A CHANGE OF ADDRESS
On the morning after the inquest on Rose de Bercy, the most miserable
young man in London, in his own estimation, was Mr. Rupert Glendinning
Osborne. Though utterly downcast and disconsolate, he was in excellent
health, and might have eaten well of the good things on his breakfast
table had he not thoughtlessly opened a newspaper while stirring his
coffee.
Under other circumstances, he might have laughed at the atrocious
photograph which depicted "Mr. Rupert Osborne arriving at the coroner's
court." The camera had foreshortened an arm, deprived him of his right
leg below the knee, discredited his tailor, and given him the hang-dog
aspect of a convicted pickpocket, for he had been "snapped" at the
moment of descent from his automobile, when a strong wind was blowing,
and he had been annoyed by the presence of a gaping crowd.
The camera had lied, of course. In reality, he was a good-looking man of
thirty, not tall or muscular, but of well-knit figure, elegant though by
no means effeminate. For a millionaire, and a young one, he was by way
of being a phenomenon. He cared little for society; drove his own
horses, but was hardly ever seen in the Park; rode boldly to hounds, yet
refused to patronize a racing stable. He seldom visited a theater,
though he wrote well-informed articles on the modern French stage for
the _New Review_; he preferred a pleasant dinner with a couple of
friends to a banquet with hundreds of acquaintances; in a word, he
conducted himself as a staid citizen whether in New York, or London, or
Paris. Never had a breath of scandal or notoriety attached itself to his
name until he was dragged into lurid prominence by the stupefying event
of that fatal Tuesday evening.
Those who knew him best had expressed sheer incredulity when they first
heard of his contemplated marriage with the French actress. But a man's
friends, as a rule, are the worst judges of his probable choice of a
partner for life: and Rupert Osborne was drawn to Rose de Bercy because
she possessed in superabundance those lively qualities and volatile
charms in which he was himself deficient.
There could be no manner of doubt, however, that some part of his
quivering nervous system had been seared by statements made about her
during the inquest. It was not soothing for a distraught lover to learn
that Mademoiselle de Bercy's reminiscences of her youth were singularly
inaccurate. She could not well have been born in a patrician château on
the Loire, and yet be the daughter of a Jersey potato-grower. Her
father, Jean Armaud, was stated to be still living on a small farm near
St. Heliers, whereas her own version of the family history was that
Monsieur le Comte de Bercy did not survive the crash of the family
fortunes in the Panama swindle. Other discrepancies were not lacking
between official fact and romantic narrative. They gave Osborne the
first glimpse of the abyss into which he had almost plunged. A
loyal-hearted fellow, he shrank from the hateful consciousness that the
hapless girl's tragic end had rescued him in all likelihood from another
tragedy, bitter and long drawn out. But because he had been so foolish
as to fall in love with a beautiful adventuress there was no reason why
he should be blind and deaf when tardy common sense began to assert
itself.
To a man who habitually shrank from the public eye, it was bad enough to
be dragged into the fierce light that beats on the witness-box in an
inquiry such as this, but it was far worse to feel in his inmost heart
that he was now looked upon with suspicion by millions of people in
England and America.
He could not shirk the meaning of the recorded evidence. The newspapers,
it is true, had carefully avoided the ugly word alibi; but ninety per
cent. of their readers could not fail to see that Rupert Osborne had
escaped arrest solely by reason of the solid phalanx of testimony as to
his movements on the Tuesday evening before and after the hour of the
murder; the remaining ten per cent. reviled the police, and protested,
with more or less forceful adjectives, that "there was one law for the
rich and another for the poor."
At the inquest itself, Osborne was too sorrow-laden and stunned to
realize the significance of certain questions which now seemed to leap
at him viciously from out the printed page.
"How were you dressed when you visited Miss de Bercy that afternoon?"
the coroner had asked him.
"I wore a dark gray morning suit and black silk hat," he had answered.
"You did not change your clothing before going to the Ritz Hotel?"
"No. I drove straight there from Feldisham Mansions."
"Did you dress for dinner?"
"No. My friends and I discussed certain new regulations as to the
proposed international polo tournament, and it was nearly eight o'clock
before we concluded the business of the meeting, so we arranged to dine
in the grill-room and go to a Vaudeville entertainment afterwards."
That statement had puzzled the coroner. He referred to his notes.
"To the Vaudeville?" he queried. "I thought you went to the Empire
Theater?" and Osborne explained that Americans spoke of "vaudeville" in
the same sense as Englishmen use the word "music-hall" or "variety."
"You were with your friends during the whole time between 6.30 p.m. and
midnight?"
"Practically. I left them for a few minutes before dinner, but only to
go to the writing-room, where I wrote two short letters."
"At what hour, as nearly as you can recollect?"
"About ten minutes to eight. I glanced at the clock when the letters
were posted, as I wished to be sure of catching the American mail."
"Were both letters addressed to correspondents in America?"
"No, one only. The other was to a man about a dog."
A slight titter relieved the gray monotony of the court at this
explanation, but the coroner frowned it down, and Rupert added that he
was buying a retriever in readiness for the shooting season.
But the coroner's questions suddenly assumed a sinister import when
William Campbell, driver of taxicab number X L 4001, stated that on the
Tuesday evening, at 7.20, he had taken a gentleman dressed in a dark
gray suit and a tall hat from the corner of Berkeley Street (opposite
the Ritz Hotel) to the end of the street in Knightsbridge in which
Feldisham Mansions were situated, had waited there for him for about
fifteen minutes, and had brought him back to Berkeley Street.
"I thought I might know him again, sir, an', as I said yesterday----"
the man continued, glancing at Rupert, but he was stopped peremptorily.
"Never mind what you said yesterday," broke in the coroner. "You will
have another opportunity of telling the jury what happened subsequently.
At present I want you to answer my questions only."
An ominous hush in the court betrayed the public appreciation of the
issues that might lurk behind this deferred evidence. Rupert remembered
looking at the driver with a certain vague astonishment, and feeling
that countless eyes were piercing him without cause.
The hall-porter, too, Simmonds by name, introduced a further element of
mystery by saying that at least two gentlemen had gone up the stairs
after Mr. Osborne's departure in his automobile, and that one of them
bore some resemblance to the young millionaire.
"Are you sure it was not Mr. Osborne?" said the coroner.
"Yes, sir--leastways, I'm nearly positive."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because Mr. Osborne, like all American gentlemen, uses the lift, sir."
"Can any stranger enter the Mansions without telling you their
business?"
"Not as a rule, sir. But it does so happen that between seven an' eight
o'clock I have a lot of things to attend to, and I often have to run
round the corner to get a taxi for ladies and gentlemen goin' out to
dinner or the theater."
So, there was a doubt, and Rupert Osborne had not realized its deadly
application to himself until he read question and answer in cold type
while he toyed with his breakfast on the day after the inquest, which,
by request of Mr. Winter, had been adjourned for a fortnight.
It was well for such shreds of stoicism as remained in his tortured
brain that the housemaid was still unable to give evidence, and that no
mention was made of the stone ax-head found in Rose de Bercy's
drawing-room. The only official witnesses called were the constable
first summoned by the hall-porter, and the doctor who made the autopsy.
The latter--who was positive that Mademoiselle de Bercy had not been
dead many minutes when he was brought to her flat at ten minutes to
eight--ascribed the cause of death to "injuries inflicted with a sharp
instrument," and the coroner, who knew the trend of the inquiry, would
not sate public curiosity by putting, or permitting the jury to put, any
additional questions until the adjourned inquest. Neither Clarke nor
Furneaux was present in court. To all seeming, Chief Inspector Winter
was in charge of the proceedings on behalf of the police.
Rupert ultimately abandoned the effort to eat, shoved his chair away
from the table, and determined to reperuse with some show of calmness
and criticism, the practically verbatim report of the coroner's inquiry.
Then he saw clearly two things--Rose de Bercy had willfully misled him
as to her past life, and he was now regarded by the public as her
probable betrayer and certain murderer. There was no blinking the facts.
He had almost committed the imprudence of marrying a woman unworthy of
an honorable man's love, and, as if such folly called for condign
punishment, he must rest under the gravest suspicion until her slayer
was discovered and brought to justice.
Rupert Osborne's lot had hitherto been cast in pleasant places, but now
he was face to face with a crisis, and it remained to be seen if the
force that had kept three generations of ancestors in the forefront of
the strenuous commercial warfare of Wall Street had weakened or wholly
vanished in the person of their dilettante descendant.
At any rate, he did not flinch from the drab reality of fact. He read
on, striving to be candid as to meanings and impartial in weighing them.
At the end of the evidence were two paragraphs setting forth the
newspaper's own researches. The first of these ran:
Our correspondent at St. Heliers has ascertained that the father
and sister of the deceased will leave the island by to-day's
mail steamer for the double purpose of identifying their
relative and attending the funeral. There can be no question
that their first sad task will be in the nature of a formality.
They both admit that Rose de Bercy was none other than Mirabel
Armaud. Mademoiselle Marguerite Armaud, indeed, bears a striking
resemblance to her wayward sister, while Monsieur Armaud, though
crippled with toil and rheumatism, shows the same facial
characteristics that are so marked in his two daughters. The
family never revealed to their neighbors in the village any
knowledge of Mirabel's whereabouts. After her disappearance
eight years ago her name was seldom, if ever, mentioned to any
of their friends, and their obvious wishes in the matter soon
came to be respected by would-be sympathizers. It is certain,
however, that Marguerite, on one occasion, dared her father's
anger and went to Paris to plead with her sister and endeavor to
bring her home. She failed, as might be expected, since Rose de
Bercy was then attaining the summit of her ambition by playing a
small part in a play at the Gymnase, though at that period no
one in Paris was able to foresee the remarkable success she was
destined to achieve on the stage.
Each word cut like a knife. The printed statements were cruel, but the
inferences were far worse. Rupert felt sick at heart; nevertheless he
compelled himself to gather the sense of the next item:
It was a favorite pose of Mademoiselle de Bercy--using the name
by which the dead actress was best known--to describe herself as
an Anarchist. It is certain that she attended several Anarchist
meetings in Paris, probably for amusement or for professional
study of an interesting type, and in this connection it is a
somewhat singular coincidence that Detective-Inspector Clarke,
who was mentioned on Wednesday as being in charge of the police
investigations into the murder, should have arrested two
notorious Anarchists on the Thames Embankment yesterday shortly
before the Tsar passed that way _en route_ to the Guildhall. The
two men, who refused to give any information as to their
identity, were said to be none other than Emile Janoc and
Antoine Descartes, both well-known French revolutionaries. They
were brought before the Extradition Court, and ordered to be
deported, the specific charge against them being the carrying of
fire-arms without a license. It was stated that on each man was
found an unloaded revolver.
So far as Rupert could judge, the newspaper was merely pandering to the
craze for sensationalism in bracketing Rose de Bercy with a couple of
unwashed scoundrels from Montmartre. On one occasion, indeed, she had
mentioned to him her visits to an Anarchist club; but their object was
patent when she exhibited a collection of photographs and laudatory
press notices of herself in the stage part of a Russian lady of high
rank who masqueraded as a Terrorist in order to save her lover from
assassination.
"It would have been only fair," he growled savagely, "if the fellow who
is raking up her past so assiduously had placed on record her appearance
on the stage as _Marie Dukarovna_. And who is this detective who made
the arrests? Clarke was not the name of the man I met yesterday."
Then he groaned. His glance had just caught a detailed description of
himself, his tastes, his family history, and his wealth. It was
reasonably accurate, and not unkindly in tone, but it grated terribly at
the moment, and in sheer desperation of spirit he crushed the newspaper
in his clenched hands.
At that instant his man entered. Even the quiet-voiced and
impenetrable-faced Jenkins spoke in an awed tone when he announced:
"Chief Inspector Winter, of Scotland Yard, wishes to see you, sir."
"Very well, show him in; and don't be scared, Jenkins. He will not
arrest _you_."
Rupert must have been stung beyond endurance before he would fling such
a taunt at his faithful servitor. Jenkins, at a loss for a disclaimer,
glanced reproachfully at the table.
"You have hardly eaten a morsel, sir," he said. "Shall I bring some
fresh coffee and an egg?"
Then Rupert laughed grimly.
"Wait till I have seen Mr. Winter," he said. "Perhaps he may join me. If
he refuses, Jenkins, be prepared for the worst."
But the Chief Inspector did not refuse. He admitted that coffee-drinking
and smoking were his pet vices, and his breezy cheerfulness at once
established him on good terms with his host.
"I want you to understand, Mr. Osborne, that my presence here this
morning is entirely in your interests," he said when they were seated,
and Rupert was tackling a belated meal. "The more fully we clear up any
doubtful points as to your proceedings on Tuesday the more easy it will
be for the police to drop you practically out of the inquiry except as
an unimportant witness."
Rupert's heart warmed to this genial-mannered official.
"It is very kind of you to put things in that light when every newspaper
in the country is prepared to announce my arrest at any moment," he
replied.
Winter was astonished. His face showed it; his big blue eyes positively
bulged with surprise.
"Arrest!" he cried. "Why should I arrest you, sir?"
"Well, after the chauffeur's evidence----"
"That is exactly what brings me here. Personally, I have no doubt
whatsoever that you did not leave the Ritz Hotel between half-past six
and nine o'clock on the evening of the murder. Two of your friends on
the committee saw you writing those letters, and the clerk at the
inquiry desk remembers supplying you with stamps. Just as a matter of
form, you might give me the names of your correspondents?"
Rupert supplied the desired information, which Winter duly scribbled in
a notebook, but it did not escape the American's usually quick
perception that his visitor had already verified the statement made
before the coroner. That being so, some other motive lay behind this
visit. What was it?
Winter, at the moment, seemed to be fascinated by the leaf-color and
aroma of the cigar which Jenkins had brought with the coffee. He puffed,
smelled, pinched, and scrutinized--was completely absorbed, in fact.
"Don't you like it?" asked Osborne, smiling. The suggestion was almost
staggering to the Chief Inspector.
"Why, of course I do," he cried. "This is a prize cigar. You young
gentlemen who are lucky enough to command practically unlimited money
can generally obtain anything you want, but I am bound to say, Mr.
Osborne, that you could not buy a thousand cigars like this in London
to-day, no matter what price you paid."
"I imagine you are right," said Rupert. "The estate on which that
tobacco was grown is one of the smallest in Cuba, but it is on the old
rich belt. My manager is a scientist. He knows to half an ounce per acre
how much sulphate of potash to add each year."
"Sulphate of potash?" questioned Winter, ever ready to assimilate fresh
lore on the subject of the weed.
"Yes, that is the secret of the flavor, plus the requisite conditions of
soil and climate, of course. The tobacco plant is a great consumer of
mineral constituents. A rusty nail, a pinch of salt, and a small lump of
lime, placed respectively near the roots of three plants in the same
row, will produce three absolutely different varieties of tobacco, but
all three will be inferior to the plants removed from such influences."
"Dear me!" said Winter, "how very interesting!"
But to his own mind he was saying: "Why in the world did Furneaux refuse
to meet this nice young fellow? Really, this affair grows more complex
every hour."
Osborne momentarily forgot his troubles in the company of this affable
official. It was comforting, too, that his hospitality should be
accepted. Somehow, he felt certain that Winter would have declined it if
any particle of suspicion had been attached to the giver, and therein
his knowledge of men did not deceive him. With a lighter heart,
therefore, than he would have thought possible a few minutes earlier,
he, too, lit a cigar.
Winter saw that Rupert was waiting for him to resume the conversation
momentarily broken. He began with a straightforward question.
"Now, Mr. Osborne," he said, "will you kindly tell me if it is true that
you were about to marry Mademoiselle de Bercy?"
"It is quite true."
"How long have you known her?"
"Since she came to London last fall."
"I suppose you made no inquiries as to her past life?"
"No, none. I never gave a thought to such a thing."
"I suppose you see now that it would have been wiser had you done
something of the kind?"
"Wisdom and love seldom go hand in hand."
The Chief Inspector nodded agreement. His profession had failed utterly
to oust sentiment from his nature.
"At any rate," he said, "her life during the past nine months has been
an open book to you?"
"We soon became friends. Since early in the spring I think I could tell
you of every engagement Mademoiselle de Bercy fulfilled, and name almost
every person she met, barring such trivialities as shopping fixtures and
the rest."
"Ah; then you would know if she had an enemy?"
"I--think so. I have never heard of one. She had hosts of friends--all
sympathetic."
"What was the precise object of your visit on Tuesday?"
"I took her a book on Sicily. We--we had practically decided on Taormina
for our honeymoon. As I would be occupied until a late hour, she
arranged to dine with Lady Knox-Florestan and go to the opera to hear
_Pagliacci_. It was played after _Philémon et Baucis_, so the dinner was
fixed for half-past eight."
"Would anyone except yourself and Lady Knox-Florestan be aware of that
arrangement?"
"I think not."
"Why did she telephone to Lady Knox-Florestan at 7.30 and plead illness
as an excuse for not coming to the dinner?"
Rupert looked thoroughly astounded. "That is the first I have heard of
it," he cried.
"Could she have had any powerful reason for changing her plans?"
"I cannot say. Not to _my_ knowledge, most certainly."
"Did she expect any visitor after your departure?"
"No. Two of her servants were out for the evening, and the housemaid
would help her to dress."
Winter looked at the American with a gleam of curiosity when the
housemaid was mentioned.
"Did this girl, the housemaid, open the door when you left?" he asked.
"No. I just rushed away. She admitted me, but I did not see her
afterwards."
"Then she may have fancied that you took your departure much later?"
"Possibly, though hardly likely, since her room adjoins the entrance,
and, as it happened, I banged the door accidentally in closing it."
Winter was glad that a man whom he firmly believed to be innocent of any
share in the crime had made an admission that might have told against
him under hostile examination.
"Suppose--just suppose--" he said, "that the housemaid, being hysterical
with fright, gave evidence that you were in Feldisham Mansions at
half-past seven--how would you explain it?"
"Your own words 'hysterical with fright' might serve as her excuse. At
half-past seven I was arguing against the ever-increasing height of polo
ponies, with the rest of the committee against me. Does the girl say any
such thing?"
"Girls are queer sometimes," commented Winter airily. "But let that
pass. I understand, Mr. Osborne, that you have given instructions to the
undertaker?"
Rupert flinched a little.
"What choice had I in the matter?" he demanded. "I thought that
Mademoiselle de Bercy was an orphan--that all her relatives were dead."
"Ah, yes. Even now, I fancy, you mean to attend the funeral to-morrow?"
"Of course. Do you imagine I would desert my promised wife at such an
hour--no matter what was revealed----"
"No, Mr. Osborne, I did not think it for one instant. And that brings me
to the main object of my visit. Please be advised by me--don't go to the
funeral. Better still, leave London for a few days. Lose yourself till
the day before the adjourned inquest."
"But why--in Heaven's name?"
"Because appearances are against you. The public mind--I had better be
quite candid. The man in the street is a marvelous detective, in his own
opinion. Being an idler, he will turn up in his thousands at Feldisham
Mansions and Kensal Green Cemetery to-morrow afternoon, and, if you are
present, there may be a regrettable scene. Moreover, you will meet a
warped old peasant named Jean Armaud and a narrow-souled village girl in
his daughter Marguerite. Take my advice--pack a kit-bag, jump into a
cab, and bury yourself in some seaside town. Let me know where you
are--as I may want to communicate with you--and--er--when you send your
address, don't forget to sign your letter in the same way as you sign
the hotel register."
Rupert rose and looked out of the window. He could not endure that
another man should see the agony in his face.
"Are you in earnest?" he said, when he felt that his voice might be
trusted.
"Dead in earnest, Mr. Osborne," came the quiet answer.
"You even advise me to adopt an alias?"
"Call it a _nom de voyage_," said Winter.
"I shall be horribly lonely. May I not take my valet?"
"Take no one. I suppose you can leave some person in charge of your
affairs?"
"I have a secretary. But she and my servants will think my conduct very
strange."
"I shall call here to-morrow and tell your secretary you have left
London for a few days at my request. What is her name?"
"Prout--Miss Hylda Prout. She comes here at 11 a.m. and again at 3 p.m."
"I see. Then I may regard that matter as settled?"
Again there was silence for a time. Oddly enough, Rupert was conscious
of a distinct feeling of relief.
"Very well," he said at last. "I shall obey you to the letter."
"Thank you. I am sure you are acting for the best."
Winter, whose eyes had noted every detail of the room while Rupert's
back was turned, rose as if his mission were accomplished.
"Won't you have another cigar?" said Rupert.
"Well, yes. It is a sin to smoke these cigars so early in the day----"
"Let me send you a hundred."
"Oh, no. I am very much obliged, but----"
"Please allow me to do this. Don't you see?--if I tell Jenkins, in your
presence, to pack and forward them, it will stifle a good deal of the
gossip which must be going on even in my own household."
"Well--from that point of view, Mr. Osborne----"
"Ah, I cannot express my gratitude, but, when all this wretched business
is ended, we must meet under happier conditions."
He touched a bell, and Jenkins appeared.
"Send a box of cigars to Chief Inspector Winter, at Scotland Yard, by
special messenger," said Rupert, with as careless an air as he could
assume.
Jenkins gurgled something that sounded like "Yes, sir," and went out
hastily. Rupert spread his hands with a gesture of utmost weariness.
"You are right about the man in the street," he sighed. "Even my own
valet feared that you had come to arrest me."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Winter.
But when Jenkins, discreetly cheerful, murmured "Good-day, sir," and the
outer door was closed behind him, Winter's strong face wore its
prizefighter aspect.
"Clarke _would_ have arrested him," he said to himself. "But that man
did not kill Mirabel Armaud. Then who did kill her? _I_ don't know, yet
I believe that Furneaux guesses. _Who_ did it? Damme, it beats me, and
the greatest puzzle of all is to read the riddle of Furneaux."