THE MYSTERY MAKER


BY
AUSTIN J. SMALL
love's enemy
master vorst
PEGGY
THE DEATH MAKER
THE MAN THEY COULDN'T ARREST
THE MASTER MYSTERY
THE MYSTERY MAKER
THE NEEDLE'S KISS
THE SILENT SIX
THE WEB OF MURDER


THE MYSTERY MAKER
BY
AUSTIN J. SMALL

| PUBLISHED FOR
THE CRIME CLUB, INC.
JUL by DOUBLEDAY, DORAN y COMPANY, inc.
r^^l GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK, 1930
r


COPYRIGHT, 1929
BY DOUBLED AY, DOR AN It COMPANY, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.


c. r. &u rue r?
a-w fix r-
CHAPTER I
A S AN individual Colonel John Stayne was unique
in quite a number of ways. Even the highly
coloured records at Scotland Yard admitted him as
one of their star artists—and a particularly irritating
artist at that. He was one who refused to be snared,
no matter how perfectly the trap was laid for him,
no matter how many brains took a hand in the perfec-
ting of the trap. He seemed to have been mixed up in
something more than half the biggest swindles and
criminal jobs of the post-war years, and his name and
history were definitely involved in the dossier of every
international crook in the Yard archives.
And yet . . . even the higher authorities at Head-
quarters had to admit that there was an embarrass-
ingly noticeable "And yet" about the John Stayne
situation. He seemed to have an "And yet" complex.
To begin with, he was only thirty-one and yet his
rank of colonel was genuine, although he had been
out of the army some years. He had gained his col-
onelcy at twenty-two, and he had never heard a single
shot fired in action. He had done remarkable work in
the Anti-Espionage Corps, and yet he had resigned
without offering a single reason.
Twenty-four hours later the famous Cottrington
case broke in seven-column banner lines in the news-
papers. Colonel John Stayne's name was mentioned


2
THE MYSTERY MAKER
by every single witness in that remarkable affair, and
yet not a single one of them could recognize him at an
identity parade; Lord Cottrington repudiated all
knowledge of him when he stepped into the witness-
box.
He wasso good-looking in a quiet, aristocratic way
that pretty well every eligible debutante's mother
had taken a shamelessly complete fall in his direction;
and yet he was a bachelor still, without a single whis-
per of scandal against his moral reputation. There
was no earthly reason why he should exhibit a crimi-
nal tendency, for he was an exceptionally wealthy
man in his own right, and yet—there were those in-
eradicable dossiers in pretty well every important
pigeon-hole at Scotland Yard.
He seemed to swim around right out on the verge
of things, sometimes heading straight into the very
heart of the seething whirlpool, with every other
subsidiary revolving madly about him, and then, when
the crash came, there were all the majors and minors
safely under lock and key—and there was John
Stayne, a nebulous, unaccusable being, right out be-
yond the net again with not a tittle of evidence against
him. Indeed, such evidence as there was tended to
prove that John Stayne had had nothing whatever to
do with the unpleasant affair.
The Yard, being human and as wise as they make
'em, had long since ceased to harbour any resentment
against him. He was far too useful. As an unfailing
guide-line, pointing always to where big trouble was
brewing, he was infallible. Where John Stayne was,
there big-time trouble was surely coming to the boil
in the stew-pot of the underworld.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
3
So they gave him his rein, stepped along invisibly
four yards astern of his coat-tails, and let him ride.
And because of his remarkable propensity for un-
earthing the big stuff while keeping out of it himself,
they dubbed him the "Mystery Maker," raised their
mental hats to him, and breathed a little prayer for
his continued well-being.
He lived in a large house in Curzon Square, one
of those large, fashionable houses in one of those
small, fashionable squares that still carry, on their
startlingly ugly facades, something of the unutterably
quiet and proper atmosphere of the early Victorian
era.
John Stayne was a tall, military-looking figure,
dark-haired, bronzed with the tan of a good many
travels under southern suns, and all over him he car-
ried the indefinable stamp of the soldier. His actions
were orderly and precise; as were his utterances. So
orderly and precise that they implied an orderly and
precise brain. His thoughts were coordinated and
definitely formed before he vocalized them into
words. Alene Mathers, his secretary, declared em-
phatically that she had never taken dictation from a
more clear-minded, less annoying employer. And that,
knowing the general muddleheadedness of a man try-
ing to dictate a letter to a girl with fair hair and speed-
well blue eyes, is a knowledgeable commendation.
Val Tembridge, a sharp-tongued young gentle-
man whom he chose to call his assistant, had thumped
the noses of half a dozen individuals who had been
incautious enough to scandalize Stayne's general be-
haviour in his hearing. Scotland Yard had never been


THE MYSTERY MAKER 5
received news that the chateau had been broken Into.
Must have done it the same night she left. Thieves
went for the jewels. Said jewels were to have followed
her to town a few days later under special guard.
"Stones to the value of over £100,000 were taken.
Two ropes of diamonds—the Demorval ropes. Fine
tiara of rubies. And the whole collection of emer-
alds. Emeralds not too good. Some good ones among
them, of course, but, on the whole, imperfect. Some
pretty fine opals went too, but Lady Demorval ranks
opals along with coral, cat's-eyes, and coke. The asses-
sors stuck out a reward right away—£5,000 for their
recovery. Increased it later to £20,000. Must have
been badly stung on the insurance. Plums of the pick-
ing were the ropes. A week later Lady Demorval went
to Mentone herself to try to hammer a bit of nous into
the heads of the French police. She had put up at an
hotel in London for a few days while the town house
was being prepared. All her luggage was stored there
pending instructions from her.
"One evening there was a sound of banging com-
ing from the room where the luggage was stored.
Hotel manager threw a fright and 'phoned the po-
lice. They got there in time to arrest Varris in the
foyer. He was heading for the street with his hat on
his head and the diamonds in his hip pocket—done up
in tissue paper. The head bell-hop had watched him
come out of the store-room in one peach of a hurry.
Varris—Templer Varris—was her private secre-
tary, and was in full charge of her affairs until Lady
Demorval's return. Up in the store-room they found
half her ladyship's baggage busted open."


6
THE MYSTERY MAKER
Stayne held up his hand. "Just a moment," he said.
"Templer Varris. Have you anything about him?"
"Yes. Unhappy relic of the war. Very good family
from one of the shires. A bit county. Joined up as
soon as his years let him. Left the army at twenty-
two. No more training for a decent job in civilian life
than you can derive from four years of loosing off
rifles, slinging hand grenades, and jabbing holes in a
lot of Jerries with a bayonet. Had two or three years
trying to keep up appearances on a couple of pounds a
week and then fell fairly lucky. The Demorvals
wanted a private secretary and Varris got the job.
He'd been with them about three years when it hap-
pened. Previous record with them good. No com-
plaint of any sort. Case came up for hearing two
weeks ago—just before you got back. Varris got five
years."
"Pretty clear case, you think?"
"As it read, Varris had as many legs to stand on as
a puff-adder—and about as evenly distributed. He
said he was breaking the cases open because he had
lost the keys. Lady Demorval had wired for some
papers to be sent on to her out of one of the trunks.
He proved that piece all right; and then he said that
while rummaging through the grips he came across
the ropes wrapped up in the tissue just as they were
found on him. He couldn't get away from the fact
that the bulls collared him for streaking for the broad
highway, with the goods as part cargo. He said he
was taking them to the assessors for safe custody. He
seemed to ignore the fact that there was perfectly
safe custody in the hotel strong-room and that the


THE MYSTERY MAKER
7
clocks were just booming 7. p. M. when they stopped
him at the door. The assessors close at five."
Stayne was silent for a while and then said, almost
to himself: "A great pity about those times. I sup-
pose Varris was aware of the time City offices close?"
"He said he knew all right, but had forgotten to
remember. Said he was so astonished and upset he
forgot all about everything. Net result—five years
for not remembering not to forget. Those ropes were
worth £25,000 each."
"Anything else ? Did he try to implicate anyone else
or hint at other complications?"
"Not directly. He told the judge that there was
considerably more than a mere diamond stealing
charge at the back of the business, and asked to be al-
lowed to make a statement to the judge privately in
his room. The judge told him that except in cases con-
cerning the Crown, blackmail or obscenity, all state-
ments must be made in open court. Any remarks he
had to make would be made from the dock or not at
all. Varris thought it over for a bit and decided to
stay dumb."
"H'm. Very interesting. Very, very interesting.
So interesting that, I think, before many hours have
passed, we shall re-embark on our criminal career.
Quite a lot of laws will be broken before we sort out
our particular end of this lively problem."
"Varris is innocent, eh?"
"Of any connection with this diamond business—
yes. But the diamond affair is only the rash on the sur-
face. The real disease goes a great deal deeper, I
think. There should be some quite bright times ahead.


8
THE MYSTERY MAKER
I think we have dug our fingers into what you call
a real one this time."
A great jade clock began chiming softly on a man-
telpiece that was built of solid slabs of alabaster.
Stayne had slumped back in his chair again, and was
staring hard into the glowing heart of the blazing
pine logs. Behind him, on a bracket set in the corner of
the room, was a golden idol of incredible ugliness.
Gripped in its distorted hands was a tiny silver bell
and from its mouth protruded what appeared to be
an ivory cornucopia. Suddenly and without any ap-
parent volition the bell tinkled twice on a high musi-
cal note. Stayne turned a knob under the arm of his
chair, and said, to nobody in particular, "Yes—what
is it?"
A minor miracle happened. From the little ivory
trumpet in the idol's mouth came a voice of astonish-
ing clarity. It was a male voice, pitched in the natural
human key, and its volume was as perfectly modu-
lated as though the speaker was present, there in the
corner of the room.
"Front hall speaking," it said; "a visitor to see
you, sir."
Without turning round Stayne said, "Thank you.
What name, please?"
"Miss Marienne Varris, sir. She says that she
wrote you and suggested in her letter that she would
like to see you at nine o'clock this morning. If it is
inconvenient for you to see her now, would you please
make an appointment at as early a moment as pos-
sible? She states that her business is of extreme ur-
gency."
"Thank you, Belham; send Miss Varris up to me


THE MYSTERY MAKER
9
here. I will see her immediately." Stayne pushed the
knob back and turned to Tembridge.
"That's Templer Varris's sister," he said. "She's
in terrible distress about her brother—to judge from
this letter here—and says she will do anything on
earth if I will help him. The letter of an educated
woman going into hysterics through sheer helpless-
ness and despair."
He rolled the letter into a ball and pitched it into
the fire, watching it slowly uncoil and burn away to
black ash. With an easy movement he heaved himself
out of the deep chair and glanced at the clock.
"At least she is dead on time," he said. "I rather
like women who respect the hands of the clock. Get
me all the data we have about this Demorval affair,
will you, and bring it to me here? I want you to be
present when we get down to business, because the
first thing I want to know from this young lady is
how she came to know my name, my address and the
exact manner in which she discovered that there was
the possibility of getting assistance from me. I don't
like it, Tembridge; I don't like it. Somebody is doing
a little private talking behind our backs—and Miss
Varris is going to tell us who, or my name is not
John Stayne."
There was a hard, bitter look in his eyes as he
spoke, a look that Tembridge knew better than any
man on earth. And for her own sake he hoped that
Marienne Varris would not be too obstinate.
"Will you want the secretary?" he said.
"No. You and I will see this matter through alone."
Tembridge went out through the communicating
door to his own room as Miss Varris was ushered in.


io THE MYSTERY MAKER
Stayne bowed and motioned her to a seat near
the fire. "Won't you please sit down?" he said in his
soft, rather deep voice. "The air is quite chilly out-
side, in spite of the sun. Sit down and warm yourself
before you begin talking."


CHAPTER II
THE girl stayed at the top end of the table, star-
ing a little wildly at Stayne, as though she
couldn't quite realize that this suavely spoken man
with the courtly manners and the grace of a knight
was the Mystery Maker, the man about whom noth-
ing but hinted stories of unimaginable knavery were
whispered. She was staring straight at him, diffidently
twisting her gloves about in her fingers as though she
had not heard a single word of his invitation.
John Stayne regarded her with a half smile, a smile
which could not quite hide a slight reddening of the
face—for John Stayne was in process of admitting
to his own inner conscience that Marienne Varris was
just about the nicest girl he had ever looked at from
a distance of less than ten feet. She was one of those
gorgeous young creatures one never expects to see in
real life. On the covers of the magazines, yes; but
never in real life.
Her complexion was much too perfect to be all
complexion and nothing added; but on that point the
Colonel had a properly open mind, he holding that it
was far easier to look at a face that was nicely assisted
with a spot of colouring than one that resembled a
slab of dough with a set of features let into it.
Her eyes were average as regards size, but the
Demorval diamonds themselves were never brighter
or fuller of more varying shades.

ii


12
THE MYSTERY MAKER
Her nose was small and very straight and her
mouth was a bewildering series of little curves that
. somehow melted into lips from her cheeks and chin.
What small curls of hair peeped from under her tiny
hat were of a shade that was neither black, brown, nor
fair—but just that bright, happy tint in between.
John Stayne continued to smile—and redden.
"Are you—are you Mr.—Colonel—Stayne?" she
managed to stammer out at last.
"I am. And you are Miss Marienne Varris ? Won't
you please sit down? You look so unhappy standing
there. I've read your letter, and I am most anxious
to talk to you—to help you."
"Are you? Are you—really?" There was almost a
note of entreaty in her voice, and her gloves were
rapidly becoming a shapeless ball of horribly twisted
kid.
Stayne went round to her, took her by the arm, and
led her to the chair. He sat himself down opposite her
where the light fell full on that face that was much
too beautiful to be true. There, with the sunlight
flooding in full from the high-lighted windows, he saw
the tiny worry lines that were crawling, all too
wickedly early, into the corners of those bright eyes,
saw the slight trembling of the under lip, noted the
almost ceaseless twittering of the fingers that indi-
cated a nerve stress of such old standing that it was
working up to a breakdown. And he knew then, if he
hadn't been definitely certain before, that there was
something pretty terrible behind the burgling of the
Chateau Demorval in Mentone and the theft of the
Demorval diamonds in London.
The communicating door opened and Miss Varris


THE MYSTERY MAKER 13
looked up with positive fright in her eyes at the sud-
den sound.
"It's quite all right, Miss Varris," said Stayne gen-
tly. "This is Mr. Valdon Tembridge, my assistant.
Impolite folk refer to him as my accomplice. Mr.
Tembridge, this is Miss Marienne Varris, who has
come to see us about a very private affair."
Tembridge bowed slightly from the hips, and stuck
there. He was gazing at Marienne in sheer unbelief,
and it seemed age-long minutes before he prised him-
self upright again.
"I'm delighted to see you, Miss Varris," he said,
and mentally informed himself that he had never
spoken a more touchingly true sentence in his life.
Stayne took the portfolio from Tembridge's limply
extended hand and briefly glanced through the con-
tents. There were printed cuttings of every phase of
the story, taken from the various papers, verbatim
reports of the magisterial proceedings and the full
agency reports of the trial. Here and there were such
notices, proclamations and private statements as Tem-
bridge had been able to get possession of by means
best known to himself.
Stayne looked up to see Marienne eyeing the accu-
mulation in wild alarm.
"Miss Varris," he said quietly, "I trust that in ex-
plaining the reason for your visit to us you will deal
with the matter as frankly as possible. You will no-
tice that we have here quite a full resume of the whole
matter in so far as it has yet become public property
—and not a few other documents that not even the
judge has been privileged to see. You have hinted
in your letter at a good many other matters of far


THE MYSTERY MAKER
greater consequence than the theft of a couple of
ropes of diamonds and—if I may put it brutally—
five years' penal servitude."
The old frightened look, a hunted look, came back
into her eyes and she plucked nervously at the torn
fingers of a glove. Then, after a little silence, she
seemed to screw all her courage up into a single sen-
tence. Looking him straight in the eyes, but with lips
that all the courage in the world could not keep from
twitching, she asked:
"Mr. Stayne, if I promise to tell you something of
what I know—enough for you to discover the net
yourself—will you promise to get Templer out of
prison, to get him out in such a way that nothing of
this terrible business will become public?"
The words came tumbling out of her mouth in an
uncontrollable stream—as fast as though it were
part of a set speech she had already prepared and re-
hearsed and was determined to make before she gave
away a single line of her own story.
"Will you? Will you?" she rushed on, a light of
feverish intensity burning in her eyes. "I know Tem-
pler has been indiscreet—has been a perfect fool in
some respects—but it has been the foolishness of
loyalty. He is absolutely innocent—he no more in-
tended to steal those diamonds than I did—and /
wouldn't wear the beastly things if I were paid a
thousand a week to do just that and nothing else.
Those diamonds should never have been in London
at all. It was a terrible blunder on Templer's part.
Templer didn't want them—he was only getting rid


THE MYSTERY MAKER 15
of them so that he could save a brace of Demorval
skins. Yes! You can look. I said a brace and I mean
a brace. If I could tell the full story that lies hidden
behind those two footling ropes of diamonds sud-
denly appearing in London there would be more trou-
ble on the Continent than all the European Chan-
celleries put together could put right. But I can't! I
I can't until Templer is out of prison. Templer him-
self could be free inside an hour if he chose to put
what he knows on paper—but he can't do that any
more than I can. Oh, what am I to do? What am I
to do?"
In an access of helplessness she wrung her hands
together and her head fell forward in a fit of half-
stifled sobbing.
"There's been murder done already over this ter-
rible business," she said in a strangled voice, "and
there will be murder done again unless somebody with
a cool head gets at the head of things to stop it."
Stayne leaned forward and gently touched her
arm.
"Miss Varris," he said, with quiet incisiveness,
"you are already saying a great deal more than you
intended. You made me a condition just now, a condi-
tion which stated that, before you would tell me any-
thing, I would promise to effect the release of Mr.
Varris without further publicity compromising him in
this business. Before you go any further, I wish to tell
you that I, too, have a condition to make."
The girl looked up quickly, her face draining a
shade whiter under its nervous pallor and her hands
gripped together till the knuckles shone.


16 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"A—a condition?" she whispered, and looked tim-
idly from Stayne to Tembridge and back again.
Stayne did not give her a chance to think. "Yes, a
condition—but a very simple one indeed," he went
on smoothly. "I only wish that yours to me had been
one-thousandth part as simple. It is this. What is the
name of the person who sent you to me?"
Marienne looked down into her lap and covered
her eyes with her hands. Stayne noted that those
hands were trembling badly.
"No—nobody sent me—I just came," she mut-
tered.
"That is the first lie you've told for many a long
day—and you told it badly," said Stayne. The hard
glitter was back in his eyes. He had risen and was
standing over her.
"Who sent you?" he demanded. "Listen, girl;
there is not a soul in England who knows that I am
capable of getting a man out of gaol, not a soul in
England who knows that Stayne, the Mystery Maker,
makes mysteries for others to fall into and get them-
selves entangled in webs of their own weaving. Only
Tembridge there knows the extent to which we have
broken laws—knows the extent to which we are able
to break them further. You have been to someone.
That someone, at his wit's end, has sent you to me.
Now, who was it?"
She shook her head helplessly.
"How do I know anyone to go to?" she said.
"Then how did you know to come to me?" He put
his hand on her shoulder and pressed her upright.
"Miss Varris," he went on, "would it interest you to


THE MYSTERY MAKER 17
know that I am not unaware of some of the facts be-
behind this case? Until recently my duties took me a
good deal to the French Riviera. As a brother mem-
ber of the Diplomatic Corps, Lord Demorval was
known to me. And the Secret Service, my dear, travels
along byways that are not even known to Scotland
Yard. Would it surprise you to know that I could go
straight to France this very day and challenge Mon-
sieur Flocard, the French waiter, his right to his
French name—to ask him why he widowed Lady
Demorval so recently, to ask Lady Demorval herself
why her diamonds were not in the Mentone chateau,
to arrange a prison meeting with Templer Varris and
to ask him point blank why"
But the girl had risen and was clinging to him des-
perately. "No! No!" she gasped. "Please—please!
There is no need—Templer is"
"Yes, yes, I know that too. Now—who sent you
to me?"
"Lord Demorval himself." The girl looked at him
blankly for a moment and then collapsed over the
arm of her chair.
Stayne, with two deeply drawn furrows down the
centre of his forehead, sank slowly back in his seat,
and his hands were trembling. Tembridge was staring
at the girl as though she had suddenly gone mad.
Then he caught John Stayne's eyes boring into him.
There was a flood of newer—and greater—under-
standing blazing in them and perhaps just a hint of
the fear.a man gets when he gazes full face at some-
thing that transcends the credible.
"Tembridge," he said, soberly but with deadly con-


18 THE MYSTERY MAKER
viction in every syllable, "we have got to get Templer
Varris out of that cell within forty-eight hours—and
without the permission of the authorities! We've got
to abduct him from under their noses! Quick—some
brandy for Miss Varris—she's fainted."


CHAPTER III
TEMBRIDGE was already on the way to Mari-
enne Varris. In a minute or two she had recov-
ered sufficiently to sit back and try to force a little
shamefaced smile. A mountain of relief seemed to
have toppled from her shoulders the moment the
Mystery Maker decided to take a hand in the fate
of Templer Varris.
Stayne slipped out a little notebook, and, while
Marienne was dabbing her eyes, he jotted down a few
questions, taking meticulous care to verify certain
names and dates from the cuttings in the dossier.
"Do you feel like concentrating on a few of the
finer points of this unusual story?" he asked at last.
The girl looked up with an emotional surge of re-
lief in her eyes. "Yes, Mr. Stayne, I'm quite ready to
do anything you wish," she said.
"And to be perfectly candid in your replies to these
questions?" inquired Stayne, tapping his notebook.
He was looking directly at her, and she flushed a lit-
tle. For a few moments her fingers wandered nerv-
ously over her forehead, and then she said quietly:
"I will answer any question you care to ask me—pro-
vided my answers don't implicate my brother any fur-
ther. You probably realise already that there is one
aspect of this matter on which I can shed no light at
all."
Stayne nodded grimly. "I understand," he said. "It
19


THE MYSTERY MAKER 21
"Yes. It was through me that he got his appoint-
ment."
"Are you still in Lady Demorval's employ?"
"No. I resigned some months ago. I couldn't stand
the strain of it any longer. I could see something
dreadful happening like this—I could see it coming."
"Why? What made you suspect a crash was com-
ing?
Marienne looked away into the fire. "I—I'd rather
not answer that question," she said after a long
pause.
Stayne smiled, just a little wisp of a smile that flit-
ted across his mouth for a moment and was gone.
"Does it occur to you that you have already answered
that question?" he asked.
The girl shot him a quick glance of apprehension.
"I don't think I understand," she said hurriedly.
"You, as companion to her ladyship, would know
considerably more about her affairs than his," came
the quiet rejoinder. "If you resigned it would be in
consequence of something you feared on her account.
It would seem that all is not well with Lady Demor-
val's affairs. Still, we will let that matter slide. Now,
tell me, when did you last see Lord Demorval?"
"Three days ago, in Paris."
"That was when he recommended you to come and
see me?"
"Recommended is a very weak word. He begged
me to."
"And where was this?"
"At the Credit Lyonnais. It is one of the many
pseudo-appointments he holds in Paris. I think he was


22
THE MYSTERY MAKER
acting as a bank clerk at the paying-in grille. At least,
that was where I saw him."
"And now about Flocard."
"Emil Flocard? I've never seen him personally.
All I know about him is that he, too, is attached to the
staff in Paris. He is a waiter."
"Where?"
"At Monsieur Sebillon's cafe in the Boulevard Pe-
reire. It is a very fashionable restaurant a little way
out of the main centre of"
"I know it. Expensive, too. But the cuisine is per-
fect. Let me see now. Lord Demorval has been 'dead'
now nearly three months, has he not?"
"Nearer four. Lady Demorval was in mourning
for over three months at the Mentone chateau."
"And Lady Demorval actually believes him dead?"
"Yes. So did I. So did we all. He went into a pri-
vate nursing home and died there. It was as perfectly
arranged as only the Secret Service can possibly hope
to arrange such things. I went to the funeral. I went
over specially for it when I read of his death in the
English papers. It happened about a month after I
had left the Demorval employ. I remember thinking
he had found a happy release from the crash that was
coming. The coffin was buried at Chantilly with full
official honours."
"Just one more question, Miss Varris." Stayne
leaned over and eyed her keenly from under his dark
brows. "Where did Lady Demorval go for her little
gambling flutters?" He pitched the question directly
at her and his eyes never left her face.
She started badly, and the old hunted look leapt


THE MYSTERY MAKER
back into her eyes. Her body tensed and she crouched
back into her chair.
"I never said she gambled!" she said breathlessly.
"I never mentioned it—never even hinted at it!"
"Probably not," said Stayne dryly. "It isn't neces-
sary to have facts written down in headlines before
they become visible." Suddenly his manner changed
and he became a hard, masterful figure, dominating
her attention by the very menace of his attitude.
"Miss Varris," he said, with the cold bite of steel
in his words, "your brother is in prison with five
years between him and liberty. He can clear himself
only at the expense of uncovering one of the biggest
scandals that ever endangered the financial stability
of this country. Now listen carefully. A little while
ago a man was murdered in one of the private gam-
bling hells in Paris. The whole matter was one for the
French police, but somehow it was fiercely hushed up.
No one on this side, for instance, ever knew exactly
where it happened.
"We do know, however, that there was a terrific
fight going on at the time, and that it was only through
the mad heroism of an unknown man in the room that
a certain Englishwoman of title escaped before the
gendarmerie broke in. He held the whole place single-
handed till the lady got clear. He did it at the ex-
pense of a smashed skull—somebody else's skull.
"When the police forced the doors the lady was
gone and her honour was saved. Also there was a dead
body on the floor, its head battered in with a cham-
pagne bottle—and the valiant unknown was hauling


THE MYSTERY MAKER
himself out through the window with a clear twenty-
foot drop to the ground. He made it and got clear.
"That Englishwoman of title was Lady Demorval,
and the man who pulled her through was Templer
Varris. Varris is now in the sweet position of only be-
ing able to clear himself of a five years' sentence by
offering his neck to the rope on the murder charge.
Now—I want that address, and I want it now!
Where did Lady Demorval go for her little gambling
flutters?"
Marienne had been listening to Stayne's grim reci-
tative with eyes that slowly filled with fright. The
extent of his inside knowledge appalled her. For some
time she could not speak.
Stayne pacified her.
"Dear lady," he said, "I assure you that until you
came in here I did not know one tenth of what I've just
told you. You tell me a little and I infer a lot. I knew
there had been a scandal in a roulette club over there.
I knew that a man, at the risk of his life, had saved
a lady's name. I knew that Lord Demorval was dead;
in common with the rest of the world I honestly be-
lieved it. Then you tell me that you resigned her lady-
ship's employ because you could not stand the strain
of the anxiety. You tell me that Lord Demorval is not
dead—that he quietly withdrew out of life and left
nothing but a faked funeral behind him. You tell me
that Templer Varris is your brother, and that he is
incapable of such an act as stealing valuable dia-
monds. You tell me that it is impossible for him to
clear himself without seriously implicating others.
And that the moment he tries to he is letting himself
in for worse trouble than before.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
25
"Dear lady, isn't it rather a simple effort of logic
to unite the details and to assume that one is the di-
rect cause of the other ? Who else would your brother
risk his neck for but the employer who had befriended
him when he was down and out? What else would
keep his tongue silent when nothing but five years of
prison misery stared him in the face?
"No, Miss Varris, you need not be frightened.
Your secrets are not quite such public knowledge as
you might think. I know, for instance, from your own
reluctance to give me such a simple piece of informa-
tion as the address of that club that you are fright-
ened of having the place investigated. Your agitation
precludes any other conclusion. That means that there
is something far worse than murder going on there.
Consequently I know that Lady Demorval is seri-
ously implicated in that too. One affair is simply the
outcome of the other. Now—please!"
Marienne Varris opened her bag hurriedly and
with trembling fingers, as though too frightened to
listen to more of that cold logic. She took from it a
small visiting card and passed it over with a hand that
shook. It bore the neatly printed inscription:
"Thank you," said Stayne. He glanced at it and
handed it back. "I don't know the place, and I didn't
know that gambling clubs were beginning to appear
in the Montmartre district. Still, we live and learn.
Tembridge, are you getting tired of London?"
CLUB TABARIN,
Rue Pigalle.
Laisser passer.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Passports are all O.K.," said Tembridge shortly.
The Mystery Maker nodded. "As soon as we have
arranged about Varris we will run over," he said.
"There should be some interesting hours in the Rue
Pigalle. Show Miss Varris out, will you, please?"


CHAPTER IV
STAYNE turned to Marienne as she rose with a
look of surprise and relief on her face. He was
smiling.
"It's quite all right," he said. "You can now get out
of the dentist's chair. Not a very pleasant quarter of
an hour for you, was it? But most troubles have to get
a little worse before they get a little better. Let me
see now; to-day is Tuesday. If you come round here
on Thursday afternoon Templer will be here to meet
you. Mind—not a word of this to a living soul."
"Oh—I—I promise!" she said with tears of emo-
tion starting to her eyes. "Mr. Stayne, I don't know
how to thank you. My heart is nearly bursting with
gratitude. You'll never know what"
Stayne took her by the arm and piloted her gently
to the door. "Let's not talk about it until it is all
over," he said soberly. "Believe me, there is a lot
more in this affair than even you dream—and I think
you have a pretty shrewd suspicion. There are quite a
few hectic hours to be lived before this matter passes
out of the danger zone. Don't forget now—Thurs-
day, about tea-time." He squeezed her hand and
opened the door.
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as she
went down the stairs. Belham, most impeccable of
butlers, was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.


28
THE MYSTERY MAKER
Stayne watched her go, deep lines of thought creasing
over his forehead.
"Miss Varris," he called softly, leaning over the
balustrade. "Just one thing more/Did you come here
by taxi?"
"Yes," she answered. "From my hotel in the
Strand."
Stayne waved his hand. "Keep smiling. Good-bye,"
he called.
Back in the big room Tembridge was studying a
shorthand note he had been taking of the whole con-
versation. Planked in front of him was a silent type-
writer. Stayne glanced at him. "I wouldn't worry
about that this time, if I were you," he said. "What
we heard we will just keep in our heads. Burn that lot
—quickly."
Tembridge looked up. "Bad as that—eh?" he
jerked.
Stayne inclined his head once, very deliberately.
"Probably worse," he muttered. "That distracted
little fool came round in a taxi. That means the Yard
will be nosing around inside five minutes. Still, we
shall know what the Yard thinks of it from the size of
the man they send. Get that dossier put away." He
pulled the knob on the armchair and said: "Has Miss
Varris gone yet, Belham?"
"Yes, sir; a moment ago," came the uncanny voice
from the golden idol.
"Very good. If a gentleman should call—a gentle-
man who will prefer not to give his name—warn me
and bring him straight up, please."
"I will see to it, sir."
Stayne turned and eyed his assistant critically.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
29
"Well, Tembridge," he said, "what did you think
of her?"
Tembridge stuck his fat red fountain pen back be-
hind his ear and glanced up dreamily at the massive
ceiling.
"I'm glad," he said to the furniture in general,
"I'm glad to think that you're too old to marry—and
that I am just of the right marrying age."
Stayne didn't smile. For a man who had only just
turned thirty he looked even younger—except, per-
haps, for that deep dominance of will and strength of
character which were visibly present even when lying
dormant.
"What I mean is," said Tembridge,tucking the dos-
sier under his arm, "colonels never marry. It's against
the ethical code. They either marry before they be-
come colonels or they just stay uncles to their own
nieces. And very good uncles they make, I hear.
"Marienne—I make no excuse for calling her by
her Christian name—is a delightful blend of a duck
and a darling and a dear and a delicious little Dresden
Shepherdess all dolled up in short skirts, silk stockings
—black silk stockings, bless her—neat little patent
shoes, and bobbed hair. I rather think I like England.
You never"
He stopped short, made one lightning dive for the
communicating door, and shot through it like a stone
from a catapult. The golden idol had suddenly said:
"A gentleman on his way up to see you, sir. He gave
his name as Chief Superintendent Hawker, the head
of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scot-
land Yard."


30 THE MYSTERY MAKER
Then Stayne smiled. But it was a smile that had not
the remotest bearing on the last observations of his
assistant. There was a grim line of determination
about it that wiped it clean of any trace of humour. It
was the gargoyle grin of a man who realises that two
lifelong adversaries were coming face to face—the
smile of a man who smelt battle ahead and was un-
afraid of the issue.
Tembridge returned, lighting a cigarette.
"Did you hear that ?" he asked, with an unholy glee
glittering out of his eyes. "Hawker! The Chief of the
whole circus! That's what the Yard thinks about it.
Somebody is going to get the cane."
The door opened and the butler announced the de-
tective. Hawker came in. For once, he was a detective
who almost looked his part. His eyebrows were grey-
ing and shaggy and the eyes that burned beneath them
were slaty grey, morose and unfriendly. He had a
hard mouth and a disconcerting way of pursing it up
as though he didn't like you on sight and wasn't taking
any pains to hide it. There was antagonism in his very
presence and he stared you hard in the eyes as though
he knew you were going to come out with a pack of
lies before he spoke a single word. An aura of mis-
trust hung over him as visible as the great tweed coat
he wore—and he hadn't turned his hat over to the
butler.
Belham withdrew, a look of high disapproval
printed all over his face, his nose drawn up a quarter
of an inch as though he had just smelled fish.
"Good-morning, Chief," said Stayne, pushing for-
ward a chair. "Rather early for a call from you, isn't
it?"


THE MYSTERY MAKER
3»
Hawker grunted. "Midnight wouldn't be too early
for some people," he growled. He stood in the middle
of the room and peered round, his cold, metallic eyes
boring into every hole and corner. "Well? Where's
the gadget?" he demanded.
"The what?"
"The gadget. The doohickey. The tiddy-falah that
your butler chatted to you on?"
"Oh, that? The little Cupid up there in the cor-
ner." And not even Hawker's probing eyes saw the
tiny action of Stayne's right hand under the arm of
the chair.
"Belham?" said Stayne, almost to himself. "You
might bring up a decanter and some glasses, will you,
please?"
"Certainly, sir," belled out from the golden idol.
"Coming in one moment, sir."
"Pretty good," said Hawker, staring apprecia-
tively at the tiny ivory trumpet. "Yes, that's pretty
good."
"Good in this respect," admitted Stayne, "that Bel-
ham might be asked to bring up revolvers for two
just as easily as whiskies. It goes one better than the
detectaphone, that's all. Same principle. Works both
ways."
"Yours?"
"Not this time. Tembridge worked that one out."
"Neat. Neat, I must say. Care to give me the pre-
scription?"
"No reason why we shouldn't. Tembridge will no
doubt give you a copy of the blue print. Quite simple.
And now, Chief, what's the reason for the visit?Tern-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
33
denly slid off it? D'ye think I didn't see her almost
laughing with relief through eyes that were still wet
with tears? D'ye think I didn't know how much you
had managed to worm out of her in that quarter of
an hour she was up here with you?" His eyes strayed
to the brandy again. "Enough to make her throw a
flop, anyway," he added.
"We thought about going over to Paris on Thurs-
day," said Tembridge, as though anxious to get off
a subject that was not untempered with embarrass-
ment for them all.
"You did, did you ? Well, you won't. And another
thing, my son—when I'm talking to the organ-grinder
I don't want the monkey to butt in. When I want you
I'll rattle your chain."
Tembridge cocked an owl-like eye on Stayne. "I
think it's the cold air," he said solemnly. "The cold
air on a naughty liver, too early in the morning. Mr.
Hawker, you oughtn't to get up until the streets are
properly aired and warmed," he advised, "you
oughtn't, really. 'Tisn't fair, Chief, 'tisn't fair to old
and valued customers."
Hawker growled far down in his chest like Strom-
boli working up for a demonstration. He favoured
Tembridge with a malevolent glare.
"Finished?" he barked.
Tembridge folded his hands in his lap. "Oh, quite,"
he said.
Hawker turned back to Stayne. "Listen," he said.
"You are not going over to Paris on Thursday. And
you are not mixing up in this Varris job any more than
you are going to run round the equator or square the


34
THE MYSTERY MAKER
circle. You are going to back out of it just as fast as
you know how. Both you and your tame goat."
"But why?"
"Because there's bigger brains than yours working
to straighten out this tangle. Bigger—and more of
em.
"Bigger—maybe. More—maybe. But certainly
not so humane."
"They're on it now, anyway—and they don't want
youl"
"Meanwhile, I suppose, they haven't the faintest
objection to Templer Varris doing five years for their
amusement?"
"That's just his bad luck. Somebody's got to hold
the buck. And Varris is a good-plucked 'un. He won't
give the show away."
"I'm sure he won't. And I'm equally sure he won't
do five years."
"Oh ? And who says so?"
"I do. I told Miss Varris so. I promised her."
"What's the new move, Colonel? Turning Good
Samaritan, hey?"
"A cross, I think, between that and Sir Galahad."
Hawker suddenly leaned forward across the table
and took Stayne by the wrist. His face was deep-set
and more serious than Stayne ever remembered see-
ing it.
"Candidly, Stayne," he said, "you've got to lay off
this one. It's not up your street and there won't be
any pickings for anyone. You're on a bad egg. There
isn't a bob in it—anything you spend on it, you'll be
that much out of pocket. And you'll be prevented, by


36
THE MYSTERY MAKER
Tembridge peered at him over the top of the decan-
ter as he poured out a couple of stiff pegs. "What's
wrong, Chief?—going? So soon?"
Hawker let out a bass rumble. "I don't drink any
man's whisky who won't drink with me !" he said, with
a dismissing jerk of the hand.
Tembridge frowned. That was a declaration of
war. And Hawker had not troubled to be polite about
it, either. He shrugged". Well, if it was going to be a
war, it would be a good lusty one—and the odds
wouldn't all be piled on one side either.


CHAPTER V
O TAYNE went upstairs into his own bedroom. It
^ was a room in keeping with the rest of the house
—large, autocratic; a room in which only a man of
wealth could have slept in any comfort, for an op-
pressive air of opulence hung over it like a heavily
brocaded pall.
Against a wall was a massive ebony library, its
shelves lined with richly gilded leather-covered vol-
umes that are only published by private subscription
at so many guineas per copy. They were reminiscences
of great soldiers, lawyers, sailors, politicians, and men
who held high office in the inner councils of the na-
tion. There was nothing there by Colonel Stayne,
though his, with perhaps one exception, would have
been the most interesting of them all.
He silently locked the bedroom door and crossed
over to the great library. That library could only be
manipulated when the bedroom door was locked, and
Stayne alone held the queer oddity of a key that
snapped over the wards of that lock. He pulled out
two books and thrust his arm down a cavity behind
where an oiled bolt lay concealed. Then he pushed the
books back with a jolt. From somewhere inside the
packed shelves there came an audible "click!" and the
whole of the great library swung away, revealing a
locked door behind it. It was a private telephone cabi-
net, the existence of which was not known even to
Tembridge.
37


THE MYSTERY MAKER
It controlled one line only, a direct wire to another
telephone at the other end, and beside it was a little
dial housing a magnetic needle that tick-tacked infal-
lible information the moment a leakage came on that
wire. It was as private as the ingenuity of humankind
could make it.
Stayne went in and closed the door behind him. He
picked up the receiver, and a remarkable conversa-
tion began almost as soon as the instrument was to his
ear.
"Hallo—is that you, Number One? Number
Three here. Were you expecting a call from me—or
have I been sitting on a mare's nest?"
"No—no mare's nest, Number Three. I've been
waiting at this end for over an hour. Miss V.'s letter
to you was intercepted and read. I knew you'd answer
in the right way. You have seen her, of course?"
"Yes, I've only just left her. Couldn't get to you be-
fore. Hawker called. He was stepping on the back of
her taxi, and he nailed me the moment she left."
"Damn!"
"Bit unfortunate, I admit. But I was looking to you
to clearhim off the scent."
"Can't do it. Our hands are tied. This matter has
got to be done—and without even the Yard knowing
how or why. It's a case for a lone hand. And you'll
have to play it without any official help whatever. If
you get caught out you will have to stand your own
racket. The Government will repudiate you and wash
its hands of all responsibility whatever. You under-
stand that, don't you?"
"H'm.Ido now!"


THE MYSTERY MAKER
39
"It's as serious as that. If it wasn't I'd have the
Yard in on your side from the moment you left your
house. Number Four has had to die. If everything
breaks all right for us he will be found wandering in
the Bois de Boulogne woods. A case of loss of mem-
ory. The funeral will be a shocking case of bad
management on the part of the nursing home—mis-
taken identity and a change over of the patients con-
cerned, etc. The nursing home is going to close down
at the end of the month, anyway. We are reopening
it at Auteuil. Address and date will be sent you later.
You realised where the call came from, I presume?"
"As soon as I connected the diamonds with Num-
ber Four's wife."
"Where is Hawker now?"
"Down with Twenty-two drinking my whisky. He's
going to make a fight."
"Can't help it. You'll get no help from us. If any-
thing goes wrong and the thing is discovered it—it—
means war, nothing could stop it. You've just got to
go your own way—and may the gods go with you."
"The girl?"
"Knows nothing. Suspects a great deal, but it's all
away up over her head. She's frightened. Too scared
to speak. Got your line of action?"
"Mapped. Varris comes out first thing. With not a
soul implicated except Twenty-two. He will be my
chauffeur. If the storm breaks he is hidden."
"Good man."
"Number One—there's just one thing you might
do for me. Don't cross a rail anywhere. Do it through
the prison surgeon. Or the Governor. He's one of us.


4°
THE MYSTERY MAKER
And it will just make the thing possible. Just—and
that's all."
"Well?"
"Arrange to have Varris transferred to the out-
side working party. He's in Scrubs, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"Well, get him moved to the gardening section. See
that he is trimming the grass or weeding the beds
down by the main gate on Thursday afternoon.
That's all I ask. The rest I will arrange myself."
"Varris will this afternoon put in a request to the
Governor to be allowed to join an outdoor party on
account of his health. There is every possibility that
his request will be granted."
"Many thanks. Is there anything more?"
"You have quite enough in your knapsack already."
"Then I'll get to it. I'm going to tour the police
courts till I find a drunk and disorderly who hasn't a
bob in the world and wants his fine paid."
There was a puzzled silence at the other end for
some seconds, and then a gentle exhalation of breath
came floating over the wire. "Oh-h-h. I see. Oh, very
clever, Number Three." There was a soft chuckle and
then "Oh—very good in-dee-edl"
"You're very bright this morning, sir."
"Et vous, m'sieu. Anything more to report from
your end?"
"No—er, yes. I think Number Twenty-two comes
off the bachelors' list very soon."
"What—already? That boy's a trifle sudden, isn't
he ? What a pity. Another good man off the risky-list.
But she is rather sweet, isn't she?"
"Sweet? Listen, sir. That young hound has got to


THE MYSTERY MAKER
41
step out quick and lively and leg it all he knows or
you will be rubbing another number off the bachelors'
list—and Number Twenty-two will only be best man
to him."
"Hell !" said a startled voice at the other end, and
the receiver went on with a bang.
Stayne left the cabinet, locked it, and went down to
the garage for his car. He had several there, from a
zooming great limousine that had no engine at all, but
just an enormous car-bonnet-shaped steel hive with a
single, faintly buzzing bee in it, to a rackety old two-
cylindered taxi that proceeded in the midst of a noise
like a boatload of old tin cans in a gale.
He selected a trim-looking sports model, one that
looked as though it had a heady turn of speed under
its bonnet. The garage hand filled her with petrol and
oil and in a few minutes Stayne was purring down the
road heading for Marlborough Street.
Hopes were dashed there. For though there were
two charges of drunk and disorderly on the charge-
sheet, neither delinquent was present, both having
been admitted to bail earlier on in the morning. That
meant that both would be able to pay their fines, or,
at the very least, that they would not be committed to
gaol out of hand. Stayne went back on the road again.
Bow Street seemed to offer a better chance and a
wider selection. Bow Street Police Station caters for
a wide district and it is a busy court. Its area of juris-
diction embraces a big slice of the river front and
hard drinkers seem, by some natural law, to gravitate
to the river.
But even Bow Street sold him. For once in a while


THE MYSTERY MAKER
the sheet was comparatively clear. Even the overflux
from Vine Street were all concerned with far more
serious charges than over-indulgence in liquid stock.
There were only two drunk charges down for hearing
—a couple of young 'Varsity boys who had been hit-
ting the high spots in the West End overnight and had
celebrated themselves into the arms of a bobby.
Time was getting short, and Stayne risked a lot of
trouble for himself by stepping on the gas. It was not
till he got to West London that he found what he
wanted.
He walked by the officer at the door, who looked at
him inquiringly.
"Witness," muttered Stayne untruthfully, and the
officer nodded as he wandered through. Along in the
charge room he found an unhappy wight who looked
as though he had been hung out in a thunderstorm all
night. He was bleary-eyed and heavy-lidded, and all
the evidences of a hectic steaming-up in alcohol hung
about him. He appeared down and out, and his
clothes might have done duty on a scarecrow. From
the very look of him, his was a hang-over that had
been hard earned.
Stayne took a good long look at him. The man was
so miserable and so full of last night's aches that he
did not even resent the continued scrutiny. He just sat
on the wooden side bench with his head in his hands
and resigned himself to his own red-eyed misery.
Stayne walked across and spoke to him.
"Feelingbad?" he asked.
The man looked up and swallowed, his Adam's ap-
ple going up and down in his throat like a knot in a


THE MYSTERY MAKER
43
rope. The action revealed the fact that he wore nei-
ther collar nor tie. A ragged bit of dirty muffler was
tied loosely above the torn neckband of his open shirt.
Stayne felt more and more sure of his man every mo-
ment he looked at him.
The man gulped again and blinked. There was no
show of anger in his eyes, nothing but the sheer ani-
mal history of a man who has just emerged from a
long bout with devils of alcohol and realises that he is
hard up against it.
"Feelingbad?" he growled at last. "Listen, mister.
I'm feeling so bad that if I was feeling good I'd be
feeling bad. I've had a terrible night, I've had—a ter-
rible night. And now I'm going to get it in the neck
—right in the neck."
Stayne pondered the thought.
"Been out on the razzle, eh?" he queried.
"I certainly have," grunted the man. "Drew me
pension, see? Drew me pension and got blindo—ab-
serlutely blindo. Socked a copper's helmet over his
ears and lorst me barrer. Lorst it. And now I'm going
to get it in the neck. An' serve me damn well right,
"That's one way of looking at it. Who's your law-
yer?"
"Lawyer? Me? Me have a lawyer? That's a good
'un, that is, mister. I couldn't pay for a packet of fags,
let alone a lawyer. And, anyway, a lawyer wouldn't
do me no good—not this time. The Beak knows me,
see? Promised me a turn in the clink next time I
showed up. The lawyer don't breathe who could do
me any good. The Beak has had it waxed up for me
for months."
too.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Bad luck, that. You've been here before, then?"
"Reg'lar." The man was positive about it. "Once a
month I shows up here—every time I draws me pen-
sion. I draws me pension and then I gets blindo. But
larst night was the limit. A copper came up to me just
as I was showin' folks how Jack Dempsey could have
knocked the 'oly 'ell out of Tunney. He got argufyin'
with me and I bumped his helmet down past his eyes.
And the next thing I knew, I was on me back in a cell
with 'arf the 'Ammersmith police force sitting on me
chest. And they don't half sit heavy, them coppers."
He broke off mournfully and regarded a set of
broken knuckles and tenderly massaged a lump on his
head the size of an egg.
"Trouble is," he went on moodily, "I don't know
what became of the barrer. That's what's worryin'
me—the barrer."
"But surely, haven't the police taken charge of it?"
The man shook his head dumbly. "Not them," he
said. "Y'see, I'd lorst the barrer before they came up.
Gawd—I must have been drunk," he added reminis-
cently. "Blind to the world, that's what I must have
been, to have lorst the barrer. That does me right in
the eye for when I come out. If I'd had the barrer I
could have pawned it with a pal and paid the fine. But
I ain't got it and I shan't have it when I come out of
Scrubs. And that means me living has gone west."
"So you got your living with that barrow, did
you?"
"Yes, mister. I'm in fruit, see? Apples and
bananas. That's me. On a barrer. And I've lorst me
fruit and I've lorst me barrer. And now I'm going to


THE MYSTERY MAKER
45
get three months in chokee. I'd be better off without
that damn pension."
"You've no money at all?"
"Not a bob. Ain't got the price of a cup of tea
about you, I s'pose? Strewth, I'd give me soul for a
mug of tea—strong and hot."
Stayne signalled to the gaoler and slipped a note
into his hand. "Get him a hot one, will you?" he said.
"Get one for yourself with the change."
The gaoler, a decent sort of disciplinarian who had
seen similar scenes to that a thousand times before,
grinned and nodded cheerfully. Stayne watched him
walk off down the long stone corridor and quickly
fished a flask out of his hip pocket.
"Here," he said, "take a good long swig at this.
Neck it all, if you feel like it."
The man grabbed at it avidly, and the raw spirit
trickled down his parched throat and almost seemed
to sizzle.
"Gosh! That was good," he gasped. "Thank you,
mate. You're a right one, you are. What are you in
for? Speeding on your motor?"
"That'll do as well as any," smiled Stayne. "But
just now I'm more interested in your own plight than
in mine. You think the magistrate will commit you to
prison right away, do you?"
The man nodded ponderously.
"I'm darn sure of it," he said with blunt decision.
"Last time I was up in the dock the Beak says to me,
'Tom Dobey,' he says, 'you're a scamp and a disgrace.
You've won a pension for valiant deeds and for doing
your duty by your King and country,' he says. 'And


46
THE MYSTERY MAKER
now look at you. Every time you draw it you get most
scandalously drunk and you're a disgrace to the very
service for which you draw your pension.' And ding
me if it ain't right. Because as soon as I get a couple
of quid in me skyrocket I takes one high and mighty
dive in off the deep end."
"And is it the same magistrate sitting to-day?"
"Not arf it ain't. Corky hisself. The old scally-
wag. Got me properly taped, he has. He knows I ain't
got a bob, the artful old devil. And he's going to slam
me hard and hearty. 'The next time you come up be-
fore me,' he says, 'I shall commit you to prison. Once
and for all I shall teach you a lesson. You're perfickly
able to earn an honest and sober living with your
bananas,' he says, 'and I shall see that you do. I'm de-
termined to break you of this continuous drunken-
ness.' Y'see, what he will do is to fine me again, wax-
ing it up all he knows. Fifty shillings or a week for
being drunk and incapable. Fifty shillings or a week
for being disord'ly. Five pounds or a month for
assault an' battery. And five pounds or a month for
bashing the copper's hat. And if he only made it five
bob the lot I couldn't pay it. I reckon there was a lot
of cheap bananas knockin' round 'Ammersmith larst
night."


CHAPTER VI
STAYNE was smiling inwardly. Tom Dobey's case
was made for him: made so perfectly that it
fitted into his plans like a foot in a well-built shoe.
"Well, look here, Tom Dobey," he said. "I don't
think you need be too despondent. I'm feeling rather
tender towards my fellow human beings this morning
—and I'd like to do something for you. If it's a case
of a fine I'll pay it for you."
Dobey looked up with a start. There was a burst
of incredulity in his eyes, and his eyelids shivered as
though with a sudden fear.
"D'ye mean that, mate?" he said, huskily. Then
he relapsed again into his attitude of bunched-up
moodiness. "Very nice of you—and thank you," he
muttered. "But you hadn't better do it, mate. It'll
mean an awful lot of money—a terrible lot of money
—maybe twenty pounds, what with costs and all. And
I wouldn't ask anyone to pay that much money just
to keep me out of quod. Thank you—and thank you
kindly. But I don't reckon you ought to do it."
Stayne laughed cheerfully and held out a cigarette
case.
"Have a smoke," he suggested. "You're too good
to spend a few useless months stitching mail-bags.
Twenty pounds or so won't hurt me—and I'll be
more than pleased to be able to help you. More
pleased than you think," he added grimly. "What
time does the court sit?"

♦7


48
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Sitting now, sir. My case will be on in about an
hour—so the gaoler says."
"Very well; here's my card. If your luck's in and
you get the option of a fine, get into touch with me
here at this address and I will see that the whole fine
is paid immediately."
Dobey gulped and he tried to stammer his thanks
through a throat that had suddenly turned fiery.
Stayne waved the thanks aside.
"Wish you luck," he said. "I can't wait to see you
through—got an urgent appointment elsewhere—
but I only hope you get the option. If you are sent up
right away, of course, I can't help you: the law is a
trifle strict on such matters. Be nice to old Corky and
don't cheek him—and you may get away with it. Here
comes your tea. See you later, perhaps."
Stayne hurried out as the gaoler returned with
a great steaming mug of tea. A welter of thanks and
blessings assailed his ears as he went down the corri-
dor.
So far things were good. Angels couldn't have
planned it better for him—or made the running
smoother.
Dobey's good luck was tempered with just a spot
of bad. For Stayne hadn't the remotest idea of paying
that fine out of hand. There was a little ceremony to
be enacted first, and it entailed Tom Dobey's tem-
porary presence in Scrubs Prison. Stayne had got his
man and got him planted. The rest depended upon
what Dobey would describe as old Corky's liver. If
the presiding magistrate wasn't feeling up to extend-
ing further lenience to the persistent drunk the whole


THE MYSTERY MAKER
49
scheme would take a disheartening fall earthwards.
But there was just the chance that, as Dobey de-
scribed, he would pass the usual sentence with the
option of a fine which he knew the man was financially
unable to pay. It would be a lesson to Dobey and a
sop to his own conscience at the same time.
Stayne hung around for a while and then kept his
urgent appointment. That appointment was at the
West London Police Court. He went into the public
well of the court and squeezed himself into an out-
of-the-way corner where Dobey would not be likely
to see him unless he deliberately turned round and
searched for him.
Dobey's case came on within the hour, and it was
evident that Tom had been a real bad lad overnight.
The police evidence was terse and full of corrobo-
rated fact. Tom had got himself outside of an inordi-
nate quantity of beer at four different public-houses—
from each of which he had been bounced out on his
ear. He had walked his barrow up Hammersmith
Broadway and entertained himself by flinging bunches
of bananas at conductors on the tops of passing buses.
The last one he had shied through a fifteen-foot plate-
glass window and immediately became engaged in a
stand-up fight with the owner of the shop.
That was the first of four separate and distinct
fights. The barrow was jettisoned somewhere in the
course of fight number two. The helmet incident
arrived a few minutes before midnight when Tom
was trying to force his way into the Underground
Station, uproariously drunk, and demanding to be
taken back to Aldershot so that he could join up
with the lads again.


50 THE MYSTERY MAKER
The magistrate glanced at Dobey. Dobey looked
sheepish and apologized to the court for having been
rough with the constable. The rest of it, apparently,
was all in the game. Stayne's heart gave one gentle
bump against his side.
The luck held. The magistrate adjusted a pair of
pince-nez and focussed a disapproving eye on the de-
linquent.
"Thomas Dobey," he said, "you have excelled
yourself. You've broken even your own wretched
record. The last time you were before me I threat-
ened you with prison. Not satisfied with ordinary
drunkenness you have added assaults on the police to
the tale of your misbehaviour. I had intended send-
ing you to prison without the option of a fine. But in
view of your apparently sincere apology to the court
and to the officers concerned I am going to offer you
one more chance, realising, as I do full well, that
you will not, except by exercising a beneficial drain
on your financial resources, be able to pay the fines.
"Five pounds or one month for being drunk and
disorderly. Five pounds or one month for assault and
battery. Twenty pounds or three months for assault-
ing the police while in the execution of their duty. The
cost of the broken window and the price of the con-
stable's helmet will be added to the general costs of
the case. A total in all of eighty-five pounds ten shill-
ings. Stand down."
Stayne breathed a sigh of mental relief.
He saw Dobey flinch as though he had been hit.
Dobey swayed to the back of the dock, realising that,
even though he had found a friend who was pre-
pared to stand for him up to ordinary limits, eight-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 51
five pounds odd Was asking too much of any man, no
matter how well-intentioned he might be.
The gaoler called to the prisoner, who meekly
stepped down from the dock and vanished through
a side door. Stayne waited till he had gone and then
slipped out too. He penned a short note:
"Please tell Thomas Dobey that if he gets into
touch with me his fine will be paid"—passed it to the
charge-sergeant and hurried out before the officer
could read the note. Outside he vanished round the
corner like a shadow.
He didn't want to be called back to explain him-
self. The address on the card he had given Dobey was
the name of a big hotel in the Strand, and he didn't
intend calling there until the next day.
Scrubs Prison, that forbidding great fortress of
red and white stone that sits on the edge of the almost
countrified road on the edge of London, is one of the
most difficult prisons in the world to break out of. Its
outer walls are twenty feet high, two feet thick, and
are under constant surveillance from two angles at
once by sentries in the corner watch-towers.
Escapes there have been from time to time; but
they have been very few, precariously undertaken,
and never completely successful. The last was when
two youths, risking their necks, performed the aston-
ishing feat of balancing a pile of unstable bee-hives
one on top of the other, and in some miraculous man-
ner succeeded in climbing them. But they were soon
retaken, one with a back injured for life, the result
of the inevitable twenty-foot fall on the other side.
Stayne had early come to the conclusion that the


52 THE MYSTERY MAKER
only safe way to help a man break out of that grim
stronghold was to break into it first. And before he
could break into it there had to be a decoy duck at
the other end—a sort of reasonable excuse for being
allowed to penetrate that first outer wall. The rest
would have to depend on the elements of speed, sur-
prise and accuracy.
He rang up Curzon Square, and Tembridge came
on at the other end.
"Number Three here," he said. "Anything hap-
pened?"
"Yes—just what you expected. Hawker was on
your heels when you went round to the garage."
"Indeed? I looked for him and couldn't seem to
single him out."
"He did a bit of fast work, Chief. Must have had
one of the Yard cars with him. Did you notice that
coster standing on the corner of the street—man
hawking ferns?"
"Yes, come to think of it, there was someone stand-
ing there—had his arms full of aspidistras."
"That was our little sweetheart. I was about fifty
yards behind you. He trailed you down to the garage,
hung around there for a while, shed his palms in a
refuse bin and called a taxi to follow you when you
came out."
"Did you head him off?"
"Yes, but not till after you had called at Marl-
borough Street. He drew up on the other side of the
road to you and I came up in the old sedan. Got my
nose in just in front of him and let her drift back
till the taxi-driver yelled that my back fenders were
kissing his radiator. So I stalled the old bus and cut


THE MYSTERY MAKER
53
out the ignition. Then you came out and went streak-
ing down the road—heading for Bow Street I guess.
Two jumps behind you out came Hawker, yelling for
me to get out of his road. I climbed out to start the old
tank up on the handle. Hawker swore at me beauti-
fully. So I hopped back at the wheel because he was
howling for his man to back away and chase you.
"I got my bus going on the self-starter, edged out
in front of him as he turned to clear me, and stalled
the old boat again. Language !1 think the police force
wants a vacuum cleaner over it. By the time the taxi-
man had pulled his bus clear again you were well out
of sight."
Stayne grunted. "Pity," he muttered. "He knows
that car number now. That means there's another
perfectly good alias gone west. Still, couldn't be
helped. Luckily you were able to head Hawker off.
I didn't think he would get his teeth so far in. He's
going to be troublesome."
"How's tricks at your end?"
"Fine. The name is Thomas Dobey. Sentence is
eighty-five pounds ten shillings or five months for a
variety of offences not unconnected with the licensing
laws. Make a note of that, will you, and get some
cash from the bank to meet it? He is on his way
to the Scrubs now."
"Right. Is that all?"
"Yes. There's nothing more to do now till to-
morrow morning, first post."
"Good. That lets me out to fix a date. Tea and
toast at four o'clock—and perhaps a fox-trot or two.
And by the way, Chief—three's a crowd."
"Starting early, aren't you?" said Stayne sourly.


54 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Nothing like it when handsome, middle-aged,
lady-proof bachelors are knocking about. Better ring
off, Chief—at both ends."
"You young pup I For two pins I'd rub your face
on the floor," growled Stayne; but as he hung up the
receiver he was chuckling with unholy glee. "What
with Tembridge and Marienne and Number Three
and Varris, Hawker is going to have a panicky time,"
he chuckled.


CHAPTER VII
O 00N after eight o'clock the next morning Stayne
^ called round at the Strand Hotel. He drove up
luxuriously in a vast and shining limousine. Tem-
bridge, neat, smart, and infinitely composed in his
dark blue chauffeur's uniform, sat with professional
poise at the wheel.
Stayne crossed to the inquiries grille and addressed
the clerk with a familiarity that franked a friendship
of long standing.
"Any letters for me to-day, Arthur?" he asked.
"I'm especially solicitous about one that looks like a
family skeleton."
The clerk smiled and dived for the pigeon-hole
marked "S."
"Here it is, sir," he said. "Came first post this
morning."
Stayne read it, a poor, ill-written scrawl, covered
with much ill-spelling and corrections. It was ad-
dressed to Mr. J. Sterndale, Strand Hotel, London.
Dear Sir,—
I am the man you spoke to this morning in West
London Police Station about the fine. I got the option,
but I never knew I was having it waxed up so hot.
They got me for eighty-five pounds ten. Or five
months in here where I am. I think you had ought to
let me do the five months. The gaoler gave me the
55


56
THE MYSTERY MAKER
note you sent round, but after that they couldn't find
you. So they sent me round here to start my sentence
meanwhile I write to you at the address you sent.
If you can pay the fine, which I shouldn't if I was
you, I shouldn't straight, you can get me out as soon
as you like. If you bring this letter to the Scrubs and
ring the bell the gate gaoler will read it and let you
in. Then you can pay him and he will give you a re-
ceipt. After that they will give me my clothes back and
let me out. And I must say I am very much obliged
to you, even if you don't pay the fine. Hoping it finds
you as it leaves me at present.
Yours respectably,
Thomas Dobey.
It was written on the official prison-letter form, and
the envelope bore the black inscription:
H. M. Prison Service
Stayne caught the clerk's eye as he looked up.
"Birthday greetings from an old friend," he said
with a wink, and the clerk laughed outright.
He swung round and headed for the exit,
thoroughly pleased with the outlook. That document
represented his passport into the prison. Armed with
that he could penetrate at least the outer defences
and, knowing something of the inside organisation of
the prison, he knew that by one swift stroke, deftly
carried through, he could get his man out and away
in the car before the alarm could be raised.
Stayne climbed in as Tembridge gave him the sig-
nal that everything was clear. In order to keep Haw-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
57
ker off that particular piece of the trail neither of
them had slept at Curzon Square that night. They
had gone out of town in the car, and criss-crossed
about the open country lanes until they shook off the
inevitable shadowing car. Then they struck out across
country to Maidenhead, where they put up for the
night, coming back into town in the early morning by
a round-about way.
Less than an hour later they were heading into the
great tree-lined courtyard that gives on to the prison
entrance.
Tembridge swung the car round and backed it up
so that it was no more than a yard or two from the
huge prison doors themselves—all ready for a quick
getaway, its bonnet pointing for the open highway.
On the way down Stayne had opened out a suit-
case. In it was a dark brown lounge suit as near as he
could get it to Templer Varris's size; a fifteen and a
half collar, a tie, under-clothing, socks, soft felt hat,
and a pair of brown shoes, size eight—a complete
rig-out according to the plans and specifications sup-
plied by Marienne. The various articles were laid out
neatly on the seat, covered by a travelling rug.
Tembridge remained unconcernedly sitting at the
driving wheel while Stayne got out, fishing in his
pocket for the letter. By that time he was wearing a
neat little white moustache and beard, clipped down
almost to nothing. Astonishingly enough, even though
it was the beard of a man of fifty it seemed to fit that
young old face as naturally as though the years had
grown it there.
He rang the bell, a great, ponderous bell-pull, as


58
THE MYSTERY MAKER
old-fashioned as the penal code itself, and stared up
at the massive double gates. A brassy clanging echoed
to life inside and there came a jangle of keys. A little
grille was pushed back and the gate gaoler looked
out.
"Well?" he asked.
"I have come* in respect of the payment of a fine,"
said Stayne. "The man concerned arrived yesterday
from the West London Police Court."
"Have you a warrant—or a letter?"
"Yes, officer. I have it here." Stayne held it up.
A key rattled in the lock and a small door, so small
that Stayne had to stoop to enter, opened like a
panel in the main gates. Stayne went in and presented
his letter.
"Wait there a moment, please," said the gaoler,
and entered a guardroom on the right.
Stayne found himself in an enormous lock, a kind
of gigantic tunnel with locked gates at both ends. The
right wall of the tunnel was the gaoler's guardroom,
the left was the waiting-room for those who had busi-
ness with the authorities or had called to see prisoners.
The entrance doors were of stout oak, painted green,
but the gates at the other end were made of two-inch
steel bars and extended right to the top of the tunnel.
By a flickering gas-jet a notice board hung, on which
were pinned notices to warders going on and off duty,
new prison regulations, and fresh orders from the
higher authorities. That second pair of gates had still
to be forced before he could get through to his man.
Beyond the gates lay the gardens, with trim gravel
paths running round the perfectly kept flower-beds.!
The rest of the view was taken up by the fine outlines


THE MYSTERY MAKER 59
of the prison chapel, with its high curving roof and
stained-glass windows: a vast lump of a building that
blotted out the rest of the view.
But it was neither the gardens nor the chapel that
held John Stayne's critical attention just then. His
eyes were focussed on a working party of four men
who were busily weeding the great central flower-
bed. Twenty yards from the gate they were, their
backs bent laboriously over their task, taking no great
hurry over the matter and seemingly chatting to-
gether quietly while working.
They appeared to be in charge of a "trusty"—a
prisoner dressed in a cocoa brown garb with a band
on his arm on which were three white chevrons. He,
at least, seemed to be directing their operations. And
John Stayne's heart gave another little bump when
he saw that the man on the extreme right was Tem-
pler Varris.
There was no mistaking the trim, smart young lines
of him. His obvious awkwardness and newness to his
surroundings marked him out. From Marienne's de-
scription and from the photographs she had supplied
no one could possibly have mistaken him.
Stayne peeped into the waiting-room, his only
curiosity being to see if it was empty. It would make
a sad mess of his scheming if, when the moment came
to bring off the coup, help was forthcoming from that
unexpected source. The bare, gloomy-looking room
was empty, but he noted with a smile of grim humour
the alms-boxes on each side begging for contributions
from visitors for altar flowers for the prison chapels.
"Mr. Sterndale, please." He heard the unhurried
voice of the gaoler calling from the guard-room and


6o
THE MYSTERY MAKER
went over. The gaoler was a solid, kindly looking fel-
low, one who had seen so much of the unhappiness of
life that he was long since case-hardened to it.
"Is the prisoner a relation of yours, sir?" he asked,
slowly reading over Dobey's letter.
"Oh, no—just an acquaintance. He was in a spot
of trouble and I offered to help him out. He was at
West London and I happened to be there at the same
time. Unfortunately it was not convenient for me to
pay the fine at the court—so Dobey was brought here
pending the arrival of the money, I suppose."


CHAPTER VIII
THE gaoler nodded cheerlessly as he turned to
check off some particulars in a record. This was
routine stuff to him. He had gone through the ritual
hundreds of times before. Many times in the course
of a week an unhappy wife would arrive with the
two or three pounds necessary to secure the release
of an erring husband who had fallen foul of the law
on minor counts.
From outside came the soft purr of an engine being
gently accelerated in little bursts—a danger signal
from Tembridge not to start work yet. Val had seen
some unsuspected danger looming up and he was send-
ing out the delay action warning.
Then a klaxon hooter sounded, discordant and im-
perious, outside. The gaoler muttered, "Just a minute,
sir," and pulled back the grille. Then he opened the
great main gates, Stayne watching keenly to see which
one of the great bunch of keys hanging by a chain
from his belt he used. He photographed it on his
mind as the two huge doors swung open.
A long motor Black Maria pulled slowly into the
lock and stood panting smoothly there while the
gaoler checked the entries. The doors were closed and
locked again behind it. Then the second pair of gates
were opened and the prison van passed through.
Again Stayne fixed his keen eyes on the key used to
61


62 THE MYSTERY MAKER
open the second gates, and he knew that when the
time came he would make no mistake.
The gaoler came back to his room and entered a
note in a book.
"This fine's a bit heavy, you know," he said.
"Yes. Dobey, I'm afraid, misbehaved himself
rather thoroughly. But I have all the cash here. Can
I pay it now?"
"If you please, sir."
Stayne took the money from his pocket-book in an
envelope and counted it out on the desk, nice new
notes, easy to check back. While the gaoler was re-
counting it Stayne stepped quietly aside and laid a
white capsule on the desk by his elbow. The gaoler
finished counting and said: "That's right, sir, eighty-
five pounds ten. And very lucky he is, I'm sure, to
find such a friend. Generally, if it's anything over
a tenner they stays in. Do you want to take him back
with you, sir?"
"Oh, dear no," said Stayne hurriedly. "I don't
care two jigs if I never see him again."
"Then if you'll just wait while I 'phone the Gover-
nor's office I'll see that he comes out straight after
dinner, sir—thank you."
He turned to pick up the letter again and stopped
suddenly to stare in a puzzled way at the white cap-
sule on the desk.
"'Ullo!" he said. "What's this ? Is this yours, sir?"
Stayne eyed it curiously as the gaoler held it out
between his finger and thumb.
"No, nothing to do with me," he said with an off-
hand smile. "I don't go walking around with bantams'


THE MYSTERY MAKER
63
eggs in my pocket. That's what it is, isn't it? A blown
bantam's egg."
The gaoler scrutinized it oddly.
"No—'tain't a bantam's egg, sir," he said.
"There's a little ridge running round it—like as if
it had been joined together." He rattled it against his
ear, trying to divine its contents, if any. But there
was no sound from it and it felt astonishingly light in
his fingers, no heavier than a ping-pong ball and ever
so much more fragile.
"Well, that's a funny thing, sir. Where'd it come
from? It wasn't here two minutes ago. I cleared that
bit of the desk off this morning and it wasn't there
when I put that letter there. H'm. Very odd."
He held it to his nose and sniffed at it hard.
Stayne turned away as though the affair no longer
held any interest for him. "Probably one of those
puff-ball things one gets in the eye at cabarets and
dance places," he said. "Open it and see. Squeeze it."
Stayne said it as though the pettiness of the affair
nettled him slightly. After all he had come down to
the Scrubs to pay a trifle over eighty-five pounds for
the release of a man detained in a cell—not to bother
himself with the stupidities of a gaoler's ponderous
perplexity over such a childish matter as the discovery
of a little white ball.
He took a couple of paces to the doorway and
slowly turned. Then, all in a hurry, he leapt. For
from behind him there had come the faint sound of
the capsule cracking, a tiny crackling like the soft
breaking of a brown eggshell. The gaoler, with the
capsule still close up under his nose trying to get his
nasal organs to discover some recognisable quality in


64
THE MYSTERY MAKER
the odd little object, had pressed his thumb too firmly
upon it. The tightly prisoned gas came out with a
malignant hiss, and its amazing volatility did the rest.
The gaoler gasped, a sudden indrawn contraction of
breath that cut short the moment the vaporised acid
struck the lungs.
His face went dead white with the rapidity of a
fogged photographic plate, and his eyes shut tight,
the muscles of his face flexing up into white, stiff knots
of agonising unexpected pain. Stayne, with a wet
silk handkerchief pressed up over his nose, leapt
forward with an arm outflung to save the gaoler's
head, for the officer, crumpling up and toppling back-
wards, was collapsing like a boxer knocked out in the
ring. Consciousness had left him in the same instan-
taneous second that the gas hit the lung tissues. He
did not know, either then or afterwards, that he had
taken one deep-drawn sniff of the same deadly gas
that a veterinary surgeon uses to put a broken horse
out of its pain, the bitingly powerful hydrocyanic gas,
which is nothing more or less than prussic acid in va-
pour form.
Stayne got to him in time. The man was going
down like a house of cards, the back of his head a foot
away from the massive desk. Stayne reached him with
a "hand-off" that sent his skull sheering away from
death by a couple of inches.
On the air hung the faint, sickly sweet scent of bit-
ter almonds, the unmistakable, unforgettable sign
manual of hydrocyanic and all its compounds. But
down there on the floor the atmosphere was clearer,
less impregnated with the tincture of sudden annihila-
tion that had knocked the gaoler flat.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
65
Stayne grabbed the broken capsule and pitched it
into the crackling wood fire, where its foundation of
dried creamed rice burned up whitely and faded.
Thereafter Stayne worked with the speed and pre-
cision of a machine in top gear. He cut the gaoler's
heavy chain with a pair of powerful steel nippers and
seized the huge polished keys.
Running outside he opened the outer door.
"Quick," he said. "He's out—won't last more
than two minutes. It was a small dose. Stay here and
see that he doesn't raise hell if he comes to."
Tembridge was already by the door. He was
through in a second, with the door partly pulled to
behind him. Stayne ran to the inner gates, opened
them, and in a voice of cold authority called "Varris
—Prisoner Templer Varris!"
Automatically Templer Varris straightened his
back and looked round. The "trusty" stood up and
stared across. The sight of a man in civilian clothes at
the gate was nothing new to him; indeed, everybody
except the warders wore their own clothes in the
prison, and he had not the slightest suspicion of any-
thing wrong. Unauthorised persons don't usually
open the inner gate and call a prisoner by his name.
Varris looked round inquiringly at the "trusty,"
and the senior prisoner nodded. "Go on, you damn
fool," he barked. "Want to keep him waiting all day?
It's a visitor for you—or your lawyer bloke." The
"trusty" did not realise it, but he had absorbed some-
thing of the outlook and psychology of a warder him-
self since he had worn the chevrons.
"Varris, come here. You others carry on." The
firm commanding voice sounded a little impatient.


66
THE MYSTERY MAKER
Templer Varris dropped his trowel and walked stiffly
to the gate. Stayne passed him through, relocked it,
and passed down the lock.
Tembridge hurried out of the guardroom.
"O. K., chief," he said. "Varris, this way," and
hurried through the outer doors. Varris, bewildered
and puzzled, hesitated for a moment and received a
push in the back of the neck from behind.
"Forward. You are wanted at Bow Street,"
crackled a voice in his ear. That sounded reasonable
enough, and Varris went forward again, out through
the doors into freedom.
Tembridge was standing by the open door of the
limousine. As soon as Varris was in he dashed to his
own seat, Stayne slamming the door as he climbed in
beside Varris. In less than six seconds from passing
through the outer doors the car was in motion racing
down the courtyard. At the bottom it pulled sharply
to the right—away from London. For the first time
since the lightning interlude began Templer Varris
showed genuine surprise.
He looked up quickly with a sharp intuition of fore-
boding dawning in his eyes.
"This isn't the way "he began, and then en-
countered the cold, austere eyes of Stayne turned auto-
cratically upon him. Varris shrivelled. Since his
incarceration in that frowning graveyard of personal
independence he had learned what it is to become a
cipher—a cipher, moreover, ruled by every other hu-
man unit in his own immediate ken. He was a thing
without will or volition of his own; whatever any
other mouth ordered him to do, he did, and he found
himself doing it with a celerity that at first surprised


THE MYSTERY MAKER
67
him and then made him realise his own abnormal
helplessness in the general scheme of his own life.
Voices barked at him "Eat," and he ate: "Sleep,"
and he slept: "Work," and he worked: "Bath," and
he bathed. Just now a bureaucratic finger pointed at
an entirely new rig-out and the voice of authority
barked "Dress!"—and mechanically he found him-
self reaching down to untie his bootlaces.


CHAPTER IX
THE car went droning on past the outer limits of
the vast open common, careering past the outer
confines of the last battlemented outer wall.
Stayne did not speak again or make a single ges-
ture of friendliness. He had seen that Templer Var-
ris was still the same clam-mouthed, dogged indi-
vidual that had stood in the dock and sullenly refused
to break a silence that was inevitably sending him to
the prison cell.
Behind him a brazen bell began to sound its clamor-
ous summons to the skies. It welled and swelled to a
whanging cacophony of sound, taken up here and
there at various points from the watch-towers. A bull-
throated howl of surprise and anger.
Stayne glanced down critically at Varris. Bending
over, struggling with a recalcitrant boot, he could
only see the back of the convict's neck. He had time to
hope that the clangour of the bells meant nothing to
him. He had not been in there long enough to under-
stand what all the noise was about. No prison-break
had occurred during his time within those walls.
Then he saw the back hair prickle and a slow dye-
ing of crimson creep over the back of his neck. Tem-
pler Varris had not only heard, he understood.
Stayne stiffened himself for what he realised was com-
ing, and a small shining automatic appeared, as
though with the subtlest flick of light, in his left hand.
68


THE MYSTERY MAKER
69
Varris came slowly upright, a thick heavy prison
boot in his hand. His head turned even more slowly
to Stayne and their eyes met in a long-drawn stare;
Stayne's as empty of emotion or feeling as those of a
basilisk, Varris's burning dully red with an anger that
had coursed its way through shock, puzzlement, then
utter incredulity. Stayne saw the anger dawn to life.
He cocked the glittering automatic up in a dead line
with the convict's eyes and reached for the speaking
tube.
"Keep off the main roads whatever happens," he
ordered. "We're in a bit of a jam. Take to the side
streets and keep on twisting. If you hear me shout
turn round and shoot. Our man isn't willing. Keep
your eye on the inside mirror and see that he doesn't
get fractious. I've a couple of capsules left for him,
but I might not get a chance to use them. And what-
ever you do keep out of traffic hold-ups. I've got to
make this fool change clothes—and there are no damn
blinds in the car."
Tembridge waved a sombre hand in acknowledg-
ment of a message received and understood. He
swung the throbbing car left up a narrow lane and
opened her out.
Stayne turned back to Varris and looked at him
hard. The ultimatum had gone over and it occasioned
nothing more than a defiant glitter in the prisoner's
eyes. Bony knuckles still clenched the heavy boot
menacingly. The pealing din of the alarm bells slowly
faded and died as the car threaded its way on a
roundabout tour through muffling streets of bricks
and mortar.
Stayne realised what had happened back there at


7°
THE MYSTERY MAKER
the Scrubs. An officer had come down to the inner
gates on some duty or other, possibly in connection
with the release of Thomas Dobey, had called to the
gate gaoler, called again and got no reply. The gaoler
inside that double lock was the only one who held the
key to the inner gate, and for the first time in Scrubs
history there was no reply to the summons. Followed
a hurried look around, a hailing of the "trusty" in
charge of the gardening hands, an excited telling of
what had happened—and a quick sounding of the
alarm.
The car was now four miles away and safe from
any hope of being overtaken from the prison. The
telephone was the only thing that could serve them
now. He knew that Hawker would have taken the
numbers of every car in that garage. Under pressure
the garage foreman would readily admit that the big
limousine was out, and, furthermore, had been out all
night. Inquiry along the Dobey line of approach
would rapidly connect the incident of Stayne's visit
to Marlborough Street Police Court and the presence
of that same sports car outside West London while
the Dobey case was on trial. An inquiry at the Strand
Hotel would unfailingly provide the rest of the evi-
dence. J. Sterndale of the Strand Hotel was no other
than Colonel John Stayne of Curzon Square, the
Mystery Maker, now abroad with Templer Varris
in a big blue limousine of a certain make and register
number that would, within an hour, be circulated to
every constable and point policeman in and out of
London.
Stayne pointed once more to the clothes.
"Dress!" he said shortly. "And hurry!"


THE MYSTERY MAKER
7»
"I'll see you in Scrubs yourself first," replied Var-
ris quietly.
"You probably will unless you do. And not only
me, who does not matter a tinker's cuss either way,
but also Lord Demorval, Emil Flocard, yourself,
Marienne—everybody, in fact, except our graceful
friends Perrigo and Canning. Dress, you damned fool
—and jump to it."
The secretary's eyes opened wide in sheer unbelief,
an incredulity that anyone living could, in one sharp
sentence, betray such a seething knowledge of the
inside facts of his distressing affair.
He wavered, and the arm that poised the boot sank
away noticeably.
"Bump my head with that ridiculous weapon if you
feel inclined," said Stayne in a chilly voice. "Do by
all means. You couldn't have made a finer mess of
things than you have—and if you break up this at-
tempt to get the thing straightened out you will sim-
ply be running true to form."
There was a note of bitter scorn in his voice, a re-
sentfulness that anyone could be such a crass lunatic
as not to realise that what was being done was being
done at the risk of other people's necks and for the
good of those most deeply concerned.
He thrust the gun back into his pocket and said
"Bah!" He said it explosively, so that Varris winced.
"I—I just want to know that—that this is all
square and above-board," he said defensively. "You
come to the Scrubs and shanghai me out—when I've
only gone in to save others—and you expect me to
accept it all and act as though I understood all about


7»
THE MYSTERY MAKER
it and acquiesced in everything that happens to me.
How do I know that this thing is on the level?"
"Of course you don't, you blithering fool! A man
with your infantile intelligence couldn't be expected
to. You think you were brave, don't you? You think
you did a noble and a self-sacrificing thing in going to
gaol?" Stayne's eyes almost crackled at him. "Let me
tell you, Varris, you were not only a fool, you were a
coward. You funked it. You dived into gaol like a
rabbit into a hole. You went in because you couldn't
face the issues outside. Listen, man. By this time to-
morrow night I hope to be in Paris. And not only in
Paris but talking to Lord Demorval! Why, man alive,
Marienne has got more courage than you. And those
clothes, by the way, are from her, not me. The fact
that I'm here at all springs from her too. Now climb
into those clothes while the road is still open. Tem-
bridge out front there has got all he can do to keep
this car on the move without running it under a police-
man's eye. For God's sake don't make his job any
worse than it is!" He snapped his fingers in growing
irritation. "I never knew it was so hard to help a man
to help himself," he snorted.
Varris flushed a deep crimson. The boot fell from
his hand.
"You might be a little easier on me," he said at last.
"Your end of this case is all up in the air to me. What
do you think I am—a thought reader?"
"No. Just a loyal fool. Very loyal—and very much
of a fool."
"How do I know that you aren't one of the Per-
rigo crowd?"
"You don't. You don't have to. Except that you


THE MYSTERY MAKER
should know that Perrigo wouldn't shift a finger to
save a friend."
"Perrigo would only be saving his own oily skin
by getting me out of gaol."
"Would he ? Now think in terms of Standard Two.
You had already elected to go to prison rather than
spill the beans. A good fat sentence, too. Why in the
name of beauty should he risk his neck getting you
out of a place into which you had voluntarily thrust
yourself?"
Varris relaxed. He was half convinced, but resent-
ful still, and as ferociously on guard as a wild animal
that has just been captured and is being offered a
tempting morsel from a hand that he still suspects.
"How can you prove you are all you say you are?"
he demanded.
"I'll take you to Marienne. Marienne can do all
my talking for me."
Varris thought that one over for some seconds.
He was dressing rapidly, glancing out of the window
now and then furtively, as though the window of
every suburban house they passed sheltered a watch-
ful enemy eye.
Halfway through the operation of tying his tie
he hauled himself round from the mirror and sud-
denly asked:
"Well—what do you want me for, anyway?"
"I want you to tell me the full story of the Lady
Demorval affair—from the Paris end," said Stayne.
Varris stopped dead and his hands went back
limply into his lap.
"I'll see you damned first," he said.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
Staync seemed indifferent. "All right," he said
casually. "Finish your dressing. I want to get rid of
that prison rig. Perhaps even you can see reason in
that." He held out a delicately graved cigarette case.
"Have a smoke," he suggested. "You sound as
though you could do with it."
Varris took a cigarette and lit it. For a while he
smoked, inhaling deeply and luxuriously at a narcotic
that had been long denied him. Then in a biting silence
he resumed his dressing.
Methodically Stayne picked up the various pieces
of clothing as Varris discarded them, folding them
neatly and.tightly into a roll, using the boots as a core.
From the suit-case he produced a large sheet of stiff
brown paper already addressed in typewriting, and a
long piece of stout string. There were four shilling
stamps on the label, more than sufficient to cover the
cost of postage back to the prison.
In that move again Stayne had marked the brain
that carefully thought out every move ahead. He had
long since learned the lesson of the extraordinary dif-
ficulties that attended the getting rid of incriminating
clothing. Failure in that expedient alone has brought
countless criminals to book. Nothing short of a forced
draught incinerator really gets rid of them effectively,
and it is not every house that is equipped with a pri-
vate incinerator of its own.
Metal buttons are apt to be left unburned, the
coarser hems and double seams somehow manage to
retain a few threads of unscorched fabric in their
tightly pressed tissues—quite enough for trained
sleuths to get their brains to work on and identify.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
75
Even the disposal of ashes is not the simple thing it
appears.
If they are parcelled up and thrown away on some
vacant plot they are immediately an object of suspi-
cion. Their mere discovery leads directly to inquiries
being made. Throwing the clothes intact into a river
is no better. For clothes have a habit of floating—and
rivers flow on. It is remarkable, too, to recall how
many parcels of clothing, buried away deeply in the
thickest woods, have been recovered either by being
accidentally stumbled on or by deliberate search. Yet
incriminating clothing has to be disposed of some-
how.
Stayne took the heady course of mailing it back to
the prison whence it came.
"Anyway," he muttered grimly, "we shan't have a
charge of stealing Government property added to our
list of criminal offences."
He reached for the speaking-tube again. "Stop at
the next General Post Office, so long as it isn't under
the nose of a point policeman," he said.
He leaned back and regarded Varris from under
half-closed eyes.
"You're going to be an interesting problem for the
authorities," he said, almost to himself. "You were
awaiting appeal, weren't you?"
The other shook his head. "No," he answered
abruptly. "I cancelled all that last week."
Stayne frowned. "But surely there was an appeal
down for hearing?"
"The lawyers did that. Marienne and—and some


76 THE MYSTERY MAKER
others brought pressure to bear. They appealed on
my behalf. The appeal stood until last week. I've had
a lot of time to think things out since I've been in
there. Well—I thought things out—and I cancelled
my appeal. I was to have been moved to Dartmoor
next week." He shivered slightly and with a strug-
gled pose at indifference began combing his crisp hair.
Stayne tapped his teeth with his thumbnail, deep
in introspective thought. Then he laughed, a short,
staccato laugh. It seemed brittle with high-strung
amusement.
"That only makes it a trifle more interesting," he
chuckled. "Varris, I think we live up to our reputation
as a Mystery■Maker. I've never rescued an unwilling
prisoner from gaol before. I find the experience
rather exhilarating."
"Nice to know someone enjoys it," retorted Varris
coldly.
"The point is, Varris, what are they going to do
with you—and me—after we have got this affair all
nicely cleaned up and explained to their own super-
satisfaction? Eh? What are they going to do about
it? Bit of a problem for them, isn't it? How does the
law stand in the matter? And if it does, what'll it
do?" There was almost a hint of appreciative banter
in the quiet voice. He seemed to be gently "kidding"
Varris out of his dogged mood.
"I don't see what you are driving at," said Varris,
lacing up his new shoes.
"What I mean is this. To get you out of that little
nursery I've had to commit a whole sheaf of criminal
offences. And all criminal offences are punishable by


THE MYSTERY MAKER
77
prison. Do you know I've had to half-asphyxiate a
head warder in there in order to get you out?"
Varris whipped round sharply. "You—you what?"
he gasped.
"Well, I didn't do it myself exactly, but I certainly
laid the trap for him. I was what one might almost
call an accessory before, during and after the fact. I
arranged for him to help himself to a sniff of veterin-
ary's Cure-all. One more sniff like it and there would
have been a funeral party moving out of the Scrubs in
a day or two."
Varris blanched.
"And not only that," went on Stayne blandly, "but
I stole his keys. I also broke into the prison. Then I
abducted a prisoner. And I broke out of prison again,
taking you with me. I took temporary charge of the
official keys, having first severely damaged a Govern-
ment key-chain. To crown these iniquities I left the
outer prison door open and unattended. Think it out,
Varris. It's rather a serious sheet, isn't it?"
"You did it. I didn't. And, over and above that, I
didn't ask you to."
"No. That is quite true, Varris. But the point that
tickles me is this. When we have straightened out this
mess; when we have proved you not only not guilty,
but something of a national hero—what are they go-
ing to do to us ? After all, I did break into and out of
prison, didn't I? And I did abduct you—and I did
half-annihilate a warder and leave one of his Majes-
ty's prisons at the mercy of any evil-minded passer-
by. And, after all, you had cancelled your appeal,
hadn't you? As I say, it's all very interesting, Varris.


78 THE MYSTERY MAKER
Interesting and intricate. Someone is going to achieve
a very sore head thinking all this business out."
Varris looked at him again, and there was a slow
hint of amusement in his eyes. Stayne noted it and
knew that he had won his war.
"Yes, it's surely going to be awkward for some-
one," muttered Varris.
"Have I done wrong in shanghai-ing you out of a
prison into which you should never have been put? A
prison, moreover, from which the authorities would
be the first to release you as soon as the true facts
came to light. Have I done anything criminally wrong
in taking the law into my own hands in putting right
a grave injustice? I get more enamoured of the my-
riad ramifications of the problem each moment I think
of it. Still, let's not worry ourselves too much about
it. Have another cigarette."


CHAPTER X
ARRIS sat with his hands on his knees for a long
* time, staring out unwinkingly at the long, drab
streets as they flashed by.
"How are you fixed for cash?" asked Stayne sud-
denly.
Varris seemed to pull himself to with a jerk.
"I—er—I've several hundred pounds in the
bank," he said, "but—but"
"Awkward to draw it out, eh? Of course it would
be. And dangerous too. Make me out a cheque for
five hundred and I'll pass it through one of my pri-
vate accounts. Meanwhile, you'll find a wallet in your
inside coat pocket. There's money in it. Also visiting
cards in the name of Harris, with a quiet little Bays-
water boarding house underneath. Tembridge
booked the rooms yesterday by 'phone, so there will
be no suspicion about that. You could hardly have
booked your rooms before you broke out of prison,
could you ? Also a cigarette case with the name 'H. T.
Harris' engraved on it. Also a season ticket made out
in that name from Bayswater to Bishopsgate, where
you will be in charge of an office I have there. The
season ticket is a month old already. It is valid for
two months more. It's one of Tembridge's various de-
coys. He has several others going permanently. You'll
have one of those if that one gets dangerous. You'll

79


8o
THE MYSTERY MAKER
find a couple of letters waiting for you at the Bays-
water address. Also a post-card referring to certain
conversations you had with the signatory last week.
Boarding house landladies have been known to glance
through post-cards; and that will help to put her off
the scent again."
Varris, throughout the quiet recital, gazed at
Stayne with eyes that slowly grew wider and wider
with astonishment.
"You're—you're pretty thorough, aren't you?" he
said with a long exhalation of breath.
"Also efficient—and speedy. If any of those ar-
rangements break down during our running of this
case we shall have others that you can slip into at a
moment's notice. You see we have already come to
the conclusion that it will be safest for us—and for a
great many other people too—if you remain at lib-
erty while this problem is being flattened out. Just a
moment, here's the post office."
He stepped out of the car with the tightly tied par-
cel. Tembridge had gone on past the post office and
had turned down the first side street, where he
jumped out and covered the radiator with a blanket
that reached right down over the front number-plate.
He himself stood round at the back, masking out the
other number-plate with his own body till John
Stayne returned.
Stayne came back and beckoned Varris.
"Come along," he said, "here's where we get out
and walk. Tembridge, take the car round somewhere
handy and garage it. Say it will be left for a week. Pay
a deposit covering that length of time and then leave
it. We can recover it when everything is cleared up.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
81
Get back home as soon as you can—and use the pri-
vate entrance. I wouldn't use the front door again.
Hawker is bound to have a squad there. Come on,
Varris."
They walked quietly for something over a mile and
then took a series of buses to Bayswater.
"You'll be all right at that address," said Stayne.
"Some of your luggage was sent along yesterday.
Three hand-grips packed with underclothes and
thingummyjigs. The rest you can get yourself. Tell
me, what else can you do besides secretarial work?"
Varris paused for a moment and rubbed his chin.
"Well—um—m—I've dabbled at a variety of
things and made a pretty fine mess at most," he said
ruminatively.
"Motor mechanics?"
"A little—but not too good."
"Wireless?"
Varris brightened. "Hobby of mine," he said.
"Understand it?"
"Know it inside out."
"That'll do, then. I'll put you on rigging up the
office with communicating telephone lines. If you
understand wireless you can get the hang of telephone
wiring inside two jiffs. Pair of dark-blue dungaree
overalls, second-hand step ladder. Bag of tools.
Cloth cap. Face none too clean. That'll be all you'll
need for that. Get the idea?"
"I don't think I do," said Varris. "You move a bit
too fast for me."
"Keep that disguise locked in a drawer at your
office. Everything bar the dirty hands and face. You


82
THE MYSTERY MAKER
see, Hawker is no fool. He's good. And he's out on
this job like a stoat on the trail of a rabbit. And he's
every bit as persistent. The chances are a hundred to
one that he will ferret out my Bishopsgate dead-end.
He's like that—the old rat!"
"I see," said Varris, not too happily.
"Sooner or later he will be calling round. Now
nobody with any legitimate business with me ever
knocks at that door. They all have keys of their own
and they come and go at their will. Sometimes there's
a knock—but up to now it has been travelling sales-
men, filing system experts, loose-leaf ledger repre-
sentatives and such-like. But one of these days
Hawker will be calling. Don't risk the travelling sales-
men. As soon as you hear a knock at the outer door
slip into that disguise. Don't take any of your clothes
off—that will give the game away. You can always
have the step ladder leaning against the wall—and
leave a few odd wires hanging about. It will look like
a job half done. Then all you have to do is to use the
grand old army slogan—act green.
"When he comes in, just glance at him and carry
on with your job. 'No—you haven't seen the man-
ager. Haven't seen him all the morning. Yes—he was
there when you started work. Eh? Oh, yes, he always
comes back before tea. There's his hat, look, on the
peg. It looks as though he is having a conference with
someone else in another office in the building. Why,
certainly, wait if you want to. It's none of your busi-
ness anyway. You're only a telephone linesman come
to fit up the offices.'
"See? Kid him along. Lull him. Ring me at home
every two hours. Then I'll know everything is O.K.


THE MYSTERY MAKER 83
If you once go over two hours without calling me I'll
know something radically wrong has occurred round
at the office. Then I'll come around and rescue you. I
think I can handle Mr. Hawker all right. To-night at
ten o'clock I'll come along to Bayswater and see you.
Together we must piece this thing out and get it all
square. As soon as I've got the details fixed I can
start for Paris. Not until. It's my way to plan every
move out ahead. And no man living can plan in the
dark. Here's your place. See you later, Varris. Keep
your pecker up, don't play the fool—and good luck!"
Varris found himself being ushered out on to the step
of the bus in a semi-daze by the most remarkable man
he had ever met in his life.
At the Marble Arch Stayne climbed off the bus too.
As he stepped on the curb a newsboy went streaking
by, yelling "Prison Escape!" at the top of his high-
pitched lungs.
News travels fast in London; and never so fast as
when Fleet Street gets its nose to it. The Press had
risen to it well. Here was a juicy piece of meat right at
the beginning of the day, a piece that could be cooked
on and on to perfection as the editions went by. A
daring prison escape is always a good newspaper
story, and one with a peculiar charm for the evening
journals.
But here was one that was positively gaudy. It was
a spread. An escape plotted and planned with beauti-
ful precision from outside: an attack on the solitary
gate gaoler, the suffocating of him, the theft of his
keys, the opening of the other gate and the calm
ordering of the prisoner away from the working
squad. It all seemed too remarkable, too recklessly


84
THE MYSTERY MAKER
insolent to be true. But true it was. And then the other
startling fact emerged, that the escaped prisoner
was none other than the extraordinary Templer Var-
ris, the man who had stood in the dock and accepted a
stiff five-year sentence rather than tell in open court
certain facts that could, quite possibly, have estab-
lished his innocence. That was the crowning jewel to
a wholly extraordinary story.
Later in the day the story was added to. There
came the cryptic phrase that inferred quite a lot but
gave no real information at all. "An arrest is hourly
expected." The inference was that Scotland Yard offi-
cers were on the trail of the outside conspirators—
were aware of their identity and knew where they
could eventually locate them.
Stayne allowed himself a satisfied smile at that. It
meant that, without giving away a ha'porth of infor-
mation to the outside world, Hawker was informing
him, through the medium of the public Press, that he
was perfectly aware of all that had happened and that
the best thing Colonel John Stayne could do was to
keep out of it, for he would be arrested on sight.
As an even darker hint, an official notice from
Headquarters appeared in print. It was headed
"Have you seen this car?" And underneath ran the
information: "It is known that two men in a car were
concerned in the escape of Templer Varris from
Scrubs Prison this morning. Both of them are known
to the police, but for reasons of State their names are
temporarily withheld. The car is a Silent Six limou-
sine, 1927 model, coloured dark blue, nickel fittings,
upholstered inside in dark blue leather. The register
number is GG 4012. For some months it has been,


THE MYSTERY MAKER 85
garaged in a mews off Curzon Square. Anyone seeing
this car should immediately inform the police."
The next edition informed the world that the car
had been found, located in a garage on the western
outskirts of London. A chauffeur had taken it in and
left a deposit on it for a week's garaging. Stayne was
secretly pleased at the construction put on that reve-
lation. The report went on to state that it would ap-
pear that the three men were heading out of London.
Apparently another car, with a chauffeur, had met
them at that prearranged spot—a car that could not
be known to the police—and in it they were making
their escape from the Metropolis.
Motorists, for the next few hours, complained bit-
terly of the inconvenience they experienced in trying
to get through on the main roads. Traps seemed to
exist at every mile, and even those who chose to go
by circuitous routes through the by-roads fared little
better. At every post they had to undergo a critical
scrutiny and questionnaire by the police patrols, and
no sooner were they through one cordon than they
were into another.
But there was no further news of the supposed fly-
ing motorists. Hawker had to admit that the patrol
system, for all the miraculous speed with which it
was organised and put into operation, had failed.


CHAPTER XI
TOHN STAYNE entered his house by the secret
way. It led in from a cellar in a little house at the
back of his own. He owned that house, and the
passage-way had been cut, laboriously, yard by yard,
by his own hands. The earth had been removed, load
by load, in the early hours of the morning, with the
aid of a builder's cart. Val Tembridge, the epitomisa-
tion of every corduroy-trousered carter that ever
lived, poised half asleep on the top, with the limp
reins in his hands.
Stayne passed through and let himself into the cel-
lars of his own house. He removed the lid of a whisky
keg and lifted a small telephone from its interior. In
a little while a voice, suppressed as to be barely audi-
ble, came down from upstairs.
"Is that you, sir?" it asked.
"Yes"—Stayne himself was hardly more than
whispering—"has anything happened while I've been
gone?"
"Yes, sir. That Mr. Hawker came back—half an
hour ago. I told him you weren't in and he wouldn't
believe me. He said he was coming in to find you: or,
if you were out, to wait till you got back."
"Yes, yes—is he there now?"
"I couldn't help myself, sir. I told him I could not
possibly let him into the house without your permis-
86


THE MYSTERY MAKER 87
sion, but he told me if I didn't mind my own business
I would find myself under arrest. I knew he was from
Scotland Yard and I didn't know what to do. He de-
manded admittance and I had to let him in."
"Has he searched?"
"Yes, sir. He went all over the house and finally
said he was satisfied you weren't in. But he sat him-
self down in the dining-room and says he won't budge
till you come back—not if you stay away for a
month."
"All right, Belham, don't worry yourself; you did
quite right."
"But that's not all, sir. Ten minutes ago another
detective came in. I believe Mr. Hawker telephoned
for him. The two of them are in there together. One
keeps answering every telephone call that comes, and
the other is sitting by the window watching everyone
that calls at the house."
"Well, that won't matter. I'll see them myself pres-
ently, but I want to get up into my bedroom first. Is
the way clear?"
"Just a moment, sir. I'll see."
There was silence for a little while, and then the
butler's voice came on again. "Yes, sir; it's all clear.
I've listened at the door. They're still in there, talk-
ing. Are you coming up now?"
"Right away."
He slipped off his shoes and noiselessly crept up
through the trapdoor into another cellar above, and
up the stairs to his room.
In a few minutes he was in through the library
panel and talking on the private line.


88 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Is that Number One?" he asked.
"Yes, beautiful work, Colonel," came the quietly
appreciative voice from the other end. "Have any
trouble?"
"Not a piece. Everything went along like ball bear-
ings running in an oil bath. Sorry about the gaoler,
but it couldn't be helped. Better than bumping him on
the head with a spanner, though."
"I can't see how it could be avoided."
"It couldn't, short of bribery. And they're not that
sort. It was only a little whiff, anyhow. He would be
as right as rain five minutes afterwards."
"Have you fixed Varris?"
"Yes. That end is all right. But I want your help.
Hawker is here. He seems to have anchored himself
at the telephone and refuses to budge an inch until he
has got his hands on me."
"You rather expected that, didn't you?"
"It was inevitable. That's why I'm in the house
without his knowledge. Will you do the necessary?
Three should be sufficient. Any more would make it
too obvious."
"They will be ready by the time you get down to
Hawker. He may not wait, of course. He may choose
to take you straight off to Bow Street. In that case you
will have to do it from there."
"I'll see to all that, Chief."
"Then they will be numbers Eight, Ten and Seven-
teen."
"Thanks. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, and congratulations."
Stayne relocked the cabin and went down into the
dining-room. He pushed the door open carelessly and


THE MYSTERY MAKER
89
walked through as though he was doing nothing more
exciting than going in to dinner.
Hawker sprang up as the door opened and he
stared at Stayne in grudging surprise. He had ex-
pected him back, but not nearly so soon and not nearly
so undramatically.
"Hello, Hawker, how's tricks? Belham told me
you were in. Comfortable?"
Stayne took a cigarette from a big silver box on the
table and lit it with delicate precision.
"So you made it, did you?" said Hawker, sourly.
"I'll find that damned secret dive of yours if I have
to tear the house down stone by stone."
"And that wouldn't help either," replied Stayne,
cordially. He noted with a slight amusement that the
other detective had risen too and had crossed round
to the door; he now stood between him and it.
Hawker eyed his man grimly. "Well, are you com-
ing quietly?" he snapped.
Stayne affected a mild surprise. "Coming?" he said
vaguely. "Comingwhere?"
Hawker snorted. "Oh, don't play the fool," he
growled. "I've had a cell specially washed and
scrubbed for you ever since midday. It's waiting for
you now—round at Vine Street."
"May I ask what for?"
"Colonel, that's not funny. I expected a better one
than that from you."
Stayne sighed patiently. "Hawker, you might at
least extend me the usual privileges of the law of the
land," he said. "I am legally entitled to know what
the charge is."
"You can have it any way you like," retorted Haw-


9°
THE MYSTERY MAKER
ker hotly. "If you want it all dolled up with the fal-
de-lahs according to Cocker, here it is. John Stayne,
I arrest you for complicity in the escape of one Tem-
pler Varris from Scrubs Prison to-day, and I hereby
warn you that anything you say may be used in evi-
dence against you."
"Thank you: I just wanted to know what idiotic
trick you were up to now." Stayne seemed relieved.
"Now, let's stop acting the goat. Candidly, what do
you want me for?"
Hawker blinked. "Eh?" he said, and there was a
faint shock of surprise in his voice.
Stayne did not seem to notice it.
"Honestly, Hawker, do you really think I had any
hand in that fool affair?" he asked.
Hawker staggered. He gaped at the ice-cool man
in front of him and swallowed hard. He thrust his
head forward to stare at him through a luxurious
cloud of pale blue cigarette smoke that was coming
idly down Stayne's nostrils. He seemed unable to be-
lieve the evidence of his own ears. For some seconds
he stared at his man, incredulous. Then he pulled him-
self together with a tremendous effort, and there was
a ring of sheer bad temper in his reply.
"Do you mean to say you dare to put up a denial?"
he snorted.
"Dare? Dare?" Stayne turned the word over on
his tongue as though to get its full mental quality. "Of
course I dare," he added gently. "Why on earth
shouldn't I? You know perfectly well that I have
nothing to do with such a silly business. When you
read out that charge I thought you were joking."
"Joking!" Hawker was nearly inarticulate. "Say,


THE MYSTERY MAKER
Stayne," he managed to strangle out, "are you try-
ing to get my goat?"
"Don't be a fool. Hawker, my son, you're losing
your nerve. Arrest me by all means, but I'll promise
you that by this time to-morrow you'll be the sorriest
man in London. And not only that, but you'll admit
that you've made the biggest blunder in your career."
"Is that so?" Hawker had so far recovered him-
self as to be almost sarcastic.
"I fear it is. I can definitely prove to the satisfac-
tion of any court in this country that I had not the
slightest connection with that particular affair, that I
neither knew nor saw Templer Varris, and that it was
impossible for me to have assisted in his escape from
gaol."
"You can do all that, can you? Yes, you can! And
then some! Now listen to this little lot. Yesterday
you were traced from this house to Marlborough
Street Police Station. You were driving a sports
model car the number of which is known. An hour
later that same car was parked just around the cor-
ner from West London Police Court.
"At West London there was a man up on several
charges, a man whose name is Thomas Dobey. You
saw Thomas Dobey. The gaoler has identified you
from several photographs submitted to him. You
bought Dobey tea. And you offered to pay his fine.
Then, for obvious reasons, you refrained from pay-
ing the fine right away. You did that in spite of the
fact that you were present in court and heard the
sentences passed. You were recognised and identified
in that court. That manoeuvre insured that Dobey
would go to Srubs Prison. On your way out you


9a
THE MYSTERY MAKER
scribbled a note and gave it to the charge sergeant.
He, too, will swear to you. And"
"The note?" asked Stayne levelly.
"The note is in my office now. It is in your hand-
writing. Also the card you gave to Thomas Dobey.
J. Sterndale is the name you gave him, and the ad-
dress was the Strand Hotel, London. Dobey wrote
you from prison. That letter is also in my possession.
You left it on the bench in the guardroom when you
drugged the gate warder. At the Strand Hotel the
inquiries clerk identifies you as the man who called in
there this morning and received a letter from Scrubs
Prison. Tembridge was driving you, dressed as a
chauffeur. Your blue limousine is found, the car is reg-
istered to J. Sterndale, of the Strand Hotel. Now dis-
prove that little lot to the satisfaction of any court
in the country—and I'll resign."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
Hawker looked uncertainly from Stayne to his as-
sistant. Then he took out his handkerchief and
mopped his forehead.
"You're up to your old tricks again, you rascal," he
muttered, "but I'm blest if I can see what the game
is. Are you going to pull an alibi?"
"Most certainly I am. And when you've heard it
you'll realise how nearly you came to making the most
perfect faux pas you ever made in your life."
Stayne rang the bell and the secretary came in.
"Miss Mathers," he said, "I want you to ring up
Mr. Calhoun, Major-General Stonehaugh, and Sir
Ardleigh Powers. Tell each of them that I would
esteem it a great favour if they would call here at
their earliest convenience. Say that I much regret hav-
ing to trouble them, but that the matter is of such
grave import to me that I have no other alternative.
If any of them should not happen to be in, please in-
form me."
The secretary departed, and Stayne turned to
Hawker.
"It is better that she should do it," he said evenly.
"It leaves me no chance of coding them a message or
doing anything utterly impossible like that. When
they arrive I will simply ask them to tell you what
I've been doing to-day in their company. One could
hardly be fairer, could one?"
"You beauty! You're pulling another line of bull
on me, hey?"
Stayne shrugged. "Glance at the names," he sug-
gested. "Mr. Calhoun is private secretary to the
Prime Minister, General Stonehaugh is the head of
the Army Ordnance Department, and Sir Ardleigh


THE MYSTERY MAKER
95
Powers is Under-Secretary of State for India. You'd
hardly question their credentials, would you?"
Hawker was obviously perplexed. He mopped his
forehead again, and grunted.
"I'll wait and see 'em," he said at last, and sat down
sullenly.
"Of course you will. You would only be making
yourself look supremely ridiculous if you didn't."
Stayne seemed to dismiss the whole affair with that
thought, and he sat down to wait for his callers.
The secretary came in again to say that she had got
into touch with each of the gentlemen concerned, and
that they were on their way.
Hawker smoked on in a restive silence. He seemed
to sense already that Stayne had beaten him again. He
saw him wriggling out of the coils he had thrown
around him, although for the very life of him he could
not define the nature of the particular wriggle em-
ployed.
Templer Varris was cheap as the price to be paid
for John Stayne. Hawker would willingly have given
a year of his life to have put the Mystery Maker safe
behind the bars. Stayne had pricked his official pride
too long: and now, just when it seemed that he had got
his man on the inevitable march up to the dock, there
was another convulsive wriggle coming and, equally
inevitably, he could see Stayne slipping out of his fin-
gers again.
He jammed his cigarette butt savagely into an ash-
tray. It was unfair, unjust! Stayne was blatantly as
guilty as any man ever was in his life. That chain of
evidence had not been built up on surmise; every single


96
THE MYSTERY MAKER
link of it was definite, a concrete fact that was proven
and re-proven. Stayne had actually warned him at
that first meeting that he would have Varris out of
gaol within forty-eight hours. He had done it, had
made good on his boast. Hawker and his men had
traced his every movement. It was imbecile to say
that Stayne was guiltless.
"How are you going to get clear of the evidence of
that car?" he suddenly demanded.
"It was probably stolen from outside my house,"
said Stayne imperturbably. "That sort of thing is
constantly being done in London. I should think it was
one of those abnormally frequent cases of borrowing
a car. The fact that it was a chauffeur who garaged
the car adds credence to that view. The less scrupu-
lous of them borrow a car occasionally and take young
ladies of their acquaintance for joy rides. You must
have come into contact with many such cases your-
self."
Hawker's eyes glittered and he looked as though
he was ready, there and then, to get up and have a
stand-up fight with Stayne.


CHAPTER XIII
ONE by one the visitors arrived. Calhoun, tall
and thin; Stonehaugh, unmistakably a soldier
of the old school; Powers inclined to portliness.
Stayne said nothing whatever until the last of them
arrived. He just rose and received them as they were
announced, with a formal little bow and muttered
greeting.
When they were all in and seated, not without a
feeling of embarrassment, Stayne addressed them.
He himself was not in the slightest way nervous of
the outcome. He knew perfectly well that the Chief
would have drilled them into their parts and made
them word-perfect. And besides they had played that
part before at the sudden quick call of duty.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I want first to introduce
you to our friend here. This gentleman is a police offi-
cer; you probably all know him quite well by name.
He is Mr. Hawker, of the Criminal Investigation
Department at Scotland Yard. Mr. Hawker, this is
Sir Ardleigh Powers, the parliamentary head of the
India Office; this is Mr. Calhoun, to whose body-
guard you were attached during the General Strike,
and this is General Stonehaugh, the present head of
the Army Ordnance Department.
"Now, gentlemen, I am not in a position to be able
to enlighten you as to the reason for this rather hur-
ried conference. Such an act would, I feel, be a breach
97


98
THE MYSTERY MAKER
of faith with Hawker. But I will say this much, that
it is a very serious affair for me, very serious indeed,
and I must ask each of you to weigh your words with
the utmost care when you reply to such questions as
Mr. Hawker may care to put. I deeply regret the in-
convenience to which you have been put, but when you
understand the reason for this abrupt call I'm sure
you will realise that there was nothing else for me to
do.
"Mr. Hawker here is anxious to trace my move-
ments from an early hour this morning up to, say,
one or two o'clock. Why he wishes this information is
for Mr. Hawker to tell you, or not, as the case may
be. At that point, gentlemen, I must leave it. General
Stonehaugh, would you mind telling Mr. Hawker,
please, at what hour to-day you first met me and when
we parted?"
Stonehaugh set about the business as methodically
as though he were back on the barrack square.
"I can give you that information with a certain de-
gree of exactitude," he said in his queer, ponderous
way. "For official reasons it is my invariable custom
to keep a somewhat fully written diary." He pro-
duced a monthly diary from his pocket.
"I first met Colonel Stayne at my house at ten min-
utes to nine," he said, opening the volume at its most
recent entries. "Here is the note. 'Stayne called 8.50.
Left 10.35. Matter discussed: Gun Calibrations for
the Aldershot Manoeuvres. See also letter files under
that heading.'"
"And where was this?" asked Hawker.
"At my house in South Audley Street. I had a tele-
phone message from Colonel Stayne overnight, and I


THE MYSTERY MAKER
99
suggested that he should breakfast with me while we
discussed the matter in hand."
"Was Colonel Stayne 'phoning from here?"
"No; I think he said he was at an hotel in Maiden-
head."
Hawker turned inquiringly to Stayne. "It was at a
little place just outside Maidenhead. The Old Bell at
Hurley; you probably know it. In any case you can
verify. I signed the visitors' book."
"And he stayed till 10.35, did he?"
"He did. I was due at the War Office at eleven, and
we cut our discussion short."
"General Stonehaugh, this man Colonel Stayne was
at the Strand Hotel talking to the inquiries clerk at
ten o'clock," said Hawker coldly. "That fact can be
proved. Do you still say he was with you at that
hour?"
"I most certainly do," said the General with some
asperity.
"Would you repeat that statement on oath in the
witness-box?"
"I should take the utmost pleasure in doing so, and
I might add that I am not in the habit of being asked
questions like that."
"Maybe not, sir, but when you are trying to clear
up a particularly unsavoury mystery, questions like
that have to be asked—and answered. I know that
Colonel Stayne did not sleep in this house last night,
and he isn't fool enough to say he did. Not only was
the house under observation all night but the servants
were questioned to-day. The fact that he came in
from Maidenhead fits in with other information I
have concerning his movements."


ioo THE MYSTERY MAKER
Stonehaugh frowned. "I regret, officer, that I have
nothing to add to, or retract, from my previous state-
ments," he said severely. "Colonel Stayne was at my
house at the time stated and he left at the time stated,
as noted in this diary. Also he was never out of my
company from the minute he entered the house until
he left it. That is all. I have nothing further to add."
"Did anyone else see him there?"
"Naturally. The butler who opened the door to
him. My wife, who entertained him. The maid, who
waited at table. And I'm not sure that the nurse didn't
look in for a few minutes."
Hawker looked round at Stayne again in bitter ex-
asperation. "You've got this thing pretty closely knit
up, haven't you?" he grated. "Do you mean to say
you actually sent someone round to impersonate you?
You didn't bluff the General—and he's not bluffing
me! But there was someone sufficiently like you
around there to get the servants to corroborate what
the General says."
"That individual must have come from the Man
Higher Up," said Stayne cheerfully. He had only just
realised how perfectly the Chief had helped him
through. He had gone a jump ahead of Stayne every
time, and had made his alibi watertight for him by
sending a man round in advance.
Hawker began to see the true nature of the wrig-
gle.
"Well, who's next ?" he growled. "Where did he go
after that, hey ? Who was he with when he was pump-
ing hydrocyanide into the lungs of the gate gaoler at
Scrubs Prison?"


102
THE MYSTERY MAKER
him at Calhoun's office, and together we went out to
lunch. We lunched at the Ship. He left me soon after
three o'clock."
Hawker chewed savagely at his lip.
"And I suppose all you gentlemen are perfectly
willing to stand up in open court and reiterate all that
—on oath?" he said.
"I for one would not hesitate for a single moment,"
replied Sir Ardleigh Powers. "There is not the slight-
est reason why the others would. I am quite sure that
on the day you require us to appear we shall be at
your service."
Hawker reached for his hat and made a sign to his
assistant that the conference was finished. "Well,
that's enough for me, gentlemen," he said, and
Stayne's heart warmed towards him, for his voice
was not without a hint of a grudging admiration
somewhere in its timbre. "I know when I'm bested,
and I know when all the loopholes are sealed up. Val-
don Tembridge has definite evidence that he was up
at the North Pole when Templer Varris broke gaol.
Eh ? I bet you've got that end all nicely fixed up too."
Stayne laughed silently.
"You left the garage end open too long, old
friend," he said. "Within ten minutes of your man
being hauled off to watch this house Tembridge was
in the pit under one of my cars cleaning out the gear-
box and readjusting the hydraulic brakes. He's never
left the job; you'll find him there yet. The garage
hands can testify to the truth of that. In two minutes
from the time he began he would be black as a stove
with axle oil and whatnot. Run around and see him,
Hawker."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
103
"All right," he said. "I know that piece of it. I
could smell it out a mile away, down-wind—on a cold
day. It's the real Tembridge round there in the pit
now, hey?"
"I sincerely hope so," said Stayne fervently.
Hawker jammed his hat hard on his head. "Good-
day, gentlemen," he snapped. "I only wish I could get
gentlemen of such unchallengeable integrity as yours
to frame up jobs like this for me now and then. I'd
have half the criminals in London slammed away in
cells inside a month. Come on, Morby, this wants
talking out with the Chief. Maybe we can get autho-
rity to go all out for it and risk the arrest." He
turned and flung back over his shoulder: "I hope so,
Colonel. I'd like the chance of banging seven bells out
of that alibi of yours." In a morose silence the pair
of them went out.
Stayne called Tembridge on the 'phone at the
garage. "It's all right now," he said. "You can stop
pretending to do a decent job of hard work. I'm sure
it must be breaking your heart. Hawker has gone off
in a sour mood. Wash off the dirt and come round
here. I want to see you."
The three guests departed without so much as a
further word about the incident that occasioned their
visit. The only thing they did was to make definite
notes of times and places according to each other's
story.
While Stayne awaited the advent of his assistant
the little golden idol in the corner announced "Miss
Marienne Varris to see you, sir."
Stayne's eyes clouded, and a fleeting frown of an-
noyance shadowed rapidly across his face. Then, with


io4 THE MYSTERY MAKER
a half-sigh of regret, he said, "Very well, Belham, I'll
see her. Show her up to me in here, will you, please?"
She came up and entered the room hurriedly, a tor-
rent of half-articulate thanks on her lips. Stayne rose
to greet her. She was a different girl from the pitifully
distressed, cowed little thing that had pleaded for
help in that room a few hours before. She was radi-
ant, and her eyes held a glow of warmth in their
depths that was almost a reflection of worship. At
that moment it was sheer hero worship that lit up
bright lamps of thankfulness and sent their rays
boldly gleaming out.
"Oh, Mr. Stayne," she said breathlessly, "thank
you so much—a thousand, million, million thanks—
how can I ever be grateful enough—how can I ever
show you my gratitude—how"
Stayne took her impulsively outstretched hands in
his and firmly led her to a chair.
"By keeping that pretty little head of yours as
firmly on the horizontal as you possibly can," he said.
"You have"
"But—Mr. Stayne, I've seen the papers—I read
them all—positively eaten them! I don't think I've
ever read so many papers in my life. And I think it's
wonderful—absolutely wonderful! I got so excited
reading about it that I wanted to jump up and yell
with delight. I wanted to tell the people in the hotel
that I knew who had done it and that he was the brav-
est and best man who ever lived. And I"
"Miss Varris," Stayne's voice had the rumbling
note of distant thunder in it, "please get a grip of
yourself. And—please—get this very firmly planted
in your head. Neither John Stayne nor Valdon Tern-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 105
bridge went within a mile of Scrubs Prison to-day. We
neither assisted in his escape nor do we know anyone
who did. That fact has been definitely proved to the
satisfaction of the authorities at Scotland Yard. It's
awfully nice of you to come careering round here with
bouquets and all sorts of nice things to say, but you
must—not—do—it! You are acting unwittingly, un-
thinkingly. And in this affair you must use every grain
of intelligence you have. You are running us all into
serious danger by rushing round here like this."
In a moment all Marienne's keyed-up excitement
vanished. It evaporated into thin air like an early
morning mist before the heat of the sun. Stayne
wasn't being gently remonstrative; there was nothing
in either his voice or his manner that suggested an in-
dulgent father shaking a finger at a well-meaning
but thoughtless daughter. There was a positively
angry ring in his voice and the glint in his cold eyes
was definitely resentful. She looked unhappy, full of
contrition, a girl who had only come round because
her heart was bursting with gratitude and because it
was part of her generous, emotional young nature to
pour out her thanks to anyone who had offered her a
kindness. Her lips trembled.
"Do you know," Stayne went on in his icily deliber-
ate way, "that Scotland Yard has been treading on
your heels ever since you first decided to bring your
troubles to me? A detective followed you here the
first time you called on me. One of the slickest detec-
tives in the world, too. He was round here and in this
room five minutes after your taxi left my front door.
A man has been specially detailed off to watch your
every movement."


106 THE MYSTERY MAKER
Marienne looked round with a half-frightened lit-
tle turn of the head.
"But, really," she gasped, "I didn't know: I only
came round to thank you—and to find out Templer's
address. I do want to see him so badly. If you
knew"
"Yes, yes, I do know. But you have got to realise
that though we're all on the side of right and justice
in this matter, Scotland Yard is against us—and
they're doing their utmost to get us trapped. Every
movement you make is a pointer to them."
"But, Mr. Stayne, what can they find out from me?
I haven't done anything wrong."
"You've done wrong in coming round here at all.
Can't you see how suspicious it is? The moment Var-
ris is out you come flying round here again. Corre-
spondence of yours—letters you have written—have
been opened in the post. They knew you were coming
here the first time, and they knew what you were go-
ing to ask me. Within forty-eight hours of that Varris
has broken gaol and you come tearing round again as
fast as a taxi can bring you. And now—of all the im-
becile things on this earth, you want your brother's
address! Candidly, Miss Varris, what do you think
would happen if I were lunatic enough to give it you?"
"I—I don't know," whispered Marienne. She felt
so shocked and so bitter at having offended the man
who, at that moment, was the greatest hero her mind
had ever pictured, that she wished she had been
stricken with paralysis rather than have left that
stodgy hotel.
"Your shadower would have taken up a position
about ten yards behind you, on the opposite side of


THE MYSTERY MAKER 107
the road, and followed you round. And if you had a
hundred eyes all round your hat you would never have
seen him or suspected his presence. It might have been
the man sweeping the gutter, or the teamster driving
a lorry—or the beggar with a tray of studs to sell.
But you would have directed him to Varris's sanctu-
ary as surely as though you laid a paper trail all the
way."
"Does that mean that—that I cannot see Tem-
pler?" she faltered.
"It means that you will see him when and where
I can arrange a meeting," said Stayne grimly. "And
it won't be here—or at his place either. And it also
means, young lady, that you will wait for instructions
from me before you either come here again or even
ring me on the telephone. For all I know, my very
'phone wires may be tapped. Now, is all that perfectly
clear?"
"Yes," she said very gently. "I promise I'll never
even move from my rooms without permission. I'd—
I'd rather die than make things any more difficult for
you."
"Then we'll say no more about it. You're the weak-
est link in our chain. They know it. And they'll ham-
mer at you till they break you. Although Varris is out
of gaol it does not follow that he is free. He will go
back the moment he is discovered. And we have a long
job ahead of us. Getting him out was only the first
step in a long and difficult business. I'll ring you to-
morrow morning early at your hotel and tell you if I
can arrange for you to see your brother. I may be
flying over to Paris to-morrow night—but I will do
what I can. But until then don't make a single move


108 THE MYSTERY MAKER
without thinking out first what the consequences will
be."
He patted her cheek and added: "That's all. Terri-
bly sorry I've had to be so blunt—but bluntness pays
when the other fellow is so sharp." He led her to the
door and Belham showed her down.
Stayne stood at the top and watched her go. He
caught sight of his own reflection in the glass and si-
lently, but viciously, he swore at it.
"John Stayne," he growled, "you're a brute and a
bully—and one hell of a specimen of a big damn fool.
You aren't fit to live in the same town with her—yet
just to please your own sticky chunk of vanity you
darn nearly made her cry again." He thrust out his
jaw at himself and said "Bah!"
With his brows deeply knit in hard thought he went
over to the balcony window and looked down. He
looked down—and swore again.
Marienne, with one foot on the step of the taxi,
had been stopped by a tall, slim, rather elegant young
man who wore a smartly cut brown lounge suit ex-
tremely well, and evidenced a marvellously unself-
conscious manner. He raised his hat, a soft brown
felt of unquestionable taste, and gently disentangled
her hand from the handle of the door. Stayne knew
from that trim back view that it was that cavalier
young gentleman Valdon Tembridge.
The girl turned, in some slight surprise and confu-
sion. Then when she saw who it was she smiled and
coloured delightfully. The masterful young gentle-
man, apparently without further argument or per-
mission, thrust his hand into his pocket, presented the
driver with a bunch of small change and airily waved


THE MYSTERY MAKER 109
him on his way. Stayne saw him transfer his gloves
and stick to the other hand and, as though he had been
keeping an appointment dead on time, calmly pick up
a position by her side, and walk coolly off down the
street with her.
Stayne, without troubling to find a reflection at
which to address his remarks, decanted a further load
of vitriol over himself.


CHAPTER XV
THE man who owned the house at the back of 8b
Curzon Square was a dry goods exporter, which
is sufficiently vague to mean anything. He was only
very occasionally in residence there, his purchasing of
dry goods apparently entailing a good deal of travel-
ling about the country.
He was exactly Stayne's height—exactly, to a mil-
lionth of an inch. His hair was exactly the colour of
Stayne's hair—exactly, to the millionth of a shade.
Only in thoge two features, however, did they resem-
ble each other. Apart from the fact that they were one
and the same man, their dissimilarities were wholly
remarkable.
The dry goods exporter had a decided inclination
to an ageing spread of adiposity under the waistcoat,
in startling contrast to Stayne's own athletic lines.
Swathes of crepe de Chine deftly wound into a bulb-
ous curve accounted for most of it; a natural stoop-
ing of the shoulders and a consequent relaxing of the
muscles of the diaphragm served for the rest. The
merchant was at least fifty, and his deportment was
that of a man of at least sixty. His gait was heavy and
slow, and the springs of youth had long since snapped
in his insteps. His voice, too, was querulous, and he
rarely entered or left his house except by taxi. Grease-
paint and pigment, artfully applied, had improved the
facial appearance till it suggested the bloat of a life
no


112
THE MYSTERY MAKER
of serving all types and conditions and ages of the
human tribe, ushered him into a neatly furnished little
reception-room. "Tell him," said the maudlin voice in
her ear, "that I would prefer to see him in his own
rooms, and that I hope he has a fire going. I can't
stand these chilly, draughty waiting-rooms. Tell him,
my dear woman, will you?"
The landlady withdrew, and returned in a minute
or two to say that Mr. Harris was at liberty and
would he please follow her upstairs. He did. And all
the way he kept up his high-pitched, querulous com-
plaints about the ways and methods of the modern
generation, of life in general, and of boarding houses
in particular.
Varris heard him from halfway up the corridor,
and he looked across in a puzzled way as the door
opened.
"Ah, there you are," wailed the staccato rotun-
dity. "Do you know, I've been four days trying to get
hold of you, young man, and that you broke your last
appointment with me without the slightest hint or
warning? When you wrote me from Manchester you
said you'd be here two days ago. Since when—nothing
but a profound silence. And while you dally, big busi-
ness is slipping through our fingers. It is not equitable
treatment, young sir, it is not equitable treatment."
Varris was on his guard from the moment the old
fool entered, like an animal cornered, with the pack at
his heels. He pulled his fascinated eyes off Stayne and
turned to the landlady.
"Thank you, madam, that will be all," he said. And
the fat old gentleman stood polishing his heavy peb-
bled glasses as the door closed.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"3
There was a tense silence during which Varris
stared at Stayne, visions of all sorts of unimaginable
catastrophes whirling round in his brain.
"Who the devil are you?" he asked at last.
"Phew!—thank the Lord that's over," said Stayne
with a long breath of relief. "I thought you were go-
ing to give the show away as I came in."
Varris literally gaped at him with his mouth open
in sheer amazement. He passed a hand nervously
across his forehead and sat down limply in a chair.
"I still don't believe it," he said thickly. "You're
—you're trying to trick me."
"And if I was a detective, you'd have stood a fine
chance, wouldn't you, making a damfool remark like
that ?" Stayne grunted. "I've just set a precedent here,
that's all. I've impressed the landlady with the fact
that you were in Manchester four days ago. Next
time I come I shall be in a different rig, and, I hope, in
a different voice. And I'll do the same trick again. She
must never suspect, never even get the start of a sus-
picion. Well, I don't think she will now. That's all.
I'm Stayne all right. Take another look at me—
perhaps you'll see."
Varris stared and stared again. Doubt and convic-
tions were warring within him.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he exclaimed.
"Still can't see it?"
Varris shook his head. "I'm blest if I can. And I'm
blest if anyone else could either," he said.
"It's a hundred to a hayseed that Hawker would
have done—if he had seen me in your company. I
was trying out your powers of observation, Varris.
You'll need them pretty well sharpened on this racket.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
I'm apt to turn up in any old guise, and if you don't
get me the first time you'll be spilling the beans with a
vengeance. Now, look again. You should have had me
fairly well fixed in your memory after this morning.
It isn't every man who suddenly steps in and recov-
ers an unknown prisoner from gaol."
"Yes—I see it now," said Varris, slowly. "You're
wearing the same tie."
"And more than that," replied Stayne. "Every
bit of colour on me is the same as I wore this morn-
ing. This silk handkerchief. This shirt and collar. The
socks, too. Also this blue stone ring. It's an uncommon
piece of jewellery. One would have thought you'd
have noticed that without much difficulty."
Varris fingered his chin ruefully.
"All right," he said. "You're Stayne. But there's
only one way in which I could ever recognise you. And
I think I could always do it now—no matter how you
tried to disguise yourself."
"Oh, yes." Stayne's ears pricked up.
"By your thoroughness. Not even you can disguise
that."
Stayne was thoughtful. " 'M, well," he said hope-
fully. "Perhaps even old Hawker himself hasn't
thought of that yet. Seen the papers, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Means you've got to lie pretty low. I didn't think
they'd give the Press so much news. Your picture is
in all the latest editions. Everybody knows it on sight
now."
"Shall I grow a moustache?"
"Not on your life. These people in the boarding
house would be the first to notice the change. No—


THE MYSTERY MAKER 115
they might start thinking. It wouldn't be wise. You'll
be all right here for a bit. I want you to talk to me to-
night. There are certain details I want before I can
tackle the Paris end. The fox is already on the jump.
I see in to-night's paper that Lady Demorval has left
unexpectedly for Mentone again."
"She was to have been here all the summer," said
Varris quickly.
"Well, she's packed up and gone back. That shows
it's time we tackled that end of it before trouble
breaks."
"Well, I don't know why she's gone back," said
Varris listlessly.
"I think you do. Now, to begin with, I want to be
sure of certain things in connection with you. Don't
think I'm doubting your honesty, Varris—you're
too much of a natural born fool to be anything more
than completely trustworthy. But there is one thing I
want to clear up in my own mind. Now, why did you
take those necklaces from Lady Demorval's bag?"
Varris stirred uneasily in his chair. "I've told the
judge all about that," he said.
"I know you have, I've read every report of the
trial including the shorthand notes. And I still don't
believe your reason."
"I—I was all upset and bothered. I was—so—sur-
prised at seeing them there that I hardly knew what
I did. I just did the first fool thing that came into my
head."
"You went out with them in your pocket?"
"Yes—I—I wanted to get them round to the asses-
sors."
"At seven in the evening?"


n6 THE MYSTERY MAKER
Varris flushed. It was obvious that he was as un-
comfortable as a man sitting on an ant-hill. And he
was stalling all over the place.
"I—I didn't stop to think about the time," he mut-
tered. "Put yourself in my shoes and see how you
would have acted. But then you are about the one
man in the world who would have sat down quietly
and thought things out. Unluckily for me, I'm not
mentally constituted that way. I just breezed off. I
wasn't trying to steal the rotten things."
"I know that. Otherwise you wouldn't have been
raising hell with a mallet, trying to open the locks of
those trunks. Why on earth didn't you send for a lock-
smith"
"Lady Demorval wanted an envelope of private
papers. The last post was going out and time was
urgent."
"Then you did realise that it was seven o'clock."
Varris licked his lips and looked away. "Oh, I don't
know," he said. "I don't know what I knew—or
thought—or did."


CHAPTER XVI
T SUPPOSE all you knew was that those diamonds
shouldn't have been in London?" Stayne asked
sarcastically.
"I know they shouldn't," Varris replied. "I was
the man who made all the arrangements for bringing
them to London. I packed every piece of jewellery
separately in the boxes and saw them officially sealed
by the insurance agents. They went straight into the
safe. I alone held the key."
"What you are trying to tell me, then, is that the
diamonds you were found running away with were
fakes, and that sooner or later an insurance swindle
was to be worked on the ones stolen?"
Varris looked steadily at Stayne for a moment, and
then slowly shook his head.
"No," he said dully. "You've got it all wrong. So
did we—at least, I mean so did Lady Demorval. She
was pulling the swindle at Mentone. She was up to
her ears in debt. Perrigo and Canning had got her
by the throat on the other matter. She planned the
burglary to be done by some of Perrigo's paid thugs.
The trick failed because, unfortunately for her, real
thieves broke in a few hours before the fake burglars.
Perrigo had schemed to get possession of the Demor-
val jewels and leave Lady Demorval with the insur-
ance award."
"Well?"
117


n8 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"The stones I found were the real ones! She had
double-crossed Perrigo. She had left him with the
fakes. And I'll swear I locked the real ones in the safe
that night. Perrigo went mad. That's why she's gone
back to France. Perrigo must have sent her the call.
Maybe he's in London himself. I don't know. All I
know is that nothing will stop Perrigo now. He will
pull the whole bag of tricks."
Stayne was seriously thoughtful. That was an
aspect of the affair that had never occurred to him.
He had sensed the possibility of the insurance swin-
dle and was quite prepared to have discovered that
the ropes stolen from the London hotel were imita-
tions. But the double shift added a new piquancy to a
dish that was already over-seasoned.
"Did Lady Demorval invite you into the secret of
the faked burglary?" Stayne asked.
"No. But I knew it was coming off. Lady Demor-
val was so insistent on the jewels going into her bed-
room safe. That safe was about as secure as a petty
cash box. It was only meant as an emergency measure
anyway. Usually it contained nothing but furs—and
not very expensive ones at that. The real safe was
down in the library, let into the wall."
"Was that a really strong one?"
"One of the best on the market. Blowpipes
wouldn't have cut through it. And there was an elec-
trical equipment on it, too, that would have electro-
cuted anyone but a person holding the right key.
Nothing short of dynamite would have opened that
one. But, in spite of my advice and protests, she in-
sisted on them going into the one upstairs."
"Did she offer any reason?"


THE MYSTERY MAKER 119
Varris sniffed his indifference.
"Said she wanted them near her on the last night
she was in the villa," he said.
"Any other reason why you suspected her?"
"Yes, she was always taking out the insurance docu-
ments and re-reading the terms. She asked me for the
plain English definitions of many of the more compli-
cated legal phrases. Then the fact that she didn't
travel with the jewels herself, though I begged to be
allowed to bring them along with us. They were de-
liberately left there to be stolen."
"AndPerrigo?"
"I'd seen him nosing about the villa several times.
He and his friends used to stroll in and pretend to
chat to Lady Demorval about this and that—and all
the time they were taking measurements of the rooms
and the window—and things. And then again she had
never let me hold the key of the jewels before. On that
occasion she was insistent, as she said she feared she
might lose it in travelling." He sniffed again and
smiled faintly—"as though she hadn't travelled with
that key herself hundreds of times before."
"Lady Demorval was gambling?"
"Very heavily indeed."
"At the Casino in the Rue Pigalle?"
"Call it a casino if you will. I suppose it is really
—there's every murderous gambling game under the
sun going on there. They call it the Club Tabarin."
"Who owns the place?"
"Perrigo and Canning."
"Do they indeed?"
"Yes. It's a sort of headquarters—the centre of
all their operations in Paris."


120
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Were you responsible for the murder of the man
found dead there on the night you got Lady Demor-
val out of the place?"
A reminiscent smile flickered for a brief moment
over the drawn face.
"You mean the man whose head was bashed in
with the fizz bottle? No. I had no hand in that. It was
a case of the biter bit. I saw what was coming. Four
of the blighters were all edging towards me. They
were doing their best to look nonchalant—but I saw
the hands go out and grip on the necks of the cham-
pagne bottles. Another son of a gun was strolling over
towards the electric light switches. I got over quietly
to one of the refreshment buffets and pretended I
knew nothing of what was in the air. They were mad
at me—and I knew it."
"Why was this?"
"I'd been into Perrigo's raising hell with the bunch
for enticing Lady Demorval in there. They had
stripped her of every penny she possessed—and of
Lord Demorval's money too. That's why he was sup-
posed to have committed suicide. You can't stay on in
the Corps Diplomatique unless you've a bank balance
the size of a multiplication table. I kicked up the devil
of a shindy. They flung me out on my neck and told me
to go to blazes. I went to the police. The next thing
they knew I was at the private telephone telling the
Surete enough to bring the gendarmerie round. That
caused it. Some of the gentlemanly dressed bandits
inside were detailed off to scalp me and get the debris
cleared away before the raiders arrived."
"But the raiders were too quick for them?"
"They were round almost immediately. They came


THE MYSTERY MAKER 121
in from a local station and I heard them thundering
at the door just as I got to the refreshment buffet. The
lights went out and I ducked. I was out and away from
them as they came at me. I s'pose they all swung at
the spot where my head had been the second before
the lights went out. Something made a most horrible
crunching sound behind me and I knew they had hit
one of their own number on the head. The women had
all gone into hysterics the moment the police began
pounding the door down. They were shrieking blue
murder and I don't suppose they heard me at the win-
dow. Neither did they hear the groaning of the man
they had dropped. But in the darkness they finished
him off. Ugh ! Those champagne bottles were full too.
They must have given him a terrible beating up, be-
cause next morning he was unrecognisable. They hon-
estly thought they had got me. Their mistake was only
discovered when the absence of one of their own num-
ber was discovered—and when news got through to
Perrigo that I was travelling with Lady Demorval
to London."
"That is the truth?"
Varris relapsed again into sheer indifference.
"Take it or leave it," he said. "I don't care a hoot
either way. You just told me I was too big a fool to
do anything else than tell the truth."
"Then why did you remain silent in the dock?"
Varris began to colour again.
"There was no need to rake up old scores," he said
defensively. "The French police had hushed up the
murder, and I didn't see why I should blurt it all out."
"Not at the expense of five years' penal servi-
tude?"


122 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"That wouldn't have helped me. I got five years
for pinching diamonds; not for being implicated in the
raid on the Club Tabarin."
Stayne leaned towards him, and Varris noted, with
a bit of a shock, that he was commanding, dominant
even in that absurd make-up.
"You kept your mouth shut in there for a great
deal bigger reason than a raid on a gambling hell, or
a diamond robbery—or even than the shielding of
Lady Demorval, didn't you?"
Varris nodded with a single stiff jerk of the head.
"What was it? I want to know, Varris, and I want
to know right now. Otherwise you can look out for
yourself now that you're out of gaol—and I warn
you that a letter concerning the whole of the case goes
straight to the authorities concerned; not here—but
in France. Now then."
Varris had blanched. And the last threat drove
him over his breaking point.
He fidgeted nervously in his chair and his finger
tips drummed an unconscious tattoo on the edge of
the table.
"It's—it's not a story I can tell in a single sen-
tence," he said with hesitation, as though hunting
about for the words he wanted.
"Well—tell it in your own way. I won't hurry you."
Varris fixed his eyes on the table-runner and his
fingers picked uncertainly at the braiding.
"Mr. Stayne," he said, "there is the biggest bank
swindle blossoming to life over in Europe that you've
ever heard of in your life. It's not just a matter be-
tween England and France—but all Europe is in-
volved. Operating centres have been established in


THE MYSTERY MAKER
Berlin, Madrid, Rome, Paris, Lisbon, Vienna, Am-
sterdam and Oslo. That is, you'll realise, every coun-
try whose currency has the slightest claim to stability.
The whole thing is as intricate and involved as a
cross-word puzzle in Latin, and I can only give you
the baldest idea of its scope and organisation.
"It's a matter of securities for loans now being
raised by the various banks concerned. The totals run
into incredible figures: millions and millions. Perrigo
and Canning are raising the loans—ostensibly for
huge commercial exploitation schemes in the still only
half-civilised States of South America. But the reason
for the loans does not trouble the banks an iota, and
the reason is that the securities which Perrigo and
Canning are putting up are as gilt-edge as any securi-
ties could well be. For every pound raised they are
depositing securities worth thirty shillings—it's one
of the finest deals a big bank could wish. That is—if
the securities were genuine. But they're not. They're
fakes from beginning to end. They are some of the
most beautiful forgeries I've ever seen. The banks
haven't questioned them. And the simple reason is
that most of it has been worked through Lady De-
morval. You see what it means? Lord and Lady
Demorval have the privilege of ambassadorial im-
munity. They are beyond arrest, and therefore, as our
ambassadors are and have been all over the world,
above suspicion. The Perrigo crowd, having got Lady
Demorval into their clutches, have built up the whole
organisation round her.
"It began in a small way at first: well, smallish,
considering the totals it has now attained. A hundred
thousand, or something like that, was the original


I24
THE MYSTERY MAKER
idea of the haul. Then the thing grew as the possibili-
ties began to dawn on them. Fresh countries were in-
volved, new confederates drawn in, till finally it was
so big that it almost got out of hand.
"Railway stocks, mining shares, controlling inter-
ests in all the biggest motor industries in England and
America, vast holdings in some of the finest and most
prosperous commercial concerns in the Empire—
those are the stocks with which Perrigo and Canning
have stuffed the continental banks. Stuffed 'em tight.
And every single one of them is forged. Forged in
England and smuggled over to Paris and then dis-
tributed with the guarantee of our Embassy on them
to every capital in Europe.
"Perrigo and Canning have taken out their loans
in the currency of each country concerned, bank-notes
and bearer bonds, things that can be cashed in any
bank in the world. They are aiming to make their
get-away soon and then they will vanish, leaving the
whole affair to drift gradually to light.
"By that time the whole crowd of conspirators will
have got clear away to one of the South American
States where all the hunted criminals go; one of the
States that allow no extradition warrants to disturb
the equanimity of its inhabitants. It will take months
before the banks even begin to be suspicious. Interest
on the loans will not be due for a year at least. Mean-
while, the forged securities are locked away in the
vaults, apparently as genuine as actual cash. All Eu-
rope is salted with millions of them. And up till now
the Perrigo crowd are as safe as houses.
"There is just a chance to pull things together be-
fore the crash comes. As yet all their notes and money


THE MYSTERY MAKER
125
are still in Paris. Where, I don't know. For all I know
they may have begun to send it over the Atlantic al-
ready. But when I was last in Paris they had not then
made a move. If those two devils can be collared be-
fore they close down—if the money can be rescued
and returned to the banks before they get away with
it, there is just the chance that the crash can be
averted. But from what you've told me to-night it
looks as though they're already at work."
"It does!" cut in Stayne harshly. "And from what
I can see of it, it's all your own lunatic fault! You'll
have a lot to answer for, Varris, before this affair is
cleared up."


CHAPTER XVII
ARRIS looked at Stayne then with just a glint
* in his eyes.
"That tone doesn't scare me, Mr. Stayne," he said
bitterly. "You're only seeing half the case—the half
you can see with your own eyes. I'm looking at the
rest of it too—and I've nothing to reproach myself
with. I've done my best from first to last. In some
things I may have acted foolishly. I certainly have
never acted criminally, or even played the fool will-
ingly. I couldn't help myself. I was caught up in the
whole web of it myself. Being private secretary to his
lordship almost made me part of the thing."
"But you could have acted before," protested
Stayne.
"Could I? Tell me how! With all that kettle com-
ing to the boil. The moment I opened my mouth to the
authorities the whole thing would have been exposed.
The crash would have come inside an hour. I would
have been the cause of the very thing I was trying to
prevent.
"Besides—put yourself in my shoes. To me it was
all unbelievable, incredible. At first everything seemed
straight and above board. Then, even when I did
begin to suspect, I couldn't believe it. The magnitude,
the daring, the reckless dare-devilry of it was beyond
credence. And by the time I realised the thing really
was crooked it was too big for me. It had already


THE MYSTERY MAKER
passed into the realms of the tremendous menace it
now is. Think of it, Mr. Stayne. Instead of vilifying
me, get your brain to bear on it and work out what it
all means, reason out the possibilities.
"It will be one of the most terrible scandals that
has ever confronted the country. As it has all hap-
pened through the co-operation of one of the ambas-
sadorial staff—or the wife of one, which is tanta-
mount—we can't prevent it becoming a national affair.
It could no longer be regarded as a private thing—
something for the French police to settle and squash.
There would be the Government stamp all over it.
British securities in Europe would topple with a crash,
and British currency values would fall through the
floor. With the touchy state of things in France, not
to mention some other countries, there is not the
slightest doubt that we should be in the midst of an-
other war before we could look round.
"Perrigo and Canning are English, the Demorvals
are English, the forgeries are English, and the whole
conception of the idea and the lesser members of its
executive are all English. The fact that Lord Demor-
val committed suicide would only inflame the conti-
nentals the more. They would know from that that
he knew all about it—and kept his mouth shut. That's
not true, but it's obvious to see that that's what they
would think.
"You see, Mr. Stayne, every country of any stabil-
ity at all in Europe would be holding the baby, as the
saying goes, to the tune of millions—millions: with
not a bob of real money to cover it. If we wanted to
keep out of war—and if we wanted to save our hon-
our at all—England would have to refund every


THE MYSTERY MAKER
129
their pockets, and theirs alone. That would be their
reward—and a colossal one—for the far greater
prize of having wrecked British credit in the great
markets of the Continent.
And it could all have been prevented by anyone
with the sense of a hen. Stayne could see how the man
felt about it and could visualise the ease with which
the thing had progressed beyond his imagination. But
even so, no one but a coward, or one who had lived for
weeks in a cold panic, would have acted as Varris
had done. If he was scared of going to the police—
and Stayne admitted out of hand that Varris was
right there, for there were graver risks attending such
a course—if he had only gone to his own bank man-
ager and communicated his knowledge, the manager
would have had such inquiries set afoot as would have
scotched the whole business, and without publicity.
As it was, the crash was imminent. It might come
that night—or the next morning. And the crash was
inevitable the moment the Perrigo gang got away
with the money. While the money still remained in
Paris there was a hope. All that would be necessary
would be to return the cash, to each bank its own
share, and to leave the financiers behind Perrigo and
Canning with nothing but an enormous expense sheet
to show for their labours, and no loot to meet it with.
Stayne had gone white beneath the pigment and his
cold eyes were glittering ominously. There was a
frosty atmosphere about his whole attitude. Varris
sat back, bolt upright in his chair, and ran his fingers
nervously through his hair.
"Why fly off at me?" he questioned resentfully.
"I've told you all I know, haven't I?"


130 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"No, you haven't—not by a mile!" retorted
Stayne. "Maybe you think Perrigo and Canning are
the real niggers in this woodpile—maybe you know a
lot more yet than you've told me. But to anyone with
half a grain of sense it's obvious that Perrigo and
Canning are not working alone, isn't it?"
"Of course it is. I've already said so. They've got
their confederates firmly established all over"
"Confederates—pish! I'm talking about men big-
ger than Perrigo and Canning ever knew how to be.
Men big enough to conceive the plot to begin with.
Men big enough to put up the preliminary capital re-
quired. Men who could organise such a vast scheme
and bring it through the various exchanges and bank-
ing federations immune. International crooks can't
bring off such a scoop as that—a scoop that must have
taken months to mature. There are bigger fish behind
Perrigo and Canning. Men who have the power to
rope in their own Government's printing works. Noth-
ing but a combine with the whole printing resources
of a Government behind it could have run off enough
of those false share certificates, scrip, etc., to have
done what that crowd has done."
"Well? What has that got to do with me?" de-
manded Varris petulantly. "I didn't engineer the
wretched thing, did I? If I did I wouldn't be here
being snapped at by you. I'd be hitting the outward
bound with several millions stuffed in my suit-cases."
Stayne was wriggling his fingers in an attempt to
hold his patience.
"If that was all there was behind it," he said, "you'd
have opened up about it weeks ago. Now—what was
the big motive that bound you to silence? You'll tell


THE MYSTERY MAKER
me or I'll have half Scotland Yard round here within
ten minutes."
Varris chewed at his underlip. "I think you might
let me off that one," he said at last. "I think I've told
you enough to assure you of my honesty in this affair.
Why ask me to break faith on a matter that is, after
all, only a secondary consideration?"
"There is no secondary consideration in a danger
of this description," Stayne rapped back. "This is an
occasion when the part is as great as the whole."
"Well—anyhow, I've told you enough for you to
get to work on. You can find out the rest for yourself
as you investigate."
"Varris"—Stayne's tone was bitingly smooth, but
there were blue, hot daggers darting about among the
syllables—"in comparison with the enemy I'm only
half armed—but you can take it from me I'm going to
carry every weapon I can possibly get my hands on.
And you've got one that I want more than anything
on earth just now. Now—out with it."
There was a silence between them that slowly
ticked on into a whole minute, a minute of palpitating
battle, challenge on the one side, defiance on the other.
The minute lengthened into two, and still Varris
stared Stayne doggedly between the eyes.
"Bring in your Scotland Yard," he said at last, al-
most inaudibly.
Stayne scarcely heard him. His brain was working
at lightning speed, and on a new track. When he spoke
his eyes were looking on beyond Varris as though his
words were the vocalisation of thoughts far ahead,


THE MYSTERY MAKER
133
'counterfeit' comes out inerasibly on the sensitised
negative if anyone is fool enough to try forgery with
a camera—only an artist of first-class merit—extraor-
dinary merit—could have engraved the plates from
the originals. Isn't that so?"
"It—it seems so to me." Varris seemed to be talk-
ing as though his mouth and throat were choked with
red-hot dust. Stayne paused for a moment in his
smooth flow.
"Who was that perfect artist?" he suddenly de-
manded.
Varris swallowed, and a lump seemed to stick in
his gullet.
"Why ask me?" he whispered. And Stayne saw
that his fingers had recommenced their nervous pluck-
ing at the braiding of the table-runner.
"I am asking you!"
"Well, I don't know."
"Varris, you're a liar. An absolute liar !'*
"I tell you I don't know," repeated Varris hope-
lessly.
"And I tell you that no man ever yet told me a lie
that I couldn't recognise as soon as I looked at his
eyes."
Varris, hardly knowing what he was doing, pulled
his eyes off Stayne as suddenly as though they had
been snapped away on elastic bands.
Stayne whirled on him. "That action alone betrays
you, you poor fool," he shot at him. "Varris, you're
as poor an actor as you are a liar. Over and above
which, you're the most obstinate maniac I've ever en-
countered."
Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he changed his


134
THE MYSTERY MAKER
tone completely. Reaching over the table he grasped
Varris by the wrist and slowly pulled him towards
him.
"Tell me," he said, looking him straight in the face.
"Are you in love?"
Varris, unexpectedly released from a brainstorm of
doubt and fear, opened his eyes wide with astonish-
ment.
"What—me?" he asked. "Me in love? What the
devil do you ask me that for?"
"Never mind why I'm asking. Just take it for
granted that I am. Are you?"
"Good Lord, no! What a silly ass thing to say."
"Are you engaged?"
"Of course I'm not."
"Have you ever been in love in your life?"
"Not to my knowledge. A spot or two of calf-love
perhaps when I was a kid, but I wouldn't rely on it
if I were you."
"Then it's someone connected with your sister,"
said Stayne deliberately.


CHAPTER XVIII
XT ARRIS flared up again. "You leave Marienne
» out of this," he stormed. "Leave her out of it—
or /'// go round to Scotland Yard—and damn quick."
His face was red and his knuckle-tips, clenched on the
able, were fixed till they were all white and shiny.
Stayne relaxed, and his head was nodding in tiny
little half-inch jerks of satisfaction.
"So—so!" he muttered. "Touched the sore spot,
eh? Well, well. That's nice. That brings us so much
nearer the bone. Tell me, Varris, you're very fond
of your sister, aren't you?"
"I'll—I'll brain the man who says a word against
her." Varris was half rearing up on his feet.
"That's as it should be." The bulbous figure oppo-
site was all acquiescence. "Please don't get excited on
my account. I myself think she is an extremely nice
girl. We won't get at loggerheads over that angle of
it. On the contrary, I admire your taste. Believe me, I
think Marienne is one of the sweetest girls I have ever
met."
"Well, then, leave her out of it," demanded the
secretary, hotly.
"I have every hope that we shall be able to. Al-
though, as I'm sure you will admit, she is already
very far in it. But I've noticed, Varris, that when
brother and sister develop family affection to the de-
gree that you two undoubtedly have, it becomes a
bond that is as strong as, and frequently lasts longer

135


136 THE MYSTERY MAKER
than, the more common love of husband and wife.
I'm simply taking the points as they come now. Mari-
enne was the first to approach me on this affair. She
was terribly agitated—as you were. She, too, kept
stalling when it came to particular points in the nar-
rative. It was obvious to anyone who has had any
experience at all of human nature that she was shield-
ing someone.
"Not unnaturally I presumed it was you. I judged
that either you had intended taking the Demorval
diamonds or that you were directly responsible for
pulping the skull of the man found murdered in the
Club Tabarin.
"Now I find you doing exactly the same thing.
Every time I've asked you a direct question that leads
to a certain line of investigation you hedge, you vacil-
late, you back and fill—and finally you tell deliberate
lies. Even a fool would realise that there is a reason
behind it all. You're both trying to shield someone.
As there is no particular entanglement in your own
life we must look for the answer in connection with
Marienne."
"Why there?" snapped Varris.
"Because you have already told the truth about
everybody else concerned in the case. You've shown
up Lord Demorval in a bad light—or, at least, in a
poor light. You've painted Lady Demorval in her un-
doubted colours, although I'll everlastingly hold it to
your credit that you made more than one effort for
her. You have admitted to being something of a fool
yourself in the way you've handled your end of the
case.
"It all boils down to the theory that you are shield-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
137
ing someone very dear to you—or, if not that, a very
great friend of someone who is dear to you. As we
know it is not Marienne herself it must be someone
very dear to her. It's all very simple, isn't it?
"Now then, Varris, who originally provided the
Perrigo gang with the forged plates?"
Varris reached out a shaky hand for another ciga-
rette. He lit it with studious care, though the flame
trembled badly.
Stayne regarded him now without malice.
"You'll tell me," he said, "or I'll tackle Marienne
herself on it."
"Only a cold-blooded brute like you," said Varris
distinctly/'would think of doing that."
"This is a serious business, my dear Varris. And
now that I know so much I don't think she would hesi-
tate to tell. Marienne has, I think, considerably more
firmness of character than you."
Varris winced. "The man who forged the share
certificates was Arthur Raymond," he said quietly.
"And who is Arthur Raymond?"
"Marienne's fiance."
Stayne did not move. The ash on the end of his
cigarette glowed red in a long intake of smoke. He
blew it out in a long pale stream that came slowly
through his lips.
"Indeed. How very interesting," he remarked. "I
would hardly have thought it." Varris did not notice
that the muscles of his face had suddenly gone stiff.
"Probably not. But you can't get away from facts."
"I have discovered that, to my great regret, on
many occasions." His voice was level, but his fingers
were grinding the cigarette stub to a hot mash. He


THE MYSTERY MAKER
ground the long red ash, too, scorching his fingers,
but if he felt the sudden stab of pain he did not show
it. He continued in his subdued conversational tones.
"It is surprising to me that both of you should have
found so paltry a consideration so effective a bar to
imparting such essential information."
"That is a matter we need not discuss here," said
Varris. "So far as I am concerned it need never have
been known. But some of you people would do any-
thing to hurt a woman."
Stayne looked down at his knees and casually
stroked his hair with a hand that was almost listless.
"That is a particularly stupid remark to make," he
said off-handedly.
"Is it? Why bring the matter up at all? It won't
do any good. You'll probably get him five or ten
years, pat yourself on the back, tell yourself you're
one hell of a clever fellow—and break a girl's heart."
"Is—she—is she very much in love with him?"
Stayne was not even looking at him. The matter ap-
peared to be too petty for serious attention.
"Madly. Ask yourself, Mr. Stayne. Would a girl
of her character risk her own freedom to shield an
obvious criminal unless—pah, what's the use of talk-
ing to you ? You'd never understand if you lived to be
a hundred. London's Perfect Bachelor, aren't you?
Half the scheming mothers in Mayfair have traipsed
their daughters through Curzon Square, haven't
they?"
Stayne indifferently struck a match and flicked it
across the room.
"Happen to know where Raymond is now?" he
asked.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
139
"Yes, I do," growled Varris. "He's located in a
mansion flat on the coolest side of the North Pole.
Go on—why not cut the heart out of her? Why not
telephone her and chortle out the news that you know
who committed the forgeries? There's a 'phone
there. Tell her. Go on. Tell her you'll get him into
gaol with the same ease that you got me out of it."
Stayne inspected his finger-nails. "I was going to
'phone her—but I don't think I will now. I—er—I
rather think I've got all the information I want.
Thank you for what you've told me, Varris. It'll help
me; help like hell. Let me see now, what was I going to
say? Oh, yes. About yourself. You'd better go to the
office to-morrow. Yes, you'd better begin at Bishops-
gate at, say—er—ten o'clock. That's the usual office
hours in that neighbourhood. I'll be there myself to
see you started, and to explain the various bits and
pieces you can do to give an air of verisimilitude to
your presence there. Tembridge and I will be going
over to Paris later in the day. Use this place as long
as it is safe. I'll arrange about further funds for you
at the office. Excuse me a moment, I must 'phone Tem-
bridge."
He picked up the instrument and put the number
through.
"Hello! Is that Belham?" he called.
"Yes, sir."
"Put me through to Mr. Tembridge, will you,
please?"
"I'm very sorry, sir, Mr. Tembridge is out."
"Oh! Did he leave any message?"
"Not with me, sir—there may be one in the usual
place."


140
THE MYSTERY MAKER
Stayne was nettled. It was disturbing to have care-
fully prearranged plans blown up by an unexpected
move on his assistant's part. That sort of thing gen-
erally spelled trouble. Tembridge, by hook or crook,
would always manage to get word through to his
chief before embarking on a move of his own. There
was valid reason for his not using the telephone, for
Stayne had already hinted that Hawker might have a
tapper on the wire—and if that call were traced the
Bayswater retreat would be knocked off the earth.
Stayne felt more and more convinced that there was
something in the wind.
"Have you any idea where he was going?" he in-
quired.
When Belham's voice came on again it was tinc-
tured with a hint of surprise at the nature of his own
information.
"I can't say precisely what his destination was,"
he replied, "but—ah—he was wearing full evening
dress. And he requested me to put all his—ah—night
club membership cards on his dressing-table."
"Did he?—damn him!"
"He did, sir."
"Thank you, Belham. How many did he take with
him?"
"Four, sir. The Merry Andrew, the Burnt Wings,
the Avalon, and the Dead Rat."
"A noble assortment. I'll be home myself as soon
as I can get a taxi."
"The police are outside, sir. He partakes of the
nature of a gentleman selling hot chestnuts from a
barrow. Looks quite odd in Curzon Square, sir."
"I'll come in the other way. Thanks."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
141
Stayne took his adieu of Varris and let himself out
of the boarding house, still protesting in a high
wheezy voice against the general inutility of all
boarding houses that were not provided with electric
lifts.
Out in the street he heard a newsboy shouting
something utterly incoherent from the contents bill
of one of the late extra editions of the evening news-
papers. He bought one as he hailed a taxi. His heart
gave a great bound as he read the flaring placard,
"Escaped prisoner recaptured."
The news paragraph was brief but illuminating.
"An official message this evening states that Templer
Varris, the prisoner who, with the connivance of two
men in a blue Silent Six limousine, escaped from Scrubs
Prison this morning, was recaptured at an obscure
address in Wapping. He was emerging from a tavern
when two detectives closed with him. Varris offered
but a brief resistance and afterwards said that he was
glad to have the matter over. As in the dock, he stub-
bornly refused to say anything about himself. The
reason for his reckless break-out from gaol remains a
mystery. Chief Inspector Hawker was responsible for
the tracing and arrest of the escaped man."
Stayne was actually chortling when he reached the
end of the message. Three possibilities presented
themselves to him at that moment. Either Hawker
had committed a gigantic blunder—a thought which
was ruled out almost as soon as it was made—or
Hawker was playing a deeper game than ever Stayne
imagined him capable—or someone higher up was
putting in some fast work.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
H3
had got his man under lock and key. And he wouldn't
be fool enough to put a man under lock and key un-
less he was convinced he had got the right man.
Someone, some high-souled young adventurer in
the service of Intelligence, must have voluntarily gone
back to prison in Varris's stead. It was curious, to say
the least of it. Varris would not be very difficult to
duplicate in a physical sense. He was one of a type of
Englishmen of whom there are several in every
crowd. Tallish, slim, fairly good-looking—one of the
type that comes down from the 'Varsities every year
in dozens. Properly primed with knowledge of his
part by the higher units of the Secret Service, he could
pass muster for a little while anyhow. And, having
got their man, with his confession, and such other
proofs as he himself could furnish with a bit of well-
simulated acting, it would not be a very difficult job to
carry through.
There remained the problem of the finger prints.
It was inconceivable that the prison authorities had
not yet taken Varris's prints. That would be one of
the very first ordeals he would have to undergo as
soon as his decision not to appeal was filed. With that
action he passed into the ranks of convicted criminals,
and his finger prints would be added to the records
with all dispatch.
If the authorities did not again take the finger
prints, and compare them, all would be well. But to
Stayne it seemed that there would be very little pos-
sibility of that. As soon as the newly recaptured man's
prints were recorded there would be a holy flare-up in
Scrubs Prison. The cat would be out of the bag with a
vengeance.


144
THE MYSTERY MAKER
So that, viewed from all points, it appeared that,
whoever was responsible for Varris's rearrest, it was
only intended as a temporary move; one to cover
something else that would require to be done during
the time that police suspicion and watchfulness for
Varris himself was lulled to rest by his recapture.
And Stayne wanted to know, urgently wanted to
know, what was at the back of the brain of the Man
Higher Up.
He entered his house and hurriedly shed the guise
of S. G. Daleson. In a few minutes he was up in the
private cabinet and talking to Number One.
"Hello, Chief—fast work, I must say," he warmly
commented. "But how long will it last?"
"Long enough for you to get Varris through the
Customs at Dover, we think."
"You do, eh? What makes you think the necessity
will arise?"
"Varris would be extremely helpful to you over
there, surely?"
"Well, he would and he wouldn't. He's as loyal as
a dog. But he hasn't the happy knack of quick
thought. You have to hit him on the head with it be-
fore he notices it."
"Still, it would save you time."
"Maybe—but I think it would be risky. He isn't
one of us, Chief, and I wouldn't rely on his nous in an
emergency. If Perringo and Canning, or any of that
bunch, spotted him over there, I should be in a lively
hole. And, candidly, I don't think he has the natural
speed to avoid detection."
"You're tired to-night, Colonel?"
Stayne detected a faintly bantering note in the


THE MYSTERY MAKER
softly modulated voice at the other end. His mind
performed a lightning back somersault and landed
him back at the beginning of the job. It raced over the
affair point by point and phase by phase. He arrived
right along the line of reasoning, back to where he
stood—and still failed to get the Chief's hint.
"Feel a bit muggy to-night," he apologised. "Per-
haps I'll"
"Had some bad news?"
"No—oh, no. Just a bit depressing and—and all
that. I—oh, by gosh! I've got you, sir. That's to cover
the Paris end, isn't it?"
"That's as we thought. Time is pretty short and
the Perrigo crowd might take the bit between their
teeth. That would be pretty fatal. They would cut
and clear—and the fat would be in the fire. As it is
that news is bound to get to Paris. In all probability
they already know that Varris has been recaptured.
That will put their minds at rest, and if only the man
in Scrubs can keep his head and not arouse suspicion
you may be able to get away with it before the sky
bursts."
"Thank you, Chief. I'm all right at this end. I'll be
crossing over to-morrow night. Have you heard from
Twenty-two?"
"No. Had no news here."
"H'm. Well, you might do a little thing for me,
will you, please? Get the scouts on him. He left here
some little time ago all dolled up in glad rags, and
taking with him four night-club cards. Those clubs
are the Merry Andrew, the Burnt Wings, the Avalon,
and the Dead Rat. He's in one of those clubs, and I
want to know which."


146
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"I'll do it now, Colonel. Hold the line, will you?
It's only a 'phone job."
In less than five minutes Number One was back on
the other end of the line.
"Thatyou, Colonel?" he asked. "Number Twenty-
two is in the Avalon—arrived less than ten minutes
ago from the Ritz Park. He has a lady with him."
"I rather guessed as much."
"The lady is Marienne V."
"And I guessed that much too. All right, sir. I'll go
round. I think there's something pretty big smoulder-
ing up round there. Good-night."
"And good luck," came softly over the wire.
Stayne hurriedly changed into evening dress and
let himself out.
As he walked down towards the taxi rank an itin-
erant vendor of hot roast chestnuts on the opposite
side of the square crawled laboriously to life and be-
gan plodding along in his wake.
Stayne waited for him at the corner, fumbled for
some coppers, bought a bag, and said: "Shouldn't
worry about following me, old son. It's a coldish night
and you'd have a miserable time if I felt like playing
hide and seek to-night. I don't. But here's my address
for the next hour or two. The Avalon Dance and
Supper Club. It's a night club—one of the posh ones
—in Dean Street. Tembridge is there too. I'm going
to meet him. Good-night. Here, take these fool nuts
back; I don't want them."
He walked off towards the rank, leaving the plain-
clothes man, hot under the collar, staring after him.
Stayne arrived at the club, paused for a while as
though hunting for change, and with a smile saw an-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
other cab drive up on the other side of the road and
wait there stationary. The Mystery Maker walked
over, stuck his head in at the window, and said: "Sus-
picious lot of devils to-night, aren't you? Now watch
me go right in. You'll be all right there, officer—this
is the only entrance."
He swung over and entered the club, nettled. It
was so darn silly to keep shadowing a man so obvi-
ously. But Stayne guessed he was one of the under-
lings who had been given a job to do and was deter-
mined to see it through, though Stayne tried a thou-
sand ruses to throw him off the scent.
He went in through the wide swing doors and on
into the cocktail lounge. Late suppers were being
served on that floor—a big low room, rather loudly
appointed, seen dimly through more glass doors at
the far end. From downstairs came the faint sounds
of a jazz orchestra playing the plug number from the
latest musical comedy hit.
He ordered a drink and glanced swiftly through
into the long supper-room. So far as he could see
there was nobody in there he knew, certainly neither
Tembridge nor Marienne. Night club habitues are
apt to change clubs three or four times in a night, but
he was loth to think they had departed already.
"They're probably downstairs, dancing," he
mused. "In that case Marienne is going to be per-
fectly sweet and come over to my table—and she will
ask me to dance. And if she does that I shall get up
and yelp. I know I shall. It would be just my wretched
luck to have to run across her to-night after—after
that confounded rogue Raymond. What in the name
of all that's good and beautiful does a charming crea-


148
THE MYSTERY MAKER
ture like Marienne want to get tangled up with a
criminal for? Blest if I know. Women beat me—beat
me flat. John, my son, you've done quite right to stay
up on your little bachelor shelf."
He drank his whisky-and-soda and glanced round
as a new-comer entered and passed through to the
supper-room. The stranger nodded affably as he went
through and muttered a polite "Nice evening."
Stayne nodded back and felt his instincts rearing up
and warning him against the man. He frowned a lit-
tle, but knew that he had subconsciously taken an in-
stinctive dislike to him. For the life of him he couldn't
tell why, but over a long course of years he had come
to have a ferocious faith in the rectitude of his in-
stincts.
The man seemed all right. He was well groomed,
and even a perfectly dressed man might have been
excused wondering who his tailor was. For if Stayne
himself was perfectly dressed, the stranger's clothes
were super-perfect. There was not a line wrong with
them; he seemed to have slipped into them without
disturbing a single button. And there was nothing
wrong with his quiet "Nice evening." That was night
club etiquette. All were members, and it was under-
stood that all members knew each other. Formal in-
troductions were just plain bosh, and for the sake of
the general gaiety of the evening the usual assump-
tion was that everybody should be as friendly as they
felt inclined to each other.
And yet he would willingly have laid a thousand to
one that there was something wrong about him. Noth-
ing flashy—but just wrong—psychologically wrong.
It stood out around him like an aura.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Who? Perrigo? Never heard of him." Stayne
grunted. "Must have made a mistake. Still, thank
you, sergeant."
He moved away, hectically conscious of the knowl-
edge that if he stayed there much longer he would
have betrayed himself. The nape of his neck was
crawling and a little red-hot elevator was whizzing
up and down his spine.
So that was Perrigo, was it? Now what on earth
did his presence there portend? Had he heard the
news of Varris's escape from gaol earlier in the morn-
ing and rushed over from Paris to investigate? Had
he suddenly taken a dose of cold feet and decided to
get as near as possible to the source of immediate dan-
ger? Or—and this was the biggest question of all—
had his tremendous coup reached that point of ma-
turity when it was now safe to launch out and begin
picking the plums? In other words, had Perrigo al-
ready begun to shift the money from Paris?
Why else had he come to London? Lady Demor-
val had gone back to France some days ago. He must
have known of her presence there. So his sudden ar-
rival in town could have had no connection with her
end of the affair.
One thing was certain, he was taking no pains at
all to hide his identity. On the contrary, he was going
to some lengths to show himself where he was well
known. The commissionaire for one knew that he was
in the Avalon that night. The waiter, too, would be
able to swear to it—and doubtless before the evening
was out the head waiter would be roped in for a chat.
It certainly looked as though he was out to establish
an alibi. In that case things looked very black indeed.


THE MYSTERY MAKER 151
It implied the sinister fact that the last phase of the
gigantic plot was already happening in Paris.
Stayne looked gloomily at the wall and hid his agi-
tation behind a blank wall of seeming indifference.
The brighter spots of the situation brought a brief ray
of satisfaction. Tembridge was there in the building
anyhow: he would not be working single-handed, try-
ing to keep half-a-dozen ends up at once. And, since
Perrigo was here in London, he could not be hasten-
ing his deviltries in Paris. If Perrigo wanted to get
back to his headquarters there were only two routes
open to him—either by boat or aeroplane. And
Stayne assured himself that whether Perrigo went by
sea or air he would have company on that return trip.
Mr. S. G. Daleson would be there with him, every
inch of the way.
Stayne moved over to another cabinet and put in
ten minutes' rapid telephoning. He emerged with the
old chilly glitter back in his eyes and the determined
line of his mouth was set and grim. If Mr. Perrigo
wanted an alibi he should have it all right! But not in
the way he expected.
The chances were a thousand to one that Perrigo
would show himself down there on the dance floor
when he had finished his supper. Doubtless he would
make his alibi complete so far as the Avalon was con-
cerned. There would be waiters to chat to, friends to
nod to and fling streamers at, a bottle of "the boy"
for the orchestra and a request for a couple of his
favourite tunes to the leader.
Stayne made his way downstairs, having first
waited to see a man with a tray of wet violets take up


152
THE MYSTERY MAKER
his position on the kerb outside. He was a dirty, di-
lapidated-looking specimen. His hat was bedraggled
till there was neither shape nor stiffness left in it. His
face carried the grime of many days and a four-day
straggle of beard stuck out in a raggedy bristle from
his cold jowl. He was swaying mechanically, first on
one foot and then on the other, in an effort to keep a
torpid circulation moving through his chilled limbs,
the while he canted in a monotonous sing-song drone:
"Vi'lets, lady? Vi'lets, lady? Sweet vi'lets? Vi'lets?"
But as he came to the swing doors of the Avalon
and stuck his broken boots against the kerb, Stayne
saw the secret sign pass, a sign so simple and natural
that it would have passed without notice among a
dozen trained watchers—the hard drawing at a cigar-
ette which had gone out and the tossing of it away
with just the tiniest frown of annoyance. It was the
Interrogation sign of the Secret Service from one un-
known man to another. It implied the unspoken ques-
tion : "Are you the man I'm told to look for?"
Stayne answered by flicking an imaginary speck of
cigarette ash from his coat sleeve—and made for the
stairs.
The unkempt wreck scarcely seemed to have not-
iced. Stayne heard his droned out, hopeless monody,
"Vi'lets, lady? Sweet vi'lets? Vi'lets?" as he made his
way down to the lower floor.
A brisk foxtrot was in progress and the floor was
full. The Avalon was, for the time being, the fashion-
able rendezvous among the smaller Soho night clubs.
In the queer way of changing and waning fashions the
Avalon was at the height of its popularity, riding the
crest with a swing and a glitter of tinsel. Packed on


THE MYSTERY MAKER 153
the restricted floor were over a hundred dancers,
the men all in formal tails and the women in dazzling
frocks.
Stayne caught a waiter's eye and inquired for a va-
cant table—"a small one if there's one going, just
enough for myself."
"There's one over in the corner, sir, by the palms
there. It's not very good and you can't see much of the
floor—but it's the best we can do, sir; we're pretty
full to-night."
"Thanks, I'll go after this dance. A botde of Lan-
son—fifteen, please."
While he was talking he caught sight of Tem-
bridge dancing smoothly and easily, in spite of the
absurdly crowded floor, with Marienne. He waited
till they had swung round and were hidden by the
crush of dancers at the far end. Then he slipped along
by the wall and reached his table.
Twice he saw Tembridge and Marienne swing past
him. They seemed supremely happy to be dancing to-
gether, she laughing gaily at his whispered comments
in her ear, he swinging her out of danger from thrust-
ing elbows and awkward feet with the neat skill of the
born dancer.
Stayne would have sworn that he had not been
noticed, yet the third time they passed him Tem-
bridge definitely gave him the sign—"Do you want to
be known?" Stayne returned the affirmative, and
when the trot was finished Tembridge came over,
alone.
"I guessed you'd be around before long," he said.
"I left enough bait at Curzon Square to have hooked
a whale."


154
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Where's MissVarris?"
"We're right away over in the other corner. I left
her attacking an ice the size of a tennis ball."
Stayne was in no free-and-easy mood.
"Is there any reason why you couldn't have left
word about your movements?" he asked.
Tembridge nodded. "Yes—sure—a good one," he
said.
"What?"
"Marienne. I told you, Chief, you'd have to step
along lively." Then he caught the cold, fish-like stare
in Stayne's eyes.
"Honest," he said in an altered tone. "I've had the
devil of a job shaking off Hawker. Thought I'd never
get anywhere where I could get in touch with you.
We've been right out on a long tour through the wilds
of Highbury trying to get clear. There has been two
of them this time—on my boot tags from the time I
left home."
"What's wrong now?"
"Hawker's mad! He's hoppin' mad. Says he never
authorised that statement to the Press. Says we've
given away information that should never have been
divulged without Headquarters' sanction."
"He blames us for it, does he?"
"All the time and always."
Stayne frowned. "Hawker must be losing his
touch," he muttered. "Why—he's only got to go
round and see the papers concerned. There isn't an
editor in London who wouldn't tell one of the Yard
chiefs the origin of a statement like that. Have you
seen Hawker?"
"Yes. He's out for blood. Says he won't have us


THE MYSTERY MAKER
dancing around on his stamping ground. And what
d'you think now?"
"What?"
"Says he's going to search Curzon Square."
Stayne's eyes narrowed.
"He said that, did he?" he growled.
"Sure. Says he'll be along there before midnight
with a search warrant and a squad of men. He was so
catty he could hardly speak. Who have they got in
Scrubs?"
"One of the S.S. men. Hawker doesn't suspect,
does he?"
"Hasn't an inkling. He was crowing over it like a
hen that's just laid an over-size egg. Said he swore
to the heads that he'd have Varris back under lock
and key inside twenty-four hours. And he's chortled
at me for having done it. And he's almighty nasty
about it. He swore he'd have Varris on the grill and
roast him till he squealed."
Stayne smiled.
"He won't have much chance of making that lad
squeal," he said. "He doesn't know himself who got
Varris out of gaol. All the grilling in the world
wouldn't make him cough up.
"It relaxes the watch at the ports. We shall be able
to get through. See that everything is ready for a
quick get-away to-morrow afternoon. I've just left
Varris. He's all right. And I've got the rest of the in-
formation out of him. It's going to be a sticky business
—one way and another." He sighed and turned with
a breath of relief as the waiter arrived with the cool
green bottle in its silver tub of ice.
"Does Marienne know?" he asked guardedly.


iS6
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"No. I've kept the papers from her."
Stayne watched the waiter disappear.
"She may find out before the night is through. If
she does, tell her. Tell her it's just a a move on the
part of the police to allay public uneasiness. Varris
is still safe with me. Have a spot?"
"No. I'm not drinking to-night."
"Well, if you should notice I've got very drunk as
the evening wears on, don't be too surprised. If Mari-
enne notices it, tell her anything you wish. Tell her it's
a little failing of mine, and that it only happens very
occasionally—otherwise I'm almost respectable."
He paused a moment and then asked quietly: "Do
you think Hawker was in earnest about that search
party?"
"He certainly seemed so to me. Gosh, he was mad.
He says we've been riding the high horse over him too
long—and now we've started doing it rough-shod.
He says he's going to put a stopper on our game if he
has to take 8b to pieces stone by stone."
"I don't mind him doing that so much," said Stayne
thoughtfully. "There are one or two little arrange-
ments at 8b that all the searchers in England couldn't
find. But I'm worried about that cellar entrance. If
he finds that, we are going to be in the very devil of a
pickle."
"Think he will?"
"It's fairly well hidden. But he's bound to ferret
down to the fact that there are only three secret ways
of getting into, and out of, a house: over the roofs,
through the walls or from a passage underground. If
the first two draw a blank he will concentrate on the
third till he's got it. After all, it's only a matter of


THE MYSTERY MAKER 157
shifting the right barrels around and not being put off
the scent by the other smaller cellars."
"It'll be a nasty smack for us if he does find it!"
"It will alter every plan I've made. Bluntly, what
it means is that we shall have to find a new place—one
with equal facilities. And I don't think that's humanly
possible at short notice."
"That's why I thought it necessary to see you. I
couldn't stay on there. I had to shake Hawker off. I
reckon we had best get back to Curzon Square and
hold the fort from that end. Maybe we can bluff Haw-
ker out of it."


CHAPTER XXI
HE devil of it is that I can't move from here,"
"Can't? Why not?" asked Tembridge in surprise.
"Perrigo is upstairs."
"What?"
"Saw him as I came in. He's up there now, feeding
his ugly face and making himself affable all round. He
will be down here before long. For heaven's sake
don't let Marienne see him. She will give the game
away as sure as the band is going to play 'Hallelujah*
another dozen times to-night."
"Well, where do we get off now?"
"You hold on at that end. I've an idea about Mr.
Perrigo. And if it happens to be right we shall have
him nicely sewn up in a sack."
"I'd like to rub his nose up and down his spine,"
said Tembridge fervently. He rubbed his hands softly
together.
"Nice thought, but it wouldn't help much." Stayne
chuckled right down in his chest. "I'd got something
fixed up for you!" he said darkly. "Something to teach
you not to take Miss Varris out to night clubs and
think you can get away with it on an old war-horse like
me. However, it will serve its turn here just the same.
If Perrigo starts yelping, go for him, pretend you've
made a mistake, do anything, but keep him from get-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 159
ting up those stairs. You'll see what I mean when the
shindy begins. Now you'd better go back to your little
friend—and I wish you joy."
"Marienne is quite all right for a few minutes,"
said the other with an airy wave. "We understand
each other perfectly."
"And that's not the first time I've heard that," said
Stayne. "You had better bring her over here when
the next dance comes on. They're just getting ready
for it now. She will be fairly out of sight here behind
these palms. I want to talk to her for a few minutes
before our friend upstairs puts in an appearance. See
if she has finished yet with that tennis ball."
Tembridge, self-assured and apparently as care-
free as a schoolboy out on the spree, went off practis-
ing a new Charleston kick all to himself as he went.
Stayne watched him go. Suddenly he stopped his sky-
larking and hurried across the floor. Just for a mo-
ment Stayne watched him in mild surprise. Then he
saw what was behind his assistant's urgent move. He
had placed himself in a few swift strides in the direct
line of vision between Marienne, sitting demurely at
her table, and the slope of the entrance stairs.
Coming leisurely down the stairs, humming a
snatch of song to himself, and looking round the floor
pleasantly, was the immaculate figure of Perrigo. He
nodded to the manager, smiled cheerfully at his pro-
fuse greeting and passed along within a yard of Mari-
enne's table. Tembridge, leaning with his hands on
the table, kept himself between her and the man she
hated, the while he talked and chatted and pulled her
leg gracefully about her capacity for absorbing va-
nilla ices.


160 THE MYSTERY MAKER
Stayne could only follow the action by craning his
neck round the great tubs of palms that shielded him
from the now busily playing band. But he saw the
swift play of it and the neatness with which it was
done.
That knack of doing things on the spur of the mo-
ment, of taking an awkward situation in his stride and
of wriggling out of it by some twist or other was only
one of the qualities that bound the two together in a
bond that seemed careless enough on the face of it,
but which really had its roots very deeply planted in-
deed. Marienne had not the slightest idea of what had
happened. She just sat and laughed up at his cheerful
antics. Then as the band struck up he whisked her out
of her seat.
"Come along," he said, "let's have a swing while
we can. The floor will be stiff with blighters in a min-
ute." They went circling away to a quick one-step,
Marienne unconscious of the fact that her back was
turned the whole time to the side table where Perrigo
sat, beamingly watching the waiter fizz the cork from
a magnum.
They only went round once. As they tripped by the
orchestra platform Tembridge whispered, "There's
a friend of yours here I'd like you to meet—would
you care to?"
"Why, of course," she said. "I haven't recognised
anyone here—who is it?"
"I'll show you. Break off when we get round the
palms again. It's a he. And he wants to see you urg-
ently."
They swung out of the ruck on the fast-filling floor,


THE MYSTERY MAKER 161
and Marienne found herself face to face with the
Mystery Maker.
He rose and pushed the only other chair clear of
the table for her.
"Delighted to see you again so soon, Miss Var-
ris," he said. "Won't you please sit down?" Then,
turning, he said: "Tembridge, you'll have somebody
collaring your own table if you don't grab it yourself.
Hurry, my son, before you're right out in the cold."
Tembridge passed him an eyeful that was neither
polite nor respectful. But Stayne just failed to notice
it. He was swaying ever so slightly, and a suspicion of
a hiccough escaped him. "Waiter," he called, and
there was an expansive thickening of his voice, "an-
other bottle of Lanson—fifteen."
Marienne eyed them in undisguised surprise. Tem-
bridge caught her hand and, helping her into her
chair, whispered, "It's all right, Miss Varris—he
gets that way at times. Just a little squiffy. He will
get worse during the evening, but don't take any
notice. I'll be back in a minute or two." He was off
and away before she could reply.
She sat and stared after his retreating figure, with
her forehead knit with puzzled lines.
"Weill" she thought. "This is a queer sort of an
evening. Stayne squiffy?" Her hero, the acme of pol-
ish and correct behaviour—squiffy in front of the
poshest crowds of London's night life. And taking no
trouble to hide it either. What did Tembridge want
to leave her with him for, knowing he was half tipsy.
"Miss Varris," said a voice beside her that was
having a slight difficulty in making itself distinct. "I'm
awf'ly pleased to be—that is, for you to be sitting


THE MYSTERY MAKER
here because, if y'know what I mean, s'nice to have
you around. See?"
"Yes, I see," said Marienne, nervously diving into
a tiny handbag in a frantic effort to appear uncon-
cerned.
Stayne drank deeply of the bubbly wine.
"Seen th' evening papers, th' final editions?" he
asked.
No: she hadn't. She'd seen them all except the
finals. And the news was so marvellously wonderful
that she didn't want to see another paper again as
long as she lived.
Stayne opened a late extra and laid it on the table
before her. "Thass why I asked you," he said. "An'
I wanted to tell you, before you saw it, s'all a lot of
rot. See? S'all a lot of abs'lute rot. Templer was sit-
ting down all nice and comfy in his sitting-room when
that was in the Press. Talking to me, he was—s'large
as life. They got the wrong feller. See ? Got the wrong
feller and s'all a lot of rot."
Marienne hardly knew what to make of it. Defin-
ite statements from official sources were not to be
doubted. And there it was in black and white, as
authoritative a declaration as anyone could ask. But
then, if it had been so, surely Tembridge would have
broken the news to her. They had been together
nearly three hours now, and he must have known. He
had bought papers himself. Surely he would have said
something about it. It was all very unsettling and con-
fusing.
"And there's another thing I wanted to see you


THE MYSTERY MAKER
163
about, m'dear," the bibulous voice went on. Stayne
took another swig and filled up his glass to the brim.
Marienne's was still standing untouched. She made a
pretence of sipping at it, mostly because her throat
had gone as dry as a sandstorm.
"Yes, there's cert'nly another thing I want to see
you about. That feller Perrigo. That ruffian—that
out-and-out scamp—y'know the feller I mean? Per-
rigo, the blighter who got Raymond into trouble."
Marienne started as though she had been stabbed
and the colour drained from her cheeks. She looked
quickly round at the extraordinary man beside her
with a wild look of dismay on her face. But Stayne
wasn't even looking in her direction. He was peering
across the room, with an eyelid half drawn over one
eye and an alcoholic squint in the other. Tembridge,
in his free-and-easy way, was whirling through the
crush with a newly found partner in his arms.
"Perrigo. Thass th' feller, m'dear. Want to tell
you about him. Want to tell you not to start playing a
lot of feminine antics if you should sudd'nly catch
sight of him. See? Keep your head. Don't make a
scene with the blighter. He's here, m'dear. See? He's
here, right here in this room. And he's going to get
the s'prise of his life in a minute. So's Tembridge, the
young pup. So's you, m'dear. I'm sorry about that.
But I can't—ho! help myself there. You're included
in the crowd. See?"
Marienne laid a hand on his arm. "Do you—did I
hear you say Perrigo was here—in London?" she
asked unbelievingly.
"Thass right, m'dear. He's here—in this club. And


THE MYSTERY MAKER 165
M.C.-ship to the winds, dashed on to the floor, wrig-
gling like an eel among the press of dancers.
"Stop! Stop !" he called to the leader, but above the
blare of the band and the scuff of feet on the floor his
voice did not carry.
But those around him heard him, and from his
mere appearance they sensed that something was
wrong. They ceased dancing. The conductor, turning
round to see what was going wrong, saw the manager
frantically waving to him. His baton slowly dropped
to his side, and he cupped a hand to his ear to hear
what was being shouted to him.
"A raid! A raid!" Slowly the music died away and
the dancing stopped. The word went round in a flash.
"A raid—the police were in."
"Ladies and gentlemen"—the manager was up on
the orchestra rostrum—"I must ask you, please, not
to get excited. For some reason best known to them-
selves the police are raiding this establishment." Per-
rigo's magnum went over with a crash. "Ladies and
gentlemen, please remain just where you are and carry
on as usual. Nobody here is violating the law, for the
Avalon is licensed up till midnight. There is no need
for"
The rest of it was drowned in a wild scramble for
wraps and furs and handbags in an effort to get out
before the police arrived. In a valiant effort to restore
normal decorum the band broke out once more into
the lively syncopations of "Hallelujah," and, for the
first time in her excitement, Marienne noticed that
Stayne was up and standing away from her. With one
hand out unsteadily against the wall he was keeping


166
THE MYSTERY MAKER
his balance, glaring through the hurry and bustle with
a baleful eye on Perrigo, who was bawling lustily for
his hat and coat.
He began walking towards him, hiccoughing gently
to himself.


CHAPTER XXII
A LL in a moment the hurry and the bustle ceased.
New arrivals were entering, coming down the
stairs with unfamiliar but purposeful tread, wearing
dress clothes with an unconscious but resolute air.
Two—four—eight—twelve—sixteen of them all
told, a stalwart crowd, not one of them under six
feet, a bunch tough enough to have held the exits to
the shadiest dance hall in London. "Hallelujah" died
stillborn.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please!" squeaked the
manager in an unhappy voice. "It's quite all right. The
management regret it exceedingly, but if you will just
answer the few questions that these police officers will
put to you, it will be all over in a few minutes." Per-
rigo was half-way across the floor on his way out.
Stayne was within a yard of him.
An awkward, constrained silence settled over the
crowd as the officers came down. The man at the lead
was a tall, well-cut figure. He carried the air of high
authority all over him, and it was obvious from the
first moment that he was in charge.
He paused on the third step from the bottom, his
eyes roving over the crush of sheepish, self-conscious
people on the floor. The others passed him, and took
possession of the floor.
For a moment the leader's eyes rested on Perrigo,
167


THE MYSTERY MAKER
scanned him as though mentally tabulating the finer
details of his description, and then passed on to
Stayne, swaying unstably beside him. He smiled when
he saw him. Stayne was standing up to it nobly, doing
his best to look the officer in the eyes—and failing
gorgeously. He hiccoughed again, loudly, and the
sound brought a ripple of laughter from people whose
nerves were over-taut.
The leader made a little gesture with his hand for
attention. He played his part admirably. Among the
whole sixteen he was the only one who looked as
though he really liked wearing evening dress. Two
others who had been sitting down at different tables
all the evening got up and joined the party. They
passed written notes to the man on the fourth stair,
who thrust them into his pocket without reading
them.
"I must ask you all to remain exactly where you are
—and this little matter will be over and done with in
no time." It was the leader, speaking formally and
casually. "I am a police officer attached to the Crim-
inal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, and
these officers here are acting under my orders. This is
not a raid in the usual sense of the word, but I would
inform you that we are looking for a certain individ-
ual, one who we have every reason to suspect is pres-
ent in this club to-night. There is no charge made
against this club, or, indeed, against any member of
this club, but we have certain inquiries to make. I wish
to add that anyone refusing to give such particulars
of himself as my officers will demand will be liable to
summary arrest."
There was nothing else to do than to accept the sit-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
169
uation with as good a grace as possible. One by one
the various guests were taken aside and a few simple
questions put to them regarding their identity. Each
was required to show evidence in proof—visiting
cards or letters, or some such concrete evidence. The
women were not troubled at all.
Stayne recognised in the leader of the raid a detec-
tive named Lynton. He had had dealings with him
before, and knew him for a shrewd, capable officer.
Lynton himself tackled Stayne.
"Name?" he asked, a ghost of a twinkle in his eye.
"John Stayne." The answer came through a fog
of alcoholic muzz.
A little whisper of curiosity rustled round the floor
when it was known that the notorious Mystery Maker
was in their midst. Heads turned to inspect the man
who had figured so largely in the news of the day.
The majority of them immediately jumped to the
conclusion that this was the man for whom the search
was being made.
"Is that your correct name, sir?"
"You don't think," said Stayne foggily, "that I
would be admitting to that name if it was anything
else, do you?" Stayne pulled a fistful of papers from
his pocket, a telegram, a couple of letters addressed
to himself at Curzon Square, a tailor's bill, and a first-
class pass over all the British railways.
Lynton glanced at them, entered the particulars in
a note-book, and nodded his dismissal.
"All right, Colonel," he said pleasantly. "That
passes you out."
He turned to Perrigo. "And you, sir," he asked;
"what is your name, please?"


170
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Perrigo—Gabriel Perrigo." The reply was surly,
tinged with doubt.
"And the address?"
"I have no permanent London address. At present
I am staying at the Grand Embassy Hotel. I shall be
there at least for another fortnight."
That satisfied Stayne. He knew from that moment
that Perrigo was planning to get back to Franc im-
mediately. He had probably chartered a special aero-
plane from one of the cross-Channel companies and
was aiming to get to Le Bourget that night, as soon as
he was satisfied that his alibi for that night would
hold.
"Thank you, sir. Have you any proof of identifica-
tion?" Lynton was politeness personified.
Perrigo reached into his pocket.
"Yes," he growled. "One doesn't usually carry
one's birth certificate around in evening dress. But I
happen to have my passport with me. I was at the
passport office to-day, having it renewed."
Stayne offered up a little prayer of thankfulness.
That was all he wanted to know. Perrigo was actu-
ally going back that night. Men don't carry passports
around with them in evening dress any more than they
do their birth certificates. Even accepting the fact that
he had been to the passport office that afternoon, it
did not follow that he would normally have trans-
ferred that passport to his evening clothes when he
dressed.
Lynton noted down the details and proceeded to
the next.
"All right—you other gentlemen: you are at lib-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
171
erty to proceed as you wish as soon as the officers
have taken your particulars."
Perrigo muttered something under his breath and
made for the stairs. At the same moment Stayne
lurched forward. He tripped half tipsily over his own
feet and cannoned heavily into Perrigo.
"Clumsy brute!" snarled the swindler, roughly
disentangling himself from the drunken embrace.
"S-so sorry—so sorry, ol' feller," burbled Stayne
thickly. "Damn nearly over that time. Th-th-thanks
—'scuse me."
He walked unsteadily to the stairs and went up
while Perrigo stood rumbling stormily under his
breath. "Disgusting beast—drunk as an owl—what
the devil are the management doing in allowing such
pigs in a decent club!"
The manager hurried up to pacify him.
"Awfully sorry, Mr. Perrigo," he said mollify-
ingly. "I wouldn't have had you annoyed for worlds.
But to tell you the truth I didn't know he was in that
state or he would have been asked to leave."
"The clumsy wretch—he's flattened out half my
toes."
"I certainly saw him crash into you, and I apolo-
gise for such a thing happening. He seemed quite all
right when he came in. He must have been hitting the
champagne bottle pretty heavily. Funny thing, that.
I've never seen Colonel Stayne pickled before."
"Colonel my hat!" snarled the other. "He's no
more a Colonel than I am. He was fired out of the
army years ago—chucked out, bag and baggage."
At that point Gabriel Perrigo let out a startled


THE MYSTERY MAKER
173
his elbow, "but would you mind stepping back into the
"Eh?" said Stayne, and cocked a leery eye at the
detective.
"This gentleman here, Mr. Perrigo, has made a
statement that he has lost his passport, and he ac-
cuses you of having stolen it. I sincerely hope he is
mistaken, but apparently he is sure of it. I must ask
you to step back into the club and allow him to satisfy
himself."
"Passport? Whose passport?" hiccoughed Stayne.
"I've seen no passport. Cert'nly I'll step back into the
club. Jolly good idea. I can do with a spot of bubbly.
Have all those bobbies cleared off yet? If not, ask
'em—hie—ask 'em to have a bottle with me."
club?"


CHAPTER XXIII
"DERRIGO, red-eyed and teetering with indigna-
tion, was behind him, seeing that he didn't drop
that precious passport. Together they hustled the
semi-helpless figure back through the vestibule and
into the manager's private office.
"Mr. Perrigo, you realise that you are bringing a
pretty serious charge in this business, I hope? You
have made a public accusation against Colonel
Stayne, one that seriously impugns his honour."
"What the devil do you mean?" demanded Per-
rigo, whirling round.
"I mean that if you demand Colonel Stayne to sub-
mit to being searched, and if the passport is not found,
you will be in a very serious position. Colonel Stayne
will be in a position to sue you for heavy damages.
And he would get them. You realise that, I hope?
Your accusation was made in front of a great number
of witnesses."
"Damages, fiddlesticks!" stormed Perrigo heat-
edly. "The man's a crook, and you know he is. I know
what I'm talking about. I had the passport five min-
utes ago—you'll admit that, won't you?"
"I certainly will. I saw it myself, and took the num-
ber."
"And after you saw it I didn't move, did I?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"No—nor to anyone else's. Didn't move off the
«74


THE MYSTERY MAKER
175
spot I was standing on. Then this clumsy fool came
barging into me and nearly knocked me over. You'll
admit that he did that, won't you? Deliberately
barged into me."
"I'll admit that he bumped into you, sir. But I
wouldn't care to say that it was deliberate. I didn't
see the incident. I had my back turned towards you.
And, after all, you must remember that Colonel
Stayne is—ah—shall we say not strictly sober."
"It was the night air," declared the inebriate
blandly. "I was sober as—as a lord when I came out.
An' there was a nip in the air. Knocked me over, offi-
cer, knocked me over."
"Well, he barged into me; that's all I've got to say
about it," went on Perrigo impetuously. "And then he
went stumbling off up the stairs. I don't need to be one
of the Big Five, do I, in order to put two and two to-
gether ? Turn out his pockets. I demand it."
"Very well, sir," said Lynton. "I just wanted you
to understand the position. I must say that I can't see
any other explanation myself."
He turned to the Mystery Maker. "Colonel
Stayne, will you please turn out your pockets?" he
asked.
Stayne looked uncomprehendingly at the detective.
"Do which?" he said throatily.
"Turn out your pockets, sir. Mr. Perrigo suspects
you of having misappropriated his passport."
"Cert'nly," said Stayne, with an affable nod. "Turn
'em out any time you like, officer. Have a cigar?"
He pulled out a cigar-case and flopped it on the ta-
ble. There followed a thin gold watch on a black silk
fob, a key purse containing four keys, a wallet con-


176
THE MYSTERY MAKER
taining money and private notes, a silk handkerchief,
a few coins of silver change, a platinum matchbox,
and a small private diary written in a cipher of his
own.
And that was all. He dived flabbily into various
pockets again in a bibulous effort to discover some-
thing more, but finally gave up the effort and sat down
with a bump.
"He's bluffing," protested Perrigo. "Of course he's
not going to produce it. He's got it stowed away
somewhere. And you know it."
Lynton fingered his chin ruminatively.
"Well, there's no passports showing up as yet," he
mused, "and he seems to have gone through every
pocket bar the hip."
"Search him yourself. You're within your rights.
You're supposed to."
"I don't know so much about that, sir. I've only
got the right to search him at the station. You can in-
sist if you like—and if Colonel Stayne is willing."
"Willing? Of course he's willing. He's already
turned his own pockets out, hasn't he ? And you know
he's got the damn thing. He hasn't been able to dis-
pose of it. He hadn't had it in his possession more
than sixty seconds when I was chasing after him.
And if it hadn't been for that perfect fool of a man-
ager I'd have been after him in less than ten."
Lynton hauled Stayne up to his feet and began a
systematic search of his pockets. He did it as thor-
oughly as only a trained searcher can, going over the
seams and the cloth with fingers that were as sensi-
tive to the unusual as a photographic plate is to the
light.


THE MYSTERY MAKER 177
But there was nothing there, not a single match
end, let alone a passport. And Perrigo realised, with
something of a shock, that there was nowhere on that
elegantly cut suit where a passport could have been
hidden without being obviously noticeable.
"Well, what do we do now, sir?" asked Lynton
helplessly. "He can make things pretty nasty for you
if he chooses."
"Bosh!1 tell you he took it!"
"That's as may be, sir. But you've got no
proof"
"Proof—what greater proof do you want than the
fact that I haven't got my passport? and I shall need
it, urgently."
"Proof that you haven't got it isn't proof that Col-
onel Stayne has. I'm sorry about it, sir, but this argu-
ment isn't getting you anywhere. You'd better have a
look around on the dance floor, sir. I think you must
have dropped it."
"Don't be a fool," shouted Perrigo, vehemently.
"I can't drop a book as big as a wallet out of my in-
side pocket, can I ? I tell you he"
"Yes, yes, I know, you've said all that before,"
said Lynton patiently. "The fact remains—you ac-
cused Colonel Stayne of having stolen your passport
—and I've proved to my own satisfaction that Col-
onel Stayne hasn't got it. If he's got it stowed away
in that suit I'll eat my hat—and yours. Also, a fur-
ther fact remains, that I shall have to make a report
about this to my chief. Mr. Stayne is a bit too tight to
understand much about it right now, but I'll bet that
in the morning he's going to feel almighty cross about
it. He'll 'phone the station and get corroborative de-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Looks tough for you, sir," said Lynton, still wait-
ing.
Perrigo licked his lips. He still couldn't grasp the
essentials of it: the ease with which so simple a thing
as that had collapsed his plans like a bungalow in an
earthquake. The very thought of it half paralysed
him. The fact that Stayne could milk him for proba-
bly ten thousand pounds for slander did not enter his
head. Beside the greater calamity that was a mere de-
tail. The fact remained that without that passport he
was wrecked and ruined.
He did his best to think out what could have hap-
pened. The whole thing seemed like a piece of leger-
demain, as uncanny as it was mysterious. In his own
mind he hadn't the faintest shadow of a doubt that
John Stayne, and John Stayne alone, had stolen his
precious document. No other solution was possible.
And yet—how had he contrived to get it clear in that
incredibly short time?
"I—I must think this out," he muttered at last.
"Lord—I want some air—this place has gone as
clammy as a hothouse!"
He turned and staggered to the door.
"You know I shall have to make a report of this,
sir?" said Lynton dubiously.
Perrigo snarled back savagely, "I don't care what
the hell you do. Tell Stayne if he starts monkeying
with me I'll bend his ear down past his knees."
He went out, slamming the door behind him. Up-
on the pavement, hatted and mufflered round the
neck, he stood signalling for a taxi. From the kerb a
broken-booted, ragged-clothed flower hawker looked
across appealingly at him and held out his tray of


180 THE MYSTERY MAKER
wet flowers. The chant of his monotone came to Per-
rigo—"Vi'lets, sir? Sweet vi'lets, sir? Vi'lets."
He edged the tray a little nearer, almost sticking
it under Perrigo's nose.
"Oh, go to the devil with your dratted violets!"
snarled Perrigo, clambering into his cab.
A few minutes later Stayne came out and signalled
a cab. His semi-drunken stupor seemed to leave him
as he passed the flower seller. As he drifted by, the
ragged arm lifted with an action that was incredibly
smooth, flicked the little heap of flowers aside, picked
up the passport, and slid it deftly into the pocket of
Stayne's coat, a pocket which he was holding wide
open with a crooked thumb.
No word passed—not a nod or a sign. The flower
seller passed on down the street and the chant of his
wares grew fainter on the night. "Vi'lets, lady ? Sweet
vi'lets, lady? Vi'lets?"


CHAPTER XXIV
EXT morning Stayne was early astir. The events
^ of the previous evening had followed in quick
succession. Perrigo had gone direct to Bow Street
and had lodged a formal information covering the
whole affair. He did it in the hope of recovering his
lost passport more than from a desire to indemnify
himself against possible risk of prosecution by
Stayne.
The result was swift and urgent. The matter natu-
rally reached Hawker's ears. And when Stayne
reached home Hawker was in possession. Stayne was
in a foul mood. The night's activities had left Mari-
enne in Tembridge's hands. They had left as soon as
the raid on the Avalon Club was cleared up. Where
the two had gone from there he had no more idea
than a dead man. All he knew was that Tembridge
had the entree to every dance club in London, and
that they had apparently made a perfect night of it.
Tembridge had landed home, humming gaily to
himself, about half-an-hour before the milk-bottles
clinked on the step outside. Stayne heard him. He
had only just turned in himself after about as hectic
a night as he had ever spent in his life.
Hawker was as pertinacious as a dab of glue. He
had landed in with a swoop, presented his search war-
rant, and proceeded about a systematic search of the
entire house with all the bitter thoroughness of a crew


182 THE MYSTERY MAKER
of Custom House searchers going over a ship sus-
pected of carrying contrabrand.
Stayne had gone with them, helpfully directing
their operations, doing his suave best to mislead them
while vocally doing his best to guide them.
It all turned out as he had expected. Hawker, be-
fore arriving at Curzon Square, had long since nega-
tived the possibility of a run-away over the roofs or
a secret passage through the walls. To begin with, no
one but a man with the tread of a cat—and a cat
wearing air-blown rubber shoes at that—could have
made the passage over the roofs night after night
without creating suspicions in the minds of the house-
holders beneath.
In a big town noises are continuous. They are out-
side and all around from long before dawn till long
after dark. Then come the silent hours, when every
sound carries with remarkable clarity. The rattle of
a train half a mile away is distinctly audible—Big
Ben booms his brassy clamour around for five or six
miles in the stilly silence that falls after midnight.
Sounds, even in adjoining houses, come through with
disconcerting clearness. So what chance had men of
coming and going over the roofs without the people
beneath hearing them sooner or later—when even a
bird twittering in the eaves almost drives one to dis-
traction?
No. "The" roof theory was ruled out—as was the
possibility of a hidden outlet through the connecting
walls. A few inquiries as to the character of the peo-
ple living on either side had settled that. Both his
neighbours were citizens of unchallengeable integrity.
They were people who were known in the City, people


THE MYSTERY MAKER 183
whose ways of life and whose methods of living were
as open as the day. There was no question as to their
credentials. They would not have the slightest hesi-
tation in informing the authorities if they thought
anything was going wrong in their immediate locality.
That was one of the reasons why the Mystery>Maker
had chosen to take up his abode at 8b Curzon Square.
He had planted himself in the very centre of law and
order as exemplified in the householders of ultra-re-
spectable Curzon Square, an address for which there
was competition among people of undoubted sub-
stance.
Hawker arrived in as sour a mood as Stayne him-
self.
"Good-evening, Colonel," he growled—a surly
rumble that came out of his chest. "I see you've sob-
ered up pretty quickly."
"Since when," asked Stayne waspily, "have I been
accused of drunkenness?"
"Less than two hours ago. At the Avalon. Got it
on the authority of a Mr. Gabriel Perrigo, the man-
ager of the club, the head waiter, the leader of the
orchestra, and about forty club members. Said you
were tipsy as an owl. I got your game right away,
Colonel. Because in all the years I've known you I've
neither seen nor heard of you going over the limit.
Like all good crooks, you stay sober. What ^as the
idea of acting drunk to-night? Hey? What was the
idea, Colonel?"
Stayne regarded the search warrant with sullen
disfavour.
"Get on with your search," he said acidly.
"Why did you play drunk?" persisted Hawker.


i84 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"There's not much use arguing with you if you are
fool enough to credit ideas like that," Stayne said
coldly. "What makes you think I was drunk?"
"Neat way of diving down some poor lunatic's
pocket for a passport, that's all," said Hawker,
glowering at him. "Pretty plain, isn't it? You knew I
was out on your shadow. You knew I'd have the ports
watched for you. You knew you stood about as much
chance of getting out of England without me know-
ing it as a nut has of getting out of its shell without
breaking it. You want to get to Paris—and I know
it. Perrigo is not unlike you. You saw the passport
when the dicks came down with the raid. You grabbed
it off. Come on, where is it? I'll hold you on that
count alone and call your bluff. Come on, son, open
up your pockets and hand over that passport—or I'll
run you right round to Bow Street right now!"
"You're daft," said Stayne.
"Too sane for you, my cocker. Gee! it would tickle
me to death to run the famous Mystery Maker in on
a charge of common pocket-picking! Come clean now
—out with your pockets!"
For the second time that night Stayne submitted to
an ignominious search.
"I'm surprised at you," said Stayne bitingly, as
deft fingers slid over his clothes. "They didn't find
anything the first time, did they? Even if I had
pinched the passport, do you think I'd be fool enough
to carry it around now—after I'd once got clear?"
"You weren't expecting me!" said Hawker dog-
gedly. "Over and above which, you certainly pinched
that passport."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
185
Stayne sighed with patient resignation. "Some of
you boys are hopeless," he said.
"Yeh! You'd like us to be," retorted Hawker.
"That's why we're still able to catch you on the hop."
"Don't be silly." Stayne's voice was that of a
schoolmaster chiding a pupil who had given a wrong
answer. "I knew you were coming here. I was expect-
ing you."
Hawker stopped short. "Oh?" he snapped. "Seen
Tembridge to-night, eh?"
"Yes; he was at the Avalon too. That's why I went.
Not, I assure you, for the purpose of pinching this
Mr. Whatshisname's wallet."
"Bullfeedl" snorted Hawker, and continued his
hunt for a passport that was not there. He didn't
know it, but the passport was there, almost under his
eyes, tossed with seeming nonchalance on the hall-
stand when Stayne first came in. If anyone had flicked
open Stayne's opera hat and tried to put it on, the
passport would have fallen down the crown and
dropped on his head. As it was, it just stayed there,
nearly, but not quite, visible, unless anyone deliber-
ately opened the hat. The action of pitching it there
openly was too innocently void of guile to create any
suspicion in Hawker's breast.
Hawker dismissed the affair with a non-com-
mittal jerk of the hand.
"San fairy," he said. "I didn't expect to find it.
You had it planted two seconds after getting out on
to the pavement. Had one of the lads passing by,
hey?"
"Yes, that must have been it," said Stayne gravely.
"I hadn't thought of it till you mentioned it. Very


i86 THE MYSTERY MAKER
clever. I must remember that. In future, always have
somebody outside wherever you happen to be, on the
off chance that somebody will be present with a pass-
port in their inside pocket and that a raid will occur
and that the passport will be produced as proof of
identity, and that I shall be close enough to see it and
still more close enough to be able to feign insobriety,
stumble against him, steal his passport without him
knowing it, and get clean up the stairs before the
alarm is raised—and pass it over to the man waiting
outside: preferably a down and out tramp selling
violets on a little wooden tray at the kerb. Oh, yes,
that's very clever: an excellent way of getting hold
of a passport for which I have not the slightest use.
Hawker, you improve."


CHAPTER XXV
TUTAWKER glared at him. "For two pins," he said
* * viciously, "I'd like to smack you twice round
Curzon Square."
"At your disposal," murmured Stayne, "are three
things—the time, the place—and the man. Care to
have a rummage round the house? I'm sure you'll
find something of interest. Built in eighteen-forty by
the chief accounting clerk in the office of the Adam
Brothers. You may have heard of them. Modern im-
provements by the Sanitary Board, Limited, tele-
phone instalment by the National—since taken over
by the State—running water in all the upstairs rooms
even when not required, stairs by Rise and Tread,
disinfectant by Cigar Smoke out of Virginia Ciga-
rette, furniture by Instalment, colour scheme of the
general decor by Accident, cork lino"
Hawker let out a snort that made his moustache
shiver.
"Damn funny," he growled, "oh, damn funny.
Think you're going to get my goat, eh? Well, you're
not, see? You can bluff some of the other poor stiffs
over with that slick tongue of yours, but you don't
get me! I'm going to bust into this secret runway of
yours if I have to do it with a charge of dynamite.
D'ye get that, my cocker, hey?"
"Oh, yes, I get it," said Stayne with a dangerous
glitter in his eyes. "Step this way, will you, please?
187


i88
THE MYSTERY MAKER
I'll show you over. The rent is only £600. You'll
go crazy over it."
"You'll stay right here where you are!" yelped the
detective heatedly.
Stayne sat down resignedly and reached out for a
current magazine. "As you will," he agreed. "On
your way, officer, and may the luck hold. But I do
hope you don't get lost in the perfect labyrinth of
secret passages that infest this house. If you do, ring
for Belham, will you?" He pushed over the little
button under the arm of the chair.
"Oh, Belham," he said, "you might bring up that
whisky that Mr. Hawker wouldn't drink the other
day—thank you, Mr. Hawker seems in difficulties."
"Coming now, sir," said the little golden image
in the corner.
Hawker went out in a temper that would have
done credit to a Billingsgate fishwife after a passage-
at-arms with the man about the instalments.
But Stayne had done what he wanted. In spite of
Hawker's declaration, and without Hawker realis-
ing it, he had got Hawker's goat. The Yard man was
in such a spite that his extraordinarily keen deductive
faculties were dulled. No man can fill his head with
two different lines of thought and expect to function
with a hundred per cent, efficiency on each. That's
what Hawker was trying to do. He could not entirely
rid his brain of the vitriolic thoughts he harboured
against Stayne, and it was just on that impaired rea-
soning faculty that Stayne caught him. Anyone had to
think pretty deeply to get under Stayne's own
thoughts—and Hawker was just a little too bad-
tempered to be able to think down beyond Stayne.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
189
The Mystery Maker caught him on the filled bar-
rels. Among the dozens of casks down there in the
second cellar were two or three that were kept per-
manently filled. They were big ones, hogsheads, the
height of a man. And it took two or three hefty men
to shift them. Hawker was certain, the moment he
saw those great heavy barrels, that they hid the secret
of Stayne's hidden passage out of the house. So they
did, but not in the way Hawker thought.
Had he given himself time to think, had he obliter-
ated from his mind the boil of raspy thoughts that
cluttered it, he would have pulled up short and got
down to Stayne's own depth of ingenuity. As it was
he went for the almost immovable barrels bald-
headed.
"Shift 'em!" he ordered to his search party. "Shift
'em and get 'em out of the way. His secret trapdoor
is down under one of those. If he thinks he can skull-
drag me off this cellar he's mistaken. We'll have Mr.
Stayne at Vine Street inside an hour or my name's not
Hawker."
If he had given himself time to think he would
have gone on inevitably to the fact that Stayne would
never have been fool enough to mask his secret exit
under a full hogshead. To do so meant that at least
three others would have to be let into his secret, for
before they got the first great barrel clear four great
pairs of brawny hands were heaving and straining at
it. And Hawker knew as well as any man breathing
that Stayne went by secret ways—he did not placard
to the world the methods by which he worked. To
have let three others into the private confidence of


190 THE MYSTERY MAKER
that secret exit would be the last thing he would
dream of.
The real entrance was there, open to view, but so
perfectly amalgamated with the rest of the flooring
that in artificial light it was imperceptible. With much
grunting and straining they lugged the first hogshead
clear. As its weight came off the circle whereon it
rested, the tiniest of "clicks" sounded from under the
flooring. And neither Hawker nor a dozen like him
could ever have opened that trap from that side of
the cellar.
Oiled bolts on powerful springs had slid across
under the panel and the door was fast closed to any-
one unless he approached from the house at the back
of 8b Curzon Square.
Two hours in all Hawker spent with his men down
there in the humid closeness of the cellars. Then they
gave it up in sullen disgust. They knew, better than
anyone in that house except Stayne himself, that the
secret of the passageway was down there in those
cellars. And they knew that they had been fooled
again.
Upstairs they found that Stayne, weary of wait- •
ing, had gone to bed. Belham, imperturbable and irre-
proachable, was waiting up to let them out. He had
hot coffee, whisky and, close up behind his eyes, the
glint of a smile waiting for them.
They ignored all the three, also his solicitous hope
that they had spent a pleasant evening, and went out
into the night.
Stayne heard Tembridge arrive later. In the morn-
ing the assistant imparted the information that


THE MYSTERY MAKER
191
Hawker's men had followed them round all night.
For that reason alone he and Marienne had gone on
from club to club and then taken a long motor run
in the cool of the early morning through the outer sub-
urbs.
"Came back through the West Road and got up
by the Scrubs Prison," he said cheerfully. "Hawker's
men got all steamed up about it. They didn't know
we had spotted them hours before. We loitered
around and made fake signals with our headlights till
we had their eyes nearly popping out of their heads.
One went streaking back in the shadows of the prison
wall—either to warn the governor or to get on the
wire to Hawker, I guess. I'll say we had one beauty
of a night. Marienne was tickled to death. She's a
great little kid, good-plucked 'un all the way. Too
bad you were too drunk to dance with her last night."
"She objected to my condition?" queried Stayne
absently.
"Said she thought it was rather odd. Seemed a bit
surprised, and said you never can tell with men. I
assured her that her last remark was as true as any-
thing she had ever said—and that you were as sober
as she was."
"You told her that?"
"Sure. Why not? I knew you were playing a deep
game, and I knew she wouldn't spoil it. Gosh! That
was a neat one. I've never seen a professional pick-
pocket fish out a wallet as smoothly as that passport
came out. Where is it now?"
"In the post back to Perrigo. He can have it now.
We held him up for twenty-four hours, and that was
all I wanted. We've caught up with him now—and he


THE MYSTERY MAKER 193
if Perrigo kicks up rough I'll bring an action against
him that will keep him in London for days."
Stayne finished his breakfast in a grimly pleased
silence.
"I'm going round to Bayswater and then on to
Bishopsgate with Varris—sorry, Harris," he said.
"I shall be Mr. Daleson. If anything happens ring me
either at the boarding house or at the office. I ought to
be in Bishopsgate soon after ten."
"Righto—I'll stay in till you're back." ,
Stayne hurried down to change into his portly dis-
guise. As the cellar door closed behind him Tem-
bridge's voice came through the speaking tube,
"Hurry, Chief; Hawker is just arriving—looks
fierce."
And it was at that moment that Stayne realised that
the second cellar trap-door was locked against him.
Hawker's overnight activities had shot the bolts
across and he could not open it.


CHAPTER XXVI
C TAYNE took in the position in a flash. It was
^ impossible for him to shift that great hogshead
back single-handed. It had taken four of Hawker's
men all their time to move it. And until it was back on
its springs those bolts would remain immovable. The
only other way to open them was from the passage-
way through from the house at the back.
And between him and the house at the back stood
Hawker. If he attempted to get round there he would
be followed and the game would be up. The Daleson
identity would be exposed and the secret way through
into 8b Curzon Square laid bare.
And another meeting just then with Hawker was
the last thing he wanted. Not that Hawker could do
any more than he had done last night—unless he had
got hold of a mass of fresh evidence—but a hold-up
with the detective again would be highly inconvenient.
He wanted to be out and at work, squaring things
up before he left for Paris.
He jumped back to the speaking tube.
"Tembridge—quick—hurry," he said, his voice
vibrant with urgency. "Get round to the other house
and open the trap. I'm penned in down here. Those
fools last night shifted the counterweight and the
bolts have shot."
"I can't make it, Chief. Hawker's in the house al-
ready—coming up the stairs."
194


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Well, for heaven's sake give him the slip. I want
to get clear."
There was silence at the other end.
Upstairs Belham was escorting Hawker through
to the breakfast-room, assuring him on the way that
it was useless to see Colonel Stayne just then, as he
was out.
"Stuff and rot," retorted Hawker. "He's in. Saw
him myself only two minutes ago from the house
opposite. He's in that front room there, drinking a
second cup of coffee. Saw him pouring it out myself.
Tembridge is in there too."
"I quite agree, sir, that Mr. Tembridge is pres-
ent," replied Belham. "At the same time, I must ask
you to believe that Colonel Stayne has gone out. Mr.
Tembridge, however, is at liberty. It was he who said
he would see you."
"I don't want Tembridge. I want the big noise."
"Well, sir, all I can say is that I regret he is not at
home."
Hawker glared at him. "How long is it since he
went out?" he snapped.
"Barely a few minutes, sir. I handed him his hat,
there in the coffee-room."
"Which way did he go?"
"Through the front door, I presume, sir."
"You presume, do you? Well, let me tell you, you
don't. Stayne never went out of the house a few min-
utes ago, and he never went out of that front door.
I've had a man stationed out there since two o'clock
this morning. And no one has been either out or in
since he's been there. You lead me into the breakfast-
room. I want Mr. Stayne, and I want him now."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
197
"Yes, sir. I understand perfectly, sir." Belham was
already busy with the bucket.
"Tell him that I will be along to see him in a min-
ute or two. Say that he caught me halfway through
dressing."
"He's already seen you in the breakfast-room, sir
—from the house opposite."
"That's all right. Say I had a sudden telephone
appointment—an engagement that necessitated
formal morning dress. I'll be with him in five minutes.
And, Belham, get him a drink of some sort. Time
your entrance so that you get in as you hear me open-
ing the door into the breakfast-room. Then when you
see me tell me that you want the pantry windows done
next. Get me?"
"I quite understand, sir. You wish to get down
on the ground floor."
"And out of the house without exciting suspicions.
It'll look bad if I go out through the front door. Even
a damn-fool shadower might take it into his head to
think it funny for a window-cleaner to come out of
the house without one going in previously. But I'll go
up through the tradesman's entrance and leave my
pail at the top of the area steps. They'll think I'm one
of the inside servants—hand me over some of those
self-addressed letters. I'll be going out to post."
Belham dried his hands, deposited the bucket of
dirty-looking water on the floor and departed, leav-
ing Tembridge to finish his rapid preparations.
Hawker was eyeing him suspiciously when he re-
turned.
"Is he in?" he snapped.
"Yes, sir; he will be with you in five minutes, sir.


i98 THE MYSTERY MAKER
In consequence of an unexpected telephone engage-
ment he has to change into morning dress. But he is
more than halfway through now, sir—he will not
keep you long. Meanwhile, I am desired to ask you
what you will take to drink."
"Is Stayne in there with him?"
"I've already informed you, sir, that Colonel
Stayne is out."
"You saw him go, hey?"
"I did not, sir."
"Then how the devil do you know he's out?"
"I cannot, of course, make that statement defi-
nitely. But I gave him his hat five minutes ago now
and Colonel Stayne immediately went downstairs. As
he is not in the habit of waiting about in the front
hall I must presume that he has gone out. You your-
self, sir, came in that way and you must have seen
that he was not there."
"I did. I also saw that he didn't go out."
"What will you take to drink, sir?"
"Nothing—without soda."
At that moment the inner door opened and a stoop-
shouldered figure entered, with a red bucket in one
hand and a flabby wash-leather in the other. A ciga-
rette stub was behind his ear.
"Where to, nah, sir?" he asked, with a noticeable
Cockney accent. "These here's the ones, ain't they?"
Belham turned ponderously to him and regarded
him with half-concealed disdain.
"As this room is occupied it will be inconvenient
for you to clean these windows now," he said. "You
will please do the pantry first. Then the staff rooms,
and then you can inquire if this room is available."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Thank you, sir. I can git some clean water dahn
there, can't I?"
"The cook will show you where."
The anaemic-looking figure shambled out. In a few
minutes he was going up the area steps with several
letters held ostentatiously in his hand. The pillar-box
was just round the corner of the square and he took
his time, pausing on the way to light the cigarette stub,
drawing the smoke down in enormous lungfuls.
Once safely round the corner he hurried and a
few seconds later Stayne heard the welcome click of
the bolts going back.
Hawker got restive after a couple of minutes.
"Darn queer," he muttered. Then he jumped to it.
If Stayne hadn't gone out through the front door he
must be making his get-away now—through the cel-
lars. That was why Belham wouldn't definitely say
he saw him go out. He was up and on the run. He
raced downstairs and into the cellars. And there was
nothing there: not a thing other than the crates and
bottles and hogsheads, exactly as his men had left
them overnight.
He hurried back upstairs again and did a bit of
rapid thinking. The breakfast-room was still empty
and he barked through incontinently. The bedroom,
too, was empty. The big wardrobe was shut and
locked, but the clothes on the bed told their own tale.
On the way out again he saw the figure of the win-
dow-cleaner coming down the area steps. Halfway
down he stooped and picked up his little red bucket,
bringing it into the house with him. Hawker turned
and his eyes followed him, glinting, ominous. He did


2oo THE MYSTERY MAKER
not immediately penetrate the disguise; the make-up
was too good and Tembridge carried it off too well.
"Where's them pantry winders, miss?" he asked
of his own housemaid—and she did not recognise him.
If Tembridge could carry the bluff past his own serv-
ants it was small wonder that Hawker did not see
through it at a jump. But to his ever suspicious brain
the whole incident was suspect. It reeked of suspicion.
With a determined air he went out and up the steps,
giving the sign to his man as he went. The man came
over, a tall, fairly well-dressed out-of-work, deliver-
ing tradesmen's handbills.
"Did you see anyone come out of here recently?"
Hawker demanded.
"Yes, sir—a window-cleaner."
"What did he do?"
"Went out to post—he had a sheaf of letters in his
hand."
"Which way did he go?"
"Down there, sir. There's a letter-box just round
the corner."
"How long was he gone?"
"About six or seven minutes, sir."
"Didn't that strike you as a damn long time to be
gone to a letter-box just round the corner?"
"It—it does now you mention it, sir."
"I should darn well think it does." Hawker had
just realised from the time lapse that the window-
cleaner must have come straight downstairs from the
breakfast-room and gone out. Neither the pantry
windows nor the necessity for getting clean water had
mattered to him. Hawker did not know it, but that


THE MYSTERY MAKER 201
same cleaner was eyeing him intently at that moment
from an upstairs window.
"Was he hurrying?" asked Hawker.
"No, sir, he seemed to be walking quite casual like."
And Hawker grunted and went off down the road.
Burning in his head was the knowledge that when the
window-cleaner spoke to the housemaid he was
slightly out of breath.
He turned the corner, noted the letter-box and
knew that a man merely going to post letters would
be back in sight of his watcher in less than thirty sec-
onds. Fifty yards down the road turned again, and he
stood on the corner indecisively, trying to puzzle it
out in his head.
A taxi-cab passed him, heading from the rank
higher up the road. It was empty, but the flag was
down. That meant that it was ordered. He watched it
half unconsciously. It stopped outside a door and a
portly-looking old gentleman with slightly flat feet
came out, gave an address to the driver and entered.
All in a second Hawker jumped to it. That house
was immediately behind No. 8b Curzon Square.
That window-cleaner would just about have had time
to get round to that house and back. He ran forward,
but the taxi was fast gathering speed. He yelled, but
the cab was too far away. Accelerating into top gear
it was off and away round the corner. Hawker just
had time to note its number. He jotted it down and
went back to the house, banging the knocker on the
door.
There was no answer. He knocked again and
knocked repeatedly. It was inconceivable that a well-
dressed, portly old gentleman like that should be


ao2 THE MYSTERY MAKER
inhabiting a house alone and unattended. He was
sure he was on the right track now. He hurried back
and 'phoned Headquarters, asking for the net to go
out in search of the taxi and to get from the driver
the address to which he had taken the portly old
gentleman. Outside the door the window-cleaner lis-
tened and made rapid notes in his book.
All Hawker needed now was a search warrant for
that mysteriously empty house, and he knew that the
secret of Stayne's secret runway would be laid bare.
Stayne got to Bayswater and was shown up to Var-
ris's rooms. He had scarcely been in two minutes talk-
ing when the 'phone bell rang violently.
It was Tembridge on at the other end, Tembridge
in quick and urgent mood.
"That you, Chief? Better get out of that place
as fast as you can. Hawker has seen through it. He
knows about that house at the back and he's getting
a search warrant. And he knows the number of your
taxi. He's coming after you right now. Clear quick—
he's on your heels!"


CHAPTER XXVII
HE knowledge that Hawker was on his track
-*- was a grim piece of news for Stayne, but just then
even Stayne himself did not know how swiftly events
had passed and new situations arisen in his twenty
minutes of absence from Curzon Square.
Hawker had stumbled blindly on a devastating
piece of information, and his single-track mind was
beginning to hammer it down into its rightful groove
even while a fast car carried him towards Bayswater.
It had all happened quite naturally, without any
fuss or excitement. At the end of his 'phone conver-
sation with Headquarters when he was asking for an
urgency call to go out for the taxi, the inspector at
the other end had said: "Just a minute, Hawker,
someone else here wants a word with you; hang on
a minute and I'll plug you through."
Hawker waited, and in a little while Maybury,
the Chief at the Yard, came on.
"That you, Hawker?" he said genially. "Glad
you were handy. There is an interesting little piece of
news just come through from Scrubs Prison. At least,
it should be interesting to you."
"Oh. Nothing gone wrong, I hope, Chief?"
"Well—yes and no. But it's most confoundedly
upsetting. You remember that man you arrested down
at Wapping yesterday?"

203


204
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Of course I do. You mean Templer Varris."
"That's the name we're holding him on. Well, the
governor reports that he has been acting most curi-
ously since he returned."
"Uh! Trying to pull a bluff to get into the in-
firmary," grunted Hawker. "What's his line? Mal-
ingering heart or just going slowly daft?"
"Not that—quite. He just didn't know a thing
about the prison routine. Had to be told everything
all over again like a new arrival. Odd for a man who
has been in for several weeks."
"Rot !" snorted Hawker.
"He definitely did not know how to roll his bedding
up this morning, and even after he was shown he
made a most ghastly mess of it. Didn't know how to
clean his cell utensils and looked utterly amazed when
he realised that he had to scrub his cell out, not only
that morning, but every morning."
"Say, Chief, that's a new one. Lapse of memory,
eh? Couple of days on Number One diet would shift
that, once and for all."
"Several other little things happened too, Hawker.
Such as leaving his breakfast. Only new arrivals do
that. They find it unpalatable. But next morning
they're hungry as hounds. Varris, however, didn't
even trouble to hide his bread ration. Any fool would
have done that. There were other things, so curious
that the warder reported them to me. And I passed
him on to the doctor. The doctor reported the case
as genuine. The man isn't malingering. He doesn't
want a soft job. He doesn't want to leave prison and
he genuinely doesn't want to make trouble, either for
himself or for us."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
207
"No, I don't," replied Hawker, angry with him-
self.
"I cannot hold this man in prison, that's all," came
back the quiet voice. "He is not a criminal; there is
no sentence out against him, and so far as we can
trace there is nothing known against him. He appar-
ently does not want to go, but I'm afraid he'll have
to. We could bring a case against him of criminal
personation—but where would it land us? Right at
the top of the newspaper columns—with all the world
having a merry giggle at our expense. No, Hawker,
it can't be done. The crux of the issue is that we're
still waiting for you to get Templer Varris. That's
all. Good morning."
There was a click at the other end and Hawker
found himself straining his ears at an ominous silence.
He put the receiver down and mopped his forehead.
His head was filled with a bewildering complexity of
thoughts, and at no single angle of them could he
see a ray of daylight. That was the most staggering
blow he had been dealt yet.
How was it done? And why? And what was the
idea behind the men he had paid for their informa-
tion ? The whole thing baffled him. That friend of the
man high up in the Government service had never sent
him a false scent yet. His information had been as re-
liable and as authoritative as though it had come from
the official dossier itself. It was through him that he
had got on to this mystery at all. He was the indi-
vidual who had slipped him the guarded intimation
that, during the past few months there had been a
vast leakage of Government paper—the almost un-
duplicatable paper on which bank-notes and Treasury


208
THE MYSTERY MAKER
notes are printed. Those papers are of such quality
and the secrets of watermarkings so perfectly con-
trived that it is utterly impossible to copy them.
Yet it had been known for some weeks that the
banks had been receiving notes back from the Con-
tinent of such perfect workmanship that even the
banks themselves could not tell the difference. They
answered to every test. The sensitised plate told them
nothing—except perhaps that by some extraordinary
oversight the Bank printing press must have issued
some thousands of notes in pairs. Whole series of
numbers appeared to have been duplicated on the
numbering machine. And the banks shook their heads,
for they knew that that mistake was mechanically im-
possible. The system of checking and rechecking and
counter-checking was so involved and complete that
the whole system would be automatically thrown out
of joint if the numerators went wrong.
The banks were more worried over that case than
over any for fifty years. It was not the extent of the
financial loss, heavy though it undoubtedly was. It
was the fact that the secret processes by which the
paper were made and marked were no longer secrets.
Both Treasury notes and bank-notes had been repro-
duced with such perfection of detail that they were in
fact one and the same papers.
An international police conference was called. The
French police came over in force. It was the French
banks that were the greatest sufferers in the case.
British bank-notes are currency all over the world,
and, by an oddity in the workings of commerce and
exchange, are much better known and in far greater


THE MYSTERY MAKER 209
circulation in Europe than in Britain itself. In Britain
the Treasury note rules. But across the Channel the
big clean white bill with the neat black copy-hand
writing is honoured in any little cafe, where in Eng-
land it would be suspected even to the extent of re-
quiring the vendor's written name on the back before
it would be changed.
And the counterfeiters seemed to have plagued the
banks of the big French towns with thousands of
them. Many drifted in from cities far afield; the
Black Sea ports sent back quite a few. But they bore
the marks of weeks of travel and had probably landed
out there in the ordinary course of a note's travels. It
seemed that, for the time being, the forgers were
centred in and around Paris.
The international cordon was drawn. For two
months the police of the Continent pretty well drove
every known forger to distraction. And they finally
arrived at the unsettling conclusion that each and
every one of them was innocent. A new gang, of su-
preme skill, a coterie of past-masters, had arisen in
their midst, unheralded and unsuspected—until the
fruits of their marvellous labours began to appear in
the cash-tills of Europe, to baffle the police and evoke
vague fears in the souls of the banks.
Even under the most searching tests there was only
one way in which the experts could say that a note had
been forged. And that was when two notes came back
to Headquarters each bearing the same number. And
even the bank experts could not detect the forgery
from the genuine. The Bourses of the world gave a
little shiver when the news leaked out that the British
Bank of England paper had at last been copied.


212
THE MYSTERY MAKER
establishment and stepped inside as soon as the door
was opened.
"Good-morning, madam," he said brusquely. "I
am a police officer, Detective Inspector Hawker, of
Scotland Yard. Would you be good enough to answer
a few questions? I require certain information, and
I think you can supply it."
The landlady blenched. Her thin frame, at the
mention of Scotland Yard, seemed to draw into itself
and become rigid. She eyed the detective with acute
disapproval. The police! Her very select boarding
establishment invaded by the police! Throughout all
the years of her experience as a caterer for respect-
able boarders of high-class character the taint of po-
lice inquiries had never once soiled her record. Such
a thing was damning: enough to keep custom away
for months. At all costs the nature of this man's busi-
ness must not become known in the building.
"I will see you immediately, sir, in my private office.
Will you please step this way?" she said with regal
dignity. She swept ahead of him to the little, primly
furnished office beneath the stairs. Hawker followed,
with his muzzle down to as hot a trail as he had ever
scented in his life.
She turned on him like an offended aristocrat, her
hands clasped primly before her.
"And what," she asked, with studiously primmed
lips, "can I do for you?"
"I'm making inquiries with regard to a Mr. Dale-
son, a Mr. S. G. Daleson. I will be quite frank,
madam, and tell you that so far as you are concerned,
and so far as this establishment is concerned, I haven't
a single thing against you. It just happens that some-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 213
one is in the habit of calling here—and I am in the
process of making a few inquiries about him. Dale-
son is the man I refer to." The landlady bowed ever
so slightly in acknowledgment of the official absolu-
tion.
"How long has this man Daleson been coming
here?" Hawker asked.
"Daleson—Daleson? I don't think I know the
name. At any rate not well enough to recall offhand."
The landlady was only faintly helpful.
"He just came in, madam, less than half an hour
ago. A stoop-shouldered, rather fat old chap of be-
tween fifty and sixty. He walks as though he suffered
slightly from fallen arches; and he wears thick,
heavily pebbled glasses."
"Oh, that old gentleman. Yes, I know him. But he
never stays here, Mr. Hawker."
"But he calls here?"
"The first time I ever saw him in my life was yes-
terday evening. He called to see one of my guests."
"And he has been here again to-day?"
"He is here still, sir. He came, as you say, about
half an hour ago. He went straight upstairs and has
been here ever since. Look—that's the gentleman I
mean, the one going across the hall now to the front
door. Is that the gentleman you are inquiring for?"
Hawker glanced through the glass panels and
smiled inscrutably to himself.
"Yes, that's the gentleman I'm referring to," he
said, and was silent for a few moments. He watched
the bulky old gent with the rounded shoulders wad-
dle laboriously across the hall, calling plaintively for


THE MYSTERY MAKER 215
gaol again, face the visiting magistrates and receive
another three or four years on his sentence for his
temerity in daring to escape from prison. The other
man would be released and a shadower set to follow
him wherever he went, an infallible pointing finger
to an eventual connecting link with the main thread
again. And Stayne would be left in a blank ignorance
of the whole matter.
Up to now—so far as he knew—Stayne did not sus-
pect his presence there: did not even know that the
Daleson alibi had blown up. And Hawker was a man
who believed in the first of the tenets of crime detec-
tion—that of playing on the other man's ignorance.
Stayne, without Varris, would be in a fierce predica-
ment. He wouldn't know where he stood or what had
happened. The silence and the mystery of it all would
be bound to lead him into making a false move.
And meanwhile Varris was up there, alone and un-
suspecting, a fit subject for as neat a recapture as the
Yard had ever brought off. Varris would be as far off
his guard as a hibernating bear. The paragraph in
last night's papers—repeated again authoritatively
in the great morning dailies—would have lulled every
breath of suspicion. Also the fact that Stayne was free
to come and go to him as freely as his fancy dictated
would also smooth out any waking fears in his mind.
The door swung close behind the shambling figure,
and Hawker smiled again. Outside his man would be
waiting and watching. Daleson could take his taxi as
far as he wanted; there would be another taxi rolling
along in the fumes of its exhaust.
The landlady seemed rather surprised that he
made no move to accost the man he was seeking—


218
THE MYSTERY MAKER
"That was what Mr. Daleson said. He said he had
an appointment with Mr. Harris four days earlier in
Manchester and that Mr. Harris had failed to keep
that appointment. He was very put out about it. I
gathered that some big business deal was slipping
through his fingers because Mr. Harris was so lax in
his business methods. Apparently he had been follow-
ing Mr. Harris about all over the place and it was
only yesterday evening that he located him here."
"I see," said Hawker. And the pencil had ceased
its tapping. "Darn clever," he muttered under his
breath. "Gosh—Stayne, for thoroughness I cer-
tainly hand it to you." Hawker's hat was metaphori-
cally raised. He liked a good fighter. A good fighter
gave him points to use in his fight against other good
fighters. In the detective game you never lose any-
thing by coming up against a keen, shrewd opponent.
There is always a new wrinkle to be picked up. And
Stayne seemed to be giving him tips every day of his
life. A man who could plan and scheme far enough
ahead to convince a landlady that he had been talking
to Harris four days previously in Manchester, while
the papers on her own hall stand were chock-a-block
with the news of that same man's sensational prison
break—with photographs—was a man worthy of
that polite gesture.
"Madam," he said, "if you will permit me I will go
up and see this Mr. Harris."
She put a hand appealingly on his arm. "You—
you're not going to arrest him?" she asked breath-
lessly.
"I'm afraid something like that will happen," he
answered bluntly.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Oh, but, please, not here! Not in public—where
my visitors can see. You won't bring him down in
handcuffs?"
"Sorry about that, madam, but this lad happens to
be about twice as slippery as a greased eel. I prefer
handcuffs on a fellow like him. Don't worry yourself.
They won't show unless he makes a fool of himself
and cuts up rough. There won't be any scene. We shall
just walk down those stairs like two old friends. Get
me a taxi ordered, will you, please? We will go right
straight through. The only thing you'll notice is that
a thousand to one I shall have my arm linked in his.
Thank you so much: up here, isn't it? What's his
number?"
"Suite Number Two on the first floor," said the
very nervous landlady.
Hawker went up, feeling for the pair of steel brace-
lets in his hip pocket.
The landing was broad and fairly spacious. Num-
ber Two suite, consisting of a bedroom, a sitting-
room, and a bathroom, was on the left. Hawker en-
tered what he took to be the sitting-room without
knocking.
He looked round for a moment uncertainly before
catching sight of the man he wanted. Wooden shut-
ters outside the windows were half-drawn against the
strong flood of early spring sunshine, and on the in-
side heavy curtains were draped across the panes. The
light was none too good, and it was not until he got
used to the dimness that he saw the figure in the cor-
ner.
A loosely built form was sitting in a chair by a big
bureau, leaning over, tying his shoe-lace. He glanced


220
THE MYSTERY MAKER
up at the unceremonious entry and stayed there star-
ing, the ends of the lace held taut in his hands.
Hawker closed the door behind him and advanced
into the room.
"Coming quiet?" he asked crisply.
The figure in the chair straightened up and re-
garded the detective with a puzzled frown.
"I—I beg your pardon?" he said.
"Yes, I'll bet you do, you beauty," retorted Haw-
ker softly. "But what I want to know is, are you com-
ing quietly, or do I have to get rough with you?" He
pulled out the cuffs and let them dangle, glinting dully,
from his hand.
The man stared at them. "What's wrong?" he
asked vaguely. "What have I done? Do you mean
that you are going to arrest me?" There seemed to be
genuine surprise in the half-bewildered voice.
Hawker nodded. "That's about the size of it, son.
You're not going to deny your identity, are you?
Don't mean to say you're going to be fool enough to
say you're not Varris—Templer Varris?"
The other regarded him blankly. "Varris," he said.
"My name isn't Varris. You've got the first letter
wrong. My name's Harris—Geoffrey Harris."
"And then some. You're Templer Varris, my son.
You've just been speaking to Mr. S. G. Daleson, oth-
erwise Colonel John Stayne. Yesterday morning, with
Stayne's connivance, you broke out of Scrubs Prison.
I'm re-arresting you right here and now. And I warn
you that anything you say may be used in evidence
against you."
Varris scratched his head and held his end up mag-
nificently.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
221
"I haven't the least idea what you're talking
about," he said, "but I can't help thinking you're mak-
ing a pretty hopeless mistake. Who are you and what
are you, anyway?"
Hawker nearly giggled. "Not bad, but just damn
silly," he said. "I'm Hawker, of Scotland Yard, that's
who I am; and well you know it, my son. I s'pose
you'll be telling me you're a private window-cleaner
next. Come on, hold 'em out!"
Obediently, but with a palpably worried look, the
man held his hands out. Hawker suspected a flash
move from the first. The darbies looped over the
wrists, and with a quick push the locks snapped to.
The young man dropped his hands into his lap and re-
garded them as though they were some strange new
insect that had just settled on him. He seemed palpa-
bly mystified by the whole proceeding.
Hawker sat on the table, swinging a leg idly. He
had got his man, and now he had time to spare to lay
a trap to get the others. He eyed his capture, well
pleased with a good job of work well done. The ex-
pected resistance hadn't materialised, but he was still
trying to guess what Varris had up his sleeve.
The detective canted the other man's head back
and inspected it keenly in the dull half-light. He
rubbed a finger over the upturned cheek and then
laughed.
"Pigment !" he chuckled. "Gosh—that's good. The
poor simp has been play-acting around with a grease-
paint set. What's the idea, Varris ? Thinking of going
on the stage?"
Varris sighed. "I've told you I haven't the least
idea what you're talking about," he said. "If you'd


222 THE MYSTERY MAKER
only be a little more explicit I might be able to help
you."
Hawker sat back and smiled. "You're not doing
yourself a great deal of good," he said. "Not that I
care a hoot. I'd like to see you get another six years on
top of what you've got. You pulled a raw deal on me
between you—you and your friends. That was a hot
one, that volunteer prisoner stunt, and I'm still sore
about it. Bet your sweet life. But if you take my tip
you'll come clean. It's up to me to get you a long
stretch tacked on to your sentence—or to recommend
you only to receive a merely nominal punishment.
But, as I say, it's in your own hands. I don't care a
damn."
The other looked round helplessly. "But what—
what do you want me to do?" he said. He made an
unthinking attempt to get a hand into his pocket for
a cigarette, but the handcuffs dragged, and he looked
up sheepishly. "Forgot about these," he said. "Get
me my cigarette case out, will you, please?"
"Not on your life," growled Hawker. "You'll get
a smoke when I've got what I want. And I haven't
got it yet—and you've made a bad start."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
22$
"You know what it means, I suppose?"
"No. I haven't the loosest idea."
"It means that you needn't ask for favours, that's
all, when you get back. You'll have the thinnest time
you've ever had in your life. What you had to put up
with when you went in before will be just heaven to
what you'll get when you go back. And, you'll be lucky
if the visiting commissioners don't give you just as
much as you can swallow."
Varris cupped his chin moodily in his hands and
stared at the wall. Hawker didn't rush him. He let
him have a good long think. The man knew what
prison was like inside; knew that, though the life
could never be desirable, it could either be made
bearable or intolerable. And ahead of him were five
long years of it—with as much more as the authori-
ties cared to inflict. Sentences for prison breaks are
always very severe, more so because they are never
made public. A recaptured prisoner comes up before
a private tribunal inside the prison itself. The com-
missioner's powers are absolute. Varris wouldn't
stand much of a chance with them. Knowing that he
alone held the liberty of his confederates in his hands,
they would use every inducement to make him con-
fess. They would be after bigger fish than Varris.
Varris would simply be a squealer, an informant who
incriminates others against whom the police evidence
is insufficient to prosecute.
But once they could get a signed statement from
Varris definitely incriminating the others they could
salve their consciences by stringing Varris along for
an extra couple of years and rope in the big fish for the
big sentences. Scotland Yard was desperately keen to


226
THE MYSTERY MAKER
get the Mystery Maker safe behind the walls, out of
harm's way for a good long spell.
"Well? Have you thought it all out?" asked Haw-
ker at last.
"Yes, I have," said Varris, with the light of a
bright idea in his eyes.
"Well, out with it, son," said Hawker, flipping
open his note-book.
"It's this," said the other, looking earnestly at the
detective. "If, as you say, you've had the man Varris
in prison before, it stands to reason that you have a
record of his finger prints, doesn't it?"
"It does. We filed Varris's prints away as soon as
sentence was passed. What's the game now?"
"Well then. If you take me to Scrubs Prison, take
another cast of my finger prints and find that they
don't coincide with the ones you already have—that
will prove that I'm not Varris, won't it?"
"Yeh!" grunted Hawker. "And it will prove that
black's white and that the opposite to five o'clock is a
piece of cheese."
"Well, that's what I think you'd better do," re-
joined Varris, standing up. "I'm sorry about the in-
convenience of it, but I suppose it can't be helped.
You've got to do your duty. I'm perfectly willing to
come with you, Mr. Hawker, as soon as you are
ready."
Hawker's brows came down over his eyes like win-
dow blinds. A vague suspicion that all was not well
began to burn to life in his breast. And yet nothing
could possibly have gone wrong. The whole thing was
so simple and obvious. This man Harris had arrived
there the same day that Varris had made his escape.


THE MYSTERY MAKER 227
Daleson had come to see him there, and had pulled
a clever but transparent bluff about a business ap-
pointment in Manchester four days previously. Haw-
ker knew for a positive fact that Stayne was nowhere
near Manchester on that date. He was in London—
had been for over a fortnight without a break. And
then, over and above all that, dammit, this fellow was
Varris. He couldn't get away from that. He had even
gone to the extent of trying to disguise himself with a
touch of grease-paint.
The detective eyed him critically. He had never
come into close contact with Varris himself. He had
seen him once or twice in the dock when he was pres-
ent in court giving evidence. He could not definitely
swear to the man. His real lack of personal contact
accounted for his being landed with a likely-looking
substitute when he made his raid down at Wapping.
And he didn't intend having the laugh handed to him
again.
He strode to the windows and pulled the curtains
wide, letting in a flood of light. The better to make
sure he pushed the outside shutters flat against the
wall, and the accretion of light in the sitting-room was
so strong that it hurt the eyes.
Varris was standing up, a limp smile on his face,
holding out his hands.
"Come on, Hawker, we've had enough of this," he
said. "I think Varris has had time to get clear by now.
Take these fool things off."
Hawker knew, in that sudden flush of realisation,
that he had been bluffed again. The figure was the fig-
ure of Varris, but the voice was the voice of Stayne.
He came back and stood point blank in front of the


228
THE MYSTERY MAKER
impostor, his face dark with incredulity. The few deft
touches of brown and grey flesh-paint had altered the
features out of all recognition. A tiny layer of model-
ling wax had given him a completely different cast of
nose: and the crimping up of the hair had actually
altered the curve-line of his head at the back. In the
white glare of light the deception was obvious, but in
the dim shadows of the semi-darkened room it had
passed without question. Knowing what he did of the
movements of both men, Hawker had never for a
moment suspected.
He just stood and stared, while the anger in his
breast rose to boiling point. With something of a
physical effort he got a grip on himself.
"Take these off, please," repeated Stayne, pushing
his manacled arms out under Hawker's exasperated
nose.
The Yard man snorted. "I'm not so damned sure
that I will," he retorted.
Stayne smiled, a little deprecatory flutter of amuse-
ment, that scarcely moved his features. "Think it out,
Hawker," he advised. "It's no crime to put on a little
grease-paint and alter the contour of one's nose. I
break no law if I do my hair in a slightly different way
from the style in which I wore it yesterday."
"You've deliberately aided and abetted in the
escape of a criminal from justice," declared the de-
tective.
"On the contrary, I have voluntarily delivered my-
self into your hands. And I understand from your
own actions that you are anxious to apprehend me.
Something about a passport, wasn't it—and compile-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 229
ity in a criminal adventure about which I'm afraid
you know a great deal more than I do myself."
"You knew perfectly well that was Templer Varris
who went out of here a quarter of an hour ago,"
stormed the detective. "You knew his identity and
you knew that he was a wanted man. As an escaped
convict you knew that his recapture was urgently
wanted. And you deliberately assisted in his escape."
"/ did? But my dear Hawker!" Stayne's voice was
gently expostulatory. He regarded the detective with
hurt surprise. "Why—I didn't even know Varris was
at liberty. He was recaptured last night. I saw it my-
self in the papers, an official authorisation of the news
from your own headquarters. It was repeated again
in this morning's dailies. Bless my soul! There are a
couple on the table. Go and look for yourself."
"That's what you said five minutes ago—and it's
not funny."
"Well, I can't help the facts. Hawker, I've just
been speaking to a man named Daleson—a Mr. S. G.
Daleson, who is a dry goods merchant."
"Yes, damn dry!" hooted the Yard man. "He's no
more Daleson than you are. And you're more Dale-
son that he is. That man was Varris, and you know
it."
"If you are so sure of it, why on earth didn't you
arrest him as he went out?" Stayne's tone was full of
slightly puzzled inquiry, a very natural wondering at
an abstention from a very natural course of action.
Hawker nearly choked.
"I'm holding you for aiding and abetting," he
rasped. "And I'm warning you that anything you say
will be used in evidence against you. Not only did you


THE MYSTERY MAKER
aasist in the escape of Varris from gaol, but you
planned this lay-out for him. You got the whole thing
fixed up by 'phone even before you found Tom
Dobey in need of someone to pay his fine. You pulled
wool over the landlady's eyes, and you bluffed her
pretty successfully. But you don't get away with it all
the time, Mr. Stayne. That landlady will swear that
you're not Harris. She will prove that you are not the
man to whom she rented rooms in the name of Har-
ris."
"Well? What of it?" queried Stayne respectfully.


CHAPTER XXX
"LTAWKER was nearly bubbling over. He was so
*■ mad that he could not see even then that Stayne
was still fighting for time, bluffing him still. "What
odds will it make?" continued Stayne. "The fact that
Harris rented these rooms and gave me permission to
be here is a matter between Harris, myself and the
landlady. We have broken no law. You might as well
rope in the poor old girl downstairs and include her
in the business. You're ageing, Hawker, that's what's
the matter with you—you're losing your old close
contact."
"I don't care a hoot about that," snarled the thor-
oughly angry man. "I'm holding you. You're coming
with me to Vine Street. Drop those darned hands.
Those handcuffs don't come off till I've handed you
in front of the charge sergeant."
Stayne dropped his hands and sighed.
"Ah, well," he muttered. "Have it your own way.
It'll make a pretty tale for the papers."
And at that Hawker stopped dead. He realised in
a tremendous burst of understanding what a charge
against Stayne meant. Not only Scotland Yard, but he
himself would be held up to the whitest glare of ridi-
cule and obloquy. The story of it would make great
newspaper reading. One of the most cleverly con-
trived prison escapes on record: the quick and urgent
search for the missing man, followed by one of the

231


THE MYSTERY MAKER
suave and polite over the 'phone, but only Hawker
knew how much concentrated caustic there was in
those gently restrained sentences. He had whipped
Hawker with verbal rods till he was mentally sore.
And he was in no mood to take a second dose. He
turned away uncertainly, chewing at his lower lip.
"That's better," said Stayne softly. "You've got
to see reason in these things, old scout. You know as
well as I do that your case wouldn't stand two min-
utes' cross-examination by a good lawyer. He would
eat your ears, singe the hair off you. One can't aid and
abet a man who is officially under lock and key at
Scrubs Prison. For all you know I had no knowledge
that the man I was speaking to was any other than
what he represented himself to be—Mr. Harris, a
traveller in the same line of business as Mr. Daleson
himself. What more natural than that the two should
meet—having mutual business to transact? The fact
that I am here is just another little joke on my part
—another little example of the Mystery Maker's
natural aptitude for making mysteries that don't even
exist, or, at least, for getting himself innocently tan-
gled up in those that do.
"And before you trot me round to Vine Street
there's another little precaution that I'd advise you
to take. I'm telling you for your own good. You're not
a bad old scout, Hawker, and I'd hate to see you
stepping into another muddy puddle."
"And what's that ?" growled Hawker.
"Just this. First you thought I was Daleson, didn't
you ? Then you thought Varris must be Daleson. Now
I suggest that you go straight round to Daleson's
house and find out who he really is. You'll be tickled."


THE MYSTERY MAKER 235
pocket and flipped it open. "I always carry a little
'touch-up' box with me," he said. "Never know when
it's going to come in handy. And always, when you're
travelling with your face made up, you need to pop in
somewhere every now and then to tittivate it."
Hawker grunted again. That box was a good idea.
It was no thicker than a long, single-sided cigarette
case. The paints were no bulkier than fat cigarettes
and there was a tiny silver compartment at the lower
end for talc powder.
"There are over a dozen good facial disguises in
that case," said Stayne. "See these little tubes?
There's a different moustache and a pair of eyebrows
to match in each. The tube opens lengthwise and you
just press them in. Pretty cute, eh? I'll get Tem-
bridge to make you out a drawing of them—you ought
to find them quite useful."
"Go to hell," said Hawker rudely, making for the
door.
"Oh—Hawker," called Stayne, as the stocky figure
passed through. "Leave me in peace for the next hour
or two, will you? I'm going over to Paris to-night
and I want to get a lot of packing done and odd jobs
finished off."
"Going to Paris, are you, my beauty?" said Haw-
ker over his shoulder. "Now you just watch your step
and see how far out of England you get to-night. I'm
going right back to the Yard to have a consultation
with the Chief about this business." Stayne rubbed his
hands as he watched him go.
Stayne sat himself down at the mirror and rubbed
the paint off on a towel. Then rapidly he applied
some more, rubbing it with his fingertips till it was


236 THE MYSTERY MAKER
all evenly distributed. A little touch of powder whit-
ened his eyebrows, and then he took from one of the
silver tubes a neatly trimmed little grey moustache
and adjusted it on his upper lip. He listened at the
door for a moment. Down below he could hear the
quiet murmuring of voices, and he knew that Hawker
was having a final talk with the landlady before leav-
ing.
Hurriedly he stripped off and tipped the contents
of his pockets out on to the table. In the bedroom
were all Varris's suits, hastily left when the order to
fly came through from Tembridge. He changed into
one, and, because it did not fit any too well, climbed
into a fairly full-chested tweed overcoat. From a
half-dozen pairs of gloves he carefully selected a pair
of dull lemon hue. A final pat at the moustache to fix
the gum and he sauntered idly to the stairs. Marbury,
head of the Yard, to the life.
Hawker was gone when he got down, and the land-
lady was back in her little office under the stairs.
Through the glass panels he caught sight of her, eye-
ing him with a puzzled look as he went along to the
door.
There was no alarm in her eyes, just a faint curi-
osity as to how he got in without her seeing him. Her
clients were liable to have relatives and visitors call-
ing at any hour of the day, and she was generally on
duty to receive them in the entrance hall. This one
seemed to have been admitted when she was not
handy. She hurried forward to open the door for him.
In the hall was a little wooden "In" and "Out"
frame. At the side of one of the names, Mrs. Hillyer,


THE MYSTERY MAKER
237
the small panel was drawn back exposing the word
"In."
He raised his hat to the landlady as she held the
door open. "Thank you, madam," he said in that calm,
politely restrained voice that was Marbury's in every
tone and inflection. "I'm awfully pleased to see Mrs.
Hillyer looking so well. Your cuisine appears to be
doing her a great deal of good."
A perfectly harmless and safe remark: one with a
compliment in its tail. For had Mrs. Hillyer been
the most robust of feminine athletes or the sickliest
creature on earth the praise of the food was applic-
able. The landlady smiled and almost blushed. Stayne
passed on.
At the first big haberdasher's he stopped and pur-
chased a black ebony cane, one with the largest ivory
knob he could find. Lemon gloves and that famous
ebony knobbed cane were the signs-manual of Mar-
bury, autocratic ruler of Scotland Yard.
He lunched at a swagger restaurant and received
a respectful salute from the martre as he took his
place at table. Three others in the room recognised
him and smiled. He nodded politely and retired into
a brown study, an intimation that all his friends un-
derstood. Marbury was not "mixing" to-day. There
was something on his mind and he was going to puz-
zle it out over lunch. They left him severely alone,
merely whispering his identity to the intensely inter-
ested people at their own tables.
From there he took a cab to the bottom of Curzon
Square and idly walked up to 8b.


CHAPTER XXXI
T_TAWKER jumped into his car and drove rapidly
■■■ back to Scotland Yard. Marbury was in and
hinted that he would see him as soon as Hawker
cared to appear. The detective went up, sourly aware
that he was getting the raw end of the deal. He had
worked day and night on the case and had honestly
done his best, conscious of the knowledge that he was
getting very little help or encouragement from the
higher authorities. He was working against handicaps
that were intolerable. Facts against John Stayne were
sticking out a mile, and yet he hadn't a scrap of real
evidence on which to base an arrest. As often as he
spoke of arrest to Stayne, as often as a new oppor-
tunity presented itself of forcing the issue, Stayne
came back with a completely unexpected reply that
effectively checkmated him and broke up any hope on
his part of lodging him behind prison bars. And all
he got from the gods was a hoot and a sarcastic refer-
ence to the fact that even Varris was still at large.
He entered the room and laid his hat on the table.
Marbury was writing and he did not stop as his man
came in.
"Well, Hawker? What's the alibi this time?" he
asked gravely. And Hawker chewed his lip.
"Chief," he said, "I want your permission to knock
Stayne off. He's running wild, playing the very devil.
218


THE MYSTERY MAKER 239
I know for a fact that he's up to his eyes in this busi-
ness—and I just can't lay my hands on him. There's
enough evidence against him in this last two days to
put him away for twelve years—and he's still run-
ning around as perky as a sparrow. And I'm fed up
with it. I can't get any further ahead while he stays
out of gaol. All I want is permission from here."
"Asking us to hold the baby, eh?" Marbury kept
on writing, but the acid in his voice was chilled with
ice. Hawker reddened.
"It isn't that at all," he said. "I just want to feel
that I'm not playing this hand alone. I want to feel
there's someone standing back of me."
"David Hawker, you have eight men detailed off to
assist you. That is a team of nine, with you at the
head. How many more do you want?"
"You can have the lot," said Hawker bluntly, "for
two good shadowers and permission to arrest John
Stayne."
Marbury dabbed his pen in the ink.
"It occurs to me," he said smoothly, "that the ar-
rest of John Stayne is the sole object of your present
labours. What you mean is that, up to now, you have
not succeeded in getting sufficient evidence to warrant
arresting him yourself?"
Hawker hesitated. That, in a nut-shell, was ex-
actly what it amounted to, but it was phrased about as
coldly as one could well do it. The inspector bridled.
That was about as much consideration as he had ever
had on this case. The Chiefs wanted results, all the
time and always. Nothing but success, and quick suc-
cess, seemed to interest them.
"It's—it's a bit difficult, Chief," he muttered.


24o THE MYSTERY MAKER
"The blighter seems to be able to get news ahead of
me. Just when I've got him all set for an arrest some-
body sends him a mental wireless and he's ready for
me—and heaven alone knows where his scouts get
the information from. I've got every end blocked up,
none of my men is giving a word away. But he seems
to tap in every time."
Marbury looked up for a moment.
"Exactly what have you against him up to now?"
he inquired.
Hawker leaned forward. "Chief," he said earn-
estly, "I know for a fact that John Stayne was the
man who assisted in the escape of Varris from Scrubs
—Stayne and Tembridge. Stayne did the main job
while Tembridge played chauffeur. I had the whole
case mapped out, proved and complete, inside two
hours. That means work, Chief, when the ends lie as
far apart as Curzon Square, the Strand Hotel, Scrubs
Prison, two police courts, and two garages—one right
out at Willesden. I had him photographically identi-
fied at every point by men who were ready to step
forward, and swear it in the witness-box. Every single
minute of his day was programmed, linked up and
accounted for. We had him fixed, even to the number
of his own car out there at Willesden."
"Well ? Why didn't you arrest him?"
"I went round to Curzon Square to do just that
very thing. I told him what I had come for, and I
actually ran over the formula. And then he pulled
as fine a section of bull on me as I have ever sampled
in my life. In less than an hour he had me flat and
gasping. Chief, he pulled an alibi for each of the essen-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 241
tial hours in turn, an alibi that was as watertight as a
ship's bulkhead. Get that, Chief, an alibi—with the
amount of evidence / had against him."
The Chief frowned at his writing-pad. "But surely,
we have broken through false alibis before? The
method, I understand, is to trace the movements of
the men who say they were with him—to prove that
they were elsewhere at the time: and then run them
for perjury."
"That's what I did, Chief. But you don't know
the type of people Stayne had lined up against me.
They weren't any old down-and-out Tom, Dick and
Harry, bribed with a fiver to swear their souls away.
They were top-notchers, people in the high lights of
life; people you'd never dream would stand to it and
tell the packs of downright deliberate lies that they
told me at Curzon Square. Told 'em flat-faced, too,
without a wink or a blush."
"Who were they, Hawker?"
"Mr. Vane Calhoun, the Prime Minister's private
secretary; Major-General Stonehaugh, head of the
Army Ordnance Department; and Sir Ardleigh Pow-
ers, who at this moment is the Under-Secretary of
State for India. That's the beautiful bunch I was up
against. And if you can believe that, I'll eat my uni-
form coatl Candidly, sir, where do I stand? Next
time I go for him he'll have half a dozen bishops
strung out against me."
"Sure you're not on a case of mistaken identity?"
"I've got evidence in slathers. Even to the note he
wrote to Dobey. Stayne worked it. And then three of
the most honourable men in the land stand to me and


THE MYSTERY MAKER
say they were actually in his company at a time when
I know for a fact he was hocussing the gate gaoler at
the Scrubs."
"Did you work on the three gentlemen concerned?"
"Yes, I did. And they had even fixed up that end
of it. I found to my own satisfaction that they had
been talking in private offices with a man who passed
muster as John Stayne, that they had gone to the
Treasury and had a long conference there, and that
there was not the slightest doubt that Stayne and
Sir Ardleigh Powers were undoubtedly lunching to-
gether at the Ship till three o'clock. I can't put men
like that into the witness-box! In spite of Stayne's
record no jury in the kingdom would believe the po-
lice evidence against their sworn word. Those men
are in the Government. Stayne had me by the coat-
tails as soon as he shot that one at me."
"You don't expect me to step in and risk it, do
you?" asked the Chief, with heavy sarcasm. "If
Stayne can tap people like that, who else is he going
to invite into the box when he comes up for trial?
Mr. Hawker, I've put you out on the road to get evi-
dence, not to come bleating to me for assistance on a
job you're quite capable of doing yourself."
"I'm not bleating, Chief." There was keen resent-
ment in Hawker's voice. "Only last night I thought
I'd got him penned in: thought I had him beautifully."
"Up to his old tricks?"
"Stealing a passport."
The Chief frowned again. "Well, that's serious
enough, isn't it?" he said. "Looks as though he's try-
ing to get out of the country under an assumed iden-
tity."


CHAPTER XXXII
OU see the neatness, Chief?" Hawker said.
"Varris reports back at the old address, where
Tembridge is waiting to take him under his wing.
Tembridge is even better at disguises than Stayne
himself, as we well know, and you can bet your boots
Varris is now unrecognisable, spirited away to some
other out-of-the-way dump where only trained rats
could get at him. The only piece of advantage we
derive from the whole thing is that Stayne's secret
runway is now of no further use to him. We've busted
that up, and that's about all we have done."
"Your use of the plural, I trust, only embraces the
outside men on this particular case?" Marbury asked.
"It's not much use jabbing me like that, Chief.
We're doing our best and getting the kicks all the
time. I'm asking for a bit of moral support from
here. If I make the arrest, will you guarantee that
we go through with it?"
"Why didn't you arrest him this morning? You had
evidence that he was actually with Varris, an escaped
convict. The landlady would have proved that. You
could have held him, at the very least, for being an
accessory after the fact."
"I was considering doing it. And then Stayne gave
me an outline of where we should stand if I did. I
couldn't even prove it was Varris he was with! I
couldn't even prove that Varris had ever stayed there.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
247
The next thing that would have happened would be
to see Tembridge installed there, disguised so that not
even the landlady could tell him from Varris himself.
And then there's that wretched statement to the Press.
They would give us the laugh from one end of Fleet
Street to the other."
The Chief referred to his notes.
"Up to the present moment," he said, "spurious
bank-notes to the value of fifty-two thousand eight
hundred and seventy pounds have been received back
at Threadneedle Street. More are coming in every
day. The matter has now become so serious, and the
forgeries so difficult to detect, that a special staff is
now employed at the Bank of England to deal with it.
The average return of fake notes has now swelled to
five hundred and ten pounds a day. Of all the danger
points in this affair, Stayne's is by far the most mena-
cing. Once he became embroiled in it we knew we had
a real fight on our hands. For that reason alone we
roped in our best to handle it. And for that reason
alone you were put in charge of the men on the road.
It's your fight, Hawker."
Hawker looked diffidently at the empty fire-grate.
"That means I don't get the warrant, eh?" he asked.
"Not necessarily. You know Stayne's end of it
better than I do. You know where he stands. You
have already told me the line he intends to adopt
if we swing a charge against him. It seems to me that
as fast as you collect new evidence against him he
ripostes with alibis that prove conclusively that he
was not there. When I say 'conclusively' I merely
refer to a judge and jury, of course."
The intonation was as moderately regulated as


248 THE MYSTERY MAKER
though the Chief were discussing the merits of vari-
ous holiday resorts for that year's vacation, but
Hawker was not deaf to the bitter, accusatory note
of failure that bit through it.
Hawker plunged. "Chief," he said dispassion-
ately, "let me put it this way. I can't do much while
he remains at liberty, checkmating every move we
make. I say 'we' because I mean that I am not alone
in this fight—Stayne is twiddling you round his fin-
gers as much as he is me. I can do a hell of a lot once
I get him cooped up in a twelve by eight. Once let me
get him isolated away into a cell and I'll have all the
evidence you want. I'll bust up his alibis inside
forty-eight hours. I'll get my witnesses lined up so that
the Lord Chief Justice himself couldn't pick a hole in
their depositions. I'll have the whole lay-out fixed
against him so that Lloyd's would bet ten to one on
a full conviction."
"Yes ?" said the Chief gently.
"I certainly will," declared Hawker. "You know
as well as I do that Stayne alone planned the escape of
Varris from gaol. He alone put it through. He alone
has kept him out of my hands ever since. That's crime
enough to sling any man into the jug for a good long
stretch. You know as well as I do that he worked that
passport business, and you know—better than I do—
that he is up to his ears in this bank-note swindle.
Marienne Varris went to him right away. Demorval
has killed himself. Lady Demorval doesn't know
which way to turn. The Embassy over there is at its
wit's end, yelping to us for help by every post. Both
Varris and his sister were employees there. They
know the full strength of it. If they were on the


THE MYSTERY MAKER
249
straight, why didn't they come to us? No. Being
crooks, they prefer the crook course. Marienne goes
to John Stayne for help, and Varris himself takes
five years' penal rather than open his mouth. That's
the evidence, Chief—and it ought to be enough. You
know it's the truth, and I can establish it up to the
hilt as soon as I get Stayne shut away. On top of that
Stayne tells me he is going over to Paris to-night.
Once he gets over there, where will I be? Hey? In
the name of God, tell me where I'll be!"
Marbury looked up and his eyes met Hawker's.
"Staynegoes to Paris to-night?" he repeated.
"Told me so himself. Boasted it. Chief, you've not
to give me that warrant. You know what these French
police are. If I've got to hold up this business, Stayne
has got to go under lock and key."
Marbury reached over for a new pad. There was
neither hesitation nor diffidence in his voice.
"You get it, Hawker," he said. "I'll stand by you,
if I have to get remands till the cows come home.
Why the devil didn't you tell me about Paris before?
Heavens, man, things have moved too fast even for
me. Get him! Arrest him on sight."
Hawker did not pause for thanks. He saw the brief
order written and signed. He saw the Chief bang his
thumb on a bell-push and pass the order over to the
messenger who entered; and he saw the messenger de-
part. Without a further word he went out, a rankling
sore simmering hotly in his breast. If Marbury had
only done that two days ago—when all the fingers of
common sense and logic pointed avidly in that obvious
direction—the whole job would have been over and
done with by now.


250 THE MYSTERY MAKER
He went down to his own office and waited for the
order, discussing the entire case with his team. His
own pointed belief was that as soon as he had roped
in the Mystery Maker the whole problem of the con-
tinental bank-note swindle would be laid bare. And
at last he had got the Chief round to his way of think-
ing. No longer was he harassed with the knowledge
that he was working alone and in the dark. The Chief
was in with him and the whole power and resource of
the Yard was now lined up behind him. He knew the
signs: he knew what it meant when the Chief dropped
that assumed air of courteous suavity. The mask was
off, and the Chief was out for a fight. He would stand
by now to the last clang of the bell.
Hawker made his dispositions, apportioning his
men where they would do most good in this new drive.
He 'phoned the house opposite, where he had taken
the front rooms.
"Anybody arrived," he asked pointedly.
"Yes, sir. An old gentleman with a slight paunch
and a stoop to his shoulders, heavily pebbled glasses
and walks badly; fallen arches or flat feet, I think.
We let him go through."
"Good!" breathed Hawker to his crowd. "Varris
is in. We get 'em both together. How long ago was
that?" he asked.
"A little under an hour, sir. Nothing further has
happened. Three men arrived soon after and sent
word through. They're operating at the back, in the
house behind 8b. They're dressed up as decorators.
You'll notice them in long white coats. We haven't
heard from them for half an hour, but I reckon
they've tapped that tunnel by now. They were to


252 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"No, sir; two. They booked right through. And a
couple of district messengers were sent for later on
to see to their luggage."
"Great stuff, Tom. Which messenger office was
called?"
"Victoria, sir; just by the station."
"Well, don't even trust them! Question 'em when
they arrive and make 'em show their credentials.
Bind them to silence and then let them through. We'll
have this business fixed up and exploded before the
sun goes down. I'll be along there inside half an hour.
Keep your end up."
"You bet."
Hawker banged the receiver down and hurried
through to the great main yard, where his car stood
panting against the kerb.
In twenty minutes he was round in the front room,
the whole atmosphere electrical with expectation.
Tom, his subordinate, was waiting for him.
"The Exchange man has just been through again,
sir," he said. "It was Tembridge on the line. He's
ordered a taxi to connect with the boat train."
Hawker rubbed his hands. "Panning out fine,"
he breathed. "Pity that Exchange man wasn't put
on before," he said. "How long has he been on the
board?"
"Something under an hour. Couldn't get Head-
quarters' permission before. There's been a bit of a
love-spat between us and the P. M. G. over it."
"Do they suspect us yet at 8b?"
"Don't think so. Calls come and go just the same."
"It doesn't matter anyway. We've got 'em cooped
up inside. Varris and Tembridge are there: Stayne


THE MYSTERY MAKER
253
is on the way. As soon as they are all in we'll go up
and raid. I've got men posted at Victoria and six have
gone down to Dover—just in case they work another
miracle—which they won't, curse 'em!"
"Are you going out, sir?"
"Yes. Your orders are to watch—and wait. And
act on instructions. Don't argue about it. Just grab
'em off as they come out. I'm going round to see what's
doing at the house at the back. Keep me informed of
anything happening by 'phone. Daleson is on the
'phone round there: got the number?"
"Sure I've got it. Our man is attending to our
section of the switchboard. He's guaranteed me a
seven-seconds' service."
"Great stuff. See you later. I'll be back again in a
quarter of an hour. We may be able to make a sur-
prise entrance from round there and take 'em in the
act. I'm just itching to get Stayne napping. He's had
it all his own way up to now. But I've got the backing
from the inside now—and I'll roast the liver out of
him."
Hawker hurried down the stairs and out into the
bright sunlight. He strode swiftly down the square
and crossed over the road. All of a sudden his pace
slacked and he stared. His heart took a violent jump
into the region of his throat and little imps of joy
began dancing about in his soul.
Coming towards him was his Chief, Marbury, head
of the C. I. D.; Marbury, the ice-cold block of logic,
the terror of the wrongdoer, the man who held in his
hands the swift direction of all the vast authority and
power of Scotland Yard—Marbury come to take
charge himself!


254 TkHE MYSTERY MAKER
Just for a moment Hawker paused indecisively.
There was no mistaking that elegantly groomed fig-
ure in the smart raglan and the soft grey hat. Never
a detective on earth looked less like his part than the
slim, neat figure walking quietly up that square. But
to those who knew him, the look, the walk, the dress,
the air of quiet assurance and that indefinable, un-
analysable air of authority that grows round a man in
high State employ, all betrayed him, "Marbury of
the Yard." If a further hall-mark was required it
was there in the slim black cane with the big ivory
knob, carried slantwise under the arm at just that
well-known angle and the pale lemon gloves slipped
casually into his left hand crooked over the stick.


CHAPTER XXXIII
1\TARBURY came on, approaching without even
a sign of recognition. He took Hawker, flat
eyed and square in the face—and looked not at him,
but through him, sheer through him as though he
either did not exist or was as dirt beneath his per-
fectly shod feet.
Hawker thrust a pipe into his mouth and fumbled
for a match, taking a cue long since known between
them.
"Got a match, sir?" he asked affably as Marbury
drew alongside.
"I have—yes." The Chief stopped and the box
was handed over.
"Varris is in there. Stayne hasn't turned up yet, but
he's on the way." Hawker was talking through lips
that were stiff and motionless. Marbury turned away
indifferently.
"Oh, yes?" he said in the same odd, ventriloquial
way, "and what else?"
"They've booked through to Paris. Next train
from Victoria. Two of them. They're aiming to park
Varris somewhere on the way. Two district messen-
gers arrived to fix their luggage through. They'll be
in disguise, and won't risk bobbing up at the Cus-
toms. An old trick—but it doesn't get by this time."
Hawker puffed away stolidly at his pipe. Marbury


256
THE MYSTERY MAKER
carefully flicked a speck of non-existent cigarette ash
from his coat-sleeve.
"Are you going in, sir?" he asked in between puffs.
"Yes. I'll hold it from inside. Wait for my signal
before you raid. A blind will be pulled down in the
front room. When that comes down, step into it lively.
But that won't be until Stayne appears. We can rope
in the others and put them on the grid. Tembridge
may stay dumb, but I can make Varris recite his piece.
Are you going round to the back?"
"Yes, sir. I was on the way. Three men are already
round there."
"It will be a cellar entrance: bound to be. You'll
find the trap-door and station your men underneath.
Then wait for a signal. Any sort of a noise in the
cellar above will do—knocking over a barrel or loos-
ing off a gun. When they hear that, let them come
swarming up. The Dover end all fixed?"
"Six down there. With photographs of them all.
Stayne they know on sight."
Marbury nodded, slightly bored, and held out his
hand for the matches.
"Thank you very much, sir." Hawker touched his
hat in polite salute and passed on down the road.
The Chief continued his quiet stroll up the square.
At 8 b he paused, walked up the steps and knocked.
Belham the imperturbable opened the door. What
sign passed between the two was not visible, but it
went over to perfection. Marbury stood for a mo-
ment, idly swinging his cane, chatting away as though
discussing the advisability of waiting for someone
who obviously was not in. Eventually Belham bowed,
held the door wide, and the Chief entered.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
As soon as the door was closed behind his back he
made a leap for the stairs, going up them two at a
time.
"All ready, Tembridge?" he called through to his
assistant on the first floor.
"All ready and waiting, sir. There's a thousand
pounds in notes in your wallet and your passport is in
your pocket." Stayne was pulling off his moustache
as he went up, refolding it back into its tiny silver
case.
Up in his room he got through to Number One
again.
"More trouble?" came the soft voice from the
other end.
"All fixed now, sir. With a bit of fast work from
you I think we can make it. Perrigo goes over to-night.
We're on his trail all the way."
The soft voice cut in gently. "There must be no
arrest, Number Three, you understand that? This
matter must never come up in the courts."
"Obvious. Perrigo and Canning will not trouble
any judge in ermine. They go the way of Kuhlmann,
Velpan, Murdis, the Little Dancer, and a good many
more we needn't mention. I will see to all that. Best
they should die in Paris, I think. It will look like
suicide—and the French police will stand in. Their
end is already fixed—and they'll do it of their own
free will!"
"One day," said the Chief softly, "you shall tell
me how. I've yet to hear a story from your own lips
—and I think it's time we met. Kuhlmann was a stroke
of genius; Murdis was an inspiration. Yes—one day


258
THE MYSTERY MAKER
we must meet. We owe it to each other, Number
Three."
"That will be when you are out of harness," said
Stayne with almost a hint of an old-standing griev-
ance in his voice. "I've had perfect help from you up
to now—and I want some real fast stuff, Chief."
"I know." The voice at the other end was toler-
antly good-humoured, but somewhere in its fibres was
that ring of steel, that undercurrent of deadliness
that marked the man who dealt continuously in mat-
ters of life and death. "I know—our man has been
listening in too."
A gentle chuckle came over the wire, and the level
voice said, "Well? Anything you want from our end
will be delivered at your door, in plain vans, tout
suite. What can I do?"
"If you've been tapping in on the line there isn't
much sense in telling you, is there?" said Stayne.
"To begin with, I believe you want two long-service
district messengers. Yes?"
"Never wanted anything more urgently in my
life."
"Don't worry. They're arranged for. They're here
now dressed and waiting. It is not necessary for you
to know their numbers. Commissionaires. I thought
they would be better than district messengers and
they're nearer to your own height. On a quick job, I
think, they will pass all right."
"And a taxi-driver."
"Certainly. I couldn't see how else you were going
to work it. Suit-cases are in his cab right now. He
shall be at your door in thirty-five minutes—that is,


260 THE MYSTERY MAKER
boots. The pouch hung across his back at just the right
angle, and his cap was as square on his head as though
balanced and held there by straps.
"There's yours, Chief," he said, pointing to an-
other complete suit on his bed. "They're watching us
from the house opposite. Better change in here."
"I'll go and show myself in the breakfast-room
first, just to satisfy Hawker that I'm moving about
unmolested. He won't raid till he gets the signal.
That will be just five minutes too late for him to get
to Victoria. Where's Varris?"
"In the breakfast-room, for the same reason.
Showing himself."
"How does he feel about it?"
"Beginning to like it, I think. He's all primed and
knows just what to do. His taxi-driver's licence came
through this morning in the pocket of a suit that had
ostensibly just been returned by the cleaners. I'll say
Number One certainly knows how to get things
through. The Post Office detectives would never have
dreamed of examining that parcel. It actually carried
a genuine cleaner's label."
Stayne went through to the breakfast-room. As
he entered Varris looked up and started badly. His
face drained white and he half rose from his chair.
Then he said: "Oh—it's you, is it? Gosh, you gave
me a fright."
"Keep it up—keep it up," said Stayne quickly.
"They're watching you from opposite. How did you
spot me? I got past Hawker with it just now—and
he knows Marbury well."
"That tie," said Varris grimly. "It's the same one


THE MYSTERY MAKER
you were wearing this morning. You don't trump
the same trick twice, Colonel."
For the benefit of those across the way, Stayne
raised an imperious hand. "Come with me," he said,
and Varris, the much-wanted gaol-breaker, went
meekly out.
By the time they got back to Tembridge's room the
assistant had got Varris's disguise ready. The great
wardrobe was wide open and from it Tembridge had
taken a taxi-driver's dress, complete right down to
the obvious signs of long usage and the short-peaked
cap.
"Quick, jump into that lot," he said. "I'll fix your
face up as soon as I've seen what the real taxi-driver
looks like. You take his place at the wheel. And you
carry on driving a taxi round London till we get back
with the job done. As a taxi-driver you can get digs
anywhere you like. Better take some clothes out into
the cab with you; leave them inside with our luggage
and then carry them off with you when you leave the
station. Fresh number-plates will be in the cab.
Change them quickly. The driver will tell you where
you garage—somewhere in one of the Government
Service garages. The changed number-plates won't
excite any interest there, it happens too frequently
to that bus."
Both Stayne and Varris were rapidly changing,
while Tembridge was rummaging about in the bot-
tom of the wardrobe among a heap of leggings, try-
ing to find a pair to fit Varris. Stayne, half-way
through making up his face to a dull, weather-beaten
red, tapped Varris on the arm.


CHAPTER XXXIV
HP EMBRIDGE had been watching at a curtained
window on the landing. "Here come our two
men," he called. "A plain-clothes man is giving them
the who-which-and-what down the road. Better
hurry up in there."
The two commissionaires appeared to satisfy their
interlocutor, for in a minute or two the plain-clothes
man nodded and they continued on their way.
Belham received them and they came upstairs to
Stayne.
"All ready?" asked the Mystery Maker.
"Yes. The second taxi is waiting round the corner.
He flagged us as we came along. He will come around
as soon as the first taxi pushes off. By the way, Num-
ber One sent this to Varris." He held out a little par-
cel. It was Varris's licence number.
One of the commissionaires had his hand ban-
daged. Tembridge pointed to it.
"Camouflage?" he asked.
"Yes. It's noticeable, and I guessed it would help
a bit."
"You bet it will." Tembridge rapidly wound a piece
of bandage round his own hand and clipped a little
sandy moustache down to resemble the natural one
the commissionaire wore. Having made their last
preparations, they moved off downstairs, the two
264


266 THE MYSTERY MAKER
couple of minutes surreptitiously trying the clutch and
gear lever. He found the reverse and backed the cab
a little nearer the door, to get the "feel" of the
wheel. Then he waited stolidly for the reappearance
of his fares.
Stayne and Tembridge emerged with their final
load, an assortment of magazines and travelling rugs.
They entered the cab, wiping the perspiration from
their heated brows.
Varris drove off, feeling gingerly for his second
gear. As the cab disappeared up the road the second
taxi drifted up and stopped at the door. The driver
clambered down and rang the bell. Belham answered
it, spoke to the man for a moment or two and closed
the door again, while the driver went back to his cab
and settled himself down to a period of waiting.
Varris drove fairly slowly. The cab was awkward
in his hands. He had never driven a car before that
possessed so abnormal a lock. The merest touch on
the driving wheel seemed to send the car swooping
across the road—and Varris was not out to attract po-
lice notice. Neither was he particular about catching
that boat train.
He drove to a garage out beyond Catford, where
much of the luggage was transferred to a big waiting
hire car. Stayne paid the owner in notes, and the
owner asked no questions. He had done many quiet
jobs for the Intelligence in a minor way, and the full
facilities of his garage were at Stayne's disposal.
Varris ran his taxi into a little lock-up and climbed
on the seat of the big car. Stayne and Tembridge were
already inside with the lights on and the blinds down.
In a minute or two the big saloon was out and heading


THE MYSTERY MAKER
away rapidly for the Dover road while all hell seemed
to be breaking loose at 8b Curzon Square.
The show-down came through a simple fluke: sim-
ple but devastatingly effective. The 'phone bell rang
in Hawker's room. The detective picked up the in-
strument and a smoothly accented voice said: "Is
that you, Hawker? The Chief here. How are things
going? Have you made a move yet? I've been expect-
ing a ring from you."
"Eh?" said Hawker blankly. He stared at the re-
ceiver as though it had suddenly tried to bite him.
"Hey! Did you say you're the Chief? How in Hades
did you get out of Stayne's house?"
"I beg your pardon?" Marbury's voice sounded
as though it had just come straight off the frozen
Pole.
"I said how in the name of miracles did you get out
of 8b Curzon Square? I've been waiting for your
signal to step in and collar them."
"I regret that I haven't the faintest idea of what
you are talking about."
Hawker let out an explosive breath of sheer dis-
belief. "But, Chief," he protested, "when I saw you,
less than half an hour ago—when you were going
along to see Stayne yourself—when you fixed up
about the window blind"
"Hawker—are you ill?" Hawker winced at the
metallic chill in the tones.
"111? Me? Of course I'm not ill. What's the mat-
ter, Chief? What's gone wrong? Are you pulling my
leg—having a bit of a joke on me?"
"Don't be a fool, Hawker. When I start joking on
duty I'll recommend my successor to the chair."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
269
'em. Hold 'em and haul 'em off the train. Keep 'em
till I get there. I'm coming right along now."
"Too late now, sir, there's no commissionaires on
the train. I've seen every man go through the gates.
Neither Stayne nor Tembridge nor anyone has got
through here."
Hawker nearly squealed with impatience.
"Don't stand there bleating," he yelped. "Do as
I tell you. Get on that train and find them. They're
there. Question anybody who even looks as though
they might be Stayne and Varris."
"Too late, I tell you, sir. The second half of the
boat train left two minutes ago—and neither Stayne
nor Varris was aboard it."
Hawker swore, definitely and vitriolically, as he
banged the receiver arm for Exchange. "Quick—give
me Trunks," he bawled. "I want Dover police—
hurry."
When he got through he handed out long strings
of orders, as a result of which a tough-looking squad
set out for the landing-stage. The inspector in charge
roped in all the railway and jetty officials, and to-
gether, while the boat train sped down the miles,
they laid their plans to search and identify every sin-
gle passenger as they boarded the boat.
And as the boat train steamed on, Varris was giv-
ing his car all the gas she could take. He whizzed
down the open arterial road with the accelerator
jammed down on the floor-board. Only once he
stopped, and that was to change into Tembridge's
neat blue chauffeur's livery coat. And as he drove,
Stayne and Tembridge inside were changing from


270 THE MYSTERY MAKER
their commissionaires' uniforms into the dark green
corduroys of station porters.
They arrived at the other end with twenty minutes
to spare. Half a mile from the station yard the car
stopped and two business-like, capable railway por-
ters climbed out. In their crumpled peaked caps, long-
sleeved waistcoats and worn red ties they looked as
much their part as any of the swarms of other porters
that stand ready to meet the boat trains in and trans-
fer passengers' luggage from the trains to the boats.
Walking separately they reached the station, tim-
ing their entrance to be on the platform as the giant
train steamed in.
In a few seconds they lost themselves in the hurry
and bustle of arrival. Stayne got a job at the first hail
—carting four big suit-cases on board for an old
lady who knocked his tip down to sixpence because
she was so exasperated at the long police inspection
on the gangway head.
Number One had booked Stayne's cabin in a name
that was sacred. The shipping office knew it as an
accommodation name, used by a good many of the
big-wigs when they crossed the Channel incognito. As
Stayne hurried back down the gangway, grumbling
angrily under his breath at the paucity of his tip, he
caught sight of Tembridge, staggering along with
a Noah's Ark trunk on his shoulders.
They passed and Tembridge gave him a nod. It
was the signal that their own luggage had arrived.
Varris had brought in five portmanteaux and had
stowed them down by the money-changers' booths.
Stayne grabbed a couple and yanked them aboard.
The scheme was working perfectly. Already Varris


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Doesn't matter. We've got him now. How's your
French?"
"Filthy. If any old dame comes cackling to me in
correspondence school French she's going to get a
streak of New Yorkese from me that'll startle her
off her toe-nails. I'm going to stay dumb on this
racket. I'd never get by the douane."
Stayne laughed. "You'd better fail in your efforts
to get a job at Calais," he said. "Got your straps?
Good. Grab our own bags. Give the crowd a couple
of minutes to get on board and then we'll both go
through together."
"What do we do with the railway rigs?" asked
Tembridge. "Can't take them through the Customs.
Gosh—that would blow the lid off."
"Out through the port, piece by piece," said Stayne.
"You'll find lead sinkers, with tie-cords attached, in
that grip there."
"Lead sinkers, are they?" muttered Tembridge.
"They felt to me as though you were bringing over
a museum collection of old typewriters."
Before they were half-way over the Channel the
two Southern Railway-men had disappeared. Their
essentially English atmosphere had faded and re-
emerged in the guise of a couple of French Customs
porteurs. In their dark blue jean trousers and bil-
lowy blouses that came down to the knee and were
washed sky-blue they absorbed something of the vola-
tile French character. Over their shoulders were
broad leather straps, on which, by some extraordi-
nary feat of legerdemain, the real French porteurs
can attach anything up to a dozen suit-cases and go
staggering off with them to the gaunt Customs sheds.


THE MYSTERY MAKER 273
On their heads they wore a kind of rakish semi-shako,
well crushed in on the top, and their shoes were of
dirty white canvas with rope soles.
They stuck pungent Capitan cigarettes in their
mouths and remade the make-up on their faces. Then,
piece by piece, they jettisoned the railway clothes.
Tembridge tied the sinkers to them and dropped them
through one port while Stayne screwed his head up
out of the other and signalled when the upper deck
rail was free of inquisitive faces.
The packet was running into Calais Harbour in
just over the hour, and as soon as the gangways were
hoisted the old hustle and bustle began again. Fifty
or sixty shouting, gesticulating porteurs came swarm-
ing aboard, yelling "Baggage? Baggage, m'sieu?
Spik Engleesh."
Stayne gave the horde a minute or two to get
thoroughly humming, and then he kicked the door
open. With the fag-ends of cigarettes in the corners
of their mouths they made their way through the
press of passengers at the gangway heads, Stayne
with three cases as his quota, Tembridge with two.
Stayne was bawling out with the best of them, "At-
tendez! Attendez!" which is the French equivalent
for "Mind your backs! Gangway!" or anything else
that will secure a quick passage.
They scrambled ashore and headed for the Cus-
toms sheds, Stayne piling all five cases in front of him.
They were unlocked and he opened them all with a
disarming naivete that charmed the heart of the Cus-
toms official.
"Where is your passenger?" queried that digni-


274 THE MYSTERY MAKER
tary. Staync intimated that he was at the booth chang-
ing money into French currency. The officer took a
pull at his truly magnificent moustache, nodded indif-
ferently, ran his fingers through some of the articles
in a couple of cases, and dismissed him, chalking his
weird little hieroglyphic on each.
Tembridge and he passed along to the train, Stayne
with his eyes roving furtively along the streams of
hurrying passengers. At last he caught the signal,
a long delicate hand that carefully tapped the ash off
a cigarette and then as carefully flicked the cigarette
on to the track.
"Lord Demorval?"
"Yes. Come quickly. The landings are being
watched from this side. Word has come through that
you were not seen at Dover, but the authorities have
reason to believe that you managed to get on the
boat. The car is outside. Come along."
Demorval looked an aristocrat, and about him
there was a faint, indefinable atmosphere of the
highly bred Gaul. His clothes were French, his neat
little dark moustache was pointedly French, and the
tiniest little strut in his walk suggested the full-
blooded Parisien. They passed through the Sortie
without notice. Out on the cobbled courtyard of the
entrance a big car was drawn up, with a chauffeur sit-
ting placidly at the wheel.
"This is Burdy," said Demorval under his breath.
"He will see you through to Paris. There are inside
blinds which will not be liable to spring up. And there
is food in the locker. The old address?"
"Yes. Aren't you coming along?"
"I'm waiting to see if Perrigo follows by the night


THE MYSTERY MAKER
275
boat. He has not landed yet at Le Bourget—I've
been on the 'phone. I must be back in Paris myself
before dawn: you will get through all right. Meet me
when you wish at the Cafe Sebillon. As EmilFlocard
I have the end station inside. God speed."
The two porteurs had entered the car with the lug-
gage. The blinds were pulled down, and as soon as
Demorval was sure that no curious eyes had watched
two third-class porters enter a first-class car—and
stay there—he gave Burdy the signal and they were
off, long before the last of the passengers were
through the douane.


CHAPTER XXXV
VENING shadows were drawing in over the city
of Paris as the car drove in through the octroi.
When it drew up at a little hotel in a quiet side street
off the main boulevard two very English-cut gentle-
men stepped out of it. The blue jeans were carefully
packed and stowed away in the luggage, and Stayne
and Tembridge were dressed in Savile Row lounge
suits.
The proprietor was English and knew them well.
He had sheltered many a member of the Intelligence
Department when they arrived in the gay city on er-
rands that remained discreetly private.
They arranged for their rooms, ate a hurried meal,
and stepped out into the cool night air. Through the
Arc de Triomphe, at the beginning of the Bois de
Boulogne, streamed the blaze of light of the great
Paris Exhibition, and above it floated the great il-
luminated balloon that advertised it. Stayne gazed up
at it, swaying gently above the sea of lights.
During the day it was hauled up and down on a
powerful winch, taking up relays of passengers for
sight-seeing trips aloft. Tembridge promised himself
the modest thrill of a run up in that giant gas-bag
when the more pressing affairs of the moment were
settled. He never got that trip, and just then he never
even suspected the dramatic part that swaying mon-
376


THE MYSTERY MAKER
ster of silk and gas was to play in the lives of the two
men they were hunting.
They paid a visit to the Surete Generate and had a
long interview with the Chef de Police. The Chief
had already been advised of their coming by Number
One, and the coded letters that had passed hinted at
the nature of their business. Stayne told him enough
to rope him in urgently on their side.
"Monsieur," he said, "I am investigating the ac-
tivities of a new company that has just been formed
in London. I refer to the powerful combine which
trades under the designation of the South American
Development Corporation. You probably know of
it."
The Chief nodded vehemently. "Yes—yes." He
certainly knew of it. A very powerful combine indeed,
with a capital of milliards of francs behind it. Mil-
liards. It was a splendid company—one doing a fine
work for the trade and commercial markets of Eu-
rope. Its aim was trade expansion with the practically
undeveloped States of South America—a vast market
as yet untapped. The company had floated loans in
the countries to which they proposed to carry this tre-
mendous new influx of trade. Only that week a big
Paris road-making company had subscribed a million
—all with the very best of securities behind it. Oh,
yes, yes, he certainly knew of the South American De-
velopment Corporation.
Stayne hedged a little. The Chief was far too
biassed in favour of that obviously popular concern
to stampede him into a panic.
"Well, the facts of the matter are these, Chief," he
said gravely. "I am not in a position to question the


278 THE MYSTERY MAKER
bona fides of the S.A.D.C.—for all I know they may
be a perfectly sound body and their aims beyond criti-
cism. But this much we do know. Operating from
London is a bogus company which is not only stealing
the S.A.D.C. thunder, but is actually raising heavy
loans on their account. What I mean is this: these
swindlers come over here to France and Austria and
to the capitals of pretty well every country in Europe,
armed with perfect forgeries of the letterheads and
stationery of the S.A.D.C. You over here are not to
know that you are not dealing with the genuine peo-
ple. They trade on your natural trust."
"You mean that money has been raised in France
by people who are in no way connected with the
firm they allege they represent?" asked the Chief
abruptly.
"I don't say they have, sir, but I do distinctly say
that that is their intention. I am over here to prevent
it if possible—and to cut the matter short if they have
already commenced operations. Almost any corpora-
tion in the world will lend money to the S.A.D.C, but
certainly not to the precious coterie of high-class
swindlers who are personating them."
"Do you represent the genuine company?"
"In a way, yes. I am working on their behalf—but
principally in the interests of British credit abroad.
You realise from letters written to you from the
Treasury that we are in British political employ?"
"Yes, yes." The Chief certainly realised that the
moment he read the letters. They were discreet, but,
to one of perception, perfectly clear. He highly com-
mended the action of the British authorities in en-
deavouring to cut short the nefarious enterprise of


THE MYSTERY MAKER a79
two of their own nationals in a foreign country. It
was a magnificent gesture. With France almost bleed-
ing to financial death, the mere thought of blood-
suckers at the arteries of French trade was intolera-
ble. Voila! In what way could he assist? The entire
resources of the Surete were at his command.
"This is what I want you to do, Chief," said
Stayne, thanking the effusive little gentleman. "At-
tend the conference of bankers to-morrow and get
from them a list of all the moneys raised by them for
loan to the S.A.D.C. The full totals should be avail-
able with a little diligent research at the clearing
houses. It will not be too easy, for the money is split
up into francs, lire, guilders, marks, pesetas and
goodness knows what else. They will have to make it
a mutual benefit task; but, no matter what labours it
entails, I must have the full list in my possession at the
earliest possible moment. The matter is grave."
"Monsieur, I will do my utmost," said the Chief.
"You must do more than that, sir: you must prom-
ise success. Every item must be found and the full
amounts noted against each. I have in my possession
a detailed account of the exact moneys raised by the
company. I know to a penny what their commitments
are and where the loans are placed. Any items addi-
tional to my own list will be false. They will be de-
liberate swindles and we shall find our own way of
checkmating the criminals. Not a single bank nor a
society in Europe shall lose one penny-piece over this
matter. You will help?"
"With all I have, monsieur. The information you
want shall be in your hands to-morrow afternoon.


28o
THE MYSTERY MAKER
Special telegraph lines shall be cleared and the whole
matter put on the priority list."
"Thank you, Monsieur le Chef." Stayne rose, and
the ardent little gentleman bowed them to the door,
raining a shower of benedictions on the heads of two
foreigners who were magnanimous enough to assist
him in cutting the claws of criminals in his own capi-
tal.
"That's fine," breathed Stayne when they got out-
side. "The old boy doesn't suspect any more than we
have told him. And he'll discover nothing from the
banks. All we wanted from him we're getting—and
that's that list. Perrigo and Canning are going to suf-
fer a shocking hiatus in their own treasury before very
long."
When they got back to their hotel they found a tele-
gram awaiting them. It was in cipher and came from
Lord Demorval. Decoded, it said simply: Perrigo
arrived on night boat. Left immediately for Paris by
fast car.
"That means that this is where the balloon goes
up," grunted Stayne—and he did not know how liter-
ally true the simile was.
Tembridge nodded and put a match to the flimsy,
watching it slowly burn to ash which he powdered in
his fingers.
"And where to now?" he inquired.
"The Club Tabarin," said Stayne grimly. "We
beard that crowd in their own den."
"Anything you say suits me, Chief," said Tem-
bridge simply. "But I guess this is where little Valdon
totes a gun along." He reached into his grip and
fished out a dull and deadly looking automatic.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
"After what that guy Varris got in the buffet there I
reckon you darn nearly want a machine-gun with you.
Well, if they want a piece of rough stuff, no doubt we
can carve them off a slice. Haven't had a scrap for
weeks. Tails are bad form in Paris, aren't they?"
"Dinner jackets will do," Stayne replied. "I'll wait
for you down in the hall. Are you going to disguise at
all?"
"Nothing very exceptional. Don't think it's really
necessary. Neither Perrigo nor Canning knows me
from Adam. Think I'll go as a typical American tour-
ist. How do you tog up a typical American tourist?
I'll stand for the fairly tightish trousers and a slight
cut in at the waist: I'll stand for a saw-edge straw hat
with evening dress and a pair of gogacks, but I'll be
everlastingly disintegrated if I'll stand around chew-
ing gum." The young gentleman retired, cheerfully
and emphatically removing the safety-catch from his
gun.
Stayne dressed and very carefully rubbed a little
deeper bronze on to his tanned skin, and put a slight
suspicion of a sag under his eyes. He gave the faint-
est greying of his hair at the temples and added a per-
fectly cut grey moustache under his nose. The mous-
tache was a work of art; it was slightly bunchy in the
centre, thinning out at the edges, and so perfectly
threaded on the tiny bits of webbing that it looked as
natural as a real moustache, even at close range.
When he stood away from the mirror he looked
exactly what he set himself out to be, a tall, cultured
man of the world, slightly matured in years, some-
thing, probably, in the Corps Diplomatique, a quiet-
voiced emissary whose integrity could not be ques-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 283
to a lift. A certain signal on the bell brought the lift
down, and not until that signal was given would the
lift move. Habitues of the place knew the signal, and
new visitors, having been approved, were apprised of
it.


286 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Oh, no—he's just out to see what it's like. What
are the limits?"
"Some are as low as ten francs a minimum."
"Well—somewhere where it's not too high: and
where they serve a bottle of champagne that actually
came from grapes. The charges don't matter: he has
all the money he needs. That's all, m'sieu; somewhere
with a reasonable minimum, where it's pleasant and
the wines are good, where there is no risk of a raid
—and handy." That's all he said, and smiled disarm-
ingly. "If you can find one that covers all that I'll be
eternally indebted to you."
The proprietor smiled too. Stayne's conditions
were reasonable enough, but he did not realise that in
making them he had pinned him down to the Club
Tabarin,
"I will telephone," he said. "I'll not be long."
He disappeared into a room at the back of the
cafe, and Stayne could hear the soft rumble of his
voice over the wire. He was gone about five minutes,
and when he returned he was smiling and nodding.
"You see the little epicerie three doors down," he
said, coming out to the door. "Walk straight in and
through to the back. You will be quite all right. No
one will question you. You will see a lift with a bell-
push by the door. Ignore that bell-push; it simply in-
forms the owners that an unauthorised person is at-
tempting to gain admission. Behind the frame of the
lift shaft you will find another button. That is the one.
Your signal is two long rings, a long pause, and then
three short rings. Use that whenever you go there.
And they know who it is before the lift is sent down.


THE MYSTERY MAKER 287
Thank you, au revoir, m'sieu—and good luck to your
friend."
Stayne gave him a hundred-franc note for the
drinks and waved away the change. "I am deeply
obliged," he murmured as they headed to the little
shop.
Two steps led down to the dismal little store. A
smell of old stale food-stuffs assailed their nostrils,
and through it came the reek of an oil lamp. From be-
hind the cluttered counter an old woman looked up
at them through thick steel-rimmed glasses, squint-
ing horribly.
Seeing the flash of white shirt-fronts she bobbed
her head in a grotesque apology for a bow, and with-
out a word her attention dropped back to the perusal
of an evening paper which was held a few inches from
her nose.
They passed through to the passage and found the
lift. Stayne fumbled down the woodwork behind the
shaft for the hidden button. His fingers encountered
it, and he pressed it, giving the signal, two long rings,
a few seconds' pause, and then three short rings.
There came the soft hiss of the lift gliding down.
It was empty, but as soon as it touched the bottom
the gates opened automatically. They entered: at the
pressure of their feet on the flooring the gates quickly
closed again and the lift went up.
"Reckon this is why Varris went out by the win-
dow route," muttered Tembridge, slipping his auto-
matic into a side pocket. "Got your gun with you,
Chief?"


THE MYSTERY MAKER 289
and light overcoat to a brilliantly uniformed young
negro page-boy, two deeply sonorous rings came on
the lift bell and then a quick one. It was more like the
deep-throated zoom of a buzzer than the. strident
note of a bell, but it made both men prick up their
ers.
"If you'll excuse me just one moment, gentlemen,"
said the manager, smiling. "Another guest arrives."
He stepped back to the lift and operated a series of
buttons on a brass disc and the lift went sliding down.
They heard it reach the bottom, heard the lift
gates open and shut, and in a moment or two it came
winging up again.
A young man stepped out, a handsome, nervous-
looking young man, who glanced uneasily at the two
strangers. Canning hissed in his ear as he passed him:
"Go through, Raymond, and keep out of sight—she
is not here yet."
Tembridge smiled enigmatically at his chief.
"Something doing," he whispered. "Come along,
let's get through to the gilded haunts of vice."
They found themselves in a suite of apartments in
striking contrast to the dismal hole they had just left
down below. The furnishings were luxurious in every
sense. Beautiful tapestries hung from the walls, in-
terspersed here and there with oil paintings that were
genuine works of art. Miniature marble statuettes
and pieces in bronze and jade were scattered through
the rooms with prodigal hand. Real old brass bra-
ziers, bearing in their finely hammered lines the stamp
of the greatest craftsmen of India, diffused the faint-
est of alluring perfumes on the air. Their feet sank
ankle-deep in carpets as soft as silken floss.


292
THE MYSTERY MAKER
'One of heaven's lucky men!' And look at her. Why,
she's a gawk—a bony scarecrow."
"Dope," said Tembridge laconically. "Seen 'em
before. Know the signs. Some of 'em go that way.
Seen others that run to fat. Had a lot of that sort of
thing out in God's Own since prohibition came in. Just
dope. She's waiting for her shot now. Going crazy for
it."
With the acute sensitiveness of the dope addict
whose anodyne is denied, she seemed to realise that
the two men out in the centre were talking about her.
She gave them a malignant stare and looked with dull
surprise when she saw that they had their backs
turned towards her.
She was having a sharp and acrimonious conversa-
tion with the server behind the bar. Stayne could fol-
low it. She was demanding to see Canning, and the
server was assuring her that Canning's last orders to
him were that he was not to be disturbed»on any ac-
count. Apparently the altercation was one of old
standing, for the server accepted the situation with
philosophic patience, scarcely paying any attention at
all to the woman. Lady Demorval had lost her last
vestige of dignity. She argued with the attendant like
a semi-drunken slut at a public-house bar pleading
with the barman for just one more glass of beer.
There was something of a malignant smile of con-
tempt in the barman's eyes.
The two men sat down at a little ebony table as the
champagne was brought over, deliciously cold and
invigorating after the breathless tepidity of the air.
"There's the whole crux of the tragedy there," said
Stayne slowly. "It's dope all right. Cocaine, I


CHAPTER XXXVII
T BELIEVE there is something in what you say,"
said Stayne. "Ever since Miss Varris first brought
this matter to us I've been puzzling out why Lady
Demorval suddenly, from the very heights of grace
and charm, stoops to playing a concoction of villainess
and vamp. Canning and Perrigo must have intro-
duced her to cocaine, given her a kick in life to which
she had been dead for years; gradually increased the
dose until it took hold and she couldn't break it. From
then on the rest was easy. The foundations of decency
and dignity were cut away, and all that remained was
the screaming demand for more of the fire that had
burned her. Drugs had undermined her, and drugs
alone could keep her going. They've got all they
wanted out of her on the promise of more supplies."
"Yeh—and now they're holding up on her to get a
last final demand out of her. Canning's holding back
till Perrigo turns up. He should be coming in soon.
Seems to me it was through the victim that they got
hold of the bank-note paper. She'd be able to get into
touch with people in London, be able to wangle things
that no one else could nose into."
"It's clearing, certainly. But to me the most tragic
figure is Demorval. She has flattened him out for life.
Poor devil—didn't you see the misery in his eyes—at
the station there, in Calais ? Terrible. Just dumb mis-
205


THE MYSTERY MAKER
ery and hopelessness. And being perfectly charming
with it all, too."
"What are we going to do about that woman, any-
way?"
"I'll get in touch with Number One in the morning
and give him the full facts. It looks to me like a nurs-
ing home for life. One of those private homes that
are all of a lunatic asylum and almost a prison.
There's nothing else for it. That sort of thing has to
be pretty well hushed up. But medical certificates
from this side should do it. The rest will be easy, over
in England."
"And Demorval?"
"I think he will prefer to remain just limil Flocard,
waiter at the Cafe Sebillon. His real identity will be
gone for ever. He can do great work still for Intelli-
gence^—and his heart and soul are bound up in the
work. It would be by far the best way out for both of
them. Demorval is above me in the Secret Service.
He won't let go of that. It's his life blood. His keep-
ing of this affair till London got busy is just another
feather in his cap. Demorval was the first to find out
about the forged scrip. And that brings us down to
the subject of Arthur Raymond."
"It damn does!" said Tembridge raspily. His un-
derlip was thrust out and he was reddening.
Stayne chuckled quietly. "Oh! so you've found out
about that, have you?" he murmured.
"Yep. The rat! Marienne told me."
"Perhaps you rather—rushed her?" The voice
was infinitely solicitous.
"Did I hell! I wrote her a perfect little note and
sent it around—with flowers. Never rushed a word.


298
THE MYSTERY MAKER
confront her personally if necessary. But I must get
hold of the address of the office where Perrigo and
Canning are conducting their coup. I can force it from
her, I think. Also Raymond. We must find out where
that boy stands. The rest will depend on the informa-
tion we receive."
They strolled into the roulette room, the biggest
salon of them all. This was the one where, in Can-
ning's words, "the sky was the limit." Play was run-
ning pretty high. Gamblers were standing round, gaz-
ing in a kind of fascinated apathy at the little white
ball spinning and bouncing about in the whirling
wheel. The fever of the flutter no longer reproduces
the first hectic thrill in the soul of the hardened gam-
bler—it simply persists like the aftermath of a dis-
ease. They still stay and gamble, but there is nothing
more to it than the winning or losing of, not money,
but so many coloured chips. And the crowd standing
round that long table were all hardened gamblers.
They took not the slightest interest in the entrance of
the new arrivals. Many were avidly concentrated on
the working out of various systems, rapidly writing
notes down in books and making feverish calculations
for their next bets as the croupier intoned the invita-
tion to stake.
Lady Demorval was out at the end of the table, re-
garding the whole business with the keen, watchful
gaze of the spectator forced by circumstances to be
out at the touch-lines and not mixing in with the fun
and excitement of the game.
"Madame is not playing?"
She turned swiftly and her torpid eyes made a rapid
survey of the man who spoke. She saw a tall, well-


THE MYSTERY MAKER
dressed man, with a deep tan on his face and a neat
grey moustache that somehow put him into the cate-
gory of the fifties: a complete stranger to her.
"No—I am not playing to-night. This table is un-
kind to me."
"Going through one of the bad spells?"
"Rotten. I haven't picked a franc off that table for
twelve consecutive nights."
The affable stranger nodded. "It's wise if you have
the will power to let the table sleep for a while. A
night or two may see the luck change. Never back a
real bad run."
"My trouble is that I can't," said Lady Demorval,
with all the frank bluntness of the real gambler. "I'm
broke for a day or two—waiting for further remit-
tances from England."
Stayne bowed. "Perhaps, madame, you would per-
mit me to?"
Again that quick furtive look swept him up and
down, a look that was dead, fish-eyed, and yet pene-
trating with the subtle instincts of the drug addict.
"I am staying in Paris for some time," went on
Stayne imperturbably. "If I can be any slight assist-
ance to a countrywoman, the privilege and the hon-
our will be all mine."
Lady Demorval hesitated for a moment, then,
gathering her wrap about her, she swept towards the
door of an ante-room leading out at the back of the
salon. It was a private room where debts were settled
and such little matters arranged between temporarily
embarrassed clients and the management. No one
would disturb them in there once the little panel in the
slot was turned to the word "Occupied."


THE MYSTERY MAKER
301
blaze of a great candelabrum overhead, like imps'
eyes shining in a woodland sunlight.
"Those are not quite so valuable," she said sim-
ply. "The centre row is not all genuine. It was impos-
sible to match them properly, but the matching is
being done by slow degrees. The outside rows are all
perfect gems, though. It should fetch over three thou-
sand at open auction."
"Put them back, madame. Suppose we deal in a
simple note of hand? What you have told me is quite
sufficient—and a signature is so much nicer and—
easier, shall we say?"
Lady Demorval inclined her head the merest frac-
tion of an inch.
"If you require to know my name," she said, "it is
Lady Demorval. Until recently my husband was at-
tached to the Embassy here in Paris. You may re-
member that he died recently under an anaesthetic."
"I recall the matter, madame, and so far as I am
concerned your signature will be ample for me."
He put the notes on the table beside the pearls, and
made a little gesture inviting her to replace the gems
round her neck. While she did so he prepared a little
slip of paper—"I. O. U. £2,000 (two thousand
pounds)," and she signed it with scarcely a glance.
"You are not even asking who I am ?" Stayne asked
with a smile.
"It is hardly necessary, sir. The money shall be left
here for you within a week. Will you make it conveni-
ent to call?"
"It may not be necessary, Lady Demorval."
There was an odd significance in the simple sen-
tence, a queer note of warning that rang instantly on


306 THE MYSTERY MAKER
"I don't know it—I've never been there," she
moaned.
"Lady Demorval, you are lying. You've been there
many times. You must have done. Perrigo has sup-
plied you with cocaine from there."
"Don't torment me—please. Why don't you see
Perrigo? Why "A slow, puzzled look crept into
her eyes. "Who—who are you?" she asked dazedly.
"You're not a policeman? You're not from Scotland
Yard?" She passed a hand nervously across her fore-
"No, madame—you should know who I am. I be-
long to the other Service. That should imply a great
deal—to you!"
She seemed to go limp again, pondering another
stunning blow. Her used-out brain refused to function.
It neither thought out facts lucidly nor held them once
they formed.
"Canning's outside," she said with a faint show of
defiance.
"That is why I came to you, madame. With me
you have a chance to get clear of this awful mess.
But not if I go in and challenge Canning. That would,
as one might, say, burst the whole box of tricks. And
then neither the Secret Service nor any other power on
earth could prevent the affair coming out into broad
daylight."
"I know nothing, I tell you," she gasped.
"That is why you nearly fainted when you saw
Arthur Raymond's signature on those false notes.
That is why you tried to get that filthy acid down
your throat when you reasoned things out."
head.


THE MYSTERY MAKER 307
"It—it wasn't that! I'm sick of life: sick and weary
of it."
"Lady Demorval, that statement is a witness to
its own truth. I want that address and I'm going to
get it. There is yet time to avert the calamity that
threatens. Let me tell you a few of the facts in my
possession. We know how the bank-note paper passed
out of the vaults and we know who was responsible
for its withdrawal. We know who is responsible
for the forgeries. We know on what banks the spuri-
ous scrip has been unloaded, and to-morrow after-
noon we shall know to what extent each country is
involved. The Surete Generate is working on that now.
We know your intended plans as soon as the coup has
gone through. We know that somewhere, in an office
here in Paris, currency notes and bearer bonds to
the value of millions of pounds sterling are lying
packed away ready for shipment. I know that Per-
rigo is on his way here by the fastest car he can com-
mand. Which tells me that you are aiming to cut and
clear out to-morrow with the loot. It is time that I
told you that one word from me will close the ports
and frontiers of all France against you. The Surete
Generate will be only too willing, believe me."
Lady Demorval shivered at the mention of the
Surete.
Stayne touched her arm, and there was a newer.,
more dominant note in his voice.
"And I know that murder has been done, here in
this club, for your sake," he said grimly. "Both mur-
der and suicide stand to your account. I know that
you were going to swindle the insurance companies
out of a hundred thousand pounds on that fake dia-


308
THE MYSTERY MAKER
mond robbery. On that trick you double-crossed Per-
rigo himself—and that was the beginning of your
falling out with the two men who got you into this
awful mess, wasn't it? That's why they've been pun-
ishing you—they've been keeping you on the rails
by making you wait for your periodic dose of cocaine.
You need not trouble to deny it, madame, the facts
are all ready for publication. You were actually pre-
pared to let a man—the man who saved you from dis-
honour when the gendarmerie broke in—go to prison
for five long years, without raising a hand to prevent
it. Madame, you are one of the foulest things I have
ever seen in my life. The very least you can do is to
make what amends you can before it is too late."
Lady Demorval climbed painfully into a sitting
position. She looked at the man in front of her and
there was dumb misery in her eyes.
"That sort of remonstrance has lost its power,"
she said in an odd, flat voice. "Once it might have
hurt. Once—but long ago. It doesn't seem to matter
now. I've been living with thoughts like that for
longer than you've ever known the name of Demor-
val. I could tell myself worse things than you could
ever dream of. I just don't, that's all. I've grown
used to loathing myself. A year ago I would have died
rather than be seen arguing in public with a man like
Canning as I was out in the buffet just now."
She stopped and caught her breath. Stayne was sit-
ting there, the gleaming sheen of a silver hypodermic
syringe sparkling in his fingers. She clutched out at it
wildly, her eyes white and distended. But Stayne
evaded her clawing fingers and thrust it back into the
small leather case whence he had taken it.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
309
"Madame, that is the wickedest and yet the kind-
liest action I can do," he said. "There is cocaine in
that cylinder; not quite so big a measure as you by
now require. But enough, and more than enough to
give you a little relief from the craving that gnaws
you. You shall have it—when you have told me what
I want to know."
The change in Lady Demorval's attitude was
magical. She sat bolt upright, stiff as though every
muscle in her body had suddenly flexed to marble, her
eyes turned fiercely on the inside pocket where Stayne
slipped the leather case.
"What do you want to know, eh?" her nervous
voice broke querulously. "What is it you want to
know? Why shouldn't I tell you, eh? Why shouldn't
I? Do Perrigo and Canning care a hang about me?"
She rushed on as though thinking her own thoughts
aloud. "What have they done for me? They got me
into this mess. Ruined me. Ruined my husband.
Smashed my every chance of happiness. Made me a
drug fiend—and out there Canning even denied me
the little pinch of snow that keeps me from utter mis-
ery. What do you want to know?"
"First I want the address from which Perrigo and
Canning are operating."
"Forty-five Rue Paysanne. It's a big suite of offices
on the first floor. They've rented it in the names of
Martin et Bruyere, Societe Anonyme." Stayne made
a note in his pocket-book.
"Thank you. And now I want to know how you
came to be associated with these foul swindlers. Tell
me your story, frankly and truly, madame, and I will


CHAPTER XXXIX
/^ANNING planked down his fifty-pound bank-
note. 'There's my money,' he said. 'If he's
such a wonder, let him copy that so that I can't tell
the difference.'
"Perrigo eyed it a bit dubiously. 'H'm,' he said.
'That's hardly fair. You could easily tell the differ-
ence from the quality of the paper. He can etch it,
though, and I'll get some deckle edge paper that is as
near the real bank-note stuff as makes no difference.
Then I'll take a couple of copies off and I'll defy you
to tell the real one from the false.'
"'All right, that'll suit me,' said Canning.
'Where's this miracle-maker of yours?'
"'Right by your elbow,' said Perrigo. And Ray-
mond, looking a bit embarrassed and self-conscious,
was introduced. That was the start of it. A complete
stranger in a strange place, he felt he had to comply
to be agreeable. He did the thing and brought it along
the next night. It was a marvel.
"Perrigo made him a club hero and made bets
about other members being able to tell which was
which. Canning, too, admitted that he was something
right out of the ordinary, and paid over his fifty with-
out a murmur. Then Perrigo suggested that he should
do some more, notes of all denominations, and they
were going to stamp the words 'Club Tabarin' all
over them and use them at the tables instead of chips,


THE MYSTERY MAKER 315
Raymond fell right into that. And before he knew it
they had him by the throat. On the threat of exposure
they made him copy all the bonds and share scrips
with which they have packed the European banks.
Arthur has had to do it all—with the threat of twelve
years hanging over his head. They've actually made
him pass counterfeit notes himself in shops, hotels,
restaurants and places. They tightened their hold on
him till I thought the poor boy was going mad."
Stayne was silently thoughtful. This woman's story,
blatant though it was, held something of the pitiful
in its context. It had given him a new and unexpected
slant on the whole business. Right from the first he
had marked Lady Demorval down as the crook, the
spendthrift cause of all the misery. Admitting that
Perrigo and Canning were the real powers behind the
scenes, she was really the root cause, for without the
pull of her social position and influence the arch-con-
spirators could never have begun their nefarious ma-
chinations. There was food for hard thinking in all
she had said.
And somehow, in spite of the terrible change in her
outlook on life, there was the ring of truth through it
all. Stayne could not blind himself to that.
And somewhere, veiled away behind it, was the hint
of a deeper tragedy still. She had not even indicated
it in direct speech, but it was all there, in her manner,
in the inflexions of her voice, in the very way that
she left the bigger things unsaid.
• It flashed across Stayne suddenly, in an over-
whelming burst of understanding. He saw it all, in
that one brief, thunderous moment, the major
tragedy, in all its humiliation and pathos. Tern-


THE MYSTERY MAKER 317
had been a loveless affair, the last wild resort of a
woman whose deepest longings had been thwarted,
whose very love, overflowing and spilling over, had
been thrust aside. Stayne realised—and understood;
for Stayne himself was not unburned by those fires.
She pulled herself together with a little shudder.
The vitalising, spurious life-force of the coca leaf was
beginning to course through her, and she felt the
thrilling tingle of it. The lifeless lethargy, the dull
apathy began to retreat into the furthermost recesses
of her brain. A keener sense, a newer appreciation of
the magnitude of the thing she had done began to
crawl across her waking faculties. She stared at
Stayne with something of horror in her gaze.
Stayne was slowly tearing the I. O. U. into tiny
fragments, flicking them on to the carpet in a tiny
white rain. This man, this dominating, quiet-voiced,
searching-eyed man held every key to her secrets. He
had pumped her dry of every vital piece of informa-
tion she had to give. And he had admitted he was an
emissary of the Secret Service! A mental spasm of
anguish shot through her. That meant that London
was in full possession of the facts; the authorities
knew every detail of the coup! Perrigo would shoot
her stone dead for this.
She pressed her head into her hands. Why on earth
had she been such a heaven-deserted fool as to tell
this utter stranger the secrets she had been even too
frightened to think about? What in the world had
made her open her heart to this man—whose very
name she did not even know? Stayne carefully re-
placed the empty hypodermic syringe in his pocket.
The confounded snow again ! Always these beasts had


CHAPTER XL
(~\ UT in the saloon Tembridge waited with a pa-
tience born of knowledge.
"Ha! Monsieur wins again !" The croupier pushed
out another respectable mound of notes to the young
American. He was now winning seventeen thousand
francs, and realised with much amusement that they
were being planted on him.
And all the while his super-sensitive ears had been
tuned for sounds emanating from the ante-room.
Twice he had heard Lady Demorval's voice raised in
anger or heated argument. If the others heard they
took no notice. Either they were too intent on the
game, or they knew, of old experience, that financial
matters were not always apt to go through in that
room without acrimony.
He had seen Stayne go in, saw the signal he passed
him, and he stayed, winning hand over fist and never
enjoying a win less in his life. Once Canning came up,
and congratulated him, and he felt like knocking his
back teeth out.
It seemed hours before Stayne came out. When he
did he came slowly, and so quietly that no one at the
tables knew the door had opened and closed. They
went out to the buffet and took another sip of cham-
pagne.
"Fixed?" asked Tembridge softly.
319


32o THE MYSTERY MAKER
"Got it all. With a spot of luck I think we can get
through the scrum without raising a single squeak."
"Where's Lady Demorval?"
Stayne indicated the ante-room. "In there. Having
a little sleep. She won't wake for twenty-four hours
—maybe longer considering the state of her tissues.
That should give us a margin to spare. The whole
thing can be cleaned up before then."
"A smooth run?"
"Fairly. I'm only interested in one thing here,
though. And that's young Raymond."
"The ass-eared camel!"
Stayne smiled, but it was a humourless crack across
his face, a smile bereft of amusement. "He's in here.
I'd like to speak to him—just once."
"So would I!" muttered Tembridge with spiteful
emphasis.
"Remember that young fellow who came up in the
lift just behind us?"
"Yeh. Nice-looking, handsome kid."
"That's Arthur Raymond."
"Was it? Well, I'd still like to park a tank on him
—sideways."
"He's O. K. Did you notice where he went?"
"Yes. Through to the baccarat."
"Let's go. And in case anything should happen in
there, the address we want is 45 Rue Paysanne: up-
stairs suite: held in the name of Martin et Bruyere,
Societe Anonyme. Which last, if you don't know,
means Limited Company. Which same is darn comic.
Come on."
They passed along into the baccarat salon. The
atmosphere in there was less humid. There were


322 THE MYSTERY MAKER
sheet of paper across. With eyes that blinked incredu-
lously the forger read the neatly written statement.
"I, Arthur Raymond, formerly of the British Em-
bassy staff in Paris, hereby declare that I have been
guilty of forging plates for the reproduction of Eng-
lish bank-notes of all denominations from Ten Pounds
to One Thousand Pounds, and that these notes were
printed on official bank paper supplied from London
by the intervention and connivance of Lady Demor-
val, wife of Lord Demorval, also of the British Em-
bassy staff here. I also declare that the first forgeries
were committed unwittingly and that I had no idea
that counterfeit notes were to be reproduced from
my plates; but that pressure was subsequently brought
to bear on me, forcing me, under a threat of exposure,
to complete the other plates. I furthermore declare
that I have forged the scrip of all the stock certificates
which the two men Perrigo and Canning have put up
as collateral security for loans raised on European
banks.
"I herewith undertake to return to England imme-
diately and to go straight to 8b Curzon Square, re-
maining there until I am called upon to make a fuller
detailed declaration of the activities of the company
styling itself the South American Development Cor-
poration, of which Perrigo and Canning are the sole
instigators. I promise I will not move from that ad-
dress until officially authorised. Signed, in the Club
Tabarin, Rue Pigalle, Paris, ."
When he looked up from the document it was to
encounter Stayne's eyes, no longer courteously for-
mal, but cold and dominant, almost icy, in their bit-
ter determination.


THE MYSTERY MAKER
3*3
The forger was like a boxer on the verge of a
knock-out. The unexpectedness of the thing had stung
his brain, stunned it. He seemed incapable of appre-
ciating its full import. For a while he looked at
Stayne as though he were some new and hitherto un-
discovered specimen from the deep. His eyes blinked
curiously and his lips moved. There was a frown
across his forehead and he seemed to be trying to
spell over in his mind a repetition of the words of that
extraordinary document.
"You will sign that document—for your own
good," said Stayne quietly.
Out in the central hall the voice of the negro page
drifted in in a nasal sing-song. "Mr. Canning, please
—telegram for Mr. Canning, please!" The glaring
uniform approached the portiere, and the boy re-
peated his high-pitched drawl. He passed on, the tele-
gram on a silver tray in his hand.
Raymond licked his lips. His interlaced fingers were
caught in a fierce grip between his knees.
"That," said Stayne, distinctly, "is a wire from
Perrigo. A panic wire. You'd better sign, my boy, be-
fore it's too late."
"You—you—I "The words stuck and the
young man's mouth shut tightly.
"I know you had no wilful hand in this," went on
Stayne in a hard yet not unfriendly voice. "I know
you were dragged into it unconsciously. That will be
seen into later."
The Mystery Maker handed over his pen and gen-
tly indicated the bottom corner of the tablet.
Raymond took the pen, but his fingers shook so
badly he could scarcely hold it.


328 THE MYSTERY MAKER
«
"That sure is so," commented Tembridge. "Paris
isn't so easy to get out of as London."
"That's where we get them," said Stayne grimly.
"The railway stations are all barriered and every
road out of the city has its octroi gate."
A deep glitter came into his eyes, a look of relent-
less, implacable determination that boded ill for the
two counterfeiters who had all but smashed their
country's credit abroad.
"Yes," he muttered. "They get theirs. There's
no other way out. We can't prosecute and we can't
let them go free. What they've done once they can do
again. They've tasted blood—and their type don't
stop at one taste. No. So long as I can get them on the
run I think I've got them. There's only one way out
of Paris once the net goes out. Even the air ports are
closed. There's one way. And I think the brutes know
it. Simple and ingenious. And it's not open to pursuit.
And it will take them beyond the French frontiers, let
alone the gates of the city.
"H'm! That darn balloon?"
"That's the fellow. I hope they do, that's all. I
wouldn't lift a hand to stop them I Gosh—I'd help
'em in!"
"Going to have a smack at 'em in the air from a
'plane?" queried Tembridge dubiously. The idea
didn't sound any too promising to him.
Stayne laughed shortly. "Nothing so spectacular.
They'll get in all right, and they'll get away with it—
for a while. They'll be as lively as crickets. But there
will be two dead bodies in that balloon when the
basket touches earth again."
Stayne was gazing intently out of the windows as


CHAPTER XLI
Q TAYNE and Tembridge worked quickly, but
^ in silence. Tembridge, without further instruc-
tions, sat down at one of the desks, and, pulling a
sheaf of their official notepaper before him, began
writing a round letter in his own handwriting. It was
a plain-spoken, formal, business letter cancelling any
such business matters as were under negotiation with
the South American Development Corporation.
It was addressed: "To the Bank Manager" and
read:
Dear Sir,—
It is with regret that I have to announce the dis-
solution of the above Company. Revolutions in South
America and persistent difficulties raised by various
South American political bodies preclude any possi-
bility of our doing further business with the States in
question. We feel, therefore, that the sooner this
Company is disbanded and its capital put to use else-
where the better.
You have in your vaults British securities cover-
ing the extent of your loan to us. Herewith we enclose
cash currency to its value, cancelling the loan. Will
you please dispatch the securities forthwith to the
Bank of England, Threadneedle Street, London, to
await the order of Mr. T. S. Hawker, of Scotland

330


THE MYSTERY MAKER
331
Yard, who will thenceforward be responsible for
their safe custody to us.
Note numbers enclosed, Series — to , Total
value .
We beg to remain, dear sir,
For the South American Development Corpora-
tion,
J. Stayne and V. Tembridge,
Liquidators.
He duplicated the letter time after time until a
heap of three dozen were completed, identical in
every way, even to the blanks where the series num-
ber and totals were to go.
An inner office led out from the private secretary's
room, and Stayne, knowing that that was the centre
of the spider's web, had immediately set about get-
ting in. The lock was intricate and difficult to force,
but he opened it at last and went in, switching on an-
other blaze of lights as he entered.
The room seemed comparatively bare. Stayne had
half expected it. It is the French custom when erect-
ing big business premises to build safes and strong-
rooms into the walls, or at least to camouflage them
very successfully. And from what he knew of Perrigo
and Canning they had only taken that office, from
among the hundreds on offer, because of its strong-
room. Millions of pounds' worth of cash currency are
not generally trusted in ordinary safes.
He prospected around with an ebony ruler, and
presently, in the far wall, his tapping sent back a
deep, hollow ring.
The whole of that side of the wall was bare. So far
r


THE MYSTERY MAKER
333
was about a foot wide. Stayne and Tembridge
crowded themselves into the corner and heaved the
massive thing sideways.
The huge mass opened smoothly and easily, with-
out a sound, blocking the view of the door when it
came to a standstill. Behind it lay two deep shelves,
on which reposed a pile of flat leather portmanteaux.
They hauled them out, seven of them, surprisingly
heavy, considering their compact bulk.
Stayne burst one open, and inside were neat heaps
of French currency notes. Twelve heaps of them, six
to a row. Each note was for ten thousand francs, and
the full value of them all, in English sterling, was
nearly a million pounds. Each bag held the same,
except that the currency was that of a different coun-
try. Two bags contained American thousand-dollar
bills, and two again were English bank-notes, genuine
ones. But no matter what the currency, each bag con-
tained approximately a million pounds in cold cash.
Stayne wiped the perspiration from his forehead
when they finished their scrutiny. In that office the
whole plot was laid bare. The bills were drawn for
six months' credit. In six months from the date of
issue the whole carefully built scheme would have
collapsed like a burst balloon. First interests would
have been called for—and nothing would have been
forthcoming. Meanwhile inquiries would have re-
vealed the fact that the offices of Messrs. Martin et
Bruyere were closed and that the birds had flown.
There would have been nothing left but the ghastly
realisation that the great banks had been milked
of seven million pounds—with British credit abroad
tottering to the crash, and the thieves safely tucked


336 THE MYSTERY MAKER
the red light of murder blazing in his eyes. For a sec-
ond he stood there, speechless, his face congested with
a demoniac surge of passion. A great glittering gun
was in his hand, and he suddenly flung it into the
horizontal, full at Stayne.
At that same moment two things happened with
the rapidity of a lightning flash. Stayne threw himself
sideways against the vault wall, falling with a crash,
and at the same instant there was a savage jerking
forward of Tembridge's right arm. The American's
own automatic whizzed across the room in a metallic
blue-steel streak, and its full weight impacted with
a smash on Ferrigo's bunched fingers. The crash of a
shot burst out from the nickelled gun as the two
weapons collided, and the force of it sent both guns
hurtling across the room.
Then Tembridge was at him, in almost the same
movement, flying low at him and collaring him round
the knees. The pair of them went down in a fighting,
cursing tangle. A hard bony knee heaved up into
the pit of the younger man's stomach. Tembridge
grunted and rolled over, his face going yellow with
agony. Perrigo was up with the agility of an acrobat,
blood streaming in thin crimson lines from his burst
knuckles. He leapt at Stayne like a wild tiger, his
hands out and clawing for the throat.
Stayne stepped back and met him half-way. Quiet,
unhurried and unflustered, exactly as befitted the ap-
pearance of the rather fragile, middle-aged gentle-
man he looked, he gave ground two paces as the
maddened man came at him. Then he hit, a clean-cut,
beautifully timed blow to the point of the jaw, that
came over with incredible power from such a frail-


344
THE MYSTERY MAKER
on its bracket behind him tinkled out a summons.
Stayne laid aside his magazine, turned the knob
under the arm of his chair, and spoke into space.
"Yes—what is it?"
The answer came immediately. "A visitor to see
you, sir."
"What name, please?" inquired Stayne.
"Mr. Harris to see you, sir," was Belham's answer
to Stayne.
"Oh, yes, show Mr. Harris up, please," said
Stayne.
He pushed back the knob under the arm of his chair,
and rose slowly to his feet, his lips crinkled in a quiet
smile. "Mr. Harris," no doubt, had experienced some
hours of worried speculation as to recent events in
Paris, and particularly in regard to his own position
as a pawn in the game.
Stayne walked to the window, opened it and
stepped on to the balcony. There was no evidence of
police vigilance before the house now; no loitering
gossipers, no mendicants, no waiting taxi-drivers. A
few pedestrians occasionally passed up and down, but
intent obviously only on their own business.
The smile was still on Stayne's face as he stepped
back into the room and greeted Templar Varris.
"I thought you'd be getting anxious," he said. "If
it hadn't been that I've had every second of every
minute more than fully occupied every hour since you
dropped us near Dover Pier I should have wired you
the good news, Varris. You got us down there with
the speed and comfort that might have been expected
from a trained chauffeur."
"And you got across all right, too?"


THE MYSTERY MAKER
said the same thing—officials, doctors, peasants; and
I almost agreed."
"The case of Perrigo and Canning will, no doubt,
become the most remarkable case of suicide on the
records," observed Stayne quietly.
"Suicide! Tell me more!"
There was something of a twinkle in Stayne's eyes
as he fixed them on his assistant.
"Never been up in a balloon, eh ?" he asked. "Don't
know that a balloon travels with the wind; therefore
there is no wind in a balloon and no sensation of wind
pressure, even in half a storm?" *
"That's easy, but"
"I stuffed two packets in the bottom of the basket,
one tartaric acid, the other salts of selenium. They're
harmless enough apart; they're used every day in
food-stuffs, but once let 'em get together"
"Oh, boy!" breathed Tembridge.
"That's how they got it," added Stayne. "By a
process of double decomposition a lethal gas is given
off. Those two wads of lint were touching, rammed
down together. Perrigo and Canning were breathing
in lungsful of that deadly gas, and they didn't know
it—until it was too late. They collapsed on the bot-
tom long before they reached Lombardy, and a jury
of doctors won't be able to decide how they died."
And they never did. The Italians could make noth-
ing of the extraordinary event that the two men who
severed the anchor wire of the balloon at the Exposi-
tion de Paris were found dead in the basket.
And that was all that ever came to light of one of
the most delicate cases that John Stayne, in his char-
acter of discredited Secret Service emissary, cashiered