THE DOUBLE FOUR
By E. Phillips Oppenheim
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto & Melbourne
First published _September 1911_.
_Reprinted October 1911_.
Shilling Edition _April 1913_.
_Reprinted February 1917_.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
1. THE DESIRE OF MADAME
2. THE AMBASSADOR'S WIFE
3. THE MAN FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT
4. THE FIRST SHOT
5. THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST
6. THE MISSION OF MAJOR KOSUTH
7. THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA HARBOUR
8. AN ALIEN SOCIETY
9. THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
10. THE THIRTEENTH ENCOUNTER
THE DOUBLE FOUR
CHAPTER I
THE DESIRE OF MADAME
"_It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle here
on Thursday evening next, at ten o'clock._--SOGRANGE."
The man looked up from the sheet of notepaper which he held in his hand,
and gazed through the open French windows before which he was standing.
It was a very pleasant and very peaceful prospect. There was his croquet
lawn, smooth-shaven, the hoops neatly arranged, the chalk mark firm and
distinct upon the boundary. Beyond, the tennis court, the flower
gardens, and to the left the walled fruit garden. A little farther away
was the paddock and orchard, and a little farther still the farm, which
for the last four years had been the joy of his life. His meadows were
yellow with buttercups; a thin line of willows showed where the brook
wound its lazy way through the bottom fields. It was a home, this, in
which a man could well lead a peaceful life, could dream away his days
to the music of the west wind, the gurgling stream, the song of birds,
and the low murmuring of insects. Peter Ruff stood like a man turned to
stone, for even as he looked these things passed away from before his
eyes, the roar of the world beat in his ears--the world of intrigue, of
crime, the world where the strong man hewed his way to power, and the
weaklings fell like corn before the sickle.
* * * * *
"_It is the desire of Madame!_"
Peter Ruff clenched his fists as he read the words once more. It was a
message from a world every memory of which had been deliberately
crushed--a world, indeed, in which he had seemed no longer to hold any
place. He was Peter Ruff, Esquire, of Aynesford Manor, in the County of
Somerset. It could not be for him, this strange summons.
The rustle of a woman's soft draperies broke in upon his reverie. He
turned round with his usual morning greeting upon his lips. She was,
without doubt, a most beautiful woman: petite, and well moulded, with
the glow of health in her eyes and on her cheeks. She came smiling to
him--a dream of muslin and pink ribbons.
"Another forage bill, my dear Peter?" she demanded, passing her arm
through his. "Put it away and admire my new morning gown. It came
straight from Paris, and you will have to pay a great deal of money for
it."
He pulled himself together--he had no secrets from his wife.
"Listen," he said, and read aloud:
"_Rue de St. Quintaine, Paris._
"DEAR MR. RUFF,--_It is a long time since we had the
pleasure of a visit from you. It is the desire of Madame that you
should join our circle here on Thursday evening next, at ten
o'clock._--SOGRANGE."
Violet was a little perplexed. She failed, somehow, to recognise the
sinister note underlying those few sentences.
"It sounds friendly enough," she remarked. "You are not obliged to go,
of course."
Peter Ruff smiled grimly.
"Yes, it sounds all right," he admitted.
"They won't expect you to take any notice of it, surely?" she continued.
"When you bought this place, Peter, you gave them definitely to
understand that you had retired into private life, that all these things
were finished with you."
"There are some things," Peter Ruff said slowly, "which are never
finished."
"But you resigned," she reminded him. "I remember your letter
distinctly."
"From the Double Four," he answered, "no resignation is recognised save
death. I did what I could, and they accepted my explanations gracefully
and without comment. Now that the time has come, however, when they
need, or think they need, my help, you see they do not hesitate to claim
it."
"You will not go, Peter? You will not think of going?" she begged.
He twisted the letter between his fingers and sat down to his breakfast.
"No," he said, "I shall not go."
* * * * *
That morning Peter Ruff spent upon his farm, looking over his stock,
examining some new machinery, and talking crops with his bailiff. In the
afternoon he played his customary round of golf. It was the sort of day
which, as a rule, he found completely satisfactory, yet, somehow or
other, a certain sense of weariness crept in upon him towards its close.
The agricultural details in which he was accustomed to take so much
interest had fallen a little flat. He even found himself wondering,
after one of his best drives, whether it was well for the mind of a man
to be so utterly engrossed by the flight of that small white ball
towards its destination. More than once lately, despite his half-angry
rejection of them, certain memories, half-wistful, half-tantalising,
from the world of which he now saw so little, had forced their way in
upon his attention. This morning the lines of that brief note seemed to
stand out before him all the time with a curious vividness. In a way he
played the hypocrite to himself. He professed to have found that summons
disturbing and unwelcome, yet his thoughts were continually occupied
with it. He knew well that what would follow was inevitable, but he made
no sign.
Two days later he received another letter. This time it was couched in
different terms. On a square card, at the top of which was stamped a
small coronet, he read as follows:
"_Madame de Maupassim at home, Saturday evening, May 2nd, at ten
o'clock._"
In small letters at the bottom left-hand corner were added the words:
"_To meet friends._"
Peter Ruff put the card upon the fire and went out for a morning's
rabbit shooting with his keeper. When he returned, luncheon was ready,
but Violet was absent. He rang the bell.
"Where is your mistress, Jane?" he asked the parlourmaid.
The girl had no idea. Mrs. Ruff had left for the village several hours
ago. Since then she had not been seen.
Peter Ruff ate his luncheon alone and understood. The afternoon wore on,
and at night he travelled up to London. He knew better than to waste
time by purposeless inquiries. Instead he took the nine o'clock train
the next morning to Paris.
* * * * *
It was a chamber of death into which he was ushered--dismal, yet, of its
sort, unique, marvellous. The room itself might have been the sleeping
apartment of an Empress--lofty, with white panelled walls adorned simply
with gilded lines; with high windows, closely curtained now so that
neither sound nor the light of day might penetrate into the room. In the
middle of the apartment, upon a canopy bedstead which had once adorned a
king's palace, lay Madame de Maupassim. Her face was already touched
with the finger of death, yet her eyes were undimmed and her lips
unquivering. Her hands, covered with rings, lay out before her upon the
lace coverlid. Supported by many pillows, she was issuing her last
instructions with the cold precision of the man of affairs who makes the
necessary arrangements for a few days' absence from his business.
Peter Ruff, who had not even been allowed sufficient time to change his
travelling clothes, was brought without hesitation to her bedside. She
looked at him in silence for a moment with a cold glitter in her eyes.
"You are four days late, Monsieur Peter Ruff," she remarked. "Why did
you not obey your first summons?"
"Madame," he answered, "I thought that there must be a misunderstanding.
Four years ago I gave notice to the council that I had married and
retired into private life. A country farmer is of no further use to the
world."
The woman's thin lip curled.
"From death and the Double Four," she said, "there is no resignation
which counts. You are as much our creature to-day as I am the creature
of the disease which is carrying me across the threshold of death."
Peter Ruff remained silent. The woman's words seemed full of dread
significance. Besides, how was it possible to contradict the dying?
"It is upon the unwilling of the world," she continued, speaking slowly,
yet with extraordinary distinctness, "that its greatest honours are
often conferred. The name of my successor has been balloted for
secretly. It is you, Peter Ruff, who have been chosen."
This time he was silent, because he was literally bereft of words. This
woman was dying, and fancying strange things! He looked from one to the
other of the stern, pale faces of those who were gathered around her
bedside. Seven of them there were--the same seven. At that moment their
eyes were all focused upon him. Peter Ruff shrank back.
"Madame," he murmured, "this cannot be."
Her lips twitched as though she would have smiled.
"What we have decided," she said, "we have decided. Nothing can alter
that--not even the will of Mr. Peter Ruff."
"I have been out of the world for four years," Peter Ruff protested. "I
have no longer ambitions, no longer any desire----"
"You lie!" the woman interrupted. "You lie, or you do yourself an
injustice! We gave you four years, and, looking into your face, I think
that it has been enough. I think that the weariness is there already. In
any case, the charge which I lay upon you in these, my last moments, is
one which you can escape by death only!"
A low murmur of voices from those others repeated her words.
"By death only!"
Peter Ruff opened his lips, but closed them again without speech. A wave
of emotion seemed passing through the room. Something strange was
happening. It was Death itself which had come amongst them.
* * * * *
A morning journalist wrote of the death of Madame eloquently and with
feeling. She had been a broadminded aristocrat, a woman of brilliant
intellect and great friendships, a woman of whose inner life during the
last ten or fifteen years little was known, yet who, in happier times,
might well have played a great part in the history of her country.
* * * * *
Peter Ruff drove back from the cemetery with the Marquis de Sogrange,
and for the first time since the death of Madame serious subjects were
spoken of.
"I have waited patiently," he declared, "but there are limits. I want my
wife."
Sogrange took him by the arm and led him into the library of the house
in the Rue de St. Quintaine. The six men who were already there waiting
rose to their feet.
"Gentlemen," the Marquis said, "is it your will that I should be
spokesman?"
There was a murmur of assent. Then Sogrange turned towards his
companion, and something new seemed to have crept into his manner--a
solemn, almost threatening note.
"Peter Ruff," he continued, "you have trifled with the one organisation
in this world which has never allowed itself to have liberties taken
with it or to be defied. Men who have done greater service than you have
died for the disobedience of a day. You have been treated leniently,
accordingly to the will of Madame. According to her will, and in
deference to the position which you must now take up amongst us, we
still treat you as no other has ever been treated by us. The Double Four
admits your leadership and claims you for its own."
"I am not prepared to discuss anything of the sort," Peter Ruff declared
doggedly, "until my wife is restored to me."
The Marquis smiled.
"The traditions of your race, Mr. Ruff," he said, "are easily manifest
in you. Now, hear our decision. Your wife shall be restored to you on
the day when you take up this position to which you have become
entitled. Sit down and listen."
Peter Ruff was a rebel at heart, but he felt the grip of iron.
"During these four years when you, my friend, have been growing turnips
and shooting your game, events in the world have marched, new powers
have come into being, a new page of history has been opened. As
everything which has good at the heart evolves toward the good, so we of
the Double Four have lifted our great enterprise on to a higher plane.
The world of criminals is still at our beck and call, we still claim the
right to draw the line between moral theft and immoral honesty; but
to-day the Double Four is concerned with greater things. Within the four
walls of this room, within the hearing of these my brothers, whose
fidelity is as sure as the stones of Paris, I tell you a splendid
secret. The Government of our country has craved for our aid and the aid
of our organisation. It is no longer the wealth of the world alone which
we may control, but the actual destinies of nations."
"What I suppose you mean to say is," Peter Ruff remarked, "that you've
been going in for politics?"
"You put it crudely, my English bulldog," Sogrange answered, "but you
are right. We are occupied now by affairs of international importance.
More than once during the last few months ours has been the hand which
has changed the policy of an empire."
"Most interesting," Peter Ruff declared, "but so far as I personally am
concerned----"
"Listen," the Marquis interrupted. "Not a hundred yards from the French
Embassy in London there is waiting for you a house and servants no less
magnificent than the Embassy itself. You will become the ambassador in
London of the Double Four, titular head of our association, a personage
whose power is second to none in your marvellous city. I do not address
words of caution to you, my friend, because we have satisfied ourselves
as to your character and capacity before we consented that you should
occupy your present position. But I ask you to remember this: the will
of Madame lives even beyond the grave. The spirit which animated her
when alive breathes still in all of us. In London you will wield a great
power. Use it for the common good. And remember this: the Double Four
has never failed, the Double Four can never fail."
"I am glad to hear you are so confident," Peter Ruff said. "Of course,
if I have to take this thing on I shall do my best; but, if I might
venture to allude for a moment to anything so trifling as my own
domestic affairs, I am very anxious to know about my wife."
Sogrange smiled.
"You will find Mrs. Ruff awaiting you in London," he announced. "Your
address is Merton House, Berkeley Square."
"When do I go there?" Peter Ruff asked.
"To-night," was the answer.
"And what do I do when I get there?" he persisted.
"For three days," the Marquis told him, "you will remain indoors and
give audience to whomever may come to you. At the end of that time, you
will understand a little more of our purpose and our objects--perhaps
even of our power."
"I see difficulties," Peter Ruff remarked. "My name, you see, is
uncommon."
Sogrange drew a document from the breast pocket of his coat.
"When you leave this house to-night," he proclaimed, "we bid good-bye
for ever to Mr. Peter Ruff. You will find in this envelope the
title-deeds of a small property which is our gift to you. Henceforth you
will be known by the name and the title of your estates."
"Title!" Peter Ruff gasped.
"You will reappear in London," Sogrange continued, "as the Baron de
Grost."
Peter Ruff shook his head.
"It won't do," he declared. "People will find me out."
"There is nothing to be found out," the Marquis went on, a little
wearily. "Your country life has dulled your wits, Baron. The title and
the name are justly yours--they go with the property. For the rest, the
history of your family, and of your career up to the moment when you
enter Merton House to-night, will be inside this packet. You can peruse
it upon the journey, and remember that we can at all times bring a
hundred witnesses, if necessary, to prove that you are whom you declare
yourself to be. When you get to Charing Cross, do not forget that it
will be the carriage and servants of the Baron de Grost which await
you."
Peter shrugged his shoulders.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I suppose I shall get used to it."
"Naturally," Sogrange answered. "For the moment, we are passing through
a quiet time, necessitated by the mortal illness of Madame. You will be
able to spend the next few weeks in getting used to your new position.
You will have a great many callers, inspired by us, who will see that
you make the right acquaintances and that you join the right clubs. At
the same time, let me warn you always to be ready. There is trouble
brooding just now all over Europe. In one way or another we may become
involved at any moment. The whole machinery of our society will be
explained to you by your secretary. You will find him already installed
at Merton House. A glass of wine, Baron, before you leave?"
Peter Ruff glanced at the clock.
"There are my things to pack," he began.
Sogrange smiled.
"Your valet is already on the front seat of the automobile which is
waiting," he remarked. "You will find him attentive and trustworthy. The
clothes which you brought with you we have taken the liberty of
dispensing with. You will find others in your trunk, and at Merton House
you can send for any tailor you choose. One toast, Baron. We drink to
the Double Four--to the great cause!"
There was a murmur of voices. Sogrange lifted once more his glass.
"May Peter Ruff rest in peace!" he said. "We drink to his ashes. We
drink long life and prosperity to the Baron de Grost!"
* * * * *
The Marquis alone attended his guest to the station. They walked up and
down the long platform of the Gare du Nord, Sogrange talking most of the
time in an undertone, for there were many things which he yet had to
explain. There came a time, however, when his grip upon his companion's
arm suddenly tightened. They were passing a somewhat noticeable little
group--a tall, fair man, with close-shaven hair and military moustache,
dressed in an English travelling suit and Homburg hat, and by his side a
very brilliant young woman, whose dark eyes, powdered face, and
marvellous toilette rendered her a trifle conspicuous. In the background
were a couple of servants.
"The Count von Hern-Bernadine!" the Marquis whispered.
Peter glanced at him for a moment as they passed.
"Bernadine, without a doubt!" he exclaimed. "And his companion?"
"Mademoiselle Delucie, from the _Comédie Française_," the Marquis
replied. "It is just like Bernadine to bring her here. He likes to
parade the ostensible cause for his visit to Paris. It is all bluff. He
cares little for the ladies of the theatre, or any other woman, except
when he can make tools of them. He is here just now----"
The Marquis paused. Peter looked at him interrogatively.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you are here," the Marquis affirmed. "Baron, I meant to speak
to you about that man before we parted. There is no great work done
without difficulties. The greatest difficulty you will have to face in
your new life is that man. It is very possible that you may find within
the course of a few months that your whole career, your very life, has
developed into a duel _à outrance_ with him."
They had turned again, and were once more in sight of the little group.
Bernadine had thrown a loose overcoat over his tweed travelling clothes,
and with a cigarette between his fingers was engaged in deferential
conversation with the woman by his side. His servant stood discreetly in
the background, talking to the other domestic--a sombrely clad young
person carrying a flat jewel-case, obviously the maid of the young
Frenchwoman.
"He is taking her across," the Marquis remarked. "It is not often that
he travels like this. Perhaps he has heard that you are susceptible, my
friend."
Peter shrugged his shoulders.
"The game is too young yet!" he declared.
"It is never too young for Bernadine to take a hand," the Marquis
replied grimly. "Listen, de Grost. Bernadine will probably try to make
friends with you. You may think it wise to accept his advances, you may
believe that you can guard your own secrets in his company; perhaps,
even, that you may learn his. Do not try it, my friend. You have
received the best proof possible that we do not underrate your
abilities, but there is no other man like Bernadine. I would not trust
myself alone with him."
"You are taking it for granted," Peter interposed, "that our interests
must be at all times inimical."
The Marquis laid his hand upon the other's arm.
"My friend," he said, "there are interests which are sometimes elastic,
_rapprochements_ which may vary between chilly friendliness and a
certain intimacy. But between the interests of the Double Four and the
interests represented by that young man there yawns the deepest gulf
which you or any other man could conceive. Bernadine represents the
Teuton--muscle and bone and sinew. He is German to the last drop of his
heart's blood. Never undervalue him, I beseech you. He is not only a
wonderful politician: he is a man of action, grim, unbending, unswerving
as a man may be whose eyes are steadfastly fixed upon one goal. The
friendships of France may sometimes change, but her one great enmity
never. Bernadine represents that enmity. According to the measure of
your success, so you will find him placid or venomous. Think of yourself
as a monk, dear Baron, and Bernadine as the Devil Incarnate. From him
there is safety only in absence."
Peter smiled as he shook hands with his companion and climbed into the
train.
"At any rate," he said, "I have been warned."
* * * * *
During the journey to Boulogne, at least, the repeated warnings of the
Marquis seemed quite unnecessary. Bernadine and his companion remained
in their engaged carriage, and de Grost, who dined in the restaurant car
and sauntered once or twice along the corridors, saw nothing of them. At
Boulogne they stayed in their carriage until the rush on to the boat was
over, and it was not until they were half-way across the Channel that
Peter felt suddenly an arm thrust through his as he leaned over the rail
on the upper deck. He moved instinctively away from the vessel's side, a
proceeding which seemed to afford some amusement to the man who had
accosted him.
"Monsieur le Baron," said Bernadine, "let me be the first to
congratulate you upon your new dignity."
"Very kind of you, I am sure, Count von Hern," Peter answered.
"Bernadine to you, my friend," the other protested. "So you have come
once more into the great game?"
Peter remained silent. His features had assumed an expression of gentle
inquiry.
"Once more I congratulate you," Bernadine continued. "In the old days
you were shrewd and successful in your small undertakings, but you were,
after all, little more than a policeman. To-day you stand for other
things."
"Monsieur le Comte talks in enigmas," Peter murmured.
Bernadine smiled.
"Cautious as ever!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear Baron, you amuse me, you
and the elegant Sogrange--Sogrange, who will pull the strings to which
you must dance. Do you think that I did not see you both upon the
platform, gazing suspiciously at me? Do you think that I did not hear
the words of warning you received as clearly as though I had been
standing by your side? 'It is Bernadine!' Sogrange whispers. 'Bernadine
and Mademoiselle Delucie--a dangerous couple! Have a care, Monsieur le
Baron!' Oh, that is what passed, without a doubt! So when you take your
place in the train you wrap yourself in an armour of isolation; you are
ready all the time to repel some deep-laid scheme, you are relieved to
discover that, so far, at any rate, this terrible Bernadine and his
beautiful travelling companion have not forced themselves upon you. Is
it not so?"
Peter shrugged his shoulders.
"It is the south wind," he remarked, "which carries us across so quickly
to-night."
"The south wind, without a doubt," Bernadine assented politely. "Dear
Baron, my congratulations are sincere. No one can come into the
battlefield, the real battlefield of life, without finding enemies there
waiting for him. You and I represent different causes. When our
interests clash, I shall not try to throw you off a Channel boat, or to
buy you with a cheque, or to hand you over to the tender mercies of the
beautiful Mademoiselle Delucie. Until then, have no fear, my British
friend. I shall not even ask you to drink with me, for I know that you
would look suspiciously into the tumbler. _Au revoir_, and good
fortune!"
Bernadine passed into the shadows and sank into a steamer chair by the
side of his travelling companion. Peter continued his lonely walk, his
hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat, his eyes fixed upon
the Folkestone lights, becoming every moment clearer and clearer.
* * * * *
At Charing Cross all was as Sogrange had indicated. His servant remained
to look after the luggage, a tall footman conducted him towards a
magnificent automobile. Then, indeed, he forgot Bernadine and all this
new stir of life--forgot everything in a sudden rush of joy. It was
Violet who leaned forward to greet him--Violet, looking her best, and
altogether at her ease amongst this new splendour.
"Welcome, Monsieur le Baron!" she whispered as he took his place by her
side.
He took her hands and held them tightly, closely.
"I always knew," he murmured, "that you hankered after a title."
"Such a snob, aren't I!" she exclaimed. "Never mind, you wait!"
They were moving rapidly westward now. A full moon was shining down upon
the city, the streets were thronged with pedestrians and a block of
vehicles. The Carlton was all ablaze. In the softening light Pall Mall
had become a stately thoroughfare, the Haymarket and Regent Street
picturesque with moving throngs, a stream of open cabs, women in cool
evening dresses, men without hats or overcoats, on their way from the
theatres. It was a vivid, almost a fascinating little picture. Peter
caught a glimpse of his wife's face as she looked upon it.
"I believe," he whispered, "that you are glad."
She turned upon him with a wonderful smile, the light flashing in her
eyes.
"Glad! Oh, Peter, of course I am glad! I hated the country; I pined and
longed for life. Couldn't you see it, dear? Now we are back in it
again--back amongst the big things. Peter, dear, you were never meant to
shoot rabbits and play golf, to grow into the likeness of those awful
people who think of nothing but sport and rural politics and their
neighbours' weaknesses! The man who throws life away before he has done
with it, dear, is a wastrel. Be thankful that it's back again in your
hands--be thankful, as I am!"
He sighed, and with that sigh went all his regrets for the life which
had once seemed to him so greatly to be desired. He recognised in those
few seconds the ignominy of peace.
"There is not the slightest doubt about it," he admitted, "I do make
mistakes."
The automobile came to a standstill before the portico of an imposing
mansion at the corner of Berkeley Square.
"We are home!" Violet whispered. "Try to look as though you were used to
it all!"
A grave-faced major-domo was already upon the steps. In the hall was a
vision of more footmen in quiet but impressive livery. Violet entered
with an air of familiarity. Peter, with one last sigh, followed her.
There was something significant to him in that formal entrance into his
new and magnificent home. Outside, Peter Ruff seemed somewhere to have
vanished into thin air. It was the Baron de Grost who had entered into
his body--the Baron de Grost with a ready-made present, a fictitious
past, a momentous future.