to know about?”

“All the men servants, I think-a footman called William in particular.”

Miss Silver laid down her white fleecy knitting and took up the brown exercise-book.

“I have some notes about the servants here.” She turned the pages and read; “ ‘Pullen’-the butler’s name is Pullen.”

“How long has he been there?”

“A few weeks only. I was going to explain that to you-none of the servants have been there for more than a few weeks with the exception of the housekeeper, Mrs. Long, and her daughter, who is head housemaid. The house was shut up all the summer. Miss Standing was abroad for the summer holidays with her chaperone, Mrs. Beauchamp. Mr. Standing was not in town. Mrs. Long and her daughter act as caretakers, and Mrs. Long engages servants when Mr. Standing wishes the house to be opened. He came back for a fortnight in September, and was expected again next month. All the servants were engaged in September. Is that clear?”

“Quite.”

“Pullen, then, is the butler. I have what the French would call his dossier. His last place was with the Dowager Lady Perringham at her place in Dalesshire.” Miss Silver broke off and coughed gently. “Lady Perringham was fortunate enough not to suffer from the epidemic of burglary which took place in her neighbourhood last year.”

“There were burglaries?”

“I thought perhaps you might have read about them. Most of the big houses in the neighbourhood suffered. The historic Dale Leston silver was stolen, and has never been recovered. The Kingmore pearls were taken. Lady Perringham was fortunate. Pullen was with her for six months. Before that he was in Scotland with Mr. Mackay. Do you remember the St. Andrade burglary?”

Charles shook his head.

“I’ve been in the wilds.”

“Mr. St. Andrade is a Brazilian millionaire-that is, he made his money in Brazil. His wife had a collar of emeralds which were reputed to be the finest in the world. They were stolen whilst Mr. St. Andrade was occupying a shooting-box about five miles from Mr. Mackay’s. The thief was surprised, and the emeralds were dropped by him in his flight.”

“I see,” said Charles. “Go on.”

“There are two footmen,” said Miss Silver. “Frederick Smith-no, I don’t think there’s really anything of interest with regard to Frederick Smith-a coachman’s son; very respectable; last character satisfactory, three years. The other footman is William Cole. He was for three months with Mrs. James Barnard, and left at the close of the season with a good character. The only curious thing about William Cole is this-I can’t find out where he came from, or what he was doing before he went to Mrs. James Barnard.”

“Did anything odd happen whilst he was there-to Mrs. Barnard or to any of her friends?”

“No,” said Miss Silver. “No-not exactly, Mr. Moray. Of course there was the scandal about Mr. Barnard’s nephew.”

“What scandal?”

“It was hushed up. He was said to have forged his uncle’s name. He has left the country, I understand.”

There seemed to be a lot of tangled threads that led nowhere.

Charles hesitated. Then he said,

“There is some connection between William Cole and Egbert Standing. I think Egbert Standing is Number Thirty-two of Grey Mask’s little lot. William is probably Twenty-seven-I’m not sure-it might be Pullen. I don’t know about Pullen-he sounds a bit fishy. But I’m sure William is in it up to the neck, and I rather think he’s Number Twenty-seven.”

Miss Silver turned back the pages of the brown copy-book.

“Twenty-seven came to report. You saw him. What was he like?”

“I saw his back-tallish-thinnish-bowler hat-overcoat. Any number of him walking about all over London.”

“It might be William,” said Miss Silver. “Pullen is the typical butler-a stout sedate person.”

“It wasn’t Pullen.”

Miss Silver fixed her eyes upon him.

“Why do you think it was William?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“You are not being very frank, are you?”

“Not very,” said Charles with a disarming smile.

Miss Silver sighed. After a pause she proceeded to give the dull histories of housemaids, bootboys, and so forth.

“Any news of Miss Standing?” said Charles.

Miss Silver gazed placidly at him.

“Do you wish me to give you news of Miss Standing?” she said.

It was years since Charles had blushed; he did not blush now. He smiled delightfully.

“Or of Miss Langton?” said Miss Silver, still gazing.

She saw the dark colour come into his face. With a little nod she turned her attention to the white bootee.

Charles took his leave. He admired Miss Silver; but he became aware that he was a good deal afraid of her.