The Box with Broken Seals

CHAPTER XVI

The City of Boston docked in Liverpool on Sunday night. On Tuesday, at five o’clock in the afternoon, Crawshay, who had been waiting at Euston Station for a quarter of an hour or so, almost dragged Brightman out of the long train which drew slowly into the station.

“We’ll take a taxi somewhere,” the former said. “It’s the safest place to talk in. Any other luggage?”

“Only the bag I’m carrying,” the detective replied. “I have got some more stuff coming up, if you want me to keep on this job.”

“I think I shall,” Crawshay told him. “I want to hear how you got on. I gathered from your first telegram that you were on the track. Where did you mean to stay?”

“I’ve no choice.”

“The Savoy, then,” Crawshay decided. “Jocelyn Thew is staying there, and you may be able to keep an eye on him. Here we are. Taxi? — Savoy! — Now, Brightman.”

“You don’t want me to make a long story of it, sir,” Brightman observed, as they drove off.

“Just the things that count, that’s all.”

“Well, we got on the track of the car all right,” the detective began, “and traced it to a small village called Frisby, the other side of Chester, and to the house of a Mrs. Phillips, a woman in poor circumstances who had just removed from Liverpool. She was the widow, all right. She showed us letters, and plenty of them, from her husband in New York. It appears that Gant alone had brought the coffin, which was left at the cemetery, and the funeral will have taken place t his afternoon. Mrs. Phillips was full of his praises, and it seems that he had paid her over the whole of the money you spoke about — five thousand dollars.”

“There was no chicanery so far, then,” Crawshay observed. “The man was dead, of course?”

“Absolutely,” Brightman declared, “and his death seems to have taken place exactly according to the certificate. Here comes the point, however. With the aid of the local police and the doctor whom we called in, the bandage around the wound was removed. We found in its place a perfectly fresh one, bought in Liverpool, not in the least resembling the silk-lined fragment which the ship’s doctor brought into the cabin.”

Crawshay looked gloomily out of the window.

“Well, I imagine that that settles the question of how the papers got into England,” he sighed.

“Our job, I suppose,” the detective reminded him, “is to see that they don’t get out again.”

“Precisely!”

“In a sense,” Brightman continued, “that is a toughish job, isn’t it, because whoever has them now can make as many copies as he chooses, and one set would be certain to get through.”

“As against that,” Crawshay explained, “some of the most valuable documents are signed letters, of which only the originals would be worth anything. There are also some exceedingly complicated diagrams of New York harbours, a plan of all the battleships in existence and projected, a wonderful submarine destroyer, and a new heavy gun. These things are very complicated, and to carry conviction must be in the original. Besides that,” he added, dropping his voice, “there is the one most important thing of all, but of which as yet no one has spoken, and of which I dare scarcely speak even to you.”

“Is it in the shape of a drawing?” Brightman asked.

“It is not,” was the whispered reply. “It is a letter, written by the greatest man in one of the greatest countries in the world, to the greatest personage in Europe. There is a secret reward offered of half a million dollars for the return of that letter alone.”

“The affair seems worth looking into,” Brightman remarked, stroking his little black moustache.

“I can promise you that the governments on both sides will pay handsomely,” Crawshay assured him. “I have had my chance but let it slip. You know I had my training at Scotland Yard, but out in the States I found that I simply had to forget all that I knew. Their methods are entirely different from ours, and you see what a failure I have made of it. I have let them get away with the papers under my very nose.”

“I can’t see that you were very much to blame, Mr. Crawshay,” the detective observed. “It was a unique trick, and very cleverly worked out.”

They had turned off the main thoroughfare and were now brought to a standstill in the courtyard leading to the Savoy. Suddenly Crawshay gripped his companion by the arm and directed his attention to a man who was buying some roses in the florist’s shop.

“You see that man?” he said. “Watch him carefully. I’ll tell you why when we get inside.”

The eyes of Mr. Brightman and Jocelyn Thew met over the gorgeous cluster of red roses which the girl was in the act of removing from the window, and from that moment the struggle which was to come assumed a different character. Brightman’s thin mouth seemed to have tightened until the line of red had almost disappeared. There was a flush upon his sallow cheeks. The hand which was gripping his walking stick went white about the knickles. But in Jocelyn Thew there was no change save a little added glitter in the eyes. There was nothing else to indicate that the recognition was mutual.

“Well, what about him?” Brightman asked, as their taxicab moved on. “What does he call himself?”

“Mr. Jocelyn Thew is his name,” Crawshay replied. “He was on the steamer. It is he, and not Gant, whom we have to make for. The plot which we have to unravel, which Gant and Phillips, and, unwittingly, Miss Beverley carried through, was of his scheming.”

“Mr. Jocelyn Thew,” the detective repeated as they passed through the swing doors. “So that is how he calls himself now!”

“You know him?”

“Know him!” Brightman repeated bitterly. “The last time I saw him I could have sworn that I had him booked for Sing Sing prison. He got out of it, as he always has done. Some one else paid. It was the greatest failure I had when I was in the States. So he is in this thing, is he?”

“He is not only very much in it,” Crawshay replied, “but he is the brains of the whole expedition. He is the man to whom Gant delivered those documents some time last night.”

They found two easy-chairs in the smoking room and ordered cocktails. Mr. Brightman sat forward in his chair. He was one of those men whose individuality seems to rise to any call made upon it. He was indifferently dressed, by no means good-looking, and he had started life as a policeman. Just now, however, he seemed to sink quite naturally into his surroundings. Nothing about his appearance seemed worthy of note except the determination of his very dogged mouth.

“I accepted your commission a short time ago, Mr. Crawshay,” he said, “with the interest which one always feels in Government business of a remunerative character. I tell you now that I would have taken it on eagerly if there had not been a penny hanging to it. I can’t tell you exactly why I feel so bitterly about him, but if I can really get my hands on to the man who calls himself Jocelyn Thew, it will be one of the happiest days of my life.”

“You really know something about him, then? He really is a bad lot?” Crawshay asked eagerly.

“The worst that ever breathed,” Brightman declared, “the bravest, coolest, best-bred scoundrel who ever mocked the guardians of the law. Mind you, I am not saying that he hasn’t done other things. He has travelled and fought in many countries, but when he comes back to civilisation he can’t rest. The world has to hear of him. Things move in New York underground. The moment he takes rooms at the Carlton-Ritz, things happen in a way that they have never happened before, and we know that there’s genius at the back of it all, and Jocelyn Thew smiles in our faces. I tell you that if anything could have kept me in America, although I very much prefer Liverpool, the chance of laying my hands on this man would have done it.”

Through the swing doors, almost as Brightman had concluded his speech, came Jocelyn Thew. He was dressed in light tweeds, carefully fashioned by an English tailor. His tie and collar, his grey Homburg hat with its black band, his beautifully polished and not too new brown shoes, were exactly according to the decrees of Bond Street. He seemed to be making his way to the bar, but at the sight of them he paused and strolled across the room towards them.

“Getting your land legs, Mr. Crawshay?” he enquired.

“Pretty well, thank you. You finished your business in Liverpool quickly, I see.”

“More urgent business brought me to London. I dined and spent last evening, by-the-by, with Doctor Gant — the doctor who was in attendance upon that poor fellow who died on the way over.”

“A very ingenious gentleman,” Crawshay observed drily.

“Ah! you appreciate that, do you?” Jocelyn Thew replied, with a faint smile. “You should go and cultivate his acquaintance. He is staying over at the Regent Palace Hotel.”

“One doesn’t always attach oneself to the wrong person, Mr. Thew.”

“Even the stupidest people in the world,” Jocelyn Thew agreed, “can scarcely make mistakes all the time, can they? By the way,” he went on, turning towards the detective, “is it my fancy or have I not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brightman in America? I fancied so when I saw him board the steamer in the Mersey on Sunday, but it did not fall to my lot to receive the benefit of his offices.”

“I was just telling Mr. Crawshay that I had had the pleasure of professional dealings with you,” Brightman said drily. “I was also lamenting the fact that they had not ended according to my desires.”

“Mr. Brightman was always ambitious,” the newcomer observed, with gentle satire. “He is, I am sure, a most persevering and intelligent member of his profession, but he flies high.”

“I am much obliged for your commendation,” Brightman said bluntly. “As regards professions, I was just explaining to Mr. Crawshay that you were almost at the top of the tree in yours.”

“If you have discovered my profession,” Jocelyn Thew replied, “you have succeeded where my dearest friends have failed. Pray do not make a secret of it, Mr. Brightman.”

“I have heard you called an adventurer,” was the prompt reply.

“It is a term with which I will not quarrel,” Jocelyn declared. “I certainly am one of those who appreciate adventures, who have no pleasure in sitting down in these grey-walled, fog-hung cities, and crawling about with one’s nose on the pavements like a dog following an unclean smell. No, that has not been my life. I have sought fortune in most quarters of the globe, sometimes found it and sometimes lost it, sometimes with one weapon in my hand and sometimes with another. So perhaps you are right, Mr. Brightman, when you call me an adventurer.”

“These very uncomfortable times,” Crawshay remarked, “rather limit the sphere in which one may look for stirring events.”

“You are wrong, believe me,” Jocelyn Thew replied earnestly. “The stories of the Arabian Nights would seem tame, if one had the power of seeing what goes on around us in the most unsuspected places. But we are digressing. Mr. Brightman and I were speaking together. It occurred to me, from what he said, that he has not quite the right idea as to my aspirations, as to the place I desire to fill in life. I shall try to give him an opportunity to form a saner judgment.”

“It will give me the utmost pleasure to accept it,” the detective confessed, with ill-concealed acerbity.

Jocelyn Thew sighed lightly. He had seated himself upon the arm of a neighbouring easy-chair and was resting his hand upon the head of a cane he was carrying.

“If our friend Brightman here has a fault,” he said, “in the execution of his daily duties, it is that he brings to bear into his task a certain amount of prejudice, from which the mind of the ideal detector of crime should be free. Now you would scarcely believe it, Mr. Crawshay, I am sure, to judge from his amiable exterior, but Mr. Brightman is capable of very strong dislikes, of one of which, alas! I am the object. Now this is not as it should be. You see what might happen, supposing Mr. Brightman were engaged to watch a little coterie, or, in plainer parlance, a little gang of supposed misdemeanants. If by any possible stretch of his imagination he could connect me with them, I should be the one he would go for all the time, and although I perhaps carry my fair burden of those peccadilloes to which the law, rightly or wrongly, takes exception, still, in this particular instance I might be the innocent one, and in Mr. Brightman’s too great eagerness to fasten evil things upon me, the real culprit might escape. — Thank you, Mr. Crawshay,” he added, accepting the cocktail which the waiter had presented. “Let us drink a little toast together. Shall we say ‘Success to Mr. Brightman’s latest enterprise, whatever it may be!’”

Crawshay glanced at his companion.

“I think we can humour our friend by drinking that toast, Brightman,” he said.

“I shall drink it with great pleasure,” the detective agreed.

They set down their empty glasses. Jocelyn Thew rose regretfully to his feet.

“I fear,” he said, “that I must tear myself away. We shall meet again, I trust. And, Mr. Brightman, a word with you. If you are in town for a holiday, if you have no business to worry you just at present, why not practise on me for a time? Watch me. Find out the daily incidents of my life. See what company I keep, where I spend my spare time — you know — and all the rest of it. I can assure you that although I am not the great criminal you fancy me, I am a most interesting person to study. Take my advice, Mr. Brightman. Keep your eye upon me.”

They watched him on the way to the door — a little languid but exceedingly pleasant to look upon, exceedingly distinguished and prepossessing. A look of half unwilling admiration crept into Brightman’s face.

“Whatever that man really may be,” he declared, “he is a great artist.”

The swing door leading from the room into the café was pushed open, and a woman entered. She stood for a moment looking around until her eyes fell upon Jocelyn Thew. Crawshay suddenly gripped the detective’s arm.

“Is there anything for us in this, my friend?” he whispered. “Watch Jocelyn Thew’s face!”

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