"Leonard," I said, "our souls are trash, and what happens to us doesn't
matter a damn. But read this!"
Leonard read it and swore.
"Can you get into touch with Thomson?" he asked.
"Only through the banker's address in London," I replied. "Where these
typewritten notes drop from not a soul seems to know."
Rose came up and read the message over our shoulders. Her view of the
matter was different.
"What fun!" she exclaimed. "Perhaps I shall get some cigarettes."
"You don't suppose we are going to allow this?" I asked hotly.
"Not for one moment!" Leonard echoed.
She laughed softly.
"You idiots!" she exclaimed. "Do you think I can't take care of myself?
Or don't you trust me?"
"You know that it isn't that," I rejoined, "but neither Leonard nor I
are willing to see you made a cat's-paw of."
"Russians don't know how to treat women," Leonard put in.
She became serious, but she remained very determined.
"Anyhow," she said, "I know how to treat Russians, so please leave me
alone. Remember that I, too, am under contract to Mr. Mephistopheles
Thomson, and although I love you both, you're not my guardians."
That was the end of the matter, so far as we were concerned. When we
commenced our performance, Kinlosti was established in the dark corner,
his coffee and a whole box of his inevitable cigarettes before him. His
dinner clothes were severe and unadorned, but three wonderful black
pearls shone dully in his shirt front. The lounge was more than
ordinarily full, for our previous week's performance in Bath had brought
us some popularity. Mr. Grant, however, again stumped out of the place,
muttering rudely to himself as he passed us, and the old lady turned her
back and tried by means of an ear trumpet to enter into conversation
with any one who was unfortunate enough to be near. These two were the
only exceptions, however. The rest of the audience was unmistakably
friendly.
Leonard and I were to learn something that night of the subtlety of a
woman's ways. No one who had been watching could have said that she
deliberately encouraged this mysterious admirer. On the other hand, she
returned his bold glances with something which I had never seen in her
eyes before, something indefinably provocative, certainly with no shadow
of rebuke. Her acceptance of his overt admiration was in itself a more
significant thing than the frank smiles of a more easily accessible
siren. By the time I started off round with the plate for the usual
silver collection, I was in such a temper that I found it difficult to
pause even for a moment as I reached his corner. He laid a ten-shilling
note upon the little pile of silver, and also placed an envelope there.
I saw with gathering anger that it contained something heavy, and that
it was addressed to Miss Mindel.
"I have ventured," he said, in a very low and extraordinarily pleasant
voice, "to offer for the young lady's acceptance, in return for her
delightful music, a little souvenir from the country in which I have
lived all my life."
"Miss Mindel does not accept presents from strangers, sir," I said,
returning him the envelope.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly, stretched out his hand for his
jade-headed stick, and, leaning heavily upon it, crossed the floor
towards the spot where Rose was seated at the piano, playing soft music.
Notwithstanding his lameness, his bow, as he approached her, would have
done credit to a courtier.
"May I be allowed," he said, "to congratulate you upon your very
delightful singing and playing? It has given so much pleasure to an
invalid whose life just now is very monotonous, that I am venturing to
ask your acceptance of this little trifle, a souvenir from a great
country, now, alas! stricken to the earth."
Rose opened the envelope, and held in her hand a quaint ring in which
was a black stone. I leaned over her. It was engraved with the royal
arms of the Romanoffs, and at the top was a small 'N.'
"I thank you very much indeed," she replied, smiling up at him, "but I
could not possibly accept so valuable a gift."
"Will you believe me," he persisted, "that the ring has little, if any,
intrinsic value. It is an offering which an artist in a small way might
at any time be permitted to present to such gifts as yours."
He passed on towards the lift with a little bow which included all of
us, and somehow or other the ring was on Rose's finger, and whether we
liked it or not she had accepted it. After that we saw a great deal of
Mr. Kinlosti. He was never obtrusive and yet he was persistent. On the
day following the presentation of the ring, we somehow found ourselves
lunching with him. On the day after that we used his car, and on the
following day, although both Leonard and I protested, he took Rose out
for a drive alone. She came home sooner than we had expected and was a
little silent for the rest of that day. At supper time she took us into
her confidence.
"Mr. Kinlosti," she said, "told me a very strange story this afternoon.
Parts of it were so horrible that it made me shiver. It seems he was one
of the few members of the household who accompanied Nicholas to Siberia.
He got away just before the final tragedy."
"What was his excuse for leaving his master?" I asked, a little coldly.
We were all three in the parlour of our lodging house, and quite alone.
Nevertheless, Rose lowered her voice as she answered me.
"The Tsar entrusted him with the knowledge of where a portion of the
Crown jewels were secreted. He was to find them, raise money, and try
and bribe the Siberian Guards. He found the jewels all right, but not
until Nicholas and the whole of his family had been assassinated."
"What did he do with the jewels?" Leonard asked.
"He has not told me so in so many words, but I believe that he has them
here," she replied. "He told me they were still in his possession and he
held them in trust for the Romanoffs. The terrible part of the business
for him is that he has been tracked all over Europe by Bolshevist
agents, who claim that the jewels belong to the Russian State."
"Why did he tell you all this?" I enquired, with growing suspicion.
Rose shook her head.
"Perhaps to account for the fact that he seemed so nervous all the
time," she suggested. "He started whenever another motor car passed us,
and as long as we were in Bath itself he watched the faces on the
pavements, as though all the time he were looking for some one. He told
me that when first he arrived here he suspected even the masseurs at the
baths."
"I still don't see why he was so confidential with you," Leonard
grumbled.
"He likes me," she acknowledged, with a demure smile. "In fact, if he
tells the truth, he likes me very much. Don't look so black, please,"
she went on, with a glance at our faces. "Remember I am only obeying
orders."
That phrase cost us a good deal of uneasiness during the next few days.
Whenever we performed, Kinlosti sat in his corner, watching and
listening. In the intervals, he came and made timid and courteous
conversation. Without going so far as to say that he pursued Rose, he
certainly took up a great deal of her time. On the fourth afternoon I
received another typewritten note, handed to me again from the porter's
office without any intimation as to its source. There was only a line or
two:
Miss Mindel should show some curiosity as to the Crown Jewels.
Mr. Kinlosti would probably like to show them to her.
Within half an hour Rose made her request. Both Leonard and I were
within a few yards, and we saw the sudden terror in his face, heard his
almost hysterical refusal.
"No one has ever seen them," he told Rose, "since they first came into
my possession. I do not dare even to look at them myself. Directly my
rheumatism permits me to move without pain, I shall acquit myself of the
trust. It weighs upon me night and day."
With that the matter would have been ended, so far as Leonard and myself
were concerned. Rose, however, took it differently. For the rest of that
afternoon we were able to appreciate fully the guile of our little
companion. She received Kinlosti's refusal in silence. Presently she
developed a headache and refused to talk. She sat with her shoulder
turned away from him while she played and never once glanced in his
direction while she sang. At the close of our performance, he came up
and whispered to her earnestly. She shook her head at first and then
turned to me.
"Mr. Kinlosti is going to show me something in his sitting room. Please
come with us."
For the first time I saw the Russian in this sallow-faced invalid. His
lips curved into a snarl and for a moment he glared at me. The fit of
anger was gone in a moment, before Rose had even observed it. With a
little courteous gesture towards her, he turned and limped towards the
lift. We followed, and he led us into his suite on the first floor.
"Do not be frightened of John," he enjoined, as he opened the door.
"John is the guardian of my treasure, and he is obsessed with the idea
that there are thieves in this hotel."
From the appearance of John, it seemed as though any adventurous thieves
would have had a pretty poor time. He was seated with folded arms upon a
hard, straight-backed chair. On a table by his side, only partially
concealed by a large handkerchief, was an obvious revolver. There was
also a glass of strong brandy and water. He rose to his feet at our
entrance, but his bearing was grim and unfriendly. His master talked to
him for a few moments in his own language, apparently trying to assure
him of the harmlessness of our presence. John, however, remained sulky.
Kinlosti crossed to the farthest corner of the room, took a key from his
pocket, a key which seemed to be attached to a band of snakelike silver
which encircled his leg, and unfastened an ordinary black tin dispatch
box, which stood on the floor. From this he drew out a coffer of some
almost black-coloured wood, with brass clamps. He held it up towards
Rose.
"Even for you, my dear young friend," he said, "I may not raise the lid,
but I show you this much of your desire. This is one of the coffers
which for eleven hundred years has held the ceremonial jewels of the
Russian Royal Family. There were at one time five of them. This is the
one that remains."
"Mayn't I have just one little peep inside?" Rose pleaded.
We heard John's heavy breathing, and Kinlosti scarcely waited even to
answer her. He thrust the coffer back into the box and locked it.
"It is impossible," he pronounced. "I do not bear this trust alone. In
the spirit I fear that I break it already. You will rest here for a
little while, mademoiselle?"
If this was meant as a hint to me, it was of no avail. I stood by Rose's
side and she shook her head.
"You will not let me make you some of our own Russian tea?" he begged.
"Bring me some downstairs," she suggested. "I should love the tea, if it
isn't too much trouble, and I will come over and sit in your corner."
In the corridor, on our way down, we met the malevolent Mrs. Cotesham,
who paused, leaning on her stick, and watched Rose and her companion
with the hungry glare of the professional scandalmonger. Kinlosti
hurried past her with a little shiver, and Rose laughed gaily as she
descended the stairs.
"I believe that you have a penchant for Mrs. Cotesham," she declared.
"She is the most horrible old lady I have ever seen anywhere," he said
fervently. "They tell me that she is over ninety, and that she has but
one joy in life--to make where she can mischief and trouble and
unhappiness. She comes here every year, and every servant hates her.
Even the managers would keep her away if they could, but she has bought
shares in the hotel and has interest with the directors."
"The old man Mr. Grant is nearly as bad," Rose remarked.
"Him I know nothing of," Kinlosti replied, "save that he is one of those
who have surely lived too long."
Leonard and I left Rose to her tête-à-tête and took a seat in the
lounge. A few yards from us, the little daily comedy which never failed
to amuse the onlookers was in progress. Mr. Grant was seated in the easy
chair affected by Mrs. Cotesham. She came stumping along from the lift
and stopped about a foot from the chair.
"This man has taken my chair!" she exclaimed in a loud voice, for the
benefit of every one. "I left a book in it."
Mr. Grant continued to read through his heavy spectacles, unmoved. She
struck the side of his chair with her stick.
"I want my chair," she repeated.
Mr. Grant half turned round.
"What does the woman want?" he snarled. "This isn't her chair. It's an
hotel chair. I found it empty and I sat down. I am going to stay."
"Where's my book?" Mrs. Cotesham demanded, handing him the end of her
ear trumpet.
"I threw it on the lounge," he shouted. "There it is. Now don't bother
me any more."
"He calls himself a gentleman!" the old lady declared, shaking with
fury.
"Never called myself anything of the sort in my life," he snapped.
I rose, and wheeled the easy chair in which I was sitting to the side of
Mr. Grant's.
"Will you sit here, madam?" I ventured. "It is as near your favourite
position as possible."
She pushed her speaking trumpet almost into my face.
"Say that again, young man," she directed.
I repeated it at the top of my voice. She nodded and subsided into the
chair.
"I don't like having to sit near such people," she said, "but I prefer
this side of the fireplace."
Her neighbour looked out of the corner of his eye.
"I wish the pestilential old woman would stay up in her room," he
growled. "I hate her next me."
She handed him her speaking trumpet.
"Say that again, will you?" she invited. "I don't like people talking
about me when I can't hear what they say."
Mr. Grant shut his book with a snap, rose to his feet and hobbled across
to a distant part of the lounge.
"That old woman ought to be locked up," he declared at the top of his
voice. "She's a damned nuisance to everybody!"
He found another seat and recommenced his book. Mrs. Cotesham, with a
purr of content, settled herself down in the chair which he had vacated,
stretched out her feet upon the footstool and looked around
triumphantly.
"I've been to a good many hotels in my life," she confided to every one
within hearing, "but I never met a man who called himself a gentleman,
with such disgusting manners!"
Leonard and I strolled away presently to find Rose. It was time for us
to go back to our rooms and change for the evening performance. We found
her with Kinlosti in his corner, and the air above them overhung with a
thin cloud of blue tobacco smoke. Kinlosti was smoking furiously and
talking hard. Rose welcomed our approach, I thought, with something
almost like eagerness.
"It is time to go, I am sure," she declared, springing to her feet.
Her companion broke off in the middle of a sentence and frowned.
"We speak together to-night, then?"
She shook her head at him, smiling all the time though, and with that
little tantalising look in her eyes which Leonard and I both knew so
well.
"I am not sure," she replied. "The management will complain if I talk so
much with one of the guests, but I will play 'Valse Triste' for you. Au
revoir!"
We had almost left the hotel--we were on the outside steps, indeed--when
the hall porter caught me up. I saw at once what he was carrying. It was
one of the now familiar typewritten letters. This time I asked him a
point-blank question.
"Look here," I said, with my hand in my trousers pocket, "this is the
third note I have received from my friend in this fashion. I want to
know how they come into your possession. Who leaves them at the bureau?"
The man saw the ten-shilling note in my hand but he only shook his head.
I believe that he was perfectly honest.
"I would tell you in a minute if I knew, sir," he declared, "but to tell
you the truth I have never seen one delivered. All three I have picked
up from the desk in my office, evidently left there when my back was
turned for a moment."
"You haven't any idea who leaves them there, then?" I persisted.
"Not the slightest, sir," the man assured me.
"Keep a good lookout," I begged him, "and let me know if you do find
out. There may be another one--I can't tell--but I'll double this ten
shillings if you succeed."
The man thanked me and withdrew. We three crossed to the less frequented
side of the road. I walked in the middle, with Rose and Leonard on
either arm. We read the note together:
If the box Miss Mindel saw in Kinlosti's room was of purple
leather, with gold clasps and corners, let the first item in
your repertoire to-night be the Missouri Waltz. If it was a box
of any other description, play the selection from
"Chu-Chin-Chow."
"Well, I'm damned!" Leonard exclaimed.
"Be careful," I advised. "Thomson's probably underneath these paving
stones."
Rose shivered a little.
"Do you think he wants to steal the jewels, Maurice?" she asked me.
"Oh, no!" I answered. "He probably wants to borrow them to wear at the
Lord Mayor's show!"
She made a grimace.
"That's all very well, Mr. Lister," she said, with a great attempt at
hauteur, "but will you kindly remember that you two are not in at this
show? It is I who seem to be chosen as principal accomplice. I am not
exactly infatuated with Mr. Kinlosti, but I don't want him to lose his
jewels."
"I bet you a four-pound box of chocolates he does lose them," Leonard
observed.
Rose sighed.
"Anyhow," she murmured, "we shall have to play 'Chu-Chin-Chow'
to-night."
Leonard and Rose played a selection from "Chu-Chin-Chow" that evening as
well as they could with an extemporised rendering. Rose played the
piano, Leonard the violin, and I pretended to be turning over the pages
of the music, although all the time I was engaged in a furtive search of
the crowded lounge for some sign of our patron or a possible emissary.
There were the usual little groups about, and a more harmless or obvious
set of people I don't think I ever came across. Mrs. Cotesham was seated
with her back to us, with a shawl arranged around her head so as to
still further deaden sound, and ostentatiously reading a novel. Mr.
Grant had stumped past us on his way to the billiard room, muttering to
himself, before the first few bars of our little effort had been played.
The others were nearly all known to us by name or reputation. There
seemed something uncanny in the thought that somewhere or other were
ears waiting for the message our selection conveyed. We were half-way
through the "Cobbler's Song" when, without the slightest warning, Rose,
who was facing the staircase, broke off abruptly in her playing. I
caught sight of her face, suddenly pale, upturned towards the head of
the staircase, followed the direction of her gaze, and was myself
stricken dumb and nerveless. At the top of the staircase John was
standing, holding out a terrified, struggling figure almost at arm's
length. The fingers of his right hand seemed to be clasped around the
neck of his unfortunate victim, while with his left hand he held him by
the ankle. This was all in full view of the lounge. There were shrieks
from the women, and some of the men, amongst them myself, hurried
towards the staircase. We were too late, however, to be of any practical
use. John, who seemed like a man beside himself with passion, suddenly
swung the prostrate form of his captive a little farther back, and then
dashed it from him down the stairs. A little cry of horror rippled and
sobbed through the tense air. The man lay on the rug at the bottom of
the stairs, a crumpled-up heap, motionless and without speech.
[Illustration: There were shrieks from the women, and some of the men,
amongst them myself, hurried towards the staircase. _Page_ 64.]