The Datchet Diamonds
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 13: The Detective and the Lady
Mr. Ireland marched into Makell’s Hotel as if he owned the building. He created a sensation in the office.
“You know me?”
The clerk, who was a good-looking young gentleman, with a curled moustache, eyed the speaker with somewhat supercilious curiosity. Mr. Ireland’s manner was more suggestive of his importance than was his appearance. The clerk decided that he did not know him. He owned as much.
“I’m Inspector Ireland, of the Criminal Investigation Department. I hold a warrant for the arrest of Cyril Paxton. He is stopping in your hotel. I don’t want to cause any more trouble than necessary--my assistants are outside--so, perhaps, you will tell me whereabouts in the house I am likely to find him.”
The clerk looked the surprise which he felt.
“Mr. Paxton is out.”
“Are you sure?”
“I will make inquiries if you wish it. But I know that he is out. I saw him go, and, as I have not left the office since he went, if he had returned I could not have helped seeing him.”
“Has he any property here?”
“I will speak to the manager.”
The clerk turned as if to suit the action to the word. Reaching through the office window, Mr. Ireland caught him by the shoulder.
“All right. You send for him. I’ll speak to him instead.”
The clerk eyed the detaining hand with an air of unconcealed disgust.
“Very good. Have the kindness to remove your hand. If you are a policeman, as you say you are, yours is not the kind of grasp which I care to have upon my shoulder.”
“Hoity-toity! Don’t you injure yourself, young man. All I want is to have the first talk with the manager. Are you going to send for the manager, or am I?”
“Here is the manager.”
As the clerk spoke, and before he had had time to properly smooth his ruffled plumes, the dignitary in question entered the office from an inner room. John Ireland accosted him.
“Are you the manager of this hotel--name of Treadwater?”
“I am Mr. Treadwater.”
Ireland explained who he was, and what he wanted. Mr. Treadwater was evidently even more surprised than the clerk had been.
“You have a warrant for the arrest of Cyril Paxton! Not our Mr. Paxton, surely?”
“I don’t know about your Mr. Paxton; but it’s the Mr. Paxton who’s stopping here, so don’t you make any mistake about it. I’m told he’s out. One of my men will stay here till he returns. In the meantime I want to know if there is any property of his about the place. If there is, I want to have a look at it.”
The manager considered.
“I don’t wish to seem to doubt, Mr. Ireland, that you are what you say you are, or, indeed, anything at all that you have said. But an effort has already been made once to-day to gain access--under what turned out to be false pretences--to certain property which Mr. Paxton has committed to our keeping. And I am compelled to inform you that it is a rule of ours not, under any circumstances, to give up property which has been intrusted to us by our guests to strangers without a proper authority.”
Ireland smiled grimly.
“Where is there somewhere I can speak to you in private? I’ll show you authority enough, and to spare.”
The manager, having taken Mr. Ireland into the inner room, the detective lost no time in explaining the position.
“You’re a sensible man, Mr. Treadwater. You don’t want to have any bother in a place of this sort, and I don’t want to make any more bother than I’m compelled. Mr. Paxton’s wanted for a big thing, about as big a thing as I’ve ever been engaged in. I wasn’t likely to come here without my proper credentials, hardly. Just you cast your eye over this.”
Ireland unfolded a blue paper which he had taken from among a sheaf of other papers, which were in the inner pocket of his coat, and held it up before the manager’s face.
“That’s a search warrant. If you’re not satisfied with what you see of it, I’ll read it to you, and that’s all I’m bound to do. I’ve reason to believe that Cyril Paxton has certain stolen property in his possession here, in this hotel. If you choose to give me facilities to examine any property he may have, well and good. If you don’t choose, this warrant authorises me to search the building. I’ll call my men in, and I’ll have it searched from attic to basement--every drawer and every box which the place contains, if it takes us all night to do it.”
Mr. Treadwater rubbed his hands together. He did not look pleased.
“I had no idea, when I spoke, that you were in possession of such a document. As you say, I certainly do not wish to have a bother. A search warrant is authority enough, even for me. All the property Mr. Paxton has in the hotel is in this room. I will show it to you.” The manager moved to a door which seemed to have been let into the wall. “This is our strong-room. As you perceive, it is a letter lock. Only one person, except myself, ever has the key to it.”
While he was speaking he opened the door. He disappeared into the recess which the opening of the door disclosed. Presently he reappeared carrying a Gladstone in his hand. He laid the bag on the table, in front of Mr. Ireland.
“That is all the property Mr. Paxton has in the hotel.”
“How do you know?”
The manager smiled--the smile of superiority.
“My dear sir, it is part of my duty to know what every guest brings into the hotel. You can, if you like, go up to the room which he occupied last night, but you’ll find nothing in it of Mr. Paxton’s. All that he brought with him is contained in that Gladstone bag.”
“Then we’ll see what’s in it. I’m going to open it in your presence, so that you’ll be evidence to prove that I play no hankey-pankey tricks.”
Mr. Ireland did open it in the manager’s presence. With, considering the absence of proper tools, a degree of dexterity which did him credit. But after all it appeared that there was nothing in it to adequately reward him for the trouble he had taken. The bag was filled chiefly with shirts and underclothing. Although every article seemed to be bran-new, there was absolutely nothing which, correctly speaking, could be said to be of value. With total want of ceremony the investigator turned the entire contents of the bag out upon the table. But though he did so, nothing in any way out of the common was discovered.
Judging from the expression of his countenance, Mr. Ireland did not seem to be contented.
“Wasn’t there an attempt at burglary here last night? One’s been reported.”
“There was. For the first time in the history of the hotel. An attempt was made from the street to gain admission through the window, to Mr. Paxton’s bedroom.”
“And didn’t you say that an attempt had been made to-day to gain access, by means of false pretences, to Mr. Paxton’s property?”
“That is so.”
“And didn’t he ask you to keep that property safe in your strong-room?”
“He did.”
“Well--doesn’t it seem as if somebody was precious anxious to lay his hands upon that property, and that Mr. Paxton was equally anxious that he shouldn’t?”
“Precisely.”
“And yet you go and tell me that all the property he has is contained in that Gladstone bag. What is there that should make any one go out of his way to take it? You tell me that!”
When the manager replied, it was with an appreciable amount of hesitation.
“I think that is a point on which I may be able to throw some light.”
“Then throw it--do!”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Paxton took all that the bag contained which was of value up to London with him this morning, and left it there. Indeed, this evening, before he went out, he told me that that was what he had done.”
Mr. Ireland gave utterance to what, coming from the mouth of any one but an inspector of police, would have sounded like a string of execrations.
“I suppose you’ve no idea what it was that he took with him or where it was he took it?”
“Not the faintest notion.”
“Mr. Treadwater, this is another illustration of the fact that if you want a thing well done you must do it yourself. This morning I set a man to shadow Mr. Paxton--I told him not to let him get out of his sight. What does he do, this utter idiot? He sees our gentleman drop a ring. My man, he picks it up, and he gets into such a state of excitement that he loses his head and tears straight off with it to me. I’m not saying that he’d not chanced upon an important piece of evidence, because he had; but if he’d kept his wits about him, and had his head screwed on straight, he’d have had the ring and Mr. Paxton too. As it was, that was the last he saw of Mr. Paxton.”
“May I ask what it is you suspect Mr. Paxton of having taken with him up to town?”
“Unless I’m out of my reckoning, Mr. Paxton went up to town with the Duchess of Datchet’s diamonds stowed away in his pockets.”
The manager’s face was a vivid note of exclamation.
“No! My dear sir, I have been acquainted with Mr. Paxton some considerable time. I happen to know that he’s a gentleman of position in the City. You must surely be mistaken in supposing that he could be mixed up in such an affair as that--it’s incredible!”
“Is it? That’s all right. If you like, you think so. Gentlemen of position in the City have had their fingers in some queer pies before to-day. If you don’t happen to know it, I present you with the information gratis. Have you any idea of where he was going when he went out to-night?”
“I fancy that when he comes to Brighton he comes to see a lady. I rather took it for granted that, as usual, he was going to her.”
“What’s her name; and where does she live?”
“I don’t know her name; but I believe she lives in Medina Villas--that, you know, is at West Brighton.”
“Medina Villas?” Ireland seemed to be turning something over in his mind. He smiled. “I shouldn’t be surprised. If she does, I’m inclined to think that one of my men has got his eye on her address. If Mr. Paxton’s there, he’s nabbed. But I’m afraid he isn’t. On this occasion I’m inclined to think that he had an appointment which he found to be slightly more pressing than that which he had with the lady.” Ireland looked at the manager with what he probably intended for a look of frankness. “I don’t mind owning that there are features about the case, as it stands at present, which are beyond my comprehension, and I tell you, I would give a good round sum to be able this moment to lay my finger on Mr. Paxton.”
“So would I. I’d give a great deal to be able to lay my finger on Mr. Paxton. With all my heart I would. Yes, sir, indeed I would.”
Each of the talkers had been too much interested in what the other had to say to notice that while they talked, without invitation or any sort of announcement, a procession--the procession of three!--had entered the room. The speaker was, of course, Miss Strong. Behind her, gripping the handle of her parasol, as it seemed a little nervously, came Miss Wentworth. Mr. Franklyn, looking distinctly the most uncomfortable of the trio, brought up the rear. Miss Strong, in front, bore herself like a female paladin. She held herself quite straight; her shoulders were thrown well back; her dainty head was gallantly poised upon her lovely neck; she breathed the air of battle. She might not have known it, but seldom had she looked more charming. The detective and the manager both looked at her askance. She only looked at the detective.
“Are you John Ireland?”
“I am. Though I have not the pleasure, madam, of knowing you.”
“I am Daisy Strong, who am shortly to be Cyril Paxton’s wife. How dare you, Mr. Ireland, so foully slander him!”
Mr. Ireland showed symptoms of being surprised. He had an eye for a lady, and still more, perhaps, for a pretty girl. And by neither was he accustomed to being addressed in such a strain.
“I trust, madam, that I have not slandered Mr. Paxton.”
“You trust so, do you? Mr. Franklyn, will you come forward, please, instead of hanging behind there in the shadow of Miss Wentworth’s skirts, as if you were afraid?”
Mr. Franklyn, thus addressed, came forward, looking, however, as if he would rather not.
“You hear what this person says. And yet you tell me he has slandered Cyril Paxton as foully as he could.”
Mr. Franklyn shot a glance at Mr. Ireland which was meant to be pregnant with meaning. He showed a disposition to hum and to ha.
“My dear Miss Strong, I’m sure you will find that Mr. Ireland is not unreasonable. His only desire is to do his duty.”
Miss Strong stamped her foot upon the floor.
“His duty! to slander a gentleman in whose presence he is not worthy to stand! Because a man calls himself a policeman, and by doubtful methods contrives to earn the money with which to keep himself alive, is such an one entitled to fling mud at men of stainless honour and untarnished reputation, and then to excuse himself by pretending that flinging mud is his duty? If you, Mr. Franklyn, are afraid of a policeman, merely because he’s a policeman, I assure you I am not. And I take leave to tell Mr. Ireland that there are policemen who are, at least, as much in want of being kept in order as any member of the criminal classes by any possibility could be.”
Ireland eyed the eloquent lady as if he were half-puzzled, half-amused.
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