The Mystery of the Moor

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 434, 16 August 1928, Page 5

The Mystery of the Moor

♦ By

J. S. Fletcher

CHAPTER XII. —THE CYPHER LETTER.

I went back to the Woodcock, wondering. I was quite sure that Mrs. Elphinstone would rejoice greatly if the (lead man’s fortune can\e to her and her daughter. I was equally certain that her daughter didn’t want to touch a penny of it. I was therefore in a fix, for I had declared publicly that if it came into my hands f should pay it over, and yet I was most certainly in love with Sheila and bound to obey her wishes—which were that I should stick to it. This bothered me, until I remembered that l was cudgelling my brains about something that might not materialise. My previous conjecture might be correct—the w r ill had been destroyed after Mazaroff or Merchison’s cjiscovery about his daughter. We buried him that afternoon, very quietly, and in the evening Webster drove Crole, Maythorne and myself to Black Gill Junction, where we caught the night mail for London. For Maythorne was unusually keen on seeing the officials at the Imperial Banking Corporation of South Africa, and on finding out all he could about Mazaroff in general, and the receipt for the registered letter endorsed 81. 1-, in particular. At half-past ten next morning we were all three closeted with an important personage of the bank, who, as soon as he knew our business, became keenly interested about Mazaroff and the circumstances death, and cross-examined us inquisitively on the reports he had already seen in the newspapers. I bee<* -* le Was going to P rove a valuable aid, but as soon as he saw the receipt and its date lie shook his head.

Ah,” he said. “The man who deal with Mazaroff’s account and letters at the date of this receipt ts no longer here. He was Mr. Aruntrade; he left us six months since, °t i?- Olne - mana^er at Courthope’s.” in k "as greatly to my credit at I controlled my features and the est °f me when this sudden announcement was made, neither starS nor starting at the mention of name. Even Crole. old n<l nnrdened man of law that he was, ould not refrain from a very slight nl^° f sur P rise - But the highlyPiaced person we were interviewing

was not looking at Crole, nor at me; he was giving his attention to our companion, with whose name and reputation he was evidently quite familiar. And Maythorne, of course, showed no surprise; his face, always cheerful and bright, betrayed nothing. “Oh!” he said. “I see. You mean that such correspondence as you would get from Mazaroff. when he was in South Africa, would, in the usual course of business, fall into a Mr. Armintrade’s hands, and that Mr. Armintrade has now left you?” “Precisely!” answered the important personage. “Armintrade would attend to anything that came from Mazaroff. And as X said just now, Armintrade left us six months ago, to become general manager of Courthope’s. That’s an old-established private banking concern, you know — Courthope, Dalntree and Co., In Mincing Lane.” “Oh, I know Courthope’s—by reputation,” remarked Maythorne. , “Then you yourself can’t tell uS anything very much about Mazaroff?” “I can tell you what I know,” replied our informant, evidently quite willing to talk. “We know Mazaroif as a very wealthy man who had extensive dealings in trading affairs, and latterly in diamonds and other precious stones, in the East, and in South Africa. He kept his principal account at our Capetown headquarters, but for years he has had a smaller account here as well. Lately, he transferred his Capetown account here; he also realised all his various properties and paid the proceeds in here, with a view to reinvestment in English securities. “Then you hold a considerable sum of his?” suggested Crole. “We understand —In fact, he mentioned the amount to Mr. Postlethwaite, the York solicitor who drew his will—that it is about eight hundred thousand pounds?” “About that, I dare say,” assented the manager, almost indifferently. “Rather more, I fancy. Oh, yes—a wealthy man! And the will, you say is lost?”

“Missing—temporarily, we hope," said Crole. “But Postlethwaite has the original draft, in Mazaroff’s own handwriting, and signed by Mazaroff. We have a copy here.” He handed the copy over, and the great man read it slowly. “This young gentleman is the Mr. Mervyn Holt referred to.” observed Croje. The manager eyed me shrewdly over the tips of his gold-rimmed spectacles and made me a friendly bow. “Congratulate you, Mr. Holt.” he

said, with a smile. “A desirable fortune!” “He hasn’t got it yet,” laughed Crole. “There are things to be done. But now—can you tell us anything of Mazaroff—personally?” “Next to nothing,” answered the manager. “He called here, just once, some time after his arrival in London. I saw him —in this very room. He wasn’t here five minutes. I-Ie said that he’d merely called in to let us know that he’d arrived in town and had taken rooms at the Cecil. He said he was just going for a tour in the North of England, and would look in on his return, a few weeks hence. And—that’s all ” “I suppose you’ve cashed cheques of his since then?” asked Maythorne. “Well, I can find out,” said the manager. He rang his bell, and gave some order to the clerk who appeared In answer to it, and who went away and returned a few minutes Jater. duly informed. “No cheque of Mr. Salim Mazaroff’s had been presented, sir, since Mr. Mazaroff himself called here on August 29,” he said. “He then cashed a cheque personally for £2,000” The manager nodded, and the clerk was retiring, but Maythorne stopped him, and glanced at his principal. “Mazaroff would take that amount in notes,” he said. “And your peojile will of course have the numbers of those notes. Now may I have them?” “No objection to that, certainly,” assented the manager. “Get them,” he said to the clerk. “You think,” he continued, turning to Maythorne, “that Mazaroff was murdered for the sake of robbery?” “Well,” replied Maythorne. “there’s this about it. From all I can gather—from Mr. Holt here, and from others—Mazaroff was one of those careless men who, without any thought of ostentation, you know, but from sheer thoughtlessness, display the money they have about them. Pull out a handful of notes, you know, loose.” “Aye, and not only notes,” muttered Crole. “He carried diamonds and things. In his waistcoat pockets. Tempting!” “Oh, well, as regards diamonds,” observed the manager, “I suppose ne regarded them pretty much as a farmer regards samples of barley. Still, as Mr. Crole says, it’s a temptation to dishonest folk. But now”—he laid his hand on a small pile of newspapers that lay on his desk—“what is all this that I read in the papers, in the report of the inquest yesterday, about Mazaroffs’ identity with some Andrew

Merchison? What is there in that?” Crole explained to him. They continued discussing the affair in all Its aspects for some time. The clerk came back with a slip of paper; the manager, after a glance at it, handed it over to Maythorne, who carefully placed it in his pocket book. A few minutes later we all left. And, once outside the great door of the bank, Crole gave Maythorne a sharp glance “Cm!! he said. “Armintrade!” “Just so!” said Maythorne. “As you say—Armintrade! ” Then they walked a few yards In silence, while I, a neophyte in these matters, wondered what they were thinking. “A man might, have reasons, when a man he knows is murdered under his very nose, for not coming forward to say that he knows him,” observed Crole at last. “But I think, considering everything, that if I’d been in Armintrade’s position the other day I should have said, ‘1 know this mail—he’s so-and-so, and I’ll tell you all I know about him.’ Eh?” Maythorne made no answer—just then. He produced a cigarette case. Crole shook his head —he was an oldfashined man about tobacco. And Maythorne and I had smoked for five minutes, and we had strolled a good way among the city crowd, before Maythorne spoke—this time with an air of conviction.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” he said suddenly. “Armintrade is the man whom Mazaroff wanted to see at Marrasdale Moor. Now, then—did he see him? Holt does not know—nobody knows —at least nobody that we’ve heard of. But Armintrade’s the man. Armintrade, as we’ve just heard, did all Mazaroff’s business at the bank we’ve just left. It was into Arminti'ade’s hands that the registered letter of which I’ve got the receipt in my pocket would fall. We must have a little talk with Armintrade. But before that”—he paused and waved his hand to a passing taxicab—“before that we’re going to examine Mazaroff’s rooms and belongings at the Hotel Cecil.” ,

We had no difficulty about this stage of our proceedings. The hotel management, thanks to the publicity which had been given to what was already known as either the Mazaroff Affair or the Marrasdale Moor Murder, knew all about what had happened, and the three of us were presently In the rooms wherein I had first met the dead man. Crole and I looked on while Maythorne made a systematic search.' It produced little. Mazaroff was not the sort of man who accumulates things. I had noticed during my acquaintance with him that when he had read such letters as he received at various points of our journey he invariably burnt them. Nevertheless, Maythorne made some discoveries that were of use, if of no great apparent moment. In an old trunk he found some school-books; on the fly-leaf of each was written the name Andrew Merchison, with dates —these he handed ccer to Crole. “There’s no doubt whatever that he was Merchison,” said Crole, turning

these things over. “It’s not likely that he’d have kept these books else. These will come in handy to show to Mrs. Elphinstone. But I wish there were more papers.” Maythorne, however, found some papers—in a letter-case that lay In a drawer, unlocked, in Mazaroff’s writing-table. These were letters — private letters, all, with one exception, written recently from Capetown by a Mr. Herman Kloop, who appeared to be a close personal friend of Mazaroff. There was next to nothing about business affairs in them —they were chiefly filled with gossip, club gossip, personal details, and such-like matters, the sort of stuff exchanged by old cronies. But they had this value, observed Maythorne—he now had a name and address in Capetown to which he could cable for certain Information about the dead man. The one letter not written by this Mi-. Herman Kloop proved to be the only thing that particularly impressed my companions. It was in the same case that held the Kloop letters, but in an envelope which bore on its flap the impressed seal of the Imperial Banking Corporation of South Africa, with the address of the London branch. Maythorne immediately drew attention to the post-mark and date: the letter had been posted. In London on the previous January 3. “From Armintrade to Mazaroff, without doubt,” said Maythorne. He showed some eagerness as he drew out the enclosure. Then his face fell. “Written in cypher!” he exclaimed. “That’s a sell!” The sheet of notepaper was almost filled with writing—the writing of a man who, as Maythorne was quick to point out, used a fine-pointed pen, had been trained—originally—in what is commonly called commercial penmanship, and made his figures as only q man who is continually dealing with figures does make them. But to us the wording was all so much unmeaning jargon; we could make neither head nor tail of it. There were, however, certain things on the sheet of paper which were plain enough. The paper itself was the ordinary letter paper of the bank, with its title and address engraved at the top of the front page. The letter began in understandable English: Dear Mr. Mazaroff. And it ended in plain English: Yours faithfully, John Armintrade. But all that went between, a hotch-jjotch of cabalistic words and figures, were so much double Dutch to all three of us. “A cypher!” repeated Maythorne. “Mazaroff, of course, would have a key. In his pocket-book, no doubt, and therefore stolen. Well!—it’s more

evident than ever that we must have a little conversation with Mr. John Armintrade. But first—-something else.” We left the hotel. Maythorne immediately hurried off to the nearest telegraph oflice; he was keen on cabling to Mr. Herman Kloop for some highly necessary news of Mazaroff. And as it was then well past noon, Crole and I turned into Romano’s for some lunch; we were both tired by our night’s journey and our goings to-and-fro since our arrival. “This is a queer business, Holt,” said Crole as we settled down in a comfortable and quiet corner. “I mean what we’ve found out this morning. You’ve seen this man Armintrade?” “For a few minutes only,” I replied. “At Courthope’s shooting box, when Miss Elphinstone took me there to make inquiries about Mazaroff’s disappearance.” “What sort is he?” he asked. “I don’t know him at all.” “A sly sort of chap, I should say,” I observed. “Looks as if he’d hear all and say nothing.” “Well, he’s kept that up so far,” observed Crole. “You’d have thought that he’d have come forward and said that he’d had business dealings with Mazaroff. Instead, not a word.” “He looks the sort of man who would probably reply to that that Mazaroff’s death was no concern of his,” I sug-

gested. “He gives one that impression.” “Aye, well,” remarked Crole. “wo shall just have to find out a few things. Leave it to Maythorne. X } wish we could lay hands on that will ] for your sake.” “I don’t!” I replied. “I've said so I already, and why.” “Don’t be foolish,” he retorted. j “Never refuse money, my lad. It was this man’s wish that you should have his money. Take it if you can get it. It’ll maybe turn out a far better thing for you to have it than for the widow —as she legally is—and the daughter.” That made me think of what Sheila had said the day before. And then, knowing already that Crole was a shrewd man, I told him of that brief conversation. “Why is she so anxious that the money shouldn’t go to her mother and herself?” I asked. Crole laid down his knife and fork j just then, leaned back in his chair, j and. after reflecting a little, laughed j quietly. “Smart girl!” he said. “What do you mean?” I demanded. He bent forward confidentially. “Between ourselves. Holt,” he said. I “quite apart from this Mazaroff’s wili matter, what's your financial position?” “Oh, well,” I answered, “I’ve about ; £SOO a year of my own, and I believe I shall have an additional £SOO or £6OO when my father dies.” “Just so,” he assented. “A thou--1 sand a year man. Now then, I’ll ask \ I you another, my lad. If Mrs. and Miss . | Elphinstone—especially the mother — i came into a fortune of eight or nin& , | hundred thousand pounds, do you j think Mrs. Elphinstone—who in my I opinion is a bit of a worldly and am-

bitious woman—would be inclined ta give her daughter to a comparatively’ poor man? This is a world of fact, not fancy, young fellow.” “What are you driving at?” I ex* ! claimed. “What’s the riddle?” I “No riddle,” he answered laughing, j“I think Miss Sheila is in love wi i • you, and she’d far rather the money was in your hands than in her mother’s and her own. Don’t be a i ass, young Holt! If we can get hold of the will, you get hold of the money. And when you’ve got hold, hold tight.” I left him after lunch, and went home to my rooms in Jermyn Stree t. It seemed as if I had been away from them a thousand years. I spent a quiet afternoon there, and a qni t evening, and I went to bed early. And at nine o’clock next morning in came Maythorne. “Had a cable late last night from Capetown,” he announced. “Mr. Her- | man Kloop is in London, at the First j Avenue Hotel. Come along—we ll | collect Crole, and intervi-■■*»■ Kloop at ' once.” He found Mr. Herman Kloop at i half-past ten, leisurely finishing a j late breakfast in the almost desert L j coffee-room of his hotel: a little, dapper. Hebraic-looking gentleman, verv scrupulously and fashionably dressed, but with rather more evidence of gold and diamonds about him than is quite usual with Englishmen. He seemed in no wise surprised to be visited by three strangers, and lie pointed from the cards which we had sent in to a j pile of newspapers that lay by Ids plate.

(To be continued.!