should be made to the nearest police-station.
This notice appeared under the heading, “Too Late for Classification,” in every London newspaper the morning following the murder of Moss.
“It is possible that the name is an assumed one,” said T.B.,” but the Falmouth clue narrows the search.”
An “allstation” message was flashed throughout the metropolis:
“Arrest and detain Count Ivan Poltavo” (here followed a description), “on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Lewis Moss.”
But Count Poltavo anticipated the arrest, for hardly had the last message been despatched when he himself entered the portico of Scotland Yard and requested an interview with T.B.
“Yes,” he said sadly, “I knew this young man. Poor fellow!”
He gave a very frank account of his dealings with Moss, offered a very full explanation of his own movements on the night of the murder, and was finally dismissed by a perplexed Commissioner, who detached an officer to verify all that Poltavo had said.
T.B. was worried, and showed it, after his own fashion. He sent Van Ingen by an early train to pursue his enquiries in Cornwall, and then went into the City.
An interview with the head of the banking-house of Bronte was not satisfactory.
“I am satisfied,” said T.B., “that an attempt will be made to destroy the barrage on the day for which you are liable. All the features of the present market position point to this fact.”
“In that case,” said the banker, “the ‘ bears ‘ must be clairvoyant. The day on which the barrage comes into the hands of the Egyptian Government is known to two persons only. I am one, and the other is a gentleman the mere mention of whose name would satisfy you as to his integrity.”
“And none other?”
“None other,” said the banker. And that was all he would say.
But at six o’clock that night T.B. received a message. It was written in pencil on the torn edges of a newspaper.
“Tonight Sir George Calliper is dining with the Spanish dancing girl, La Belle Espagnole.”
That, and an initial, was all the note contained, but it came from the most reliable man in the Criminal Investigation Department, and T.B. whistled his astonishment.
14. Sir George Dines
Sir George Calliper lived in St. James’s Street. A bachelor — some regarded him as a misogynist — his establishment was nevertheless a model of order; and if you had missed the indefinable something that betrays a woman’s hand in the arrangement of furniture, you recognised that the controlling spirit of the household was one possessed of a rigid sense of domesticity, that found expression in solid comfort and sober luxury. The banker sat in his study engaged in writing a letter. He was in evening dress, and the little French clock on the mantel had just chimed seven. He finished the note and folded it in its envelope. Then he pressed a bell. A servant entered.
“I am dining out,” said Sir George shortly.
“I shall be home at eleven.” It was characteristic that he did not say “may be home,” or “at about eleven.”
“Shall I order the car, Sir George?”
“No; I’ll take a cab.”
A shrill whistle brought a taxicab to the door. A passing commissionaire stopped to ask the cabman which was the nearest way to Berkeley Square as the banker came down the two steps of the house.
“Meggioli’s,” he instructed the cabman, and added, “the Vine Street entrance.”
The commissionaire stood back respectfully as the whining taxi jerked forward.
“Meggioli’s!” murmured the commissionaire, “and by the private doorl That’s rum. I wonder whether Van Ingen has started for Cornwall yet?”
He walked into St. James’s Square, and a smart one-horse brougham, that had been idly moving round the circle of garden in the centre, pulled up at the curb by his side.
“Meggioli’s — front entrance,” said the commissionaire.
It was a uniformed man who entered the carriage; it was T.B. Smith in his well-fitting dress clothes who emerged at Meggioli’s.
“I want a private room,” he informed the proprietor, who came to meet him with a bow.
“I’m ver’ sorry, Mr. Smith, but I have not—”
“But you have three,” said T.B. indignantly.
“I offer a thousand regrets,” said the distressed restaurateur; “they are engaged. If you had only—”
“But, name of dog! name of a sacred pipe!” expostulated T.B. unscrupulously. Was it not possible to pretend that there had been a mistake; that one room had already been engaged?
“Impossible, m’sieur! In No.1 we have no less a person than the Premier of Southwest Australia, who is being dined by his fellow-colonists; in No.2 a family party of Lord Redlands; in No.3 — ah! in No. 3—”
“Ah, in No. 3!” repeated T.B. cunningly, and the proprietor dropped his voice to a whisper.
“‘La Belle Espagnole’!” he murmured. He named the great Spanish dancer with relish.
“She, and her fiancé’s friend, eh?”
“Her fiancé? I didn’t know—”
“It is a secret—” He looked round as if he were fearful of eavesdroppers. “But it is said that ‘La Belle Espagnole’ is to be married to a rich admirer.”
“Name?” asked T.B. carelessly.
The proprietor shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not enquire the name of my patrons,” he said, “but I understand that it is to be the young Lord Carleby.”
The name told T.B. nothing.
“Well,” he said easily, “I will take a table in the restaurant. I do not wish to interrupt a tête-à-tête.”
“Oh, it is not Carleby tonight,” the proprietor hastened to assure him. “I think mamzelle would prefer that it was — no; it is a stranger.”
T.B. sauntered into the brilliantly lighted room, having handed his hat and coat to a waiter. He found a deserted table. Luck was with him to an extraordinary extent; that Sir George should have chosen Meggioli’s was the greatest good fortune of all.
At that time Count Menshikoff was paying one of his visits to England. The master of the
