Rendezvous
Cuypers tapped his Smith-Wesson significantly. “Understand, friend
Demetri,” he announced decisively, “no tricks! The first hint that you
are playing us false—and——” He fingered the revolver with a wealth of
meaning. The Greek made no reply. Evidently he did understand. Cuypers
went on. “I shall be here at your side all the time. Never more than a
few inches away from you. Your assistant, do you see? I shall have a
pen and ink and write—when your visitor comes—understand? I shall also
have _this_.” More business with the revolver. “My three friends here
will take up their position behind that door which will be left ajar.”
He pointed to the door of the shop-parlour that communicated with the
passage leading to the back of the house. “Lal Singh, when he arrives,
will walk into a trap. For your place will be covered from the outside
as well, my good Stefanopoulos. A famous English detective is here as
well as my three friends—no less a person than Chief-Inspector
Bannister of New Scotland Yard. I expect you have heard of him—I’ve no
doubt he has of you. He will work from the outside in case of an
attempted get-away on the part of your visitor—do you understand,
little rabbit?”
The old “fence” nodded sullenly—he wasted no words.
“To your places then, gentlemen. Remember we may have to wait some
time. But it’s dark by five. I shall expect our man to come straight
on here from the quay-side.” Anthony squeezed himself into the
musty-smelling passage with his two eminent companions and arranged
his own position so that he commanded the view through the crack of
the door. “A chink of vantage,” he remarked to the Crown Prince.
“A seat on the stairs will do for me for a time,” remarked Sir Austin
sadly.
“And for me,” supplemented Alexis, “this place has a most infernal
smell. I doubt whether I can endure it for long.”
Cuypers took a black velvet skull cap from the pocket of his jacket
and put it on his round head. He patted it dramatically. “Pen and ink,
Demetri—please! Quickly, too! And don’t forget, if the occasion
demands to address me as ‘Pieter—Pieter Steen’ I am—for the next hour
or so. Your very good clerk.”
Stefanopoulos, maintaining his sullen demeanour, put the writing
materials in front of him. Cuypers grinned at him almost benevolently.
“And one of your very best cigars, Demetri. You make an ungracious
host! And a drop of real Schnapps. That’s right—and have a drop
yourself, old boy. Show this poor native who’s coming to see you this
evening a touching picture of the master hob-nobbing with his trusty
old confidential clerk. Your very good—health.” He smacked his lips in
gratified appreciation as Stefanopoulos grunted an unintelligible
rejoinder. The two hours that followed reminded Anthony as he stood
upright in the passage of that weary vigil in the garden of Considine
Manor when he awaited with others the coming of the “Spider.” Neither
the Crown Prince nor Sir Austin Kemble seemed particularly inclined to
conversation. Remarks between them were few and far. A large old
fashioned clock that hung on the side wall of the evil-smelling
passage announced the winging of the minutes with jaunty loudness. At
times its ticking was the only sound that disturbed the ominous
silence. In Anthony’s heart there was a feeling of quiet triumph—but
there was also a dangerous coldness. He was on the point of avenging a
particularly cruel and callous crime—he was inclined to regard the
case as perhaps—the door of the outer shop jangled discordantly!
Through the crack of the door he saw the muscles of Cuypers’ face set
rigidly as Stefanopoulos rose to his unsteady feet and shuffled once
again into the shop. He heard a deep voice cut into the noise of the
Greek’s shuffling slippers. Words passed that he was unable to hear.
Then the two people came nearer.
“Salaam, sahib! You speak the Angleesh—yes?”
Anthony could not catch the reply but he saw Stefanopoulos usher his
caller into the private apartment where Cuypers was seated. Sir Austin
and the Crown Prince crowded noiselessly behind him in the passage.
Anthony could now see the visitor quite plainly. He could see an
Indian, clad in the white costume affected by his race, with turban on
his head. He was a man of splendid physique. A flowing beard gave him
the appearance of age and wisdom and his dark eyes glowed with
excitement.
“What can I do for you?” mumbled the old Greek.
Lal Singh glanced meaningly at Cuypers busy with pen and paper. “My
business is with you alone.”
“Be easy on that point. It is my clerk—you need not fear.”
Lal Singh hesitated for a moment and glanced round the room
suspiciously. Then his fingers played delicately round his white
turban for a palpitating second or two, and there flashed across the
drabness of the squalid room the emerald-sapphire brilliance of the
‘Peacock’s Eye.’ Its rendezvous was reached at last!
Stefanopoulos eyed the dazzling gem with greedy lust.
“So!” he permitted himself to mutter.
“I have come to trade,” declared Lal Singh. His tone held the
silkiness of malevolent menace. “If you will deal justly with me. If
not—I will kill you as I killed for——”
Demetri broke in. “This—eh?” His cunning eyes gleaming with cupidity
caught those of Lal Singh and held them for a brief period.
The Indian laughed cruelly. “You have said. ’Twas but Justice if you
only knew.”
Stefanopoulos was silent. He held out his hand for this stone of
liquid beauty that had come to him so unexpectedly, yet was not for
him. His fingers itched to hold it—to feel some of its flaming fire.
“Let me look at the stone,” he growled.
Lal Singh pushed it over very slowly, watching the old man as a hungry
cat regards a mouse. Stefanopoulos held it to the light watching its
flashing points of scintillating brilliance play round the room. The
eyes of Lal Singh wandered upward, fascinated at what the Greek was
doing. As they did so Cuypers rose like lightning and covered the
Indian with his revolver. Simultaneously, Mr. Bathurst, similarly
armed slipped through the door behind which he had been standing and
covered Lal Singh from the rear.
“Don’t move,” he said, “or I’ll put a bullet through you. You are
arrested for the murder of Sheila Delaney at Seabourne in England on
July fifth. See to him, Cuypers!”
As the little Dutchman advanced and snapped the handcuffs upon the
prisoner, Anthony was acutely aware of a flow of concentrated hatred
and devilry that flooded him from the dark vindictive eyes of the
arrested man. They flicked from Stefanopoulos and Cuypers to the Crown
Prince and Sir Austin Kemble, embracing them all, but they always
returned to dwell balefully upon Mr. Bathurst. Unmoved—the last-named
walked quietly to the prisoner. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I don’t think
any of you quite realise yet the real truth of what has happened.” His
hand went to Lal Singh’s face and he jerked suddenly and strongly at
the Indian’s beard. The spirit gum failed to withstand the challenge.
The beard came away in his hand. “Don’t you find the costume rather
chilly, Bannister,” he said lightly, “for this particular season of
the year?”