The Secret Adversary
“Let’s have a look at his letter again.”
Mr. Carter handed it over. It was written in a sprawling boyish hand.
“DEAR MR. CARTER,
“Something’s turned up that has given me a jar. Of course I may be
simply making an awful ass of myself, but I don’t think so. If my
conclusions are right, that girl at Manchester was just a plant. The
whole thing was prearranged, sham packet and all, with the object of
making us think the game was up--therefore I fancy that we must have
been pretty hot on the scent.
“I think I know who the real Jane Finn is, and I’ve even got an idea
where the papers are. That last’s only a guess, of course, but I’ve a
sort of feeling it’ll turn out right. Anyhow, I enclose it in a sealed
envelope for what it’s worth. I’m going to ask you not to open it until
the very last moment, midnight on the 28th, in fact. You’ll understand
why in a minute. You see, I’ve figured it out that those things of
Tuppence’s are a plant too, and she’s no more drowned than I am. The way
I reason is this: as a last chance they’ll let Jane Finn escape in
the hope that she’s been shamming this memory stunt, and that once she
thinks she’s free she’ll go right away to the cache. Of course it’s
an awful risk for them to take, because she knows all about them--but
they’re pretty desperate to get hold of that treaty. _But if they know
that the papers have been recovered by us_, neither of those two girls’
lives will be worth an hour’s purchase. I must try and get hold of
Tuppence before Jane escapes.
“I want a repeat of that telegram that was sent to Tuppence at the
_Ritz_. Sir James Peel Edgerton said you would be able to manage that
for me. He’s frightfully clever.
“One last thing--please have that house in Soho watched day and night.
“Yours, etc.,
“THOMAS BERESFORD.”
The Prime Minister looked up.
“The enclosure?”
Mr. Carter smiled dryly.
“In the vaults of the Bank. I am taking no chances.”
“You don’t think”--the Prime Minister hesitated a minute--“that it would
be better to open it now? Surely we ought to secure the document, that
is, provided the young man’s guess turns out to be correct, at once. We
can keep the fact of having done so quite secret.”
“Can we? I’m not so sure. There are spies all round us. Once it’s known
I wouldn’t give that”--he snapped his fingers--“for the life of those
two girls. No, the boy trusted me, and I shan’t let him down.”
“Well, well, we must leave it at that, then. What’s he like, this lad?”
“Outwardly, he’s an ordinary clean-limbed, rather block-headed young
Englishman. Slow in his mental processes. On the other hand, it’s quite
impossible to lead him astray through his imagination. He hasn’t got
any--so he’s difficult to deceive. He worries things out slowly, and
once he’s got hold of anything he doesn’t let go. The little lady’s
quite different. More intuition and less common sense. They make a
pretty pair working together. Pace and stamina.”
“He seems confident,” mused the Prime Minister.
“Yes, and that’s what gives me hope. He’s the kind of diffident youth
who would have to be _very_ sure before he ventured an opinion at all.”
A half smile came to the other’s lips.
“And it is this--boy who will defeat the master criminal of our time?”
“This--boy, as you say! But I sometimes fancy I see a shadow behind.”
“You mean?”
“Peel Edgerton.”
“Peel Edgerton?” said the Prime Minister in astonishment.
“Yes. I see his hand in _this_.” He struck the open letter. “He’s
there--working in the dark, silently, unobtrusively. I’ve always felt
that if anyone was to run Mr. Brown to earth, Peel Edgerton would be the
man. I tell you he’s on the case now, but doesn’t want it known. By the
way, I got rather an odd request from him the other day.”
“Yes?”
“He sent me a cutting from some American paper. It referred to a man’s
body found near the docks in New York about three weeks ago. He asked me
to collect any information on the subject I could.”
“Well?”
Carter shrugged his shoulders.
“I couldn’t get much. Young fellow about thirty-five--poorly
dressed--face very badly disfigured. He was never identified.”
“And you fancy that the two matters are connected in some way?”
“Somehow I do. I may be wrong, of course.”
There was a pause, then Mr. Carter continued:
“I asked him to come round here. Not that we’ll get anything out of him
he doesn’t want to tell. His legal instincts are too strong. But there’s
no doubt he can throw light on one or two obscure points in young
Beresford’s letter. Ah, here he is!”
The two men rose to greet the new-comer. A half whimsical thought
flashed across the Premier’s mind. “My successor, perhaps!”
“We’ve had a letter from young Beresford,” said Mr. Carter, coming to
the point at once. “You’ve seen him, I suppose?”
“You suppose wrong,” said the lawyer.
“Oh!” Mr. Carter was a little nonplussed.
Sir James smiled, and stroked his chin.
“He rang me up,” he volunteered.
“Would you have any objection to telling us exactly what passed between
you?”
“Not at all. He thanked me for a certain letter which I had written to
him--as a matter of fact, I had offered him a job. Then he reminded
me of something I had said to him at Manchester respecting that bogus
telegram which lured Miss Cowley away. I asked him if anything untoward
had occurred. He said it had--that in a drawer in Mr. Hersheimmer’s room
he had discovered a photograph.” The lawyer paused, then continued: “I
asked him if the photograph bore the name and address of a Californian
photographer. He replied: ‘You’re on to it, sir. It had.’ Then he went
on to tell me something I _didn’t_ know. The original of that photograph
was the French girl, Annette, who saved his life.”
“What?”
“Exactly. I asked the young man with some curiosity what he had done
with the photograph. He replied that he had put it back where he found
it.” The lawyer paused again. “That was good, you know--distinctly
good. He can use his brains, that young fellow. I congratulated him. The
discovery was a providential one. Of course, from the moment that the
girl in Manchester was proved to be a plant everything was altered.
Young Beresford saw that for himself without my having to tell it
him. But he felt he couldn’t trust his judgment on the subject of
Miss Cowley. Did I think she was alive? I told him, duly weighing the
evidence, that there was a very decided chance in favour of it. That
brought us back to the telegram.”
“Yes?”
“I advised him to apply to you for a copy of the original wire. It
had occurred to me as probable that, after Miss Cowley flung it on the
floor, certain words might have been erased and altered with the express
intention of setting searchers on a false trail.”
Carter nodded. He took a sheet from his pocket, and read aloud:
“Come at once, Astley Priors, Gatehouse, Kent. Great
developments--TOMMY.”
“Very simple,” said Sir James, “and very ingenious. Just a few words
to alter, and the thing was done. And the one important clue they
overlooked.”
“What was that?”
“The page-boy’s statement that Miss Cowley drove to Charing Cross. They
were so sure of themselves that they took it for granted he had made a
mistake.”
“Then young Beresford is now?”
“At Gatehouse, Kent, unless I am much mistaken.”
Mr. Carter looked at him curiously.
“I rather wonder you’re not there too, Peel Edgerton?”
“Ah, I’m busy on a case.”
“I thought you were on your holiday?”
“Oh, I’ve not been briefed. Perhaps it would be more correct to say I’m
preparing a case. Any more facts about that American chap for me?”
“I’m afraid not. Is it important to find out who he was?”
“Oh, I know who he was,” said Sir James easily. “I can’t prove it
yet--but I know.”
The other two asked no questions. They had an instinct that it would be
mere waste of breath.
“But what I don’t understand,” said the Prime-Minister suddenly, “is how
that photograph came to be in Mr. Hersheimmer’s drawer?”
“Perhaps it never left it,” suggested the lawyer gently.
“But the bogus inspector? Inspector Brown?”
“Ah!” said Sir James thoughtfully. He rose to his feet. “I mustn’t keep
you. Go on with the affairs of the nation. I must get back to--my case.”
Two days later Julius Hersheimmer returned from Manchester. A note from
Tommy lay on his table:
“DEAR HERSHEIMMER,
“Sorry I lost my temper. In case I don’t see you again, good-bye. I’ve
been offered a job in the Argentine, and might as well take it.
“Yours,
“TOMMY BERESFORD.”
A peculiar smile lingered for a moment on Julius’s face. He threw the
letter into the waste-paper basket.
“The darned fool!” he murmured.
CHAPTER XXIII. A RACE AGAINST TIME
AFTER ringing up Sir James, Tommy’s next procedure was to make a call
at South Audley Mansions. He found Albert discharging his professional
duties, and introduced himself without more ado as a friend of
Tuppence’s. Albert unbent immediately.
“Things has been very quiet here lately,” he said wistfully. “Hope the
young lady’s keeping well, sir?”
“That’s just the point, Albert. She’s disappeared.”
“You don’t mean as the crooks have got her?”
“They have.”
“In the Underworld?”
“No, dash it all, in this world!”
“It’s a h’expression, sir,” explained Albert. “At the pictures the
crooks always have a restoorant in the Underworld. But do you think as
they’ve done her in, sir?”
“I hope not. By the way, have you by any chance an aunt, a cousin,
a grandmother, or any other suitable female relation who might be
represented as being likely to kick the bucket?”
A delighted grin spread slowly over Albert’s countenance.
“I’m on, sir. My poor aunt what lives in the country has been mortal bad
for a long time, and she’s asking for me with her dying breath.”
Tommy nodded approval.
“Can you report this in the proper quarter and meet me at Charing Cross
in an hour’s time?”
“I’ll be there, sir. You can count on me.”
As Tommy had judged, the faithful Albert proved an invaluable ally. The
two took up their quarters at the inn in Gatehouse. To Albert fell the
task of collecting information. There was no difficulty about it.
Astley Priors was the property of a Dr. Adams. The doctor no longer
practiced, had retired, the landlord believed, but he took a few private
patients--here the good fellow tapped his forehead knowingly--“balmy
ones! You understand!” The doctor was a popular figure in the village,
subscribed freely to all the local sports--“a very pleasant, affable
gentleman.” Been there long? Oh, a matter of ten years or so--might be
longer. Scientific gentleman, he was. Professors and people often came
down from town to see him. Anyway, it was a gay house, always visitors.
In the face of all this volubility, Tommy felt doubts. Was it possible
that this genial, well-known figure could be in reality a dangerous
criminal? His life seemed so open and aboveboard. No hint of sinister
doings. Suppose it was all a gigantic mistake? Tommy felt a cold chill
at the thought.
Then he remembered the private patients--“balmy ones.” He inquired
carefully if there was a young lady amongst them, describing Tuppence.
But nothing much seemed to be known about the patients--they were seldom
seen outside the grounds. A guarded description of Annette also failed
to provoke recognition.
Astley Priors was a pleasant red-brick edifice, surrounded by
well-wooded grounds which effectually shielded the house from
observation from the road.
On the first evening Tommy, accompanied by Albert, explored the grounds.
Owing to Albert’s insistence they dragged themselves along painfully on
their stomachs, thereby producing a great deal more noise than if
they had stood upright. In any case, these precautions were totally