Another Man's Shoes

by Victor Bridges

CHAPTER XXI

Mr. George Gordon arrived at about half-past three. He was shown into my room by the Inspector, who announced his name almost as respectfully as that of the Home Secretary.

A tall, immaculately dressed young man, with a long chin, a tired white face, and sleek black hair carefully parted in the middle, he appeared more like a product of Ranelagh and the Gaiety than the most successful barrister-politician of the day.

As the warder withdrew we shook hands, Mr. Gordon looking at me from under his heavily-lidded eyes with a kind of fatigued curiosity.

"How do you do?" I said. "I'm very much obliged to you for coming to my rescue."

"If half of what Lammersfield told me is right," he answered, "I am glad to have had the chance."

It was only when he spoke that you got an idea of the real man. There was something in his voice that suggested the crack of a whip.

"Well," I said, "if Lammersfield has told you the story already, perhaps you'd rather ask me questions."

He sat down at the table and shook his head.

"No, Mr. Burton; if you don't mind, I'd rather have your account of the matter. Lammersfield's ideas of accuracy are political rather than legal."

Remembering the latter's opinion of Mr. Gordon, I was unable to repress a smile.

"Right you are," I said; and without more ado I plunged straight into my narrative, telling it just as I had told it to Lord Lammersfield, with the exception of leaving out all references to that eminent statesman's private affairs.

My visitor listened, lounging forward on the table, one hand supporting his head, and with the other making occasional notes on a half-sheet of paper. Once or twice he interrupted with sharp, curt questions which showed with what acute attention he was following my story.

When I had finished, he lay back in his chair, crossed his legs, and stared reflectively at the ceiling. I was just beginning to wonder whether he thought the whole thing a colossal lie, when he suddenly sat up and pulled his notes toward him.

"I suppose you realise, Mr. Burton," he said slowly, "that by to-morrow you will be the most famous man in England?"

"One has to pay for one's amusements," I admitted regretfully.

"On the contrary," he replied, with a dry smile, "if you care to handle the newspapers in the proper way, I should think the exact opposite would be the case. Your 'reminiscences' will be worth a fortune. What I mean, however, is that after to-day every pressman in England will be on your track, and there will be precious little of what's happened to you in the last four months that they'll fail to rout out."

He was looking at me keenly while he spoke.

I shrugged my shoulders. "They'll find it devilish uninteresting," I said. "Up till last week my life here was a model of respectability."

He was silent for a moment "If your facts are accurate," he said, "you are not in much danger, of course. To start with, the evidence of this man Logan constitutes a perfect alibi. On the other hand, it will be very difficult to avoid your being sent for trial. Your story is almost too incredible for a magistrate to swallow."

I made a wry face. "Well, if everything's got to come out," I said, "it's got to. That's all about it."

He nodded. "I will find out at once what evidence the police have, and go into the whole case. There will be no difficulty, of course, about the appearance of Miss Solano or your friend, Mr. Logan?"

"None at all," I said. "Logan is staying at my house in Park Lane with a policeman in attendance. He is sure to be round here later. Miss Solano is at the Tregattocks', but I should like her name kept out of it as much as possible."

He took no notice of this last remark. "Send Logan round to my chambers as soon as he arrives," he said curtly. "The first thing I shall do will be to get a warrant for the arrest of Guarez and the others. Then we must find the butler, Milford—if he's still alive. That's the man who holds the threads of the case in his hands."

"You'll probably find him in the Thames," I said, "if you find him anywhere. My only hope is that he managed to kill Da Costa too."

Gordon got up from his chair. His languid manner had slipped off him like a cloak, and his dark eyes glowed with a quick intelligence and energy that fully explained his remarkable achievements.

"I will do what I can," he said. "The police are sure to ask for a further remand to-morrow, and they'd better be allowed to have it. By the next hearing we shall know where we stand, and we can then decide whether to fight or to let the case be sent for trial. By the way, can you give me some addresses of friends in the Argentine or elsewhere who can establish your identity?"

I wrote him out the names of several of my more respectable acquaintances who knew about my journey to England, and he put the list away in his pocket.

"I will cable them this afternoon," he said. "Don't forget to send Logan round. I'll communicate with Miss Solano myself."

He went off, leaving me with the satisfactory feeling that, as far as professional assistance was concerned, I had certainly struck the right quarter. Indeed, the only thing that really worried me was the prospect of Mercia being dragged in to give evidence. I was determined that, whatever might happen to me, her true connection with the case should not be made public if I could prevent it. In France, of course, it wouldn't have mattered, for Frenchmen would have regarded her intention to assassinate Prado as the natural and laudable ambition which I myself considered it to be. But here in London—well, I could imagine what sort of an uproar such an admission would evoke from my smug fellow-countrymen. No, whatever happened, Mercia's real part in the affair must be discreetly cloaked.

I was curious to know what sort of a figure I was cutting in the Press. I realised, of course, that every sub-editor in Fleet Street would be straining himself in his efforts to do justice to such an opportunity, and it seemed a pity that I, of all people, should remain ignorant of the result. So when the constable brought me in my lunch, I asked him whether it was against the regulations to send out for some evening papers.

He looked a little doubtful. "I'll inquire about it," he said. "What papers do you want?"

"Oh, bring the lot," I replied spaciously. "It isn't every day that one's accused of murder."

Half an hour later he returned with a bundle of evening journals under his arm.

I started on the Star, and my first glimpse showed me that Gordon's prophecy as to my being the most famous man in England was not far off the mark.

STUART NORTHCOTE STABBED TO DEATH.
MURDERED MILLIONAIRESS DOUBLE AT BOW STREET.
WHO IS JOHN BURTON?
AMAZING MYSTERY IN HIGH LIFE.

The staring headlines spread themselves all across the front page, three columns of which were devoted to an account of the morning's proceedings, followed by a sensational description of Northcote's brief but dazzling career in London society.

With regard to the murder itself, the paper seemed to be almost as much in the dark as I was. I gathered, however, that the body of Stuart Northcote had been found three days before in an East End lodging-house, dressed in the commonest of seafaring clothes. He had been stabbed to death, apparently after a fierce struggle, for a track of blood-stains down the stairs marked where his murderer had escaped.

Beyond stating that the dead man had had a visitor late on the previous night, the landlord of the house had been apparently unable to throw any light on the matter. He had heard no signs of fighting; and if he had, he declared that he would probably have taken no notice. Fights are not regarded very seriously in a Stepney lodging-house.

An examination of the murdered man's papers had, it seemed, led the police to the startling belief that he was none other than Stuart Northcote, the famous millionaire. They had conducted their investigations with the utmost secrecy and dispatch, and the result had been my sensational arrest, and what the Star described in its leading article as "a mystery of truly staggering dimensions."

"Truth," finished the editor in his summing-up, "is stranger than fiction, and even a Sherlock Holmes might at the moment be baffled to pronounce a judgment upon this amazing crime."

The penny papers, if slightly less dramatic, devoted an equal amount of space to the affair—in fact, as far as I could see, any other topic of discussion was temporarily shelved. In no paper did I find any suggestions as to the real identity of Stuart Northcote, while only one—the Globe—seemed aware of the fact that I had been staying with Maurice at Woodford in the guise of his murdered cousin. All were agreed, however, that it was an "astounding" and "mysterious" business, and one and all repeated the remark of the editor of the Star that "truth was stranger than fiction."

I began to wonder what Mercia's feelings must be. By now she knew from Billy the true part that I had played in the affair, and that it was only my intervention that had saved her father's murderer from the earlier vengeance of the League. I knew this would make no difference between us; for if her love for me had sprung into life when she believed that I was Prado, it would certainly survive any subsequent shock that Fate could deal out. I was more concerned as to the anxiety I feared she would be suffering. Billy, of course, would have tried to assure her that I was perfectly safe; but knowing what she did about the feelings cherished for me by Maurice and Sangatte, she would doubtless be nervous as to whether there was not some conspiracy on foot to connect me with the crime. I did not want to write to her, for I had a pretty confident notion that if I did my letter would be opened. In any case, it would certainly lead the police to subject her to all sorts of inconvenient questions.

I was just pondering over these problems when the constable entered and told me that Billy had again called, and that if I wished to see him no objection would be raised.

"I'm afraid I'm getting a bit of a nuisance, Constable," I said. "I shall have to present the Station with a new door-knocker when I get out."

He made no response beyond a non-committal smile, but retiring from the room, returned a minute later with Billy in attendance.

"Well, my son," said the latter, as soon as the door was shut, "been reading your Press notices?"

He waved his hands towards the pile of newspapers.

"I've looked at them, Billy," I said. "For a modest man, I seem to be making a bit of a splash."

Billy laughed grimly. "Oh, you're the real thing. You've got the sea-serpent done to a frazzle. The whole town's talking of you; and as for the newspaper men—well, they've lined up outside Park Lane thicker than fleas in a Spanish doss-house. I had to push 'em away with both hands when I came out just now."

"Tell me about Mercia, Billy," I said.

"She's all right. It takes a lot to upset the Solanos. I told her the whole story before we went to the courthouse, and she never turned a hair. There's stuff in that girl, or else I'm a Dutchman."

"Did she send me any message?" I asked eagerly.

"Said she wasn't exactly tired of you," answered Billy, "or words to that effect; but we were too busy listening to your detective pal to bother much about love letters." He paused and chuckled. "It'll be a knock for Sherlock Holmes when he finds out the facts. He's reckoning that he's got you booked."

I shook my head. "He's none too certain about it," I said. "My sending for Lord Lammersfield gave 'em a bit of a shock; and when Gordon rolled up this afternoon and undertook my defence, I don't suppose it made him feel any more confident."

"Gordon!" repeated Billy. "What, the big Parliament guy?"

"That's the gentleman," I said. "Lammersfield sent him down to me, and he's going to run the show for us. By the way, he wants to see you at his chambers at once: I promised him I'd send you round."

"Where does he hang out?" demanded Billy.

"I don't know," I said, "but the Inspector will tell you." Then I sunk my voice. "Don't say anything to him about Lammersfield having borrowed money from Prado—I kept that dark; otherwise you can tell him the truth."

Billy nodded and jumped up from the bed.

"Right!" said he. "If I haven't forgotten the way, I will."

"And, Billy," I added, more anxiously, "keep an eye on Mercia. I'm not so much worried about Guarez and his lot—Gordon's on their track; it's that blackguard Sangatte I'm thinking of. Now he knows I'm tied by the leg, I shouldn't a bit wonder if he took the chance of trying some dirty trick."

"I don't quite see what he can do," said Billy. "Mercia's back with the Tregattocks now, and she ought to be quite safe there."

"I hope so," I returned; "but I wouldn't trust Sangatte as far as I could kick him."

Billy laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Neither would I, old son," he said, "but don't worry yourself about it I'll ring her up on the telephone as soon as I've been to Gordon, and see that she's all right. As far as to-morrow goes, I'll call for her and bring her round to the court-house myself, same as I did to-day."

I reached up and gripped his hand. "Thanks, William," I said. "You're what the Bible calls a very present help in time of trouble."

He laughed, and walking to the door tapped on it for the constable to let him out.

"One gets a bit of practice," he answered, "knocking around with you."

I had no more visitors that evening; indeed, nothing of any importance happened until next morning, when, about half an hour before I was due in court, Mr. George Gordon was ushered into my room. He was carrying a little black leather bag, but with this exception he looked more like a Bond Street loafer than ever.

"Well, it's good of you to come and relieve my harassed feelings," I said. "I was just wondering whether I should see you before the show started."

He put his bag down on the table and looked up at me out of his tired, expressionless eyes.

"Mr. Burton," he said, "I'm a busy man, even for a K.C.; but there's no work of mine that won't go to the wall if necessary until this case is settled."

I laughed cheerfully. "That will suit me fine," I remarked. "But I don't quite see where you come in."

He opened his bag and took several sheets of neatly written notes.

"I hope," he said dryly, "that I shall come in for the privilege of your better acquaintance. Your talents, Mr. Burton, are the sort for which a politician might find many excellent uses."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, I shall be wanting a job," I admitted, "now Prado's gone."

He pulled up the chair, and spread out his papers on the table.

"You've no special objection to my not opposing the remand this morning?" he asked, looking up at me sharply.

"It depends upon what you call a special objection," I said. "If you can get the magistrate to give me bail, or whatever you call it, I certainly shan't kick. With Guarez and his crowd still at large, I'd like to be outside, if only to look after Miss Solano."

"Miss Solano is already being looked after," he said curtly. "There's a private detective watching the Tregattocks' house night and day; and as far as Guarez and the others are concerned, I've got a warrant for the arrest of the whole gang. It's merely a matter of finding them now."

"It seems to me," I remarked admiringly, "that I can't do better than leave the whole thing in your hands."

He nodded. "I see no good in opposing the police this morning. Their evidence is too strong for the magistrate to dismiss the case. Sangatte and one of his servants are prepared to swear that you left the house at midnight, and we have only the testimony of Miss Solano and Mr. Logan to contradict them."

"What time was Prado murdered?" I asked.

"Some time between twelve-thirty and one. He seems to have had one visitor earlier in the evening and then another, or else the same man back again, soon after midnight."

"How the devil did the police find out he was Northcote?" I interrupted.

"He had some papers on him, apparently—what they were I don't know, but enough to give them a hint of the truth. They wired for Maurice Furnivall, and he identified the body at once as that of his cousin. He told the police that he'd felt you were an impostor ever since you'd arrived at Ashton."

"There are the makings of a very fine liar about Maurice," I observed dispassionately. "How did they find out my name?"

"Partly by means of Northcote's papers, I fancy, and partly through your Chelsea landlady. She'd been to the police about your disappearance, and her description of you fitted in, of course, with that of the dead man."

"I never thought of that!" I exclaimed. "I ought to have sent the old lady a message to say I was coming back." Then I paused. "What's the plan of campaign now?" I added.

Gordon leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him, and speaking in that queer voice of his which finished off each sentence with a kind of businesslike snap.

"The police shall have their remand. I'm hoping that by to-morrow we shall have laid our hands on Guarez and his friends. They've bolted from the Hollies, of course; but I've put Preston, one of our smartest men, on their track, and I expect to hear from him any minute. I'm also moving heaven and earth to find Milford. I've got the police with me there; so if he's above ground, he ought to turn up." He rose to his feet and paced slowly across the room. "You see, the truth is so wildly incredible that I daren't bring it forward until we have got every possible shred of evidence. The more the police find out about the case the better for us."

I was just about to express my agreement when the door opened and the constable came into the room.

"The magistrate has just arrived, Mr. Gordon," he said, in a manner that suggested it was rather impertinent of the magistrate to have done so before consulting Mr. Gordon's convenience.

"Very well," said my counsel, gathering up his papers. "I've still one or two points I want to discuss," he added, turning to me, "so I'll come back here as soon as the case is over."

Shyness is not one of my virtues, but I must acknowledge that I felt a trifle self-conscious as I marched into court for the second time under the wing of Inspector Neil. Apart from my recently acquired newspaper fame, which was embarrassing enough in itself, I was called on to face the eyes of practically every soul with whom I had been on speaking terms during the past ten days.

My first glance round the court showed me that the Ashton party was there en bloc. I caught sight of the white, startled face of poor Aunt Mary; the apoplectic countenance of Sir George Vane; and a few seats away the gracious and beautifully dressed figure of Lady Baradell, leaning forward, her eyes fixed on mine with a kind of passionate curiosity. Of Billy or Mercia I could see nothing.

As before, the loud buzz of excited conversation that broke out on my appearance was at once checked by the clerk. His call for order was endorsed by the magistrate, who, looking sharply round the building, observed with chilling disapproval, "If the public present are unable to behave themselves, I shall clear the court."

This threat had the desired effect. A complete and impressive silence at once descended upon everyone, broken only by the rising of a sombre-looking gentleman whom I took to be the counsel for the police.

"I am instructed to apply for a further remand, sir," he observed, addressing the magistrate. "The case for the police is still some way from complete."

The magistrate turned politely to my eminent counsellor.

"Have you anything to say in the matter, Mr. Gordon?"

Mr. Gordon rose briskly to his feet, and a little shiver of excitement ran through the court.

"If the police ask for a remand in the interests of justice," he began, "we have no objection to offer. To remove any misunderstanding, however, I wish to state that my client has a complete answer to the altogether unfounded charge that has been brought against him. We are ready to assist the police in any inquiries they may be making."

Again the eager murmur of conversation broke out, and I caught a glimpse of Maurice's face, white and savage, staring up at the impassive Gordon.

"You don't wish to cross-examine the police?" inquired the magistrate.

Gordon shook his head. "Not at present. If the case is persisted in after to-day—"

A sudden disturbance at the back of the building pulled him up abruptly in the middle of his sentence. The main entrance door had been flung open, and three men, evidently in a hurry, had stepped inside, to the indignant surprise of the policeman on duty, who was apparently attempting to bar their further progress.

The magistrate's voice rang out across the court with angry distinctness. "What's the meaning of all this noise? Who are these people?"

Like everyone else, I craned my head forward to get a better view of the intruders. One of them, I could see, was dressed as a priest; a second was a tall, clean-shaven man with grey hair. The face of the third was hidden by the shoulder of the constable, but as I looked that official moved hastily aside at the sound of the magistrate's voice.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Milford! Milford himself standing there in the corridor beyond any shadow of doubt. He looked pale and haggard, and his usually immaculate clothes were crumpled and untidy, but of his identity there could be no possible question.

I turned eagerly to Gordon, but before I could attract his attention the man who was dressed as a priest had pushed his way to the centre of the court and was addressing the magistrate.

"I must ask your pardon for bursting in on the proceedings like this, Mr. Cowden," he said in a clear voice, with the faintest possible touch of a brogue. "I am Father Merrill of Stepney, and I have brought you a very important witness."

The excitement of the spectators was naturally at fever pitch, and despite the clerk's renewed demand for silence, the court buzzed with a low, eager whisper of speculation.

The magistrate inclined his head. "There is no need to apologise, Father Merrill. If you are in a position to throw any light on this case, you were quite right to attend. Who is your witness?"

"John Milford, the dead man's servant. He has a statement to make which will clear up this dreadful business—clear it up beyond question, I think. Doctor Robbins and myself are here to confirm his evidence."

There was a short pause. I saw the police counsel and Inspector Curtis exchanging some hasty remarks, while the magistrate bent down and engaged for a moment in consultation with his clerk. Gordon leaned across to me.

"Neither Logan nor Miss Solano are in court," he whispered quickly. "Do you know why?"

I shook my head. Even the extreme tension of the moment did not prevent a horrible feeling of anxiety from clutching at my heart.

Then the magistrate's voice broke in, sharp and decisive.

"I will hear what these witnesses have to say before granting the remand."

The counsel for the police rose as if to protest, but the magistrate waved him back and called on Milford to take his place in the witness-box.

Between my excitement at the unexpected interruption and my dread that something had happened to Mercia and Billy, it was a moment or so before I was able to wrench my mind back to its normal clearness. Then I realised that Milford was standing in the box, and that a great stillness had descended on the court.

The magistrate adjusted his glasses. "It will be best," he said quietly, "if you give us your evidence in your own way. Don't allow yourself to become hurried or confused. I shall ask you questions myself, but otherwise no one will interrupt you until you have finished."

With a slight bow, Milford stepped to the front of the box, and placed his hands on the ledge before him. Then, looking straight at the Bench, he began to speak in the quiet, respectful, unemotional voice of a well-trained butler. There was something delightfully incongruous between his own perfect self-possession and the feverish eagerness with which everyone else in court was hanging on his words.