TELLS OF TWO MEN
The stranger, whose age was about forty-five, went on in the direction
of the post-office in the Church Square.
Should I dash back, overtake him and claim acquaintance? Or should I
keep my knowledge to myself, and watch in patience?
A single second had I in which to decide. And I decided.
I turned back upon my heel again as though I had not recognized him.
But what could that man's presence mean in that little East Coast town?
Aye, what indeed?
I tried to think, to conjecture, to form some theory--but I was too
confused. Lola had been there--and now that man who had just passed!
Along the narrow, old-fashioned Jetty Street I strode for some yards,
and then turned and retraced my steps till I saw him across the old
churchyard entering the post-office.
Treeton was coming up in my direction, little dreaming how near he was
to the one man who knew the truth. I smiled to myself at the ignorance
of the local police. And yet my own knowledge was that of a man who had
led a strange cosmopolitan life, who had mixed with all classes on the
Continent, who had trodden the streets of more than one capital in
disguise, and who had assisted the _Sûreté_ in half a dozen countries.
I smiled at Treeton as he went by, and he smiled back. That man in the
post-office yonder was a remarkable personage. That I well knew. What
would any agent in the _brigade mobile_ of Paris have given to be in my
place at that moment--to be able to enter the Cromer post-office and lay
hands upon Jules Jeanjean--the notorious Jules Jeanjean, of all men!
My thoughts were of Lola. Phew! Had ever man such a strange reverie as I
had in those moments when I halted, pretending to look into the
shop-window of the jeweller at the corner--yet all the time watching in
the direction of the door of the post-office!
To go back would betray recognition, so I was compelled to go
forward--to the hotel.
I did not, however, allow the grass to grow beneath my feet. That night,
instead of dining at the hotel, I ate a sandwich in the bar of the
_Albion_, and soon discovered that the man I had seen passing Cromer
Church was living in apartments in the Overstrand Road, the aristocratic
quarter of Cromer, close to the Doctor's steps.
I had kept careful watch all the evening. First, quite unconcernedly, he
had strolled along the East Cliff, past the seat where the man, now
dead, had sat early on that fatal morning. I had followed, and had
watched.
He paused close by, ostensibly to light a cigarette with a patent
lighter, then, after covertly making observations, he went on away to
the edge of the links, and up the path near the _Links Hotel_, where he
gained the Overstrand Road.
The evening was clear and bright, the sundown across the North Sea a
blaze of crimson and gold. There were many promenaders along that
well-trodden path, yet it required the exercise of all my cunning to
escape the observation of the shrewd and clever man I was following.
At eight o'clock he entered his lodging. Half an hour later, as I
lounged past, I saw him seated at dinner between two elderly women,
laughing with that easy-going cosmopolitan air--that foreign charm of
his, which had carried him through so many strange adventures.
Then I waited--waited until dusk deepened into night. Silent, and
without wind, the summer air was fresh and invigorating after the
oppressiveness of the day. The street-lamps were lit, yet I still
remained watching, and ever on the alert.
The Norfolk constabulary were observing the old, slow, stereotyped,
routine methods of police investigation, as I had expected them to do.
I alone had scented the clue to the mystery.
Not a sign had been seen of the cunning old fugitive. Telegrams had been
dispatched by the dozen. Scotland Yard had been, of course, "informed,"
but information from the country is there but lightly considered.
Therefore, in all probability, the shrewd old man, who had so cleverly
imposed upon the good people of Cromer, was by that time across the
Channel.
But, would he leave that splendid treasure of his behind?
All through that evening I waited in patience in the Overstrand
Road--waited to see if Jules Jeanjean would come forth again.
At half-past ten, when the moon was shining brightly over the calm sea,
I saw him come out, wearing a soft grey felt hat and light drab
overcoat. He laughed at the neat maid who opened the door for him, and
instinctively put his hand to his hat to raise it, as foreigners so
often do.
Instead of walking towards the town, as I had expected, he turned in the
direction of Suffield Park, the pretty suburb of Cromer, and actually
passed within a few yards of where I was crouching behind the laurel
hedge of somebody's front garden.
I allowed him to get some distance ahead, then, treading lightly upon my
rubber heels, swiftly followed.
He made in the direction of the great Eastern Railway Station, until he
came to the arch where the line crosses the road, when from the shadow
there crept silently another figure of a man.
At that hour, and at that point, all was deserted. From where I stood I
could see the lights of the great _Links Hotel_ high up, dominating the
landscape, and nearer were the long, slowly-moving shafts of extreme
brilliance, shining from the lighthouse as a warning to mariners on the
North Sea.
Jules Jeanjean, the man of a hundred adventures, met the stranger. It
was a tryst, most certainly. Under the shadow of a wall I drew back, and
watched the pair with eager interest. They whispered, and it was
apparent that they were discussing some very serious and weighty matter.
Of necessity I was so far away that I could not distinguish the features
of the stranger. All I could see was that he was very well dressed, and
wore dark clothes, a straw hat, and carried a cane.
Together they walked slowly in the shadow. Jeanjean had linked his arm
in that of the stranger, who seemed young and athletic, and was talking
very earnestly--perhaps relating what had occurred at the inquest that
afternoon, for, though I had not seen him there, I suspected that he
might have been present.
I saw Jeanjean give something to his companion, but I could not detect
what it was. Something he took very slowly and carefully from his pocket
and handed it to the young man, who at first hesitated to accept it,
and only did so after Jeanjean's repeated and firm insistence.
It was as though the man I had recognized that afternoon in Cromer was
bending the other by his dominant personality--compelling him to act
against his will.
And as I stood there I wondered whether after all Jeanjean had actually
recognized me when we met in Church Square--or whether he had been
struck merely by what he deemed a chance resemblance, and had passed me
by without further thought.
Had he recognized me I do not think he would have dared to remain in
Cromer a single hour. Hence, I hoped he had not. The fact would render
my work of investigation a thousandfold easier.
Presently, after a full quarter of an hour's conversation, the pair
strolled together along the moonlit road back towards the town, which at
that hour was wrapped in slumber.
By a circuitous route they reached the narrow street at the back of the
house where old Mr. Gregory and his nephew had lived, and, after passing
and repassing it several times, returned by the way they had come.
Near the railway bridge, where Jeanjean had first met the stranger, both
paused and had another earnest conversation. More than once in the
lamplight I had caught sight of the man's face, a keen face, with dark
moustache, and sharp, dark eyes. He had a quick, agile gait, and I
judged him to be about eight-and-twenty.
Presently the two walked out beyond the arch, and I saw the younger man
go behind a hedge, from which he wheeled forth a motor-cycle that had
been concealed there. They bade each other adieu, and then, starting his
engine, the stranger mounted the machine, and next moment was speeding
towards Norwich without having lit his lamp, possibly having forgotten
to do so in his hurry to get away.
The Frenchman watched his friend depart, then, leisurely lighting a
cigarette, turned and went back to the house in Overstrand Road where he
had taken up his temporary abode.
It was half-past two when the night-porter at the _Hôtel de Paris_
admitted me, and until the sun had risen over the sea, I sat at my open
window, smoking, and thinking.
The discovery that Jules Jeanjean was in that little East Coast town was
to me utterly amazing. What was his business in Cromer?
A wire to the _Sûreté_ in Paris, stating his whereabouts, would, I knew,
create no end of commotion, and Inspector Treeton would no doubt receive
urgent orders by telegram from London for the arrest of the seemingly
inoffensive man with the jaunty, foreign air.
The little town of Cromer, seething with excitement over the mysterious
murder of Edward Craig, little dreamed that it now harboured one of the
most dangerous criminals of modern times.
Next day, in the hotel, I was asked on every hand my opinion in regard
to the East Cliff murder mystery. The evidence at the inquest was given
verbatim in the Norwich papers, and every one was reading it. By reason
of my writings, I suppose, I had earned a reputation as a seeker-out of
mystery. But to all inquirers I now expressed my inability to theorize
on the affair, and carefully preserved an attitude of amazed ignorance.
I scarce dared to go forth that day lest I should again meet Jeanjean,
and he should become aware of my presence in Cromer. Had he recognized
me when we met? I was continually asking myself that question, and
always I came to the conclusion that he had not, or he would not have
dared to keep his tryst with the mysterious motor-cyclist.
Were either of the pair responsible for Edward Craig's death? That was
the great problem that was before me.
And where was Gregory? If he were not implicated in the crime, why had
he absconded?
I examined the copy of that curious letter signed by Egisto, but it
conveyed nothing very tangible to me.
Frayne and his men were still passing to and fro in Cromer, making all
kinds of abortive inquiries, and were, I knew, entirely on the wrong
scent. Like myself, they were seeking the motive which caused the sudden
disappearance of old Gregory. They were actually looking for him in the
county of Norfolk! I knew, too well, that he must be already safely far
away, abroad.
Frayne called in to see me after luncheon, and sat up in my room for an
hour, smoking cigarettes.
"I'm leaving the rooms that were occupied by Craig and his uncle just as
they are," he said to me. "I'm not touching a thing for the present, so
that when we find Gregory we can make him give explanations of what we
have secured there. I thought first of taking that sea-chest and its
contents over to Norwich with me, but I have now decided to seal up the
room and leave everything as it is."
"I understand," I replied, smiling to myself at his forlorn hope of ever
finding Mr. Vernon Gregory. For, the further my inquiries had gone, the
more apparent was it that the old man was a very wily customer.
"We've made one discovery," said the detective as he lit a fresh
cigarette.
"Oh, what's that?" I inquired.
"A young fisherman, named Britton, has come forward and told me that on
the night of the murder he was going along the road to Gunton, at about
midnight, when he met a man on a motor-cycle, with an empty side-car,
coming from the direction of Norwich. The man dismounted and asked
Britton how far it was to Cromer. The fisherman told him, and the fellow
rode off. Britton, who had been to see his brother, returned just before
two, and met the same motor-cyclist coming back from Cromer, and
travelling at a very high speed. He then had somebody in the side-car
with him. In the darkness Britton could not get a very good view of the
passenger, but he believes that it was a woman."
"A woman!" I echoed, somewhat surprised.
"Yes, he was sure it was a woman," Frayne said. "One good point is, that
Britton is able to give a fairly good description of the motor-cyclist,
whose face he saw when the fellow got off his machine to speak to him.
He pictures him as a sharp-faced man, with a small black moustache, who
spoke broken English."
"A foreigner, then?"
"Evidently." Then Frayne went on to remark, "It was foolish of this
fellow Britton not to have come forward before, Mr. Vidal. But you know
how slow these Norfolk fishermen are. It was only after he was pressed
by his friends, to whom he related the incident, that he consented to
come to the police-station and have a chat with me."
"Well--then you suspect the motor-cyclist and the woman?"
"Not without some further proof," replied the detective, with a look of
wisdom on his face. "We don't know yet if the passenger in the side-car
was a woman. Britton only believes so. The foreigner evidently only came
into Cromer to fetch a friend."
"But could not any foreigner come into Cromer to fetch a lady friend?" I
queried.
"Yes. That's just why I do not attach much importance to the young
fellow's story."
"Does he say he could recognize the cyclist again?"
"He believes so. But, unfortunately, he's not a lad of very high
intelligence," laughed Frayne.
To my companions the statement of that young fisherman evidently meant
but little.
To me, however, it revealed a very great deal.