“I rather think they have been telephoning to the hospitals, but I told them not to communicate with the police till I had seen you. Wouldn’t do, you know. She would dislike it extremely, especially if it turns out as I fear and she has gone off with some other man.”
“I can’t see why she should have done that,” said Gimblet. “She was her own mistress, I suppose, and had no need to conceal her movements. Depend on it,” he went on, for the anxiety on Sir Gregory’s face moved him to pity, “she will be found at one of the hospitals; and I advise you to make inquiries at them. A woman, alone as she was, would be carried to one of them if she were taken ill or met with a slight accident that prevented her for the moment from giving her address.”
“But she was not alone,” urged Sir Gregory. “Miss Turner, her companion, was with her, of course.”
“Indeed,” said Gimblet, “you said nothing of there being anyone with her. And what has Miss Turner to say on the subject?”
“She’s not there. She’s vanished too.”
“Really,” said the detective. “This is getting interesting. That two ladies should set out for Covent Garden opera house on a gala night and never return from it, is, to say the least, slightly unconventional. Now, before we go any further,” he went on quickly, “what do you wish me to do in the matter?”
“I want you to find Mrs. Vanderstein, naturally,” returned Sir Gregory, staring at him in astonishment; “I feel the greatest anxiety on her account, the more so since you consider her likely to have met with an accident.”
“But if, as you seem to suspect, the lady has gone off deliberately, will she not be annoyed at our seeking her out? Will she not be angry with you for trying to discover her movements if she wishes them unknown?”
“I daresay she’d think it dashed impertinent. But I can’t help that. She may be in need of me; in fact,” cried Sir Gregory with sudden recollection, “I know she is! Don’t I tell you she telephoned for me last night? A most urgent message. That proves she wishes for my help in some matter of importance to her, and how can I assist her without knowing where she is?”
“As you say,” said Gimblet, “it does look as if she did not wish to leave you unacquainted with her whereabouts. Well, I have nothing to do just now and if you wish me to make inquiries I will do so with pleasure, though I do not think it will prove to be an affair altogether in my line.”
“Thank ’ee. Thank ’ee,” mumbled the old soldier with his cigar between his teeth. “That’s what I want. Now, how are you going to set about it?”
“I am going to ask you a few questions first. You have not yet furnished me with that comprehensive clear account in which the trivial details which look so unimportant and may yet be of such moment are never omitted: the lucid narrative so dear to the detective’s heart. I do not think, if you will pardon my saying so, that I am likely to get it from you, Sir Gregory.”
Sir Gregory glared, but said nothing; and Gimblet continued, with a smile:
“To begin with, who is Mrs. Vanderstein?”
“The widow of a Jewish money-lender.” Sir Gregory spoke somewhat shortly. He considered Gimblet’s remarks disrespectful.
“Rich, then?”
“Yes.”
“Does she live alone in Grosvenor Street?”
“A young lady, Miss Barbara Turner, lives with her.”
“And who is she?”
“She is the daughter of an old pal of Vanderstein’s. A man who used to train his racehorses at Newmarket. He was a bad lot and had to fly the country long ago. Dead now, I believe.”
“Has Miss Turner any money of her own?”
“Old Vanderstein left her a good large sum, £30,000 I think it is, but Mrs. Vanderstein has a life interest in it. The girl has nothing as long as she lives with Mrs. Vanderstein, who, however, I have no doubt, is most generous to her.”
“I suppose you know Miss Turner well? What is she like?”
“Oh, she’s a very ordinary girl, rather pretty some people think, apparently. I don’t admire the robust, muscular type that is fashionable nowadays. Mrs. Vanderstein is very fond of her.”
“That means you don’t like her yourself?”
Sir Gregory hesitated. It was not in him, really, to dislike anyone without very much provocation, but he always had an idea that Barbara was laughing at him, and he cherished his dignity.
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in the girl,” he grunted at last.
“Has Mrs. Vanderstein the full control of her fortune?” asked Gimblet, after a quick look at him.
“I believe she has, absolutely. But if you think I was after her for her money,” exclaimed Sir Gregory in an angry tone and half rising as he spoke, “you’re dashed well mistaken!”
Gimblet hastened to reassure him on this point and he sat down again, still grumbling.
“It was Vanderstein’s expressed wish that all the money should ultimately be left to his nephew, young Joe Sidney,” he explained, “and I am sure his widow would not disregard his ideas on that point.”
The dining-room faced south-west, and the afternoon sun, creeping round, already shone full on the small square panes of the casement windows, so that the temperature of the room was rapidly rising to an intolerable warmth. Gimblet thought of the train that was to have carried him to the golf links. It would have been unbearably hot in it, he told himself. And the disappearance of a wealthy lady from her house in London was sufficiently unusual to excite his curiosity. Already his vivid imagination was seething with guesses and speculations. His resolution to do no more detective work was utterly forgotten.
“What is Mrs. Vanderstein like to look at?” he asked abruptly.
“She is quite young,” began Sir Gregory, “about your own age, I should say. She is not very tall and has dark hair and a perfect figure, not one of those great maypoles of women one sees about so much now, but beautifully proportioned and just right in every way. She has wonderful brown eyes and a smile for every one. I think she is most beautiful,” concluded her old friend simply.
Gimblet got up.
“I will give instructions about having inquiries made at the hospitals,” he said, “though it does seem hardly likely that both ladies should have been hurt, without some news of it having come before now. And then let us go round to the house. I should like to see the servants and hear what they may have to tell. I hope there may, even now, be some tidings awaiting you there.”
CHAPTER X
There was no news of the missing ladies in Grosvenor Street; but Gimblet interviewed all the servants and heard several facts, which gave him food for thought.
It was from Blake, the butler, that he received most information. It was Blake himself, looking heartily scared, with half his usual pompousness driven out of him by his anxiety, who opened the door to them and, on hearing from Sir Gregory who it was that accompanied him, begged Gimblet to allow him to speak to him for a few moments. They went into the morning-room, a cheerful white-walled apartment, gay with books and flowers, and Blake addressed himself to the detective.
“I’m very glad you’ve come, sir, I am indeed. Sir Gregory will have told you, sir, that Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner, who lives here with her, went out last night to the opera and have not returned. I have been very uneasy about them and at a loss to know what to do, sir, for Mrs. Vanderstein mightn’t like me to inform the police if so be that she’s gone away on purpose. But I never knew her to go away without informing me of the fact or without any luggage and leaving no address, though she does go off very sudden sometimes to spend a week or so in foreign parts, Dieppe being her favourite, I may say.”
“Indeed,” said Gimblet, “was Mrs. Vanderstein in the habit of going abroad at a moment’s notice?”
“She went very sudden, when the fancy took her, sir, but not so sudden as this. I’ve known her say at lunchtime to Miss Turner, ‘My dear, we will go to Boulogne by the 2.20 from Charing Cross,’ which, lunch being at one o’clock, didn’t leave much time for packing, sir.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” agreed Gimblet.
“But in such cases,” continued Blake, “the maid would often be left to follow with the luggage, the ladies taking no more than what they required for the night. But nothing was said to the maid yesterday on the subject, and I can’t think Mrs. Vanderstein would ever go off like that anywhere, sir, in her evening dress and diamonds.”
“Of course, it being a gala night at the opera, she would be wearing jewels,” Gimblet assented.
“Yes, sir, and that’s partly what makes me feel so upset, sir; I’ve never known Mrs. Vanderstein to wear so many jewels on one occasion. It would have been well worth anyone’s while to rob her last night, sir.”
“Really. What was she wearing? Had she valuable jewels?”
“Indeed, yes,” broke in Sir Gregory, “the Vanderstein jewels were famous.”
“Yes, sir,” repeated Blake; “beautiful jewellery indeed. A great responsibility, sir, in a household. But I have them always in a safe in the pantry, where I sleep myself, and if I go out in the daytime it’s never without one of the footmen stays in the room all the time I’m away. At night we have a night watchman always on the premises, sir, and it was him that first alarmed me this morning. He came to my door about five o’clock and knocked me up. ‘What’s the matter?’ I called out, thinking at first what with sleep and one thing and another that the house was on fire. ‘She haven’t come in yet,’ he said, and it was a few minutes before I understood what he was driving at. And then I didn’t really feel anxious; though we’d all thought it very strange last night, when Thomas, the second footman, who had gone with the motor to Covent Garden, came back saying that he’d received orders that the car wasn’t to go back to fetch the ladies at all.”
“What? the car was not to go back after the performance?” exclaimed Gimblet.
“No, sir, orders were given to that effect. Still, I thought possibly they were coming home with some friends, and even this morning I said to myself that perhaps they were staying the night at a friend’s house, having for some reason not been able to get a cab home. I had no doubt I should get a telephone message at any moment, which would explain the whole of the circumstances. But the morning passed away without our hearing anything whatever, and by the time Sir Gregory called I was just about getting ready to go out and make inquiries at the police station.”
Gimblet considered in silence for a few moments.
“Have you noticed anything unusual of late,” he asked, “in the habits or demeanour of anyone in the house?”
“No, nothing unusual beyond the fact that Mrs. Vanderstein seemed to be enjoying uncommonly good spirits. I also thought, but it might be it was only my fancy, that you couldn’t say the same of Miss Turner. Yesterday she appeared to be very much down on her luck.”
“Did the idea of an accident occur to you?” asked Gimblet. “Have you inquired at any of the hospitals?” “I telephoned to St. George’s, sir, but with no result. I didn’t know where else to make inquiries.”
“I understand,” said the detective presently, “that Mrs. Vanderstein has relatives and friends living in London. Did you communicate with any of them this morning?”
“No, sir, I did not. I had already telephoned to Sir Gregory last night and heard he was out of town.”
“Is there no one else to whom you could have appealed for advice? I understand that Mrs. Vanderstein has a nephew or nephew by marriage. Does he live in London?”
“No, sir, his regiment is quartered in the north of England. But it is true,” Blake stammered, with some appearance of reluctance, “that Mr. Sidney is off and on in London, according as he is able to obtain leave, and I believe he is up at the present moment.”
“I should have thought you would have telephoned to him to-day. Did it not occur to you to do so?”
Blake hesitated again. He looked from Gimblet to Sir Gregory, then let his eyes roam to the window and round the room as if help might be hoped for from some unlikely source. Finally, they once more encountered those of the detective and, under that compelling gaze, he spoke.
“I did think of it,” he faltered, “I should have done so if it had not been for one thing. Mr. Sidney came to the house yesterday afternoon and, I don’t like to mention it, sir, but I am afraid that he had words with his aunt. I have no idea what it was about, sir, but he only stayed a few minutes and as soon as he was gone Mrs. Vanderstein called me and gave me strict orders not to allow him to enter the house in future. She seemed very much put out about something and I am sure she wouldn’t like me to have any communications with Mr. Sidney now. It isn’t my place to allude to such a thing at all, but in the peculiar circumstances, sirs, I hope you will excuse my saying that Mrs. Vanderstein appeared to me to be very much put out indeed.”
“Quite so,” said Gimblet, “in the peculiar circumstances your proper course is to tell me everything you can, whether it bears on Mrs. Vanderstein’s failure to return home or not. I shall be less likely to go astray after some false scent if I have a thorough knowledge of the private affairs of these ladies, and there is no knowing what trifling detail may not turn out to be useful. Now about these jewels, can you tell me what your mistress wore last night? I should also like to see the place you keep them in.”
Blake conducted them to the pantry. A small safe let into the wall contained a quantity of jewel cases, for the most part empty. The butler gave Gimblet a list of what they had contained.
“I never knew Mrs. Vanderstein to wear so many ornaments at once,” he repeated. “She would mostly wear her pearls and a necklace and perhaps a tiara and a few bracelets and rings, but last night besides these she had the two diamond necklaces sewn on to her dress, and the emerald set, which takes to pieces so as to make one big ornament, was sewn on it too. I don’t suppose there were many ladies at the gala performance,” said Blake, with some pride, “who wore better jewels than she did – unless it was the Queen herself.”
Gimblet requested to be taken over the house, and in the various sitting-rooms he hunted for some evidence of a documentary character to show that Mrs. Vanderstein had not intended to return on the previous evening. He looked on the mantelpieces for an invitation which should have been stuck up there, on the writing tables for something of the same kind. But though cards for different entertainments were not wanting – most of them bearing well-known Jewish names and conveying invitations to musical parties – there was nothing suggesting that the ladies were to attend one on Monday night. He noticed the subtle odour that hung about the rooms, and his scrutinising eyes noted with delight the many beautiful and rare objects of Mr. Vanderstein’s collection.
He would gladly have lingered to examine the pictures that decorated the walls, and the priceless china, which stood on cabinets against the white panelling. But, deferring this pleasure, he continued his methodical search in the expectant company of Sir Gregory and the half-scandalised Blake, who could not decide in his own mind whether he was doing right in allowing a detective, even one so well known as Mr. Gimblet, to turn over his mistress’ correspondence in this unceremonious fashion. When the detective’s search led him to the door of Mrs. Vanderstein’s bedroom, Blake felt himself unable to remain with him any longer, and summoning Amélie from her workroom he turned over to her the duty of keeping an eye on these doubtful proceedings.
The news of the detective’s presence had spread through the house like wildfire, and Amélie for her part was burning to assist the great man. Quite unhampered by such scruples as those which were felt by the worthy butler, she dragged open drawers, threw wide the doors of cupboards, thrust any letters she could find into Gimblet’s hands and invited him to verify for himself the information, or lack of it, which she volubly imparted. She knew there was nothing enlightening in the letters and did not hesitate to say so. She had read them all long ago.
“That poor lady,” she cried, “they have assassinated her to rob her of her marvellous jewels. Ah, but of that I am well convinced,” she declared, nodding her head with gloomy satisfaction. “She wore too many – it was to tempt Providence.”
Gimblet asked her for a list of the jewels and received the same that he had had from Blake.
“And will you describe to me what clothes Mrs. Vanderstein wore,” he asked, “and also those of Miss Turner?”
“Madame had on a dress of white mousseline de soie, all diamantée,” Amélie told him, “ce qu’elle était belle avec cette robe-là! Over it she wore a magnificent cloak of crêpe de Chine and silver lace. The cloak is mauve in the daylight, but in the evening one would say that it was pink. She had on silver shoes and white stockings and carried an antique fan of great value.”
“And Miss Turner?” Gimblet was writing down her description in his notebook.
“Mademoiselle also was dressed in white, but with a dress much more simple. She had a cloak of flame-coloured brocade that Madame gave her on her birthday. It is lined with white chiffon; nothing can be more chic.”
As she spoke she glanced in surprise at Gimblet, who was standing in the middle of the room, his head thrown back, his nostrils expanding and contracting. As each succeeding drawer had been pulled out he had stood there, sniffing appreciation. The vague scent that clung about the lower part of the house was more penetrating here, and with each disturbance of Mrs. Vanderstein’s belongings grew stronger. There were flowers about the room, tea roses in many bowls of shining glass; but their faint sweetness was drowned beneath the more powerful smell that pervaded the air.
“Your mistress uses a delicious perfume,” said the detective. “Did she always have the same one?”
“It smells good in here, is it not?” said Amélie. “Yes, Madame uses always the same perfume. See, here it is on her table. It sells itself very expensive, but with one drop one may perfume a whole dress. Everything that Madame touches smells of it.”
Gimblet went to the dressing-table and took up the bottle she indicated; he lifted it to his nose and, removing the stopper, took a long, deep sniff. Then recorking the bottle he put it down again with a glance at the label. “Arome de la Corse,” he read, and below, the name of a French perfumery celebrated for the excellence and high prices of its products.
“Madame is an admirer of the great Napoléon,” explained Amélie helpfully.
“Who does not share her admiration?” rejoined the detective. “And now may I see Miss Turner’s room?”
In Barbara’s chamber his stay was short. Here was no arresting perfume, very little suggestion of feminine personality. The room was more like that of a boy. Photographs adorned the walls; a few books lay about. A couple of letters were on the table; one was a bill. The other, which Gimblet perused under the sympathetic eyes of Amélie, ran as follows:
“Dear Miss Turner,
“I put the money on Averstone as you said. So sorry he wasn’t placed. He got away badly and had no luck from the start. In haste,
“Yours sincerely,“J. Sidney.”
“Thanks, I think that is all I want just now,” said Gimblet, and he turned to leave the room. But Amélie was in no mind to let him go like that. She had hoped for some confidences, that she might have a theory to retail downstairs.
“If Monsieur will listen to my idea,” she said, “I will tell him what I believe has happened to Madame. She has been killed for the sake of her jewels. That is what I think. And it would be prudent before making so many inquiries that one should look for her on the floor of her box at the opera. It is probable that she is there, la pauvre, just as they struck her down and left her!”
“Thank you for your suggestion,” replied Gimblet gravely. “I assure you that I will not neglect to visit the box. But I think that the bodies of two ladies, ‘struck down’ in it, would have called forth some expression of astonishment on the part of the caretakers.”
“Monsieur is laughing at me,” began Amélie in injured tones, but Gimblet was already half-way down the stairs.
On the landing outside the drawing-room door Blake was still hovering.
“Ah, there you are,” Gimblet said. “Can I see the second footman now? Thomas, I think you said he was called.”
Thomas, being summoned, proved to be a tall lad possessing an honest and ingratiating smile, adorning a fair and open countenance.
“It was you, I think,” the detective said to him, “who accompanied the motor last night when it left here with the two ladies?”
“Yes, sir,” said Thomas, “I did, sir.”
“And you were told the car would not be required again after the opera?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you remember Mrs. Vanderstein’s exact words when she gave you the order not to return?”
“It wasn’t Mrs. Vanderstein who told me, sir,” said Thomas, “it was Miss Turner. ‘Mrs. Vanderstein says she won’t have the car again this evening,’ she said, and, ‘do you understand, Wilcox?’ she says – that’s the chauffeur, Wilcox is; she come running down to speak to him just as he put the clutch in and we was moving off – ‘You’re not to come to fetch us to-night after the opera,’ I heard every word of course as plain as Wilcox did. ‘Very good, miss,’ he says, and she ran back through the swing doors. Mrs. Vanderstein had gone straight in and I didn’t see her again. We was very surprised, Wilcox and me, as it was the first time that Mrs. Vanderstein hadn’t had the motor to bring her home that either of us could remember. But orders is orders,” concluded Thomas with an engaging smile at Mr. Gimblet, who ignored it.
“Thank you, that will do for the present,” he said; and, when Thomas had gone, turned once more to Blake.
“How long has Wilcox been in Mrs. Vanderstein’s service?” he asked.
“He was with Mr. Vanderstein before he married,” replied Blake. “The same as I was myself, sir. Wilcox was a groom in the old days, but they had him taught to drive the motor some years ago. He’s a most respectable, steady man, sir.”
“Thanks, I should like to see him,” said Gimblet.
Wilcox, it appeared, was in the house at the moment, having come round from the garage to hear if there was any news, and Gimblet had him in and cross-examined him. His story was the same as Thomas’, with one small addition.
“Was there anything that struck you as the least unusual?” Gimblet asked him. “Did you notice anything in the appearance of either of the ladies, or overhear anything they said to each other as they got in or out of the car, that was not perfectly natural?”
“No, sir, I did not,” said Wilcox stolidly. He was rather a fat man with a very horsey look. “Not that I paid any heed to what they might be saying so long as it wasn’t to me they said it. As far as I remember, Mrs. Vanderstein got into the car and Miss Turner after her, and ‘To Covent Garden’ one of them says to Thomas, and Miss Turner calls out, ‘Just stop at a post office on the way.’ And so we did.”
“Ah,” said Gimblet, “you stopped at a post office, did you? Was that quite in the usual course? And which post office did you stop at?”
“It was not in the usual course,” admitted Wilcox, “in fact, I don’t remember doing it on the way to the opera before. But Miss Turner had a telegram to send. We stopped in Piccadilly and she gave the form to Thomas to take into the office. After that we drove straight on to the opera house.”
Thomas, recalled, remembered handing in the telegram, certainly. Didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of mentioning it before. Miss Turner gave him a sealed envelope with “Telegram” written outside it, and told him to give it with some money to the young person in the office, and not to bother about waiting for the change, as they were in a hurry. He did as she said, and that was all he could tell about it.
Not much information to be collected from Thomas. Possibly Gimblet’s face showed a trace of disappointment, for the footman added in a regretful tone:
“I’m very sorry, sir, that I didn’t open the envelope so as I could tell you what the telegram was, sir; but the ladies being in a hurry I didn’t scarcely have time. If I’d known it was important, or anyway if I’d had a minute or two to myself, I’d have taken a look at it. I’m very sorry indeed, sir.”
Gimblet dismissed him somewhat peremptorily. He felt that he was taking an unreasoning dislike for the apologising Thomas, so anxious to ingratiate himself.