THE MYSTERY WIDOW
“Isn’t it a horrid nuisance, Geoffrey, Lord Hendlewycke has arrived!”
exclaimed Sylvia Beverley as she stood with her lover on the terrace
before the luxurious Hôtel Royal, at Dinard.
“Hendlewycke here!” exclaimed the young Marconi engineer in surprise.
“Then I suppose it means that I’d better get back to London,” he said
rather grimly.
“Isn’t it too bad of mother? She’s just told me that she wrote to
the fellow asking him to join us on our motor trip to Touraine,” the
pretty, dark-haired girl said petulantly. “I shall decline to go.”
“But you know the reason, dearest, just as I do,” said Falconer. “Your
mother disapproves of us being so much together, and intends that you
shall become Lady Hendlewycke.”
“I obey mother in all things--but I won’t marry Hendlewycke,” declared
the girl decisively. “Of course he’s awfully useful to us socially.
Through him we’ve got to know some of the very best people in London.
Mother likes all that sort of thing, but personally he bores me.”
After Mrs. Beverley’s stay at Poldhu she had taken Sylvia on a motor
tour. They had landed at Boulogne from Folkestone, and had had a
beautiful run to Dinard, where Geoffrey, with three weeks’ leave due to
him, had joined them a few days before.
Both mother and daughter were delighted with Dinard. It is a place
which in summer appeals to the wealthy, with its luxurious hotels and
gay casino, its smart world of bathing and dancing, and its expensive
shops, most of them branches of the best establishments in Paris.
There, in the Casino, on the _plage_ or in the hotels, the _haut-monde_
loves to rub shoulders with the _demi-monde_, and in these days it is,
_par excellence_, the resort of the blatant war-profiteer and his fat,
uncouth wife.
It was noon. The gay, cosmopolitan idlers of both sexes were either
bathing or taking their _apératif_, or else wandering about the
scrupulously clean streets and inspecting the shops.
Sylvia, in her cream summer gown and large hat, presented a delightful
figure as, at her lover’s side, she wandered presently along the Rue
du Casino, in order to buy some flowers for the table of their private
sitting-room at the hotel.
The weather was glorious. It was warmer on what the French term the
Emerald Coast than it had been in Cornwall, while the life and society
was, indeed, a change from the rural quietude of Poldhu Cove.
Just as the pair were passing the entrance to the Casino, a stout,
middle-aged, very smartly-dressed woman halted and spoke to Sylvia.
“Well, Madame Claudet!” the girl cried. “Why--how long have you been
over in Europe?”
“About four months,” she replied, speaking broken English with a strong
French accent. “My husband died, you know.”
“What?” exclaimed Sylvia. “Mr. Claudet dead!”
And for the first time she noticed that the lady was in mourning.
“He died of heart failure, suddenly--in the street in New York,”
the rather handsome widow said. Then when Sylvia had expressed her
condolence, she turned and introduced Geoffrey.
“I’m at the Hôtel des Terrasses,” Madame Claudet said to the girl.
“Where are you staying?”
Sylvia told her, and begged her to call upon her mother that afternoon.
“We shall be so very delighted to see you again,” she added. “Mother
has often spoken of you, and recalled our gay days together at Palm
Beach.”
Madame promised to call, and then, when Sylvia and Geoffrey walked on,
the girl said:
“Poor Madame Claudet! I’m so sorry! Her husband was a very wealthy man.
They had a lot of valuable property, I believe, in Brazil. We knew her
in Florida. I’m so glad we’ve come across her. I shall ask mother to
invite her to go with us to Touraine.”
At luncheon Geoffrey met Lord Hendlewycke, whom, of course, he had
known in London. All the men who went up and down St. James’s Street
knew Hendlewycke as a very hard-up peer, who was glad to get dinners
and luncheons at other people’s expense. How he lived nobody exactly
knew, for he was believed not to possess the proverbial “bean.” Yet
he was a bright optimist, with a fund of amusing anecdotes, and very
popular with hostesses of all sorts.
In the afternoon the French widow called upon Mrs. Beverley, and was
received with great enthusiasm. At tea Geoffrey met her again, and
afterwards agreed with Sylvia that she was a most charming person. She
had been born in the Alpes Maritimes, but had been taken to America
by her parents when she was about eighteen, and had married a Mr.
Claudet, an American, whose father had been French. Hence she possessed
all the natural _chic_ of the Frenchwoman, combined with the go-ahead
characteristics of the American.
Next day, notwithstanding Sylvia’s appeal, Geoffrey left Dinard for
London in response to a telegram he pretended had come from Marconi
House. Mrs. Beverley, at heart, did not regret his departure, because
she hoped that during the motor tour through the Côtes du Nord,
Morbihan, and the Maine-et-Loire, which she had arranged, his lordship
might propose to Sylvia.
Back again at the Marconi Works at Chelmsford, Geoffrey became immersed
in his patient research into further wonders of wireless. He was
engaged with others upon a new idea.
One day he had occasion to go from Chelmsford over to Witham, where
there had just been established the new wireless station in direct
communication with Paris. Witham is nine miles from Chelmsford, and,
although messages from France are received upon the aerial wires there,
the transmission is effected from the great aerial at the Chelmsford
Works.
On that particular morning he had been in the transmission room at
Chelmsford, watching the huge panel with its big array of great
illuminated globes--the transmission-valves for continuous waves--and
chatting with Mr. Drew, the shrewd, dark-haired engineer in grey
tweeds, who was, perhaps, the world’s greatest expert in wireless
telephony. In the big hall, full of wonderful apparatus and huge
condensers--the result of many scientific brains--the pair had been
watching the relay work, the rapid dots and dashes from the key at
Witham, and then, in consultation, they had agreed upon a still further
diagram that might perhaps give better results.
In consequence, Falconer had gone over to Witham, leaving the
ever-watchful Mr. Drew with his powerful transmission-set, with which
he had a short time before spoken across the Atlantic, and to Senatore
Marconi while on board his yacht in the Mediterranean--the set which he
regarded with as much tenderness as though it were his own child--as,
indeed, it really was.
That wonderful display of apparatus was but the germ of a revolution
in the transmission of speech. It was purely experimental, and was now
being used, not for long-distance telephony, but for the exchange of
Morse signals with Paris--sent automatically at such a speed as to be
unreadable by any listener.
The inner room was a hive of industry. Upon the operating bench was a
“siphon recorder”--a delicate instrument which was actually writing,
by means of a kind of fountain pen, upon the paper “tape” the dots and
dashes sent automatically at a speed of one hundred words a minute. The
pen never left the paper, but rose up and down, making short or long
strokes in violet ink on the upper side of the paper, and was one of
the latest marvels of delicate wireless instruments.
Geoffrey glanced at it casually. It clicked on continuously night and
day in response to the automatic hand of the transmitter in Paris
tapping his key.
“The Frenchmen are keeping us very busy,” Graham remarked. “Look! We’re
overwhelmed, but up at the Fenchurch Street office it must be worse.”
Geoffrey nodded For some seconds he watched the “recorder” at work, and
then presently he and Graham sat down at the receiving set and began to
discuss where an improvement would possibly be made. They were seated
close to the “recorder,” when presently, through mere force of habit,
Geoffrey, even while chatting with Graham, found himself reading the
incoming messages. Suddenly there became recorded on the tape in that
curious crooked writing the words, “Marguerite Claudet.”
Claudet? In a moment he recollected that it was the name of the wealthy
widow to whom Sylvia had introduced him in Dinard. He took the tape,
and reading back, found that the message, which had been dispatched
from Paris half an hour before, was addressed to a person named
Mildmay, apparently living in chambers in Ryder Street, London, and
that it was in code--a jumble of figures and letters.
At first, the origin of the message being Paris, Geoffrey merely
smiled within himself at the similarity of the name, and recollected
the seal of secrecy regarding all messages. But a few moments later,
he recollected that Mrs. Beverley had addressed her friend as “dear
Margot.” For aught he knew the lady was motoring with Mrs. Beverley on
their trip to the ancient châteaux on the Loire.
Before leaving Dinard, Sylvia had given him the Hôtel de l’Univers, at
Tours, as their central address while in Touraine. At that time Madame
Claudet, though invited to join the motoring party, had not decided
whether to accept. In Falconer’s presence she had declared that she
would be compelled to go to Paris to see her bankers upon some matter
of business from South America.
The message to Mildmay was evidently a private prearranged jumble of
figures and letters, the whole perhaps meaning but one word, “yes” or
“no.” Such codes are by far the most difficult to decipher.
Next day, so interested did he become in the message through space,
which had, of course, been delivered to the addressee, that he
telegraphed to Sylvia at Tours asking whether Madame Claudet was with
them, but begging that she should not be told of his inquiry.
The reply came in due course. Madame Claudet had been on business to
Paris, and had just rejoined them at Tours. Naturally, Sylvia asked the
reason of his inquiry, to which he replied by wire that he would tell
her when next they met.
He had, however, established the fact that the rich widow had been in
Paris, and it certainly seemed as if the message he had noticed upon
the green recording tape was really from her.
For the next few days he was extremely busy over at Witham, assisting
in getting the London-Paris service going more smoothly. The most
delicate adjustment of the instruments is necessary in wireless
stations when at first fitted, for the apparatus is so often liable
to unaccountable freaks and interruptions, each of which must be
methodically overcome until the service is brought to perfection.
The apparatus at Witham, having at last been tuned up to the highest
pitch, Geoffrey suddenly received orders to go down and make some
adjustments at the big transatlantic station high up above Carnarvon,
in North Wales.
For two days he remained there, and then returned to Warley, where the
Professor was still busy upon his monumental book.
Alone with his private wireless set at one o’clock in the morning, the
puzzle of that curious cipher message from the widow obsessed him. He
wore the low-resistance telephones over his ears, and was listening to
Poldhu sending out the day’s news to ships at sea. It was better than
reading the evening papers, for here one had news in tabloid form, the
news which was printed next morning upon all the transatlantic liners.
“By Jove, I will!” he exclaimed aloud to himself, after listening to
a declaration made by Mr. Lloyd George to M. Briand, and reported by
the Paris _Matin_. He removed the head-’phones, and then muttered to
himself:
“I wonder who this man Mildmay can be? I’ll find out. It will be
interesting--if nothing else. Yet somehow--why, I don’t know--I took an
instinctive dislike to Madame Claudet. Yet there was really no reason
for it as far as I could see, and she appeared to be quite charming.”
And he switched off, and retired to bed.
Two days later, having occasion to go up to Marconi House, he snatched
an hour and went to Ryder Street. As he anticipated, the place was a
set of bachelor’s chambers. The liftman became communicative after a
ten-shilling note had been pressed into his hand.
“Well, sir,” he said in a low voice, “the fact is that I don’t know
very much about Mr. Mildmay. Lord Bamford let his rooms to him about
six months ago, and he seems to be away quite a lot. I forward his
letters to Paris, Vienna, Rome, and other places. He is a constant
traveller. He must have business abroad, I think.”
“Does he have any lady friends calling upon him?”
“No. Never to my knowledge, sir. He’s simply a gay, irresponsible sort
of man. Dines out every night either with people in smart society or at
one of the expensive restaurants. A bit of a mystery, I think.”
“Why a mystery? What do you suspect?” asked Geoffrey eagerly as they
stood together conversing in low tones against the lift.
“Well, about a week ago a little old man--a foreigner with a grey
beard--came here and questioned me closely. At first I refused to tell
him anything. He went away. Later in the evening he called again, and
together we went round into the Haymarket and we had a drink or two. I
told him what I knew, and--well!--he seemed much interested--very much
interested.”
“In what way?” asked Falconer.
“Well, I may as well be frank with you. He offered me twenty pounds if
I would loan him the duplicate key of the flat which my wife has in
order to go in and out to see to things for him. He has no meals here,
but his bedroom has to be seen to each day.”
“Twenty pounds! Then the little old foreigner was very eager to see
inside. I wonder why?”
“Yes. That’s in my mind. I haven’t accepted the money, and I don’t know
that I shall. Mr. Mildmay treats me as a gentleman, and I don’t see why
I should go behind his back--especially with a foreigner. He must be a
gentleman, or Lord Bamford would never have let his rooms to him.”
“Does Mr. Mildmay have many visitors?”
“Only two or three men who are intimate friends. I think he may be an
inventor--or an electrical engineer.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because sometimes when I go past the door at night, I hear the whirr
of the little motor in the flat.”
“Oh! There’s an electric motor there--is there?”
“Yes, in the scullery--it’s run off the electric light current.”
“Do you ever hear any metallic clicks or sharp fizzles and noises?”
Falconer asked.
“No. Nothing--only the motor. A little half-horse affair run off the
house current. When I was in the army I had a lot to do with small
dynamos.”
“What can it be used for?”
“Ah! I can’t tell. He keeps his sitting-room always closed. He’s put a
Yale lock on it. And my missus is always wondering why.”
Geoffrey Falconer scented mystery.
“What does he want a motor in his flat for?”
“That I can’t tell you. He’s a generous man. I’ll give him credit for
that. But somehow I don’t like his mysterious electric plant.”
Half an hour later the liftman’s wife, on pretence of going to
Mildmay’s room to see that all was straight, admitted Falconer, who had
a good look round. He examined the half-horse electric motor, and found
to it attached two high-tension wires through the wall into the locked
room.
“That’s his lordship’s dining-room,” said the stout, youngish woman. “I
can’t think why Mr. Mildmay keeps it locked up so securely. Sometimes I
think I smell a funny smell, like paint, but I’m not quite certain. It
may be my fancy. Mr. Mildmay is out golfing at Berkhampstead to-day.”
Falconer passed into the sitting-room, when the first object that
greeted him was a cabinet photograph of Madame Claudet!
He had not been mistaken. What connection could the rich Chicago widow
have with the man who kept his dining-room locked with a Yale latch?
The mystery deepened. A problem was presented which to Geoffrey
Falconer was fascinating. Madame was rich and well known in society.
What possible connection could she have with that man in England--the
man to whom she had sent a message in cipher. Cipher telegrams are
quite admissible in official correspondence, and also in business, but
when used for private communication are always suspect--except perhaps
between lovers.
“I’d like to see Mr. Mildmay,” Geoffrey told the porter, who, in reply,
declared that the gentleman usually came home about six o’clock,
dressed, and then went out to his club for dinner.
So just before six o’clock Falconer returned to Ryder Street and
watched the entrance of the chambers. He had waited for ten minutes
or so when a well-dressed fair-haired man of about forty, in golf
clothes, alighted from a taxi and, carrying his clubs, went inside.
Then, a second later, the liftman appeared in the doorway, and gave the
arranged signal that he was the person Falconer desired to see.
There was certainly nothing suspicious about Mr. Mildmay’s appearance.
He was an ordinary man of leisure, who had been out in the country
golfing.
Day by day, Geoffrey’s work taking him to Witham, he was able from time
to time to glance at the rapidly moving pen of the “recorder.” He was
wondering if any more messages of mystery would come through from the
American widow. Each day he looked at the register of wireless messages
received from Paris, but the name of Mildmay did not appear. He told
nobody of the suspicion which had arisen in his mind. As a servant of
the Marconi Company, he, like servants of the Post-Office, was sworn to
preserve the secrecy of messages, and this he did. He merely watched
and waited, even without telling his father.
Yet somehow--why, he could not himself tell--he felt that he would
like to see more of the widow’s mysterious friend. With that object he
one night put on his dinner clothes, and waited in Ryder Street until
Mildmay appeared, when he followed him unseen to a small and cosy
restaurant in Jermyn Street. Scarcely had Mildmay taken his seat at a
table against the wall when Geoffrey also entered and took a seat near
him, pretending, of course, to take no interest in anything further
than the _menu_ which the waiter handed him.
Mildmay apparently told the waiter that he was expecting friends, for
the man swiftly laid two extra places, and he had hardly finished
when two middle-aged men entered, greeted their friend, and took
their seats. Their appearance surprised Falconer, for they were
flashily-attired, and evidently not of the same class as himself.
In a few moments all three were bending towards each other. One of the
new-comers was apparently relating something in a low, confidential
tone, and when he had finished, the trio burst into loud, triumphant
laughter. Then it did not take long to realise that they were
celebrating some occasion, for champagne was soon upon the table and
they commenced an expensive meal.
Time after time Falconer endeavoured to catch some word of the
conversation, but failed. Yet, whoever the men were, he felt
instinctively that they were West End undesirables. After their dinner,
they strolled together into St. James’s Street, where Mildmay parted
from them and turned towards Pall Mall, while the pair went on into
Piccadilly. After walking some distance they entered a bar in Vine
Street; yet Geoffrey dare not go in after them for fear of being
recognised. Nevertheless, he had ascertained that Mr. Mildmay kept
rather curious company.
A couple of days later Falconer, glancing at the register of messages
passing between Paris and London, saw that during the night another
message for Mildmay had been received. He referred to the tape record,
and found that it was in code, as before, rather longer, that it had
been dispatched from Tours, and was signed by the initials “M. C.”
That same evening he called again upon the liftman in Ryder Street, and
inquired if the electric motor had been running.
“I haven’t heard it for quite a fortnight now, sir,” replied the man.
“Last night Mr. Mildmay had two friends here: one man in grey, and the
other in a blue suit. Both were middle-aged.”
Geoffrey at once described the two men who had dined with Mildmay in
Jermyn Street.
“Yes. That’s them, sir. Shady customers, I should take ’em to be.”
“Just my own opinion,” declared Falconer. “But I’d dearly love to know
why the dining-room is kept locked, and the reason that half-horse
power motor is there.”
“So would I, sir,” laughed the man. “But, after all, I expect the
explanation would be quite simple. I’ve wondered whether he’s
experimenting with something or other. At one place I was at we had the
same mysteriously locked room. But it turned out that the tenant was
a doctor, and was experimenting with the culture of the bacteria of
deadly diseases. And that was why he kept the door locked.”
“This case we shall find different,” Falconer remarked. “I don’t at all
like the appearance of Mr. Mildmay’s friends. I shall probably come and
see you again very soon,” he added, as, pressing a Treasury note into
the man’s hand, he turned and left.
On the following Friday, in response to a letter he received from
Sylvia saying that Lord Hendlewycke had gone suddenly to Switzerland,
and telling him her mother would much like to see him to accompany
them in the car on their return journey across France to Boulogne, he
obtained a week’s leave, and duly arrived at the Hôtel de l’Univers, at
Tours.
On alighting the concierge informed him that the ladies were out
motoring, but an hour later he met them on their return, and received
a warm welcome. His main object in travelling to Touraine was to meet
again Madame Claudet.
“Ah, Mr. Falconer!” she exclaimed, with her pretty French accent, as
they shook hands. “Sylvia expected you yesterday. We’ve been having,
oh!--such a delightful time.”
“Yes. It has been real interesting,” said Mrs. Beverley. “We’ve been
all over Brittany, and now we’ve seen nearly everyone of the châteaux
of the Loire.” Then turning to Madame, she said: “Come on, Margot,
dear. It’s time we got upstairs to dress.”
From the first Geoffrey realised that the two ladies were on most
affectionate terms. They, indeed, addressed each other by their
Christian names. And he wondered.
Madame Claudet looked strikingly handsome as she sat that night at
dinner, dressed in a very smart, low-cut black gown trimmed with
silver, with a silver ornament in her hair. Sylvia, too, looked
charming, in a flimsy dance frock of pale-grey.
As they sat together Mrs. Beverley explained their programme, namely,
to return by way of Blois, Orleans and Fontainebleau, to see the forest
and the château, and thence skirting Paris by Versailles, Beauvais,
Abbeville, and Boulogne. That was agreed upon, and later in the evening
Geoffrey went out with Sylvia for a stroll beneath the trees in the
pleasant Boulevard Heurteloup.
“I had a dreadful time with Hendlewycke,” the girl said as they
strolled together. “He bored me to death, and I fear I became very rude
to him in the end. That’s why he made an excuse and went off in a huff
to Switzerland. Of course,” she added, “mother was furious, but now
she’s getting over it. I believe we shall never see him again.”
“Don’t make too sure, dearest,” her lover said. “Remember, he’s after
money, and he thinks he’ll get it through you. Lady Hendlewycke! How
very nice it would sound!” he added tantalisingly.
“Geoff, you’re horrid!” declared the girl, pouting.
“I suppose you find Madame Claudet a very pleasant companion?” Falconer
went on, walking slowly, for the evening was bright, and under the
trees many people were enjoying the cool air after the heat of an
oppressive day.
“Yes. She’s so awfully jolly.”
“Has she been with you all the time since I left you?”
“Except when she went to Paris. She left Dinard suddenly, and was only
away about fifteen hours. She’s such a rapid traveller. I fancy I
should have been half dead with fatigue if I had done such a journey in
that time. She could have had only about a couple of hours in Paris to
do the business.”
“With her bankers--was it not?”
“Yes--with the Paris agent of her bank. She’s been selling some
property in Brazil. She’s such a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan--and mother
is charmed with her. She is coming to stay with us in London.”
“Excellent!” the young man exclaimed, reflecting, however, upon those
strange messages to that mysterious man in Ryder Street. “Your mother
seems devoted to madame,” he went on.
“Yes. But she’s really awfully good fun. Besides, speaking French as
she does, she’s been most useful to us on our tour. I really don’t know
what we should have done without her.”
“And yet you only knew her slightly.”
“Yes. But we knew a lot about her. Wasn’t it strange that we met her
at Dinard? We shall have a lovely run across to Boulogne. I suppose it
will take us a week or more,” the girl went on. “To-morrow we are going
to take you to see the Château of Chinon. You recollect in one of your
letters you said you would like to see it. We were there last Wednesday
week. So we’re going again to-morrow.”
She went on to ask him the reason he had wired about Madame Claudet,
but Falconer successfully evaded her many inquiries.
On the following morning, with the three ladies, Geoffrey was driven
along the thirty miles or so of delightful road to the ancient and
obscure little town, with its narrow crooked streets, the pretty Vienne
river, the historic, old-world place dominated by its three wonderful
châteaux: that of St. Georges, built by Henry II of England, the
Milieu, and the Coudray, in which lived Joan of Arc--the three forming
one great fortress.
The guardian took them around the three castles, to the three towers
of Boissy, with its fine _Salle des Gardes_, and lastly to the
three-storeyed prison tower, of which so many terrible stories of
mediæval tortures are told. Afterwards they lunched at the old Boule
d’Or, down on the Quai Jeanne d’Arc, and then drove to Chenonceux on
the road back to Tours, to visit the charming little château--one of
the most unique of all Touraine, and which at that moment was in the
possession of a well-known American who had bought it from the French
Government.
Next day the four set out on the return journey to London. Before
leaving the Univers, however, a very unpleasant incident occurred.
Geoffrey had paid his bill with a thousand-franc note which he had
obtained from the bank in London before his departure and had received
the change. Just, however, as he was entering the car to leave, the
manager came to him hurriedly and asked him to step into the bureau for
a moment. There the note he had given was shown him, and declared to be
counterfeit!
Geoffrey stood stupefied, while the manager waxed very angry, declaring
that since the war France had been flooded by spurious money brought
there and changed by foreigners. Falconer declared his innocence,
apologised, and was about to take back the note, when the manager in
fury retained it to forward to the Bank of France for destruction. So
he was compelled to pay his bill a second time, and also to lose forty
pounds or so.
Then, feeling very crestfallen, he rejoined the ladies, without,
however, letting them know what had occurred.
That night they stopped at the Hôtel Moderne, at Orleans, and after
dinner Geoffrey, without telling them of the incident at Tours, warned
them to be on their guard against spurious French bank notes.
“Oh, yes,” said Madame Claudet. “I have heard that recently great
quantities of forged notes have been passed all over France. Somebody
told me they are being made in Spain. One has to be always on the
look-out for them. It would be so annoying to pass one in innocence.”
“Indeed, one could very easily fall into the hands of the police,”
exclaimed Mrs. Beverley. “I had a most unpleasant time in Dinard.
I bought that little butterfly brooch at a jeweller’s close to the
casino, and paid for it, when, to my horror, the man said that one of
the notes--one for five hundred francs--was a forgery.”
“What did you do, my dear?” asked madame.
“Do? Well, I felt a perfect fool. I tore the note up and gave the man
another.”
“You never told me that, mother,” Sylvia remarked.
“No, dear. I felt too angry about it. So I didn’t tell anyone. It
occurred four days before we left Dinard.”
It was upon the tip of Geoffrey’s tongue to relate his own experience
at Tours, but he hesitated.
The run next day to Fontainebleau was glorious, and indeed the whole
trip across to Boulogne was in most delightful weather, and they all
thoroughly enjoyed it. At Boulogne they left the car to be brought to
London by the chauffeur, and caught the next boat across to Folkestone
and so on to London.
Geoffrey’s leave was up, so he had to be at the Works at Chelmsford on
the following day. He seized the opportunity to run over to Witham, and
there discovered that during his absence Mr. Mildmay had received two
further cipher telegrams, one sent from Fontainebleau, and one from
Beauvais, both signed “M. C.”
Now in his many conversations with the handsome widow she had never
mentioned that she had any friend in London. On the contrary, on the
night they had stopped at Abbeville, while they were dining at the old
Tête de Boeuf, she had exclaimed across the table to Mrs. Beverley:
“It really is most sweet of you, dear, to put me up in London. I know
nobody there nowadays. I’ve been away so long.”
She made no mention of the man who occupied those expensive chambers
in Ryder Street, and as far as Geoffrey knew the pair had never met.
Naturally, the young wireless engineer was often at Mrs. Beverley’s
house, and his own observations, combined with what Sylvia told him,
made it apparent to him that Madame Claudet was a most extravagant
woman.
“We are out every night somewhere,” the girl said. “And madame will
never allow us to pay a farthing. She must be very rich, for she’s
ordered eight new frocks from Lucille’s.”
“She has no friends in London, has she?” Falconer asked casually.
“She didn’t have any when she arrived, but, of course, she now knows
one or two people to whom we’ve introduced her.”
On the following day another curious telegram came through the wireless
station at Witham. Dispatched from Marseilles, it had been sent across
by wireless from Paris, and was addressed to Mildmay. It was in plain
language, and read: “Urgent that Marguerite should come over. The
change would do her good.--Jules.”
This puzzled Geoffrey more than ever. Why was madame wanted urgently at
Marseilles, and what hidden meaning was contained in the declaration
that the change would do her good? He was very anxious to ascertain if
she ever met the mysterious Mildmay, and for that purpose he went to
London one evening and again saw his friend the liftman.
No lady had visited Mr. Mildmay to his knowledge. She certainly might
have called when he was off duty.
Hence Falconer determined to watch again, and after the lapse of
several weary evenings, he one night followed Mildmay to the Savoy,
where, just before supper-time, he took a seat in the lounge and idly
lit a cigarette.
Ten minutes later Geoffrey saw standing at the head of the short flight
of stairs the familiar figure of Madame Claudet, wearing a gorgeous
theatre wrap. Her quick eye recognised Mildmay; therefore she went to
take off her wrap, and a few moments later joined him.
From a distance Falconer watched them closely. Mildmay’s greeting
appeared the reverse of cordial, for on his face was an angry,
morose expression. After a brief conversation, they passed into the
supper-room, where, in order to escape recognition, Geoffrey was
forced to leave them. But he had established the fact of their secret
friendship.
Next evening when he went to Upper Brook Street he found Sylvia alone,
her mother having gone to the theatre with madame.
“Isn’t it a shame!” she remarked. “Madame Claudet has to go to Paris
the day after to-morrow--on some of her horrid banking business again.
Mother has introduced her to her bank in Pall Mall, so that she has an
account in London, therefore these journeys will be avoided in future.”
Geoffrey, who had not allowed either Mrs. Beverley or her daughter to
suspect his doubt concerning the handsome widow, agreed, and expressed
a hope that the lady would soon return.
Next day, having to be at Marconi House, he snatched off a few hours
in the afternoon, and succeeded in watching madame leave Upper Brook
Street alone, and following her to Ryder Street, where she called upon
Mildmay. It was very apparent, by the timid way she slipped into the
doorway of the chambers, that she feared being watched. Why?
She remained there for about half an hour, when, emerging, the liftman
hailed a taxi for her and she drove to Upper Brook Street.
Geoffrey was perplexed why the mysterious Jules in Marseilles should be
so concerned regarding madame’s health. Hence he determined to watch
her movements closely until she should leave Victoria. That night he
did not return to Warley, but slept at his club, and at ten o’clock
next morning idled unseen at the corner of Upper Brook Street, in case
she should come forth. He had ascertained that she was leaving Victoria
at midday.
At about half-past ten madame came out alone, carrying her handsome
gold-mounted handbag, and in Grosvenor Square she hailed a taxi, in
which she drove to a bank in Pall Mall, in order, no doubt, to obtain
money for her journey.
She remained within about ten minutes or so, then, re-entering the
taxi, she drove back to her hostess’s house.
A quarter of an hour later Geoffrey called to wish the gay widow au
revoir, and Mrs. Beverley invited him to stay to luncheon. At about
half-past eleven madame left for Victoria, her hostess going in the car
to the station to see her off. Hence Sylvia and her lover were left
together.
Geoffrey Falconer had become disappointed and ill at ease, for the
mystery concerning the widow still remained unsolved.
Mrs. Beverley returned, and they had luncheon together, the young
wireless engineer remaining all the afternoon.
Just as they were seated at tea, Shaw, the footman, brought a card to
his mistress, who glanced at it, and said:
“Oh! It’s Mr. Elton! I wonder why he wants to see me? Ask him in here.”
The man bowed, and a few moments later a tall, clean-shaven business
man was ushered in. In a second it was plain that he was considerably
perturbed.
“Mrs. Beverley,” he said, glancing at Sylvia and Geoffrey, “I am very
sorry to disturb you with a most unpleasant matter. May I see you
alone?”
“Unpleasant matter!” gasped the South American woman. “What do you
mean? Whatever you have to say can be said right here.”
“You have a Madame Claudet staying with you. You introduced her to me,
and she opened a small account at our bank,” he said. “Well--I may as
well tell you that I have the police outside, and I am here to give her
into custody!”
Mrs. Beverley stood open-mouthed.
“Custody!” she gasped. “For what?”
“She called at the bank this morning, and changed seventy-four thousand
five-hundred francs in French notes for English notes. These were, at
noon, sent along to the head office in Lombard Street, where they have
been found to be marvellously clever forgeries!”
“Impossible!” declared Mrs. Beverley, utterly staggered.
“Alas! it is only too true. The bank has lost nearly three thousand
pounds.”
Then Mrs. Beverley, having explained how her late guest had left for
Paris that morning, refused to believe that she could be guilty of any
such fraud.
Here Geoffrey interrupted, and related how he had unconsciously
endeavoured to pass a forged note at Tours, and he recalled to her
mind the incident at the jewellers in Dinard. Both those circumstances
pointed to the fact that the woman had taken from the purses of both
Geoffrey and her hostess real notes, substituting false ones, with the
idea of watching whether they would be passed or not.
“I would like a word with the police,” Geoffrey added, and with the
bank manager he left the ladies to recover from their sudden shock.
In the library he saw the detective-inspector, and briefly related the
mysterious messages received by Mr. Mildmay, and the circumstance of
the electric motor and the locked room.
Within half an hour a priority telegram had been sent by wireless
by Scotland Yard to the commissary of police at the Gare du Nord,
in Paris, to arrest madame on her arrival, while a visit to Mr.
Mildmay’s chambers revealed in the locked room a perfect plant for the
reproduction of French and Spanish bank notes of various denominations,
the most scientific and complete ever found in the possession of
bank-note forgers.
Two hours later, when Mildmay returned, he found himself suddenly in
the hands of the police, and both he and madame--who was not a widow at
all, but his wife who had been distributing forged French and Spanish
notes all over Europe, and reaping a rich harvest--later on received
exemplary sentences at the Old Bailey.