“When will His Excellency relieve me of them?” I asked at last.
“Any day now. They were mentioned at the meeting last Friday, and so
were the Edendon sparklets. They’re going over to Antwerp next week
packed in Turkish delight, to be re-cut. Balling’s kid is taking them
over. He loves Turkish delight on the journey, and the Custom House
noseys never dream that there’s anything wrong with the little round
box he holds in his chubby hand. And if they did examine the stuff,
they’d never believe that in each square of the sticky sweetmeat there
reposed a diamond or two.”
“What game has Lisely been playing in Rome?” I asked suddenly.
“Oh, a little fifteen-thousand-pound deal,” laughed this queer little
woman. “The wife of the French Ambassador in Rome firmly believes her
rubies to be secure in their case in the safe in her room. But when
she comes to wear them next, she’ll find that they have been
transformed into bits of red glass! Ah, my dear Lionel, from us no
jewels are safe. We are too wide-spread, and are invincible, so long
as we do not quarrel among ourselves.”
That the spoils they gained were of enormous value I had seen, indeed,
with my own eyes. How I had received instruction from an expert thief,
and emulated his practices, was the most appalling of thoughts.
From Illona--whoever she might be; my lawful wife or otherwise--I had
learned more in one half hour than I had in all the weeks of my
consciousness. What she had revealed to me gave a clue to many things.
“You have said that in order to come here to me you have run serious
risks,” I remarked presently. “How?”
“They wish to prevent us meeting because they are afraid I may tell
you certain things which may give you a whiphand over them. That is
why I have all along feared that some plot was afoot, led by the man
who so cleverly pretends blindness--the man to whom you carried the
Double Nought.”
“I really don’t understand,” I declared, honestly puzzled. All was so
amazing, so dramatic, and so tragic, now that I found myself--the son
of an ancient and honorable family serving His Majesty’s Foreign
Office--tricked into acting as an expert jewel-thief.
As I looked again into the woman’s painted face, I felt intense
repulsion. Surely she could not actually bear my name. What would the
dear old governor or my friends say?
At that second Teddy, ever merry and buoyant, burst into the room,
saying:
“Look here, old chap, what about a spot of lunch?”
Next second, realizing that I had a visitor, he exclaimed: “Awfully
sorry! Do forgive me.” And, turning, he left, closing the door after
him.
“Who’s that fellow?” asked Illona in quick suspicion.
“Oh, only a good pal of mine--Teddy Day. He’s a bit of an ass,
perhaps, but quite all right.”
“I don’t appreciate such interruptions, Lionel,” she said very coldly.
“Neither do I,” I agreed, suddenly aware that the stolen pearls were
lying openly upon the table. Bruce had no doubt let him in, and he had
rushed past him into my room, as was his habit. If he had noticed the
pearls, what then?
From everybody I had withheld the existence of that mysterious,
deformed woman who called me her husband, and I had no great desire to
reveal the fact to even my most intimate friend.
My greatest concern at the moment was how to rid myself of the stolen
pearls. I repeated my intention to return them anonymously to the
owner, but Illona instantly waxed furious, warning me of His
Excellency’s wrath if I dared to do so.
“I will have nothing to do with the affair!” I cried angrily.
“That’s really amusing!” she laughed. “Don’t forget that it was you
who pinched them--just as you did that woman Carslake’s emeralds at
Biarritz. My dear Lionel, you are getting very squeamish nowadays.
Why?”
“Because, whatever I may have done in the past--according to your
statements--I’m leading an honest life in future.”
“And accepting the checks of Mr. Charles Davis,” she said, with biting
sarcasm.
“Not knowingly,” I declared. “I shall return the money,” I added, in
ignorance, however, of the person to whom I should send it.
“And quarrel openly with His Excellency!” she cried. “My dear Lionel,
that would be utter madness. No! Do as I suggest. Lie low and remain
inactive. I have your interests at heart, as you surely know! Have I
not warned you of your enemies, and I will stick by you, as you stuck
by me in the Tyrell affair. In that we both narrowly escaped going for
a stretch.”
“The Tyrell affair! What was that?”
“Oh, Lionel, you are getting on my nerves with all this affected
ignorance of yours. Surely you know how Tuggy climbed up to the window
of that old ivy-covered country house of the Tyrell’s, near
Worcester--an easy job. He passed me the contents of the woman’s
jewel-case, while the party were feeding below, and you and I escaped
in a motor car. A constable of the Bath police stopped us, but you
biffed him one in the face and laid him out. Then we went on to
Gloucester, where we abandoned the car and returned to Paddington by
train as two perfectly respectable citizens. But for your prompt
action we should now each be doing three years or so. By Jove! you hit
that copper a knock-out blow!” she added triumphantly.
What she had disclosed was certainly staggering. Surely I could not be
the lawful husband of such an object as she was!
At that moment the telephone bell rang and I was compelled to attend
to it.
The message was from the Foreign Office. Lord Oxenwood, His Majesty’s
Foreign Minister, had left to take the cure at Evian-les-Bains, the
quiet little watering-place on the Lake of Geneva, and urgent
dispatches would have to be sent to him. Would I call for them on the
morning of the day after to-morrow, and leave London by the eleven
o’clock boat-train for Paris?
The request was a command; so, with a sigh, I replied in the
affirmative. Then I rang up the Sleeping Car Company’s office in Pall
Mall, and reserved a compartment on the Orient Express from Calais to
Lausanne.
“So you have to be off again, dear,” the woman remarked, overhearing
the conversation. “Strange that you are going to Lausanne. Of course,
you will cross the lake from there direct to Evian.”
“It is the quickest way,” I remarked, for few men perhaps had a wider
knowledge of Continental travel than I had.
“You will probably call upon His Excellency, eh?” she said. “He will
be extremely pleased if you do, and further, it will place you in his
good books. Though the police of Europe are ever in active search of
him, he lives just now in Lausanne--one of the most cosmopolitan and
most pleasant towns in Europe.” And she gave me an address in the
Avenue de la Gare, a handsome, tree-lined thoroughfare which I knew
quite well.
“And under what name is he known there?” I asked with considerable
interest; for it seemed that the wide-spread gang of criminals was
controlled from Switzerland.
“It is a secret to all but us. As one of us I can tell you, if you
really don’t know it already. Felix Zuroff is now Nicholas Sarasti.
Remember the name, and keep it strictly confidential. His Excellency
never forgives those who betray a secret.”
“I shall certainly not forget it,” I replied. “Nicholas Sarasti.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
THE SIX CIRCLES
The woman Illona, by this time, had made herself thoroughly at home
in my rooms, for she had passed into my bedroom, where she had
powdered her face and settled her hat. And now, on her return, she
took one of my cigarettes, lit it, and again cast herself into the
arm-chair, saying:
“What cozy quarters you have here, Lionel! I expect when on your long
journeys in those stuffy sleeping-cars you often wish you were in your
own rooms, eh?”
“Sometimes,” I said, with a laugh. “The conductors on the cars make
night traveling as comfortable as they can for me. Most of them know
me, and bring me a cup of coffee at the early morning stopping-place.
Frequently I am unable to sleep, especially on that ill-laid line
between Calais and Bâle, or between Paris and Irun, so I spend the
night reading a book, while long journeys from Calais to
Constantinople I usually spend in bed, except to get up for meals.”
“It must be terribly monotonous for you, poor dear,” she said in a
tone of affection.
“Oh, but it has its brighter side,” I declared. “A couple of days at
Evian just now, for instance, will not be amiss, except that I have so
much to attend to here at home.”
I was about to replace Lady Rathgormly’s pearls in the hollowed volume
of Voltaire when I saw within a folded paper, which I drew forth with
interest. The paper was thick, and of good texture, and as I opened it
I saw six circles drawn one within the other, as three double
noughts--a circle of musical notes, outside of which were letters in
bold Roman capitals, each against a drawn section, and each
corresponding with a particular musical note.
In order that the reader may follow my discovery I give here a
reproduction of the piece of cartridge paper which I found in the old
volume in which the pearls had been concealed.
[image caption: THE DIAGRAM WITH THE PEARLS.]
As will be noticed, the partitions were drawn at different angles, and
apparently the curious design had been made by a woman’s hand.
“The key!” she cried, the second I opened it. “I could not read the
message Lisely sent you to Kensington Gardens because I foolishly left
my key in Lausanne. Let us read it if you have not already done so.”
“I surely have not,” I alleged, astonished at the find. “Is this the
key to that imitation music?”
“Oh, how foolish you are, Lionel! Of course it is.” And she snatched
the piece of paper from my hands.
From her handbag she drew forth the piece of music which the girl
Lisely had sent me, by the hands of the manicurist, to Kensington
Gardens. She calculated for a few seconds. Then, with the pencil from
her bag, she quickly deciphered the secret message, placing a letter
beneath each musical note.
As she wrote, I read the message as follows:
“_Illona will betray you to the police. She is coming to London with
that object. Beware of her! Trust in me._--Lisely.”
“The infernal liar!” cried the woman in fierce resentment, her hands
clenched in fury. “What does she mean? Why has she sent you this,
except in order to deceive you, and draw you into still further
entanglements?”
“What entanglements?” I demanded. “Surely there has been enough
mystery already. Through no fault of mine, save my fear of scandal, I
have been compelled to take part in the nefarious operations of an
accursed gang.”
“To your own profit, Lionel dear,” she remarked, with a quiet smile.
“And, besides, His Excellency declares that you’re the most expert
dipper for stones he has ever known--you’ve got such a marvelously
light touch.”
“I certainly didn’t know I have that,” I declared, staring at her.
The discovery of the musical code used by the wide-spread gang
astounded me. It was certainly a marvel of ingenuity, and could be
varied in numberless ways. The “time” shown on the message was one of
the easiest. But any message might be marked with figures of addition,
or subtraction, which would render the message utterly unintelligible,
even though it might be suspected by others, into whose hands it might
fall.
The use of secret inks, combinations of figures and letters, or other
means of confidential correspondence, surely faded into insignificance
as compared with this latest creation of a criminal’s brain.
That distinct warning given me by Lisely made her furious.
“She intends to betray me. That I know!” she declared. “She thinks
that, on account of a slip which Tuggy Wilson made in Paris, I have
been the means of drawing the attention of the police to her lover,
Owen. But,” she added, in a voice full of hatred, “Dufour is not
ignorant of what she has done, and he will see that she gets her just
deserts.” A silence fell between us.
“Look here, Illona,” I said at last, “you have sworn to be my friend,
as well as my wife. Will you assist me? I beg of you to do so.”
“Assist you? Have I not all along tried to warn you?” she asked. “What
do you require of me?”
“I want you to help me out of the strange predicament in which I now
find myself--a tool of that man known as His Excellency.”
“How can I release you?” she asked in dismay. “You have for two years
or more accepted payment, and His Excellency is always inexorable. You
are one of us, my dear, and one of us you will remain,” said the woman,
regarding me with those strange, deep-set eyes. “Only His Excellency
himself can free you from your bond.”
“Whatever promise I made was made while I was unconscious of the
truth,” I affirmed vehemently. “That drug given to me by Lisely Hatten
destroyed my self-will, and rendered me inert, helpless, ignorant of
my true existence.”
The woman smiled grimly.
“Yes, I know,” she replied. “You are not the only one. For over two
years I myself remained in a state of mental lethargy, and only six
months ago I recovered to a true sense of my position. Like yourself,
I have acted involuntarily as the tool of others who held me
irrevocably in their power. But Lisely was at least your friend on
that night when you were discovered eavesdropping. She saved your
eyesight at risk of punishment upon herself.”
“Then she is really my friend, notwithstanding what you say,” I
remarked.
“She was then--not now.”
“Why?” I asked, remembering our romantic meeting in the deserted
church in Rome, and how in my ignorance I had admired her, and carried
that wonderful piece of aquamarine to Roddy Owen.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows?” she asked. “Women sometimes
contract strange hatreds.”
“How can I rid myself of these pearls?” I begged of her.
“Why do you wish to do that? You are not suspected. Besides, His
Excellency may demand them at any moment.”
“Is it not possible to return them to Lady Rathgormly?” I suggested.
“You could do so. But it would be extremely risky to incur His
Excellency’s displeasure. Don’t you think so? To him alone they
represent eight or nine thousand pounds profit.”
“And he used me as his cat’s paw. My hands stole them--for him, eh?”
“His Excellency never does a job himself. Like all leaders of men, he
pays others to do his dangerous work,” she laughed. “Both of us are
his agents.”
“His slaves, you mean!” I cried angrily, flinging the pearls
heedlessly back into the hollow book.
Then she rose quietly, and, taking the little calf-bound volume,
replaced it among the many others upon the shelf, saying:
“Let it remain there for the present--until wanted.”
“And if any secret enemy of mine denounces me, the pearls will be
found in my possession!” I cried. “No, I shall return them to their
owner.”
“Not before seeing His Excellency,” she urged. “Call upon him in
Lausanne, and explain your position. He may relent; who can tell? In
any case, he will have sufficient confidence in you, if you give your
word of honor to remain silent.”
“He would not accept my word on that night in Camberwell,” I said.
“Because you were a stranger, and you were denounced as a police-spy,
which he naturally believed you to be.”
“But I can’t allow the pearls to remain here in my possession! My man
might discover them. Perhaps he already has!”
“He’s not likely to read Voltaire,” she laughed. “But if you prefer
it, why don’t you deposit the string in your bank?”
“An excellent idea!” I cried enthusiastically. “I’ll take them to-day.
But, Illona, I want you to help me in another matter,” I said, leaning
against the table, and lighting the fourth cigarette she had just
taken from my box.
“Get me a drink before we go on, will you dear?” she asked
caressingly.
Immediately I rang for Bruce, who at once mixed us a couple of
cocktails.
“Really,” she remarked, sipping hers, “your man is truly an artist.
One gets such awful concoctions everywhere except at restaurants.”
“Yes,” I laughed, when the man had left, “Bruce knows his business, I
think.”
“Well, what is the other matter?” she asked, lazily watching her
cigarette smoke ascending to the ceiling.
After a moment, I asked with suppressed eagerness:
“Have you ever heard of a girl called Joan Gell, the daughter of old
Mr. Gell, the King’s Counsel?” I paused, looking straight into her
rouged and powdered face.
“The girl whom you promised to marry before you married me?” she
sneered. “Of course. She found out that you were a crook and refused
to become your wife.”
“What!” I gasped, dumbfounded. “She found out that I was a thief?”
“Of course she did. You surely remember the quarrel between you?”
“I remember no quarrel,” I declared. “But how did she find me out?”
“Why, you related the incident to me with your own lips. You were
sitting together side by side in her father’s drawing-room when she
felt something in the pocket of your dinner-jacket, and, playfully
putting her hand in, brought out a very fine diamond and emerald
bracelet, which you had that evening pinched from the Countess of
Edendon. You had been dining at Berkeley Square, and, making an
excuse, had left the table, slipped upstairs, and taken it from her
dressing-table.”
“Impossible!” I cried breathlessly.
“Ask her! You yourself told me how, on discovery of it, she became
mystified, and how three days later she saw in the papers a sketch of
the stolen bracelet, with an offer of three hundred pounds reward for
its return.”
“Then she knows I’m a thief,” I cried despairingly, for surely the
strain of it all was sending me mad.
“Of course she does,” answered the woman, with a triumphant jeer. I
realized the reason, for apparently I had married her while still
remaining engaged to Joan.
Was she lying to me? Did Joan--my Joan--actually know that I was a
crook? Had she accidentally found stolen jewelry in my possession?
Could it be possible?
The woman’s mocking laugh ringing in my ears bewildered me. In any
case, Joan had been engaged to me until the moment she vanished, and
certainly she had never mentioned the matter since I had awakened from
my long period of involuntariness, that spell of fatality, with
actions over which I had had no control. If I had really been a thief,
as Illona alleged, then at least I had acted automatically and
blindly, led by a master-hand--the hand of the man Felix Zuroff, who
now called himself Nicholas Sarasti.
Since that night at Camberwell I had been the shuttlecock of
circumstance, a creature of blind impulses, unwilling and unconscious.
If Joan had actually discovered the shameful truth, it certainly had
made no difference in her affection. What excuse had I given her? I
wondered. How had I explained the presence of the stolen bracelet in
my pocket?
“You mentioned Hilda Bennett a short time ago,” I remarked suddenly.
“She’s in prison now, and her conviction was secured by Joan’s
father.”
“Yes, and some of them swore at the time that the fat old lawyer, who
is paid such big fees by the Treasury for prosecuting people, should
suffer. Hilda’s stretch was far too long. They say the Recorder
overdid it. You see, the police brought up the nasty fact that Hilda
was with Monkey Dick when he was shot in Bloomsbury. Dicky had a
pretty murky record, but I wonder who shot him? I’ve always suspected
Roddy Owen,” said the woman, her sunken eyes set on mine.
Possibly I flinched; but apparently she did not notice it.
“It was revenge, I suppose,” I ventured to remark.
“But did not you admit that it was suspected that you shot him? Hilda
told me so.”
I pretended to treat the matter as a joke, and hastened to assure her
that, as an accusation had been leveled against me that I was in the
employ of the police, I had endeavored to clear myself by declaring I
was suspected, and thus gain time.
“I know,” she said. “Hilda did not recognize you as Dicky’s assailant.
She acted foolishly. When he was shot she ought to have bunked, and
they’d never have known that she was one of us.”
“Well, Illona,” I said, “I suppose you know that Joan has been missing
for weeks, and that her parents are frantic?”
“I heard something about it the other day,” she replied in a rather
cold tone.
“Do you think that her disappearance is due to the threat made against
her father?”
“Possibly,” she responded, in a manner which made me suspect that she
knew more about it than she pretended.
“Look here, Illona,” I cried, “do be honest with me! Do you know
whether Joan is still alive?”
“I should think she most probably is,” was her brief reply, as her
thin lips closed almost with a snap.
“You know something!” I exclaimed, advancing towards her determinedly.
“Tell me at once what it is!”
She merely laughed sarcastically, and answered:
“Don’t upset yourself, my dear Lionel. Joan’s father did us a bad
turn. I suppose it is only tit for tat, eh?”
“Then she is actually in the hands of the--the gang----”
“Of which you are one, remember!” she interrupted sharply.
“But won’t you tell me what you know, Illona?” I begged of her,
grasping her hand and looking imploringly into her face.
She, however, remained obdurate. Her manner instantly changed, as she
said in a hard, sarcastic tone:
“I am your wife, Lionel. Is it at all likely that I should assist you
to find the girl with whom you are so desperately in love?”
I appealed to her in the name of humanity to give me a clue, however
slight, to the girl’s whereabouts. But she flatly and blankly refused.
Her attitude was so irritating that I could have struck her. I felt
that I could place my hands around her neck and wring from her the
truth, so goaded had I become in those weeks of uncertainty and
mystery.
Her manner and her words told me that she was well aware of Joan’s
fate, but because of her jealousy she refused to utter a word, save to
say:
“I never betray my friends!”
For a further half hour we argued, and high words arose between us. I
fear I was very impolite towards her. But presently, when I saw that
she did not intend to reveal anything more, my agitation grew less,
and I resolved on a policy of silence and watchfulness.
“Well,” she exclaimed at last, dabbing her face with her powder-puff,
and gathering up her gloves and bag ready for departure, “I see you do
not intend to invite me out to lunch, eh?”
“Because you are the reverse of friendly, even though you may be my
wife!” was my cutting retort.
“And when are we to be together again?” she asked, with a faint smile
on her made-up countenance.
“Not until you have told me the truth concerning your knowledge of
Joan,” was my firm reply.
“Then I assure you, my dear husband, that will never be!” she
answered, as she walked out, leaving me standing upon the hearthrug.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.
SOME PLAIN FACTS
I ate a hasty sandwich, drank a glass of sherry at the club, and
then took a taxi to a small, rather shabby office in a narrow street
off High Street, Kensington, the registry of marriages for the
district.
The affable clerk whom I saw was disappointing, however.
“If you call at the registry at Somerset House, you can obtain a copy
of the entry made here, sir,” he replied.
As I went in, I had been followed by two couples about to be wedded,
attended by two witnesses. Both were of the working class, happy young
men with their smiling brides. I glanced around, but to me the
cheerless surroundings were entirely unfamiliar. I did not remember
ever having been there before.
An hour later I was at Somerset House, amid a bustling throng of
solicitors’ clerks and curiosity-mongers, to whom every now and then a
blue slip of paper was handed out, a certified copy of a marriage,
birth, or death. Every such event occurring in Great Britain, on the
high seas, or abroad, in which a British-born subject is concerned, is
registered in those ponderous volumes preserved there.
In accordance with the directions, I filled up a form, paid the
nominal fee, and awaited the result.
Imagine the tension of those moments. It was to be decided once and
for all if Illona was actually my wife!
Full of keen anxiety I could hardly contain myself, as I paced up and
down before the long window looking out on the great paved courtyard.
It was growing late, and the office was soon closing, hence a dozen or
so clerks, obviously from lawyers’ offices, being known to the
officials, asked favors familiarly.
At last my name was called, and the dark blue slip handed to me--the
copy of the registry of my marriage.
I scanned it breathlessly as I turned away from the counter. It was
certified to be a true copy of an entry made in the marriage register
of the Borough of Kensington on April the eighteenth, the year before,
in which I had apparently described myself as:
“_Lionel George Chetwynd Hipwell, bachelor, age 29_, of Sackville
Street, Piccadilly, son of Charles Augustus Chetwynd Hipwell,
gentleman.”
on the occasion of my marriage to
“_Elizabeth Mary Illona Patrick, spinster, age 39_, of Stafford Road,
Notting Hill, daughter of William Henry Patrick, grocer, deceased.”
So my wife was the daughter of a tradesman, who followed the honorable
calling of grocer, and her age was now forty, just ten years older
than my own. Her abode, as given, was not altogether a salubrious
quarter, for Stafford Road, I knew, was on the border of a wretched
slum. Perhaps it was her hiding-place from the police!
I read and re-read that confounding document many times. There was no
doubt. There it was in black and white to hold in any court of law.
Illona was my legal wife!
My hands were tied. In every quarter I looked, I could see no way out
of the _impasse_. All my efforts on Joan’s behalf were unavailing. And
further, how could I confess myself a thief to Mr. Gell, or even to my
father?
Back at Sackville Street I took the piece of manuscript music from the
drawer into which I had thrown it. Lisely had sent me warning, it was
true. But which was my real friend, Lisely or my unpresentable wife?
That point I had to decide. I sat in the chair where Illona had sat,
and pondered until darkness fell. Within my sight was the
unsuspicious-looking old leather-bound volume containing Lady
Rathgormly’s pearls. Again I took them out and re-examined them. They
were certainly magnificent. I looked at the key to that ingenious
musical cipher, and saw how cleverly it was arranged, so that each day
or each week it could be altered according to arrangement. And who
would suspect a roll of manuscript music passing through the post,
from hand to hand, to be a communication between members of a criminal
association?
Teddy Day looked in just as I was dressing and eagerly inquired who
the “old bird” was that he found me entertaining. “A bit of a
has-been, wasn’t she?” he laughed in his good-humored way, as he sat
on the side of my bed and watched me manipulating my tie.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s a woman I met in Vienna some months ago. She’s
looking for a missing friend and called to ask my advice.”
And with that explanation he was satisfied. Then he forced me to dine
at the Piccadilly with him, and we went to a revue afterwards, though
so little interested in the latter was I that I don’t remember the
name of the piece or the theatre where it was played.
My own thoughts were of Joan. The hateful woman who called herself my
wife knew the truth; but for spite she had refused to reveal a single
fact. In that, she had not shown herself as my friend, hence could
Lisely’s secret warning be actually true? Was it for that reason that
she had succeeded in preventing my meeting Illona?
This theory struck me as the correct one. Yet, when I reflected that I
had all unconsciously received training, and had become an expert
purloiner of women’s jewels, I was staggered. Suppose possession of
those pearls was traced to me, what explanation could I offer?
Such a scandal would be appalling, more especially in regard to my
high official capacity as a servant of His Majesty’s Foreign Ministry.
The more I pondered, the more dangerous the situation became. I had
foes without doubt, and how did I know from hour to hour that I might
not be anonymously denounced? I had not even the opportunity to pay my
enemies the price of their silence.
That night when I returned, Bruce having retired, I again took out the
pearls, and found a small cardboard box without any mark upon it. I
placed them inside, and, having made a neat packet, sealed it with
plain black wax, and was about to address them to their owner, when an
idea suddenly struck me. Instead of doing so, and risking the
displeasure of the man of mystery they called His Excellency, I would
take them to Lausanne with me, and make them an excuse for calling on
him.
My diplomatic valise being immune from Customs examination at Calais,
or at the Swiss frontier at Vallorbe, nobody would know that I had
taken them out of the country, and if I deposited them with Nicholas
Sarasti, as he called himself, my responsibility would then be at an
end.
Next day I rang up Mr. Gell, as usual. He had heard nothing of Joan,
though he had another appointment at Scotland Yard at noon. I dined
with my father at the House that night, and afterwards spent an hour
in the Lobby with my friend Cecil Duncombe, Parliamentary Secretary to
the Foreign Office, retiring early; for I had to be up and on my
journey on the morrow.
At eleven next morning I left Victoria Station by the Simplon-Orient
service, which runs daily by way of Calais, Paris, Lausanne, and up
the Rhône Valley to Brigue, and thence on to Italy--Milan, Venice,
Zagreb, Belgrade, Sofia, to Stamboul--that hot and dusty three day
journey which I knew so well. There were few passengers beyond Paris.
After eating my dinner in the _wagon-restaurant_, I retired to bed, to
be awakened by the conductor at the Swiss frontier, at half-past five
in the morning.
Soon after six o’clock I alighted into the great new station of
Lausanne--one of the finest and cleanest in all Europe, to find that
the little steamer across the beautiful Lake of Geneva would not leave
for another hour. With its fringe of high mountains, whereon still
remained the snows of the past winter, the lake lay blue and sparkling
in the sunlight. I went into the big buffet, and took my morning
coffee. Afterwards I took a taxi and drove down to the little
landing-stage at Ouchy, surrounded as it is by shady trees and pretty
gardens, so well known to the summer tourist.
Soon the small white steamer, which traverses the lake, to and fro, to
the French shore half a dozen times a day, set out. I found the
morning air gloriously fresh after the oppressive heat of the narrow,
rolling sleeping-car.
As we left the Swiss shore, to cross the eight mile stretch of water,
coming down from the Rhône, I could just discern, far away in the
grey distance on the left, the grim walls and turret of the historic
Castle of Chillon, while the white clusters of houses on the lake-side
showed Vevey, and the popular English resort, Montreux. The morning
was beautiful, the sky was cloudless, and on every side, the Alps
stood forth in all their rugged grandeur--a panorama of lake and
mountain, perhaps one of the finest in all Europe.
Shortly afterwards we reached the little landing-stage of
Evian-les-Bains, world-famed for its mineral springs, and for its fine
Casino which, under the same management as the Municipal Casino at
Nice, is devoted to baccarat. Unlike the garish, uproarious town of
Nice, Evian is a rural, select resort, where people go for repose and
for the cure. Upon the green hill-side, half hidden in the trees, the
great white façades of the _hôtels-de-luxe_ could be seen, each
over-looking the quiet little town, and the wide expanse of placid
water beyond.
Up to one of them, the Hôtel Royal, I took a taxi, and, after
inquiring of the _concierge_, I soon discovered Lord Oxenwood, a
grey-haired, aristocratic figure in a drab lounge suit, taking his
coffee _al fresco_ beneath a tree, upon the wide flower-embowered
terrace. With him sat my friend Bob Ludlow, his private secretary.
“Hulloa, Hipwell!” exclaimed the Foreign Secretary, with a laugh. He
was one of Britain’s leading statesmen, who had arisen since the war,
to uphold the nation’s prestige abroad. And he had done so,
notwithstanding all the insidious political intrigues of certain of
the Powers.
Outwardly he was a most charming and unassuming man. But in politics
he was stern, unbending, and relentless, as the League of Nations well
knew.
“Up early this morning, eh?” he laughed meaningly. And after I had
handed him the dispatch box, secured by a great black seal which bore
the bold arms of Great Britain, he invited me to join him at coffee.
It was a delightful spot. In the trees the birds were loud in their
songs, while beyond the stone balustrade there stretched the broad,
placid lake, opalescent at that early hour, its waters unflecked, save
for the sail of a stone-barge, and a little streak of distant smoke
showing the steamer on its way up from Geneva to Montreux, and on to
Bouveret, at the head of the sixty-mile-long stretch of waters.
As I chatted with Bob Ludlow I inhaled with delight the fresh air of
the French lake-side after the stuffiness of Piccadilly. Each time I
traveled, I enjoyed the change of air, whether the invigorating
atmosphere of Paris, the _dolce far niente_ of Rome, the fun-impelling
air of Vienna, or the keen mountain air of Berne.
While I chatted with Ludlow, the great statesman opened the dispatch
box with his key, adjusted his gold pince-nez, and slowly digested the
contents of the papers, one after another.
The waiter had brought me my coffee, and as I smoked, Lord Oxenwood,
with the gold pencil attached to his watch chain, scribbled from time
to time remarks in the margin of the documents he was perusing.
“We must write a dispatch to Paris presently, Ludlow,” he remarked
suddenly. “And you must take it by the mail to-night, Hipwell,” he
said, turning to me.
“I’ll come back from Lausanne at six, sir,” I said, “and I can catch
the Orient back to Paris.”
“Yes, do. You’re a living time-table of Continental travel,” laughed
the grey-haired Foreign Secretary. “What a wonderful tourist conductor
you’d make!”
“Yes, Lionel,” said my friend Ludlow. “You’d make quite a success of a
round-the-world trip, I’m sure.”
“Well, I only know my routes and times, as every one of my corps knows
them. It is part of our training to travel to a given point in the
quickest possible time, isn’t it?” And, turning to Lord Oxenwood, I
added, “If I had had the dispatch in Lausanne a couple of hours ago, I
could have been in Paris to-night.”
“It is not quite so urgent,” was the great Englishman’s reply. “If you
leave to-night, you will be at the Paris Embassy in the morning. That
will be quite early enough for Lord Thornbury to receive my
instructions.”
And he sipped his coffee, gazing thoughtfully across the lake to the
peaks of the distant Jura in the haze. The man whose shoulders bore
the heavy burden of Britain’s complications with the Powers in those
days of sedition and revolution, sighed wearily. And then, after a few
moments, he scribbled some further memoranda on the back of a
document. He was there for rest and recreation, but alas! his brain
was ever at work. Intricate questions of policy and evasion reached
him daily from the representatives of His Majesty at the various
capitals; hence he was practically as busy as when he was at the
Foreign Office, except for those daily conferences, and the approval
of the answers given to questions put in the House.
On glancing at my watch I saw that in a quarter of an hour the boat
would leave on the return journey to Lausanne and, making my excuse, I
caught it.
Just after eleven o’clock I walked up the hill from the railway
station along the Avenue de la Gare, in search of the house where, in
secret, lived the notorious criminal, Felix Zuroff, known in his
hiding-place as Nicholas Sarasti.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.
I MEET HIS EXCELLENCY
A steep, tree-lined boulevard of hotels and private residences, upon
the hill-side overlooking Ouchy and the lake, the Avenue de la Gare is
one of the principal streets of the clean, cosmopolitan town of
Lausanne.
The yellow trams pass by incessantly, and there is a never-ending
stream of motor traffic. With my precious little packet of pearls in
my pocket, I went up the thoroughfare of plane-trees in the morning
sunshine, past the Eden, the Jura, and the Mirabeau Hotels, in search
of the house of the notorious but mysterious criminal beneath whose
hateful thraldom I had fallen.
The numbers of the houses became difficult, and the one I sought was
_bis_. I presently found myself in a small _cul-de-sac_ on the right,
with high blocks of modern flats standing in spacious gardens full of
lilacs, magnolias, roses, and geraniums. Flowers grow profusely in
that mild climate, and in the remote, refined corner, I noticed the
brass-plates of many famous doctors.
Entering a pretty garden, I came to the door of a handsome building,
from a window of which floated the strains of a piano, played by
someone with exquisite touch. Examining the row of letter-boxes in the
hall, I found one marked: “Sarasti, 2me Étage.”
Full of excitement and curiosity I ascended to the second floor, and
at the door, which bore a neat bronze tablet, I rang the bell. A
smart, shrewd-eyed young foreigner answered.