take charge of the luggage which I had just brought from Victoria; and a
pal of mine followed the other--the Waterloo one, that was.”
Inspector Dunbar scribbled busily. Then:--
“You have done well to make a clean breast of it,” he said. “Take a
straight tip from me. Keep off the drink!”
X
THE GREAT UNDERSTANDING
It was in the afternoon of this same day--a day so momentous in the
lives of more than one of London's millions--that two travelers might
have been seen to descend from a first-class compartment of the Dover
boat-train at Charing Cross.
They had been the sole occupants of the compartment, and, despite the
wide dissimilarity of character to be read upon their countenances,
seemed to have struck up an acquaintance based upon mutual amiability
and worldly common sense. The traveler first to descend and gallantly to
offer his hand to his companion in order to assist her to the platform,
was the one whom a casual observer would first have noted.
He was a man built largely, but on good lines; a man past his youth, and
somewhat too fleshy; but for all his bulk, there was nothing unwieldy,
and nothing ungraceful in his bearing or carriage. He wore a French
traveling-coat, conceived in a style violently Parisian, and composed of
a wonderful check calculated to have blinded any cutter in Savile Row.
From beneath its gorgeous folds protruded the extremities of severely
creased cashmere trousers, turned up over white spats which nestled
coyly about a pair of glossy black boots. The traveler's hat was of
velour, silver gray and boasting a partridge feather thrust in its
silken band. One glimpse of the outfit must have brought the entire
staff of the Tailor and Cutter to an untimely grave.
But if ever man was born who could carry such a make-up, this
traveler was he. The face was cut on massive lines, on fleshy lines,
clean-shaven, and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about
the jaw and lips helped to accentuate the virile strength of the long,
flexible mouth, which could be humorous, which could be sorrowful, which
could be grim. In the dark eyes of the man lay a wealth of experience,
acquired in a lifelong pilgrimage among many peoples, and to many lands.
His dark brows were heavily marked, and his close-cut hair was splashed
with gray.
Let us glance at the lady who accepted his white-gloved hand, and who
sprang alertly onto the platform beside him.
She was a woman bordering on the forties, with a face of masculine
vigor, redeemed and effeminized, by splendid hazel eyes, the kindliest
imaginable. Obviously, the lady was one who had never married, who
despised, or affected to despise, members of the other sex, but who had
never learned to hate them; who had never grown soured, but who found
the world a garden of heedless children--of children who called for
mothering. Her athletic figure was clothed in a “sensible” tweed
traveling dress, and she wore a tweed hat pressed well on to her head,
and brown boots with the flattest heels conceivable. Add to this a
Scotch woolen muffler, and a pair of woolen gloves, and you have a
mental picture of the second traveler--a truly incongruous companion for
the first.
Joining the crowd pouring in the direction of the exit gates, the
two chatted together animatedly, both speaking English, and the man
employing that language with a perfect ease and command of words which
nevertheless failed to disguise his French nationality. He spoke with
an American accent; a phenomenon sometimes observable in one who has
learned his English in Paris.
The irritating formalities which beset the returning traveler--and the
lady distinctly was of the readily irritated type--were smoothed away by
the magic personality of her companion. Porters came at the beck of his
gloved hand; guards, catching his eye, saluted and were completely his
servants; ticket inspectors yielded to him the deference ordinarily
reserved for directors of the line.
Outside the station, then, her luggage having been stacked upon a cab,
the lady parted from her companion with assurances, which were returned,
that she should hope to improve the acquaintance.
The address to which the French gentleman politely requested the
cabman to drive, was that of a sound and old-established hotel in the
neighborhood of the Strand, and at no great distance from the station.
Then, having stood bareheaded until the cab turned out into the traffic
stream of that busy thoroughfare, the first traveler, whose baggage
consisted of a large suitcase, hailed a second cab and drove to the
Hotel Astoria--the usual objective of Americans.
Taking leave of him for the moment, let us follow the lady.
Her arrangements were very soon made at the hotel, and having removed
some of the travel-stains from her person and partaken of one cup of
China tea, respecting the quality whereof she delivered herself of some
caustic comments, she walked down into the Strand and mounted to the top
of a Victoria bound 'bus.
That she was not intimately acquainted with London, was a fact readily
observable by her fellow passengers; for as the 'bus went rolling
westward, from the large pocket of her Norfolk jacket she took out a
guide-book provided with numerous maps, and began composedly to consult
its complexities.
When the conductor came to collect her fare, she had made up her mind,
and was replacing the guidebook in her pocket.
“Put me down by the Storis, Victoria Street, conductor,” she directed,
and handed him a penny--the correct fare.
It chanced that at about the time, within a minute or so, of the
American lady's leaving the hotel, and just as red rays, the harbingers
of dusk, came creeping in at the latticed widow of her cozy work-room,
Helen Cumberly laid down her pen with a sigh. She stood up, mechanically
rearranging her hair as she did so, and crossed the corridor to her
bedroom, the window whereof overlooked the Square.
She peered down into the central garden. A common-looking man sat upon
a bench, apparently watching the labors of the gardener, which consisted
at the moment of the spiking of scraps of paper which disfigured the
green carpet of the lawn.
Helen returned to her writing-table and reseated herself. Kindly
twilight veiled her, and a chatty sparrow who perched upon the
window-ledge pretended that he had not noticed two tears which trembled,
quivering, upon the girl's lashes. Almost unconsciously, for it was an
established custom, she sprinkled crumbs from the tea-tray beside her
upon the ledge, whilst the tears dropped upon a written page and two
more appeared in turn upon her lashes.
The sparrow supped enthusiastically, being joined in his repast by two
talkative companions. As the last fragments dropped from the girl's
white fingers, she withdrew her hand, and slowly--very slowly--her head
sank down, pillowed upon her arms.
For some five minutes she cried silently; the sparrows, unheeded, bade
her good night, and flew to their nests in the trees of the Square.
Then, very resolutely, as if inspired by a settled purpose, she stood up
and recrossed the corridor to her bedroom.
She turned on the lamp above the dressing-table and rapidly removed the
traces of her tears, contemplating in dismay a redness of her pretty
nose which did not prove entirely amenable to treatment with the
powder-puff. Finally, however, she switched off the light, and, going
out on to the landing, descended to the door of Henry Leroux's flat.
In reply to her ring, the maid, Ferris, opened the door. She wore her
hat and coat, and beside her on the floor stood a tin trunk.
“Why, Ferris!” cried Helen--“are you leaving?”
“I am indeed, miss!” said the girl, independently.
“But why? whatever will Mr. Leroux do?”
“He'll have to do the best he can. Cook's goin' too!”
“What! cook is going?”
“I am!” announced a deep, female voice.
And the cook appeared beside the maid.
“But whatever--” began Helen; then, realizing that she could achieve
no good end by such an attitude: “Tell Mr. Leroux,” she instructed the
maid, quietly, “that I wish to see him.”
Ferris glanced rapidly at her companion, as a man appeared on the
landing, to inquire in an abysmal tone, if “them boxes was ready to be
took?” Helen Cumberly forestalled an insolent refusal which the cook, by
furtive wink, counseled to the housemaid.
“Don't trouble,” she said, with an easy dignity reminiscent of her
father. “I will announce myself.”
She passed the servants, crossed the lobby, and rapped upon the study
door.
“Come in,” said the voice of Henry Leroux.
Helen opened the door. The place was in semidarkness, objects being but
dimly discernible. Leroux sat in his usual seat at the writing-table.
The room was in the utmost disorder, evidently having received no
attention since its overhauling by the police. Helen pressed the switch,
lighting the two lamps.
Leroux, at last, seemed in his proper element: he exhibited an unhealthy
pallor, and it was obvious that no razor had touched his chin for at
least three days. His dark blue eyes the eyes of a dreamer--were heavy
and dull, with shadows pooled below them. A biscuit-jar, a decanter and
a syphon stood half buried in papers on the table.
“Why, Mr. Leroux!” said Helen, with a deep note of sympathy in her
voice--“you don't mean to say”...
Leroux rose, forcing a smile to his haggard face.
“You see--much too good,” he said. “Altogether--too good.”...
“I thought I should find you here,” continued the girl, firmly; “but
I did not anticipate”--she indicated the chaos about--“this! The
insolence, the disgraceful, ungrateful insolence, of those women!”
“Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Leroux, waving his hand vaguely; “never
mind--never mind! They--er--they... I don't want them to stop... and,
believe me, I am--er--perfectly comfortable!”
“You should not be in--THIS room, at all. In fact, you should go right
away.”...
“I cannot... my wife may--return--at any moment.” His voice shook.
“I--am expecting her return--hourly.”...
His gaze sought the table-clock; and he drew his lips very tightly
together when the pitiless hands forced upon his mind the fact that the
day was marching to its end.
Helen turned her head aside, inhaling deeply, and striving for
composure.
“Garnham shall come down and tidy up for you,” she said, quietly; “and
you must dine with us.”
The outer door was noisily closed by the departing servants.
“You are much too good,” whispered Leroux, again; and the weary eyes
glistened with a sudden moisture. “Thank you! Thank you! But--er--I
could not dream of disturbing”...
“Mr. Leroux,” said Helen, with all her old firmness--“Garnham is coming
down IMMEDIATELY to put the place in order! And, whilst he is doing so,
you are going to prepare yourself for a decent, Christian dinner!”
Henry Leroux rested one hand upon the table, looking down at the
carpet. He had known for a long time, in a vague fashion, that he lacked
something; that his success--a wholly inartistic one--had yielded him
little gratification; that the comfort of his home was a purely monetary
product and not in any sense atmospheric. He had schooled himself to
believe that he liked loneliness--loneliness physical and mental, and
that in marrying a pretty, but pleasure-loving girl, he had insured an
ideal menage. Furthermore, he honestly believed that he worshiped
his wife; and with his present grief at her unaccountable silence was
mingled no atom of reproach.
But latterly he had begun to wonder--in his peculiarly indefinite way
he had begun to doubt his own philosophy. Was the void in his soul a
product of thwarted ambition?--for, whilst he slaved, scrupulously, upon
“Martin Zeda,” he loathed every deed and every word of that Old Man of
the Sea. Or could it be that his own being--his nature of Adam--lacked
something which wealth, social position, and Mira, his wife, could not
yield to him?
Now, a new tone in the voice of Helen Cumberly--a tone different from
that compound of good-fellowship and raillery, which he knew--a tone
which had entered into it when she had exclaimed upon the state of the
room--set his poor, anxious heart thrumming like a lute. He felt a hot
flush creeping upon him; his forehead grew damp. He feared to raise his
eyes.
“Is that a bargain?” asked Helen, sweetly.
Henry Leroux found a lump in his throat; but he lifted his untidy head
and took the hand which the girl had extended to him. She smiled a bit
unnaturally; then every tinge of color faded from her cheeks, and Henry
Leroux, unconsciously holding the white hand in a vice-like grip, looked
hungrily into the eyes grown suddenly tragic whilst into his own came
the light of a great and sorrowful understanding.
“God bless you,” he said. “I will do anything you wish.”
Helen released her hand, turned, and ran from the study. Not until she
was on the landing did she dare to speak. Then:--
“Garnham shall come down immediately. Don't be late for dinner!” she
called--and there was a hint of laughter and of tears in her voice, of
the restraint of culture struggling with rebellious womanhood.
XI
PRESENTING M. GASTON MAX
Not venturing to turn on the light, not daring to look upon her own face
in the mirror, Helen Cumberly sat before her dressing-table, trembling
wildly. She wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry; but the daughter of
Seton Cumberly knew what those symptoms meant and knew how to deal with
them. At the end of an interval of some four or five minutes, she rang.
The maid opened the door.
“Don't light up, Merton,” she said, composedly. “I want you to tell
Garnham to go down to Mr. Leroux's and put the place in order. Mr.
Leroux is dining with us.”
The girl withdrew; and Helen, as the door closed, pressed the electric
switch. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as if it were the
face of an enemy, then, turning her head aside, sat deep in reflection,
biting her lip and toying with the edge of the white doily.
“You little traitor!” she whispered, through clenched teeth. “You little
traitor--and hypocrite”--sobs began to rise in her throat--“and fool!”
Five more minutes passed in a silent conflict. A knock announced the
return of the maid; and the girl reentered, placing upon the table a
visiting-card:--
DENISE RYLAND
ATELIER 4, RUE DU COQ D'OR,
MONTMARTRE,
PARIS.
Helen Cumberly started to her feet with a stifled exclamation and turned
to the maid; her face, to which the color slowly had been returning,
suddenly blanched anew.
“Denise Ryland!” she muttered, still holding the card in her hand,
“why--that's Mrs. Leroux's friend, with whom she had been staying in
Paris! Whatever can it mean?”
“Shall I show her in here, please?” asked the maid.
“Yes, in here,” replied Helen, absently; and, scarcely aware that she
had given instructions to that effect, she presently found herself
confronted by the lady of the boat-train!
“Miss Cumberly?” said the new arrival in a pleasant American voice.
“Yes--I am Helen Cumberly. Oh! I am so glad to know you at last! I have
often pictured you; for Mira--Mrs. Leroux--is always talking about you,
and about the glorious times you have together! I have sometimes longed
to join you in beautiful Paris. How good of you to come back with her!”
Miss Ryland unrolled the Scotch muffler from her throat, swinging her
head from side to side in a sort of spuriously truculent manner, quite
peculiarly her own. Her keen hazel eyes were fixed upon the face of the
girl before her. Instinctively and immediately she liked Helen Cumberly;
and Helen felt that this strong-looking, vaguely masculine woman, was an
old, intimate friend, although she had never before set eyes upon her.
“H'm!” said Miss Ryland. “I have come from Paris”--she punctuated many
of her sentences with wags of the head as if carefully weighing her
words--“especially” (pause) “to see you” (pause and wag of head) “I am
glad... to find that... you are the thoroughly sensible... kind of
girl that I... had imagined, from the accounts which... I have had of
you.”...
She seated herself in an armchair.
“Had of me from Mira?” asked Helen.
“Yes... from Mrs. Leroux.”
“How delightful it must be for you to have her with you so often!
Marriage, as a rule, puts an end to that particular sort of good-time,
doesn't it?”
“It does... very properly... too. No MAN... no MAN in his ... right
senses... would permit... his wife... to gad about in Paris with
another... girl” (she presumably referred to herself) “whom HE had only
met... casually... and did not like”...
“What! do you mean that Mr. Leroux doesn't like you? I can't believe
that!”
“Then the sooner... you believe it... the better.”
“It can only be that he does not know you, properly?”
“He has no wish... to know me... properly; and I have no desire... to
cultivate... the... friendship of such... a silly being.”
Helen Cumberly was conscious that a flush was rising from her face to
her brow, and tingling in the very roots of her hair. She was indignant
with herself and turned, aside, bending over her table in order to
conceal this ill-timed embarrassment from her visitor.
“Poor Mr. Leroux!” she said, speaking very rapidly; “I think it awfully
good of him, and sporty, to allow his wife so much liberty.”
“Sporty!” said Miss Ryland, head wagging and nostrils distended in
scorn. “Idi-otic... I should call it.”
“Why?”
Helen Cumberly, perfectly composed again, raised her clear eyes to her
visitor.
“You seem so... thoroughly sensible, except in regard to... Harry
Leroux;--and ALL women, with a few... exceptions, are FOOLS where the
true... character of a MAN is concerned--that I will take you right into
my confidence.”
Her speech lost its quality of syncopation; the whole expression of her
face changed; and in the hazel eyes a deep concern might be read.
“My dear,” she stood up, crossed to Helen's side, and rested her
artistic looking hands upon the girl's shoulder. “Harry Leroux stands
upon the brink of a great tragedy--a life's tragedy!”
Helen was trembling slightly again.
“Oh, I know!” she whispered--“I know--”
“You know?”
There was surprise in Miss Ryland's voice.
“Yes, I have seen them--watched them--and I know that the police
think”...
“Police! What are you talking about--the police?”
Helen looked up with a troubled face.
“The murder!” she began...
Miss Ryland dropped into a chair which, fortunately, stood close behind
her, with a face suddenly set in an expression of horror. She began to
understand, now, a certain restraint, a certain ominous shadow, which
she had perceived, or thought she had perceived, in the atmosphere of
this home, and in the manner of its occupants.
“My dear girl,” she began, and the old nervous, jerky manner showed
itself again, momentarily,--“remember that... I left Paris by ... the
first train, this morning, and have simply been... traveling right up to
the present moment.”...
“Then you have not heard? You don't know that a--murder--has been
committed?”
“MURDER! Not--not”...
“Not any one connected with Mr. Leroux; no, thank God! but it was done
in his flat.”...
Miss Ryland brushed a whisk of straight hair back from her brow with a
rough and ungraceful movement.
“My dear,” she began, taking a French telegraphic form from her pocket,
“you see this message? It's one which reached me at an unearthly hour
this morning from Harry Leroux. It was addressed to his wife at my
studio; therefore, as her friend, I opened it. Mira Leroux has actually
visited me there twice since her marriage--”
“Twice!” Helen rose slowly to her feet, with horrified eyes fixed upon
the speaker.
“Twice I said! I have not seen her, and have rarely heard from her, for
nearly twelve months, now! Therefore I packed up post-haste and here I
am! I came to you, because, from what little I have heard of you, and
of your father, I judged you to be the right kind of friends to
consult.”...
“You have not seen her for twelve months?”
Helen's voice was almost inaudible, and she was trembling dreadfully.
“That's a fact, my dear. And now, what are we going to tell Harry
Leroux?”
It was a question, the answer to which was by no means evident at
a glance; and leaving Helen Cumberly face to face with this new and
horrible truth which had brought Denise Ryland hotfoot from Paris to
London, let us glance, for a moment, into the now familiar room of
Detective-Inspector Dunbar at Scotland Yard.
He had returned from his interrogation of Brian; and he received the
report of Sowerby, respecting the late Mrs. Vernon's maid. The girl,
Sergeant Sowerby declared, was innocent of complicity, and could only
depose to the fact that her late mistress took very little luggage with
her on the occasions of her trips to Scotland. With his notebook open
before him upon the table, Dunbar was adding this slight item to his
notes upon the case, when the door opened, and the uniformed constable
entered, saluted, and placed an envelope in the Inspector's hand.
“From the commissioner!” said Sowerby, significantly.
With puzzled face, Dunbar opened the envelope and withdrew the
commissioner's note. It was very brief:--
“M. Gaston Max, of the Paris Police, is joining you in the Palace
Mansions murder case. You will cooperate with him from date above.”
“MAX!” said Dunbar, gazing astoundedly at his subordinate.
Certainly it was a name which might well account for the amazement
written upon the inspector's face; for it was the name of admittedly the
greatest criminal investigator in Europe!
“What the devil has the case to do with the French police?” muttered
Sowerby, his ruddy countenance exhibiting a whole history of wonderment.
The constable, who had withdrawn, now reappeared, knocking deferentially
upon the door, throwing it open, and announcing:
“Mr. Gaston Max, to see Detective-Inspector Dunbar.”
Bowing courteously upon the threshold, appeared a figure in a dazzling
check traveling-coat--a figure very novel, and wholly unforgettable.
“I am honored to meet a distinguished London colleague,” he said in
perfect English, with a faint American accent.
Dunbar stepped across the room with outstretched hand, and cordially
shook that of the famous Frenchman.
“I am the more honored,” he declared, gallantly playing up to the
other's courtesy. “This is Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, who is acting
with me in the case.”
M. Gaston Max bowed low in acknowledgment of the introduction.
“It is a pleasure to meet Detective-Sergeant Sowerby,” he declared.
These polite overtures being concluded then, and the door being closed,
the three detectives stood looking at one another in momentary silence.
Then Dunbar spoke with blunt directness:
“I am very pleased to have you with us, Mr. Max,” he said; “but might I
ask what your presence in London means?”
M. Gaston Max shrugged in true Gallic fashion.
“It means, monsieur,” he said, “--murder--and MR. KING!”
XII
MR. GIANAPOLIS
It will prove of interest at this place to avail ourselves of an
opportunity denied to the police, and to inquire into the activities of
Mr. Soames, whilom employee of Henry Leroux.
Luke Soames was a man of unpleasant character; a man ever seeking
advancement--advancement to what he believed to be an ideal state, viz.:
the possession of a competency; and to this ambition he subjugated all
conflicting interests--especially the interests of others. From narrow
but honest beginnings, he had developed along lines ever growing
narrower until gradually honesty became squeezed out. He formed the
opinion that wealth was unobtainable by dint of hard work; and indeed
in a man of his limited intellectual attainments, this was no more than
true.
At the period when he becomes of interest, he had just discovered
himself a gentleman-at-large by reason of his dismissal from the
services of a wealthy bachelor, to whose establishment in Piccadilly he
had been attached in the capacity of valet. There was nothing definite
against his character at this time, save that he had never remained for
long in any one situation.
His experience was varied, if his references were limited; he had served
not only as valet, but also as chauffeur, as steward on an ocean liner,
and, for a limited period, as temporary butler in an American household
at Nice.