Again French nodded, while Cheyne broke in: “You never told me anything of that.”
Speedwell smiled once more his crafty smile.
“Well, no, Mr. Cheyne, I didn’t mention it certainly. It was only a theory, you understand. I thought I’d wait till I was sure.
“Well, gentlemen, there it was. Someone wanted some paper that Mr. Cheyne had—it was almost certainly a paper, as they searched his pocketbook—and Susan was involved. I hung about Warren Lodge, and all the time I was watching Susan. I found she wrote frequent letters and always posted them herself: so that was suspicious too. Then one day when she was out I slipped up to her room and searched around. I found a writing case in her box of much too good a kind for a servant, and a blotting-paper pad with a lot of ink marks. When I put the pad before a mirror I made out an address written several times: ‘Mr. J. Dangle, Laurel Lodge, Hopefield Avenue, Hendon.’ So that was that.”
Speedwell paused and glanced at his auditors in turn, but neither replying, he resumed:
“I generally try to make a friend when I’m on a case: they’re useful if you want some special information. So I chummed up with the housemaid at Mrs. Hazelton’s—friends of Mr. Cheyne’s—live quite close by. I told this girl I was on the burglary job, and that there would be big money in it if the thieves were caught, and that if she helped me she should get her share. I told her I had my suspicions of Susan, said I was going to London, and asked her would she watch Susan and keep me advised of how things went on. She said yes, and I gave her a couple of pounds on account, just to keep her eager, while I came back to town to look after Dangle.”
In spite of the keen interest with which he was listening to these revelations, Cheyne felt himself seething with indignant anger. How he had been hoodwinked by this sneaking scoundrel, with his mean ingratiating smile and his assumption of melancholy! He could have kicked himself as he remembered how he had tried to cheer and encourage the mock pessimist. He wondered which was the more hateful, the man’s deceit or the cynical way he was now telling of it. But, apparently unconscious of the antagonism which he had aroused, Speedwell calmly and, Cheyne thought disgustedly, a trifle proudly, continued his narrative.
“I soon found that James Dangle lived at Laurel Lodge. He was alone except for a daily char, but up till a short while earlier his sister had kept house for him. When I learned that his sister had left Laurel Lodge on the same day that Susan took up her place at Warren Lodge, I soon guessed who Susan really was.
“I thought that when these two would go to so much trouble, the thing they were after must be pretty well worth while, and I thought it might pay me if I could find out what it was. So I shadowed Dangle, and learned a good deal about him. I learned that he was constantly meeting two other men, so I shadowed them and learned they were Blessington and Sime. Blessington I guessed first time I saw him was the man who had drugged you, Mr. Cheyne, for he exactly covered your and the manager’s descriptions. It seemed clear then that these three and Susan Dangle—if her real name was Susan—were in the conspiracy to get whatever you had.”
“But what I would like to have explained,” Cheyne burst in, “was why you didn’t tell me what you had discovered. You were paid to do it. What did you think you were taking that hotel manager’s money for?”
Speedwell made a gesture of deferential disagreement.
“I scarcely think that you can find fault with me there, Mr. Cheyne,” he answered with his ingratiating smile. “I was investigating: I had not reached the end of my investigation. As you will see, sir, my investigation took a somewhat unexpected turn—a very unexpected turn, I might almost say, which left me in a bit of doubt as to how to act. But you’ll hear.”
Inspector French had been sitting quite still at his desk, but now he stretched out his hand, took a cigar from the box, and as he lit it, murmured: “Go on, Speedwell. Sounds like a novel. I’m enjoying it. Aren’t you, Mr. Cheyne?”
Cheyne made noncommittal noises, and Speedwell, looking pleased, continued:
“One evening, nearly two months ago, I got back late from another job and I found a wire waiting for me. It was from Mrs. Hazelton’s housemaid and it said: ‘Maxwell Cheyne disappeared and Susan left Warren Lodge for London.’ I thought to myself: ‘Bully for you, Jane,’ and then I thought: ‘Susan will be turning to Brother James. I’ll go out to Hopefield Avenue and see if I can pick anything up.’ So I went out. It was about when I arrived. I found the front of the house in darkness, but an upper window at the back was lighted up. There was a lane along behind the houses, you understand, Mr. French, and a bit of garden between them and the lane. The gate into the garden was open, and I slipped in and began to tiptoe towards the house. Then I heard soft steps coming in after me, and I turned aside and hid behind a large shrub to see what would happen. And then I saw something that interested me very much. A man came in very quietly and I saw in the faint moonlight that he was carrying a ladder.” There was an exclamation from Cheyne. “He put the ladder to the lighted window and climbed up, and then I saw who it was. I needn’t
