come to ask your help.”
He seated himself in a deep armchair--bending forward, and fixing his
dark, penetrating eyes upon the physician. Cumberly, turning his own
chair slightly, evinced the greatest interest in M. Max's disclosures.
“If you have been in Paris lately,” continued the detective, “you will
possibly have availed yourself of the opportunity--since another may not
occur--of visiting the house of the famous magician, Cagliostro, on the
corner of Rue St. Claude, and Boulevard Beaumarchais”...
“I have not been in Paris for over two years,” said Cumberly, “nor was I
aware that a house of that celebrated charlatan remained extant.”
“Ah! Dr. Cumberly, your judgment of Cagliostro is a harsh one. We have
no time for such discussion now, but I should like to debate with you
this question: was Cagliostro a charlatan? However, the point is this:
Owing to alterations taking place in the Boulevard Beaumarchais, some
of the end houses in Rue St. Claude are being pulled down, among them
Number 1, formerly occupied by the Comte de Cagliostro. At the time that
the work commenced, I availed myself of a little leisure to visit
that house, once so famous. I was very much interested, and found it
fascinating to walk up the Grande Staircase where so many historical
personages once walked to consult the seer. But great as was my interest
in the apartments of Cagliostro, I was even more interested in one of
the apartments in a neighboring house, into which--quite accidentally,
you understand--I found myself looking.”
XXIII
RAID IN THE RUE ST. CLAUDE
“I perceived,” said M. Gaston Max, “that owing to the progress of the
work of demolition, and owing to the carelessness of the people in
charge--nom d'un nom! they were careless, those!--I was able, from
a certain point, to look into a small room fitted up in a way very
curious. There was a sort of bunk somewhat similar to that in a steamer
berth, and the walls were covered with paper of a Chinese pattern most
bizarre. No one was in the room when I first perceived it, but I had not
been looking in for many moments before a Chinaman entered and closed
the shutters. He was hasty, this one.
“Eh bien! I had seen enough. I perceived that my visit to the house of
Cagliostro had been dictated by a good little angel. It happened that
for many months I had been in quest of the headquarters of a certain
group which I knew, beyond any tiny doubt, to have its claws deep in
Parisian society. I refer to an opium syndicate”...
Dr. Cumberly started and seemed about to speak; but he restrained
himself, bending forward and awaiting the detective's next words with
even keener interest than hitherto.
“I had been trying--all vainly--to trace the source from which the
opium was obtained, and the place where it was used. I have devoted much
attention to the subject, and have spent some twelve months in the opium
provinces of China, you understand. I know how insidious a thing it is,
this opium, and how dreadful a curse it may become when it gets a hold
upon a community. I was formerly engaged upon a most sensational case
in San Francisco; and the horrors of the discoveries which we made
there--the American police and myself--have remained with me ever since.
Pardieu! I cannot forget them! Therefore when I learnt that an organized
attempt was being made to establish elaborate opium dens upon a most
up-to-date plan, in Paris, I exerted myself to the utmost to break up
this scheme in its infancy”...
Dr. Cumberly was hanging upon every word.
“Apart from the physical and moral ruin attendant upon the vice,”
continued Max, “the methods of this particular organization have brought
financial ruin to many.” He shook his finger at Dr. Cumberly as if to
emphasize his certainty upon this point. “I will not go into particulars
now, but there is a system of wholesale robbery--sapristi! of most
ingenious brigandage--being practised by this group. Therefore I
congratulated myself upon the inspiration which had led me to mount
Cagliostro's staircase. The way in which these people had conducted
their sinister trade from so public a spot as this was really wonderful,
but I had already learned to respect the ingenuity of the group, or of
the man at the head of it. I wasted no time; not I! We raided the house
that evening”...
“And what did you find?” asked Dr. Cumberly, eagerly.
“We found this establishment elaborately fitted, and the whole of the
fittings were American. Eh bien! This confirmed me in my belief that the
establishment was a branch of the wealthy concern I have mentioned in
San Francisco. There was also a branch in New York, apparently. We found
six or eight people in the place in various stages of coma; and I cannot
tell you their names because--among them, were some well-known in the
best society”...
“Good Heavens, M. Max, you surprise and shock me!”
“What I tell you is but the truth. We apprehended two low fellows who
acted as servants sometimes in the place. We had records of both of them
at the Bureau. And there was also a woman belonging to the same class.
None of these seemed to me very important, but we were fortunate enough
to capture, in addition, a Chinaman--Sen--and a certain Madame Jean--the
latter the principal of the establishment!”
“What! a woman?”
“Morbleu! a woman--exactly! You are surprised? Yes; and I was surprised,
but full inquiry convinced me that Madame Jean was the chief of staff.
We had conducted the raid at night, of course, and because of the big
names, we hushed it up. We can do these things in Paris so much more
easily than is possible here in London.” He illustrated, delivering
a kick upon the person of an imaginary malefactor. “Cochon! Va!” he
shrugged. “It is finished!
“The place was arranged with Oriental magnificence. The
reception-room--if I can so term that apartment--was like the scene of
Rimsky Korsakov's Sheherezade; I could see that very heavy charges
were made at this establishment. I will not bore you with further
particulars, but I will tell you of my disappointment.”
“Your disappointment?”
“Yes, I was disappointed. True, I had brought about the closing of that
house, but of the huge sums of money fraudulently obtained from victims,
I could find no trace in the accounts of Madame Jean. She defied me
with silence, simply declining to give any account of herself beyond
admitting that she conducted an hotel at which opium might be smoked if
desired. Blagueur! Sen, the Chinaman, who professed to speak nothing but
Chinese--ah! cochon!--was equally a difficult case, Nom d'un nom! I was
in despair, for apart from frauds connected with the concern, I had
more than small suspicions that at least one death--that of a wealthy
banker--could be laid at the doors of the establishment in Rue St.
Claude.”...
Dr. Cumberly bent yet lower, watching the speaker's face.
“A murder!” he whispered.
“I do not say so,” replied Max, “but it certainly might have been. The
case then must, indeed, have ended miserably, as far as I was concerned,
if I had not chanced upon a letter which the otherwise prudent Madame
Jean had forgotten to destroy. Triomphe! It was a letter of instruction,
and definitely it proved that she was no more than a kind of glorified
concierge, and that the chief of the opium group was in London.”
“Undoubtedly in London. There was no address on the letter, and no date,
and it was curiously signed: Mr. King.”
“Mr. King!”
Dr. Cumberly rose slowly from his chair, and took a step toward M. Max.
“You are interested?” said the detective, and shrugged his shoulders,
whilst his mobile mouth shaped itself in a grim smile. “Pardieu! I
knew you would be! Acting upon another clue which the letter--priceless
letter--contained, I visited the Credit Lyonnais. I discovered that an
account had been opened there by Mr. Henry Leroux of London on behalf of
his wife, Mira Leroux, to the amount of a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds--really!” cried Dr. Cumberly, drawing his heavy brows
together--“as much as that?”
“Certainly. It was for a thousand pounds,” repeated Max, “and the whole
of that amount had been drawn out.”
“The whole thousand?”
“The whole thousand; nom d'un p'tit bonhomme! The whole thousand!
Acting, as I have said, upon the information in this always priceless
letter, I confronted Madame Jean and the manager of the bank with each
other. Morbleu! 'This,' he said, 'is Mira Leroux of London!'”...
“What!” cried Cumberly, seemingly quite stupefied by this last
revelation.
Max spread wide his palms, and the flexible lips expressed sympathy with
the doctor's stupefaction.
“It is as I tell you,” he continued. “This Madame Jean had been posing
as Mrs. Leroux, and in some way, which I was unable to understand,
her signature had been accepted by the Credit Lyonnais. I examined the
specimen signature which had been forwarded to them by the London County
and Suburban Bank, and I perceived, at once, that it was not a case of
common forgery. The signatures were identical”...
“Therefore,” said Cumberly, and he was thinking of Henry Leroux, whom
Fate delighted in buffeting--“therefore, the Credit Lyonnais is not
responsible?”
“Most decidedly not responsible,” agreed Max. “So you see I now have
two reasons for coming to London: one, to visit the London County and
Suburban Bank, and the other to find... Mr. King. The first part of
my mission I have performed successfully; but the second”... again he
shrugged, and the lines of his mouth were humorous.
Dr. Cumberly began to walk up and down the carpet.
“Poor Leroux!” he muttered--“poor Leroux.”
“Ah! poor Leroux, indeed,” said Max. “He is so typical a victim of this
most infernal group!”
“What!” Dr. Cumberly turned in his promenade and stared at the
detective--“he's not the only one?”
“My dear sir,” said Max, gently, “the victims of Mr. King are truly as
the sands of Arabia.”
“Good heavens!” muttered Dr. Cumberly; “good heavens!”
“I came immediately to London,” continued Max, “and presented myself at
New Scotland Yard. There I discovered that my inquiry was complicated by
a ghastly crime which had been committed in the flat of Mr. Leroux; but
I learned, also, that Mr. King was concerned in this crime--his name had
been found upon a scrap of paper clenched in the murdered woman's hand!”
“I was present when it was found,” said Dr. Cumberly.
“I know you were,” replied Max. “In short, I discovered that the Palace
Mansions murder case was my case, and that my case was the Palace
Mansions case. Eh bien! the mystery of the Paris draft did not detain me
long. A call upon the manager of the London County and Suburban Bank at
Charing Cross revealed to me the whole plot. The real Mrs. Leroux had
never visited that bank; it was Madame Jean, posing as Mrs. Leroux, who
went there and wrote the specimen signature, accompanied by a certain
Soames, a butler”...
“I know him!” said Dr. Cumberly, grimly, “the blackguard!”
“Truly a blackguard, truly a big, dirty blackguard! But it is such
canaille as this that Mr. King discovers and uses for his own ends.
Paris society, I know for a fact; has many such a cankerworm in its
heart. Oh! it is a big case, a very big case. Poor Mr. Leroux being
confined to his bed--ah! I pity him--I took the opportunity to visit his
flat in Palace Mansions with Inspector Dunbar, and I obtained further
evidence showing how the conspiracy had been conducted; yes. For
instance, Dunbar's notebook showed me that Mr. Leroux was accustomed to
receive letters from Mrs. Leroux whilst she was supposed to be in Paris.
I actually discovered some of those letters, and they bore no dates.
This, if they came from a woman, was not remarkable, but, upon one
of them I found something that WAS remarkable. It was still in its
envelope, you must understand, this letter, its envelope bearing the
Paris post-mark. But impressed upon the paper I discovered a second
post-mark, which, by means of a simple process, and the use of a
magnifying glass, I made out to be Bow, East!”
“What!”
“Do you understand? This letter, and others doubtless, had been enclosed
in an envelope and despatched to Paris from Bow, East? In short, Mrs.
Leroux wrote those letters before she left London; Soames never posted
them, but handed them over to some representative of Mr. King; this
other, in turn, posted them to Madame Jean in Paris! Morbleu! these are
clever rogues! This which I was fortunate enough to discover had been
on top, you understand, this billet, and the outer envelope being very
heavily stamped, that below retained the impress of the post-mark.”
“Poor Leroux!” said Cumberly again, with suppressed emotion. “That
unsuspecting, kindly soul has been drawn into the meshes of this
conspiracy. How they have been wound around him, until...”
“He knows the truth about his wife?” asked Max, suddenly glancing up at
the physician, “that she is not in Paris?”
“I, myself, broke the painful news to him,” replied Cumberly--“after a
consultation with Miss Ryland and my daughter. I considered it my duty
to tell him, but I cannot disguise from myself that it hastened, if it
did not directly occasion, his breakdown.”
“Yes, yes,” said Max; “we have been very fortunate however in diverting
the attention of the press from the absence of Mrs. Leroux throughout
this time. Nom d'un nom! Had they got to know about the scrap of
paper found in the dead woman's hand, I fear that this would have been
impossible.”
“I do not doubt that it would have been impossible, knowing the London
press,” replied Dr. Cumberly, “but I, too, am glad that it has been
achieved; for in the light of your Paris discoveries, I begin at last to
understand.”
“You were not Mrs. Leroux's medical adviser?”
“I was not,” replied Cumberly, glancing sharply at Max. “Good heavens,
to think that I had never realized the truth!”
“It is not so wonderful at all. Of course, as I have seen from the
evidence which you gave to the police, you knew that Mrs. Vernon was
addicted to the use of opium?”
“It was perfectly evident,” replied Cumberly; “painfully evident. I will
not go into particulars, but her entire constitution was undermined by
the habit. I may add, however, that I did not associate the vice with
her violent end, except”...
“Ah!” interrupted Max, shaking his finger at the physician, “you
are coming to the point upon which you disagreed with the divisional
surgeon! Now, it is an important point. You are of opinion that
the injection in Mrs. Vernon's shoulder--which could not have been
self-administered”...
“She was not addicted to the use of the needle,” interrupted Cumberly;
“she was an opium SMOKER.”
“Quite so, quite so,” said Max: “it makes the point all the more clear.
You are of opinion that this injection was made at least eight hours
before the woman's death?”
“At least eight hours--yes.”
“Eh bien!” said Max; “and have you had extensive experience of such
injections?”
Dr. Cumberly stared at him in some surprise.
“In a general way,” he said, “a fair number of such cases have come
under my notice; but it chances that one of my patients, a regular
patient--is addicted to the vice.”
“Injections?”
“Only as a makeshift. He has periodical bouts of opium smoking--what I
may term deliberate debauches.”
“Ah!” Max was keenly interested. “This patient is a member of good
society?”
“He's a member of Parliament,” replied Cumberly, a faint, humorous glint
creeping into his gray eyes; “but, of course, that is not an answer
to your question! Yes, he is of an old family, and is engaged to the
daughter of a peer.”
“Dr. Cumberly,” said Max, “in a case like the present--apart from the
fact that the happiness--pardieu! the life--of one of your own friends
is involved... should you count it a breach of professional etiquette to
divulge the name of that patient?”
It was a disturbing question; a momentous question for a fashionable
physician to be called upon to answer thus suddenly. Dr. Cumberly, who
had resumed his promenade of the carpet, stopped with his back to M.
Max, and stared out of the window into Harley Street.
M. Max, a man of refined susceptibilities, came to his aid,
diplomatically.
“It is perhaps overmuch to ask you,” he said. “I can settle the
problem in a more simple manner. Inspector Dunbar will ask you for this
gentleman's name, and you, as witness in the case, cannot refuse to give
it.”
“I can refuse until I stand in the witness-box!” replied Cumberly,
turning, a wry smile upon his face.
“With the result,” interposed Max, “that the ends of justice might be
defeated, and the wrong man hanged!”
“True,” said Cumberly; “I am splitting hairs. It is distinctly a breach
of professional etiquette, nevertheless, and I cannot disguise the fact
from myself. However, since the knowledge will never go any further,
and since tremendous issues are at stake, I will give you the name of my
opium patient. It is Sir Brian Malpas!”
“I am much indebted to you, Dr. Cumberly,” said Max; “a thousand
thanks;” but in his eyes there was a far-away look. “Malpas--Malpas!
Where in this case have I met with the name of Malpas?”
“Inspector Dunbar may possibly have mentioned it to you in reference to
the evidence of Mr. John Exel, M. P. Mr. Exel, you may remember”...
“I have it!” cried Max; “Nom d'un nom! I have it! It was from Sir Brian
Malpas that he had parted at the corner of Victoria Street on the night
of the murder, is it not so?”
“Your memory is very good, M. Max!”
“Then Mr. Exel is a personal friend of Sir Brian Malpas?
“Excellent! Kismet aids me still! I come to you hoping that you may
be acquainted with the constitution of Mrs. Leroux, but no! behold
me disappointed in this. Then--morbleu! among your patients I find a
possible client of the opium syndicate!”
“What! Malpas? Good God! I had not thought of that! Of course, he must
retire somewhere from the ken of society to indulge in these opium
orgies”...
“Quite so. I have hopes. Since it would never do for Sir Brian Malpas to
know who I am and what I seek, a roundabout introduction is provided by
kindly Providence--Ah! that good little angel of mine!--in the person of
Mr. John Exel, M. P.”
“I will introduce you to Mr. Exel with pleasure.”
“Eh bien! Let it be arranged as soon as possible,” said M. Max. “To Mr.
John Exel I will be, as to Miss Ryland (morbleu! I hate me!) and Miss
Cumberly (pardieu! I loathe myself!), M. Gaston! It is ten o'clock, and
already I hear your first patient ringing at the front-door bell. Good
morning, Dr. Cumberly.”
Dr. Cumberly grasped his hand cordially.
“Good morning, M. Max!”
The famous detective was indeed retiring, when:
“M. Max!”
He turned--and looked into the troubled gray eyes of Dr. Cumberly.
“You would ask me where is she--Mrs. Leroux?” he said. “My friend--I
may call you my friend, may I not?--I cannot say if she is living or is
dead. Some little I know of the Chinese, quite a little; nom de dieu!...
I hope she is dead!”...
XXIV
OPIUM
Denise Ryland was lunching that day with Dr. Cumberly and his daughter
at Palace Mansions; and as was usually the case when this trio met, the
conversation turned upon the mystery.
“I have just seen Leroux,” said the physician, as he took his seat, “and
I have told him that he must go for a drive to-morrow. I have released
him from his room, and given him the run of the place again, but
until he can get right away, complete recovery is impossible. A little
cheerful company might be useful, though. You might look in and see him
for a while, Helen?”
Helen met her father's eyes, gravely, and replied, with perfect
composure, “I will do so with pleasure. Miss Ryland will come with me.”
“Suppose,” said Denise Ryland, assuming her most truculent air, “you
leave off... talking in that... frigid manner... my dear. Considering
that Mira... Leroux and I were... old friends, and that you... are old
friends of hers, too, and considering that I spend... my life amongst...
people who very sensibly call... one another... by their Christian
names, forget that my name is Ryland, and call me... Denise!”
“I should love to!” cried Helen Cumberly; “in fact, I wanted to do
so the very first time I saw you; perhaps because Mira Leroux always
referred to you as Denise”...
“May I also avail myself of the privilege?” inquired Dr. Cumberly with
gravity, “and may I hope that you will return the compliment?”
“I cannot... do it!” declared Denise Ryland, firmly. “A doctor ...
should never be known by any other name than... Doctor. If I heard any
one refer to my own... physician as Jack or... Bill, or Dick... I should
lose ALL faith in him at once!”
As the lunch proceeded, Dr. Cumberly gradually grew more silent, seeming
to be employed with his own thoughts; and although his daughter and
Denise Ryland were discussing the very matter that engaged his own
attention, he took no part in the conversation for some time. Then:
“I agree with you!” he said, suddenly, interrupting Helen; “the greatest
blow of all to Leroux was the knowledge that his wife had been deceiving
him.”
“He invited... deceit!” proclaimed Denise Ryland, “by his... criminal
neglect.”
“Oh! how can you say so!” cried Helen, turning her gray eyes upon the
speaker reproachfully; “he deserves--”
“He certainly deserves to know the real truth,” concluded Dr. Cumberly;
“but would it relieve his mind or otherwise?”
Denise Ryland and Helen looked at him in silent surprise.
“The truth?” began the latter--“Do you mean that you know--where she
is”...
“If I knew that,” replied Dr. Cumberly, “I should know everything; the
mystery of the Palace Mansions murder would be a mystery no longer. But
I know one thing: Mrs. Leroux's absence has nothing to do with any love
affair.”
“What!” exclaimed Denise Ryland. “There isn't another man... in the
case? You can't tell me”...
“But I DO tell you!” said Dr. Cumberly; “I ASSURE you.”
“And you have not told--Mr. Leroux?” said Helen incredulously. “You have
NOT told him--although you know that the thought--of THAT is?”...
“Is practically killing him? No, I have not told him yet. For--would my
news act as a palliative or as an irritant?”
“That depends,” pronounced Denise Ryland, “on the nature of... your
news.”
“I suppose I have no right to conceal it from him. Therefore, we will
tell him to-day. But although, beyond doubt, his mind will be relieved
upon one point, the real facts are almost, if not quite, as bad.”
“I learnt, this morning,” he continued, lighting a cigarette, “certain
facts which, had I been half as clever as I supposed myself, I should
have deduced from the data already in my possession. I was aware, of
course, that the unhappy victim--Mrs. Vernon--was addicted to the use of
opium, and if a tangible link were necessary, it existed in the form of
the written fragment which I myself took from the dead woman's hand.”...
“A link!” said Denise Ryland.
“A link between Mrs. Vernon and Mrs. Leroux,” explained the physician.
“You see, it had never occurred to me that they knew one another.”...
“And did they?” questioned his daughter, eagerly.
“It is almost certain that they were acquainted, at any rate; and in
view of certain symptoms, which, without giving them much consideration,
I nevertheless had detected in Mrs. Leroux, I am disposed to think that
the bond of sympathy which existed between them was”...
He seemed to hesitate, looking at his daughter, whose gray eyes were
fixed upon him intently, and then at Denise Ryland, who, with her chin
resting upon her hands, and her elbows propped upon the table, was
literally glaring at him.
“Opium!” he said.
A look of horror began slowly to steal over Helen Cumberly's face;
Denise Ryland's head commenced to sway from side to side. But neither
woman spoke.