IX
Mr. Speedwell Plays His Hand
Next morning Cheyne called at the offices of Messrs. Horton & Lavender’s Private Detective Agency and asked if their Mr. Speedwell was within. By good fortune Mr. Speedwell was, and a few seconds later Cheyne was ushered into the room of the quiet, despondent-looking man whom he had interviewed at Warren Lodge nearly two months earlier.
“Glad to see you’re better, sir,” the detective greeted him. “I was expecting you would look in one of these days. You had my letter?”
“No,” said Cheyne, considerably surprised, “and I should like to know why you were expecting me and how you know I was ill.”
The man smiled deprecatingly.
“If I was really up to my job I suppose I’d tell you that detectives knew everything, or at least that I did, but I never make any mystery between friends, leastwise when there isn’t any. I knew you were ill because I was down at Warren Lodge a month ago looking for you and Miss Cheyne told me, and I was expecting you to call because I wrote asking you to do so. However, if you didn’t get my letter, why then it seems to me I owe the pleasure of this visit to something else.”
“You’re quite right,” said Cheyne. “You do. But before we get on to that, tell me what you called and wrote about.”
“I’ll do so, sir. I called because I had got some information for you, and when I didn’t see you I wrote for the same reason asking you to look in here.”
The man spoke civilly and directly, but yet there was something about him which rubbed Cheyne up the wrong way—something furtive in his manner, by which instinctively the other was repelled. It was therefore with rather less than his usual good-natured courtesy that Cheyne returned: “Well, here I am then. What is your information?”
“I’ll tell you, sir. But first let me recall to your mind what I—acting for my firm—was asked to find out.” He stressed the words “acting for my firm,” and as he did so shot a keen questioning glance at Cheyne. The latter did not reply, and Speedwell, after pausing for a moment, went on:
“I was employed—or rather my firm was employed”—what his point was Cheyne could not see, but he was evidently making one—“my firm was employed by the manager of the Edgecombe Hotel to investigate a case of alleged drugging which had taken place in the hotel. That was all, wasn’t it?”
“That or matters arising therefrom,” Cheyne replied cautiously.
The detective smiled foxily.
“Ah, I see you have taken my meaning, Mr. Cheyne. That or matters arising directly therefrom. That, sir, is quite correct. Now, I have found out something about that. Not much, I admit, but still something. Though whether it is as much as you already are cognizant of is another matter.”
Cheyne felt his temper giving way.
“Look here,” he said sharply. “What are you getting at? I can’t spend the day here. If you’ve anything to say, for goodness’ sake get along and say it and have done with this beating about the bush.”
Speedwell made a deprecating gesture.
“Certainly, sir; as you will. But”—he gave a dry smile—“have you not overlooked the fact that you called in to consult me?”
“I shall not do it now,” Cheyne said angrily. “Give me the information that you’re being paid for and that will complete our business.”
“No, sir, but with the utmost respect that will only begin it. I’ll give you the information right away, but first I’d like to come to an understanding about this other business.”
“What under the sun are you talking about? What other business?”
“The breaking and entering.” Speedwell spoke now in a decisive, businesslike tone. “The breaking and entering of a house in Hopefield Avenue—Laurel Lodge, let us call it—on an evening just six weeks ago—on the to be exact. I should really say the burglary, because there was also the theft of an important document. The owners of that document would be glad of information which would lead to the arrest of the thief.”
This astounding statement, made in the calm matter-of-fact way in which the man was now speaking, took Cheyne completely aback. For a moment he hesitated. His character was direct and straightforward, but for the space of two seconds he was tempted to prevaricate, to admit no knowledge of the incidents referred to. Then his hot temper swept away all considerations of what might or might not be prudent, and he burst out: “Well, Mr. Speedwell, what of it? If you are so well informed as you pretend, you’ll be aware that the parties lost no document on that night. I don’t know what you’re after, but it looks uncommonly like an attempt at blackmail.”
Mr. Speedwell seemed pained at the suggestion. He assured Cheyne that his remarks had been misinterpreted, and deprecated the fact that such an unpleasant word had been brought into the discussion. “All the same,” he concluded meaningly, “I am glad to have your assurance that the document in question was not stolen from the house.”
Cheyne was not only mystified, but a trifle uneasy. He saw now that he had been maneuvered into a practical admission that he had committed burglary, and there was something in the way the detective had made his last remark that seemed vaguely sinister.
“Well, what business of yours is it?” he said brusquely. “What do you hope to get out of it?”
Speedwell nodded as he looked at the other out of his close-set furtive eyes.
“Now, sir,” he answered approvingly, “that’s what I like. That’s coming to business, that is. I thought perhaps I could be of service to you, that’s all. Here are these parties looking for you to make a prosecution for burglary, and here you are looking for them for a paper they have. And here am I,” his face was inexpressibly sly, “in a position to help either
