At noon, I had an appointment with the Home Secretary. He received me with great kindness, and we spent half an hour in a highly confidential conversation. What we discussed will become clear later, so there is no need to go into it now.
Near the end of our talk, I said, “There is something I would like to ask you.”
“Of course,” he replied immediately. “And let me repeat this, Sir John: the Government has complete confidence in you. Please don’t take what has happened too hard.”
I suddenly felt that I had to tell him the truth.
“I hope my concern for the public has not been affected in any way by a personal tragedy. I am certain it has not. But, if I may speak frankly, I want you to know that I was engaged to marry Miss Constance Shepherd.”
The room went completely silent.
I heard him take a long breath.
“Poor fellow,” he murmured.
Then he did exactly the right thing. He reached across and took my hand in a firm, warm grip.
After a moment, I was able to speak again.
“My request is this, sir. I want to disappear for a month.”
“Disappear, Sir John?”
“That is practically what I mean. I want four weeks’ leave. But it must remain completely private. If the newspapers announced it, the public might misunderstand and think I was abandoning my post at a time of national danger.”
“Whereas?”
“Whereas I want to investigate this case in my own way. I believe the newspapers, the public, and even Scotland Yard are following the wrong theories. I have been consulting with them, but nothing they have discovered has changed my mind. My communications with America haven’t changed it either.”
I paused.
“This case is a matter of life and death for me. The Government has promoted me rapidly and trusted me with this position. I owe them an answer to this mystery. I owe the Government and the public the capture of the criminals responsible for these crimes. If God gives me the chance, I will bring them to justice.”
I looked directly at him.
“My honour is involved, and so is the honour of my department. Those things come before everything else. Then there are the personal reasons I have just told you. I am convinced that I can only succeed if I follow my own path.”
“You certainly have powerful reasons driving you,” he said. “But can you tell me a little more about your plan?”
“I want Mr. Muir Lockhart to take charge of the office while I am away. He is fully capable of doing so. He knows the department thoroughly, and I will arrange for him to contact me whenever necessary.”
The Home Secretary sat quietly for a moment, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair.
He had once been a famous barrister, and he was known for always being immaculately dressed. His fingernails were perfectly polished, and the light caught them as he moved his hand. I found myself wondering whether he had them professionally manicured.
At last he looked up.
“Very well. Do as you think best. I assume you know what you’re doing.”
Then he smiled faintly.
“And I sincerely hope you succeed.”
That was how I began a series of dangerous adventures in a criminal underworld filled with almost unbelievable intelligence and cunning—an underworld unlike anything I had ever encountered.
The arrangements at Whitehall were completed quickly.
Muir Lockhart understood exactly what I wanted. By three o’clock that afternoon, I walked out of the building and into the sunshine, free from all official duties for the next month.
As I crossed Horse Guards Parade and headed toward the long green stretch of the Mall, I stopped for a moment and drew a deep breath.
“The first act is over,” I thought. “Now the real drama begins.”
Somewhere in the world was a man whose identity I had to discover and whose death I believed I owed both to society and to myself.
And I had never been a man who failed to pay his debts.
I have told you very little about my state of mind during those terrible days. Even now, it is difficult to describe.
It felt as if cold fury had replaced the blood in my veins. My heart seemed frozen.
Yet whenever I was alone, an agony beyond words would seize me and toss me about like a leaf caught in a storm.
Perhaps it was a faint glimpse of what eternal damnation might feel like.
I dared not think too deeply about Constance or what had happened to her. If I allowed myself to follow those thoughts, I knew I would be destroyed by grief.
Fortunately, my mind remained under control.
The hardness that had helped me rise so quickly in my career now came to my aid. My senses became sharper. My will narrowed to a single purpose.
I was alone.
I was walking into darkness.
But I felt an enormous force building inside me, like a battery charged to its full capacity.
As I calmly walked up St. James’s Street toward my rooms, I doubt whether there was a more determined or dangerous man anywhere in London.
And somehow, without knowing exactly how I would proceed, I knew I was going to succeed.
I had almost no hope of seeing my beloved Constance alive again. I believed that whatever happiness I had once known was gone forever.
But justice remained.
Or perhaps revenge was the better word.
And I was convinced that I had been chosen to carry it out, just as surely as I knew I had walked past Marlborough House and St. James’s Palace.
My chambers in Half Moon Street were expensive but extremely comfortable. They occupied the second floor and included a sitting room, dining room, bedroom, dressing room, and bathroom.
The sitting room was panelled in cedar wood stained a delicate olive green, with the mouldings picked out in dull gold.
Connie and her lively young friends often came there for tea or supper after the theatre. They always said it was one of the most charming rooms in London.
I had spent a great deal of time and money making it exactly the way I wanted.
The carpet, for example, had come from Kairowan in Tunisia. An entire family of Arab weavers had spent five years making it.
Its blue was extraordinary—not the harsh peacock blue found in cheaper Oriental rugs, but a softer blue touched with silver-grey. It looked magnificent beside the warm brick reds and golden yellows.
I had paid four hundred pounds for it, and considered it a bargain.
There were only six pictures on the walls, all modern and carefully chosen.
One was Charles Conder’s Boys Bathing, a brilliant painting of sunlight and sea foam that made half the collectors in London jealous.
Another was William Nicholson’s Chelsea Ware. It showed nothing more than some old Chelsea plates and a jug on a table.
It sounds dull, but the painting was extraordinary. Nicholson had seen the objects with such imagination and painted them with such brilliance that you could stare at it for hours.
The room also had a large open fireplace made of rough red brick.
When lit, the fire burned in a deep iron brazier designed like a gypsy’s fire basket. I had searched everywhere for the right one and finally had it made specially from a design by an artist in Birmingham.
A room with such carefully balanced colours and simple lines needed no clutter.
Small decorative objects, however beautiful, would have ruined it.
I had two magnificent china cabinets in the dining room, but china would have looked completely wrong here.
Along one wall, about four feet above the floor, there was a single shelf holding old Tudor pewter cups and flagons, each marked with the Tudor double-rose hall-mark.
That was all.
I entered the room and dropped wearily into a chair.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the half-closed sea-green silk curtains. A hidden electric fan hummed quietly in the ceiling, keeping the room wonderfully cool.
Yet the moment I looked around, I hated the place.
Its beauty and comfort suddenly seemed unbearable.
For one mad instant, I wanted to pick up a hammer and smash everything.
Then my eyes fell on the only photograph in the room.
It was a photograph of Constance.
She had given it to me only two weeks earlier. It stood in a dull silver frame decorated with turquoise stones.
I stared at it, and the pain inside me became almost unbearable.
Thumbwood lived in the rooms at the top of the house. A few minutes after I arrived, he came in.
“I’ve made the necessary arrangements, Charles,” I told him. “We begin immediately.”
I had no secrets from that loyal friend and servant.
“I’m glad to hear it, Sir John,” he said. “I’ve been around London all morning, and there’s a great deal of talk.”
He followed me into the sitting room and handed me a cigar.
“You see, sir, a gentleman’s servant hears things quicker than most people. Especially if he works for someone who belongs to the club just off Jermyn Street—and even more so if he’s been around racing.”
He settled himself comfortably.
“This morning I talked to the porters and valets at two of the best clubs. Then I had a chat with Meggit, the bookmaker who handles the smaller bets around St. James’s.”
He grinned.
“After that, I went to the Parthenon Theatre. I took the stage-door keeper out for a drink, and after a little while he became quite talkative.”
“Why does he know you?”
“We’re good friends, sir. I’ve carried so many messages and flowers to him for you whenever Miss Shepherd was performing there.”
“Ah. So you haven’t been wasting your time.”
I smiled to myself at Thumbwood’s idea of helping me.
“No, Sir John. I’ve picked up quite a few interesting little things. Nothing important by itself, perhaps, but some of it may prove useful later.”
He hesitated.
“There is one thing you should know immediately.”
“What is it?”
“The theatre people have been talking. Everyone in town is saying that Miss Shepherd travelled to Plymouth with you.”
I stiffened.
“It’s certain to be in the newspapers this afternoon, if it isn’t already. Half a dozen reporters were hanging around the theatre this morning.”
I clenched my teeth in anger, but only for a moment.
Of course this was bound to happen.
There was only one way to deal with it.
I picked up the telephone on my writing desk and asked to be connected with the Evening Wire.
“I am Sir John Custance,” I told the editor. “I understand there is considerable gossip in London concerning Miss Constance Shepherd and myself.”
I paused.
“To prevent any misunderstanding, I authorize you to state in your next edition that Miss Shepherd and I were engaged to be married. I will send my servant to your office immediately with a written confirmation.”
It was the only way to stop malicious gossip, although I hated having to do it.
I quickly wrote a note to the editor.
“Take this to the newspaper office immediately,” I told Thumbwood.
As I handed him the note, the front-door bell rang.
Thumbwood went downstairs.
A moment later, I heard voices.
One of them was deep and harsh, and strangely familiar.
When Charles returned, I looked up.
“Who is it? I can’t see anyone.”
“He wouldn’t take no for an answer, sir. It’s the American gentleman who rescued Captain Pring after the attack on the Albatros. He says he must see you.”
“Mr. Van Adams?”
“Yes, Sir John.”
“Show him in.”
A moment later I was shaking hands with the thickset American whose jaw looked almost like the blade of a pike and whose eyes seemed made of living steel.
Thumbwood left with the letter.
I heard the front door close behind him.
At that moment, I doubt I would have welcomed anyone in London who had no connection with my official work at Whitehall.
I certainly had not wanted to see Van Adams.
But the moment he entered the room, my irritation disappeared.
He had come because he wanted to see me.
Now he had achieved his purpose.
I had the strong feeling that even a line of soldiers standing outside with fixed bayonets would never have stopped him from reaching me.
He quietly took the chair I indicated and selected a cigar with deliberate care.
I did not hurry him.
In fact, I was suddenly glad that he had come.
I waited for him to speak.
When he finally did, his harsh voice had softened considerably. Anyone hearing him might have found it difficult to believe he was American.
“Whatever success I’ve had in life,” he began, “has come largely from my ability to judge people.”
He lit his cigar.
“I had that ability to an unusual degree even when I was young. I’ve spent my whole life developing it.”
He smoked thoughtfully.
He had spoken with calm certainty, not like a man boasting about himself, but like someone stating a fact because it would soon become important.
I said nothing.
It felt as though we were playing a formal game with strict rules.
If I spoke too soon, I might spoil it.
Van Adams continued.
“Most ordinary people don’t like hearing a man say this about himself, but I have a fairly clear understanding of you, Sir John.”
He looked directly at me.
“You are not an ordinary man. That’s why I’m here.”
He paused.
“Let me put it simply. I want to help you.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“And I can help you. The question is whether you want my help.”
There was really only one possible answer.
The man sitting in my room was one of the most powerful men in the world.
More importantly, his reputation was excellent. He was not some financial pirate. People everywhere trusted him.
“Mr. Van Adams,” I said, “my answer is one word: thank you.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Exactly.”
Then he turned slightly in his chair.
“Of course, I’m not asking you to tell me any official secrets.”
I laughed.
“If you asked, the Government would probably tell you everything.”
He saw that I understood what he meant.
“There are no secrets to tell,” I said. “You know exactly as much as my department does, just as I told the Home Secretary this morning.”
I continued.
“There have been no developments, except for the protective measures being taken by Britain and the United States.”
I lowered my voice.
“The one thing I can tell you, in strict confidence, is that I have arranged for my assistant to carry out my official duties for a month. From this afternoon onward, I am completely free to go wherever I choose and do whatever I think necessary.”
“No one knows?”
“No one except my confidential servant.”
“And what do you intend to do?”
“I’ll spend this evening working out a plan.”
“Good,” Van Adams said. “That’s exactly what I hoped to hear.”
He took another slow puff of his cigar.
“Let me explain why I’m doing this. My reasons are simple.”
He held up one finger.
“First, I’m one of the world’s major money-brokers. Naturally, I want to prevent another financial panic.”
A second finger.
“Second, I’m something of a sportsman. I enjoy hunting things down. This particular hunt interests me.”
Then his expression changed.
“And third…”
He looked at me carefully.
“When I was thirty-five, a vicious gang in San Francisco kidnapped my little daughter, Pearl.”
He paused.
“She is the Duchess of Shropshire now.”
His voice became quieter.
“They demanded a ransom and held her prisoner. It happened many years ago, before you ever heard my name. I’m nearly seventy now. The case caused quite a sensation at the time.”
He looked straight into my eyes.
“So I think I can understand something of what you’re going through.”
For the first time, the steel seemed to disappear from his eyes.
His hard expression softened.
So he understood.
I murmured something I can no longer remember.
“Exactly,” he said quickly.
Then he continued.
“I’ve been thinking about how I could help you, and I’ve reached a conclusion.”
He studied me.
“I suppose money won’t be much use to you. Still, if you need it, any amount is available.”
“I have the Government behind me,” I replied. “And I am not short of money myself.”
“That is what I expected.”
He leaned back.
“In England, there is nothing I can personally do that someone else couldn’t do just as well. But in America…”
He smiled faintly.
“I have a great deal of influence.”
I looked him directly in the eyes.
“America is of no concern to me.”
“Quite. I understand.”
He nodded.
“And I completely agree with you.”
Then he stood up.
“Now let me tell you what I can do for you.”
He walked slowly toward me.
When he spoke again, his voice was much lower.
“I need to tell you one or two things about myself.”
He stopped a few feet away.
“First, a man as wealthy as I am naturally makes powerful enemies. And American criminals tend to be direct.”
He smiled without humour.
“You may find this difficult to believe, but there have been between twelve and fifteen serious attempts on my life.”
“Fifteen?”
“Something like that. And some of them were remarkably clever.”
He shrugged.
“Yet here I am. Alive, unharmed, and perfectly safe.”
He paused.
“You may wonder why.”
He drew on his cigar.
“Quite early in my career, I realized what was likely to happen. I saw other wealthy men murdered and decided that I would not suffer the same fate.”
He looked at me intently.
“So I asked myself how it could be prevented.”
“And what was your answer?”
“I needed someone extraordinary.”
He spoke slowly now.
“Someone with exceptional intelligence, cunning, skill, courage, and physical ability.”
He smiled.
“I wanted someone who would devote his entire life to protecting me.”
“A personal guardian?”
“Much more than that.”
He laughed softly.
“I wanted a familiar spirit.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“It took me three years of continuous effort to find the right man. I needed an exact combination of qualities, and such a person is not easy to find.”
He tapped the ash from his cigar.
“But a modern multi-millionaire is something like a magician. And I found myself a genie.”
“A genie?”
“The cleverest and most dependable man I’ve ever known. I pay him the salary of a movie star, and I mean every word when I tell you that there is no one else like him anywhere in the world.”
He looked at me.
“Do you think I’m exaggerating, Sir John?”
His story was certainly extraordinary.
But I believed him.
“You have surprised me,” I said. “And you’ve certainly aroused my interest. I congratulate you.”
“You should. I possess something very rare.”
He smiled.
“Well, surely you understand where this is leading.”
I waited.
“I will lend this man to you.”
I stared at him.
“For one month, his entire time and skill will be at your disposal.”
For several seconds I said nothing.
I believed every word he had spoken.
I was not hesitating.
I was simply trying to absorb what his offer meant.
Then its importance became clear.
It was like someone throwing a rope ladder to a prisoner trapped in a cell.
Like giving a lamp and a pickaxe to a miner buried underground.
“It is the most generous offer I have ever heard,” I said quietly. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
I looked at him.
“You really mean it?”
“I do.”
He smiled.
“And since one ounce of proof is worth a ton of promises, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Danjuro.”
Van Adams turned around.
I turned with him.
Then I cried out in astonishment.
A few feet away stood a small Japanese gentleman, barely five feet tall.
He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses, a neat blue lounge suit, and brown shoes.
At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about him.
Nothing, that is, except his extraordinary head.
He had a broad, powerful forehead and an unusually large distance between the outer corners of his dark eyes and his ears.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “How did he get in here?”
Van Adams laughed.
“I imagine he’ll tell you. I don’t know.”
He shrugged.
“I simply told him to be here.”
He looked pleased with himself.
“I wanted to give you a practical demonstration.”
Then he turned toward the little Japanese man.
“Mr. Danjuro knows everything I know. You can trust him completely.”
He looked back at me.
“He knows what lies ahead of him, and he knows exactly where to find me if I’m needed.”
He moved toward the door.
“Now I’ll leave you two together.”
He smiled.
“Good afternoon.”
Before I could properly thank him, he was gone.