I left St Bruno's and made as hard as my motor would go for
Westminster. Under the new rules I knew that the House of Commons did
practically no business at all on Saturdays, so that if I missed the
opportunity afforded me that night I realised that I should have to wait
until Monday afternoon before I broke the seal.
Luckily, the streets about that hour were practically free from traffic,
and my Panhard went pounding along at a pace which, if it were horribly
illegal, was certainly mightily pleasant and exhilarating so that by the
time I was tearing through Westminster all my doubts as to the
strangeness of my reception by this queer-looking monk had vanished and
I was quite keen to put this new mission through with rapidity and
success.
Now, as most people are aware, the House of Commons is about the most
easy place in the world of access if any man or woman has the most
flimsy pretext of business with any one of its six hundred or so solemn
and dignified members. I sprang from my car, handed it over to the care
of a loafer who quickly hurried up, and simply nodded to the constables
in the entrance. Then I marched up that long passage, peopled with the
statues of dead and gone Parliamentarians, with head erect and heart
that beat high with anticipation at some good and sensational
development.
As arranged, I stopped in the big hall, where some forty or fifty
persons were waiting either for admission to the strangers' gallery or
intent on interviews; and, slipping on to one of the leather-covered
lounges in a corner, I drew the precious missive from my pocket and
broke the heavy seals with which it had been fastened.
As I expected, the package did not all at once yield up its secret. The
outer wrapper, of a stout linen cloth similar to those used by the
post-office for registered envelopes, merely fell off and revealed two
other envelopes, also carefully stamped with red wax. On the top one
was written in printed characters, as though the writer were afraid that
his handwriting might be recognised:
"To John Cooper-Nassington, Esq, MP, St Stephen's, Westminster, SW."
"The Bearer waits."
On the other, to my astonishment, I discovered no less an address than
this:
_Urgent_. _Private_.
"To the Most Hon. Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, His Majesty's Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs."
"Only to be delivered by Mr Hugh Glynn in case Mr Cooper-Nassington
should decline."
For a second, I confess, I felt too astonished to say, or to do, or even
to think of anything at all. I sat, with these big legal-looking
letters in front of me, gazing into space, trying vainly to interpret
the meaning of all these extraordinary manoeuvres on the part of a
youthful Spaniard who might, it was true, be really a most important
envoy of some far-off foreign state, but equally might be also, and with
more apparent reason it seemed to me, absolutely nobody at all.
For Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, as all England was aware (in common with our
foreign enemies, no matter how big they might be or bullying in tone or
aggressive), was the very last man to be trifled with. He it was who,
when Lord Garthdown fell, told Germany so sharply to keep out of an
African negotiation we had on hand just then or he would apply an
English form of the Monroe doctrine to the entire continent of Africa
and never allow them to acquire there another foot of space. He had
also, when the United States raised some futile question about
boundaries that ought to have been fixed up a century ago, told America
that he had settled the matter in his own mind; their claim was
preposterous; and that, if they wished to enforce it, they had the
remedy common to all nations; but he should advise them to remember that
once they put foot into European complications they couldn't lift it
out. And they, too, I recollect very well, promptly busied themselves
about troubles elsewhere.
Not a nice man, perhaps--not even a courteous man--but, at all events, a
man whom the House and the country feared, and on whom nobody dared play
any game or trick.
Yet here was evidently an urgent private communication to him from Don
Jose Casteno. What was at the bottom of it?--a secret of State or of
life?
Like a man in a dream I arose and approached one of those sturdy,
well-fed constables who stand ever at the barriers that mark off the
sacred corridors of the House from the vulgar footstep of the unelect
public.
"Please give that to Mr Cooper-Nassington," I said in a voice that I
think had not the slightest resemblance to my natural tones.
My mood now was one of absolute indifference. Whatever happened, I
recognised now that I was in for something extraordinary, and I felt I
might as well get it over at once as sit on a lounge in that close,
stuffy, noisy hall and speculate about a mystery to which I had no clue.
Even John Cooper-Nassington, millionaire, was no small legislative lion
to tackle. In the days when South American industries were booming on
the Stock Exchange he had appeared with the most wonderful options for
railways in the different states--here, there, everywhere--and in three
years he had emerged from the pit of speculation with hands cleaner and
pockets heavier than most. Ever since he had been regarded as a great
authority on things South American. Whenever Chili and Peru had a
set-to, which they did regularly once in two years, or Venezuela grew
offensive to its friends, or Mexico wanted to swell itself a little,
John Cooper-Nassington was sent for by one side or the other; yet, alas,
his enemies said he had more pleasure in putting down half-a-million to
pay the expenses of a revolution in which five or six thousand innocent
varlets were burnt or blown into eternity than he had in subsequently
floating a costly war loan, three parts of which usually meandered into
his own pocket.
Still, John Cooper-Nassington, when all was said and done, was but a
penny pictorial paper kind of Boanerges compared with the quick,
Napoleonic qualities of Lord Cyril Cuthbertson who, by the way, had a
curious personal resemblance to the First Consul, and was certainly not
more than thirty-five years of age. Nassington, now, was a big,
heavy-jawed man of about fifty, with a head and beard of iron-grey hair
and a brawny, hairy, massive fist that would have felled a man at a
blow; yet, as he suddenly projected himself through the swing doors that
divided the lobby from the hall to meet me, I saw that he was carrying
the letter I had sent carefully closed in his hands still but that his
face was white and his looks strangely agitated.
"Ah, Mr Glynn," he said as I advanced to meet him, handing him my card,
"this is an extraordinary business, isn't it?" And he wrung my hand
with a vigour that suggested a high degree of excitement and nervous
tension.
"I am but an ambassador, sir," I replied, falling into step with his,
and commencing to pace up and down the corridor that led into the
street. "I have no knowledge of the contents of the communication which
I handed to you."
"Quite so. Quite so," he returned hurriedly. "I gathered as much from
what was said by the writer to me. Still, I am told I can make what use
of you I think fit, and, truth to say, that is one of the things that
puzzle me. Shall I take you with me or shall I send you back?"
"Does that, sir, mean you decline?" I queried, remembering the
superscription on the other envelope I was treasuring in a secret pocket
within my vest.
"Good heavens, man, no!" he thundered. "Do you think I am a born fool
or idiot, or what? Why, that terrible man Cuthbertson would give five
years of his life, or one of his hands, to have a magnificent chance of
a sensational _coup_ such as this may prove to be if we are right and
have a quarter of an ounce of luck. Just get this clear, will you? I
accept--I accept--I accept." And he enforced his words with a grip on
my arm that almost crushed the flesh into the bones.
A pause followed; and then, stopping dead, he fixed me with his eyes. I
could see that, shrewd, clever man of the world as he was, he was taking
my measure before he came to any deliberate resolution, and I met his
gaze with a glance as steadfast and as fearless as his own. After all,
what had I to be ashamed of in six feet of lithe, clean figure, an
athletic step, and features that my worst friends would say, although my
mouth was hidden by a heavy black moustache like a cavalryman's, were
honest-looking and reliable?
"All right," he said in that sharp, decisive way of his; "I won't beat
about the bush any longer. You shall go with me, and if, between us, we
don't make some of these fiends sit up, and do a fine stroke of business
for the old flag, I'll sit down and let that man I hate so cordially--
Lord Cyril Cuthbertson--have a shot at it. But I won't--I won't--I
won't." And once again he stretched out that vice-like hand of his to
enforce his words on my over-slow imagination. But this time I was too
quick for him--I slipped on one side--and he broke into a hearty laugh.
"You'll do," he said admiringly, giving me a hearty slap on the back.
"Just meet me at the main entrance to the House in thirty minutes, will
you? Then we'll go straight on."
But as he hastened back I could not help two questions recurring to me
with startling distinctness: What "fiends" were those we had got to
face?
And why should an insignificant-looking fellow like Jose Casteno so well
understand the bitter personal rivalries that spring up between strong
men on the same party side in the British Houses of Parliament as to be
able to play what looked like a game of childish see-saw between two
such redoubtable antagonists as Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, His Majesty's
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and John Cooper-Nassington,
uncrowned Emperor of Greater South America?
Both problems, however, were destined to be answered much more rapidly
and sensationally than ever I expected when I left the House that night.
I drove my Panhard at break-neck rate back to its garage in St
Martin's Lane, Charing Cross, snatched a hurried meal, and tore back in
a hansom to St Stephen's.
One thing was soon evident--Cooper-Nassington was a man of his word. As
a matter of fact, I hadn't been waiting three minutes by those large and
imposing gates that mark the main entrance to the Houses of Parliament
before his _coupe_ and handsome pair of bays clattered across the
courtyard, and pulled up with a jerk close to the kerb, and he thrust
his head out of the carriage and bade me enter.
In response, I took a vacant seat beside him, and without a word being
exchanged between footman and master, the servant mounted the box again,
and the carriage was driven rapidly away.
Now did I confess here that I was anxious as to our destination, worried
as to what would happen, timid as to the safety of myself and my
companion even after my grim and provoking experiences in the auction
mart, I should not put down what was the fact. In truth, I never felt
less concerned about the issue of any adventure in the whole course of
my career. Indeed, one had only to be in the company of
Cooper-Nassington to catch some of the wonderful vitality, assurance,
and resource of this most extraordinary individual. The very presence
of the man braced up the nerves, and insensibly one acquired some of
that strong, masterful habit of mind and that breadth of outlook which
seemed to make him feel that, whatever mischances befell some of God's
creatures, he, at least, was one destined to pass on--ever successful,
always victorious.
As it happened, the journey we went was in itself short. Barely had we
passed half-way along Millbank Street than we made a sharp turn to the
left, and before I had time to utter an expression of recognition, the
carriage drew up with a jerk outside the old, dingy curiosity shop in
Tufton Street in which I had earlier in the day been imprisoned,--the
retreat of that uncanny man, Peter Zouche, the Hunchback of Westminster.
Choking down any feeling of surprise I had on the subject, I meekly
descended from the brougham at the heels of my companion and without a
word of protest heard him tell his coachman: "Home." It seemed to me
then that we were both walking into the lion's den together, and that,
if anything untoward happened, much the same fate would befall us both.
The carriage rolled away, and as its red lights disappeared round the
bend of the street, which seemed strangely silent and deserted, I was
rather startled to hear my companion muffle something uncommonly like a
sigh of regret. To think, of course, that he was a bit nervous about
the upshot of our mission was nothing short of treason. None the less,
as he advanced to the side door, and gave three peculiar taps on the
woodwork, I found my hand travelling instinctively to that small pocket
of mine in which rested a revolver.
Almost instantly his summons was answered, and there appeared, framed in
the entrance, the grotesque figure of the hunchback, a man about four
feet high, with a tiny head and face that instinctively recalled the
profile of an eagle. He was carrying a candle in a heavy brass
candlestick, and as he raised this above his head the light streamed
full upon our features.
For a second he paused, uncertain what to do. Then a derisive smile
curled around his toothless gums, and, with a sneer that I knew only too
well from old and bitter experiences meant mischief, he said:
"Oh, it's you, Nassington, also Glynn--is it? Well, come in. It's as
cheap inside as out, and not so deuced unpleasant." And he backed up
against the wall as we picked our way through the passage into a tiny
parlour at the back of the shop.
The hunchback closed, locked, and bolted the door and followed us into
the room, placing the candle, with great deliberation, on the
mantelpiece. Then, rubbing his hands together and still sneering, he
turned and faced us.
"And now, gentlemen," he said, never attempting to ask us to be seated,
"perhaps you will be as good as to tell me to what I owe the honour of
this visit? Myself, I should have thought that my young friend here,
Hugh Glynn, had had enough of Peter Zouche and his shop and of his way
of paying out silly fellows who try to upset his plans."
Cooper-Nassington took a step forward and interposed his big brawny
frame between myself and the hunchback.
"Look here, Zouche," he said in that strong, masterful way of his,
"leave those tricks of nastiness for children, who may, perhaps, fly
into a temper over them, and lose sight of the object of their visits,
but we sha'n't." And he flung his hat deliberately on the table, and,
dragging forward the most comfortable chair in the room, he coolly
seated himself therein, pulled out a cigar case, extracted a weed
therefrom, and began to smoke.
"As for you, Glynn," he cried to me in a pause between the puffs, "you
make yourself at home too. Have a cigar," handing me the case and a box
of vestas, "but don't let that old scoundrel, Zouche, have one. It all
depends on his behaviour whether we ever leave him again now we've taken
up our quarters in this musty old den of his." And he reached for a
decanter of whiskey and a glass which were standing near, but the
hunchback, who was now pallid with rage, made a grab for him and dragged
them out of his grasp.
"You brute!" he hissed. "The same old brute too. Tell me your
business, and get you gone."
"Ah, now you're talking sense," said my companion, whose object
evidently had been to get the hunchback into a rage, "and I'll repay
your compliment by emulating your example and talking to the point too.
As you guess, I have come about those three old manuscripts which you
purchased at the sale of the effects of a certain Father Alphonse
Calasanctius. You have had time to decipher them since, and you know
they are of precious importance to the gentleman who is employing Mr
Glynn here, to that young idiot, Lord Fotheringay, and, also
incidentally, to myself. Now, what did they contain?"
And he fixed Peter Zouche with those terrible eyes of his.
To me, a plain onlooker, it was, of course, obvious that there must be
some strong, secret bond between the hunchback and the millionaire.
Nobody else, I was certain, would have dared to defy Peter Zouche like
this, for, whatever might be his faults, the old curio dealer lacked
neither position in the world, the respect of his fellows, nor wealth,
that was sometimes spoken of as almost fabulous. True, he had all that
petty spite, that malevolence, that ache for sinister mischief that
somehow one almost always finds with people who have been deformed from
birth, but that night none of these obvious defects were uppermost. His
attitude, on the contrary, suggested a man who had been brought to bay
much against his will--that of one who was faced by two dread
alternatives--either to fight to the bitter end an associate of old who
had some most uncanny and far-reaching hold over him, or to meekly yield
up some secret which he valued almost as highly as his life.
Who would triumph?
One--two--three--four--five minutes went by. Half instinctively I
watched the clock on the mantelpiece; and still the hunchback made no
sign, but stood half huddled over the fire, his gaze obstinately fixed
on the flames.
I remember now how breathlessly I watched that terrific conflict between
those two men of extraordinary position, influence, and power,--and I
remember, too, thinking how it was all the more deadly and impressive
because it was all so silent. One heard nothing, absolutely nothing, in
that old back parlour but the steady tick-tick of antique clocks in the
shop adjacent, the puff of the MP's cigar, and the quick, laboured
breathing of the grotesque figure poised near the fender.