# Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology/Chapter 10

pp. 280-319.

### CHAPTER X. THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET.

MY reason for going down to Cannon Street at all that morning was not connected in any way with crimes and mysteries—I had no idea of either in my mind when I stepped out of the Underground at the Mansion House Station. I was on a much pleasanter errand than the solving of problems arising from crimes; the fact was, that, having matrimony in view, I was busy in reconstructing and remodelling a beautiful old Jacobean house which I had just bought, away out in a Surrey village, and I had been recommended by my architect to visit a man in Budge Row who had some good scheme or idea about patent flooring. I had meant to have a leisurely half-hour’s chat with him, but as luck would have it, I was not in Budge Row for the space of five minutes, and I went out of it, not only in a state of hurried precipitation, but also in one of considerable surprise. And in spite of the hurry and the surprise I had wit enough to gather that I was in for an affair.
It was raining that morning—a November morning. I thought as I turned into Budge Row from Cannon Street that the City (a quarter of the town rarely visited by me) looked infinitely miserable under rain. There was slop on the roofs, and slop in the streets; it was one of those days on which the sight of an umbrella suggests thoughts of infinite wretchedness, and men turn up the collars of their coats out of sheer sympathy with the weather. In the narrow confines of Budge Row there were few people about; it a little surprised me, therefore, to see at the corner one of those individuals who are known as “gazers,” which term, I may explain to the uninitiated, means those street merchants who stand in the gutters supporting small trays on which are set out cheap mechanical toys, usually sold at the price of a penny. This particular gazer rather attracted my attention; he was a tall, well-built fellow, arrayed in a multiplicity of old, odd-coloured garments, finished off by a tattered waterproof cape; he was lame of one leg, and supported himself by a crutch; there was a scar that looked very like an old sword-cut, on one cheek, and his right eye was obsessed by a black patch. On his tray he displayed a number of small metal tigers: you pressed a spring and the tiger’s eyes glared and his tail waved; it seemed to me that the sudden lighting-up of the yellow eyes was the only sign of warmth in that wind-swept street. The vendor cried at intervals in a hoarse, fog-spoilt voice:
“The real Royal Indian Tiger from Bengal! One penny!” And as I passed him he muttered thickly: “Buy a tiger, captain—just the same as your honour’s shot in the jungle—all alive, captain!”
I suppose it flatters every civilian to be accused of relationship with the Army; anyhow, having one handy in my ticket pocket, I dropped a shilling on the gazer’s tray as I walked by. He picked it up, spat on it, and thanked me with an eloquent look which was almost a wink, and fell to crying his wares still more raucously and loudly.
Where the ancient church of Saint Anthony, patron saint of the good grocers of London, once stood in Budge Row, shrining the bones of many estimable citizens who in their time were aldermen and sheriffs of our proud city, there are now certain of those modern abominations called chambers, wherein a man may as easily lose himself as a mouse might in entering a thickly-populated rabbit-warren. The man I wanted to see had his place of business in one of these barrack-like buildings, and my first proceeding, on discovering the set of chambers which I wanted, was to read the names on the list of tenants that was posted up at the door. This occupied some time; there appeared to be some dozens of floors and scores of separate offices. And, as I stood in the entry, my hands behind me, reading steadily down one side of the list, preparatory to going methodically up the other, I felt something thrust into my fingers, and turning sharply round, saw an urchin throw me a backward grin as he darted into the street and vanished in a neighbouring entry.
I glanced at what this impudent gamin had thrust into my hand. A scrap of paper—creased, damp. Nevertheless, I opened it, on principle, having long before made it a strict rule of life to attend to the smallest details in a day’s adventures. There were words hastily scribbled on that bit of paper; they ran thus:
“For God’s sake, Campenhaye, get out of that doorway and away from this street, quick! But come, see me at my rooms at four o’clock, and if you still have him, bring that clerk of yours with you. Now scoot—and look neither right nor left.—Tregarthen.”
I obeyed this command to the letter: I did not even wait to fold up the paper. Crushing it in my hand, I shot hurriedly out of the doorway, up the street, and into a taxi-cab which happened to be passing. Not until I was west of St. Paul’s did I begin to ask myself what had really happened.
Tregarthen!—I had not seen Tregarthen for three years—not since soon after the affair of the Taplin mystery. He and I, working independently of the police, had tried to find Mendoba, the murderer of Dr. Francis Taplin; like the police, we had failed to do so. Then I had turned to other matters, and Tregarthen had gone away somewhere and I had not heard of him since; he was always a strangely mysterious person, and so I had not been surprised at his silence. But here he was in London again—and I knew his peculiar handwriting well enough—and yet I had not seen him at any of his usual haunts—which were also mine—nor heard of his return.
“This is an affair!” I informed myself. “Tregarthen is back. Tregarthen is up to something. Tregarthen is watching somebody. That somebody has something to do with those chambers in Budge Row. Perhaps if I had looked up I should have seen Tregarthen’s striking face confronting me from one of the opposite windows. However, I have done as I was told. Now, Tregarthen wants to see me. Also, which is possibly more important—he wants to see Killingley. I think—I am disposed to think—that this means that Tregarthen will be glad of a little professional assistance.”
I found that astute young gentleman, my clerk Killingley, improving his knowledge of men and things by a studious reading of the Sporting Times. I introduced the matter in hand to him at once.
“Killingley, you remember Mr. Tregarthen?”
Killingley’s sharp eyes gleamed intelligent affirmation.
“Case of Taplin and Mendoba,” he replied. “Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Tregarthen is back in town. He wants to see me at his rooms in the Albany at four o’clock.”
Killingley laid one hand on my diary; the other on his fountain-pen.
“Also,” I added, “he desires to see you.”
“Same time and place, sir?” asked Killingley, making notes.
“Same time and place,” I answered. “We’ll go together.”
So, four o’clock found my clerk and myself in Tregarthen’s eminently comfortable parlour in his excellent rooms. He had not come in, but everything betokened his immediate arrival. There was a bright, warm fire; there was tea laid out for three; there was a soft-footed man-servant ready to do service whenever he was wanted. And suddenly there was a sound of footsteps in the little hall, and the door opened and Tregarthen entered, and stripping off a big ulster presented to my astonished eyes the face and figure—minus the eye-patch and the crutch—of the tiger-selling gazer of Budge Row.
I was for the moment too much surprised to speak, for it had never entered my head that Tregarthen was the man to whom I had given a shilling, much less that it was from that man that the note came. And Tregarthen saw my surprise, and laughed as he went across to a sideboard and helped himself to a stiff glass of whiskey.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed, shivering a little. “That’s about the coldest job I ever took on, Campenhaye. I’m chilled through. Well, and how are you? But wait until I’ve got these rags off and changed into something clean, and then we’ll talk. I’ve had a stiff day of it—and I don’t know that I’ve done much good, either. But perhaps you and Killingley can help.”
Then, leaving us still mystified, he disappeared, to come back in ten minutes in a comfortable tweed suit, brisk and bustling.
“Now, we’ll talk, over a cup of tea,” he said, as his man brought in a steaming kettle. “Well, how’ve you been going on and what’s doing, eh?”
“A more fitting topic will be—what are you doing?” I answered. “Why this disguise? Why expose yourself to the whistling winds and sorry sleet of Budge Row, on as vile a day as ever I remember? Also—which is somewhat pertinent—why hurry me away from my business there?”
Tregarthen helped himself to hot buttered muffin and took a generous mouthful.
“I don’t know what your business was,” he said, nonchalantly; “but I’m jolly well certain it wasn’t as important as mine—which your distinguished presence in that place might have interfered with. You’re known, my boy—you’re known!”
“To about one person in each twenty-five thousand of the numerous millions in this city,” I retorted. “And that’s a high estimate.”
“You’re known well enough to, at any rate, one man who might have gone in and out of that entry in which you were standing,” he said calmly. “And I didn’t want that man to see you there.”
“And who’s he, pray?” I asked.
Tregarthen took a hearty gulp of tea and looked over the rim of his cup at Killingley and myself with eyes that seemed to be sizing us up.
“You remember the Francis Taplin case?” he said suddenly. “Yes, well, it’s Mendoba that I’m after.”
“What—again?” I exclaimed.
“Again? Well, now, I’ve been after him ever since, and for a long time before that,” replied Tregarthen. “But call it again, if you like. Certainly, it’s a new trail.”
“And Mendoba’s here in London?” I asked, greatly surprised.
“I believe he’s in Budge Row,” he answered. “But—so far, I haven’t seen him. And—I want to see him. Yes—I want to see that man pretty badly, Campenhaye. So—you and Killingley must help me.”
I glanced at Killingley, who was steadily devoting himself to tea and plum cake, and keeping his eyes fixed on our host.
“All right,” I said. “But before Killingley and I start out to help people, we like to know what it’s all about. Eh?”
“I’m going to tell you,” answered Tregarthen. “That’s what I got you here for—I don’t know that you’ll be much use, Campenhaye, but I believe Killingley might be. You’re known—he isn’t.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” I said. “Killingley is a person of importance. Half the swell crooks in town know him.”
“But Mendoba doesn’t, and he knows Mendoba,” said Tregarthen quickly.
Killingley cleared his jaws of plum cake.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I saw Mr. Mendoba with a beard and a wig. If you consult your memory you will find that Mr. Mendoba left wig and beard behind him in the railway carriage at Charing Cross after he had blown out Dr. Taplin’s brains.”
“That’s so,” agreed Tregarthen. “All the same, I think you’ll be useful—I remember you. Well, you see it’s this way, Campenhaye. I’ve just come back from the States. Never mind, just now, what my business there was—I may tell you about it when we’ve more leisure. But suffice it to say that while I was in New York I rendered a highly important service to a well-known business man who had the grace to be properly grateful. And, one night, having dined me very, very well at the Knickerbocker Club, he not only grew still more grateful but extremely confidential.”
“‘Look here,’ said he, ‘I guess you know a good many of the secrets of the secret side of London life?’
“‘Some,’ said I. ‘But not all by a long way.’
“‘I guess not,’ he said with a wink. ‘And I daresay I know one or two that you don’t know—just as you’ll know a good many that I never even heard of.’
“‘I should think so,’ said I. For I knew, d’you see, Campenhaye, that he was on this side a good deal and knew his way about. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s more than likely both ways.’
“‘D’you ever go in for a flutter in stocks?’ he asked, eyeing me keenly.
“‘I have done so when I’d money that I wasn’t particular about losing,’ I answered.
“‘All the same, you’d rather it came back to you with more sticking to it?’ he remarked.
“‘Naturally,’ I replied. ‘I should.’
“We were in a quiet corner, and there was no one near, but he edged himself closer, looking round as men do when they’ve something remarkably confidential to tell you.
“‘Did you ever hear of the Magician of Cannon Street?’ said he, with another keen look.
“‘Never,’ I answered. ‘Who’s he?’
“He laughed at that.
“‘Heaven knows!’ he replied. ‘Re-incarnation of Confucius or Socrates, or of old Abe Lincoln—anyhow, he’s a wise man, magic or no magic.’
“‘And what does he do?’ I asked.
“‘Ah! that’s it!’ he said. ‘I guess you’re aware that most of the big bugs in the money world are uncommonly superstitious?’
“‘No, I didn’t, but I knew that sportsmen—that is to say, racing-men—are,’ I answered.
“‘Same thing,’ said he. ‘Well, sir, it’s a fact that this fellow who’s known as the Magician of Cannon Street to a very, very select coterie of moneyed men who love to speculate, is a swell hand at telling his clients what their luck’s likely to be. That’s a fact—I’ve proved it.’
“‘What does he exactly do?’ I asked. ‘Gaze into crystals, or consult the stars, or read your palm, or what?’
“‘No hanky-panky,’ he answered. ‘It’s all done without ornament. Supposing you’re thinking of doing this, that, or the other, you go to him and tell him your schemes. He tells you whether you’re to go in or not. That’s all.’
“‘And do you mean to say that the chap’s always right?’ I exclaimed. ‘If he is, it’s a big order.’
“‘No, he isn’t always right,’ he answered. ‘But he’s a winner five times out of six—or, maybe, nine times out of ten. You see,’ he added, poking his finger into my ribs, ‘you see, I’ve tried him, and I know some other men who’ve also tried him.’
“Well, now, I know, Campenhaye, as I daresay you know, that there is this sort of thing going on in town here. I know of two remarkably astute city financiers who never undertake any serious deal until they’ve consulted some sybil or siren who hangs out in mysteriously lighted and heavily scented rooms off New Bond Street; but I’d never heard of this Cannon Street prophet, and I said so again.
“‘Just so,’ said my New York friend. ‘I knew you hadn’t—he deals with a very, very select coterie. Now, look here, as you’ve done me a real good turn, I’ll do you one. I’ll give you an introduction to this man—and if ever you’re thinking of doing anything important go to him for advice—and for a tip.’
“‘Oh!’ I said. ‘So he gives tips, does he? A sharp observer of the markets, eh?’
“‘Put it at that,’ said he. ‘But you take my introduction—you’ll never regret it.’
“Well, I never refuse anything on principle—and I said I was much obliged to him, and what was this magician’s name, and where did he sit in his particular cave or cell, or whatever it was?
“‘There’s no hanky-panky,’ he answered. ‘No magic circles, and no yellow robes, and no fool’s caps—all’s plain business. The address is Contango Chambers, Budge Row, Cannon Street, London, England, and the man’s name is plain Mister Morton. And—here’s the letter of introduction.’
“And with that he furtively slipped into my hand a ring, once more looking round as if to make sure that he wasn’t observed. And, humouring him, though I didn’t see that it was in any way necessary, I, too, stole a furtive glance at what he had given me. And I saw then, Campenhaye, my boy, that what he really had given me was a clue to the whereabouts of our precious friend, Mendoba!”
Killingley and I were by this time too much interested to be ready with words, and Tregarthen smiled triumphantly, and went on:
“To Mendoba!” he repeated. “The very man I wanted! Now, then, what was this clue? You won’t remember, Campenhaye, because you only saw him twice, that Mendoba wore a very curious ring—a signet ring, on the shield of which was a device which I have never seen before. But here’s the ring which my New York friend presented to me—to save explanations, I may as well say that it is, in reality, a duplicate of that worn by Mendoba. There are, I found out, a certain number of these duplicates in existence, and each forms a passport to the presence of the Magician of Cannon Street.”
I took the ring which Tregarthen handed to me, and Killingley and I carefully examined it. It was a plain gold ring, having on its upper rim a circular shield on which was deeply engraved a curious arabesque device. Tregarthen indicated that with the tip of his finger.
“I told you,” he said, “that Mendoba has Spanish, Moorish, and Arab blood in him—I believe that this device has something to do with his family. Anyway, I’ll stake all I’ve got that this is an exact duplicate of the ring which Mendoba wore when I knew him. And I believe that the Magician of Cannon Street is—Mendoba.”
“Well?” I said, not yet quite sure of what Tregarthen was after. “And what then?”
“I only landed at Plymouth yesterday morning,” he continued. “Naturally, I wanted to find out all I could about my man as soon as possible. I knew that it would be of no use to present myself at Budge Row, because I should have had to go in the attire and semblance of a man of probity and standing, and this sword-cut on my cheek would instantly have been recognised by Mendoba—if Mendoba is the Magician. So I adopted the disguise in which you saw me—it’s one that I’ve found very useful more than once in the city—old, crippled soldier, you know, and the black patch over the eye partly hides and also draws attention away from the scar. I went down there early this morning; my object was to keep a strict watch on the entrance to Contango Chambers in the hope of seeing Mendoba enter or leave. Well, I saw you, Campenhaye, and drove you off, for I knew that Mendoba would recognise you at once if he caught half a glimpse of you. Also, I saw one or two famous financial magnates who were doubtless on their way to consult the Magician. But I never saw Mendoba—that is, I never saw anybody whom I should have believed to be Mendoba. And there’s where a difficulty comes in. For you see, Campenhaye, I never saw Mendoba except when he wore that disguise of grey wig and beard which he discarded in the railway carriage at Charing Cross after he’d blown out Francis Taplin’s brains. Eh?”
“Just so,” I said. “How would you know Mendoba if you saw him?”
“I’d know enough to be certain if I could have him in this room or in his room for two minutes,” he answered. “But now, here’s the point. Somebody’s got to gain access to the Magician. I can’t—neither can you. But—what about Killingley? You told me, Campenhaye, that Killingley is an adept in the art of making up. Why not disguise him as——”
But I had been thinking pretty hard while Tregarthen was speaking. And now I interrupted him.
“No,” I said. “Give me the ring, and I’ll see this magician chap myself. I, too, am an adept at disguise—I taught Killingley all he knows. I’ll engage that Mendoba doesn’t know me—unless he’s an extraordinarily clever man and a very cute observer. Remember, he scarcely ever saw me at that gambling-hell of his, and, when he did, it was in a half-light.”
Tregarthen hesitated.
“Mendoba is remarkably cute,” he said, “and as to his ability, I reckon he’s one of the most able men I’ve ever had to do with. I was amazed when he so far lost his head as to revenge himself on Taplin as he did—I suppose his southern blood got the better of him. But, do you really think that you’d better tackle the job, seeing that he has seen you? It’s my impression that if Mendoba ever took stock of anybody he’d remember their every eyelash for fifty years.”
“I’ll engage that I could present myself to you this very evening and that you wouldn’t know me,” I answered. “You can trust me, if you like.”
And Killingley spoke for the first time.
“Leave it to the guv’nor, sir,” he said. “I fancy myself a bit in that line, but he’s far beyond me.”
Tregarthen handed over the ring again.
“All right,” he said. “Now, then, let’s settle the details.”
When Tregarthen and I had fixed matters up, my duty was a very simple one. I was to present myself, made up according to my own liking, at Contango Chambers next morning at eleven o’clock, and to exhibit the ring as credentials, and to ask for Mr. Morton. Tregarthen carefully posted me as to what I was to do and say on being admitted to the presence of the Magician of Cannon Street: the rest was left to me. As to Tregarthen himself, he was to resume his rôle of gazer; Killingley was to act as I judged best.
And so all that being settled, Killingley and I left our host and walked away together, and as we stepped out of the Albany into Piccadilly I asked my companion what he thought of this adventure. For Killingley was a great hand at thinking, and he had been unusually silent during the recent conversation.
“What I think, sir,” he answered, “is, that this man, if he is Mendoba, will be a stiff customer to tackle.”
“That goes without saying, Killingley,” I said. “He will.”
“You’ll go armed, of course?” he continued.
“I shall.”
“All the same,” he went on, “I don’t believe much in that, sir. A revolver isn’t much use nowadays—it’s clumsy and out of date. I think I had better keep an eye on you. How do you propose to go, sir?”
We discussed that point. The result of our discussion was that after an early dinner Killingley and I spent the first part of the evening in concocting and arranging my disguise. And as I am a great believer in details and in rehearsal, I made myself up with infinite care and precision as a middle-aged man of an eminently but quietly and unobtrusively prosperous appearance, slightly inclined to stoutness (I am normally spare, not to say slender), slightly grizzled as to moustache and hair (I am normally clean-shaven, and my hair is of distinctly raven hue), and much bronzed as if from close acquaintance with the southern sun. When all was finished and I was clothed in the fine linen and purple of a moneyed magnate (I always possess a very considerable and exhaustive wardrobe in order to be prepared to cope with any emergency), Killingley uttered words of admiration.
“You were right in saying that Mr. Tregarthen wouldn’t know you, sir,” he exclaimed. “He wouldn’t.”
“Just to test things, we’ll give him the chance,” I said. “He’ll be at the Odeon Club to-night. I’ll drive round there, and send in my name as a former American acquaintance.”
From a heap which lay in a bowl on my desk I picked out an old visiting-card that bore the name Colonel Charlton P. Lysters, and armed with it, drove round to the Odeon. There were two or three other men in the visitors’ waiting-room; when Tregarthen entered, turning Colonel Lyster’s card on his fingers, he stared helplessly at each. I stepped forward with outstretched hand.
“I guess you’ve forgotten me, Mr. Tregarthen,” I said. “We met way back in ninety-five, in Denver.”
He was plainly nonplussed, and he took my hand with a very limp response to my vigorous shake.
“I—I really don’t remember,” he said, staring at me steadily and scrutinisingly. “I can’t recall——”
“Let me jog your memory,” I said, and I took him by the arm and led him a little aside. “But only,” I continued, relapsing into my natural voice, “only to the extent of reminding you that Killingley and I drank tea with you this afternoon.”
Tregarthen started back, staring still more.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Well, that’s fine, old chap. You’ll keep that up in the morning?”
“Of course,” I replied. “But—we’ll have to rely on more than this, I reckon.”
“Well, if the man’s Mendoba, he’ll not recognise you, anyway,” he said. “And that’s the main thing, at first.”
It was not a man, Mendoba, or Morton, or any other, that I encountered when I walked into a quietly but well-furnished little outer office in Contango Chambers next morning. I gained a general impression of a bright fire shining on a thick and warm-coloured Turkey carpet, of an easy-chair or two, a good picture or so, and of a young lady who sat at an elegant desk which was not furnished with a typewriting machine. She was stylishly attired; she had nothing of the usual girl clerk in her appearance; but her eyes, bright and penetrating, sized me up shrewdly as she advanced to the pretence for a counter which fenced me off from her and the rest of the room. She looked an enquiry.
“Mr. Morton?” I said.
And, following out instructions, I gave the young lady a look as enquiring as her own, and at the same time laid my ungloved left hand on the little counter and thus exhibited the curiously marked signet ring.
The Magician’s unconventional janitor slightly inclined her head. Without verbal reply she turned and vanished through a door on the left of the room. Without delay she reappeared, silently admitted me within the counter, and opened another door on the right.
“Mr. Morton will come to you in a few moments,” she said as she motioned me to enter. “Please be seated.”
Then she closed the door upon me and left me alone. I looked round. The room was a tiny apartment; a small table in the middle of the floor was furnished with a plain morocco writing-pad, a gold-mounted inkstand, a bundle of quill pens, all new; on either side of the table were set two elbow-chairs. The walls were panelled in dark wood, unrelieved by any picture or ornament; the floor was covered by a thick carpet in which one’s feet sank with a sense of luxury; the one window of the place was filled with old painted glass. The place was an ideal cabinet in which to discuss extremely confidential business. And it was sound-proof. I was close to the heart of the city, just above one of its busiest thoroughfares along which rolled a perpetual tide of heavy traffic. But I could not hear a sound; the silence in that small room was deeper than any silence I ever knew; its deepness seemed to be accentuated by the gentle murmur of a fire which burnt brightly in the grate behind me.
I sat down in one of the elbow-chairs (there were but two seats in the room) and waited. The silence became, if possible, deeper; the murmur of the fire grew monotonous. And I suddenly conceived the idea that I was being watched.
That feeling of being alone, in a strange place, and of being silently looked at, inspected, taken stock of, from some coign of vantage of which one knows nothing, is one of the most trying experiences, one of the most severe nerve-tests, which a human being can go through. It makes you feel that you are at somebody’s or at something’s mercy. You cannot move a finger or wink an eye without the consciousness that it is being seen and noted by a watchful observer who is stationed you know not where. It is an uncanny, a weird feeling—like all such feelings, it grows upon you. In this case the feeling grew upon me. I suppose I am naturally highly-strung; certainly my nerves began to feel the strain of sitting there under this conviction. In cases where I am face to face with either danger or difficulty they come readily to the scratch and are as strong as iron and dependable as steel; if any man stared at me I should give him as long and as steady a stare as he gave me. But to sit alone, feeling until you reached the point of absolute certainty that an eye is on you, and that you do not know where that eye is—this is enough to disconcert even the strongest nerved man, and in this instance it disconcerted me. For the effect of such a feeling is to force you to a state of absolute quietude lest you should betray something in your face or your attitude, and that is wearing. And in this case I did not care to think that I was being watched at all.
I kept quiet, my eyes fixed on the morocco writing-case. I was thinking. I was endeavouring to summon up some notion of what I expected Mendoba (if this was the man) to be like. I had only seen him twice, and for a mere moment on each occasion, at the gambling-hell; he then presented himself as a tall, well-built man, a very little inclined to stoutness, with grey hair, a full grey beard, who wore slightly smoked spectacles. But I knew that he had discarded beard and wig in the train at Charing Cross when he shot Francis Taplin. What was he like then, when they were removed? I had nothing to go by but his height and figure, and they——
The door suddenly opened, and as suddenly closed. I turned to see a young gentleman, irreproachably garbed after the fashion of that aristocracy of the City which is particular in matters of raiment. And as I looked at him, gaining a general impression of his personality and appearance, a curious doubt and feeling of difficulty fell on me. Could this Mr. Morton—if the young gentleman was Mr. Morton—be one and the same person with the Mendoba of the gambling-hell?
I took a closer look at him as he came forward. He was tall and of a spare but athletic figure, which was well set off by his beautifully cut and shaped morning coat. He was a handsome young man—my first glance at him had showed me an olive-complexioned skin; black, smooth hair, scrupulously arranged; a pair of black, penetrating eyes. Those eyes fixed themselves upon me as we exchanged bows. He waved a slim, white hand in the direction of the chair from which I had risen at his entrance.
“Mr. Morton?” I said interrogatively.
He bowed again; again motioned me to my chair, and taking that on the other side of the table, leaned his elbows upon it, put his fingers together, rested his chin upon their tips, and continued to regard me with attention. Something in his eyes disconcerted me; they were so steady, so penetrating, so very cold and inflexible (these, I think, are the terms I should use), that I began to feel uncomfortable. Only once did they move from my face; that was to glance for the fraction of a second at the ring on my finger. After that they never left mine. And—whether I would or no—I was compelled to keep mine upon them. I say compelled deliberately—there is no other word for it.
There was a momentary silence, after my vis-à-vis had taken his seat. Then he said—using a formal tone:
“You wish to consult me?”
“Under advice,” I answered. “The advice of the man from whom I procured this.”
I was about to say “ring,” but he waved a finger carelessly.
“Just so. My preliminary fee, as he no doubt informed you, is five hundred guineas in cash. Afterwards, you pay me ten per cent. on the profit of the deal which you propose to make—that is, if I advise you to make it.”
I had been coached for all this, and I drew out the amount of money for which he asked. I handed him five one-hundred pound Bank of England notes and five five-pound notes, and he placed them on the morocco writing-case.
“What do you wish me to advise you about?” he asked.
I was prepared for that, too. But I wanted to fence with him a little. And for that I was also prepared. All the same, I began to wish that he would not stare at me so persistently with those coal-black eyes!
“You are famous for a remarkable gift of insight?” I remarked, with what was doubtless a feeble attempt at a smile.
“I possess a gift of insight, coupled with some financial knowledge,” he replied.
“A remarkably astute and deep-seated knowledge,” I said.
“Call it so, if you will. You wish to engage in some financial operation?”
“I do. That is why I am here.”
“Of a considerable nature, of course? Otherwise you would certainly not be here. What is it?”
“What it is,” I said, “will be best explained by my asking you a simple question. What place will Russia occupy as a political and financial power two years hence?”
He inclined his head slightly, but his eyes were still fixed on mine, and I was unpleasantly conscious of their power.
“Two years hence,” he answered quietly, “Russia will be at war with Japan. And Russia will be beaten. Does that answer your question?”
Now, as events proved, he was right in this prophecy. I do not pretend to know how he came to prognosticate matters so successfully; I only know that what he foretold came to pass within the time specified. But at that time I personally knew of no reason why Russia and Japan should so soon go to war, so I displayed a little incredulity.
“You are sure of that?” I asked.
“I never say anything unless I am sure of it,” he answered. “What I say in this matter, will be.”
I made pretence of hesitation.
“This is a big question to me,” I said. “I had the intention of making most important investments in Russia, which would be seriously prejudiced in the event of that country going to war within the next six years, especially if, as you prophesy, she suffered defeat. Is it within your province to give me ground for your expectations?”
“Most certainly,” he answered. His eyes appeared to draw my own more compellingly than ever. Their expression deepened to one of intense concentration: unconsciously I edged my elbow-chair nearer to the table. “Most certainly,” he repeated. “Now, attend to me.”
What I am going to state or confess may sound incredible to all people save those who understand and have seen something of the effects of suggestive influence. But it is the plain truth—and like all plain truths it can be put into a very few words.
And the plain truth is this: I have no knowledge whatever of what further took place between me and the young man of the remarkable eyes. From the moment that he told me to attend to him until another moment of which I am presently going to speak, my mind was a blank.
Whether a man can be rightly called unconscious who walks, talks, eats, transacts business, has conversation, rational and coherent, with other folk, and who is not aware that he has done any of these things, is a question which I shall leave the experts to decide. It is quite certain that before noon of one day and eight o’clock of the next I walked, talked, ate and drank, smoked and behaved myself as a rational man does, and was quite unaware of the fact. I have since conversed with several people who met me during that period; they all agreed that they saw nothing in me that was not absolutely normal and ordinary.
But the truth is that I passed out of one state of consciousness about noon on one day, seated in that snug room in Contango Chambers in Budge Row, and woke up to another state of equal—perhaps sharper, more alert—consciousness at eight o’clock the next morning in a bedroom of the Royal York Hotel at Brighton.
It was a beautiful, sharp, winter morning; the clear light that flooded my bedroom awoke me. I opened my ——eyes. …
There are few things in the ordinary way of life that can frighten a man so much as waking suddenly in a strange room wherein he certainly does not expect to find himself. I was frightened. I shut my eyes as soon as I had opened them. But in that momentary opening I had seen that I was in the bedroom of an hotel, and I had remembered the interview of yesterday. Again I heard the compelling voice of the man with the equally compelling eyes.
“Attend to me!”
But—what since then?
I sprang out of bed, and made for the window I jerked up the blinds and looked out. Instantly I recognised the Old Steine. The tramcars were running on the road beneath; early birds were walking across the gardens. So I was in Brighton. But—how did I come there?
I turned from the window, and looked around me. It was quite evident that when I left town I had known what I was doing. There was a suit-case, there were toilet articles, duly set out; a winter dressing-gown lay ready to hand. And—yes, of course, this was the room which I usually occupied when I visited Brighton, as I often did. But—once more—how did I come to be in it?
I remember everything of my recent doings up to the point where the Magician of Cannon Street bade me attend to him: after that I remembered nothing. And, naturally, the only word I could think of, the conventional word, often meaningless, but by no means so in my case, sprang to my lips:
“Hypnotised!”
That, of course, must be the explanation—I was a victim to hypnotic suggestion. The man of Contango Chambers had driven my own will clean away from me with those devilish eyes of his and had substituted impulses of his own for his own purpose. What purpose? Obviously to get me out of the way, while he got himself out of the way. And so, there were precious hours—twenty of them—lost, and—where was he?
I have always prided myself on being pretty smart about tackling emergencies and difficulties. I recognised that the only thing to do in this case was to get a quick move on in the direction of London. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was precisely five minutes past eight. Now, I know that Killingley never presented himself at my office until ten o’clock, and it was accordingly useless to telephone to him there; I also knew that there was no telephone at the cottage at Hampstead where he lived with his mother and sister. Well, I would endeavour to be in town before half the morning had passed, and I started to take measures. I summoned a certain man-servant, and gave him sharp orders.
“Send me some coffee, and some hot toast here at once,” I said. “Order for me the best and quickest motor-car you can get in Brighton, with a thoroughly good chauffeur. Let him be round here with the car as quickly as he can. There’s only one word for it—hurry!”
The man knew me and my ways, and he shot off in a way that satisfied me. I dressed as rapidly as ever I had performed that operation in my life, swallowed the toast and the coffee, and was down in the hall and ready for the car within twenty minutes of giving my orders.
“Car’ll be here in a minute, sir,” said my factotum.
Turning to the office to pay my bill, I caught sight of a pile of morning papers which had just come in. I picked one up mechanically, and opening it, ran my eye over the headlines of the middle pages. And then, for the second time that morning, I jumped with amazement. For there, in great, staring black letters I read:
THE MURDER OF DR. TAPLIN.
REMARKABLE ARREST IN LONDON.
“Car, sir!” said a voice behind me.
I forgot that the newspaper was the property of the hotel. I have confused recollections that I crumpled it up in my hand, leaped into, or was bundled into, the automobile, that I gave the chauffeur a peremptory command, and that Brighton faded away behind me.
The car was speeding away northwards between Batham and Pangdean before I woke to the fact that I was holding the newspaper crushed up in my hand. Then I spread its creases out and read what appeared beneath those staring headlines. There was not much to be read, but what there was made me think harder than before.
“The murder of Dr. Francis Taplin, of Wimpole Street, which took place at Charing Cross Railway Station two years ago, under highly sensational circumstances, the murderer killing his victim and making his escape just as a boat train was about to start, was recalled yesterday afternoon, when the police, acting on information, quietly effected at Charing Cross the arrest of a man who is alleged to have committed the crime.
“The man in question had booked a ticket for Paris, and had already taken his seat in a first-class smoking compartment when he was arrested by plain-clothes officers, who acted in such swift and unobtrusive fashion that their prisoner was removed from both train and station without any excitement or commotion being aroused.
“Great reticence is being shown by the police authorities, but it is understood that they derived their information from private sources, and that they have full confidence that they not only hold the murderer of Dr. Francis Taplin, but that the prisoner is also a person who was wanted at the time of the murder in connection with the keeping of a private gaming-house in the West End, and who effected a clever escape when it was raided by the police. It is rumoured that he is a foreigner of great ability who is an adept at skilfully disguising himself, and that he has of late been engaged in various questionable transactions in the City. He is expected to be brought up at Bow Street at noon to-day.”
I dropped the newspaper on the opposite seat as I leaned back in the swiftly-speeding car.
“That’s Killingley!” I said. “Killingley’s done the trick. But how?”
We turned into Jermyn Street well before eleven o’clock. I dashed straight upstairs to my office—to find Killingley and Tregarthen closeted together. And I saw at one glance that neither had been to bed. Further, I saw that Killingley was in a state of high concern; he so far lost his usual sang-froid, indeed, as to rush forward, and shake my hand violently. After which he relapsed into his usual normal condition.
“If one may ask a plain question, Campenhaye,” said Tregarthen, who had watched this little scene with amused eyes, “we should like to know where you come from? Killingley and I have spent most of our time since yesterday afternoon in searching high and low for you.”
“I have just come from Brighton,” I answered. “But—as to how I got to Brighton, frankly, I don’t know. But—you may laugh, if you like—I believe that magician chap put me under hypnotic suggestion.”
Tregarthen, however, did not laugh. He turned to Killingley.
“Tell him,” he said. “It will perhaps make things clear.”
“There’s not such a lot to tell you, sir,” responded Killingley, turning to me. “You know that, as we had arranged, I kept a watch on the hall door of those chambers in Budge Row. I saw you enter. About half an hour later I saw you come out. You came out in company with a tall, dark young gentlemen. And when I saw him, I was certain we’d got Mendoba.”
“You were!” I exclaimed. “Why?”
“Because, sir, when I watched Taplin’s house in Wimpole Street that night of the murder I saw Mendoba, and you will remember, though he was then disguised in his grey beard and wig and smoked glasses,” answered Killingley. “True, sir, I only saw him for a minute or so, but I noticed a certain peculiarity which I didn’t forget. He has a curious action of his left leg, something like a mild case of string-halt in a horse, sir.”
“Good for you, Killingley,” said I. “Well?”
“Well, sir, and so had this man who came out of Contango Chambers with you. But after I had seen that, I gave my attention to you.”
“Why to me?”
“Because you appeared to be on such friendly terms with him. You walked together down the street, passed Mr. Tregarthen, there, to whom you threw a shilling, and then turned up towards the Mansion House—you were arm in arm by that time, and more friendly than ever. You went across to Lombard Street, and there the two of you went into your bank, sir.”
Like a flash my hand went to my breast-pocket to find a cheque-book which I always carried there. Killingley smiled.
“It’s all right, sir,” he said. “You cashed a pretty heavy cheque there, and you evidently handed over the proceeds to Mendoba; but we found them on him, and they’re safe. But let me go on, sir. I waited safely outside. The man—and he is Mendoba, or that’s one of his names—came out alone—you didn’t re-appear. Then I remembered that there are two entrances to that bank, and I thought that you must have left by the other. Then—what was I to do? I decided to follow the man—I felt sure that he didn’t know me: at any rate, I couldn’t think of any reason why he should. And so I kept him in view. And he didn’t go back to that office. Instead, he set off west. He rode to some chambers in Mayfair—I followed him. I followed him later to Charing Cross, where he went in company of a handbag and a rug. I was close behind him when he booked for Paris. But, meantime, I’d managed to send to the Yard, and as he set out for the 2.20 I had him taken. And—that’s all, sir,” concluded Killingley, “and I’m glad you’re safe.”
“But, is he our man?” I said, turning to Tregarthen. “Is he—Mendoba?”
“He’s my man,” answered Tregarthen grimly. “I’ve seen him. Oh! he’s the man we knew as Mendoba right enough. We’ll go along to Bow Street presently, and you shall have another look at him—under safe conditions. I say, Campenhaye, that’s an unfortunate accomplishment of yours. I didn’t know you were subject to influence.”
“Neither did I,” I growled. “However, you know I’m retiring. But this Mendoba——”
Just then a sharp rap came at the outer door, and Killingley, going to open it, admitted a New Scotland Yard man who was very well known to us. He smiled sardonically when he saw Tregarthen and myself.
“Well, there’s an end of that,” he said. “There’ll be little more to hear about that chap, I’m thinking.”
“You don’t mean to say he’s escaped?” exclaimed Tregarthen.
“Escaped hanging,” said the other coolly. “He’s dead—suicide. They think he’d concealed something in a hollow tooth—it’s a favourite dodge with some of the dare-devil lot. Did it an hour ago. They want you, Mr. Tregarthen—they think you might clear something up. Can you come now?”
And Tregarthen went, and Killingley and I went with him. But there was little that he could clear up, and we have never known to this day what the real identity of the man was, who, but for that fatal twist of character which inclined him to crime, might have been a Napoleon to whom no Waterloo need have come!
THE END.
London; Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.