THE ROAD OF RICHES
When my doctor first allowed me forth on foot it was fully a week later.
I had driven to Brentford in a taxi on three occasions to visit Lola,
taking her fresh flowers, grapes and other dainties. Each time I
recognized a marked improvement in her.
I felt certain that every movement of mine was being watched, but
neither Rayner nor myself could discover any one spying upon us. I had
always flattered myself that nobody could keep observation upon me
without I detected them, and I certainly felt considerable chagrin at my
present helplessness.
Rayner, a shrewd, clever watcher himself, was up to every ruse in the
science of keeping observation and remaining unseen. Yet he also failed
to discover any one.
Therefore, one morning I left Carlos Place in a taxi and drove to King's
Cross Station, where I alighted, paid the man, and went on to the main
line departure platform. Thence I passed across to the arrival platform,
so as to evade any pursuer, though no one had followed me to my
knowledge, and then I drove down to Brentford.
Though still weak, I that afternoon accompanied the dainty little
invalid down to Bournemouth, where I saw her comfortably installed with
a very worthy family--a retired excise officer and his wife and
daughter, living at Boscombe--and, after a night at the _Bath Hotel_, I
returned to London to resume my investigations.
Through three days following I felt very unwell and unable to go out,
the journey to Bournemouth having rather upset me in my weak state.
Indeed, it was not before another week that one afternoon I alighted
from a taxi at Holborn Circus and strolled leisurely down Hatton Garden
in search of the watchmaker's Lola had indicated.
I found it with but little difficulty, about half-way down on the
left-hand side.
A stranger passing along Hatton Garden, that dreary, rather mean street,
leading from busy Holborn away to the poverty-stricken district of
Saffron Hill, with its poor Italian denizens and its Italian church,
would never dream that it contained all the chief wholesale dealers in
precious stones in London. In that one street, hidden away in the safes
of the various dealers, Jew and Gentile, are gems and pearls worth
millions.
The houses are sombre, grimed, and old-fashioned, and there is an air of
middle-class respectability about them which disguises from the stranger
the real character of their contents. The very passers-by are for the
most part shabby, though, now and then, one may see a well-dressed man
enter or leave one of the houses let out in floors to the diamond
dealers.
It is a street of experts, of men who pay thousands of pounds for a
single stone, and who regard the little paper packets of glittering
diamonds as the ordinary person would regard packets of seed-peas.
Many a shabby man with shiny coat, and rather down at heel, passing up
the street, carries in his pocket, in a well-worn leathern wallet,
diamonds, rubies or emeralds worth the proverbial king's ransom.
On that autumn afternoon the sun was shining brightly as I passed the
house where "Gregory Vernon's" office was situated. Seldom, indeed, does
the sun shine in Hatton Garden or in Saffron Hill, but when it does it
brings gladness to the hearts of those sons and daughters of the sunny
Italy, who are wearing out their lives in the vicinity. To them, born
and bred in the fertile land where August is indeed the Lion Month, the
sun is their very life. Alas! it comes to them so very seldom, but when
it does, the women and children go forth into the streets bare-headed to
enjoy the "bella giornata."
And so it was then. Some Italian women and children, with a few old
men, white-haired and short of stature, were passing up and down the
Road of Riches into which I had ventured.
I knew not, of course, whether old Gregory was still in London. He might
be at his upper window for aught I knew. Therefore I had adopted the
dress of a curate of the Church of England, a disguise which on many an
occasion had stood me in good stead. And as I loitered through the road,
with eyes about me on all hands, I presented the appearance of the
hard-worked curate of a poor London parish.
Before the watchmaker's I halted, looking in at the side door, where I
saw written up with the names in dark, dingy lettering, "Loicq Freres,
Second Floor."
Beyond was a dark, well-worn stair leading to the other offices, but all
looked so dingy and so dismal, that it was hard to believe that within
were stored riches of such untold value.
I did not hesitate long, but with sudden resolve entered boldly and
mounted the stairs.
On the second floor, on a narrow landing, was a dingy, dark-brown door
on which the words "Loicq Freres" were painted.
At this I knocked, whereupon a foreign voice called, "Come in."
I entered a clerk's room where, at a table, sat a man who, when he
raised his head and sallow face, I recognized instantly as the
mysterious motor-cyclist of Cromer, the man Egisto Bertini, who had so
cleverly evaded me on the night of my long vigil on the Norwich road,
and who had assisted Gregory, or Vernon as he called himself, to remove
the jewels from Beacon House.
He did not, of course, recognize me, though I knew his face in an
instant. He rose and came forward.
"Is Mr. Gregory Vernon in?" I asked, assuming a clerical drawl.
"No, sare," replied the dark-eyed Italian. "Can I gif him any message?"
he asked with a strong accent.
The reply satisfied me, for my object in going there was not to see the
man whose real name was Vernon, but to get a peep at the unsuspicious
headquarters of the greatest criminal in Europe.
"Ah, I--I called to ask him to be good enough to subscribe to an outing
we are giving to the poor children of my parish--that of St. Anne's. We
have much poverty, you know, and the poor children want a day in the
country before autumn is over. Several kind friends----"
"Meester Vernon, he will not be able to make a subscription--he is
away," broke in the Italian.
My quick eye had noticed that opposite me was a door of ground-glass. A
shadow had flitted across that glass, for the short curtains behind it
were inadvertently drawn slightly aside.
Some one was within. If it were Vernon, then he might have a secret hole
for spying and would recognize me. Thereupon I instantly altered my
position, turning my back towards the door, as though unconsciously.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you could subscribe a trifle yourself, if
only one shilling?" and I took out a penny account book with which I had
provided myself.
"Ah, no," was his reply. "I haf none to gif," and he shook his head and
held out his palms. "Meester Vernon--he reech man--me, no! Me only
clerk!"
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you will tell Mr. Vernon that the Reverend
Harold Hawke called."
"Yes, sare," replied the expert motor-cyclist, whom I knew to be one of
the clever gang. And he pretended to scribble something upon a pad. He
posed as a clerk perfectly, even to the shabbiness of his office-coat.
He presented the appearance of a poor, under-paid foreign clerk, of whom
there are thousands in the City of London.
Standing in such a position that old Mr. Vernon could not see my face, I
conversed with the Italian a few moments longer as I wished to make some
further observations. What I saw surprised me, for there seemed every
evidence that a _bona fide_ trade was actually conducted there.
The shadow across the private office had puzzled me. I entertained a
strong suspicion that old Vernon was within that room, and the man,
Egisto Bertini, had orders to tell all strangers that his master was
absent.
If he feared arrest--as no doubt he did, knowing that Lola might make a
statement to the police--then it was but natural that he would not see
any stranger.
No. I watched Bertini very closely as I chatted with him, feeling
assured that he was lying.
So I apologized for my intrusion, as a good curate should do, and
descended the dark, narrow stairs with the firm conviction that Gregory
Vernon was actually in his office.
In the street I walked leisurely towards Holborn, fearing to hurry lest
the crafty old man should be watching my departure. Having turned the
corner, however, I rushed to the nearest telephone and got on to Rayner.
He answered me quickly, and I gave him instructions to dress instantly
as a poor, half-starved labourer--for my several suits of disguise
fitted him--and to meet me at the earliest moment at Holborn Circus,
outside Wallis's shop.
"All right, sir," was the man's prompt reply. "I'll be there inside half
an hour."
"And, Rayner," I added, "bring my small suit-case with things for the
night, and an extra suit. Drop it at the cloak-room at Charing Cross on
your way here. I may have to leave London."
"Anything interesting, sir?" he asked, his natural curiosity rising.
"Yes. I'll tell you when we meet," was my answer, and I rang off.
I have always found clerical clothes an excellent disguise for keeping
observation. It may be conspicuous, but the clergyman is never regarded
with any suspicion, where an ill-dressed man who loiters is in peril of
being interfered with by the police, "moved on," or even taken into
custody on suspicion of loitering for the purpose of committing a
felony. England is not exactly the "free country" which those ignorant
of our by-laws are so fond of declaring.
Having spoken to Rayner, I returned to the corner of Hatton Garden, and
idling about aimlessly, kept a sharp eye upon the watchmaker's shop.
If my visit to the offices of Loicq Brothers had aroused any suspicion
in the mind of Gregory Vernon, then he would, no doubt, make a bolt for
it. If not, he would remain there till he left for his home.
In the latter case I should certainly discover the place of his abode,
and take the first step towards striking the blow.
On the one hand, I argued that Vernon would never dare to remain in
England after his brutal attack upon Lola, knowing that the police must
question her. Then there was the tell-tale excavation in the garden at
Spring Grove--the nameless grave ready prepared for her! But, on the
other hand, I recollected the subtle cunning of the man, his bold
audacity, his astounding daring, and his immunity hitherto from the
slightest suspicion.
The flitting shadow upon the ground-glass was, I felt confident, his
silhouette--that silhouette I had known so well--when he had been in the
habit of passing the _Hôtel de Paris_, at Cromer, a dozen times a day.
The afternoon wore on, but I still remained at the Holborn end of Hatton
Garden, ever watchful of all who came and went. Rayner was longer than
he had anticipated, for he had to drive down to Charing Cross before
coming to me. But at last I saw a wretched, ill-dressed, pale-faced man
alight from a bus outside Wallis's drapery shop, and, glancing round, he
quickly found me.
I walked round a corner and, when we met, I explained in a few brief
words the exact situation.
Then I instructed him to pass down Hatton Garden to the Clerkenwell
Road end and watch there while I maintained a vigilance in Holborn. When
Vernon came out we would both follow him, and track him to his
dwelling-place.
I told Rayner of Bertini's presence there as a clerk, whereupon my man
grew full of vengeful anger, expressing a hope that later on he would
meet the Italian face to face and get even for the treatment meted out
to him on that memorable night at Cromer.
We had walked together to the end of the Road of Riches in earnest
discussion, when, on suddenly glancing along the pavement in the
direction of the watchmaker's, I recognized the figure of a well-dressed
man coming in our direction.
I held my breath, for his presence there was entirely unexpected.
It was Jules Jeanjean.