The Door with Seven Locks

I should like. If, in your absence, I have a cable from him, I will, of course, transmit it to you. I want you to find Pierce, but in no circumstances are you to acquaint the police of America that you are following him, or that there is anything suspicious in his movements. All that I want to know is, Has he contracted any undesirable alliance, is he a free agent, is the money I send to him being employed for his own benefit? He tells me, by the way, that he has bought a number of shares in industrial concerns in various parts of the world, and some of these shares are in my possession. A great number, however, I cannot account for, and he has replied to my inquiries by telling me that they are safely deposited with a South African banking corporation. The reason I ask you to keep this matter entirely to yourself is because, you will understand, I can’t have him embarrassed by the attentions of the local authorities. And most earnestly I am desirous that he should not know I sent you. Now, Mr. Martin, how does the idea appeal to you?”

Dick smiled.

“It looks to me like a very pleasant sort of holiday. How long will this chase last?”

“I don’t know⁠—a few months, a few weeks: it all depends upon the report I receive from you, which, by the way, must be cabled to me direct. I have a very free hand and I can allow you the limit of expenses; in addition to which I will pay you a handsome fee.”

He named a sum which was surprisingly munificent.

“When would you want me to go?”

The lawyer took out a little pocketbook and evidently consulted a calendar.

“Today is Wednesday; suppose you leave next Wednesday by the Cunarder? At present he is in Boston, but he tells me that he is going to New York, where he will be staying at the Commodore. Boston is a favourite hunting ground of his.” His lips twitched. “I believe he intends sparing a chapter to the American War of Independence,” he said dryly; “and, naturally, Boston will afford him an excellent centre for that study.”

“One question,” said Dick, as he rose to go. “Have you any reason to suppose that he has contracted, as you say, an undesirable alliance⁠—in other words, has married somebody that he shouldn’t have married?”

“No reason at all, except my suspicious mind,” smiled Mr. Havelock. “If you become friendly with him, as I am perfectly sure with an effort you can succeed in doing, there are certain things I would like you to urge upon him. The first of these is that he come back to England and takes his seat in the House of Peers. That is very essential. Then I should like him to have a London season, because it’s high time he was married and off my mind. Selford Manor is going to ruin for want of an occupant. It is disgraceful that a fine old house like that should be left to the charge of a caretaker⁠—anyway, he ought to come back to be buried there,” he added, with a certain grim humour, and Dick did not quite understand the point of his remark until eight months later.

The task was, in Dr. Stalletti’s words, extraordinary and bizarre, but it was not wholly unusual. Indeed, the first thought he had was its extreme simplicity. The commission was really a holiday on a grand scale, and something of his regret at leaving Scotland Yard was expunged by the pleasant prospect.

It was nine o’clock on this wet October night when he came into Acacia Road. There was not a cab in sight, and he had to walk half a mile before he reached a rank. Letting himself into his flat, he found it in darkness, and to his surprise Pheeney had gone. The remains of the dinner were on the table⁠—he had told the housekeeper that he would clear the board, but one corner of the tablecloth had been turned up, and there on the cleared space half a dozen sheets of paper and a fountain pen. Evidently Lew intended returning, but though Dick Martin waited up until two o’clock, there was no sign of the grave-robber. For some reason Pheeney had changed his mind.

At half past ten the next morning he called at the library with his book. The girl looked up with a little laugh as he came in.

“I admit I’m a good joke,” he said ruefully. “Here is your book. It was taken by an ignorant foreigner, who believed that loaning libraries are run on rather haphazard lines.”

She stared at the book. “Really, you are most impressive, Mr. Martin. Please tell me how you did it.”

“Sheer deduction,” he said gaily. “I knew the man who took it was a foreigner, because you told me so. I guessed his address because you gave it me; and I recovered the book by the intricate process of asking for it!”

“Wonderful!” she breathed, and they laughed together.

There was small excuse for his lingering, yet he contrived, as she hinted rather plainly, to hinder her for the greater part of an hour. Happily, the patrons of the Bellingham Library were not early risers, and she had the best part of the morning to herself.

“I am going abroad next week for a few months,” he said carelessly. “I don’t know why I tell you, but I thought possibly you would be interested in foreign travel.”

She smiled to herself.

“You are certainly the naivest detective I have ever met! In fact, the only detective I have ever met!” she added. Then, seeing his obvious discomfiture, she became almost kind. “You see, Mr. Martin, I have been very well brought up”⁠—even in her kindness, her irony made him wince⁠—“which means that I am fearfully conventional. I wonder if you can guess how many men one meets in the course of a week who try to interest you in their family