The Betrayal of John Fordham

Let me state here why I was so anxious with respect to his allusion to his mother which, according to Jack, was made by Louis during his quarrel with Maxwell. The apparently unimportant words, "My mother shall be done with you," assumed intense significance when placed side by side with the information volunteered by Maxwell a fortnight afterwards, that John Fordham's stepmother was dead. Jack, being unacquainted with Louis' family connections, could not have invented Louis' mother – therefore the words were certainly spoken by Louis, establishing without a shadow of a doubt that at that time his mother was living. Only a fortnight intervened before Maxwell declared that she was dead. I dismiss the hypothesis that the woman – I will not call her a lady – died during the interval. Setting that aside, I come face to face with the question, "For what reason did Maxwell wish John Fordham to believe that his stepmother was dead?"

I was fairly puzzled; I could find no answer to the question.

Next, I turned my attention to a consideration of the state and progress of affairs when Jack, in a frenzy of fear, rushed from the house in which the murder was committed. The fight between him and Fordham is going on in the street; the street door is dashed open and the combatants stumble into the passage, where the savage conflict is continued. In the room above Louis lies dead, and Morgan and Maxwell stand in terror, listening to the sounds of the struggle below. What does it portend – what, except that they are in deadly peril? They are too terrified to move. If they open the door, they will be pounced upon and arrested for the crime, for they do not doubt that the police have been watching their movements, and have obtained entrance to the house. Suddenly the sounds cease. Fordham lies senseless on the stairs, and Jack is speeding to the railway station. All is quiet without and within, for the partners in crime are too frightened to move. At length they venture to speak, but in a whisper, for they still fear that officers are lurking outside to secure them. After a long interval of time they pluck up sufficient courage to open the door. No one molests them. They creep out into the passage, and down the stairs, and are stopped by the body of Fordham. Maxwell recognizes him, and a devilish plot suggests itself. John Fordham and Louis are old enemies – how easy to fasten the murder upon John! He and Morgan carry the body of the unconscious man into the room, and place it near the dead body of Louis. They find a knife upon him – they dip it in Louis' blood. Maxwell takes Fordham's watch, and finds his matchbox on the stairs. He has an idea that they may come in useful to fix the murder upon Fordham. He leaves the knife. Then he and Morgan steal from the house.

Thus far did I trace the probable course of action. If it were anywhere near the truth, it established a binding link between Maxwell and Morgan, each of whom, from that night, held the other in his power. I asked myself whether Maxwell confided to Morgan the existence of the family connection which existed between him and John Fordham. To this question I found an answer. No. It was not in Maxwell's nature to impart to any one a confidence which might result to his disadvantage. Without having met the man, I seemed to see him, so graphically was he portrayed by Fordham and Jack. He was one who kept his own secrets.

What followed on their departure is related by Fordham up to the moment of his own departure, when he fled from the house, leaving the dead body of Louis as its only occupant. Possibly he was watched and seen by his enemies, who re-entered the house after he was gone. They feel in Louis' pocket for his watch. "He has stolen it," they say. They look round for Louis' overcoat. "He has run off with it," they say. And then their eyes fall upon Fordham's blood-stained knife, which he foolishly left behind him. I can imagine their fiendish glee at these discoveries. "He has convicted himself," they say. But there is still a possible danger. Louis might have been seen in their company. If his features were mutilated so that it would be difficult to establish his identity, it would afford them an additional element of safety. The heavy oak table is dashed upon his face, and their work is complete. Once more the house of death is left in possession of its ghastly occupant.

While I was following out these conjectures (for of course they were nothing more, and it will be seen in time whether they were correct) I received a report from the Liverpool expert to whom I had entrusted the two letters. It confirmed my suspicions, and furnished me with another link to the chain I was weaving. Although an attempt had been made to disguise the writing of the letter sent by "Mr. Lambert" to the house agent, the expert stated that both letters were written by the same hand. Scoundrel as Maxwell was, he would have been more careful had he imagined that the plot to fleece Louis would have ended so tragically.

Now, of what legal value was all this evidence? A skillful lawyer might do something with it, but I doubted whether, unsupported and uncorroborated, it would establish John Fordham's innocence. In this view Fordham himself concurred; indeed, it was he who first laid emphasis upon it. I have seldom seen a man more agitated when he learned from me that there was no guilt of blood upon his soul. For several minutes he could not speak. He sat with his face buried in his hands, and when he raised his head the tears were still running down his cheeks.

"I can bear the worst now," he said; and I knew from the remarks he made, that he was more grateful for Ellen's sake than for his own. I shall call her Ellen; surely I have the right, working as I was for her and for the man who had, in a sort of way, supplanted me. Had she seen me first – but of what use is it to speculate upon what might have been?

As I have said, it was Fordham who laid stress upon the evidence against himself, evidence of his own supplying. His silence, his long concealment in London under an assumed name, the incriminating articles in his possession, which he had given up to the police, were strong points against him.

"If my innocence is not clearly proved," he said, "I shall not care to be released."

"You can't compel a jury to declare you guilty," I urged, and I confess to being angry with him.

"No," he replied, "but the doubt would remain and would darken my days."

"Well," I said, "anyway, the police are not likely to let you go without a searching inquiry. For the present we must be silent, and bend all our energies to the discovery of Maxwell and Morgan."

It was a hard matter to convince Ellen of the wisdom of this course, and indeed we did not succeed in convincing her; but she was compelled to yield in the end, though she protested against the injustice of Fordham being kept in prison. There is a reason of the heart and a reason of the head, and when we are dealing with stern facts, we know which is likely to come out the winner.

The position, you see, was one of great difficulty. I was pledged to Jack, and to break my word would be to bring him immediately into danger. This I determined not do until every other chance failed me. It was a prudent as well as a just resolve. If Jack found himself betrayed and brought to bay, it was as likely as not that he would deny everything, or that he would commit himself to statements which would place Fordham in jeopardy.

I met my card-sharping friend before the end of the week, when it had been decided that he was to pay me a visit. I was on my way to Highgate Cemetery, and I came across him in the N. W. district. He had hired a donkey, and there was a gay show of flowers on his barrow. Seeing me approach, he gave me a wink and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I inferred from the wink that business was prospering, and from the nod that he did not wish to be spoken to. I returned his wink and passed on.

My object in going to Highgate Cemetery was to ascertain if a lady of the name of Fordham was buried there, as would certainly have been the case if, as had been stated by Maxwell, Louis' mother was dead. As I have already said, I did not believe he had spoken the truth, but if I was mistaken I should be able to learn the address from which the coffin was taken.

I was not mistaken. There was a family grave in the cemetery purchased by John Fordham's father, but since his death no one had been buried there. Undoubtedly Maxwell had lied, and Louis' mother was alive.

CHAPTER XXXI.

PAUL GODFREY, DETECTIVE, CONTINUES HIS NARRATIVE

The motive – the motive. This was the subject of my thoughts as I walked from the Cemetery. What possible motive could Maxwell have in making John Fordham believe that his stepmother was dead? If she were living, Fordham could have nothing to hope from her; if she were dead, it was an obstacle removed from his path, a witness the less against him. It was not likely that Maxwell was anxious to afford him this satisfaction; there was a cunning motive for the deceit, but though I twisted the question a dozen different ways, I could not make head or tail of it.

Puzzling my head over the matter, I found myself in the neighborhood of Soho.

It was not chance that directed me there. I had not forgotten the woman, Annette Lourbet, who plays so important a part in John Fordham's confession, and though she seemed to have passed out of the story at about the time he left England for Australia, I had an idea, if I succeeded in discovering her, that I might obtain some useful information. I hardly knew in what shape, but in such a task as mine the slightest clue frequently leads to a momentous result.

Up to this day my search for. Annette had been unsuccessful. Of course, I had looked through the London Directory for the name of Lourbet, but curiously enough, it did not appear there, and I concluded either that the woman had married or had returned to her native country. If she had married and was still in London, Soho was the most likely neighborhood in which to find her, and I had already spent several fruitless hours in those narrow thoroughfares. My patience, however, was not exhausted, and I was now treading them again in the hope of a better reward.

I think I may say that hitherto chance had not befriended me, but on this day it did me a turn, and in a singular way. About to pass a continental provision shop, of which there are a great many in Soho, and in the windows of which was the usual display of German sausages, pickles, potted meats, French mustard, pretzels, Dutch herrings, cucumbers, etc., I was obstructed by a ladder, and had to cross the road. A sign-painter was at work on the ladder, and glancing at the board over the window, I saw that a name had been erased and was being replaced by another, the first letter, L, having just been painted in bright blue. I walked on, attaching no importance to the incident; but when, half an hour afterwards, I passed the shop again, and saw that the painter had got as far as L O U, something like an electric shock darted through me.

L O U, the first three letters in the name of Lourbet.

I did not linger; the next minute I was in an adjoining street. The shop would not run away, and the proprietor would not run away. I could afford to wait.

I did wait for an hour and more before I sauntered again through that particular street. The sign was finished, and stared me in the face. I could have hugged myself when I saw the full name of Lourbet on the signboard.

Now, was the name that of a woman, and was her Christian name Annette? Half a dozen persons were looking up at it in admiration of the painter's skill. One, however, a little man who appeared to have been drinking was regarding it with wrath and dissatisfaction; he even went so far as to shake his fist at it. He was a most disreputable looking character, and evidently a confirmed toper. As he held up his fist a woman darted from the shop, and standing at the door fired one word at him.

"Pig!"

In response to which he directed his fist towards her face. This so inflamed her that she flew at him, and, seizing him by the collar, shook him with such violence that he fell to the ground the moment he was released. By this time a crowd had gathered, whose sympathies were entirely on her side. They jeered and laughed at the man, with whom they appeared to be acquainted, and who lay in a state of collapse. Not that he was hurt, except, as a matter of course, in his feelings, but he was afraid to rise and risk a second shaking at the hands of the woman, who seemed to be smarting under a sense of injury. To my surprise she became suddenly quite calm and composed, and stood looking down upon him with a disdainful smile on her thin, white lips.

"It is well done, Madame Lourbet," cried a Frenchwoman in the crowd. "It is as he deserves. I would wring his neck if he had served me so."

"Thank you, madame," replied Madame Lourbet, "for the name. It is my own. Behold it, pig!" Addressing her discomfited foe, and pointing to the newly-painted sign. "I r-r-renounce you. Come to me no more. Begone!"

There was a melodramatic touch in her words, but not in her utterance of them. Had I not witnessed it I could hardly have believed that they were spoken by the woman who had behaved with so much violence. The cold, passionless voice was, in my judgment, the result of long training, and I detected in her so many little resemblances to the Annette portrayed by John Fordham in his confession that I did not doubt I had found her at last. I was careful to keep out of her sight, having determined to seek enlightenment first from the man, for I was curious to learn the meaning of this singular scene.

The approach of a policeman put an end to it. The crowd dissolved, Madame Lourbet returned to her shop, and the man, whose furtive looks had followed her movements, slowly picked himself up. If he had been inclined to appeal against the judgment which had been pronounced he was manifestly not in a condition to do so just now; seemingly recognizing this, he slunk off with the air of a whipped cur.

The policeman took no notice of him, and was soon out of sight; I kept in his track till he halted at the door of a public-house and fumbled in his pockets. Finding nothing there he relapsed into a state of maudlin despair. This was my opportunity, and I took advantage of it. Over a friendly glass or two, he drinking my share and his own with cheerful alacrity, he ventilated his grievances.

Annette was his wife, so ne declared; they had lived together three years; she had worshiped the ground he trod on, and his name had been painted over the shop window. And now, after he had ruined himself for her (he did not specify in what way) she turned upon him and cast him adrift. He would not stand it – no, he was an Englishman, and he would not stand it. She was tired of him, was she? She had another lover, had she? He would have his blood. And so on, and so on.

The real fact was that there had been a trifling informality in the marriage, the man I was pumping being married already when he went through the ceremony with Annette. It was true that his first wife died shortly after he married his second, but Annette had only lately discovered that her own marriage was illegal, and being tired of the rascal was glad to be quit of him. She had been prudent enough to protect her savings; the business was hers, the stock was hers, and she had turned him out with never a penny in his pockets.

"Not a penny, not one single penny," he whined. I sympathized with him, of course, and I left him at his lodgings – a garret in the same street as the shop – with a promise to call upon him the next night and see if anything could be done to soften Annette's heart.

The information I had extracted from him was not of much present use to me, but I saw the possibility of the acquaintanceship being of service, and I was by no means dissatisfied with my day's work; but the day was not yet over. I have good reason to remember it, and so has every person associated with the mystery, so many strange things occurred – the strangest of all (which at first seemed to have not the slightest connection with the affair) leading to a most surprising and unexpected discovery.

It was my intention to pay Madame Lourbet a visit, and I thought that evening would be the best time. I had business to transact at my office, for this Liverpool murder, though it occupied so much of my time, was not the only thing I had to attend to. So to my office I went and spent a useful hour in straightening my affairs and giving instructions to my clerk. Then I sat down to catch up arrears of correspondence, and by four o'clock I had everything in order. I had put away my papers and stamped the last of my letters when my clerk announced a lady – Mrs. Barlow, who was most anxious to see me. She was shown in, an elderly lady, with a careworn face and ladylike manners. She had been recommended to me, as a likely person to discover her son, whom she had not seen for five or six years.

"Nor heard from him?" I asked.

"Not a line," she answered in a sad voice.

"Is he in England?"

"I do not know."

"Well, tell me all about it," I said, "and bear in mind that your time and money will be thrown away if you keep anything in the background."

I condense what she related. She was a widow, with one child, this son who had deserted her. He had always given her trouble. Not that he was bad at heart, but so easily led away, believing in everybody, trusting everybody. (Mother's love, here; I knew its value in a practical sense.) Unfortunately he had fallen into bad company, and her belief was that he was ashamed to return to her. Years ago they had been fairly well off, but little by little he had got from her all she was worth, and then he left her. She managed to rub along, however, being assisted by Philip's uncle, her deceased husband's brother. This uncle had lately died and left her a small legacy, which she had received. A legacy of three thousand pounds was left to Philip; in case of his death at the time of the testator's decease the money would go to a charitable institution. Philip had not presented himself to claim the legacy, and she was naturally anxious to discover him, so she had come to me to assist her.

A simple story, before the end of which I had made up my mind about the man. A thoroughly bad lot – an opinion I kept to myself, however.

I put a few questions to Mrs. Barlow.

"Can you think of any reason why your son should not come forward to claim this fortune?"

"No."

She was afraid to express what must have been in her mind – that he was dead.

"He fell into bad company, you say. What kind of bad company? I must press for an answer."

"Unfortunately he was fond of cards."

"Blacklegs got hold of him, then?" She sighed. "Did he bet on horses?"

"Yes."

"That explains a great deal. He went to races and lost his money?"

"Everybody took advantage of him."

"I see. Now, Mrs. Barlow, if I take this matter up I must have a free hand. Among other things I shall do I may have to advertise. If you have any objection, you had best say so at once."

"You may do anything you like – only discover my son for me."

"Very well. Have you a portrait of your son?"

"Yes – a cabinet in a frame. I did not bring it with me."

"Send it immediately to my private address. I should like it soon."

"You shall have it to-night. I will bring it myself."

I gave her my private card, and took five pounds from her for preliminary expenses.

She was about to leave, when she turned and said:

"Perhaps I ought to tell you that a friend mentioned that he thought he saw Philip."

"Certainly you ought to tell me. The mischief of these cases is that there is always something kept back. Where did he see him?"

"In Liverpool, but he is not certain it was Philip."

"Very stupid of him. How long ago was it?"

"Over a year ago."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all," she said, and bade me good-day.

Before I left my office I wrote an advertisement for the personal columns of the daily papers, to the effect that if Philip Barlow called upon or communicated with me, he would hear of something very much to his advantage. Instructing my clerk to insert the advertisement in three of the principal newspapers, I went to my lodgings and made a change in my appearance, which I deemed prudent, in view of my visit to Madame Lourbet.

That lady was not in her shop when I entered it. In response to a rap on the counter, she issued from an inner room, and asked what I required. There was a glass panel in the door of this room, across which a green curtain was drawn. I have a faculty of observation which enables me to see a great deal at a glance.

While I was making a few small purchases, I entered 'into conversation with her. I said that I had been recommended to her shop, but had some difficulty in finding it, in consequence of the name over the window being altered. She admitted the alteration, and said that the business would in future be conducted under the new name.

"Your own name, I presume, madame?" I said.

"My own name," she answered. "It makes no difference in what I sell."

"None at all," I said, briskly. "You were spoken of, I remember, as Madame Annette."

"That, also, is my name. May I ask, monsieur, by whom you were recommended?"

I watched her face keenly as I replied, "Madame, or rather, Mrs. Fordham."

As I uttered the name I observed a slight disturbance of the green curtain.

"Pardon me, monsieur," she said, and went into the private room, the door of which she carefully opened and shut.

"Now," thought I, "what is the meaning of this, and will it make any difference in Madame Lourbet's behavior?"

It made a perceptible difference. Something had passed between her and the person in the inner room which had put her on her guard, and she was watching me now as keenly as I was watching her.

"Madame Fordham," she remarked, with assumed indifference, continuing our conversation. "Who is Madame Fordham?"

"I supposed she was a customer of yours," I answered.

"It may be," she said. "Oh, yes, it may be; but does one know all one's customers?"

"That would be difficult," I said, laughing, "with such a connection as you have, madame."

"You are right, monsieur, it would be difficult. Do you require anything more?"

"Nothing more, thank you, madame."

She let an arrow fly. "I will send the articles home and the bill, if monsieur will kindly give me his address."

"Much obliged, madame," was my reply: "I will pay for them, and take them with me."

So the little passage at arms ended, and I walked away just a trifle wiser than I came, for I had learned that Madame Lourbet did not desire to talk about John Fordham's stepmother, and that there was some person behind the green curtain who also had an interest in the matter. Had I deemed it safe I would have kept watch for that person outside Madame Lourbet's shop, but I felt that I was dealing with a woman as clever as myself, and I recognized the necessity of caution. It was annoying, but there was no help for it.

The day had been one of the busiest in my recollection, and I was glad to sit down to a cup of tea in my own private apartment. During the meal I was debating how the incidents I have recorded could be turned to advantage, when the landlady came in and informed me that a man was down-stairs who insisted on seeing me. She did not like to let him up, she said, he was such a common-looking man; besides, he was the worse for liquor. But he would not go away.

"I did all I could, sir," said my landlady, "but go he wouldn't. 'Tell him it's Jack,' he said."

"Jack!" I cried, interrupting her. "Show him in at once, and don't let us be interrupted; I have business with him."

Much astonished, she departed on her errand, and the next minute Jack stood before me.

My first impression was that the landlady was right, and that Jack had been drinking. His face was as white as a sheet, his eyes glared, and his limbs shook like a man in a palsy.

"You're a pretty object," I said, sternly; but he did not seem to hear what I said.

"Guv'nor," he gasped, in a horse voice, "is that tea? Will yer give me a cup? My throat's on fire."

"Well it might be," I answered, filling a cup, "but I should have thought brandy was more in your way. You'll come to a bad end, my lad."