“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said, when the inspector had closed the door behind him. “The fact is that sheerly criminal work is a novelty to me, and I’m afraid that I’m going to make it a mystery to you,” he smiled. “At the moment I’m not prepared to give expression to all my suspicions.”
Detective Inspector Lyle, the chief of the two, laughed.
“We have been placed entirely under your orders, Captain Brixan,” he said, “and neither of us are very curious. The information you asked for, Sergeant Walters has brought.” He indicated his tall companion.
“Which information—about Penne? Is he known to the police?” asked Michael, interested.
Sergeant Walters nodded.
“He was convicted and fined a few years ago for assaulting a servant—a woman. Apparently he took a whip to the girl, and he very narrowly escaped going to prison. That was the first time our attention was attracted to him, and we made inquiries both in London and in the Malay States and found out all about him. He’s a very rich man, and, being a distant cousin of the late baronet, you may say he fluked his title. In Borneo he lived upcountry, practically in the bush, for fifteen or twenty years, and the stories we have about him aren’t particularly savoury. There are a few of them which you might read at your leisure, Mr. Brixan—they’re in the record.”
Michael nodded.
“Is anything known of an educated orangutan which is his companion?”
To his surprise, the officer answered:
“Bhag? Oh yes, we know all about him. He was captured when he was quite a baby by Penne, and was brought up in captivity. It has been rather difficult to trace the man, because he never returns to England by the usual steamship line, so that it’s almost impossible to have a tag on him. He has a yacht, a fine seagoing boat, the Kipi, which is practically officered and manned by Papuans. What comes and goes with him I don’t know. There was a complaint came through to us that the last time he was abroad Penne nearly lost his life as the result of some quarrel he had with a local tribesman. Now, Mr. Brixan, what would you like us to do?”
Michael’s instructions were few and brief. That evening, when Adele walked home to her lodgings, she was conscious that a man was following her, and after her previous night’s adventure this fact would have played havoc with her nerves but for the note she found waiting when she got indoors. It was from Michael.
“Would you mind if I put a Scotland Yard man to watch you, to see that you do not get into mischief! I don’t think there’s any danger that you will, but I shall feel ever so much easier in my mind if you will endure this annoyance.”
She read the letter and her brows knit. So she was being shadowed! It was an uncomfortable experience, and yet she could not very well object, could not indeed feel anything but a sense of warm gratitude toward this ubiquitous and pushful young man, who seemed determined not to let her out of his sight.
XVI
The Brown Man from Nowhere
With a brand-new grievance against life, Lawley Foss gathered his forces to avenge himself upon the world that had treated him so harshly. And first and most powerful of his forces was Stella Mendoza. There was a council of war held in the drawing-room of the pretty little house that Stella had taken when she joined the Knebworth Corporation. The third of the party was Mr. Reggie Connolly. And as they were mutually sympathetic, so were they mutually unselfish—characteristically so.
“We’ve been treated disgracefully by Knebworth, Mr. Foss, especially you. I think, compared with your case, mine is nothing.”
“It is the way he has handled you that makes me sore,” said Foss energetically. “An artiste of your standing!”
“The work you’ve done for him! And Reggie—he treated him like a dog!”
“Personally, it doesn’t matter to me,” said Reggie. “I can always find a contract—it’s you—”
“For the matter of that, we can all find contracts,” interrupted Stella with a taste of acid in her voice: “I can have my own company when I please, and I’ve got two directors mad to direct me, and two men I know would put up every cent of money to give me my own company—at least, they’d put up a lot. And Chauncey Seller is raving to play opposite me, and you know what a star he is; and he’d let me be featured and go into small type himself. He’s a lovely man, and the best juvenile in this country or any other.”
Mr. Connolly coughed.
“The point is, can we get the money now?” asked Foss, practical for once.
There was no immediate and enthusiastic assurance from the girl.
“Because, if not, I think I can get all I want,” said Foss surprisingly. “I won’t say from whom, or how I’m going to get it. But I’m certain I can get big money, and it will be easier to get it for some specific object than to ask for it for myself.”
“Less risky?” suggested Connolly, with a desire to be in the conversation.
It was an unfortunate remark, the more so since by chance he had hit the nail on the head. Foss went a dull red.
“What the hell do you mean by ‘less risky’?” he demanded.
Poor Reggie had meant nothing, and admitted as much in some haste. He had meant to be helpful, and was ready to sulk at the storm he had aroused. More ready because, as the conversation had progressed, he had faded more and more into the background as an inconsiderable factor. There is nothing quite so disheartening to a conspirator as to find the conspiring taken out of his hands, and Reggie Connolly felt it was the moment to make
