Louis Tracy - A Mysterious Disappearance

“I am merely telling you the naked truth.”

“All right. Tell them. I don’t care a pin for them or you. Have you anything else to say, because I wish to join my friends?”

The girl’s language and attitude mystified him more than any preceding feature of this remarkable investigation. She was, of course, far better educated than he had imagined, and the difference between the hysterical witness at the coroner’s inquiry and this pert, self-possessed young woman was phenomenal.

Rather than risk an open rupture, the barrister temporized. “If you are anxious to quarrel with me, by all means do so,” he said; “but that was not my motive in speaking to you here to-night.”

Miss le Marchant shot a suspicious glance at him. “Then what was your motive,” she said.

“Chiefly to reassure my friend, your former master, concerning you; and, perhaps, to learn the cause of your very strange conduct.”

“Why should Sir Charles bother his head about me?”

“As I have told you. Because of the coincidence between your departure and Lady – ”

“Oh yes, I know that.” Then she added testily: “I was a fool not to manage differently.”

“So you refuse me an explanation?”

“No, I don’t. I have no reason to do so. I came in for some money, and as I have longed all my life to be an actress I could not wait an hour, a moment, before I – before I – ”

“Before you tried to gratify your impulse.”

“Yes, that is what I wanted to say.”

“But why not at least have written to Sir Charles, telling him of your intentions?”

The fair Marie was silent for a moment. The question confused her. “I hardly know,” she replied.

“Will you write to him now?”

“I don’t see why I should.”

“Indeed. Not even when it was you who gave some of your mistress’s underclothing to Mr. White, by which means he was able to identify the body found at Putney as that of Lady Dyke?”

“Mr. White told you that, did he?”

“He did.”

“Then you had better get him to give you all further information, Mr. Bruce, as not another word will you get out of me.”

She bounced up, fiery red, pluming herself for the fray.

“Will you not communicate with Sir Charles?” he said, utterly baffled by Miss le Marchant’s uncompromising attitude.

“Perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t. Mr. White, indeed!” And she ran off to join her friends.

The barrister drove quietly homewards. This was his summary of the evening’s events: “I have found two women. When I know all about them I shall be able to lay my hand on the person who killed Lady Dyke.”

Messrs. Dodge & Co., of Leadenhall Street, possessed business premises of greater pretensions than Bruce had pictured to himself from Mrs. Hillmer’s description of their transactions with her brother.

Not only were their offices commodious and well situated, but a liberal display of gold lettering, intermingled with official brass plates marking the registering offices of many companies, gave evidence of some degree of importance – whether fictitious or otherwise Bruce could not determine, as he scrutinized the exterior of the building on the following morning.

Moreover, workmen were even then busy in substituting the title “Dodge, Son & Co., Ltd.,” for “Messrs. Dodge & Company,” the suggestive nature of the latter designation having perhaps proved a stumbling-block in the way of the guileless investor.

When the barrister entered the office, a busy place, a hive of many clerks, and adorned with gigantic maps of the Rand, West Australia, Cripple Creek, and Klondike, he asked for “Mr. Dodge.”

His card procured him ready admission. He was shown into an elaborately upholstered apartment of considerable size. At the farther end, seated in front of a gorgeous American desk, was a young man who ostentatiously finished a letter and then motioned the barrister to a seat.

Bruce was curious on the question of the age of the head of the firm.

“Are you Mr. Dodge, or the son?” he said, with the utmost gravity.

The other was taken back by this unexpected method of opening the conversation. It annoyed him.

“I am the representative of the firm, sir, and fully able to deal with your business, whatever it may be,” he replied.

“No doubt. But it will simplify matters if I know exactly to whom I am addressing myself.”

After an uneasy shuffling in his seat – he could not guess what this keen-faced, earnest-eyed lawyer might want – the representative of Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) explained that he was Dodge, and the name of the firm had been adopted for general purposes.

“Then there is no ‘son,’ I take it.”

“Yes, there is, sir,” – this with a snort of anger.

“How old is he?”

“What the Dickens has that got to do with it? Will you kindly tell me what you want, sir, as my time is fully occupied?”

“Just now I want to know how old the ‘son’ is?”

This calm persistence irritated Mr. Dodge beyond endurance.

“Three years, confound you, and his sister is four months. Can I oblige you with any more details concerning my family affairs?”

Having purposely raised this man to boiling point by this harmless method of examination, Claude tackled the real business in hand. He was quite sure that a financial sharper in a temper was far more likely to blurt out the truth than if he were approached in a matter-of-fact manner.

“To begin with,” he explained, never taking his eyes off the furious face of Mr. Dodge, “I have called to ask for information with regard to your dealings with Mr. Sydney H. Corbett, of Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square.”

“I never heard of him in my life. You have evidently come to the wrong office, Mr. Bruce.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Well, nearly so. However, I can tell you in a moment, as it is impossible for me to carry every name connected with several companies in my memory.”

Mr. Dodge recovered his temper now that he saw a chance of disconcerting his caustic visitor. He touched an electric bell, and told the answering youth to send Mr. Hawkins.

“My correspondence clerk,” he explained loftily when Hawkins entered. “Are we in communication with any one named Sydney H. Corbett, Mr. Hawkins?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever heard the name?”

“No, sir.”

“That will do. You may go. You see you have come to the wrong shop, Mr. Bruce.”

“Yes, so I see.”

The barrister kept looking at the back of Mr. Dodge’s head, but made no move.

Mr. Dodge became puzzled.

“Now, Mr. Bruce,” he cried, “you know the age of my son, and the extent of my information about Mr. Corbett. Is there anything else in which I may be of service?”

“Yes. You do a great deal of underwriting, mostly for the flotation of gold-mining companies?”

“Y – yes. That is a branch of our business.”

“I am interested in this class of undertaking, and I was given to understand that Mr. Corbett has had some dealings with you in a similar respect for a considerable sum of money.”

“The name is absolutely unknown to me.”

“Of course. So I gather. I am sorry to hear it. Several clients of mine have money to invest in that way, and I naturally came to a firm whose name apparently figured largely in the transactions of Mr. Corbett.”

It was good to see the manner in which Mr. Dodge metaphorically kicked himself for his previous attitude. His emotion was painful. For quite an appreciable time he could not trust his sentiments to words.

At last he struggled to express himself.

“Really, Mr. Bruce, if you had only put things differently. Don’t you see, it rather upset me when you came in and began jawing about the youngsters. And then you spring Mr. Corbett’s name on me – a man of whom I have no sort of knowledge. It must have been my firm of which your friends heard. There is absolutely no other Dodge in Leadenhall Street. Indeed, we are the only financial Dodges – that is – er – Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) are the only firm of the name dealing with financial matters – in the city.”