THE MAN WHO WAS SHY
Some two months after that curious experience in Sofia, we were guests
of some friends of Rayne's called Baynes, who lived at Enderby Manor,
a few miles out of Winchester.
The reason of our visit was somewhat obscure, yet as far as I could
gather it had no connection with "business." So Rayne, Lola, and
myself spent a very pleasant four days with one of the most charming
families I think I have ever met.
Enderby was a beautiful old place lying back in a great park and
surrounded by woods, half-way between Winchester and Romsey, and
George Baynes, who had made a fortune in South America, and whose wife
was a Brazilian lady, was a splendid host.
One bright afternoon Rayne had gone off somewhere with Mr. Baynes, so
I found Lola and we both went for a stroll in the beautiful woods.
For a long time we chatted merrily, when, of a sudden--I don't exactly
know how it happened--but I took her hand, and, looking straight into
her eyes, I declared my passion for her.
I must have taken her unawares, for she drew back with a strange,
half-frightened expression. Her breath came and went in quick gasps,
and when she found her tongue, she replied:
"No, George. It is impossible--quite impossible!"
"Why?" I demanded quickly. "I love you, Lola. Can you never
reciprocate my affection?"
She shook her head sadly, but still allowing me to hold her soft
little hand.
"You must not speak of love," she whispered. "You are an honest man
who has been entrapped and compelled to act dishonestly as you do. I
know it all, alas! I--I know----" and she burst into tears. "I have
discovered," she sobbed, "that my father is a thief!"
"We cannot help that, Lola," I said, in deep sympathy at her distress.
"No. Unfortunately we can't," she replied faintly, in a voice full of
emotion. "But it would be fatal to us both if we loved each other.
Surely, George, you can see that!"
"I don't see it, dearest," I exclaimed, bending and kissing her fondly
on the cheek for the first time. We had halted in the forest path, and
now I held her in my arms, though she resisted slightly. "I love you,
darling!" I cried. "_I love you!_"
"No! No!" she protested. "You must not--you cannot love me. I am only
the daughter of a man who, at any moment, might be arrested--a man for
whom the police are ever in search, but cannot find."
"I know all that; but you, dearest, are not a thief!" I urged, for I
loved her with all the strength of my being--with all my soul.
She trembled and sobbed, but did not reply. Her tearful face was
hidden upon my shoulder.
"Do you care for me in the least?" I whispered to her. "Tell me, dear,
do."
She was silent.
I repeated my question, until at last she raised her face to mine,
and, though she did not speak, I knew with joy that her answer was in
the affirmative. And then I poured out my secret to her, how ever
since I had first seen her I had loved her to distraction; and how the
knowledge that she reciprocated my affection had rendered me the
happiest man in the world.
For a long time we remained locked in each other's arms. How long I
cannot tell.
Suddenly, when she had dried her tears, she seemed full of
apprehension concerning my welfare.
"Oh! do be careful of yourself, George!" she cried. "I am always so
anxious about you when you are away. Father sends you on those strange
and highly dangerous missions because he trusts you, and you, alas!
are compelled to do his bidding. But do take care. You know well what
the slightest blunder would mean--and you would never clear yourself,
you know!"
I promised I would take great care always, and again we moved along.
It was not, however, until dusk that we returned to the Manor.
I could not help wondering how Lola had discovered her father's true
character and the nature of his secret "business," but on the whole I
felt it was just as well that she knew, for she herself would exercise
great care. And then I thought in ecstasy, "She is mine--_mine_!"
Just before midnight, soon after I had retired, the door of my room
opened, and I found Rayne in his pajamas.
He placed his finger upon his lips with a gesture of silence. Then,
closing the door noiselessly, he drew me to the opposite side of the
room, and, showing me a photograph, said:
"Look at this well, George. You'd recognize him, wouldn't you?"
It was a cabinet photograph of a good-looking gentlemanly,
clean-shaven man of about twenty-five.
"Note his tiepin--a single moonstone!" added Rayne.
"Yes," I said, as I gazed at the photograph.
"Well, to-day is Monday," he said. "Next Thursday night I want you to
take Madame from London in the Rolls. Go out on the Portsmouth Road by
way of Kingston and Ditton, through Cobham, and on to Ripley. There,
about twenty miles from London, you will find on the left-hand side an
old-fashioned hotel called the Talbot. Stop there at half-past nine,
and, leaving Madame in the car, go in and have a drink. Edward Houston
will be awaiting you. Madame is just now at the Carlton. You will
pick her up at half-past eight."
"And Lola?" I asked, wondering if his daughter was to play any part in
this new piece of trickery, whatever it might be.
"She is going to Scarborough on Thursday afternoon," was her father's
reply.
"And when I meet this Mr. Houston," I asked, "what then?"
"You will not meet openly. When you've had your drink and he has seen
you, you will drive a little way along the road and there await him.
He does not wish to be seen with you. He's rather shy, you see!" and
the pleasant-faced man who controlled the most dangerous criminal gang
in Europe smiled sardonically. "He has his instructions, and you will
follow them. Take a suit-case with you, for you may be away a few
days, or longer."
I wondered what devilry he had now planned. I tried to obtain from him
some further details, but his replies were sharp and firm.
"Act just as I've told you, Hargreave. And please don't be so
infernally inquisitive." Then, wishing me good night, he turned and
left my room.
I longed there and then to defy him and refuse to obey, yet I dared
not, knowing full well the fate that would await me if I resisted.
Moreover, I had Lola to consider, and if I defied her father he most
certainly would not allow his daughter to marry me.
Next morning we left Enderby by train and returned to Overstow in the
late afternoon.
Duperre had gone up to Glasgow upon some mysterious business--crooked
without a doubt--so that night, after dining together, Rayne and I
played a game of billiards. While we were smoking in the library prior
to turning in, the footman tapped at the door and entered with a note.
Rayne tore it open, and as he read it, I noticed that his countenance
fell. A second later I saw that he was extremely annoyed.
He rose from his chair and for a few moments hesitated. Then, in a
rather thick voice, said:
"Show him in." After the servant had gone he turned to me, and in a
changed voice said: "Remain here, George. But never breathe a word of
what you hear to a living soul! Remember that!"
In a few moment a well-dressed, narrow-faced, bald-headed, rather
cadaverous man was shown in. He clicked his heels together and bowed
with foreign politeness and with a smile upon his sinister
countenance.
"I have the honor to meet Signor Rayne?" he asked, with a distinctly
Italian accent.
"That is my name," replied Rudolph inquiringly.
"Good! Then you will recognize me, and my name upon my letter in which
I have asked for this private interview."
"No. I certainly do not," he said. "I have no knowledge of ever
meeting you before!"
"Ah!" laughed the stranger. "The signore's memory is evidently at
fault. I--I hesitate to refresh it--before this gentleman," and he
glanced at me.
"Oh! you need not mind. Mr. Hargreave is my secretary, and knows all
my confidential affairs," said Rayne, assuming an air of _bonhomie_,
though I knew he was greatly perturbed by his visitor.
"Then may I be permitted to remind you of our meeting at the Bristol
Cafe, in Copenhagen, on that July night two years ago, and what
happened to Henri Gerard, the Marseilles shipowner, later that same
night? True, we never spoke together, for you posed as a stranger to
my friends. But you were pointed out to me. You surely cannot ignore
it?"
"I have never been to Copenhagen in my life," protested Rayne. "What
do you suggest?"
"The truth; one that you know well, signore, notwithstanding your
denials. You are the man known as 'The Golden Face,'" declared the
stranger bitterly, pointing his finger at him. "You neither forget me
nor my name, Luigi Gori, for you have much cause to remember it--you
and your friend Stevenson, otherwise Duperre."
Rayne turned furiously upon his visitor, and said:
"I am in no mood to discuss anything with you. So get out! You wished
to see me privately, and I have granted you this interview. I don't
know your name or your business, nor do I want to know them! You seem
to be trying to claim acquaintance with me, and----"
"Pardon me, but I do so, Signor Rayne," laughed the dark-eyed man. "It
has taken me two years to trace you, and at last I find you here! I
came at this hour because I thought I would find you apart from your
honorable family."
"What rubbish are you talking?" demanded Rayne.
"Rubbish!" echoed the stranger. "I am talking no rubbish. I am simply
reminding you of a very serious and secret matter, namely, the
mysterious end of Monsieur Gerard, of the Chateau du Sierroz in the
Jura, and of the Avenue des Champs Elysees. The Surete, in combination
with the Danish detective service, are still trying to clear up the
affair. You and I can do it," he said; and, after a pause, he looked
Rayne straight in the face, and asked: "Shall we? It rests with you!"
Rayne frowned darkly. Never before had I witnessed such an evil look
upon the face of any man. I knew that his brain was working swiftly,
and I also saw that our visitor was most unwelcome--evidently an
accomplice who had managed by some unaccountable means to penetrate
the veil of secrecy in which the super-crook had always so
successfully enveloped his identity.
"Well," he laughed. "You really are a most dramatic person, Signor
Gori, or whatever your name may be. I really don't understand you,
unless you are attempting to blackmail me. And if you are, then I'll
get my servant to show you the door."
The stranger smiled meaningly, and asked quite quietly:
"Is it not to your advantage, Signor Rayne, to talk this little matter
over in a friendly spirit? I offer you the opportunity. If you refuse
it----" And he shrugged his shoulders meaningly, without concluding
his sentence.
Rayne was silent for a few seconds. Then he said in quite a changed
and genial tone:
"I am much mystified at your visit, Signor Gori, for I certainly have
no knowledge of you. But the hour is late. If you are staying in the
neighborhood could you call again at noon to-morrow, when we will go
further into this tangled affair? We seem to be at cross-purposes
to-night."
"As you wish," replied the visitor, bowing with exquisite politeness.
"I am staying at the Fleece Hotel, at Thirsk, and I have motored out
here. To-morrow at noon I will call upon you." And then he added in a
hard, relentless tone: "And then I trust your memory will be
refreshed. Signori, I wish you both _buona sera_."
"Stay! I quite forgot! I shall not be here to-morrow," Rayne replied
quickly. "I have to be out some part of the day, and also I expect
visitors."
"Then the day after?" suggested the visitor politely, to which Rayne
sullenly replied:
"Yes. The day after to-morrow, at six o'clock in the evening. I will
be here to see you, if you still persist in pestering me. But I warn
you, Signor Gori, that it is quite useless."
The Italian smiled, bowed, and again wishing us good night, crossed
the room as Rayne pressed the electric button for the servant.
I realized that a big cloud of trouble had unexpectedly descended upon
Overstow. When he had gone Rayne broke out into a furious series of
imprecations and vows of vengeance upon some person whom he did not
name, but whom he suspected of having made a _faux pas_.
Suddenly, however, he bade me good night in his usual manner, as
though nothing had occurred to disturb him. He was a man of abnormal
intellect, defiant, fearless, and with a brain which, had it been put
to proper usage, would undoubtedly have made him a world-famous
Englishman. After all, the brains of great criminals, properly
cultivated and directed, are the same brains as those possessed by our
great leaders, whether political, commercial, or social.
That night I scarcely closed my eyes in sleep. The Damoclean sword had
apparently fallen upon the Squire of Overstow. And I recollected his
daughter's warning.
Next morning, directly after breakfast, which he ate with relish, and
seemed quite his normal self, I drove with him at his orders over to
Heathcote Hall, about five miles away, where lived Sir Johnson
Burnham, one of the old Yorkshire aristocracy, who was also chairman
of quarter sessions.
I waited at the wheel while he called. I knew that the baronet was not
at home, as a week before Lola had told me that he had gone to San
Remo. Nevertheless, Rayne went inside, and was there quite half an
hour. I was puzzled at his absence, but the reason seemed plain when
the butler, bowing him out, exclaimed:
"I am so sorry, Mr. Rayne, but the telephone people are, I fear, very
slack in these days. It takes so long to get a number."
So Rayne had gone to Heathcote in order to telephone to somebody in
great urgency--somebody he dare not speak with from Overstow.
As we drove back again, Rayne said:
"Of course, George, you will never breathe a word of this--well, this
little _contretemps_--or of its result. When I'm up against the wall I
always hit hard. That's the only way. I'm not going to be
blackmailed!"
"The affair does not concern me," I replied. "What I hear in your
presence I never repeat."
"I'm glad you appreciate your position," he answered. "I'm a good
employer to those who trust me, but an infernally bad one to those who
doubt, who blunder, or who betray me, as you have probably learned,"
he said in a hard voice, as we swung into the handsome lodge gates of
Overstow.
Just before luncheon Rayne was called to the telephone. I was in the
room at the time. He apparently recognized the voice, and scribbled
something upon the pad before him.
"Will you repeat that?" he asked. "I want to be quite clear."
Then he listened again very intently.
"Right! I'll be with you at ten to-night," he replied, and then hung
up the receiver.
"I must go to London," he said, turning to me. "You'll drive me into
York, and I can catch the four-thirty up. You stay here and meet that
Italian chap to-morrow at six, and tell him that I'm up at Half Moon
Street. Give him my address, and ask him to see me there. After you've
seen him, start in the car for London and carry out the instructions I
gave you on Monday."
Then he went to his room, changed his clothes, and came down to lunch
in very bright spirits. It seemed that by the Italian's visit he was
now not in the least perturbed.
I drove him with Lola to York, where he went to London and Lola to
Scarborough. Afterwards I dined at the Station Hotel alone, and
returned to Overstow, which seemed chill and lonely. The local doctor
happily looked in during the evening, and I played him a game at
billiards.
In impatient curiosity I waited until next day, when, punctually at
six o'clock, Signor Gori was shown into a little room adjoining the
great hall, and there I joined him in the capacity of a busy man's
secretary.
"I much regret, Signor Gori," I said, after we had bowed, "but Mr.
Rayne was called to London quite unexpectedly upon some very urgent
business. He presents his apologies and asks whether you can manage to
meet him in London when it is convenient to you. Will you telephone to
him?" And I gave him the address of Rayne's rooms.
"His apologies!" echoed the Italian, with a very marked accent and a
gesture of ridicule. "The apologies of 'The Golden Face'! Ah! my dear
friend, you are his secretary; you are not the principal in this very
serious affair."
"Serious. How?" I asked in pretense of ignorance, and hoping thereby
to learn something.
"_Madonna Santa!_ You do not know--you do not realize the depths of
that man's villainy! I do! I am the one person who has penetrated the
veil of secrecy beneath which he has so long remained hidden. Querot,
of the Paris Surete, and Tetani, of the Public Security of Italy, are
my friends. I can now go to them, as I shall."
"My dear sir!" I exclaimed. "The matter is no affair of mine! I am
simply a paid secretary to do Mr. Rayne's correspondence, and
sometimes to drive his car. There my engagement ends."
"Then be very careful! Be warned by me!" the Italian cried, gazing at
me very seriously. "This man, your employer, is the leader of the most
wonderfully organized gang of criminals in Europe. I happen to know."
"How?" I asked.
He looked at me strangely, and his manner changed. His dark eyes
seemed to search mine, and then next instant he smiled mysteriously.
"I will tell you the truth," he said. "The reason I know is because I
have unwittingly--owing to a little lapse from the path of
honesty--been made one of the tools of this man whose marvelous brain
controls the actions of dozens of the most unscrupulous and dangerous
thieves on the Continent. My suspicions were aroused by something a
woman told me in Paris, and for many months I have been unceasing in
my inquiries. I have at last discovered the well-concealed chief who
gives his orders like a general in the field, and those orders are
obeyed to the letter without question, and always to the profit of
those who execute them. And here," he added, gazing around, "I am in
the fine house of the man of mystery for whom the police are ever
seeking--'The Golden Face'!"
"What you have said certainly surprises me," I replied. "Surely there
must be some mistake. Mr. Rayne is not the leader of a criminal gang.
He is simply a country landowner here."
"Under that guise he poses unsuspected by the police," laughed my
visitor. "You can rest assured that I have made every inquiry and that
now I know."
"And what are your intentions?" I asked. "Surely you will go and see
him in London?"
The truth was out, and I saw that the Italian meant mischief.
"Perhaps I shall go to the police at once," he said. "Perhaps I shall
go to London. I shall consider. He made an appointment and he has
broken his promise. He fears me! That is quite plain. But, signore, I
am here in England to bring him to justice, if only for one very
serious crime--a crime that a woman witness I have can prove!"
"This is all very distressing to me, especially as Mr. Rayne has a
daughter, a young lady who is entirely ignorant of her father's source
of income," I said.
"Ignorant!" he echoed. "Ah! my dear signore, do not think the
Signorina Lola is ignorant! I have waited and watched. I know more
than you or Signor Rayne ever suspect. The girl may affect ignorance,
but she knows, and I can prove it!"
His words caused me to start. I certainly did not like the man's
attitude, for whatever I said, or whatever pretense I made, he refused
to be appeased. All I could do in the circumstances was to express
regret that Mr. Rayne had been compelled to go to London, and to again
ask him to call at Half Moon Street.
His allegations against Lola incensed me. I tried to obtain from him
further details of his allegations, but he remained mysterious and
triumphant. So in that spirit he left me, and departed in the car he
had hired from Thirsk.
After a hurried dinner I got out the Rolls, filled up the tank, and
set out on the long journey to London. As hour after hour I swept
along the great North Road, my big headlights glaring before me, I
felt more than ever apprehensive.
Could it be that the bald-headed man had actually discovered the
leading spirit of the great gang of which I could only suppose he had
been an unimportant member? If so, then for my own safety I ought to
warn Rayne of his peril. Yet it was all hateful to me. I had been
inveigled into that untenable position which I held, and now escape
was impossible. I felt, however, in honor bound to protect Lola, even
though that Italian crook had made those airy allegations against her.
I drove on through the night against a pelting rain that fell between
Grantham and Stamford, but at the Wansford cross-roads it cleared up,
and gradually the gray dawn showed.
It was half-past eight when I drove into the garage off the Tottenham
Court Road, and I took a taxi to the Great Central Hotel, where I had
a wash and a sleep till noon.
Then I went round to Half Moon Street, but found that Rayne was at the
Automobile Club. I found him there just as he was going in to lunch
with two ladies whom I had never before seen.
My presence seemed to alarm him, for with excuse he left the ladies
and took me out into the big hall.
There I told him of Gori's visit and of his threats.
He laughed.
"I only hope he will come and see me, George," he said. "But somehow,
I don't think he will! You know now what to do. Madame is alone at the
Carlton and ready to accompany you. I'm sorry I can't give you lunch,
George, but I have two guests. I shall be anxious to know how you get
on. Telephone to me in confidence after you've been to Ripley, won't
you? Good-by."
And he passed across the hall and rejoined his two smartly dressed
guests, crooks, like himself, I supposed.