The Profiteers Part 29

"The young gentleman you probably know, Mr. Wingate," he said,--"has the suite just underneath yours--Mr. Stanley Rees, his name is--disappeared last night."

"Disappeared?" Lady Amesbury repeated.

"Stanley Rees?" Kendrick exclaimed.

The manager nodded.

"A very pleasant young gentleman," he continued, "wealthy, too. He is a nephew of Mr. Peter Phipps, Chairman of the Directors of the British and Imperial Granaries. It seems he dressed for dinner, came down to the bar to have a c.o.c.ktail, leaving his coat and hat and scarf up in his room, and telling his valet that he would return for them in ten minutes. He hasn't been seen or heard of since."

"Sounds like the 'Arabian Nights,'" Jimmy declared. "Probably found he was a bit late for his grub and went on without his coat and hat."

"What about not coming back all night, sir?" the manager asked.

"Lads will be lads," Jimmy answered sententiously.

The manager showed an entire lack of sympathy with his att.i.tude.

"Mr. Stanley Rees," he said, "is a remarkably well-conducted, quiet young gentleman, very popular here amongst the domestics, and noted for keeping very early hours. He was engaged to dine out at Hampstead with some friends, who telephoned for him several times during the evening.

He was also supping here with a gentleman who arrived and waited an hour for him."

"Was he in good health?" Wingate enquired casually.

"Excellent, I should say, sir," the manager replied. "He was a young gentleman who took remarkably good care of himself."

"I know the sort," Jimmy said complacently, watching his gla.s.s being filled. "A whisky and soda when the doctor orders it, and ginger ale with his luncheon."

The manager was called away. Kendrick had become thoughtful.

"Queer thing," he remarked, "that young Rees should have disappeared just as the B. & I. have become a feature on 'Change. He was Phipps'

right-hand man in financial matters."

"Disappearances in London seem a little out of date," Wingate remarked, as he scrutinised the dish which the _maitre d'hotel_ had brought for his inspection. "The missing person generally turns up and curses the scaremongers.--Lady Amesbury, this Maryland chicken is one of our favourite New York dishes. Kendrick, have some more wine. Wilshaw, your appet.i.te has soon flagged."

"All the same," Kendrick mused, "it's a dashed queer thing about Stanley Rees."

After his guests had departed, Wingate had a few minutes alone with Josephine.

"I hate letting you go back to that house," he admitted.

She laughed softly.

"Why, my dear," she said, "think how necessary it is. For the first time, in my life I am absolutely looking forward to it. I never thought that I should live to a.s.sociate romance with that ugly, brown-stone building."

"If there's the slightest hitch, you'll let me hear, won't you?" he begged. "The telephone is on to my room, and anything that happens unforeseen--remember this, Josephine--is a complete surprise to you.

Everything is arranged so that you are not implicated in any way."

"Pooh!" she scoffed. "Nothing will happen. You are invincible, John. You will conquer with these men as you have with poor me."

"You have no regrets?" he asked, as they moved through the hall on the way out.

"I regret nothing," she answered fervently. "I never shall."

CHAPTER XVII

Wingate, after several strenuous hours spent in Slate's office, returned to his rooms late that night, to find Peter Phipps awaiting him. There was something vaguely threatening about the bulky figure of the man standing gloomily upon the hearth rug, all the spurious good nature gone from his face, his brows knitted, his cheeks hanging a little and unusually pale. Wingate paused on the threshold of the room and his hand crept into his pocket. Phipps seemed to notice the gesture and shook his head.

"Nothing quite so crude, Wingate," he said. "I know an enemy when I see one, but I wasn't thinking of getting rid of you that way."

"I have found it necessary," Wingate remarked slowly, "to be prepared for all sorts of tricks when I am up against anybody as conscienceless as you. I don't want you here, Phipps. I didn't ask you to come and see me.

I've nothing to discuss with you."

"There are times," Phipps replied, "when the issue which cannot be fought out to the end with arms can be joined in the council chamber. I have come to know your terms."

Wingate shook his head.

"I don't understand. It is too soon for this sort of thing. You are not beaten yet."

"I am tired," his visitor muttered. "May I sit down?"

"You are an unwelcome guest," Wingate replied coldly, "but sit if you will. Then say what you have to say and go."

Phipps sank into an easy-chair. It was obvious that he was telling the truth so far as regarded his fatigue. He seemed to have aged ten years.

"I have been down below in Stanley's rooms," he explained, "been through his papers. It's true what the inspector fellow reports. There isn't a sc.r.a.p of evidence of any complication in his life. There isn't a shadow of doubt in my mind as to the cause of his disappearance."

"Indeed!" Wingate murmured.

"It's a villainous plot, engineered by you!" Phipps continued, his voice shaking. "I'm fond of the boy. That's why I've come to you. Name your terms."

Wingate indulged in a curious bout of silence. He took a pipe from a rack, filled it leisurely with tobacco, lit it and smoked for several moments. Then he turned towards his unwelcome companion.

"I am debarred by a promise made to myself," he said coldly, "from offering you any form of hospitality. If you wish to smoke, I shall not interfere."

Phipps shook his head.

"I have not smoked all the evening," he confessed, "I cannot. You are right when you say that we are not beaten, but I like to look ahead. I want to know your terms."

"You are anxious about your nephew?"

"Yes!"

"And why do you connect me with his disappearance?"

Phipps gave a little weary gesture.