had he crossed from Paris to London with me in order to meet
clandestinely the poor girl who was the rich man's victim? That was
one point which arose in my mind.
But the main question was the reason of his supposed chance meeting
with me in the express between York and London.
During our chat I feared to refer to Gabrielle lest he should suspect
that I knew of his subtle intrigue. I could see that he was
congratulating himself upon his cleverness in misleading me, therefore
I chuckled inwardly.
What I desired most at that moment was to establish the connexion
between the elegant cosmopolitan Frenchman and Oswald De Gex with his
wily accomplice Moroni. That the latter was a man of criminal instinct
I had long ago established. He was a toady to a man of immense
wealth--a clever medical man who, by reason of his callous
unscrupulousness, was a dealer in Death in its most insidious and
least-looked-for form. The hand of death is ever at the command of
every medical man, hence mankind has to thank the medical
profession--one of the hardest-worked and least recognized in the
world--for its honesty, frankness and strict uprightness. In every
profession we have black sheep--even, alas! in the Church. But happily
unscrupulousness in those who practise medicine in Great Britain is
practically an unknown quantity.
But in Europe it is different, for in the dossiers held by the police
of Paris, Rome, Madrid and Berlin criminals who practise medicine are
written largely, as witnessed by the evidence in more than one famous
trial where the accused has been sentenced to death.
I longed to go to Scotland Yard and tell my story. Yet how could I do
so when, in a drawer in my room, there reposed that bundle of Bank of
England notes, the price paid to me for being the accomplice of a
mysterious crime? I could only seek a solution of the enigma alone and
unaided by the authorities. I seemed to be making a little headway,
yet each fact I established added complications to the amazing affair.
Further, I must here confess to you that during the past day or two I
had found myself actually in love with the beautiful girl whose
mentality had been wilfully destroyed by some means which medical
science failed to establish. From the first I had been filled with
great admiration for her. She was indeed very beautiful, with
wonderful eyes and a perfect complexion. There was grace in every
movement, save when at times she held herself rigid, with fixed blank
eyes as though fascinated, or gripped by some invisible power. More
than once I had wondered whether she were under hypnotic influence,
but that theory had been completely negatived by Sir Charles Wendover.
Be that as it may, I had now fallen desperately in love with the girl
whom I was seeking to rescue from her enemies.
Why had the body of Gabrielle Engledue been cremated if not to destroy
all evidence of a crime? Gabrielle Tennison still lived; therefore
another woman must have lost her life by foul means--most probably by
poison--in face of the pains that were taken by Moroni to efface all
trace of the cause of death.
Over our tea the affable French banker told me of a rapid journey to
Liverpool which he had taken a few days before, he having some
pressing business with a man who was on the point of sailing for New
York. The person in question had absconded from Paris owing the bank a
large sum of money, and he had that day cabled to the New York police
asking for his arrest on landing.
"I shall probably be compelled to go across to America and apply for
him to be sent back to Paris," my friend said, "so I am going back for
instructions."
As he spoke I pondered. Was it possible that he was unaware of the
surveillance I had kept upon him during and after his secret interview
with Gabrielle? If so, why had he entered that dingy house in the
Euston Road and made his exit by the back way? I had established the
fact that the house was well-known to thieves of a certain class who
used it in order to escape being followed. Several such houses exist
in London. One is near the Elephant and Castle, another in the Clapham
Road, while there is one in Hammersmith Road, and still another just
off Clarence Terrace at Regent's Park. Such houses serve as
sanctuaries for those escaping from justice. The latter know them, and
as they slip through they pay a toll, well-knowing that the keeper of
the house will deny that they have ever been there.
The "in-and-out" houses of London and their keepers, always sly
crooks, form a particular study in themselves. One pretends to be a
garage, another a private hotel, a third a small greengrocer's, and a
fourth a boot repairer's. All those trades are carried on as "blinds."
The public believe them to be honest businesses, but there is far
more business done in concealing those wanted by the police than in
anything else.
From Suzor's demeanour I felt that he did not suspect me of having
been witness of his entry into that frowsy house near Euston Station.
But why had he gone there? He must have feared that he might be
watched. And why? The only answer to that question was that he had met
Gabrielle clandestinely and feared lest afterwards he might be
followed.
But why should he fear if not implicated in the plot?
To me it now seemed plain that I had been marked down as a pawn in the
game prior to that day when we travelled together from York to London.
I had not altogether recovered from the effect of what had been
administered to me. Often I felt a curious sensation of dizziness and
of overwhelming depression, which I knew was the after effects of that
loss of all sense of my surroundings when I had been taken to the
hospital in St. Malo. I had been found at the roadside in France, just
as Gabrielle had been found on the highway near Petersfield.
When I reflected my blood boiled.
The affable and highly cultured Frenchman presented a further enigma.
He was crossing back to Paris next day. What if I, too, went back to
Paris and watched his further movements? As I sat chatting and
laughing with him, I decided upon this course.
When, shortly afterwards, I left, I went straight across Hammersmith
Bridge and found that Harry Hambledon had just returned from his
office.
We sat together at table, whereupon I told him one or two facts I had
discovered, and urged him to cross to Paris with me next day.
"You see, you can watch--for you will be a perfect stranger to Suzor.
I will bear the expense. I've still got a little money in the bank. We
can see Suzor off from Charing Cross, then take a taxi to Croydon, fly
over, and be in Paris hours before he arrives at the Gare du Nord.
There you will wait for his arrival, follow him and see his
destination."
Hambledon, who was already much interested in my strange adventures,
quickly saw the point.
"I've got one or two rather urgent things on to-morrow," he replied.
"But if you really wish me to go with you I can telephone to my friend
Hardy and ask him to look after them for me. We shan't be away very
long, I suppose?"
"A week at the most," I said. "I want to establish the true identity
of this banker friend of mine. I have a distinct suspicion of him."
"And so have I," Hambledon said. "Depend upon it, some big conspiracy
has been afoot, and they are now endeavouring to cover up all traces
of their villainy. I was discussing it with Norah when we were walking
in Richmond Park last night."
"I quite agree," I replied. "Then we'll fly across to Paris at
lunch-time to-morrow, and keep watch upon this man who meets Miss
Tennison in secret and then uses a thieves' sanctuary in order to
escape."
"That story of the absconding customer of the bank is a fiction, I
believe," Harry exclaimed.
"I'm certain it is," I said.
"Then why should he have told it to you if he did not suspect that you
had been watching?" my friend queried.
I had not considered that point. It was certainly strange, to say the
least, that he should thus have endeavoured to mislead me.
Next morning Hambledon was up early and went to Charing Cross, where
he watched the banker's departure. Afterwards he returned, and with
our suit-cases we travelled down to the London Terminal Aerodrome at
Croydon, where, just before noon, we entered one of the large
passenger aeroplanes which fly between London and Paris. Within half
an hour of our arrival at the aerodrome we were already in the air
sailing gaily southward towards Lympne, near Folkestone, where we had
to report previous to crossing the Channel.
The morning was bright, and although cold the visibility was
excellent. Below us spread a wide panorama of tiny square fields and
small clusters of houses that were villages, and larger ones with
straight roads running like ribbons through them, which were towns.
The dark patches dotting the ground beneath us were woods and
coppices, while running straight beneath was a tiny train upon the
railway between Folkestone and London. There were three other
passengers beside ourselves, apparently French business men, who were
all excitement, it evidently being their first flight.
Very soon we could see the sea, and presently we could also discern
the French coast.
As we approached Lympne the observer telephoned by wireless back to
Croydon telling them of our position, and in a few moments we were
high over the Channel. At Marquise, on the other side, we again
reported, and then following the railway line we sped towards Paris
long before the express, by which the banker was travelling, had left
Calais.
Indeed, shortly before three o'clock we had installed ourselves at the
Hôtel Terminus at the Gare St. Lazare, in Paris, and afterwards took
a stroll along the boulevards, awaiting the time when the express from
Calais was due at the Gare du Nord.
Shortly before half-past five Hambledon left me and took a taxi to the
station for the purpose of watching Suzor's arrival and ascertaining
his destination, which, of course, I feared to do, lest he should
recognize me.
It was not until past nine o'clock that evening that my friend
returned to the hotel. He described how Suzor on arrival at the Gare
du Nord had been met by a young English lady, and the pair had driven
straight to the Rotonde Restaurant at the corner of the Boulevard
Haussmann, where they had dined together.
"I dined near them, and one could see plainly that their conversation
was a very earnest one," declared my companion. "She seemed to be
relating something, and apparently was most apprehensive, while he, on
his part, seemed gravely perplexed. Though he ordered an expensive
meal they scarcely touched it. They sat in a corner and spoke in
English, but I could not catch a single word."
In response to my request he described Suzor's lady friend.
Then he added: "She wore only one ornament, a beautiful piece of
apple-green jade suspended round her neck by a narrow black ribbon.
When they rose and the waiter brought their coats, I heard him call
her Dorothy."
"Dorothy Cullerton!" I gasped. "I recollect that piece of Chinese jade
she wore in Florence! What is she doing here, meeting that man
clandestinely?"
"The man slipped something into her hand beneath the table and she put
it into her handbag," Hambledon said. "I have a suspicion that it was
a small roll of French bank notes."
"Payment for some information, perhaps," I said. "I don't trust that
young stockbroker's wife. Well?" I asked. "And what then?"
"On leaving the Rotonde they drove to the Rue de Rivoli, where the
lady alighted and entered the Hôtel Wagram, while he went along to the
Hôtel du Louvre," was his reply.
I was much puzzled at the secret meeting between the affable Frenchman
and young Mrs. Cullerton, and next day by watching the entrance to the
Hôtel Wagram, which was an easy matter in the bustle of the Rue de
Rivoli, I satisfied myself that my surmise was correct, for at eleven
o'clock she came forth, entered a taxi, and drove away.
My next inquiry was at the head office of the Crédit Lyonnais, in the
Boulevard des Italiens, but, as I suspected, the name of my French
fellow-traveller was unknown.
"We have no official of the name of Suzor," replied the polite
assistant director whom I had asked to see. "The gentleman must be
pretending to be associated with us, monsieur. It is not the first
time we have heard of such a thing."
So it was apparent that Suzor was not a bank official after all!
In the meantime Hambledon was keeping watch at the Hôtel du Louvre,
and it was not until afternoon that he rejoined me to report what had
occurred.
It seemed that Suzor had, just before noon, strolled to the Grand
Café, where he had met a well-dressed man who was awaiting him. They
took coffee together, and then entering a taxi drove out to the Bois,
where at the Pré Catelan they were joined by a smartly dressed young
woman who was, no doubt, an actress. The three sat talking for a
quarter of an hour, after which the two men left her and returned to a
small restaurant in the boulevard St. Martin, where they took their
_déjeuner_. Afterwards Suzor had returned to his hotel.
At my suggestion my companion had become on friendly terms with the
under concierge, who had promised to inform him if Monsieur Suzor
should chance to be leaving.
It was well that he had arranged this, for when at six o'clock
Hambledon again went to the hotel the man in uniform told him that
Monsieur Suzor was leaving the Quai d'Orsay at eleven o'clock that
night by the through express for Madrid.
I saw that for me to travel to Spain by the same train as the man who
had posed as a banker would be to court exposure. Hence Hambledon
volunteered to travel to the Spanish capital in all secrecy, while I
promised to join him as soon as he sent me his address.
That journey was destined to be an adventurous one indeed, as I will
duly explain to you, but its results proved more startling and
astounding than we ever anticipated.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
THE GATE OF THE SUN
The spring morning was grey and rather threatening as I left the Hôtel
de la Paix in Madrid and walked from the Puerta del Sol past the smart
shops in the Carrera de San Jeronimo and across the broad handsome
Plaza de Canovas, in order to meet Hambledon at a point which he had
indicated in the Retiro Park.
Late on the previous night I had arrived in the Spanish capital, and
while Hambledon was at the Palace Hotel in the Plaza de Canovas I had
gone to the Paix in the Puerta del Sol. I had been in Madrid only once
before in my life, and as I walked through the gay thoroughfares I
recalled that proud saying of the Madrileños: "De Madrid al cielo y en
el cielo un ventanillo para ver á Madrid" (From Madrid to Heaven, and
in Heaven a loophole to look at Madrid). The Spanish capital to-day is
indeed a very fine city, full of life, of movement, and of post-war
prosperity.
Crossing the Prado, where the trees were already in full leaf, I took
that straight broad way which led past the Royal Academy, and again
crossing the Calle de Alfonso XII came to the Alcahofa fountain, the
Fountain of the Artichoke, near which I waited for the coming of my
friend.
I stood there upon ground that was historic, and as I gazed around
upon that sylvan scene, I wondered what would be the result of our
long journey from Rivermead Mansions. That beautiful park which, in
the seventeenth century, had been laid out with such taste by the
Conde-Duque de Olivares, the favourite of Philip IV, had been the
scene of innumerable festivals which swallowed millions of money, and
gave rise to many biting "pasquinas" and "coplas." To-day it is the
Hyde Park of Spanish Society. There all the latest Paris fashions are
seen at the hour of the promenade, and everybody who is anybody in
Spain must be seen walking or riding along its picturesque paths.
I had not long to wait for Hambledon, for after a few moments his
familiar sturdy figure came into sight.
"Well, Hughie!" he exclaimed, as we sank upon a seat together.
"There's some deep game being played here, I'm certain!"
"What game?" I asked quickly.
"Ah! I can't yet make it out," he replied. "But I'll tell you what's
occurred. Suzor, on arrival, went to the Ritz, where he has a private
suite, and after I had watched him safely there I took up my quarters
at the Palace on the other side of the Square, and started to keep a
watch upon our friend. I got the concierge at the Ritz to do something
for me for which I paid him generously, so as to pave the way for
information concerning Suzor, in case we may want it."
"Good," I said. "There's nothing like making friends with a concierge.
He knows everything about the visitors to his hotel, and about their
friends also."
"Well, on the first day Suzor did not go out at all. But on the second
morning at about eleven o'clock, he came forth very smartly dressed,
and strolling along the Calle de Alcalá turned into the Gran Café
where an elderly lady dressed in black was awaiting him. She was
Spanish, without a doubt. He greeted her with studied courtesy and
then sat down opposite her at the little table and ordered
_apératifs_. They conversed together in low, earnest tones. She seemed
to be questioning him, while he gave rather hesitating replies. It
seemed to me that he had come to Madrid in order to meet her.
Therefore when after about half an hour they parted, I followed the
lady. She took a cab and drove to the North Station, where she took a
ticket for Segovia which I found was about sixty miles from here. I,
of course, entered another compartment of the train and in about three
hours we reached our destination. At the station she was met by a
handsome young girl, who began to ply her with questions to which the
elder woman replied in monosyllables as the pair ascended the pretty
tree-lined boulevard that led into the picturesque town perched as it
is upon a rock between two streams. Half-way up the Passeo, just prior
to entering the ancient city so full of antiquities, the two ladies
went in the gates of a large white house, evidently the residence of
someone of importance. Unseen, I watched the door as it was opened by
a man-servant who bowed to them as he admitted them. Afterwards I
passed into that most venerable city of Castile where I found a hotel
called the Europeo, where I ordered a meal. The waiter spoke broken
English, and when I described the big white house in the Passeo
Ezequiel González and inquired who lived there he replied that it was
the Condesa de Chamartin with her niece Señorita Carmen Florez. The
Countess was the widow of an immensely wealthy Spaniard who had died
leaving most of his money away from his wife. There were rumours
afloat both in Segovia and in Madrid--where he had had a fine
house--that the widow was now in quite poor circumstances. Yet the
Conde de Chamartin had been one of the richest men in Spain. Then I
came back and telegraphed to you in Paris."
"What has Suzor done since?"
"Practically nothing. He hardly ever goes out in the daytime, which
shows me that he is no stranger in Madrid. Yet almost every evening
after dinner he goes alone to one or other of the theatres, or to the
variety show at the Trianon. Last night he was at _Il Trovatore_, at
the Teatro Real."
"Alone?"
"Always alone."
"Then why has he come here, to Madrid?" I queried.
"In order to meet the Condesa de Chamartin."
"But he has already met her. She came from Segovia to keep that
appointment, hence one would think he would have returned to Paris by
this time."
"We can only watch," Hambledon replied. "I will continue my
surveillance, but you had better be seen about as little as possible.
He might meet and recognize you. Should I discover anything, or should
I want to see you, I will either telephone to you at your hotel, or we
will meet again--at this spot."
Thus it was arranged, and half an hour later we parted.
I walked back to my hotel, my thoughts occupied by the beautiful girl
who had suddenly so possessed me. Before me, by day and by night, rose
visions of the lovely countenance of that strange, half-bewildered
expression which was so pathetic and so mysterious. I recollected her
sweet smiles when we had talked in her mother's drawing-room in
Longridge Road, and I knew that my admiration had already ripened into
love.
But it was all so mysterious, so incredible indeed, that I hardly
dared reflect upon those amazing events of the immediate past.
The name of the great financier, De Gex, was one to conjure with all
over Europe. Since my night's adventure in Stretton Street I had
learnt much concerning him. His nationality was obscure. He posed as
an Englishman, but at the same time he was a Frenchman, an Italian,
and a Greek. His financial tentacles were spread throughout Europe.
Fabulously wealthy, he held a controlling interest in a number of
banks and great industrial concerns, and it was said that he knew the
capitals of the world as a milkman knows the streets of his particular
suburb.
Behind the smoke-clouds of great events his intriguing figure followed
unseen, unheralded, influencing dynasties through his secretaries and
agents--one of whom was Prime Minister of a foreign kingdom--and
financing bankrupt states.
Now and then he emerged from the retirement of the Villa Clementini
and would go to Paris, Brussels, or Rome, and there entertain most
lavishly Ministers and aristocrats of various nations, and frequently
give them presents at the dinner-table.
One man declared to me that Oswald De Gex was the friend of mighty
persons and the moulder of mighty events. He was a man of mystery who
quietly and in secret juggled the destinies of nations in his gilded
fingers. Wherever money has the power to speak there Oswald De Gex
would be found smiling an inscrutable mysterious smile, but always the
centre of intrigue and adventure.
To outwit and expose such a man I was determined.
Back in the hotel I stood at the window of my room, gazing out across
the busy plaza upon the fine Ministerio de la Gobernacion, with its
great clock upon the façade. The Gateway of the Rising Sun is ever a
scene of animation, and the more so on a "fiesta," which it happened
to be that day.
I stood there looking blankly out upon the centre of Madrid life. It
was irksome to be compelled to remain in the hotel during the daytime
for fear of recognition by the man Suzor. Why had he held that secret
meeting with the widow of the wealthy Count Chamartin? Hambledon had
certainly acted with discretion and promptitude in following the lady
in black to her home in Segovia. Could the Frenchman's visit to Madrid
be in any way connected with the affair at Stretton Street?
A new and highly interesting feature had arisen in the fact which I
had only recently discovered, that Suzor had apparently travelled with
me from York to London on that well-remembered afternoon with some set
and distinct purpose. He had been most affable, and he had told me all
about himself--a story which I now knew to be fictitious. In return, I
suppose I had told him something about myself, but the exact
conversation had long ago escaped my memory.
I had had no suspicion that the man who had posed as an important
official of one of the best known of French banking corporations was
in any way associated with the mysterious Oswald De Gex, until I had
seen him meet in secret the girl with whom I had fallen so violently
in love.
I tried to analyse my feelings towards Gabrielle Tennison, but failed
utterly. I loved her, and loving her so well, I now set my whole soul
upon elucidating the mystery.
Truly, the problem was most puzzling, presenting further complications
at every turn.
Through the day I idled about the big hotel, occupying my time in
writing letters and reading the papers. The café below in the late
afternoon was crowded, for on the day of a fiesta Madrid is always
agog with life and movement.
When night fell and I ate my solitary dinner in the big restaurant,
where I specially ordered an _olla_ with _garbanoz_, a dish so dear to
the Spanish palate and which cannot be procured beyond the confines of
King Alfonso's kingdom. The waiter aided me, of course, and he smiled
contentedly when I gave him his _propina_.