afternoon De Gex came forth and strolled round to his club in St.
James's Street, the blinds were still drawn, it being evident that
the unscrupulous man who juggled with European dynasties was living
there in obscurity--and in pretence of absence.
Why?
My watchfulness was increased; my thoughts being ever upon the
avenging of the injury done to the sweet girl I so dearly loved--that
poor unfortunate creature whose brain had been destroyed by the
dastardly administration of that poison only known to students of
toxicology. In my waking hours I conjured up scenes of how mother and
daughter, living in that obscure pension in busy Lyons, went each day
to the Professor's house, and how the kindly old savant did his best
to restore her brain to its normal activity.
One hot day I had been to Reading on business for the firm, and on
arrival at Paddington I bought an evening paper and took it home to
Rivermead Mansions. As usual Harry and I had dinner together, and
after he had gone out to Richmond, I sat by the open window which
looked upon the towing-path beside the Thames, and with my pipe in my
mouth, scanned the day's news.
Of a sudden I came across a heading which attracted me, and read as
follows:
"The sudden death is announced, at his house outside
Amsterdam, of Baron Harte van Veltrup, the well-known Dutch
financier, who for some years was in active association with
the Spanish banker, the late Count de Chamartin. The Count
died recently in San Sebastian just after he, with van
Veltrup, had promoted a great railway scheme in Central
Spain. The circumstances of the Baron's death appear to be
somewhat mysterious, says our Amsterdam correspondent. Three
days ago the banker, who is a widower, went to The Hague,
where in a private room in an obscure hotel, he met a man on
business. The meeting was apparently in secret, for he told
his valet that he did not wish anyone to know of the
mysterious visitor for a certain financial reason. The man
remained with the Baron for nearly an hour, after which the
financier went home in his car to Amsterdam, his valet
driving. On the way the servant noticed that his master
seemed very perturbed, once or twice muttering threats
beneath his breath.
"On arrival at his house facing Vondel Park, he dressed, ate
his dinner alone, and was about to re-enter his car to drive
to the Park Schouwburg, where opera was being given that
night, when he staggered and fell just outside the gate, and
expired in a few moments.
"Though a medical examination proved that death was due to
heart failure, some comment has been caused by the valet's
story of his master's mysterious visitor at The Hague. The
latter he describes as middle-aged, with a small dark
moustache, a ruddy complexion, wearing round horn-rimmed
spectacles. He thinks the latter were worn for purposes of
disguise.
"Three doctors have, however, declared that death ensued
from natural causes, hence the police discredit the valet's
story. Baron van Veltrup, who was well known in
international finance, was a frequent visitor to London,
where he had permanent chambers in Jermyn Street. He was in
the habit of receiving strange callers--persons who probably
gave him secret information regarding Government concessions
and other such matters. Therefore it is not believed that
the man whom he met in secret has any connexion with his
sudden and lamented death. The Baron contributed most
generously to Dutch charities, especially to the Blinden
Institution, of which he was one of the governors.
"Some of his financial deals were of outstanding magnitude.
The last loan to Peru was made through his house, in
combination with that of Chamartin, in Madrid, while he
negotiated a big loan to Serbia immediately before the war,
as well as obtaining the concessions for two new railways in
Northern Italy and in Portugal. The reputation of the house
of Veltrup was one of the highest standing, and the Baron's
untimely death has cast a gloom over financial circles in
all the European capitals."
I raised my eyes from the paper and gazed across the Thames now
growing grey in the evening light. Outside, the soft wind whispered in
the trees and across the long suspension bridge ran an endless stream
of motor traffic into and out of London.
The affair in Amsterdam was certainly curious, but what attracted me
most was the fact that the dead Baron had been a partner with the late
Count Chamartin, whose widow I knew by sight. The Count had also died
very suddenly. So within a short time of each other two men whose
names were ones to conjure with in international finance had both
died!
The valet's story I did not doubt. I knew that such men as the late
Baron were often compelled, in their own interests, to receive visits
from mysterious and often undesirable persons, most of whom were paid
for their information. Every giant of finance employs his secret
agents, whose duty it is to keep his principal informed of the
various political and other secrets in Europe. Indeed, the great
financiers know more of the underground currents of foreign politics
than they do at any Embassy or Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It is
their duty to know the secrets of nations--and they profit upon their
knowledge.
I sat ruminating. The sudden deaths of the two pillars of finance was,
to say the least, a curious coincidence. I recollected that Chamartin
had been associated with De Gex, and the object of the latter's
journey to Madrid had apparently been to interview his dead friend's
widow. I also remembered Professor Vega's description of the deadly
effect of that secret poison orosin--that it might cause almost
instant death, and that all doctors would attribute the cause to heart
failure.
This caused me to ponder for a long time. I read and re-read the
report of the Baron's death, and when I retired to bed--Harry not
having yet returned--I could not sleep, so haunted was I by vague
suspicions.
Next day I found that I could not apply myself to work at the office,
so gave it up and once more wandered towards Hyde Park Corner and up
Park Lane where again I passed through Stretton Street. The blinds of
the big dark mansion were all lowered, indicating that its owner was
still out of town. Yet I knew that he was living in the half darkness
of that closed house.
Why?
Several days passed when, unable to rest, I at last asked leave of
absence from old Mr. Francis, and crossed by the night-boat from
Harwich to the Hook of Holland. On the following day I found myself in
quaint old Amsterdam, that city built upon the sand in defiance of a
certain text in St. Matthew, the city with its great network of
canals, and its many gaudily-painted barges. As I left my hotel and
walked to the Dam, the central square of the city, my nostrils were
saluted upon one side by the perfume of the flowers adorning the
windows and the odour of cook-shops, while on the other was the smell
of tar and the fumes of the humble kitchens of sailing vessels.
I happened to know an Englishman employed as clerk to a firm of Dutch
forwarding agents whose offices were in the Dam, and this man, whose
name was Graham, I at once sought.
We went out to a café together, and I explained the object of my
visit, namely, the investigation of the death of Baron van Veltrup.
Graham at once regarded me with considerable astonishment, for very
naturally he could not make out why I should take such a keen interest
in the death of one of the richest men in Holland.
"The Baron died of heart failure," my friend said. "The doctors are
agreed upon that. His valet told some extraordinary story, but no
credence has been placed in it. There has been a good deal in the
papers concerning the unfortunate affair, but the excitement has now
all died down. The Baron was, I believe, buried yesterday."
"I know that there is no suspicion that death was due to foul play,
Graham," I said. "But I confess that in face of certain knowledge I
possess I am not altogether satisfied with the doctor's conclusion."
My friend smiled incredulously.
"At first, the police were, I heard, inclined to suspect foul play.
But after full investigation they are now quite satisfied as to the
cause of death."
"Be that as it may, I intend to make a few discreet inquiries," I
replied resolutely. "I want you, if you will, to assist me."
He smiled again in undisguised disbelief.
"Of course you are at liberty to express your own opinion," he said
with some reluctance. "And if you wish, I will assist you. But I
really think, Garfield, that you will be only wasting your time--and
mine."
"I hope not," I assured him. "Were I not in possession of certain
exclusive information I should not venture to come here from London
and trouble you, as I am doing."
Graham, whom I had known for a number of years, looked very straight
at me.
"What is the nature of this exclusive information?" he inquired. "You
are concealing something, Hugh."
"Yes. I know I am," was my reply as I smiled at him. "I am here to
discover the truth regarding the death of Baron van Veltrup."
"Then you suspect foul play--eh?" asked my friend.
"Yes, I do," I replied in a low voice, "and I want you, Graham, to put
me in touch with the Baron's valet."
"He is a man named Folcker, a Swede, according to the newspapers. I
dare say I could find him."
"If you can, you will assist me very much. I must have a chat with
him," I said. "I feel somehow that in face of the strange facts within
my knowledge that he can give me the clue to the cause of his master's
death."
Graham smiled. He seemed to regard me as a person whose mind was not
quite sound. But I will give him his due. He propitiated me, and
promised to get into touch with Oscar Folcker. By virtue of the wide
ramifications of the firm by which Graham was employed, I knew that it
would be an easy matter, hence I was not surprised when next day he
rang me up on the telephone to my hotel and told me that he had been
able to find the valet Folcker who would call upon me at six o'clock
that evening.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
WHAT THE VALET KNEW
At the time appointed, as I stood in the hall, a tall, clean-shaven,
rather spruce young man entered and spoke to the concierge, who at
once brought him over to me.
I took him into a corner of the lounge, and when we were seated I told
him of my suspicions and my quest.
Like many Swedes he spoke English, and in reply said:
"Well, sir, I was in the Baron's service for five years, and I knew
his habits very well. He was an excellent master--most kind and
generous, and with him I have travelled Europe up and down. We were
very often in London, where the Baron had bachelor chambers in Jermyn
Street."
"I know that," I said. "But tell me what you know, and what you
suspect concerning his untimely end."
"There was foul play, sir!" he said unhesitatingly. "The Baron was a
strong healthy man who lived frugally, and though he dealt in millions
of francs, yet he was most quiet in his habits, and his boast was that
he was never out of bed after half-past ten. Though very rich he
devoted nearly half his income yearly to charitable institutions. I
know the extent of his contributions to the needy, for I have often
seen him draw the cheques."
"Well--tell me exactly what happened," I asked.
"The affair presents some very puzzling features, sir," he replied.
"One morning, while dressing, my master told me that he had to motor
to The Hague as he wished to meet in strict secrecy a man who would
call to see him at a little hotel called the Rhijn, in the Oranje
Straat. He asked me to drive him there so that Mullard, the chauffeur,
should have no knowledge of the visit. This I promised to do, for I
can drive a car. We arrived early in the afternoon, and the Baron, who
was unknown at the obscure little place, ordered lunch for us both. He
ate his in the private room he had engaged, and at about three o'clock
the visitor arrived. He inquired of the proprietor and was shown into
the Baron's private room. I judged him to be about forty, of middle
height, well-dressed, and wearing big round tortoiseshell glasses,
like those Americans so often wear. He was red-faced and walked with a
slight limp."
"And what happened while your master was with the stranger?"
"The Baron came out and told me to go to the garage with the car, and
I was telephoned for an hour later. When I met him again he seemed to
be in an ill and petulant mood, for he told me to drive back to
Amsterdam with all speed. He also again made me promise to tell nobody
of the secret meeting."
"And then?" I asked anxiously.
"On arrival home he washed, dressed, and dined alone. Afterwards he
put on his gloves, grey suède ones, ready to go, but exchanged them
for a pair of white ones, as he recollected that he was going to the
opera. Then he walked out to the car, but suddenly cried, 'Oh! My
head! My head!' and fell on to the pavement. I was just behind him
when he did so, and hurried to get him up. But he was already
unconscious, and scarcely before we could get him into the house he
expired."
"And why do you suspect foul play?" I asked.
"I feel certain that my master did not die from natural causes,"
declared the thin-faced man-servant.
"You suspect that the individual in round spectacles had a hand in
it--eh?"
"I do. But how, I have no idea. The police pooh-pooh my suspicions.
But if my suspicions are unfounded, why has not the stranger come
forward? There has been a lot about the affair in the papers."
"Yes," I said. "It certainly appears strange, for there can be no
cause for secrecy now that the Baron is dead, even if some great
financial transaction had been involved."
"My master often received very queer visitors," said Folcker. "Once he
entertained two very strange-looking shabby individuals when he was at
Aix-les-Bains with Mr. De Gex."
"With Mr. De Gex!" I echoed. "Was the Baron a friend of his?"
"Yes, an intimate friend. They often had big deals together in which
Count Chamartin, who lived in Madrid, participated."
"Ah! That is distinctly interesting," I said. "Did the Baron, when in
London, visit Mr. De Gex at Stretton Street?"
"Frequently. They were mutually interested in the great Netherlands
Shipping Combine about a year ago," replied the valet.
"And you usually travelled with your master, I suppose?"
"Nearly always. We were frequently in Paris, Berlin, Rome, or Madrid,
and naturally I learnt a good deal about his business. His most
intimate friend was Mr. De Gex. Do you happen to know him?"
I gritted my teeth, and replied in the affirmative.
"A very charming man," the valet declared. "He was always very good to
the servants. I used to look after him when he visited us here in
Amsterdam."
"Did you ever meet a friend of his--a Frenchman named Suzor?" I asked.
"Yes, once. When we stayed with Mr. De Gex at Florence. He was a
fellow guest with my master."
"And an Italian doctor named Moroni?"
Folcker shook his head, as he replied:
"I have no recollection of an Italian doctor. We were in Florence only
two weeks."
"Of course you know Mr. De Gex's butler, a man named Horton?" I asked.
"No, the man I know is named Farmer. I haven't been to Stretton Street
for over a year."
It would therefore appear that Horton was a new servant.
"But have you any idea how your master died?" was my next query.
"None--only something tells me that he fell victim to a plot for his
assassination."
"Why?"
"Because he more than once told me that if he died certain persons
would derive great benefits."
"Who? His friends?"
"I suppose so."
"Including De Gex?"
The thin-faced man shook his head, saying:
"Ah! That I cannot tell, sir. But I know that Mr. De Gex owed the
Baron a very considerable sum over a financial deal regarding some oil
wells in Roumania. Only a few months ago he mentioned to Mr. Grant,
one of his friends, in my presence, that he hoped De Gex would very
soon settle with him. In fact he seemed annoyed at the delay in the
payment."
This statement caused me to reflect deeply.
Was it really possible that the Dutch Baron's death had been due to
the machinations of this mystery-man of Europe? The fact that he owed
the dead man money would serve as sufficient motive! I did not
overlook the deeply-laid plot against myself, one that must have sent
me swiftly into my grave had it not been for my providential escape.
The whole amazing facts, my meeting with Suzor in the express between
York and King's Cross, the trap set for me at Stretton Street, and my
astounding adventures afterwards, all flashed through my mind. Oswald
De Gex was a most unscrupulous person who had climbed to fame and
fortune over the ruined homes and bodies of his victims. I was now out
to obtain direct and undeniable evidence of his crimes.
Yet up to the present I could not go much further than mere surmise.
Two of his business friends, Count Chamartin and Baron van Veltrup,
had died quite suddenly. In the case of the latter, the valet
expressed a positive belief that his master had not died of natural
causes. This was supported by the fact that the Baron received a
mysterious visitor at an obscure hotel at The Hague, a man who was
apparently disguised by big horn spectacles, and was certainly not a
Dutchman.
And above all that, I held most conclusive evidence that both De Gex
himself and the dead bandit, Despujol, had used that deadly drug
orosin to secure their nefarious ends.
But the most irritating feature of the affair was that I was as far
off as ever from solving the mystery of what happened on that
memorable night in Stretton Street, or with what motive I had been
induced to give a death certificate that had enabled the body of an
unknown girl to be cremated.
I questioned the valet, Folcker, still further, telling him that I had
come especially from London to endeavour to elucidate the truth
concerning his master's death. He was devoted to the Baron, and was
highly incensed at the attitude taken by the Dutch police.
"I will give you every assistance, sir," he replied.
"Excellent," I said. "I would very much like to go to the Baron's
house. Could you take me there?"
"Most certainly, sir," was his response, and with willingness he
accompanied me in a horse cab up the cobbled Leidwche Straat with its
many canals to the pleasant Vondel Park, just outside the city. We
stopped before a great white house, square and rather inartistic,
standing back behind very high iron railings, to which we were
admitted by an elderly man-servant who was in charge of the place now
that its owner was dead.
Folcker showed me his master's handsome dressing-room which had been
left practically as it was on the night of his tragic end. He showed
me how the Baron had put on his evening clothes and descended to dine.
He took me into the fine, handsomely-furnished dining-room, with big
long carved table in the centre, and showed me the small round table
set in the big bow window looking out upon the garden, at which the
Baron always ate his meals when alone.
"After finishing his dinner the Baron smoked one of his Petroff
cigarettes which were especially made for him in Odessa, and then
calling me, he asked for his coat and told me to ring up for the car,"
Folcker said. "He finished his cigarette and a glass of kümmel, at the
same time scanning the evening newspaper. All the time he had been
eating, however, he seemed in a very angry mood. The interview with
the stranger at The Hague had somehow upset him, for once or twice he
muttered angrily to himself."
"Now tell me, Folcker," I asked seriously, "when he entered that
little hotel at The Hague he waited for his mysterious visitor--did he
not?"
"Yes, sir."
"The visitor arrived and you saw him. I understand that your master
came out and saw you during the interview?"
"Yes. About ten minutes after the stranger's arrival the Baron came
into the little hall of the hotel and told me that he would not
require me for an hour, or perhaps more. Apparently he did not wish
the car to stand outside the place for so long, lest it should be
recognized. So he sent me to a garage."
I hesitated.
"Then the stranger was left inside the hotel alone?"
"Yes, sir, for two or three minutes. Why?"
We were standing out in the well-furnished hall and I glanced around.
"Your master was in quite good health as he ate his dinner and smoked
his cigarette?" I remarked.
"Quite. He came out of the room and standing here I gave him his hat,
coat, gloves and stick. After he had put on his coat he drew on his
left-hand glove. Suddenly he tore it off again, and rubbing his
fingers together impatiently, said: 'I forgot, Folcker! I'm going to
the opera, give me some white gloves.' They were in the drawer
yonder," the valet said, pointing to a great old carved Flemish
cupboard. "So I got them out and handed them to him. He drew one of
them on and walked down to the gate to enter the car, when he suddenly
fell upon the pavement outside. You see, just yonder," and he pointed
through the open door.
"Why did he rub his fingers together, I wonder?" I remarked. "Was it a
habit of his?"
"Not at all, sir. He seemed to have a sudden pain in his fingers."
"A pain. Why?"
"I don't know, sir. It has only this moment occurred to me. He flung
off the glove and tossed it upon the table. It's still there--as you
see. Then he put on the white gloves and went down the steps and
collapsed."
"His head was affected?"
"Yes, he cried out twice that his head hurt him. The doctors attribute
his death to heart failure. But, personally, I doubt it, sir! I'm
certain that there was foul play somewhere."
I crossed to the great carved table which stood on the opposite side
of the wide hall, tiled as it was with ancient blue and white Dutch
tiles, and from the table took up a pair of well-worn grey suède
gloves. They interested me, because after putting one on the Baron had
torn it off and rubbed his fingers.
"Is this the glove your master wore when he went to The Hague?" I
asked, selecting the left-hand one.
"Yes, sir."
I examined it closely and very gingerly. The exterior presented
nothing out of the ordinary, but on turning it inside out, I found in
the index finger a tiny piece of steel which tumbled out upon the
table.
It was apparently a piece clipped from the blade of a safety razor,
and keenly sharp. Anyone inserting a finger into the glove would
certainly be cut by the razor edge of that sharp scrap of steel. As it
lay upon the polished oak I bent to look at it, the valet also
standing near and bending down in curiosity.
Upon it something had apparently been smeared--some colourless jelly,
it seemed.
Had Baron van Veltrup fallen victim to orosin, wilfully administered?
That was my instant suspicion, one that was afterwards verified by the
great Dutch pathologist Doctor Obelt, who lived in the Amstel Straat,
and to whom I carried the mysterious but incriminating scrap of steel.
"Without a doubt this piece of razor-blade has been impregnated with a
new and most deadly poison, orosin," he declared to me on the
following evening as I sat in his consulting room. "The police have
seen no mysterious circumstances in the unfortunate death of the
Baron, who, by the way, was a very dear friend of mine. But now you
have brought me this piece of steel which you took from his glove, and
which no doubt must have caused a slight cut to his finger and, in
consequence, almost instant death, I feel it my duty to take up the
matter with the authorities."
"I shall be much gratified, doctor, if you will," I urged, speaking in
French. "The valet's suspicions of foul play are entirely proved."
"Yes, foul play, committed by somebody who possesses expert
toxicological knowledge. I confess that this is the first time I have
discovered orosin. The hint you gave me caused me to search for it,
and that I have found it is undoubted."
Later that day I accompanied the doctor to the Bureau of Police, where
we were met by a very stolid official who smoked a long thin cigar all
the time he talked to us.
At first he treated the affair as of no importance. The medical
evidence had pronounced the Baron's death as having been due to
natural causes. The police could not interfere further, he declared.
"Ah! but thanks to the Baron's valet we now have evidence of a most
subtle and deadly poison," declared the Dutch pathologist. "I certify
that I have found upon a small piece of sharp steel, which has been
discovered in the dead man's glove, traces of orosin, one of the least
known but most dangerous poisons."
The heavy-jowled Dutch police official straightened himself in his
chair.
"Is that really so, doctor?" he asked in surprise, holding his cigar
between his fingers.