Kate plus 10
Number Six has been left to the last, for this was the most important
house in Crime Street. It was a story higher than any other, built
squarely, with no attempt at beauty. It is said that the third floor
consisted of one room and that from its many windows it was possible
to command, not only all the approaches to the northern side of the
gardens, but those to the south; it has even been suggested that it
was so planned, that, in case of necessity, the house could be
converted into a fortress, from the third floor of which a last
desperate stand might be made. This then was Number Six, the abiding
place of Colonel Westhanger and his brilliant niece.
Michael Pretherston was no stranger to Crime Street. He had made many
visits to this locality, and it had been at his initiative that the
roadway of Amberscombe Gardens had been dug up one fine morning by a
gang of road-breakers and there had been revealed that remarkable
subterranean passage which connected the one side of the street with
the other. The passageway led from the summer house in the gardens of
the oval to a stable in Number Three.
The Colonists, however, swore stoutly that they knew nothing whatever
of the existence of this passage and that it must have existed years
before they came to the street. The civil engineer, Colling Jacques,
pointed out to the district surveyor that the very character of the
passage suggested that this was some storm water drain which had been
laid down and forgotten by the contractor. Or else it had been laid
down in error and the contractor had been either too lazy or too
rushed to break it up. There were many other explanations, none of
which was wholly acceptable.
Michael, swinging his stick, passed that portion of the road in which
the passage had run and wondered with a reminiscent smile where the
new tunnel was, for that there was a new one, he did not doubt.
Night was falling, and Dr. Philip Garon’s dining-room windows blazed
with light. Mr. Mulberry’s, on the right, was more modestly
illuminated. Mr. Cunningham’s house was in darkness, as also was “The
Bishop’s.” There were lights in the bedroom at Number Seven but Number
Six was black as also was Number Eight.
He saw Millet standing at his garden gate, smoking, and crossed the
road toward him, realizing that the keen-eyed gentleman had already
observed his presence. Millet, a florid man with a genial, almost
fulsome, manner met him with a friendly nod.
“Good evening, Mr. Pretherston,” he said. “I hope you are not looking
for trouble.”
Michael leant on the top bar of the gate and shook his head.
“I shouldn’t come here for trouble,” he said; “this is the most
law-abiding spot in London.”
Mr. Millet sighed and murmured something about misfortunes which
overtake mankind and added a pious expression of his desire to forget
the past and to end his days in that security and peace which sin
denies its votaries.
“Very pretty,” said Michael blandly, “and how are all our good
neighbours? I was thinking of taking a house here myself. By-the-way,”
he added innocently, “I suppose you don’t know any that are to be
let?”
Mr. Millet shook his head.
“I am all alone here,” he said, “if you were really serious about
wishing to live in this neighbourhood, I should be honoured to act as
your host, Mr. Pretherston.”
“And how is Kate?” demanded Michael, ignoring the invitation.
“Kate?” asked the puzzled Mr. Millet; “oh, you mean, Miss Westhanger.
I haven’t seen her for several days--I think it was last Tuesday
afternoon I saw her last.”
“Yes, at 2:30 in the afternoon,” mocked Michael, “she was wearing a
blue dress with white spots and a green hat with an ostrich feather.
You remember her distinctly because she dropped her bag and you
crossed to pick it up. You needn’t start the alibi factory working,
Millet; I have nothing against Kate for the moment.”
Mr. Millet laughed softly.
“You will have your joke,” he said.
“I will,” said Michael with grim emphasis, “but it is going to be a
long time developing. I haven’t seen the Stockmars lately either.”
“I never see them at all,” Mr. Millet hastened to state. “I have very
little in common with foreigners. Whatever there is against me, Mr.
Pretherston, I am a patriot through and through. I am proud to be
English and I don’t take kindly to foreign gentlemen and never will.”
“Your patriotism does you credit, Millet,” said the detective dryly as
he prepared to move on. “I wish you would be patriotic enough to give
me a tip as to what game is on,” he lowered his voice. “You know all
that is happening here and you might do yourself a little bit of
good.”
“If I knew anything,” said the other earnestly, “I would tell you in a
moment, Mr. Pretherston, but here I am, out of the world, so to speak.
Nobody ever consults me and I am glad they don’t. I want to be left
alone to forget the past--”
“Cut all that Little Eva stuff out, Uncle Tom,” said Michael coarsely.
Other eyes had watched Michael, from behind blinds, through
unsuspected peep-holes, a dozen pairs of eyes had followed him as he
took his slow promenade along Crime Street.
Colonel Westhanger, a tall, grey man, stood in that big room on the
third floor of his house, his hands folded behind him, his chin upon
his breast, following every movement of the detective. Gregori,
handsome and lithe, stood at his elbow, shading the glow of his
cigarette in the palm of his hand.
“Colonel _mio_,” he said softly, “I would give much for an opportunity
of meeting that gentleman in a nice dark passage, in one of those old
Harrison Ainsworth houses which were providentially built over a
river.”
“You will have your wish one of these days,” said the Colonel gruffly;
“I don’t like that fellow. He is not one of the ordinary run of
policemen. They are bad enough, but this fellow knows too much.”
He nibbled his white moustache, shook his head and turned away from
the window as Michael took his farewell of the forger.
“Watch him on the other side,” he said, “and send one of the boys out
to follow him.”
He descended the thickly carpeted stairs to the first floor, which was
the living suite. The drawing-room in which he turned was a
beautifully furnished apartment, and the girl who had been sitting at
the piano, her nimble hands running over the keys, looked up as he
entered.
CHAPTER IV.
“THE IDEAL CRIMINAL IS A STRATEGIST”
“Where did he go?” she asked.
“He went to Millet,” said the Colonel, throwing himself down to a
divan and biting off the end of a fresh cigar. “I wonder what the
dickens he wants?” he mused.
Kate Westhanger made a little grimace.
“You can never tell whether a policeman finds his duty a pleasure or
his pleasure a duty,” she said. “I suppose he is just renewing
acquaintance with Crime Street.”
“Don’t use that phrase,” snapped her uncle.
“I shall use whatever phrase I wish,” she said calmly. “You are
getting nervous. Why?”
“I’m not nervous,” he protested loudly; “I am getting old I suppose,
and the job is such a big one. It is almost too big for me and if I
occupied the position I had a few years ago, Kate, I would drop it.
After all, we have made a good deal of money and we might as well all
of us live to enjoy it.”
She was back at the piano again and was playing with the soft pedal
down.
“Can’t you find anything more cheerful than the ‘Death of Asa’?”
growled her relative.
“It is nerves, of course; I am awfully sorry.”
She got up and closed the piano with a bang which made him jump.
“I don’t know what to do about Mike,” she mused.
“Gregori has a solution,” said the Colonel.
“To cut his throat, I suppose,” said the girl coolly. “Gregori is so
elemental and so horrific! I can’t imagine that he ever has cut a
throat in his life, but I suppose he feels that it is in keeping with
his sunny southern nature to talk like that. No, Colonel _mio_,” she
mimicked, “we have stopped short of murder so far and I think we will
remain on the safe side. My theory coincides with Mike’s. I was
reading an article of his in a Socialistic paper the other day and it
was all about the Right to Live. I don’t believe in killing people. I
believe in bleeding those who have grown apoplectic with their money
and I don’t even know whether I believe in that.”
“What do you mean?” the Colonel looked up at her under his shaggy
brows.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I mean,” she said slowly, “I never know whether my views are my own
views or whether they are just your views which I reflect like a
mirror. You see, dear,” she said, “I am very young but I have a
logical mind and my logical mind tells me that no girl can have any
very definite views at nineteen, not of her own, I mean. Perhaps when
I am twenty-five I shall look upon you as a terrible person, and all
this,” she spread her hands out, “as something to think of with a
shudder.”
“In the meantime,” said her uncle practically, “you are Miss Ali Baba,
chief strategist of our little army and a very exigent young
lady--by-the-way, Gregori is kicking.”
She looked at him with a contemptuous little twist of her lips.
“There is a great centre forward lost in Gregori,” she said. “What has
moved that dago’s feet?”
“Hush, hush, my child,” cautioned her uncle, “our admirable friend is
upstairs and, anyway, it doesn’t do to speak disrespectfully of one’s
criminal associates. There is a certain punctilio in our profession
which you may have noticed.”
“How queer it sounds!” she said, leaning forward and clasping her
knee. “Do you know, uncle, I cannot think straight. Ever since I was
so high,” she stretched her hand out before her, “I have never known a
desire to secure anything I wanted, save by taking it from somebody
else. At the school in Lausanne I seemed to be amongst the queerest
people and, honestly, although you had warned me, I thought they were
all mad. All their fathers made money in business, which seems to be a
slow method of stealing which is allowed by the law. Think of the
horrible monotony of working steadily day after day without any
holidays, with no excitement, no adventures, save the artificial
thrill of a theatre and the adventures that meet you on your way
home.”
“I didn’t even know there were those kind of adventures,” said the
Colonel, fingering his trim moustache and enjoying with closed eyes
the fragrance of his cigar.
“Oh, yes,” nodded the girl, “you meet all sorts of men who raise their
hats and say, ‘Good-evening, Miss,’ or ‘Haven’t we met before?’ I
don’t think they have ever said anything else,” she reflected
thoughtfully,--“they all belong to the ‘Good-evening’ or the ‘Met you
before’ school, and they all want to know if you are ‘going their
way.’”
“What happens then?” asked the amused Colonel, carefully removing his
cigar in order that he might laugh without detriment to the
accumulating ash.
“I have only had one experience,” said Kate. “It was with a young man
with a horribly weak chin. He had studied in both schools, for his
‘Good-evening’ was followed by a request for information upon my
immediate plans and I let him walk with me. I expected something very
dreadful but he talked mostly about his mother and the difficulties he
had about getting a latch-key. He wanted to take my arm but I told him
it wasn’t done and then he suggested that I should meet him on Sunday.
By this time I had learnt all about his family, his mother and the
girl he was prepared to sacrifice to retain a continuation of our
intimacy. I also discovered his name was Ernest and that he was the
cleverest man in his office.”
“He wanted to kiss you, I’ll be bound,” said the Colonel.
“I think he did,” admitted the girl, “but he didn’t say so. All he
said was that he hoped it didn’t rain and asked if he might write to