"No help for it. Two were invited and two have to go. I can't tell what
surprises may be in store for me. I may get an invitation myself."
Rose turned a troubled face towards me. Her lips quivered a little, her
eyes were full of distress.
"Maurice," she confessed, "I'm afraid of to-morrow. I'm afraid that we
are being made use of to rob Mr. Kinlosti."
"Can't be helped," Leonard put in, as I remained for a moment silent.
"We took this business on with our eyes open. Our consciences weren't
very active when we were starving and cold and in debt. It's no good
finding them too sensitive now that we're living on the fat of the land.
We've just got to see the thing through, for a year, at any rate."
"Leonard is right," I assented. "We've got to grin and bear it. This
time," I added, "it seems as though you two were going to have the show
to yourself."
"You can have my share," Rose sighed.
* * * * *
The hall of the Crown Hotel at a few minutes before nine on the
following morning presented a scene of curious animation. All trains had
ceased to run, and rumours as to the Government commandeering of petrol
were universal. Fully a score of cars were outside, waiting, besides one
of the smaller char-à-bancs, and half a dozen luggage porters were
working their hardest. Kinlosti, looking curiously shrunken in a great
fur coat, pale and nervous, greeted us on the steps. His car, laden with
luggage, stood at the entrance. On the box seat sat John, an immovable
figure of fierce watchfulness.
"We could start any time you liked," Kinlosti said, addressing Rose
eagerly. "We have left room for your trunk behind, and there will be a
quite comfortable place for Mr. Cotton. You are ready, Miss Mindel?"
"Quite," she answered.
He gripped Leonard's arm and commenced to descend the steps. It was
obvious that he was in great pain, and I supported him on the other
side. Outside, a grey mist hung over the street, and he shivered as we
made our slow progress.
"It is the damp which has brought this on again," he confided. "Only a
few days ago I was better. Every one says the same thing. It is when one
leaves here that one reaps the benefit of the treatment. I am ashamed to
be so much trouble."
We had almost to lift him into the car, and notwithstanding the chill of
the morning, there were beads of perspiration upon his forehead. Rose
took her place by his side, and Leonard on a camp stool placed against
the door. I felt a little forlorn as I saw them start, but I waved my
hand encouragingly.
"I'll get up somehow," I shouted. "See you to-night."
I turned back into the hotel to look for the driver of the char-à-banc
and try to bargain with him for a seat to London. Mrs. Cotesham, almost
undistinguishable in rugs and wraps, was seated on a chair, watching the
carrying out of her luggage, all neatly wrapped, after the continental
fashion, in brown holland covers. She counted the articles one by one as
they passed, muttering to herself all the time.
"Never another shilling shall any railway porter have so long as I
live!--eleven--one more. And as to the management of this hotel, I call
it disgraceful! Flung out like cattle, that's what's happening to us!"
Mr. Grant, also attired for motoring, came shuffling along. He picked up
Mrs. Cotesham's speaking trumpet.
"Got any one to take you in?" he asked.
She snatched it away from him.
"Of course I have," she answered. "I'm not a miserable, disagreeable old
curmudgeon like you! My friends are glad to have me pay them a visit."
Mr. Grant chuckled.
"Gladder to get rid of you, I know!"
His eye fell upon me.
"Well, young Mr. Musician," he went on, "how are you going to get away?
Pad the hoof, eh, as your sort used to a few hundred years ago?"
"Not at all," I answered cheerfully. "I'm hoping some one will offer me
a lift to London. If not, I shall have to buy a seat for myself in the
char-à-banc."
The hall porter, who was passing, shook his head.
"Not a bit of use thinking about the char-à-banc, sir," he said. "We've
a dozen guests in the hotel we've had to refuse already."
Mr. Grant chuckled.
"Good walker, eh, young man?" he asked.
"Oh, I could get there, all right," I assured him, "but it won't be
necessary. Why won't you give me a lift, sir?" I added, putting a bold
front on it. "I see your car out there, empty."
"Yes, why don't you give the poor young man a ride?" Mrs. Cotesham
chipped in, lowering the speaking trumpet from her ear. "Fancy wanting
all that great car to yourself! I hate selfishness."
Mr. Grant smiled.
"I couldn't persuade you, my dear lady----" he began.
"No, you couldn't!" she interrupted vigorously. "I wouldn't step inside
your old car if you paid me. I'm not going your way, either. I'm going
to Clifton. And I hope that as long as I live I'll never set eyes upon
your repulsive face again."
Mr. Grant lifted his hat solemnly.
"Amen!" he said. "Come on, young fellow," he added gruffly. "I'll take
you to London as long as you promise not to try and sing to me."
I spared my benefactor any exuberant show of gratitude, but I felt that
I was in luck's way as I stretched myself out in the luxuriously
cushioned seat of Mr. Grant's limousine. We swung off along the Bristol
road.
"Got to call at a house three miles out on this road," Mr. Grant
explained thickly. "We'll be in London before the fastest of them,
though."
"It's quite immaterial to me so long as we get there by this evening," I
answered.
We drove on for between three and four miles. Then, without any order
from Mr. Grant, the car came to a standstill by the side of the road. I
looked at my companion for some explanation. He was leaning a little
forward, with both hands clasped around the knob of his stick. His
attitude was one of listening.
"Is the house where you want to call near here?" I asked.
"Listen!" was the brusque reply.
I thrust my head out of the window of the car and held my breath.
Climbing the hill behind us, hidden by the mist, was another car,
puffing and snorting as though in some difficulties. It came into sight
in a minute or two--a Bath taxicab, laden with luggage. Mr. Grant
descended.
"Something wrong with that engine," he remarked. "Perhaps we had better
enquire if we can help."
The car behind had come to a standstill, and the chauffeur, who had
already jumped from his place and opened the bonnet, was tinkering with
his engine. I fancied that a glance of intelligence passed between him
and Mr. Grant.
"Dear me," the latter exclaimed, turning around and finding me at his
heels. "Our amiable old friend on her way to Bristol! We must see
whether we cannot be of some assistance."
What followed--the rapidity and the wonder of it--kept me spellbound.
There was no stump about Mr. Grant as he threw open the door of the
taxicab. His spring was the spring of a young man, and before I could
realise what was happening, he had Mrs. Cotesham by the throat. With the
other hand he passed out to me the box which she had been using as a
footstool.
"The game's up, Kinlosti," he said, and the voice was the voice of
Thomson. "I'll shake the life out of you if you reach for that pistol."
For a moment I stood in the middle of the road, spellbound. The pseudo
Mrs. Cotesham was a wonderful sight. Her false front and mass of grey
curls had slipped over her ear, disclosing the clean-shaven head of a
young man. The paint was cracking upon her face. Thomson's terrible grip
seemed to be slowly strangling her, and slowly from out of the wreck
there seemed to creep another face, the face of a man with Kinlosti's
haunting eyes. He seemed to wrench himself at that moment a little freer
from the cruel grip upon his windpipe, and a cry of terror rang out into
the mist, the thrilling, horrible cry of a man in fear of his life. The
cry was stifled by something which Thomson held in his hand. He turned
to me.
"Get back in the car and take that box with you," he directed.
I obeyed him, glad enough to be away from whatever else might happen. In
a minute or two Mr. Thomson returned. He gave a brief order to the
chauffeur, the car swung round, and we headed once more for Bath. As we
flashed past the taxicab, I caught a momentary glimpse of its amazing
occupant, leaning forward, his face buried in his hands. The taxicab man
had lit a cigarette and was waiting apparently for orders.
"Sha'n't we be stopped?" I asked my companion. "He can telephone."
Mr. Thomson shook his head.
"The game isn't played that way," he said shortly.
Whereupon he put his feet on the opposite cushion and either slept or
pretended to sleep until we reached Hungerford. Then he yawned and
looked at me.
"Can you hold out until we reach London?" he asked. "I don't want to
stop for luncheon."
"Easily," I replied. "I had a good breakfast, and to tell you the
truth," I added boldly, "I'm too curious to be hungry."
Mr. Thomson yawned and closed his eyes again.
"You can keep your curiosity and your appetite, too, if you like," he
said, "until eight o'clock this evening, Milan Restaurant--not Grill
Room."
"All three of us?" I asked.
"Yes."
Mr. Thomson closed his eyes, and not another word was spoken until he
set me down at the Mayfair Hotel.
* * * * *
It was evidently not only at hotels that Mr. Thomson was _persona
grata_. The table to which he led us on our arrival at the Milan was one
of the best in the room. The chief _maître d'hôtel_ himself was in
attendance to exchange amenities with an evidently well-known and
respected patron. The menu of a specially prepared dinner was
deferentially handed to him by one of the minor luminaries. We seated
ourselves with some faint return of that unreal feeling which had been
evoked by the two previous feasts at which we had assisted. This one
especially was hard to realise. Nowhere could the appurtenances of
luxury have been more elaborately displayed. Pink, hothouse roses almost
covered the tablecloth and gave a faint, exotic odour to the restful
atmosphere of the room. Outside, the orchestra was playing with subdued
and melodious cadence the music of "Louise." We seemed in an oasis, in a
world far removed from the tragedies of the day.
"I fear," our host said, as he watched the wine being poured into Rose's
glass, "that your journey up to-day has fatigued you. I beg that you
will drink half a glass of that wine at once. There is nothing so
refreshing as champagne after a long motor ride."
"It wasn't the distance," Rose replied, as she followed his advice. "It
was Mr. Kinlosti's extraordinary behaviour. I have never seen a man so
nervous in all my life. He could not sit still. He seemed to lose
sometimes almost the power of speech. Always he seemed to be expecting
something which never happened."
"Ah!" Mr. Thomson murmured. "That is not to be wondered at."
"When we neared London," Rose continued, "and I ventured to congratulate
him upon the near fulfilment of his trust, I certainly thought he would
have hysterics. We left him at Hammersmith, telephoning wildly. After
waiting half an hour, we moved our things into a taxi."
"Things did not turn out," Mr. Thomson reflected, "exactly as Mr.
Kinlosti had anticipated."
"It has been your custom, sir," I reminded him, leaning forward in my
place, "on the occasion of these little celebrations, to vouchsafe us
some slight inkling as to the meaning of our efforts. I feel that we
should do more justice to this wonderful dinner if you could give us
some faint idea as to the nature of the tragedy, or farce, or whatever
it may be, at which we have been assisting."
Mr. Thomson ruminated for a moment. He seemed to be watching two
unobtrusive-looking men, still in morning dress, who were making their
way through the room towards the more retired tables set out on the
balcony.
"That is true," he admitted. "I will tell you, then, a little history.
It may perhaps bring some part of the colour back to Miss Mindel's
cheeks."
"It may also," I observed, "stop me from thinking I can see two of
everything."
"A month ago," Mr. Thomson said, "there landed in England three of the
greatest rascals who ever drew breath in any country. One was Andrea
Kinlosti, at one time valet and barber to the Tsar of Russia. The other
was Paul Kinlosti, his brother, an actor of some small note in a stock
company at St. Petersburg. The third was a hardened criminal, whom, not
to confuse you, we will call John, wanted even in his own country for
something like thirteen murders. Andrea Kinlosti was the gentleman, Miss
Rose, who brought you to London to-day. Paul Kinlosti, the actor, gave a
very wonderful rendering of Mrs. Cotesham. And John--well, you know
about him."
"Andrea Kinlosti's story, then," Rose began----
"A tissue of lies," our host interrupted. "The true facts about his
appearance in England are these. A very valuable portion of the Crown
jewels was hidden by one of the Monarchist party in St. Petersburg.
Partly through Andrea Kinlosti's intervention, these jewels fell into
the hands of the Bolshevists. The two Kinlostis and John, however,
managed to secure possession of them and escaped to England. Hard on
their heels came four or five of their kidney, and the attempt you saw
at theft at the Crown Hotel was the third or fourth which has been made
since they arrived in this country. In the absence of any extradition
treaty between the present Government of Russia and this country, the
trio thought that they would be safe here and could make their plans to
realise the jewels. They did not count, however, upon the little stream
of fellow rascals who found their way over here after them. The Bath
idea seems fantastic, but on the whole it had its points. Andrea was
really suffering horribly from rheumatism, and an hotel of the class of
the Crown seemed as good a hiding place as any from the kind of person
whom they desired to avoid. The scheme was that Kinlosti should be quite
frank about his possession of the jewels, but the box which was supposed
to contain them was a dummy. Paul, the actor, impersonated an old lady
and was really in possession of the jewels, and the idea was that he
should watch his opportunity and take steamer direct from Bristol to
some little port at which he could reship to New York."
We murmured comprehension.
"Miss Mindel here," Thomson continued, "kept admirably in touch with
Andrea Kinlosti, the pseudo-nobleman. She was able to give me the
information I desired, as to which of the two really possessed the
jewels. Furthermore, directly Andrea sought her companionship for the
journey to London, I knew that it was Paul who was to have the jewels.
Upon the whole," he concluded, "for two arch criminals of wonderful
reputation, I think their final attempt to get away with the booty was a
little disappointing."
"What has happened to them?" Rose asked.
Mr. Thomson picked up the evening paper which he had placed by the side
of his plate.
"This is just a telegram," he observed, turning to the stop press news:
Just before the sailing of the S. S. _Avonmouth_ from Bristol
this afternoon, the body of an elderly lady, who had booked a
passage to Jamaica in the name of Mrs. Cotesham, was found in
her cabin. It is feared that the deceased lady was the victim
of foul play, as there were marks of strangulation upon her
throat, and her property had apparently been rifled.