Wallace Edgar
The Green Rust
Then realizing that it was merely a man whose face was hidden by a hideous mask, she sprang again for the door, but a hand gripped her arm and pulled her back. She heard a cheerful whistle from the road without and remembering the package in her hand she flung it high over the wall and heard its soft thud, and the whistle stop.
Then as the hideous figure slipped his arm about her and pressed a musty hand over her mouth she fainted.
CHAPTER XIV
MR. BEALE SUGGESTS MARRIAGE
"Held up by a gunman?" asked James Kitson incredulously, "why, what do you mean?"
"It doesn't sound right, does it?" smiled Beale, "especially after McNorton telling us the other day that there was no such thing as a gunman in England. Do you remember his long dissertation on the law-abiding criminals of this little old country?" he laughed.
"But a gunman," protested Mr. Kitson—"by the way, have you had breakfast?"
"Hours ago," replied Beale, "but don't let me interrupt you."
Mr. James Kitson pulled his chair to the table and unfolded his napkin. It was almost at this hour that Oliva Cresswell had performed a similar act.
"You are not interrupting me," said Kitson, "go on."
Beale was frowning down at deserted Piccadilly which Mr. Kitson's palatial suite at the Ritz-Carlton overlooked.
"Eh?" he said absently, "oh yes, the gunman—a sure enough gunman."
He related in a few words his experience of the previous night.
"This man Homo," said Kitson, "is he one of the gang?"
Beale shook his head.
"I don't think so. He may be one of van Heerden's ambassadors."
"Ambassadors?"
"I will explain van Heerden's game one of these days and you will understand what I mean," said Beale. "No, I don't think that Parson Homo is being any more than a gentle knight succouring a distressed lady, whether for love of the lady, out of respect for the professor or from a general sense of antagonism to all detectives, I can only speculate. Anyway, he held me until the lady was out of hearing and presumably out of sight. And then there was no need for me to go. I just sat down and talked, and a more amiable and cultured gentleman it would be impossible to meet."
Kitson looked at his companion through narrowed lids.
"Why, that's not like you, Beale," he said. "I thought you were too hot on the scent to waste time."
"So I am," said the other, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, "that's just what I am." He turned suddenly to the older man. "Mr. Kitson, I've got to know a little more about John Millinborn's will than I know at present."
The lawyer looked up, fixed his glasses and regarded the younger man with a troubled look.
"I'm sorry to jump in on you like this, but I'm rattled. I don't understand much about the English law though I know that marriages aren't as easy to make here in London as they are in our country. But here as everywhere else it is fairly difficult to force a girl into marriage against her will, and the marriage of course is not good in law."
He sat down on the arm of a couch, dangling his hat between his legs, and ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous little laugh.
"Here I'm telling you all that I came to ask you."
"Have a cup of tea," said Kitson, with a smile, "everybody in England rushes to tea and I hope I shall get you in the habit."
Beale shook his head.
"You are right about the marriage," Kitson went on, "but I'll give you the law on the subject. A marriage can only be solemnized if due notice is given by the parties who must be resident in the district where it is to take place—three weeks is the period of notice."
"Is there no other way?"
"Yes. By paying special fees and offering a good and sufficient reason a faculty can be secured from the Archbishop of Canterbury, or rather from his officials, authorizing a marriage without notice. It is called a special licence, and the marriage may occur at any hour and at any place."
"Is there a register of applications?" asked Beale quickly.
"I've thought of that," nodded the lawyer, "yes, I'm keeping that side under observation. It is difficult because officialdom isn't as obliging as it might be. My own view is that van Heerden will be married in the ordinary way, that is to say by giving notice. To secure his special licence he would be obliged to give his own name and be vouched for; he can be married in the ordinary way even if he gives a false name, which in all probability he will."
"Would the marriage be legal if it was in a false name?"
"Absolutely. In English law you may commit an offence by marrying in a wrong name, but it would not invalidate the marriage."
Stanford Beale sat studying the pattern of the carpet.
"Is there any chance of two special licences being issued to marry the same girl?" he asked.
"None—why do you ask?"
Beale did not reply immediately.
"Something Homo said last night when I told him frankly that I was searching for Miss Cresswell. 'Oh,' said he, 'that's the lady that's marrying the doctor.' He wouldn't tell me more. But he gave me an idea to make sure that no special licence is issued to van Heerden. I shall apply for one myself."
The lawyer stared at him.
"To marry the girl?" he gasped. "But–"
Stanford Beale laughed a little bitterly.
"Say, don't get up in the air, Mr. Kitson—I'm only thinking of Miss Cresswell. A special licence in my name would stop one of van Heerden's paths to easy money. Tell me, and this is what I came to ask you, under Millinborn's will, does the husband benefit directly by the marriage, or is he dependent upon what his wife gives him?'
"He benefits directly," said Kitson after a pause, "on his marriage he receives exactly one-half of the girl's fortune. That was Millinborn's idea. 'Make the husband independent,' he said, 'do not put him in the humiliating position of dependence on his wife's generosity, and there will be a chance of happiness for them both.'"
"I see—of course, van Heerden knows that. He has only to produce a marriage certificate to scoop in two and a half million dollars—that is half a million in English money. This is the secret of it all. He wants money immediately, and under the terms of the will–?"
"He gets it," said Kitson. "If he came to me to-morrow with proof of his marriage, even if I knew that he had coerced the girl into marriage, I must give him his share—van Heerden was pretty thorough when he put my dying friend through his examination." His face hardened. "Heavens, I'd give every penny I had in the world to bring that fiend to the gallows, Beale!"
His voice shook, and rising abruptly he walked to the window. Presently he turned. "I think there is something in your idea. Get the licence."
"I will—and marry her," said Beale quickly.
"Marry her—I don't quite understand you?"
For the first time there was suspicion in his voice.
"Mr. Kitson, I'm going to put all my cards on the table," said Beale quietly, "will you sit down a moment? There are certain facts which we cannot ignore. Fact one is that Oliva Cresswell is in the hands of a man who is absolutely unscrupulous, but has no other object in view than marriage. Her beauty, her charm, all the attractive qualities which appeal to most men and to all brutes have no appeal for him—to him she is just a money proposition. If he can't marry her, she has no further interest for him."
"I see that," agreed the lawyer, "but–"
"Wait, please. If we knew where she was we could stop the marriage and indict van Heerden—but I've an idea that we shan't locate her until it is too late or nearly too late. I can't go hunting with a pack of policemen. I must play a lone hand, or nearly a lone hand. When I find her I must be in a position to marry her without losing a moment."
"You mean to marry her to foil van Heerden, and after—to dissolve the marriage?" asked the lawyer, shaking his head. "I don't like that solution, Beale—I tell you frankly, I don't like it. You're a good man and I have every faith in you, but if I consented, even though I were confident that you would play fair, which I am, I should feel that I had betrayed John Millinborn's trust. It isn't because it is you, my son," he said kindly enough, "but if you were the Archangel Gabriel I'd kick at that plan. Marriage is a difficult business to get out of once you are in it, especially in this country."
Beale did not interrupt the older man.
"Right, and now if you've finished I'll tell you my scheme," he said, "as I see it there's only a ghost of a chance of our saving this girl from marriage. I've done my best and we—McNorton and I—have taken all the facts before a judge this morning. We got a special interview with the idea of securing a warrant for van Heerden's arrest. But there is no evidence to convict him on any single charge. We cannot connect him with the disappearance of Miss Cresswell, and although I pointed out that van Heerden admits that he knows where the girl is, the judge said, fairly I thought, that there was no law which compelled a man to divulge the address of his fiancée to one who was a possible rival. The girl is of an age when she can do as she wishes, and as I understand the matter you have no legal status as a guardian."
"None," said James Kitson, "that is our weak point. I am merely the custodian of her money. Officially I am supposed to be ignorant of the fact that Oliva Cresswell is Oliva Prédeaux, the heiress."
"Therefore our hands are tied," concluded Beale quietly. "Don't you see that my plan is the only one—but I haven't told you what it is. There's a man, a criminal, this Parson Homo who can help; I am satisfied that he does not know where the girl is—but he'll help for a consideration. As a matter of fact, he was pulled again. I am seeing him this afternoon."
Mr. Kitson frowned.
"The gunman—how can he help you?"
"I will tell you. This man, as I say, is known to the police as Parson Homo. Apparently he is an unfrocked priest, one who has gone under. He still preserves the resemblance to a gentleman"—he spoke slowly and deliberately; "in decent clothes he would look like a parson. I propose that he shall marry me to Miss Cresswell. The marriage will be a fake, but neither the girl nor van Heerden will know this. If my surmise is right, when van Heerden finds she is married he will take no further steps—except, perhaps," he smiled, "to make her a widow. Sooner or later we are bound to get him under lock and key, and then we can tell Miss Cresswell the truth."
"In other words, you intend breaking the law and committing a serious offence," said Kitson, shaking his head. "I can't be a party to that—besides, she may not marry you."
"I see that danger—van Heerden is a mighty clever fellow. He may be married before I trace them."
"You say that Homo doesn't know about the girl, what does he know?"
"He has heard of van Heerden. He has heard probably from the girl Hilda Glaum that van Heerden is getting married—the underworld do not get their news out of special editions—he probably knows too that van Heerden is engaged in some swindle which is outside the parson's line of business."
"Will he help you?"
"Sure," Beale said with quiet confidence, "the man is broke and desperate. The police watch him like a cat, and would get him sooner or later. McNorton told me that much. I have offered him passage to Australia and £500, and he is ready to jump at it."
"You have explained the scheme?"
"I had to," confessed Beale, "there was no time to be lost. To my surprise he didn't like it. It appears that even a double-dyed crook has scruples, and even when I told him the whole of my plan he still didn't like it, but eventually agreed. He has gone to Whitechapel to get the necessary kit. I am putting him up in my flat. Of course, it may not be necessary," he went on, "but somehow I think it will be."
Kitson spread out his hands in despair.
"I shall have to consent," he said, "the whole thing was a mistake from the beginning. I trust you, Stanford," he went on, looking the other in the eye, "you have no feeling beyond an ordinary professional interest in this young lady?"
Beale dropped his eyes.
"If I said that, Mr. Kitson, I should be telling a lie," he said quietly. "I have a very deep interest in Miss Cresswell, but that is not going to make any difference to me and she will never know."
He left soon after this and went back to his rooms. At four o'clock he received a visitor. Parson Homo, cleanly shaved and attired in a well-fitting black coat and white choker, seemed more real to the detective than the Parson Homo he had met on the previous night.
"You look the part all right," said Beale.
"I suppose I do," said the other shortly; "what am I to do next?"
"You stay here. I have made up a bed for you in my study," said Beale.
"I would like to know a little more of this before I go any further," Homo said, "there are many reasons why I want information."
"I have told you the story," said Beale patiently, "and I am going to say right here that I do not intend telling you any more. You carry this thing through and I'll pay you what I agreed. Nobody will be injured by your deception, that I promise you."
"That doesn't worry me so much," said the other coolly, "as–"
There came a knock at the door, an agitated hurried knock, and Beale immediately answered it. It was McNorton, and from force of habit Parson Homo drew back into the shadows.
"All right, Parson," said McNorton, "I knew you were here. What do you make of this?"
He turned to Beale and laid on the table a piece of paper which had been badly crumpled and which he now smoothed out. It was the top half of a telegraph form, the lower half had been torn away.
"'To Belocity, London,'" Beale read aloud.
"That's you," interrupted McNorton, and the other nodded.
"'To Belocity, London,'" he read slowly. "'Am imprisoned at Deans–'"
At this point the remainder of the message had been torn off.
CHAPTER XV
THE GOOD HERR STARDT
"Where is the rest?" said Beale.
"That's the lot," replied McNorton grimly. "It's the only information you will get from this source for twenty-four hours."
"But I don't understand, it is undoubtedly Miss Cresswell's handwriting."
"And 'Belocity' is as undoubtedly your telegraphic address. This paper," he went on, "was taken from a drunken tramp—'hobo' you call 'em, don't you?"
"Where?"
"At Kingston-on-Thames," said McNorton—"the man was picked up in the street, fighting drunk, and taken to the police station, where he developed delirium tremens. Apparently he has been on the jag all the week, and to-day's booze finished him off. The local inspector in searching him found this piece of paper in his pocket and connected it with the disappearance of Miss Cresswell, the matter being fresh in his mind, as only this morning we had circulated a new description throughout the home counties. He got me on the 'phone and sent a constable up to town with the paper this afternoon."
"H'm," said Beale, biting his lips thoughtfully, "she evidently gave the man the telegram, telling him to dispatch it. She probably gave him money, too, which was the explanation of his final drunk."
"I don't think that is the case," said McNorton, "he had one lucid moment at the station when he was cross-examined as to where he got the money to get drunk, and he affirmed that he found it wrapped up in a piece of paper. That sounds true to me. She either dropped it from a car or threw it from a house."
"Is the man very ill?"
"Pretty bad," said the other, "you will get nothing out of him before the morning. The doctors had to dope him to get him quiet, and he will be some time before he is right."
He looked up at the other occupant of the room.
"Well, Parson, you are helping Mr. Beale, I understand?"
"Yes," said the other easily.
"Returning to your old profession, I see," said McNorton.
Parson Homo drew himself up a little stiffly.
"If you have anything against me you can pull me for it," he said insolently: "that's your business. As to the profession I followed before I started on that career of crime which brought me into contact with the crude representatives of what is amusingly called 'the law,' is entirely my affair."
"Don't get your wool off, Parson," said the other good-humouredly. "You have lost your sense of humour."
"That's where you are wrong," said Homo coolly: "I have merely lost my sense of decency."
McNorton turned to the other.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"'I am imprisoned at Deans,'" repeated Beale. "What 'Deans' have you in this country?"
"There are a dozen of them," replied the police chief: "there's Deansgate in Manchester, Deanston in Perth, Deansboro', Deans Abbey—I've been looking them up, there is a whole crowd of them."
"Are there any 'Deans' near Kingston?"
"None," replied the other.
"Then it is obviously the name of a house," said Beale. "I have noticed that in England you are in the habit of naming rather than numbering your houses, especially in the suburbs." He looked across to Parson Homo, "Can you help?"
The man shook his head.
"If I were a vulgar burglar I might assist you," he said, "but my branch of the profession does not take me to the suburbs."
"We will get a Kingston Directory and go through it," said McNorton; "we have one on the file at Scotland Yard. If–"
Beale suddenly raised his hand to enjoin silence: he had heard a familiar step in the corridor outside.
"That's van Heerden," he said in a low voice, "he has been out all the morning."
"Has he been shadowed?" asked McNorton in the same tone.
"My man lost him," he said.
He tiptoed along the passage and stood listening behind the door. Presently he heard the doctor's door close and came back.
"I have had the best sleuth in America trailing him," he said, "and he has slipped him every time."
"Anyway," said McNorton, "this telegram disposes of the idea that she has gone to Liverpool. It also settles the question as to whether she went of her own free will. If his name were on that telegram," he said thoughtfully, "I would take a risk and pull him in."
"I will give you something bigger to pull him for," Beale said, "once I have placed Miss Cresswell in safety."
"The Green Rust?" smiled the police chief.
"The Green Rust," said Beale, but he did not smile, "that's van Heerden's big game. The abduction of Miss Cresswell is merely a means to an end. He wants her money and may want it very badly. The more urgent is his need the sooner that marriage takes place."
"But there is no clergyman in England who would marry them"—it was Homo who interrupted. "My dear friend, that sort of thing is not done except in story books. If the woman refuses her consent the marriage cannot possibly occur. As I understand, the lady is not likely to be cowed."
"That is what I am afraid of," said Beale, "she is all pluck–"
He stopped, for he had heard the doctor's door close. In three strides he had crossed the hallway and was in the corridor, confronting his suave neighbour. Dr. van Heerden, carefully attired, was pulling on his gloves and smiled into the stern face of his rival.
"Well," he asked pleasantly, "any news of Miss Cresswell?"
"If I had any news of Miss Cresswell you would not be here," said Beale.
"But how interesting," drawled the doctor. "Where should I be?"
"You would be under lock and key, my friend," said Beale.
The doctor threw back his head and laughed softly.
"What a lover!" he said, "and how reluctant to accept his dismissal! It may ease your mind to know that Miss Cresswell, whom I hope very soon to call Mrs. van Heerden, is perfectly happy, and is very annoyed at your persistence. I had a telegram from her this morning, begging me to come to Liverpool at the earliest opportunity."
"That's a lie," said Beale quietly, "but one lie more or less, I suppose, doesn't count."
"A thoroughly immoral view to take," said the doctor with much severity, "but I see there is nothing to be gained by arguing with you, and I can only make one request."
Beale said nothing but stood waiting.
"It is this," said the doctor, choosing his words with great care: "that you call off the gentleman who has been dogging my footsteps to-day. It was amusing at first but now it is becoming annoying. Some of my patients have complained of this man watching their houses."
"You've not seen a patient to-day, van Heerden," said Beale, "and, anyway, I guess you had better get used to being shadowed. It isn't your first experience."
The doctor looked at him under lowered lids and smiled again.
"I could save your man a great deal of trouble," he said, "and myself considerable exertion by giving him a list of the places where I intend calling."
"He will find that out for himself," said Beale.
"I wish him greater success than he has had," replied the other, and passed on, descending the stairs slowly.
Beale went back to his flat, passed to his bedroom and looked down into the street. He made a signal to a man at the corner and received an almost imperceptible answer. Then he returned to the two men.
"This fellow is too clever for us, I am afraid, and London with its tubes, its underground stations and taxi-cabs is a pretty difficult proposition."
"I suppose your man lost him in the tube," said McNorton.
"There are two ways down, the elevator and the stairs, and it is mighty difficult to follow a man unless you know which way he is going."
"But you were interrupted at an interesting moment. What are you going to tell us about the Green Rust?"
"I can only tell you this," said Beale, "that the Green Rust is the greatest conspiracy against the civilized world that has ever been hatched."
He looked sharply at Homo.
"Don't look at me," said the Parson, "I know nothing about it, unless–" He stopped and frowned. "The Green Rust," he repeated, "is that old man Heyler's secret?"
"He's in it," said Beale shortly.
"Is it a swindle of some kind?" asked the Parson curiously. "It never struck me that Heyler was that kind of man."
"There is no swindle in it so far as Heyler's concerned," said Beale, "it is something bigger than a swindle."
A telephone bell rang and he took up the receiver and listened, only interjecting a query or two. Then he hung up the instrument.
"It is as I thought," he said: "the doctor's slipped again. Had a car waiting for him in Oxford Street and when he saw there were no taxi-cabs about, jumped in and was driven eastward."
"Did you get the number of the car?" asked McNorton.
Beale smiled.
"That's not much use," he said, "he's probably got two or three number-plates."
He looked at his watch.
"I'll go along to Kingston," he said.
"I shan't be able to come with you," said McNorton, "I have a meeting with the commissioner at five."
"Before you go," remarked Beale, "you might put your signature to this declaration of my bona fides."
He laid on the table a blue foolscap blank.
"What's this?" asked the surprised McNorton, "an application for a special licence—are you going to be married?"
"I hope so," said the other cautiously.
"You don't seem very cheerful about it. I presume you want me to testify to the urgency of the case. I am probably perjuring myself." He signed his name with a flourish. "When are you getting the licence and what's the hurry?"
"I am getting the licence to-morrow," said Beale.
"And the lady's name is–?"
"I thought you had noticed it," smiled the other, deftly blotting and folding the form.
"Not Miss Cresswell?" demanded the police chief in surprise.
"Miss Cresswell it is."
"But I thought–"
"There are circumstances which may be brought to your official notice, McNorton," said the detective, "for the present it is necessary to keep my plan a secret."
"Has it anything to do with the Green Rust?" asked the other jokingly.
"A great deal to do with the Green Rust."
"Well, I'll get along," said McNorton. "I will telephone the Kingston police to give you all the assistance possible, but I am afraid you will learn nothing from the tramp till the morning, and perhaps not then."
He took his leave soon after.
"Now, Homo, it is up to you and me," said Beale. "You will have to keep close to me after to-morrow. Make yourself at home here until I come back."
"One moment," said Homo, as Beale rose and gathered up his hat and gloves to depart. "Before you go I want you to understand clearly that I am taking on this job because it offers me a chance that I haven't had since I fell from grace, if you will excuse the cliché."
"That I understand," said Beale.
"I may be doing you a very bad turn."
"I'll take that risk," said Beale.
"On your own head be it," said Homo, his hard face creased in a fleeting smile.
Beale's car was waiting, but his departure was unexpectedly delayed. As he passed down the stairs into the vestibule he saw a stranger standing near the door reading the enamelled name-plates affixed to the wall. Something in his appearance arrested Beale. The man was well dressed in the sense that his clothes were new and well cut, but the pattern of the cloth, no less than the startling yellowness of the boots and that unmistakable sign-manual of the foreigner, the shape and colour of the cravat, stamped him as being neither American nor British.
"Can I be of any assistance?" asked Beale. "Are you looking for somebody?"
The visitor turned a pink face to him.
"You are very good," he said with the faint trace of an accent. "I understand that Doctor van Heerden lives here?"
"Yes, he lives here," said Beale, "but I am afraid he is not at home."
He thought it might be a patient or a summons to a patient.
"Not at home?" The man's face fell. "But how unfortunate! Could you tell me where I can find him, my business is immediate and I have come a long way."
From Germany, guessed Beale. The mail train was due at Charing Cross half an hour before.
"I am a friend of Doctor van Heerden and possibly I can assist you. Is the business very important? Does it concern," he hesitated, "the Green Rust?"
He spoke the last sentence in German and the man started and looked at him with mingled suspicion and uncertainty.
"It is a matter of the greatest importance," he repeated, "it is of vital importance."
He spoke in German.
"About the Green Rust?" asked Beale, in the same language.
"I do not know anything of the Green Rust," said the man hurriedly. "I am merely the bearer of a communication which is of the greatest importance." He repeated the words—"the greatest importance."
"If you give me the letter," said Beale, "I will see that it is sent on to him," and he held out his hand with the assurance of one who shared the dearest secrets of the doctor. The stranger's hand wandered to his breast pocket, but came back empty.
"No, it must be given—I must see the doctor himself," he said. "He does not expect me and I will wait."
Beale thought quickly.
"Well, perhaps you will come upstairs to my flat and wait," he said genially, and led the way, and the man, still showing evidence of uneasiness, was ushered into his room, where the sight of the Rev. Parson Homo tended to reassure him.
Would he have tea? He would not have tea. Would he take coffee? He would not take coffee. A glass of wine perhaps? No, he did not drink wine nor beer, nor would he take any refreshment whatever.
"My man," thought the desperate Beale, "I either chloroform you or hit you on the head with the poker, but I am going to see that letter."
As if divining his thought, but placing thereon a wrong construction, the man said:
"I should avail myself of your kindness to deliver my letter to Doctor van Heerden, but of what service would it be since it is only a letter introducing me to the good doctor?"
"Oh, is that all?" said Beale, disappointed, and somehow he knew the man spoke the truth.
"That is all," he said, "except of course my message, which is verbal. My name is Stardt, you may have heard the doctor speak of me. We have had some correspondence."
"Yes, yes, I remember," lied Beale.
"The message is for him alone, of course, as you will understand, and if I deliver it to you," smiled Herr Stardt, "you should not understand it, because it is one word."
"One word?" said Beale blankly. "A code—hang!"
