TRAVERS NUGENT PAYS
After letting himself in through the door from the moor into the grounds
of The Hut, Travers Nugent paused irresolute. Should he punish that
impudent hussy Enid Mallory by keeping her in the grotto all night and
have her accidentally "found" in the morning, or should he go and
release her now?
In either case he meant to throw the blame on Tuke, whom he could
describe as an irresponsible lunatic--or anything else that came into
his head at the time. He need not be too nice about his excuses, for,
after all, the girl, as a trespasser on his private property, was the
real offender. It would be interesting to know what account she would
give of herself.
On the whole he decided that it would be wiser to go and let her out at
once, and so have done with an incident which he regretted as a blunder
on the part of his too zealous follower. Mr. Vernon Mallory was a
dangerous man to annoy, and, conscious as he was of his veiled
antagonism, Nugent did not want to give him cause for open quarrel. Till
the _Cobra_ had reached her destination, and all traces of her had
been obliterated, Bhagwan Singh's agent knew that he would have to walk
warily indeed.
So he struck into the shrubbery, and on coming to the grotto unlocked
the door with the key which Tuke had left in the keyhole. With a curious
qualm that was not exactly alarm he saw that his kind offices would not
be needed, and that the lies he had framed might remain unspoken. For
the electric torch which he flashed on the gloomy interior showed it to
be untenanted, while the gaping hole in the roof told of the way of
escape.
Nugent stared at the improvised ladder of fertilizer kegs, and at the
aperture overhead, with a thoughtful frown.
"That is hardly girl's work, yet she cannot have had help," he muttered.
"If she had contrived to attract attention, no one would have been at
the pains of breaking open the roof for her when the key was on the
outside of the door all the time. Certainly she had hours to do it in;
and she's more than half a boy."
He turned away, and, crossing the dewy lawn, entered his library by the
unfastened French window. The shaded lamp had been lit, shedding a
pleasant glow over the cosy bachelor room, and he gave a little sigh of
content. He was fain to admit that he was tired with the day's
exertions, and glad to be home again. He rang the bell, and the
soft-footed Sinnett appeared.
"Mix me some whisky and soda water and give me a cigar," he said. "You
have nothing out of the common to report?"
"Nothing that you do not know already, sir," was the reply. "Tuke will
have informed you about Miss Mallory and the stone grotto."
"That is why I asked," rejoined Nugent. "The young lady has gone, and
part of the roof of the grotto has been removed. You have heard or seen
nothing that would account for it?"
"Nothing at all, sir. I have not been in the garden, but no sound
reached me in the house. And I have been listening--in case she called
out."
Nugent nodded, knowing the man's ways. "And that mad French seller of
onions, he has not been here to-day?" he continued.
"No, sir; I haven't seen him for a day or two."
"Thank you, Sinnett. Then that will be all now I think. Don't go to bed
just yet. I may want you to go out and post a letter for the early
collection."
The butler having retired, Nugent lay back in his luxurious lounge-chair
and sipped his drink and watched the blue wreaths from his Havana
coiling upwards. He was filled with a delightful sense of achievement.
The thing which had seemed so easy at first, and had then threatened
dire failure through Chermside's defection, had been carried out in
spite of the temporary obstacle. That band of electric light stealing
away across the dark sea had been the signal that he had won the game,
the stakes of which were the Maharajah's twenty thousand pounds. Not bad
pay for six months' work, of which his pawns had taken the most arduous
share.
He did not anticipate any trouble from these pawns, except perhaps, from
one. Leslie Chermside was safe on board the _Cobra_, and Bhagwan Singh
might be trusted to see to it that he was never heard of again. That
vain puppet, Louise Aubin, could do him no harm if she would, since she
would believe, as all the world would believe, that Violet had
voluntarily fled with her lover. And if the flighty French maid was
disappointed in her preposterous aims with regard to himself--well, a
little palm-grease would effectually staunch the bleeding of her fickle
heart. Simon Brant, Bully Cheeseman, Tuke, and Sinnett were his
accomplices rather than his tools, and they might be trusted to keep
silence for their own sakes; if not, he knew enough to hang each or all
of them. The crew of the _Cobra_ were to be paid off in India, whence
they would doubtless be scattered to the four winds of heaven; and,
besides the captain and the mate, not one of them was aware of his
connection with the affair.
The remaining exception, which had cost him more uneasiness than all the
rest combined, was Pierre Legros. The onion-seller's insane and
vindictive jealousy of himself in respect of Louise might grow into a
factor to be reckoned with, entailing unpleasant, if not actually
perilous, consequences. Well, it would be surprising if he, Travers
Nugent, the finished schemer, were not equal to dealing with a
half-demented foreign sailor, whose position was, to put it mildly,
somewhat insecure.
"A hint to the fair Louise to revert to her original suspicion would
satisfactorily settle Monsieur Pierre Legros, without my having to make
an open move myself," he mused aloud, as he summed up the situation.
Sitting there lazily in the lamp-glow, he felt like a general reviewing
a victorious battlefield--"cleaning up the mess," as he put it to
himself, with the advantage that there was no visible mess to clean up.
He had scored another of those easy wins in the great game of life--the
game he had played so long and so successfully, with men and women as
counters and gold as the final stake.
But as he murmured that last self-gratulation there came a sudden sound,
very faint, but near at hand, to break his train of thought. He had left
the long window open so that he could watch the fire-flies on the
dew-frosted grass of the lawn; but he was not sure if the sound came
from out there in the garden or from inside the room. It was an
ill-defined sound, that might have been the intake of a heavy breath or
the stirring of leaves gently moved by the sluggish air. The chair he
sat in backed on to a beautifully-carved sandalwood screen which covered
the angle at one side of the hearth, and he was smiling, half
contemptuously, at an impulse to rise and look behind the screen, when
it was checked and driven clean out of his head by quite a different
sort of noise.
From the back premises, prolonged and imperative, there reached him the
metallic clamour of the electric bell--the bell at the front door. He
glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was half-past twelve. Who
could be calling upon him at that time of night?
A moment later Sinnett knocked and entered, and the man's usually
imperturbable face, white and quivering, struck the keynote of danger.
With an apologetic gesture, as though to convey that his outer defences
had been forced, he stood aside and announced--
"Mr. Mallory, sir, and Sergeant Bruce. I told them I didn't think you
would see them so late, but they insisted."
Nugent rose, somewhat heavily, to greet his visitors. He was wondering
where was the flaw in the web he had woven. There must be a loose thread
somewhere, or these men would not be here. That little devil Enid must
have been complaining about Tuke's behaviour, and if that was all there
was no harm done. So there was no trace of disquiet in the sleepy smile
and stifled yawn which he affected.
"Ah, my dear Mallory; I was dozing, I think. And you, Bruce," he
murmured, with a pleasant nod for the police-officer. "This looks very
formidable. What is wrong? If it is nothing urgent, perhaps you will sit
down."
Vernon Mallory ignored the civility. "I have just seen my daughter," he
began, with a quiet directness that duly impressed its hearer. "She has
been shut up in the grotto in your grounds all the afternoon--whether
with or without your knowledge is immaterial. The point is this: her
imprisonment led to her learning that you had planned to entrap some
female on to a vessel to-night, using Chermside in some unexplained
manner, which, however, I can guess at, as a decoy. Now, a few moments
before she escaped from your grotto Enid heard Violet Maynard's voice in
your garden, apparently on the way down to the shore. I have telephoned
to the Manor House, by favour of the exchange, and I am informed that
Miss Maynard cannot be found in or about the house. What have you to
say?"
Travers Nugent felt as if an icy finger had touched his spine. The
indictment put forward with such inexorable precision comprised the very
core of his whole vile plot. This terrible old man had even hinted that
the means employed to drive Chermside on to the _Cobra_ were no secret
to him. This was a bolt from the blue which only a bold front could
avert. Everything depended on the source of Enid Mallory's amazing
discovery; till he had ascertained that, it would be childish to abandon
his position.
He gave an amused little laugh. "Really it is too bad that I should be
dragged into Miss Enid's home-made romance," he protested. "Did she give
you chapter and verse, may I ask?"
"My daughter is not a fool," Mr. Mallory replied quietly. "She happened
to have a fellow-prisoner in the grotto, who had earlier in the day
heard you discussing your plans for this evening with one of your
creatures--the same man who shut her into the grotto. To be quite frank
with you, Mr. Nugent, the sergeant accompanies me because I intend to
charge you with serious crime."
"And anything you say will be taken down and used against you," the
policeman interjected with official gravity. This was the first time the
worthy man had had to arrest a gentleman, and he hardly knew whether he
liked the job or not.
"Serious crime is a comprehensive phrase," sneered Nugent. "Means
anything from pitch and toss to manslaughter. Come, sir! What do you
charge me with?"
"With a crime one degree more heinous than the worst of those you have
named--with murder, as an accessory before the fact," the accuser's
clear voice cut the silence. "I charge you with indirectly inciting one
Pierre Legros to kill Levi Levison under circumstances that would throw
suspicion on Mr. Chermside. I charge you with using the state of terror
to which you reduced that unhappy man in order to induce him to fly in
such a manner that he might be deemed to have eloped with the lady whom
you have been suborned to snatch from her home and friends for----"
Mr. Mallory checked himself. His ancient training in international
politics saved him from the indiscretion of naming the Indian prince who
was behind the culprit. And, sub-consciously, he was also checked by a
movement behind Nugent's chair. The great carved sandal-wood screen
swayed, and was surely going to fall forward on the man who was
fingering his long moustache in a vain effort to frame an answer. But
no, the screen righted itself, and Nugent's tongue moistened his dry
lips into power of utterance.
"Very pretty, very pretty," he said, striving for calm. "But don't you
see, my dear Mallory, that all your midnight madness topples down like a
house of cards unless your daughter's informant--her fellow-prisoner, as
you call him--is a credible witness. I will make you a small wager that
he will never come forward and tell the public the wonderful pack of
lies with which he gulled that charming little girl of yours. I----"
Again that movement in the screen behind Nugent's chair, and this time
with results that shifted the centre of interest with startling
suddenness. Round the corner of the screen came Pierre Legros, gaunt and
haggard, his fierce eyes in accord with the furious spasms that made a
battle-ground of his unshaven face. Nugent, half turning in his chair to
look up at the apparition which had drawn the gaze of the other two,
broke off in the midst of his sneer with a sobbing catch in his throat.
"You say I not come forward to spik the truth?" the Frenchman began, in
a voice that shook with emotion. "I was hide here to do that to you, and
now these gentlemens shall hear the truth also. I only now learn it
myself, for it is different from what I think till now. I say to myself,
messieurs, that this _scelerat_ desire to depart in steamer with Louise
Aubin, but I was wrong. What you say about Ma'amselle Maynard and that
poor Jermicide, monsieur, show me all his wickedness as by flash of
lightning. It is true, gentlemens, that I kill Levison, and that this
Nugent tempt me to it."
The sergeant made a movement, but changed his mind. The man was in the
mood to confess, and confession implied that he meant surrender. No need
to lay hands on him till he had made a little more evidence. Mr. Mallory
stood like a graven image watching Nugent, who, still preserving the
half-turn he had made in his lounge chair, was staring up as if
fascinated by the man at his shoulder.
"It is that I desire to make clean the name of a man who is innocent,"
Legros went on. "This Jermicide--I not know him, I nevair spik with him,
but he do me no wrong, and Pierre Legros is not cruel, messieurs. I
would not that Jermicide suffer for me, who am guilty. Nugent, he send
for me, and pretend he wish to save Louise from the so deceitful
Levison, who made to admire her. He say, did Nugent, that Louise, whom
as a boy in Brittany I love, will meet Levison on the marsh, and that he
will persuade her to fly with him to London, where Levison will leave
her in disgrace. Messieurs, I was mad--my brain was hot like
fire--Nugent he gave me the place and time of meeting, and I was there
first--with my knife--that was all."
The tragedy in the concluding words was dramatic; even more so the
silence that followed. The sergeant, good man, felt that the next move
was with him, but he was single-handed, and had not bargained for having
to convey two murderers to the station when he consented to accompany
Mr. Mallory to The Hut. He coughed nervously to attract the attention of
his two prospective prisoners, who seemed to have no eyes for any one
but each other. Nugent, with his head twisted round, was looking up at
Legros; Legros, behind the chair, was looking down at Nugent, his
nostrils twitching strangely. The Frenchman, with innate politeness,
understood, and obeyed the policeman's claim on his attention, turning a
mild and friendly gaze on him.
"You know, you'll have to come along with me, both of you, after this,"
said the sergeant haltingly. "You won't give any trouble, Legros?" It
did not occur to his mind that the gentleman would otherwise than "go
quietly."
"Oh, yes," Legros answered gently. "We shall both of us give you nothing
of the trouble, monsieur. I myself, Pierre Legros, will see that this
wolf in the clothes of the sheep will go from this apartment with
complacence the most profound."
Nugent essayed to rise, unsteadily, to his feet, but Legros shot out a
brown hand on to his shoulder, and firmly pressed him back into a
sitting posture.
"Stay there, _chien_, till you have the orders to move," he snarled.
The eyes of the master of the house glittered balefully. "Really,
sergeant, if you persist in coupling us in this absurd charge, I must
ask your protection against this man," he protested. "I was going to
ring the bell for my servant to arrange matters before leaving; perhaps
you will kindly do it for me."
In answer to the summons Sinnett appeared, furtively scanning his
employer's face for some sign of his wishes other than what he might
hear in words. A quick look of intelligence passed between them, though
Nugent's request sounded simple enough.
"There has been a stupid misunderstanding, Sinnett, which will entail my
going with Sergeant Bruce till it has been explained," he said quietly.
"I want you to put a few things in my handbag, please--just absolute
necessaries, such as a change of linen and a tooth brush. You will know
what I am most likely to need. Don't keep us waiting, there's a good
fellow."
The silent-footed servitor bowed and retired, and with an air of
contemptuous resignation Nugent lay back in his chair. As he fingered
his fair moustache his gaze, lazily contemplative, was all for the
observant face of Mr. Mallory, whose attention was directed at the
supple form of the French sailor. Legros himself had no eyes for any one
but the man over whose chair he hovered, expectant and menacing. The
sergeant kept shifting from one foot to another, emphasizing the silence
with deprecatory coughs. He was probably the most uncomfortable man in
the room.
The tableau was not unduly prolonged, for in less than three minutes
Sinnett reappeared, carrying a small leather bag, which he brought to
his master. Nugent placed it on his lap, and, idly fingering the catch,
proceeded to instruct his servant on various household matters. The
gardener was to be careful to attend to the heating of the orchid house;
Nugent was minutely particular about ordering his dinner for the
following night, as he had no doubt that after explaining to the
magistrates at Exmouth he should be at home in good time to enjoy it.
Dixon, the chauffeur, was to have the car at the police court at noon,
so as to be ready to bring him back.
"And now, sergeant, I think I am ready to end this business," he
concluded, looking blandly round. "It really galls me to give you so
much trouble, but you, like my dear friend Mallory, have brought it on
yourself, you see."
As he spoke the fingers which had been toying with the catch of the bag
closed, snapping it open and diving swift as lightning into the
interior. At the same moment Pierre Legros thrust his hand into the
bosom of his blue blouse, and withdrew it just as Nugent lifted a
revolver from the bag. There was a gleam of steel, and a great
sheath-knife shot downwards like a streak of fire into the back of
Nugent's neck ere he could level the weapon. The point of the knife came
out above the collar-stud, and the Frenchman dragged it out with a
vicious wrench as the corpse fell forward on to a magnificent tiger-skin
rug.
"He make to shoot us all," said Legros calmly. "But most he make to
shoot you, Monsieur Mallory, and I glad to save the father of the brave
ma'amselle. But I have no love for the Ingleesh rope or the Ingleesh
madhouse--so _bon voyage_, messieurs."
And before they could guess his intention the big knife was driven home,
through the blue blouse, into his own tumultuous heart.