The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 36

was still cock-a-hoop when he and Matsey rounded the corner into Byward Street. Everything had gone well. His plan of campaign was being carried out precisely as he had wished it to be. Nothing could have been more satisfactory, he thought; but in the midst of these triumphant reflections he came to a sudden halt.

One glance along the street showed him that something either had gone wrong, or was in process of going wrong. According to his plans, Mesham and Letwige ought by that time to have been in the sure and safe custody of the police.

He had already pictured them at the police station, bewildered, confounded, very angry, endeavouring, perhaps, to banter, trying, no doubt, to explain themselves to unsympathetic and incredulous ears.

But instead of that there they were, some thirty yards away along the pavement, talking in quite easy fashion to the two detectives and Gaffkin—they were even laughing. Brixey’s sharp eyes saw that the detectives appeared to be puzzled, that Gaffkin was looking doubtful.

Something unexpected was certainly in the air. And he was glad that all five men were so absorbed in their conversation that they saw neither himself nor Matsey.

To slip the dispatch-case behind his back and to draw his companion round the corner again was to Brixey the work of a second. He glanced about him, saw a disengaged taxicab, and signalled to its driver, who caught the beckoning movement, started his engine, and came quickly to the edge of the kerb.

"Matsey!" muttered Brixey. "You’re a dependable chap, and I'm going to entrust the swag to you! Take this dispatch-case straight to the Grosvenor Hotel. Ask for Mr. Semmerby and Mr. Linthwaite—give it into their hands, and to nobody else.

"If they haven’t arrived, wait for them! And tell them that I’ve sent you with this, that they’re to keep a tight hold on it till I come, and that I’m following you at once. Now be off!"

The taxicab sped away round the corner, westward, and when Brixey followed it at a leisurely pace, was already far past the group in which he was interested. Its members were strolling towards him, still talking, the detectives appearing puzzled, the two confederates nonchalant. As for Gaffkin, he walked alongside, apparently in moody thought.

Thereupon Brixey drew out his cigarette-case and ostentatiously proceeded to smoke. That gave him the opportunity to pause in the middle of the sidewalk, and to let the others approach more closely.

The elder detective was the first to see him. He immediately quickened his pace.

"There’s Mr. Brixey himself!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Brixey"

"What the devil have we to do with any Mr. Brixeys?" demanded Mesham. "We’ve told you what you wanted to know, and there’s an end of it! You go about your business, and leave us to ours!"

Brixey threw away his match and turned on the group.

"Businesses are apt to get a bit intermixed," he remarked. "What stage has this got to?"

The elder detective pointed at Letwige. "He admits he’s John Letwige, Mr. Semmerby’s clerk from Selchester," he said. "He admits, too, that he’s in possession of Mrs. Byfield’s securities—certain of them, at any rate."

"He does, eh?" asked Brixey, eyeing Letwige closely. "Candid, to be sure!"

"Yes—but," continued the detective, "he also says he’s every right to be in possession of them. He's got a power of attorney from her! We've seen it, just now."

Mesham laughed sneeringly, and Letwige's lips curled a little at the corners. Both were watching Brixey, but they saw nothing on his face beyond an almost careless indifference.

"Ah!" he said. "Mr. Letwige has a power of attorney from Mrs. Byfield, has he? And he's shown it to you? Perhaps Mr. Letwige will show it to me?"

Letwige lifted a hand towards his breast pocket, but Mesham shook his head and growled.

"Don't do anything of the sort!" he said. "What's he got to do with it? What right has he to interfere? Come on!"

But Letwige glanced at the detectives, and, disregarding Mesham's advice, drew out a big envelope and took from it a formal-looking document which he held up in front of Brixey’s eyes.

"No objection to his seeing it," remarked Letwige. "It's all in order."

Brixey glanced at the signature and turned away.

"Much obliged to you," he said. "But there are two or three things I might say to that. However, I'm only going to say one of them. How do we know that signature isn't a forgery?"

Letwige put the document back in his pocket with a scornful laugh, but Brixey noticed that his hand was trembling.

"My own belief," he continued, looking at the detectives, "is that it is a forgery. And probably that chap there," he went on turning, and indicating Mesham, "is the forger! He calls himself  Christopher Mesham—his real name is Charles Melsome. And some time ago he was convicted of forgery, and he got five years!"

Mesham's fresh-coloured cheeks grew purple, and he made a step towards his accuser and lifted his stick.

"None of that!" exclaimed the detective, thrusting himself between the two men. "No violence! Here, didn't you say, Mr. Brixey, that Mrs. Byfield and Mr. Semmerby are in town? Yes? Then do you two come along and see them and show that document, and we'll soon know"

"No," said Brixey suddenly. "Let them go on—where they like."

He himself stood aside, with a quiet wink at his helpers, and they, after a second's hesitation, moved from in front of the two confederates and let them pass. Letwige and Mesham passed on, slowly, muttering to each other.

"What's this mean," asked the elder detective. "What's your game now, Mr. Brixey?"

"Wait!" answered Brixey. "You'll see." He glanced round, and seeing two policemen talking together a little way off, pointed them out to the younger detective. "Look here," he said. "You'll want help in a few minutes. Go and get those chaps, and another, if you see one handy, to stroll up to the hotel there—that's where Mesham and Letwige are going—and they'd be out of it again pretty quick, too!

"You know what they're gone back for? Those securities? Well, they won't find 'em. The fact is, I've got 'em!"

"You!" exclaimed all three. "Got em—all?"

"I got the whole boiling out of Letwige's wife," answered Brixey. "You didn't notice a taxicab that ran up the street just now? Matsey was in it, sticking to a dispatch-case in which are all the securities carried off from Selchester! He's taking it to the Grosvenor Hotel, to Mr. Semmerby. And I'm following as soon as we've seen what we're about to see. Come on!"

He led the way towards the front of the hotel, while the younger detective summoned the policemen, who, in their turn, signalled to the constable to whom Brixey had recently given a sovereign. From various points the posse of avengers concentrated on Wolmark's, and watched.

There was not much time wasted in waiting. Through the open door of the hotel Mesham suddenly rushed, shouting and gesticulating. He had reached the steps, and was staring wildly about him, when Letwige, too, rushed out, only to seize his confederate by the arm in evident expostulation.

He appeared to be entreating Mesham to keep cool, and in the midst of his entreaties he caught sight of the watching group, dropped Mesham's arm, and fled within the house again.

Brixey turned to the detectives, with a laugh.

"They've found all the eggs stolen from the nest!" he said. "Now, then, you fellows, go and take both of 'em! I'm off to the Grosvenor. Telephone me there when you've got 'em under lock and key, and we’ll come down.

"But, look here," he added, taking the elder detective aside, "leave the woman alone. I promised her! Stick to Letwige and Melsome."

He hurried away then and found a taxicab and followed Matsey to the Grosvenor Hotel, where he burst in on an astonished group, in the midst of which lay the dispatch-case. Without a word, he drew a key from his pocket, and laying it before Mrs. Byfield, pushed the dispatch-case towards her.

"What's all this, young man?" demanded Semmerby.

Brixey got his breath, which he had lost in his hurry along the corridors.

"Mrs. Byfield," he said, "one question. Have you ever given that man Letwige a power of attorney to deal with your affairs and property? Think!"

Mrs. Byfield turned wonderingly on Semmerby, and looked from him to her questioner, still more wonderingly.

"Power of attorney—to Letwige?" she exclaimed. "Never!"

"Then open that case, and you'll find all your securites [sic] there—safe," said Brixey. "So far as I can judge," he added, turning to Semmerby, "everything's there! I rescued 'em by a trick. It came off. So, Mrs. Byfield, you're not a penny the worse, as it turns out."

But Mrs. Byfield was staring helplessly at her solicitor.

"My securities?" she faltered. "What does he mean? Rescued? What is it? What has happened?"

Brixey turned on Semmerby.

"Do you mean to say she doesn’t know?" he exclaimed. Semmerby gave him a look.

"She knows nothing yet!" he whispered. "She's been telling us a good deal You're sure all’s safe?"

"Certain!" replied Brixey.

"And the men?" demanded Semmerby.

"In the hands of the police," said Brixey. "They’ll be telephoning presently. We shall have to go down there-—at least you and my uncle will."

He turned away from the old solicitor and touched Georgina on the shoulder, at the same time motioning her towards the door. "Come out here!" he murmured. "I want to speak to you."

Outside in the corridor Brixey led Georgina away to a retired and quiet corner which he had noticed as he came along.

"Tell me at once," he said as he signed to her to sit down behind a convenient screen, "what did Semmerby mean just now when he said that Mrs. Byfield had been telling a good deal? What has she told?

"Listen, I want to know particularly—is that theory of Gaffkin's, which we put before you on Sunday, right? Be plain. Does that Byfield property really belong to you?"