THE MAN BOURTZEFF
The next morning Owen called at Plevna Gardens, as he had promised, and
found his prognostication had proved true, and that the major had had a
good night and was practically himself again. Miss Gordon had waited to
see him before leaving for Bond Street, but she had little conversation
with him, and yet in the few sentences she uttered he thought he
noticed a change from the previous evening. She seemed more shy and
reserved, and yet at the same time cordial and friendly.
After hearing his report she vanished for a few minutes, and, returning
dressed for outdoors, shook hands with him, saying:
“I’m afraid you must excuse my not staying any longer, doctor. I’ve a
busy day before me—many appointments; but don’t hurry away if you can
spare a few minutes, for I am sure my father will be glad of a chat
with you. Good-morning.” And, kissing her father and telling him she
would be back as soon as she was free, she left the flat.
Owen stayed talking for a short time, and then, at the major’s request,
promising he would look in again one evening shortly, left as he too
had a heavy day before him.
It was two or three days after this, when he had finished his entries
and was about to go upstairs to supper, that old Margaret entered the
surgery saying:
“Mr. Jervoise is in the dining-room, sir.”
Owen pursed his lips. For a moment his brows contracted.
Then he ascended at once to where his friend was awaiting him.
“Halloa, old chap!” exclaimed Dick in his usual cheery manner. “I
haven’t seen anything of you for nearly a fortnight, so thought I’d
just run over and look you up.”
“Good. Have a bit of supper,” exclaimed the doctor, blinking at his
friend through his gold-rimmed pince-nez. “I rang you up on the ’phone
several times, but got no reply. Suppose you were out.”
“I’ve been out quite a lot of late,” answered Jervoise, though he did
not say that Thyra was in London, or that he had been almost daily in
her company.
Jervoise could not conceal from himself the fact that his friend’s
manner was unusually strained. True, they sat down to the table
together and commenced the cold supper which had already been laid. Yet
there was not in the doctor’s greeting that old warmth of some months
ago. Why?
Their conversation was mostly upon a topic in which both took a keen
interest—motor-racing.
Presently, however, Owen, as he raised his glass of claret to his lips,
asked:
“Have you heard any more of Alza?”
“No. I believe, however, she’s still in England.”
“Why?”
Dick shrugged his shoulders, answering:
“Her movements are usually mysterious, I fancy.”
“A rather dangerous woman, I’ve heard.”
“What—as far as good looks go, you mean?” Jervoise laughed.
“In several ways—if what I hear be true.”
“What do you hear?”
“That she’s scarcely a person in whose company one should be seen.”
Dick did not answer for a moment. He was reflecting upon the fact that
his friend had taken her out on several occasions, and yet he now
denounced her as an undesirable person. Had they quarrelled?
“Well, old chap, didn’t I tell you something of the sort long ago?”
“Yes, but you didn’t tell me all that you might have done concerning
her.”
“A man never wishes to say hard things about a woman—especially if
she’s pretty,” Dick laughed.
“Yes, but you might at least have told me what you knew.”
“You admired her, my dear fellow, so I left you to find out for
yourself.”
“She’s a very mysterious young person. What can have induced her to so
closely watch that house in Keppel Street?”
“Nothing, except that I explained that that address was the one given
by Grinevitch immediately prior to his death.”
“You know Alza well—eh?”
“I have known her for several years, both here in London and in
Paris. I thought that perhaps, with her unique knowledge—and it is no
doubt unique—she might assist us in elucidating the reason why Paul
Grinevitch intended so suddenly to travel to London. I therefore told
her the whole of the strange story, as you are quite well aware. When
I had finished, some curious idea apparently occurred to her, though
she would explain nothing to me. But an hour later she embarked upon a
campaign of vigilant surveillance, which, I presume, she is pursuing at
this moment.”
“But why?”
“For her own ends. That’s my firm opinion.”
“Then she’s not acting in your interests?”
“Why should she? She has no motive in assisting me. Yet she may, of
course, have a personal motive in entertaining the suspicion which it
is now quite certain she does entertain.”
Owen looked at his friend through his glasses with a glance of distinct
suspicion, and went on eating.
Truth to tell, he had been charmed by the good-looking young
Frenchwoman to whom Dick had introduced him. He had found her bright
and vivacious, and it had been to him a distinct pleasure to take her
out to theatres on several evenings. But this was before his summons to
Plevna Gardens.
Why she had been engaged in so closely watching that dark house in
Keppel Street was to him a complete mystery. She had told him that she
had acted on behalf of her “old friend M’sieur Jervoise,” yet Dick had
now declared that he had no claim upon her whatsoever.
That curious telegram sent by Paul immediately prior to his death
had, of course, been the subject of inquiry, at the request of the
Christiania police, by Scotland Yard. But the detective-inspector who
had called at Keppel Street had admitted that he could make out nothing
from the landlord’s reply. It was true that he had received a telegram
from Norway, signed Paul Grinevitch, but as the name conveyed nothing
to him he had kept it a couple of days, and, hearing nothing further,
had destroyed it, and dismissed his expected arrival from his mind.
People who let lodgings in London frequently receive telegrams and
letters from people who either change their minds at the last moment or
who do not arrive in the metropolis after all.
Thus, when Scotland Yard’s cursory inquiry had failed, this bright-eyed
young Frenchwoman had openly declared her intention of ascertaining
the truth. Owen had himself visited that quiet street at night on more
than one occasion, and, though unnoticed by her, had seen her waiting
in the vicinity patiently watching.
This action of hers had surprised him. It seemed as though she was
keeping that silent surveillance on Dick’s behalf.
Suddenly Owen raised his eyes from his plate, and, looking straight at
his friend, asked:
“Among your many acquaintances have you ever known a man named Nicholas
Bourtzeff?”
Dick held his breath. Had Alza told him the truth, he wondered?
“Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t know him very intimately. I met him in
Paris once.”
“With Alza, I suppose?”
“Why?”
“Because he is, I hear, a friend of hers.”
“And who is your informant?”
“Alza herself.”
“Well?”
“The man is an undesirable, is he not?” asked Owen.
“Perhaps so,” was his friend’s reply. “You see, I know so very little
of him that I can say nothing.”
“Who is he?”
“A Russian, as his name implies—a refugee who lives mostly in Paris, I
believe.”
“Refugee is a synonym for revolutionist. Is he one?”
“In his case I think it is an exception,” Dick replied. “As far
as I know, his flight from Russia had no connection whatever with
politics. He was persecuted by drastic police methods, and simply
left the country in order to obtain freedom. Ask any Russian, and he
will mention to you dozens of men who have left the country from the
same cause. To the public mind every Russian residing abroad must be
either a Nihilist or a spy, which is simply absurd. In certain of the
Governments of the Empire the police are so utterly unscrupulous in
making arrests nowadays that the better-class people prefer to obviate
disaster by residence abroad.”
“Then this Bourtzeff is not a revolutionary?” asked the other quickly.
“I know nothing against him,” was the other’s quick response.
“And what is Alza?”
“An artist. I daresay she has shown you some of her water-colours. She
often designs covers for some of the illustrated magazines.”
“I asked what she is, not what she’s supposed to be.”
“I repeat—an artist.”
Owen Odd smiled incredulously, in a manner which showed Dick that he
was aware of something concerning the girl’s real profession.
“Is it not a fact,” asked the fair-haired man in pince-nez, “that a
very curious story is told concerning this Alza Dresler?”
Dick laughed.
“Many stories are told of women which are cruel and untrue,” he
declared. “Why, my dear fellow, the penalty paid by a pretty woman is
the scandal talked of her. The more beautiful the girl the more bitter
the gossip.”
“I know that,” said Owen impatiently. “But, Dick, I am simply asking
you a question. You introduced the girl to me, and I believed her to be
what you represented her—an artist.”
“And so she is.”
“Admitted. But she is something more,” he said. “I have discovered that
a very grave suspicion attaches to her, as being the associate—indeed,
the decoy, and at times the spy, of certain very dangerous characters—a
gang of swindlers well known to the police both in Paris and London.”
Dick laughed again, even though his amusement was forced.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, “whoever told you that romantic story?”
“I was noticed in her company—as a matter of fact at the Gaiety
Theatre—by a sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department who
lives in Brook Green Road, and whose wife happens to be a patient of
mine. He came here and warned me against her.”
Dick suddenly grew thoughtful.
“What did the detective say? If she’s such a dangerous character, why
didn’t he arrest her?”
“He had no warrant, I understood. He explained that she was one of a
most dangerous gang of international thieves, who carry on their clever
depredations for the most part on the Continent.”
“That’s extremely interesting,” Dick said. “I had no idea hers was
such a romantic story. Personally, I’ve never met any of these daring
friends of hers whom you mention. What strikes me as curious is that if
our little friend is known, as you declare, she has not been arrested
ere this.”
“I said, my dear fellow, that grave suspicion attaches to her. Perhaps
there is insufficient evidence for the French police to demand her
extradition.”
“Didn’t your friend the police officer make any further explanation?”
“Well, he did. He stated that about twelve months ago, when she was
in London on the last occasion, she was with a young Frenchman, named
Laurillard, at supper at a small restaurant close to Leicester Square,
when my friend arrested her companion on a warrant from France,
charging him with obtaining a very large sum by blackmail from a
wealthy landowner near Toulon. The allegation afterwards was that the
girl had been used by the gang as decoy, and that the landowner in
question had proposed marriage to her. The Paris police telegraphed for
Alza’s arrest, but she had already left London.”
“I don’t believe it!” declared Dick abruptly, pretending utter
unconcern. “Her whereabouts in Paris is well known. She lives in the
Rue Madame, and could be found almost instantly.”
“The charge against her was afterwards withdrawn, I’m told. Her
companion, however, is now serving seven years.”
“He was one of her associates, I suppose,” Dick remarked with perfect
calmness as he refilled his claret-glass.
“Of course,” responded Owen. “And a further fact which I have
established is that this man Bourtzeff, whom she followed so closely,
is not a Russian gentleman, as you suppose, but a very clever
criminal who was long wanted by the police. He was once a member
of the association to which she belongs, but he denounced them and
their doings to Monsieur Hamard, of the Paris police, and came
over to England. She followed, and has discovered him. She intends
mischief—vengeance for the betrayal of herself and her friends.”
Dick sat silent. It amazed him that Owen should have found out so much.
What else did he know, he wondered?
“Now,” added the doctor, “does it not strike you as a most remarkable
coincidence that only one hour before Paul Grinevitch met his death he
should have sent a mysterious warning to the man Nystrom—who, it has
since been discovered, was a well known criminal wanted for a serious
crime—and should also have intended to seek refuge at that very same
house in Keppel Street where Nicholas Bourtzeff was living in hiding?”
“Yes,” replied Jervoise in a strange, hard voice, twisting his cigar in
his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. “It is a problem which seems to admit
of no solution.”