Moy found the silence on Gilmour’s part very hard to bear as one day followed another. He was not what is known as psychic at all, and yet he had a growing feeling that something was wrong.
Three days after Gilmour had left the letter with him, he rang up Miss Longstaff and asked her if he might drop in for a chat. She sounded quite willing. He found her sitting in a little basement room lit by what purported to be dungeon lanterns, a suitable choice he thought.
She was looking tired and dispirited, but the stare that she bent on him was as inscrutable as ever. She brightened up, however, after a moment.
“You’ve never been here before, have you?” she asked, waving a hand around. “Can you imagine a more naive attempt at deceit. That bookcase is supposed to be absolutely undetectable. Could anyone suppose it to be anything, but what it is, a bed on end? The manageress assured me that the wash-stand looks just like an antique bureau. It doesn’t. It looks just like a wash-stand, from where it was bought—Tottenham Court Road. And do sit down on this Early English dower-chest, as she calls it, which screams aloud that it’s a dwarf wardrobe. Now tell me why you’ve conquered your aversion to me, and actually paid me a visit?” She looked very wicked as she said the last words, and Moy fidgeted on his hard seat.
“You’re joking,” he murmured. She had a hard stare and a hard jaw but she was a young and handsome girl none the less.
“Look here,” he said impulsively, “I dropped in to ask you if you haven’t heard from Gilmour——”
A shade passed over her mobile face.
“That’s an egg that didn’t hatch out at all as I hoped,” she said with apparent frankness, lighting a cigarette. “Gilmour...I feel I’ve been rather a pig to him, but what’s done’s done. I hate turning back, it’s always a mistake.”
“Not in your case,” he said urgently. “You see, I know how deeply attached to you he is—how much he felt your attitude. No other girl had a look in with him.” He paused and repeated this last sentence.
“Well, perhaps,” she said rather oracularly. “I mean perhaps I have been all wrong about him ..She fell into a reverie. Then she looked up.
“If he can find out who did do it, that’s what he’s gone for, isn’t it? Well, I might go back to things as they once were. If innocent, he’s had a rotten time. I wish you could tell him that. Can’t you really get a message through to him?”
Moy told her that he could not. “Something you said gave him a clue, or rather set him off remembering something connected with it,” he said, “and where he is, and when he’s coming back, I haven’t the wildest notion.” Suddenly catching her eye, her intensity, he began to talk of something else, and asked her how she Liked the house she was in.
She shrugged. “Beggars mustn’t be choosers. I had hoped to be able to afford something better than this, but—well, my finances won’t admit of it.” She did not say that the post on the paper which she had secured was turning out to be a very weak reed on which to lean, if indeed she was allowed to keep it, for she had had a hint that a good many changes were being contemplated, and guessed that they would include her name even though, or rather because, her appointment seemed to be purely honorary—like her salary.
“Did you ever hear Mr. Gilmour or Mr. Ingram speak of a Mrs. Findlay?” she asked abruptly. Moy said that he never had. She sat very quiet at that, almost lost in the deep wicker chair which even the manageress could not say looked like anything but what it was.
“I hadn’t meant to speak of it,” she said slowly, and as though not quite sure yet if she wished to let it slip, “but I wondered once, and now I’m wondering again, if Mr. Gilmour’s disappearance has anything to do with her.”
“Who’s she?” Moy asked promptly, all interest.
“This is confidential!” she said and waited for his “Certainly” before continuing. “I was with Mr. Gilmour one afternoon, we were going by tube, and stepped into the lift. Or rather were just going to, when he stepped back with a sort of jump. Now, I happened to be looking at him just then, and I could swear that he stepped out from the lift so quickly because he had caught sight of a rather odd-looking woman standing inside. Close to where we should have had to stand. She was a big woman, rather stout, with a floating black veil flung over the crown of her hat and hanging down behind. It was fastened on in front with a silver star.” Miss Longstaff was speaking slowly, and Moy felt that she was watching him very closely. So much did he feel this that he wondered if she were telling him the truth, or merely testing out some tale on him to see whether it passed for true.
“Yes?” he said as she paused. He decided to make do comment. She looked disappointed, he fancied, and his distrust of her was not lessened by the notion.
“You’ve never met such a person?” she inquired curiously. “Never seen anyone who answers to that description?”
“I’ve never met a flowing black veil and a silver star,” he assured her, “that’s all you’ve described to me, except big and stout. What was the woman like besides?”
“Oh,” Miss Longstaff looked almost contemptuous, “can’t you see her from what I’ve said? No? Well, she had an earnest face, wore spectacles, and at the present moment has a fearful sore throat that makes her whisper.”
“You know her then?” Moy was getting interested. Also puzzled.
“Yes and no. She lives or lived here in this house. But she’s gone. And went without letting me know about it. But I’ll go back, and as it’s quite confidential I’m going to be very frank. You’ll be horrified but I shall bear up.” Again that wicked snap came into her dark eyes. “Well, I asked Mr. Gilmour why on earth he let the lift go up without us, and he asked me if I had seen two stout men standing by the liftman. One couldn’t help seeing them—like the woman with the floating veil. I said that I had, and he told me that he wanted very much to dodge them. They were a couple of men who were collecting for some fund or other, and had badgered the life out of him so much a week ago that he had been weak enough to give them a half promise of a subscription. He regretted it the moment after, and wanted particularly to avoid them for a while. So he waited for the next lift and that was that.”
“Well?” Moy asked again as she sat back. “What then?”
“Well, I didn’t believe him, Mr. Moy. As it happened, both those men had been sitting in the same car on the underground with us, and he hadn’t turned a hair. No, I knew then—as I know now—that it was the woman with the veil who kept him from entering the lift.”
It was Moy who stared hard at Miss Longstaff this time. Was this true? Any, or all, of it? He waited.
“And just lately, since I’ve begun to rather waver in my ideas as to his accident with the revolver, I’ve wondered...”
“Wondered what?” Moy asked.
“Whether he hadn’t an enemy after all. Which means someone who wanted to harm him. You know, Mr. Moy, I didn’t believe his story at first—about shooting Mr. Ingram by sheer accident, but something in the way he spoke when he left me—when he disappeared— rather made me waver. And I’ve been thinking hard ever since, and bit by bit I’ve wondered whether there—around that woman—might lie the clue to his disappearing so suddenly—she’s left here too,” she finished.
“How do you know her name, and that she lived here?” Moy asked.
“Mr. Gilmour met a friend, and I slipped away as soon as the lift got to the top, and looked around for the floating veil. Fortunately it was waiting for a bus just close to the tube entrance. So I waited too. And got out where she did. And came here after her, and took a room here and made her acquaintance. And all to no result!” She opened dramatic hands at the last sentence to show the palms empty. “She says she never, heard of Gilmour, refused to recognize his description when I gave it to her. She swears that her life is entirely wrapped up in disarmament propaganda.”
“Well?” Moy asked again, as she seemed to have quite finished. She hunched a shoulder. “It’s not true, Mr. Moy. I saw Lawrence Gilmour’s eyes fall on her and I saw the look of real uneasiness come instantly into his face and the look of relief when we stepped back and the lift shot away. She wasn’t looking in our direction, but trying to get her purse back into her handbag. Now that’s what’s bothering me...I had to speak of it. At first, I thought it was connected with something underhand on his part. Something with which the death of Mr. Ingram was linked—if only I could find the link. But just lately—well, I’m feeling a little uneasy.”
“Where’s she now?” Moy asked, jumping up. “I’ll have a word with her if you like.”
“No one knows—or at least no one will tell me where she’s gone to,” Alfreda said to that. “I found it quite impossible to become friends with her in the short time I’ve been here. She was oddly distrustful of any overtures.”
Not oddly, wisely, Moy thought, considering the motives which had actuated at least one maker of friendly advances. But he did not think Miss Longstaff had much sense of humor except a sardonic one.
“Perhaps I tried to hurry too much. Anyway she rather markedly held me at a distance. And then, one morning, I found her room door standing wide open and was told that she had gone. As a matter of fact I had borrowed a book just the day before, because I saw she was packing, and I wanted her to give me her address. But either she forgot about the book, or, as I now think, she wanted me to think she would let me know where to send it on, in order to get clear the easier. They tell me that she’s been seen passing the house, so I have taken to haunting the streets lately because of a certainty that she knows more than she acknowledged of Gilmour, and therefore may know where he is now.”
Moy asked if Mrs. Findlay had any other friends in the house. Miss Longstaff said that, as one would expect with a very dour-looking, plain, middle-aged body, she had no other friends whatever. “The manageress says she has no idea where Mrs. Findlay is. I suppose she’s speaking the truth...” Miss Longstaff again showed that rather worn, dispirited look which she had worn when Moy came in. “But somehow lately I’m worried about Lawrence Gilmour. Uneasy. Almost apprehensive. He’s cut himself completely off from all help. Anything might happen...” Moy saw what really looked like genuine concern in those bright dark eyes, and answering it, in return for what, finally, he believed was a true account which might help towards clearing away the shadows around Gilmour, he told her of the envelope left with him should an S.O.S. come. He did not tell her how the summons might come. She seemed very interested.
“He knew he might be going into danger,” she murmured. “Oh, more and more I feel that I’ve wronged him.”
“You changed the sheets, didn’t you?” Moy said suddenly.
She looked at him with large eyes. “No,” she said simply. “No. I drew out the sheet from under Mr. Ingram on which he was half-wrapped and half-lying. It struck me that the hole wasn’t as far away from the edge as it ought to be, if the end had covered all of Mr. Ingram’s face, and I pulled it out to have a better look...but I didn’t change the sheet.” Moy did not believe her, and his disbelief of this part of the talk swept over all that had gone before. He doubted everything that he had just heard, her change of mind, her tale about her first sight of the lady with the star. He rose and they parted on rather a forced note of concern for Gilmour. He wanted to think over what he had just heard, but an acquaintance buttonholed him and accompanied him nearly to his door, and Moy had to rush to be in his flat in time for Mrs. Pratt and her daughter, whom he had asked to have a look at his rooms now that they were finished. It would be a sort of leave-taking too, as they were going off on Haliburton’s yacht so shortly.
It struck him, as he hurriedly put some flowers into water, that the steps outside sounded very heavy for two ladies.
The mystery was explained by the entrance of Miss Pratt, accompanied by Haliburton. The young man did not stop.
“He’s coming back for me,” Winnie explained. “My mother was detained by that dreadful chief inspector.”
“Oh?” Moy was startled. “Detained” had a professional sound. Unconscious of it, Winnie bent over some canapes, and selected one with a sort of mosaic of egg and ham on it.
“I much prefer tea to cocktails, it’s ever so much better for the complexion. Yes, my mother won’t be able to get here after all. That dreadful man asked for a word with her, and I left them both looking very glum and busy. Fred Ingram is back,” she rambled on. “I thought he was going to be away for weeks and weeks, but he says he tried a new system at roulette and got cleaned out. I’m glad he’s back. He’s so sympathetic...such a help to me these dreadful days. So is Basil. They’re both such dears. Basil, of course, is simply wonderful. I do begin to realize that. But I can’t forget poor Lawrence Gilmour...he might be dead for all we hear of him or from him.”
At her words a little chill seemed to come into the room. She leaned forward. “Why did you let him do it, Mr. Moy, vanish like that?”
“How do you know he has vanished?” he countered swiftly.
“Miss Longstaff is beginning to worry too,” she went on, without answering his question. “She’s rung me up several times lately. I feel I haven’t done her justice. I thought her so frightfully hard, but, of course, if she doesn’t love Mr. Gilmour, perhaps there was a certain honesty in saying so at once....I begin to think that she didn’t care for him ever...and would have broken with him anyway. But speaking about him, Mr. Moy, didn’t he leave any message, any address?” She was quite a charming sight in the plainly-furnished room, like a spray of lovely flowers all soft colors and grace; Moy’s heart warmed to her. She was leaning towards him so that he could see the texture of her smooth pink and white skin, the sheen on the curls over her ears. “I believe there’s someone who’s his enemy,” she breathed, “and who wants to harm him. Who hoped to have him arrested for murder, and still wants to harm him. He shouldn’t have gone all alone, where no one can help him. He may be in some most frightful danger.”
Moy could not refrain from a little comfort.
“He left an envelope with me that I’m to send on to the Yard should things go really wrong,” he blurted out.
“How will you know if they are wrong!” she asked almost accusingly. Moy could only assure her that he would know, and explained.
“But you ought to have that precious envelope always with you! Think how awful it would be if he were to need your help and you had to waste time sending for it.”
He assured her that no time would be lost.
Haliburton and Fred Ingram and Tark all came in together at that. Haliburton said he was sorry to bring the regiment, but they had all happened to meet and decided to go on together to one of the non-stop variety shows which had a really remarkable dancing turn of which all the town was talking.
Tark seemed as close-mouthed as ever, except that he shot Fred Ingram one swift look from expressionless eyes as he murmured that he had been home for a little visit which had done him a world of good.
He added something about being off shortly for Diamantino. Moy had no idea where that was, but it sounded as though it would suit Tark. Frederick and he seemed to eye each other so closely that Moy wondered whether each had come because the other was there.
Haliburton asked Moy whether he had any news of Gilmour, and Winnie, turning to the three visitors, passed on the information just given her before Moy could stop her. He had not bargained on that.
“He believes now that it was murder, and he’s gone after whoever did it. All by himself. Isn’t it splendid, Basil?”
For the first time since Ingram’s death Moy thought she sounded insincere. Was it possible that Gilmour’s distrust of her was based on some real foundation? A sort of panic seized Moy at the thought of what his tongue might have done. Then he reassured himself. He had not shown anyone the envelope. True, Tark’s eyes and his had met when just a second ago he had glanced at his bureau to see that it was locked as usual. But Tark would not connect his, Moy’s, swift glance with the place where Gilmour’s letter was kept. That letter lay heavily on Moy’s mind. So much might depend on it. Of course, in all probability, it would never be needed, but...his visitors all began to talk at once. Miss Pratt absolutely insisted on Moy coming to the show with them. She said he was looking worried. He had already made his arrangements with the porter to answer his telephone, and, as always nowadays, left word with him where he could be at once reached, if asked for by Mr. Gilmour.
Moy found the entertainment dull. He excused himself after the first turn. Tark and Frederick Ingram had drifted out before it had properly begun. Back inside the building where his flat was, the porter came out to meet him as he made for the lift.
“One of your friends left his gloves behind him, sir. I let him in. They were lying on a chair. That all right? He said his name was Ingram.”
Moy assured him it was and went on up. He remembered noticing Tark’s gloves lying in a chair, as that silent man reached up to try one of the concealed lights in the dining-room. However, perhaps Frederick had left his too, at any rate there were no gloves to be seen now as he looked round his flat.
He felt out of sorts. Miss Pratt’s words that Gilmour might be dead haunted him, try as he would to shake them off. Where was Gilmour? On what dark trail? His mind went to Miss Longstaff’s odd tale about his reluctance, or rather his dread, of being in the same lift with the woman—Mrs. Findlay...but was there any truth in that story? If not, for what purpose had that astute young woman told him it? Was something about to happen which she wished to be able to attribute to the woman with the floating veil? Or...again a sort of chill swept over the young solicitor. Had she stuffed him with any story just to get him into a confidential mood, into a frame of mind to exchange his confidence for her rubbish? His account of the letter left with him for her account of a mysterious terror on the part of Gilmour? He went to his bureau, unlocked it and then the drawer where he kept the precious letter in another locked box. Yes, it was still there. That awful fear that had suddenly gripped him was absurd. Slightly comforted, but not at all pleased with himself, he returned to his chair and picked up a book.
The telephone rang. In an instant he had lifted the receiver. He heard Gilmour’s voice, but speaking very, very quietly, as though anxious not to be overheard, saying:
“That you, Moy? It’s me, Gilmour. Oh, I’m quite all right, thanks——“ This in answer to a swift inquiry on Moy’s part. “But listen, don’t get worried if I don’t drop in at the Eggs and Bacon tonight as I promised. I may not be able to get up to town. And as I promised you to look in and report, I was afraid you might do something silly if you didn’t see me. Cheerio!”
“Righto!” came Moy’s eager voice, “that’s all right, old man.” He heard the receiver dropped at the other end on to its hook, and sprang across the room. He unlocked the bureau with fingers that shook a little. The signal had come. He pulled out the envelope from its locked box, ran the paper-cutter carefully along the edge and drew out—four blank envelope Just such envelopes as were in his pigeon-holes always. He stared at the four, and felt as though his heart ha-stopped beating for a second. He had let Gilmour down He had let him down in what was perhaps his utmost need, his last extremity. That quiet in Gilmour’s voice, was it fear, was it exhaustion, was it...
In a second he had the ‘phone in his hand again and was asking for Chief Inspector Pointer, but Pointer was not at the Yard. His superintendent, however, took the urgent message that Moy almost stammered into the ‘phone. That official seemed to know all about the case, and Moy was assured that the telephone call could, and would, be traced at once, and help, if possible, sent to the man who might need it so sorely.
Moy walked his room in an agony of horror and self-abasement. Someone had got in here, picked the locks protecting that which had been entrusted to him to guard, that which might mean life or death to the man who had given it him, and after getting the envelope, had taken out the precious contents and left him but the empty shell, as one gives a child a bauble to keep it quiet. He had only one hope—fingerprints.