regard to the blind man growing.
Common sense told him that the Isaac Goldsteins of this world are not generally afraid of men of unimpeachable morals. And the point that arose was what niche in the social scheme the dwarf adorned. Was he merely the owner or part owner of a gambling house, or was he something bigger? If the former there was no adequate reason for Goldstein's nervousness: if the latter it seemed possible he was getting into deeper waters than he had anticipated. In which case the sooner he got further information the better. And as he turned in to his club it suddenly struck him that there was another source of obtaining it available. Clement Hargreaves dined there most evenings, and though he was as secretive as an oyster it was possible he might be persuaded to open his mouth. There were few people connected even remotely with the underworld whom Clem did not know, and the dwarf would be an easily recognisable figure.
He found him, as luck would have it, sipping a glass of sherry in the smoking-room, and tackled him forthwith.
"Are you still in your hush-hush job, Clem?" he demanded.
"I still do my poor best to safeguard righteous citizens," answered the other with a grin. "Have a drink, Jim: it's about five years since we met."
"I want you to tell me something, old man, if you will."
"And if I can."
"Ça va sans dire."
He lit a cigarette: he had decided to adopt the same line as he had done with the sergeant at Streatham.
"Last night I went to a house up Hampstead way for a bit of a gamble. Organised place, you know."
"I don't," said the other. "They spring up like mushrooms, those spots. Go on."
"And there I met a gentleman who interested me. He stood about five foot high: he possessed the chest and shoulders of a giant: he was blind. Do you know anything about him?"
Hargreaves finished his drink, and in his turn lit a cigarette.
"In what capacity did you meet him?" he enquired at length.
"I should imagine he had something to do with the place," said Jim.
"And is that the reason of your interest in him?"
"You cautious old devil," laughed Jim. "Are you asking for information, or am I?"
But there was no answering smile on the other's face.
"I know your record better than most men, Jim," he said quietly. "And I know there is no one of my acquaintance more capable of looking after himself than you are. Nevertheless, if you and the man you've described fell foul of one another last night in any way, I can only give you one piece of advice. Do not go near that house again."
"We progress," said Jim. "It is clear that you know the bird. Why this animosity against him?"
"There can't be two men answering to your description," continued Hargreaves. "And I have no hesitation in saying that he is one of the most dangerous swine out of prison at the moment. He passes under the name of Emil Dresler, and he possesses an American passport. His activities are many and varied. At one time he was mixed up in the white slave traffic, but as far as we know he has given that up now. He's a blackmailer, and a drug trafficker. He is a moneylender on a large scale. We are also practically certain that he is responsible for at least two murders."
"Splendid," said Jim mildly. "Would it be indiscreet to ask why this charming individual is out of prison?"
"The reason is simple: we can't get any proof. He's a damned sight too clever. He covers his tracks with such infernal skill that we can't bring anything home to him. He is the brain, and he leaves other people to do the job. And they in their turn pass it on to someone else, till in the end it is impossible to trace his hand in it at all. It's the old question—we know but we can't prove. If we had half a chance we'd deport him like a shot, but so far he hasn't given it to us."
"He seems a cheery lad," laughed Jim. "So you think I'd better cut him off my visiting-list?"
"I can't imagine how he ever got on it. He's a gentleman who keeps himself very much in the background. And if he is running a gambling den, you can bet your bottom dollar there's more behind it than what he makes out of the cagnotte. Was the place on the square?"
"Quite, as far as I could see," answered Jim. "But in view of your warning I shall not revisit it."
He turned the conversation: further questions with regard to the place might prove difficult to answer. The last hour had provided him with more information than he had dared hope for, and with a nod to Hargreaves he sauntered off towards the dining-room. On the way he picked up an evening paper. It was the latest edition, but even the Stop Press news contained no mention of the finding of any dead body.
In itself the fact proved nothing. He was more than ever convinced after Hargreaves's remarks that he would find the place closed down. The bigger the man behind it the less would he be disposed to run any risk of trouble with the police. And connection with a gambling den would be quite enough to give the authorities the chance they needed to deport Mr. Emil Dresler. So what really was the object in going there at all?
He pondered the point over the soup: he ruminated on it over the fish. And by the time the Scotch woodcock arrived he had decided—to go. Object or no object he knew that he would have no peace of mind until he had made sure for himself that the body was not there still. What he proposed to do about it he was not sure: sufficient unto the moment would be the decision thereof.
The hall-porter beckoned to him as he left the dining-room: a letter had just arrived for him. It was in a woman's handwriting—one that was unknown to him, and having ordered a brandy with his coffee in the smoking-room he opened it. And the first words that caught his eye were the signature—Judy Draycott. He opened out the sheet and began to read.
Wednesday afternoon
37a Langham Square
Telephone: Grosvenor A123
Dear Mr. Maitland,
You may remember that we met last night—or was it this morning?—at the beer and bones party. And I then inflicted on you a long and I'm afraid boring story about my brother and hidden treasure in South America. Well, this morning a development has taken place. I told you, didn't I, that Arthur had written to me to say that if anything should happen to him I would find a letter addressed to me at my bank. And though I suppose you think I'm foolish I've been down every morning to see if there was anything. This morning there was. The envelope was a mere scrawl, though I recognised his writing at once: the post mark was London. And inside was a half sheet of paper with a drawing on it and some words. The drawing looks to me like a map—there's a north point marked on it: but the extraordinary thing is that it's not all there. It's sort of like half a map. Some of the words are cut in two, or if not, they don't make sense.
However, I could explain it so much more easily to you than write it. You see apart from whether it may mean anything or not I'm so terribly worried as to whether anything has happened to him. He must have been in London yesterday, so why hasn't he been to see me? Or rung up, or something? Do you think he has had an accident? I've rung up Scotland Yard, and looked in all the papers, but I can't find out anything.
I hate to bother you, but could you possibly come round and see me to-morrow morning some time? I'd suggest this evening, but you may not get this letter in time, and anyway we've got a ghastly dinner party on. I'll stay in until lunch in hopes of your being able to manage it.
I do hope you don't think I'm a terrible nuisance, but I really am most awfully worried.
Yours sincerely,
Judy Draycott.
With a faint smile Jim Maitland folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. Then the smile faded, and he sat staring in front of him. This was an unexpected development, and one that required thought. It confirmed—if confirmation was necessary—that the dead man was her brother, but it did not make things any easier with regard to telling her. And yet what was he to say when she asked him—as she undoubtedly would—if