Chapter 21

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NO message had been received in her absence. She had expected to hear from Donald Wells or from the communicative Marjorie; but apparently, as the butler said, the telephone had not rung in her absence. She went to bed and slept more soundly than she had thought possible. It was nine o'clock when she awakened and took her tea from the hands of a pretty maid she had not remembered seeing overnight. The girl had been engaged before her marriage and had been on holiday, but had been called back by the butler to attend to her.

There were two letters and a post-card, the first from Peter, a half-sheet of note-paper on which he had scribbled a line without beginning or end, and a long one from her father.

You must have thought I was very unsympathetic last night, darling, but the truth is I have been terribly upset by what Donald Wells has told me, and I was hardly in a condition to discuss Peter and your future. I am afraid the case looks black against Peter. Donald tells me that the detective officer engaged in the case says he would be perfectly justified in placing Peter under arrest, and he would have done so immediately but for influence which was exercised by somebody in authority.

(Here Jane recognised the relationship of Rouper with Bourke and could afford to smile.)

After you had left, Donald Wells came in. His wife has had a nervous breakdown and he is sending her abroad for a complete change of air. She is leaving by the eight o'clock train to-morrow morning. I tell you this in case you thought of calling her up. I was glad to hear from Donald that you and she were such good friends. She is very indiscreet and, I am afraid, a malicious woman, and talks a lot of nonsense. Donald tells me that it was she who told you about the Nunhead affair. Both Donald and I think you should get into touch with a good firm of solicitors, and I don't think you can do better than get Sir John Lafe (he mentioned the name of the most eminent solicitor in London).

The rest of the letter dealt mainly with his own state of mind, his regret that he had ever sanctioned the marriage, and then:

Donald has a theory which I can only regard as fantastic. It is that Peter is the Clever One, the forger about whom everybody is talking. He says that it is not an unusual occurrence for mania to take such a form, and he recalled to me what I had never realised before---Peter's extraordinary skill as an etcher. He said that the police had made some sort of discovery about the existence of a secret room at Longford Manor, and that Inspector Rouper said that there was no doubt whatever that that room had been used either for the printing or for the engraving of forged notes. It is an amazing coincidence that Peter has lived at Longford Manor at intervals for years. There is just a possibility that the place is really his.

She read the letter twice before she tore it into four and tossed the pieces into the fire. And then she looked at the post-card. It was from Marjorie:

Will you lunch with me on Tuesday at the Carlton, 1 p.m.?—M.

There was no sign here of a nervous breakdown---or evidence that she was going abroad. Jane shook her head helplessly.

One question at least should be settled, and settled that morning. She ordered her car, and, after consulting the telephone book, was driven to Knowlby Street.

At this hour of the morning it was a busy place; railway delivery vans were drawn up almost bonnet to tail. There was no difficulty in finding the freakish-looking Higgson House. She searched the names painted on the lintel, and presently she saw "Blonberg, Financier," and underneath, evidently newly painted, the words, "Enquiries 3rd Floor." She toiled up the steep and narrow stairs and arrived breathlessly on the landing, facing a glass-panelled door with the word "Enquiries."

Apparently Mr. Blonberg had a further office. A small hand was painted on the wall indicating the upper floor, and under this, "Blonberg. Private." Tapping at the door, a shrill voice bade her come in. She found herself in a small, very untidy outer office. Two girl clerks were laboriously typing and a third was powdering her nose before a small piece of looking-glass over the fire-place.

"I wish to see Mr. Blonberg."

"Have you an appointment?" asked the third girl carelessly, as she closed her powder-box with a snap.

"Will you please tell him that Mrs. Clifton wishes to see him?"

The clerk disappeared through a door behind her, and was gone two minutes. When she reappeared she opened the door invitingly, and Jane passed through into the sanctum.

The room was tinier than that which she had left. Sitting at a very small, untidy desk was a small, untidy man. He wore a soiled collar, and the cuffs that showed under his worn coat were frayed; nor, she noticed, were his hands clean.

"Come in, ma'am, and sit down, will you?"

He was a long-faced man with the most irregular features Jane had ever seen; his narrow head was covered with a shock of grey hair, and he had not shaved, possibly for days.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?"

"Are you the agent of Longford Manor?"

He nodded many times.

"I thought that's who you was---were, I mean. The minute I heard your name I said to meself: 'That's Mrs. Clifton, the young lady that's been in that house where the murder was committed.' What a sad occurrence, ma'am----"

She was not in a conversational mood.

"I want to know who is the landlord of the house, or who owns it?"

He shook his head.

"Ah, there you've got me! We're only the agents. There's another lot of agents. The old gentleman who owns Longford Manor lives in Florence. In Italy," he added unnecessarily. "We never see him; we just send on the money to his agents in Paris----"

"You go down there yourself sometimes, don't you?"

He looked up at her slyly from under his lids.

"Well, now you come to mention it, I do go down and potter about," he said. "It's the only holiday I get, and it costs me nothing. They're the kind of holidays, ma'am! Vacations, they call 'em in America. I was in Chicago for two years, but I couldn't get on with them Americans----"

"Do you know Mrs. Untersohn?"

He shook his head.

"Sounds foreign to me. Never heard of the woman. I'll ask one of my clerks."

He put out his hand to the bell, but before he could press it she stopped him.

"Are you sure you don't know her?"

"Never seen her in me life," he told her. "All sorts of women come up here borrowing money, or trying to borrow it, but I don't remember her name."

He explained with some pride that he was a registered moneylender, and apparently he drove a prosperous trade amongst small tradesmen and artisans. The house agency was something of a side-line.

"You are Mr. Blonberg?"

He nodded gravely.

"I'm Mr. Blonberg all right."

"Did you let Longford Manor to my husband?"

He nodded.

"Certainly I did. He's an old client---we've had him off and on for five or six years. Longford Manor's let regularly. There's a stockbroker who has it for Christmas, though it's not the sort of place I should care to live in in the winter. And Mr. Clifton's the most regular renter we've got."

There was nothing to be gained from this man. She felt that he was genuine when he denied all knowledge of Mrs. Untersohn; and yet this strange woman had convinced Jane that Blonberg held the key that might very well unlock one entrance to the inner mystery.

"Let me see you down the stairs, ma'am."

He jumped up and shuffled forward. She saw he was wearing bright red leather slippers. Evidently Mr. Blonberg believed in comfort. She wondered if he slept in his clothes, and decided that in all probability he did.

"No, thank you, I'll find my way out. You can't give me the name of the gentleman who owns Longford Manor?"

"I could, ma'am, but it'd be unprofessional. He don't want it known that he's a letter. You can't argue with old gentlemen, as you well know. It's bad business, this trouble at Longford Manor. I shouldn't be surprised if it don't stand empty for years. Some people believe in ghosts. Personally, I don't . . ."

He was still talking when she went down the stairs. Evidently, she thought ruefully, she had not the attributes of a detective. She had learnt nothing. If she had had the skill of a Bourke she might have surprised from that unsavoury individual quite a number of vital facts. She determined to suggest to Mr. Bourke when she saw him that he should try his practised hand---though what benefit it would be to her if she knew who owned Longford Manor she could not imagine.

Jane was disappointed, too: she had expected to find something more sinister than this narrow-faced weakling---altogether she was not a success. It was stupid of her to come. She should have told Bourke----

"Good morning, Mrs. Clifton."

She was opening the door of her car when she heard the voice and jumped. Bourke was standing a few feet from her on the pavement, a broad smile upon his large face.

"Haven't been borrowing money, have you?" he asked with an air of jocularity. "Blonberg isn't a very keen lender."

"Oh!" she gasped. "You knew where I'd been?"

"Yes, I heard you go in, and was on the landing below when you came out. I suppose you've been to discover something about Longford Manor? There is the making of a detective in you. That was the first inquiry I made. The owner is a man named Brance who lives in Montecattini summer and winter, which means that he's eccentric. Blonberg is his agent, which means that he's an imbecile."

"Who is Blonberg?" she asked.

"An ex-convict. He's had three convictions, but has now settled down to honest larceny---in other words he commenced as a moneylender, and probably started on capital that was stolen. I don't know all the truth about Brance, but I'm guessing that Longford Manor is heavily mortgaged and that Blonberg is the mortgagee. That of course is why he's the agent and practically the proprietor. I owe you an apology, Mrs. Clifton. Yes, I'll drive back with you if you'll drop me somewhere near Trafalgar Square."

He got in after her.

"Why do you owe me an apology?" she asked when the car had started.

"You remember those clothes you gave me for the deserving poor? You'll never dream what happened to them. I was taking them home last night, or rather about two o'clock this morning, and in the middle of Westminster Bridge I stopped to light a cigar. Very foolishly I put the parcel on the edge of the parapet, and what do you think happened?"

Jane's heart leapt.

"They fell plumb into the middle of the river. You wouldn't think it was possible that a man of my experience could be so careless. Heavy parcel, too; pretty sure to sink right down to the bottom. May I give you a word of advice?"

"I should love it," she said, entering into his spirit.

"When you give away old clothes," he said, staring out of the window, "especially men's clothes, always remember that good tailors have a tag and write the name and address of their customer on it. You usually find it in the inside edge of the pocket. The same way with shirts. It's always advisable to take those things off if you're giving to the deserving poor, because the deserving poor have a habit of coming back for more!"

Jane listened with growing consternation. Her carelessness had been criminal. She was so overcome that she could not even thank him. But he gave her no chance of thanking him. He turned from the subject quickly to that of Blonberg. He talked without seeming to take breath; exhausted Blonberg with one long, sardonic description, and came abruptly to the murder.

"I'd like to have a little talk with Mrs. Cheyne Wells. You say she heard the cry----"

"Mrs. Wells has gone abroad."

"Eh?"

The gentle drone of sound ceased. That "Eh?" was sharp and metallic.