“I wish to see Monsieur Sarasti,” I said in French.
“Monsieur Sarasti is not at home,” was the young man’s prompt, but
polite, reply.
“I wish to see him on very pressing business,” I urged. “I have
traveled from London to see him,” I went on, and handed him my card.
He glanced at it, regarded me inquiringly for a second, and then,
excusing himself for closing the door in my face, said he would go and
consult his master’s secretary.
In a few moments he returned, saying briefly, “Monsieur will see you,”
and conducted me down a long passage into a spacious, rather
barely-furnished room, which had the appearance of a doctor’s
waiting-room. There were a number of chairs and a quantity of
magazines upon the centre table.
Then I was left alone. The big windows gave a picturesque view over
the gardens, the lake, and the Alps beyond. As I stood gazing out, I
heard someone behind me; and turning, I faced a tall, thin,
lantern-jawed man, immaculately dressed, and smiling benignly.
“Will you please walk this way?” he said, and I followed his footsteps
into a large, luxuriously-furnished salon where, in a deep arm-chair
of crimson silk damask, sat the dark-faced little man whom I so well
remembered on that night in Camberwell.
He nodded coldly and invited me to a chair opposite him. Upon the
tables were great bowls of yellow roses, the perfume of which was
overpowering. I loved roses. But, in that room their scent was, to me
at the moment, quite nauseous.
“Well, and to what do I owe the honor of this visit, Monsieur
Hipwell?” he asked coldly, speaking with a strong foreign accent. His
appearance might have been that of an under-servant at an hotel. He
was uncouth and unwashed. His finger-nails were uncared for and dirty,
and his black beard ragged and untrimmed. And yet, this man, with his
active and ingenious brain, controlled one of the most daring and
successful gangs of motor-bandits in Europe.
And I was one of the few who knew his true identity, a secret that the
police of Europe would give much to learn. I recollect that the drama
of the situation caused me to hesitate.
“I have called to see you on several urgent matters,” I said. “I wish
to be quite frank and open with you, without any unfriendliness, but
rather as one of your friends and assistants.”
“_Bien!_ That is well,” he grunted approvingly, stirring quickly in
his great crimson chair, in which he sat as though he were a judge.
“We are friends--_bien! trés bien!_ And now further. Continue.”
“First, I wish to hand you these,” I said bluntly, drawing out the
string of fine pearls.
He took them in his hands, ran them slowly through his fingers, and
again grunted approbation.
“Afraid to keep them any longer, eh?” he laughed, with a sarcastic
curl of his lips. “Well, I’m really not surprised. In your position it
would be a bit awkward for your family, and for your Foreign Office at
Downing Street, wouldn’t it--_hein?_”
“That is just my point, monsieur,” I said quickly. “As you well know,
I quite inadvertently stumbled into your private affairs on that foggy
night, and you very naturally believed that girl Hatten’s allegation
that I was a police-spy. By now, however, you surely have established
my innocence--that just by a freak of circumstance I blundered in on
you. Have you yet forgiven me?” I asked very seriously.
“Most certainly I have. I am always just, Monsieur Hipwell. None of
those who were under me have ever accused me of either parsimony or
injustice. We are united to make war upon society, and as comrades we
all share each other’s perils and profits,” he replied quite openly,
in very fair English which had just a trace of Russian accent in it.
His countenance had altered but little since I had seen him in that
small stuffy room in Camberwell, with that great heap of wonderful
jewels piled upon the table before him.
As he spoke, he still held Lady Rathgormly’s graduated pearls
caressingly in his fingers, while now and then his expert eye fell on
the larger ones. To me it was amazing that Felix Zuroff, the notorious
criminal, whom his followers called “His Excellency,” was living in
genteel and luxurious surroundings, unsuspected in a foreign city.
Many stories have been afloat of master-criminals living at their
ease, while others in their pay took the risks consequent upon
malpractices. But in my case, I was the actual cat’s-paw of the most
daring and cunning motor-bandit in Europe.
“I have come here, Monsieur Sarasti, to make an appeal to you, to
release me in return for my oath of silence,” I blurted forth at last.
“Release you, monsieur!” he cried, raising himself, and staring
straight at me. “And pray, why should I? You are a very excellent
asset to us. And, besides, you are an expert where women’s necklaces
are concerned. You move in good society in England; hence you are a
very valuable indicator.”
“Indicator!” I echoed, not knowing what he meant.
“You can always indicate where fine jewels are to be found, and at the
same time you can pinch a little yourself off your lady friends you
take out to dances--as you have done so often. Why, I ask, in such
circumstances should I release you?”
For some moments I remained silent. His reply nonplussed me. Then I
found tongue boldly.
“Well--as a matter of fact, Monsieur Sarasti, the drug given to me by
that girl Hatten has lost its potency. I am my true self again!”
“Ah! That is most unfortunate for you,” he remarked, with a light
laugh. “The influence of the injection usually lasts about four years.
Possibly she gave you an underdose. If so, it was unwise of her.” Then
after a second’s pause, he added: “At least the girl proved herself
your good friend. She did not blind you, as we all believed she had
done.”
“No. I have to thank her for leaving my sight unimpaired,” I said with
a sigh of relief. “But I confess to you that the mystery and
uncertainty of my present position is now driving me mad.”
“I can’t see how there can be any mystery, except what you make of it
yourself.”
“I will tell the truth from the very beginning,” I declared. “On that
night Dicky Rodwell attacked me in Bloomsbury, and in the struggle he
shot himself. Yet that woman Hilda Bennett vowed that I was not the
man. She lied to you, for I swear that--I was! For that very reason I
was hiding from the police in Avenue Road, Camberwell, as I told you
that night, in the same house where Lisely Hatten lived. She believed
me to be a police-spy, never dreaming that I was fleeing from the
police.”
The desperate motor-bandit looked into my eyes with his.
“Is this really true, Monsieur Hipwell?” asked the man, rising from
his chair, evidently suddenly intrigued.
“I declare on my oath that every word I have said is the absolute
truth!” I cried.
“Then you shot Rodwell?”
“No. He tried to kill me, and in doing so shot himself,” I asserted.
“I am no murderer! He was ill-treating the woman, and because I
interfered, as any man would, he attacked me. That’s all!”
The low-browed man passed his big sallow hand down his dark beard, and
held it for a few seconds in thought.
“Rodwell was a damned cur!” he blurted forth at last. “I have since
discovered that on the night in question he was on his way to Vine
Street Police Station to give me away. We had had, that afternoon, a
little difference about a set of fine stones we got from outside the
Ritz in Paris. He struck me in the face and I swore that I would never
forgive him. Hilda knew his intentions, and, as they walked together,
she was trying to dissuade him from defying me and giving me away to
the police. Then you suddenly appeared upon the scene, and through
you, he, fortunately for me, closed his own lips!”
The bandit hesitated for a second, and then in sudden enthusiasm he
put out his hand, exclaiming warmly:
“Monsieur Hipwell, in that case it is to you I owe my narrowest
escape! Now let us talk further. Please explain exactly what occurred
on that night.”
I did so, relating the whole tragic occurrence, just as I have already
related it in the opening of this narrative of fact.
With his hairy chin upon his hand, he listened without uttering a
word. I recalled how that thin, claw-like hand would instantly draw an
automatic and shoot any adversary without compunction. Indeed, I knew
only too well what a desperate malefactor he was, and how, in the many
brushes he had had with the French police five years before, he had
always managed to escape after showing desperate fight. In one affair
near Tours, he had killed a _gendarme_ and wounded two others,
afterwards getting safely away. So elusive was he, such an adept at
disguises, and so loyal were his accomplices, that he had always
escaped arrest.
I spoke of the atmosphere of mystery in which I was compelled to live,
as I glanced round his pleasant, sunlit room. “I am sorely puzzled to
discriminate between my enemies and my friends. Can you help me?” I
asked him.
“Surely it is not difficult, Monsieur Hipwell. I fear that your worst
enemy is your wife,” he said, calmly looking into my face.
“Illona! Is she actually my enemy?” I gasped, astounded at his words.
“I should safeguard myself against her if I were you,” was his quiet
reply. “I happen to know that she has evil intentions towards you. As
you have served me well, I tell you in strict confidence the plain
truth.”
“But with what object?” I demanded. “As far as I know I have done
nothing against her. Indeed, it is only two days ago I realized that
she was actually my wife.”
“If you are not careful she will give you away to the police,” said
the master-criminal. “It is therefore very fortunate for you that you
decided to bring the pearls here, or they might have been found in
your possession, or at your bank.”
“But why is it that this woman hates me?”
“She is jealous of a girl named Joan Gell, whom they say you promised
to marry before you married her.”
“Joan has disappeared, so I take it that she has had a sinister hand
in it?”
“I know nothing of the details, but I certainly should suppose so,”
was the great crook’s reply.
“I am here to beg for your assistance, Monsieur Sarasti. How can I
find her?” I implored of the low-browed, dark-faced scoundrel.
He shook his head gravely. Though a criminal and an assassin, he was,
however, in no way antagonistic towards me. Perhaps it was on account
of Rodwell’s death.
“I fear I can give you no help. The matter is private vengeance on
your wife’s part. In such circumstances I cannot interfere.”
“Joan’s father, a barrister, prosecuted Hilda Bennett,” I remarked.
“Is it because of that the girl has been spirited away from her home?”
“I think not, for I have knowledge that Illona uttered threats against
you both six months ago. She has apparently carried out her threat
against your girl friend, and now she intends to betray you.”
“And I am helpless!” I cried in despair. “What reply can I make to the
charges she may bring against me?”
Felix Zuroff was silent for a few moments.
“Perhaps it is the woman’s intended revenge that your friend Mr. Gell
shall appear in court, and actually prosecute his daughter’s fiancé!”
he remarked at last.
“But do give me advice,” I begged of him. “What can I do in order to
save myself?”
The desperate bandit again reflected for a few moments.
“If she carried her threat into execution, then your arrest would, in
all probability, place us all in peril,” he remarked slowly, as though
speaking to himself. “No, she must remain silent. Lisely Hatten is
your good friend, and has always been. You may trust her.”
“But how can I defy Illona?” I demanded eagerly.
The man’s dark face changed. I saw a hard, stern look on his
countenance.
“I will see to it,” he muttered, and, crossing to the writing-table,
he unlocked a drawer, and took out a well-worn little wallet,
withdrawing from it a piece of folded cartridge paper upon which I saw
was drawn a circle of musical notes, the three double noughts similar
to my own.
Taking out a scrap of music paper, he rapidly wrote several bars of
music, after referring carefully to the key. At the end, he drew a
peculiar sign, evidently a mark well known to his accomplices, and
then, folding it, told me to deliver it to her in London at the
earliest moment.
“Alas, I have no knowledge of her address,” I said in dismay.
He referred to the wallet into which he had replaced the circular
musical design, and a moment later said:
“She stays with a man named Owen when in London. At present he is
lodging with Bob Whittaker at Beverley Villa, Sheen Lane, close to
Mortlake Station, and she is no doubt there also.”
I scribbled the address upon my shirt-cuff, and taking the precious
piece of music, which I knew to be an order which the woman dare not
disobey, folded it and placed it securely in my pocket-book.
“If the man Owen is Roddy Owen, then he was the last man seen with
Joan,” I remarked.
“Yes. He is Roddy Owen and is lying low on account of an unfortunate
affair at Fulham, in which our comrade Tuggy Wilson was shot dead by
some unknown person, who had a secret grudge against him. Dufour was
suspected, but he was innocent, as he was a great friend of Tuggy’s.”
“Can Owen have had any hand in Joan’s disappearance, do you think?”
“Ah! How can we tell?” he replied, with a mysterious grin. “In my
position I can have no interest in the private quarrels of any of my
friends. I order, while they obey. That is all!” and in his dark eyes
shone a strange, evil glint.
Before I took my leave I again begged of him to release me, but his
only reply was:
“I have given you an order for your release from your most dangerous
enemy, Monsieur Hipwell. For the present that must suffice!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.
WITHOUT PREJUDICE
That afternoon I recrossed the lake to Evian-les-Bains amid a crowd
of English tourists, and after tea at the Royal, Lord Oxenwood gave me
back the well-filled dispatch box to take to Downing Street, saying:
“I expect you’ll have to come out again next week. But I shall be at
Geneva, as I am attending the League of Nations next Friday.”
He also gave me the dispatch for the Ambassador in Paris, and a box of
fresh flowers to take to Lady Oxenwood in Grosvenor Square.
At seven o’clock I was back in Lausanne where I dined at the Café
Central up on the Place St. François. Afterwards I watched the
dancing until eleven o’clock. Leaving then on the homeward bound
Simplon-Orient express, I arrived in Paris next morning, and delivered
the dispatch to a secretary from the Embassy. It was seven o’clock the
next evening when I arrived in London.
The curious fact frequently struck me how, during my period of
unconsciousness, I had been appointed to that highly responsible post
of King’s Foreign Service Messenger. For many months I had traveled
constantly hither and thither, at the same time leading a criminal
life of which I had not the slightest knowledge, except what from time
to time I had been able to gather from my undesirable associates.
What would the world have said if it had been known that the secrets
of Great Britain’s diplomacy were being entrusted to an expert thief
of women’s jewels?
As soon as Bruce opened my door I knew by his scared face that
something was wrong.
“The police were here yesterday, sir,” he said, “and they came again
to-day. They were here at five o’clock.”
“The police!” I gasped, thoroughly taken aback. “Who?”
“Two detectives, sir. They were very anxious to see you. They showed
me a search warrant, and then went over everything. They had all the
books down from the shelves, and opened everything.”
“And what did they find?” I asked.
“Nothing, sir. But it’s queer, isn’t it? Why did they get a search
warrant, I wonder? Do they think you are a thief?”
“How can I tell, Bruce?” I laughed, remembering with satisfaction how,
after taking the pearls from the hollow book, I had destroyed the
latter, and had placed the key to the musical cipher in my
pocket-book.
One serious fact was now quite plain. Illona had forestalled me, and
had already given information to the police, believing that Lady
Rathgormly’s pearls were still in their hiding-place.
The bitter vindictiveness of the woman who called me husband I now
realized, and in fury I at once took the train down to Mortlake.
Without much difficulty I found Beverley Villa, a small detached
modern house, the hall of which was badly lit. My ring was answered by
a slatternly young girl, of whom I asked for Mr. Whittaker. At the end
of the narrow passage appeared a dark, curly-haired man in his
shirt-sleeves, who came forward rather pugnaciously, I thought.
“Mr. Whittaker?” I inquired politely. “I have called to see Illona,” I
added in a low voice: “I have a message from--from His Excellency.”
The man looked me up and down suspiciously.
“Who are you?” he asked, with a distinct Cockney twang.
For answer I took out the paper with the double noughts and musical
notes on it.
Instantly that satisfied him, for he conducted me to a small,
cheaply-furnished back sitting-room on the first floor, where I found
Illona wearing a soiled _négligé_ gown of pale pink silk.
“You!” she gasped, starting up, and staring at me astounded.
“Yes!” I cried anxiously. “So you have already commenced your devil’s
work against me, have you? But two can play at this game. Read that!”
And I pushed into her face the bars of music which His Excellency had
scribbled and signed.
“Here is the key, if you want it,” I laughed gloatingly, placing my
own key into her hand. “Read it, you traitor, and take heed what you
do!”
In a few minutes, by reference to the six circles, she realized what
order the master-criminal had issued; for, I watched her face go pale
as death.
“I--I----”
“I want no explanation,” I cried. “His Excellency has given me that to
convey to you. The future is now your own affair.”
“But, Lionel!” she cried. “I did not mean to----”
“You meant to cause my arrest,” I shouted at her in anger. “But I defy
you! His Excellency will deal with you as he thinks fit, never fear.
Any one of us who betrays the other pays the penalty, and that is upon
you.”
“I swear that I did not mean any harm. I was forced to----” cried the
hideous, distorted woman, white to the lips, and staggering.
“His Excellency, I know, is aware of more concerning you than you ever
dream,” I said, as laughing defiantly in her face, I turned and left
that dark, mysterious abode of thieves.
She darted out after me, and taking my coat-sleeve, pulled me back
into the passage.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “What has His Excellency told you?”
“Only that you are my bitterest enemy, and now you have proved it and
treated me as such,” was my harsh reply. “The police have searched my
rooms.”
“And they have found nothing,” she said. “Therefore why worry
further?”
“I don’t,” I said. “It is for you now to worry, I think. His
Excellency means what he says, remember.”
“But it is too late,” she screamed. “I can’t draw back now. I was a
fool--an accursed fool.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think you were. Good night,” and I left her standing
half fainting in the doorway. Whatever cryptic message Felix Zuroff
had written in that code of music, it had had a most startling and
crushing effect on her. Her face became haggard and drawn, with her
eyes starting wildly out of her head. She appeared to be absolutely
frozen with horror.
Back in Sackville Street an hour later, it then being nearly midnight,
I wondered if I should receive another visit from the police. Nothing
had been found. And, in that case, I could see no reason why they
should arrest me. Nevertheless, the position had become full of
gravest peril. Probably the woman Illona had denounced me by means of
an anonymous letter. If so, Scotland Yard would probably act with both
hesitancy and discretion.
If a statement had been made that Lady Rathgormly’s pearls were
concealed in my room, then naturally the search warrant granted by the
magistrate at Marlborough Street Police Court, allowed them to pry
into my belongings. Quite certain it was that Illona would never dare
to go to the police openly, and denounce me, as it would be far too
dangerous a procedure for her. No, as I sat far into the night
reflecting over the events of the last forty-eight hours, I arrived at
the conclusion that my official position would satisfy the police that
I was no thief.
By my conversation with the most notorious motor-bandit Europe had
known, I had learned one very important fact, namely, the hiding-place
of Roddy Owen, who had so cleverly slipped through the hands of the
police from Harrington Court. At half-past nine next morning, I called
at Queen’s Gate, and told Mr. Gell of the fellow’s address, without,
however, explaining how I had become possessed of it.
“Excellent, my dear Lionel!” he cried enthusiastically. “The
information is most important, for it will enable the C.I.D. to take
up the case again. Come down to Scotland Yard with me.”
This I did. The Assistant Commissioner had not arrived, but we saw
Superintendent Nethersole--one of the “Big Four”--who was an intimate
friend of Mr. Gell’s, and who gave orders which resulted in two
detectives being told off to keep strict observation upon the house in
Sheen Lane, and its fair-haired male lodger.
Superintendent Nethersole’s attitude towards me, however, struck me as
distinctly peculiar. I had never met him before, but he inquired if I
were Mr. Hipwell, the King’s Messenger, and if I lived in Sackville
Street. Was it possible that under his instructions my rooms had been
searched? I felt confident that it was so--hence the situation became
further extremely awkward.
I walked out into Parliament Street with the extreme satisfaction of
knowing that wherever Owen went in the future he would be closely
watched. Mr. Gell continued in his car to the Law Courts, while I
strolled back home across St. James’s Park.
I found a middle-aged, well-dressed man awaiting me in my room. He
introduced himself as Inspector Jerrold of the C.I.D., and he said
apologetically:
“We think, sir, that it is only right to explain the reason we
searched your apartments during your absence the day before yesterday,
and why we also made inquiries at your bank, and examined what you
have there in safe custody. At Scotland Yard a letter posted in Paris
was received, alleging that the pearls, stolen from Lady Rathgormly
some time ago, were in your possession--concealed in a hollow book.”
“Well,” I laughed, “I hope you found them!”
“Of course not, sir,” replied the police officer. “From the first it
was considered a wild and improbable story. But we were compelled to
do our duty and investigate. I have been sent by the Superintendent to
apologize to you.”
“Superintendent who?”
“Superintendent Nethersole at the Yard, sir.”
I smiled. The reason was now plain, why he had evinced such an
interest in me.
“I expect you have some secret enemy sir, eh? Oh, you’ve no idea how
many foolish and unfounded denunciations we receive against perfectly
innocent people,” the inspector said. “There are so many mad people
about nowadays. In every case of murder, we always get dozens of false
accusations against the supposed culprit. In the Bow Road affair last
month, for instance, no fewer than fifty-eight different people were
accused as the assassin--mostly by anonymous letter-writers.”
“As long as I’m not proved to be a jewel-thief, Mr. Jerrold, I think
we may allow the matter to rest, eh?” I said.
“I think so, sir,” he laughed. Then, politely but firmly refusing a
whiskey-and-soda I offered him, he wished me good morning, and I admit
that I felt greatly gratified when the door closed behind him.
Certainly I had had a most narrow escape from arrest. The whole affair
naturally caused a most intense hatred and loathing to arise within me
against my treacherous wife Illona, who, while declaring her extreme
solicitude for me, at the same time had acted as my most bitter and
dangerous enemy. Yet by the drastic action of His Excellency--whatever
it was--her game had now been spoiled. She feared me, I knew. Why? Was
it because she anticipated reprisals?
The one vital point which annoyed me to desperation was, that I had in
my unconscious state actually married such a painted-up freak. I was
wondering whether my marriage could be annulled. I doubted it, for to
all intents and purposes I had been quite sane and of sound mind, when
I had stood before the Registrar. There would be a hundred people to
come forward and declare that I was quite sane and normal. In the
papers I had seen reports of many marriage contracts, which the court
after evidence had declared null and void. But in my own case, I knew
too well that I had been at the time existing in a dream, induced by
that baneful drug which had been injected into my veins, causing me to
become a criminal and a jewel-thief.
If I told my story in the Divorce Court, people would only laugh at
me. And such a thought caused me a deep and most terrible depression.
Even if I succeeded in finding poor Joan alive, I could never marry
her, tied as I was to that ugly, done-up traitor, that habitual
criminal who had proved herself my worst enemy.
Three days went by. I had been out for an afternoon stroll, and had
called on a family named Fleming in Upper Brook Street, where I had
tea when, on returning, Bruce told me that Mr. Gell wished to see me
at the Temple as soon as possible.
I took a taxi to Fleet Street and was soon shown into the dull,
time-dimmed chambers of the eminent King’s Counsel.
“My dear Lionel,” began the burly lawyer, who had just come across
from court, and still wore his silk gown. “Your information has
brought forth fruit. Nethersole found me in court this afternoon, and
tells me that through watching Owen they have found Dufour and his
wife. You remember they fled mysteriously from Finlay Street in
Fulham. They are now in hiding in a house in Windsor Terrace up at
Hoxton, a very low neighborhood, I believe.”
“Dufour is a thief, no doubt.”
“Of course. He was, like Owen, an associate of Tuggy Wilson. The
police are greatly gratified, as they have come across quite a little
nest of men they have long wanted.”
“Ah, if we only could obtain news of poor Joan!” I cried. “To
rediscover Dufour is not of very great interest, is it?”
“No. But to find Owen is. The police have been making a quantity of
diligent inquiries about him and a woman who is lodging at the same
house at Mortlake, and it is quite possible there may be some dramatic
arrests in the immediate future.”
“Arrests?” I gasped, for if Illona were arrested she would attribute
it all to me, and would certainly incriminate me.
In a flash I realized the extreme seriousness of the situation.
“You seem surprised, Lionel,” said Mr. Gell. “But as a matter of fact
I believe arrests are to be made to-night. I have promised to go up to
Hoxton with Nethersole. You’d better come with me. I should be glad to
see Owen in the dock; for, we might then learn something of interest.
I’m meeting Nethersole at the Yard at half past nine. Dress rough, as
I shall, and come along,” he urged.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.
THE SHOP-WINDOW CLUE
Dressed in an old suit of Bruce’s, a pair of my oldest shoes, and
wearing a golf cap and a flannel shirt without a collar, I presented a
rough appearance as I entered the paved court before the big building
known as New Scotland Yard, where Mr. Gell, attired in a butcher’s
blue overall, and wearing a battered straw hat, which is the fashion
of vendors of meat, awaited me.
“I think we’re in for some excitement to-night,” he said, in a low
voice. “Nethersole says that if Owen is there and is cornered, he will
probably show fight, so I’ve brought my pistol.”
“So have I,” I replied, feeling my trusty automatic in my hip-pocket.
“I always carried it, too, on my journeys on the Continent.”
“The inquiries the police have made during the past month have proved
that the little coterie in Hoxton are connected with a big gang of
Continental thieves. The woman Bennett was one of them, without a
doubt,” remarked my companion.
“But what is the use of it all if we cannot find Joan?” I asked
despondently, for I must here confess that I trembled to think of the
consequences for me if Illona were arrested and disclosed the truth.
A closed blue Buick stood in the courtyard close by, and a few seconds
later Superintendent Nethersole--whom I had difficulty in recognizing
as a pallid, consumptive-looking, ill-dressed man--together with three
common laborers, emerged. And together we entered the conveyance,
truly a rough looking party of hard-working denizens of the East End.
“O’Gorman, who is on duty, has just telephoned to say that Owen and
Dufour are spending the evening together and that they have gone round
to the bar of the King’s Arms, in the City Road,” Nethersole explained
to Joan’s father as the car swung into Parliament Street. “We ought to
make a good haul to-night. But our chief concern is to clear up the
mystery as to who killed that young expert thief, Tuggy Wilson. Dufour
was discharged, but there are still suspicions. The court dismissed
him on account of insufficient evidence. But he can be arrested again,
if we so decide.”
“Has anyone squealed?” asked Mr. Gell, using the thieves’ expression
for giving information.
“Some woman has--but it was only a woman’s hatred,” he replied,
glancing at me. And I felt very uncomfortable, to say the least.
“I feel certain that Owen knows the whereabouts of Joan Gell, dead or
alive,” I said quickly. “We have to wring the truth from him. Poor
girl! She must have suffered the tortures of the damned in these many
weeks.”
“If Owen knows anything he shall be made to divulge it, I assure you,
Mr. Hipwell,” declared the Superintendent. “Leave that to us,” he
added confidently.
Along Theobald’s Road, the Clerkenwell Road, and Old Street we went
until, at last gaining the busy City Road, we pulled up at the corner
of Shepherdess Walk, not far from the blue lamp denoting the
police-station. Nethersole alighted and, with one of his sergeants,
strolled farther along the City Road to the corner of a narrow
working-class thoroughfare, Windsor Terrace. Presently, from the
shadow emerged a loafer who spoke a few hurried words to the
Superintendent, and then ambled off. The man was Sergeant O’Gorman,
whose duty had been to keep observation upon the house.
Turning back to us, Nethersole said:
“Owen and Dufour are still over there in the public-house. We’ll wait
a bit and surround the house when they go back, as they are sure to do
at closing-time. I’ve got a warrant for Owen charging him with being
an accessory to the murder of Wilson. And we want Dufour because his
description resembles that of the man who broke a pane of glass in the
window of Appleyard’s, the jewelers in Old Bond Street, six months
ago, while another man seized a tray of rings and got away in a car.
They were no doubt working together. The man who took the tray was
noticed by two passers-by, and I have a shrewd suspicion when I put
Mr. Owen up for identification, he will be found to be the thief. They
are all a pretty expert lot.”
Then, leaving us, he meandered away, while the sergeant with him
crossed to the King’s Arms to have a drink and watch the wanted men,
who were all unsuspicious that they had been traced to their humble
hiding-place.
With Joan’s father I paced the streets unnoticed in the crowd of
hurrying passers-by. None of us dared to enter the police-station;
for, in the lower-class neighborhoods there are a hundred suspicious
eyes on the alert for officers of the law in plain clothes.
Windsor Terrace did not bear the best of reputations. Many a thief or
pilferer had been arrested there. Too, it was the abode of more than
one pickpocket known to the police by previous convictions.
An hour full of suppressed excitement went by. At last the burly
sergeant of the C.I.D. emerged from the public-house and went off in
the opposite direction, subsequently doubling back, and meeting us
outside the hospital in the City Road.
“They’re still there, sir,” he reported to his chief. “Another man is
with them; but he is a stranger to me. They’ve just bought a bottle of
whisky, so they’ll be going home with it in a minute.”
“Anything of any womenfolk?” asked Nethersole.
“No, sir. But I’ve overheard something they’ve been discussing. I
believe it’s quite right about Appleyard’s, and that if we search,
we’ll find the stuff at the house.”
“Splendid, Rayner!” declared the Superintendent. “Fade out now, but be
in reach when we go to the house.”
“All right, sir,” replied the man, and he slunk away and quickly
disappeared.
“Rayner is an excellent fellow--and has very long ears,” Nethersole
remarked to us, and as I looked around I saw two of the men whom we
had brought from the Yard waiting for a motor bus. A moment later they
boarded it and went off.
I was surprised, but Nethersole remarked that the pair had evidently
been observed and had gone. Ten minutes later they returned
separately.
Suddenly from where we stood, we noticed another man come out of the
King’s Arms and stand in hesitancy on the curb. As he did so he wiped
his brow with a white handkerchief and then went off.
Nethersole’s quick eyes saw the signal, which told him that the men
they wanted were about to come out.
Two minutes later they did so. I recognized both Owen and Dufour in
the distance. With them was another man, tall and rather older, as far
as I could discern.
At once they were followed at a respectful distance by one of the men
who had exercised the ruse of leaving on the motor bus. We turned and
walked away in the opposite direction. Presently we were overtaken in
the crowd by the man who had come out of the bar and wiped his
forehead. Addressing his chief, he said:
“All O.K., sir! They’re inside, and Sergeant Rayner is on duty. The
third man they call Harry, and I overheard him tell Owen something
about a woman--evidently a friend of theirs--that she might ‘peg out’
very soon.”
“Is the man known?” asked Nethersole quickly.
“No, sir. None of us knows him. He’s got a motor-bike in front of the
house. So he doesn’t live here.”
“He’s evidently a friend of Owen’s. When he gets away on his bike, our
car will follow him. See to that. We may want him.”
“Who is to go, sir?”
“Perry and Denham will go--with Rayner in charge.”
“May I go also?” I asked, eager for a chase. I saw that Owen and
Dufour were to be arrested, and to follow the stranger would certainly
be exciting.
“If you wish, Mr. Hipwell,” replied the pallid-looking man whom none
would recognize as one of the “Big Four” of Scotland Yard.
“And I’ll go too,” said Mr. Gell. “You’ll no doubt deal with Dufour
and his friend.”
Nethersole smiled, and then we turned and made our way back along the
short street of drab, dilapidated old homes known as Windsor Terrace.
As we approached, two other men came to meet us. Signals were given,
and with two other men they retired into the shadows of adjacent
doorways.
Outside the house there stood a fast “Indian” motor-cycle with its
lamp lit, while at the end of the street, where we approached from the
City Road, stood our car with the chauffeur, who had already received
instructions.
While we drew back Nethersole ascended the steps and knocked loudly at
the door, two of his own men standing close behind him. After several
repeated knocks the door was at last opened, and the three men from
Scotland Yard rushed into the dark passage.
Next moment we heard rapid automatic shots and the loud scream of a
woman--probably Dufour’s wife.
In a flash pandemonium was at its height.
At once two other detectives ran into the house and from nowhere there
appeared a constable in uniform guarding the door. The raid had
certainly been well arranged, to the minutest detail.
Already we were near the car when we saw a tall figure exit hurriedly
up the area steps from the basement, mount the motor-cycle, and speed
away. Seeing that our car was turned in the opposite direction, I
cried out that we should lose sight of him.
“No, sir. I don’t think we shall,” replied the well-trained police
chauffeur, who knew all the main roads of London like a map. “He’ll no
doubt get out on to the New North Road and into the country. We shall
overtake him very soon, I think.”
Then, as we all jumped in, the car quickly sped back along the City
Road to the New North Road and was soon traveling at high speed
towards the Holloway Road. We were quickly at Holloway Station, but
had seen no sign of the fugitive. Therefore our chauffeur slackened
speed, saying:
“He won’t think he is being followed. He’ll pass us in a minute or
two, and then he’ll believe us to be an ordinary party on the road.”
His prophecy proved true; for, within a few moments the fast “Indian”
passed us traveling at about thirty miles an hour, and upon it was the
escaping suspect.
In a moment we were after him, allowing him to get well ahead of us.
He accelerated wherever he could. And, as there was but little traffic
on the road at that hour, we soon found ourselves going through St.
Albans and on our way to Dunstable, strangely enough on the same road
over which I had traveled with my two friends, the lorry-drivers, on
the night of my great misfortune. Up the long main street of Dunstable
we passed, and then out on the straight road leading to Fenny
Stratford.
“I wonder where the fellow is bound for,” asked Mr. Gell, as he sat
resignedly in the back of the car at my side.
“And I’m wondering what dirty work has been done in Windsor Terrace,”
I remarked. “Nethersole had an inkling that they would show fight.”
“Oh! Both of them are safe in Shepherdess Walk Police Station by this
time,” he said with a laugh. “Trust Nethersole to take care of himself
and his men. Our chief interest just now is in this fleeing stranger.
Who can he be, and where is he bound for?”
“He may turn off the road,” remarked Sergeant Rayner. “If so we can’t
follow in the car. It would arouse his suspicions and he wouldn’t go
to his destination. If he does that, we must descend and travel on
foot. We shall find his bike outside some house or other.”
“Have you orders to arrest him?” asked Mr. Gell.
“Certainly I have, sir. We only want to know who he is, and where he
lives. That’s why we’re here. My orders are to arrest him on suspicion
of being implicated in the theft at Appleyard’s.”
Suddenly, on arrival at the dark little village of Hockliffe, where
the road from Bedford to Aylesbury crosses the main road from London
to Birmingham, the fugitive turned off to the right towards Woburn.
Noticing this, our driver, an expert in following a car, slowed down.
“This road leads past Battlesden up to Woburn and Northampton,” he
said. “Shall we follow quietly?”
“Yes,” said Rayner, who had been placed in charge. “Put out your
lights and creep along after him.”
This we did, and as we descended a hill, we heard the noise of his
engine. Without slackening, he went on. Indeed, across the brow of the
hill we saw his lights in the distance. Then our driver speeded up,
his eyes keen before him in the chase.
We were afraid lest our turning off the main road after him might not
arouse his suspicions. In that case we should never trace him to his
home.
Proceeding slowly, the driver suddenly exclaimed:
“He’s stopped down in the hollow yonder. Or else he’s had a breakdown.
I think it best if you all got down and took a walk. If he goes on
I’ll follow and pick you up.”
“I agree,” replied the expert detective Rayner. “He can’t get over the
brow of the next hill to Woburn without being heard or seen.”
So, we all alighted and went along at a good pace in the half-light of
the crescent moon. The whole countryside was in silence, save now and
then the hoot of an owl in the oaks by the roadside. From far off came
the sound of heavily-laden lorries, going to and fro, on the main road
to the North.
As we walked, there was a slight breeze. And above us the leaves rose
and fell with a noise as of lazily-lapping waves upon a sandy shore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.
THE DARK HOUSE
From somewhere a church clock struck midnight as we went together
along the silent country road, lit only by the pale light of the
waning moon.
We conversed in whispers. In the still night air human voices carry
far. Our driver remained behind with the car, and with him Rayner
fixed a rendezvous. If he heard a pistol-shot he was to come instantly
in search of us.
“I’m certain he has stopped somewhere near here,” Rayner said to Mr.
Gell. “We can only hope that he has left his bike outside.”
We climbed the hill eagerly and gazed down the road, but there was,
alas! no light to indicate the presence of a motor-cycle. All was
quiet and deserted. In the far distance we heard the hum of a motor
car on another road. But nothing else disturbed the rural silence.
Quietly we proceeded down the hill when, of a sudden, we came to a
good-sized, detached cottage standing in a small orchard, the only
habitation in the vicinity.
Obeying Rayner, who quickly held up his hand, we halted while he crept
forward, stepping noiselessly over the grass at the roadside.
Five minutes later he returned to us, exclaiming in a low voice:
“He’s here! His bike is under the portico. I can hear voices, but the
place is in darkness. Now, I think the best trick is for you, Dick, to
go there and pretend you’ve lost your way,” he said, addressing his
colleague from the Yard. “You look like an honest working-man,” he
added, with a light laugh. “Get the door open, and we’ll rush it,
light or no light. I’ve got my torch.”
“So have I,” declared the stalwart detective addressed as Dick. “We’ll
get him all right, never fear.”
“There may be a bit of a scrap, sir,” Rayner said, addressing Mr.
Gell. “So you’d better keep out of it. But you, Mr. Hipwell, will give
us a helping hand, won’t you?”
“Rather!” I cried. “I’m with you all right.”
“Good! Then let’s get on,” whispered Sergeant Rayner. “We’ve traced
the old bird to his nest,” he laughed.
Together we trod in silence over the grass, and entered the golden
gate. Then, one by one, we crept noiselessly over the soil to behind
the creeper-covered portico in which stood the still hot motor-cycle.
When all was ready, Rayner’s colleague trod heavily up the
garden-path, stumbled purposely near the door, and rapped upon it.
We could hear a movement within. But no reply was vouchsafed.
Twice he knocked vigorously, until at last we heard a woman’s
querulous voice inquire who was there.
“Only me,” was Dick Perry’s reply. “I’m on the road, and I’ve lost my
way. I’m very sorry to disturb you at this late hour, missus.”
“Where are you going?” inquired the woman.
“Well, I don’t quite know. I want to get to Wavendon,” he said.
A few moments later we heard the bolts drawn, and an elderly woman
stood, an indistinct figure, in the doorway. Next instant she screamed
as, pushing her aside, Rayner and two detectives darted in, followed
by me, while Mr. Gell remained outside to see if anyone escaped by the
window.
The dash was accomplished in a few moments. Rayner and his friends
were adepts at forcibly entering premises.
I heard a man on the stairs give vent to a loud curse, when full into
my face there came a blood-red flash with a loud report, and a bullet
whistled by my head. Next second, however, the man was pinned down by
the two detectives.
Exactly what occurred immediately afterwards I hardly know.
The uncertain light of flash-lamps showed the face of a gray-haired
hag of a woman who, startled and screaming, was being held by a third
plain-clothes man from Shepherdess Walk, who had followed us on a
motor-cycle. Meanwhile the fugitive we had overtaken was struggling
and cursing, held firmly by Rayner and Perry.
The sound of a pistol-shot brought up our car, and into it the two
prisoners were quickly bundled. The man--whose name we afterwards
discovered was “Old Tom” or Booth, and whose fingerprints revealed a
very interesting record as a thief--became very violent, so that
Rayner slipped a pair of handcuffs upon him. Then, leaving him in
charge of his assistant, Dick Perry, he and the other man, Denham,
re-entered the house to search it.
In the downstairs living-room we found a cheap paraffin-lamp and lit
it. Then with Mr. Gell, the detectives ascended the stairs, leaving me
below, pistol in hand, ready to prevent anyone, who might still be in
the house, from leaving.
After a few minutes I heard Joan’s father utter a loud cry, and shout
to me:
“Lionel! Come up here at once!”
Up the two flights of stairs I dashed, to where I saw a light, and
found myself in a low-ceilinged attic. In the centre of a bare,
miserable room was a bed, and upon it a female figure.
Next second I recognized the pallid, wasted face as that of Joan--_my
Joan_!
My love was inert and apparently unconscious. She opened her eyes for
a single second, then closed them again. She recognized neither her
father nor me. Mr. Gell suddenly was aged. A moan escaped him.
“This must be the woman whom the fellow in the public-house said
couldn’t last much longer,” Rayner remarked. “Do you know her, sir?”
he asked of the famous King’s Counsel.
“Know her? Why, she’s my daughter! We must get a doctor at once.”
I stroked my dear one’s hot brow tenderly, and then, realizing that a
medical man must be obtained without delay, rushed downstairs to the
fugitive’s motor-cycle, and, mounting it, dashed at full speed along
the road. After a few miles I entered the dark main-street of a small
country town which proved to be Woburn and, of a sleepy man driving a
cart, I inquired the whereabouts of the doctor’s house.
Ten minutes later I had explained briefly the discovery of the police,
and very shortly the doctor got his car out and followed me back to
where my loved one was lying.
After two hours she was removed to the hospital at Leighton Buzzard.
But it was nearly three weeks before she was able to relate what had
happened to her after being decoyed away by that message purporting to
have been sent by me.
While seated in the drawing-room at Queen’s Gate, still very pale and
weak from the ill-treatment and semi-starvation she had undergone, she
related to us fully her startling adventures.
After going to the Florida Club she had received a second message
saying that I had been the victim of a street accident, that I had
been taken to St. George’s Hospital. The man who told her so was Owen.
And he, having a car outside, offered to take her to the hospital.
Naturally alarmed and eager to be at my side, she accepted, only to
fall into a well-prepared trap!
In the car she had been seized with dizziness, doped, no doubt. But,
on coming to herself, she found to her horror that she was locked in
an upstairs room in a small and dirty house kept by a foreigner, named
Dufour, and his wife.
She was constantly threatened with death if she shouted for help. But
once or twice in her half-demented state she did shout, and her cries
were no doubt those heard in Finlay Street by the neighbor, Mrs.
Richmond, wife of the draper’s assistant.
Of her removal to the country she had no recollection, for she had
again been doped. At Fulham she had been seized with a sudden illness.
Then, later at the hospital, at Leighton Buzzard, the doctors had
found that from time to time drugs had been given her. All of which
had aggravated her condition until she was so ill at the time of her
discovery that she could not have lived another week under such
conditions.
Happily, she was snatched from the grave just in time. After a
fortnight with her mother at Eastbourne she had almost regained her
normal health.
Naturally, I spent all the time I could with her, and my blood boiled
when she related the ill-treatment and insults meted out to her by her
father’s vindictive enemies.
Often, when alone, I held her fondly in my arms and kissed her
passionately upon the lips. Nevertheless, my senses were ever benumbed
by the terrible knowledge of that tell-tale entry at Somerset House.
From her, as indeed from everyone, I preserved strictly the secret of
my marriage. But the appalling fact obsessed me day and night. I dare
not attempt to sue for a divorce for fear of the scandal it must
certainly entail. Illona was my enemy, and if I attempted to free
myself she would, I knew, rise against me and do her worst.
Several weeks went by.
I was compelled to make two journeys abroad--one to Lord Oxenwood at
the League of Nations at Geneva, the other by the Sud Express to
Madrid, returning on the day following my arrival.
Meanwhile, the Press had reported the dramatic arrest of Owen, Dufour,
and Booth. They had been charged at Bow Street with the smash-and-grab
robbery from the shop-window of Appleyard’s, the well-known jewelers
in Old Bond Street. And, after a remand, they had been committed for
trial at the London Sessions. To the intense chagrin of the prisoners,
Mr. Gell, K.C., had been instructed by the Director of Public
Prosecutions to conduct the case against them. Well they knew that
their bitter reprisals against the great lawyer would go against them.
Joan, they were well aware, had been discovered, and had related her
whole sensational story.
As a matter of fact, her father was furious, even though he was
grateful that his daughter had been restored to them. Nevertheless,
his anger against Owen knew no bounds.
As for me, I was in an overwhelming quandary.
My own guilt held me speechless.
Day followed day, yet I constantly feared lest one or another of the
prisoners might give information against me. For indeed, they must
have suspected that I had put the police on the track of the young
scoundrel Owen, with the disastrous results to them.
The police, of course, had no idea that the gang of shop-window
thieves was affiliated with the cosmopolitan gang under the desperate
motor-bandit, Felix Zuroff.
It was only long afterward that I discovered from Lisely Hatten, or
Hattenescu--the Roumanian girl who had always acted as my friend and
who, having cut herself adrift from the gang, married a respectable
banker’s clerk--the truth concerning that well-remembered night in
Camberwell. It seems that the Soviet Government had disposed of about
half the Imperial Russian Crown jewels, together with those filched
from the fashionable jewelers’ shops in Leningrad and Moscow. The
remaining half of the jewels of the Romanoffs was being sent in charge
of a special messenger and two armed guards, to be delivered in
Antwerp to a rich international syndicate which had arranged to
purchase them for two and a half millions sterling.
In fear that the train might be wrecked by robbers, the jewels were
sent by fast motor car from Moscow to the town of Zdolbunow, on the
Polish frontier, whence they were to be conveyed by train across to
Belgium. Twenty miles before the frontier was reached there appeared
suddenly in the night three cars upon the road. In the first was
Zuroff and three men. They ran the Soviet car into a ditch, and, after
a fierce encounter, shot dead the courier, the driver, and the two
guards. Afterwards they made off to Zdolbunow with their booty. The
railway authorities, warned from Moscow of the official courier’s
arrival, and never dreaming of the raid, welcomed the bandits; and
three of them were soon in the train on their way to Warsaw and
Berlin. The others--including Illona, Dufour, and Owen--traveled as
ordinary passengers by the same train. But at Lublin, half way to
Warsaw, they all alighted. Two cars awaited them, and they
disappeared, subsequently arriving at Vienna, and getting to London
via Switzerland, by the Arlberg Express.
On the foggy night in Camberwell they were examining their booty in
that small, stuffy room which was the London meeting-place of the
notorious and elusive gang, and into which I had so unfortunately
stumbled.
At that hour the girl Hatten had taken compassion on me, and, since
her happy marriage, I, on more than one occasion, have thanked her for
allowing me possession of the most precious of the senses--my
eyesight.
Still vividly I remember that old rickety table piled with jewels of
such magnitude that my eyes had been dazzled, and of the dark,
sinister face of the man who had emulated the infamous Bonnot, the
motor bandit, and whose daring crimes had become the terror of the
Continental police.
I compared his imperious appearance in that squalid working-class
house in Camberwell with the luxury and ease in which he lived in
retirement in his flower-embowered flat in Lausanne--the man who in
his great criminal coup had taken the lion’s share of jewels worth two
and a half million pounds.
But all this was of no assistance to me. Two hard facts obsessed me.
The defiant Felix Zuroff, the most notorious motor bandit of the
century and the inventor of the musical code, had not released me from
my unwilling bondage. Neither could I cast off the shackles which
bound me forever to that ugly, ill-formed adventuress who called
herself Illona.
Though occupying one of the most trusted offices at Downing Street, I
was, nevertheless, an expert jewel-thief. Recollections of that
wonderful rope of stolen pearls which had reposed in a hollow book in
my room, held me bewildered. Sometimes with excuses and untruths
forced to my lips by Joan, and the ever-present fear of denunciation
to the police, I felt myself on the verge of madness.
I put the situation plainly to you, my reader. Had you awakened, as
from a trance, to find yourself to be an expert jewel-thief, married
to a rouged and made-up old hag whose criminal record was known, and
yet you were engaged to a sweet, innocent girl whom you adored--how, I
ask, would you--how would you have acted?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.
CONCLUSION
The night was hot and stifling in London.
Everyone who could manage it was away in the country, or at the sea.
The West End was like a deserted desert, and half the clubs, including
my own, were closed for cleaning. We had hospitality at the Royal
Automobile, which I, as a club man, liked only for its cock-and-hen
restaurant.
I had been up at home--for the governor was at Hipwell during the
recess--and had arrived back at Sackville Street only at eight o’clock
that evening. At nine, while I ate my dinner alone at the Automobile,
a waiter called me to the telephone.
It was Joan’s father, who asked me to meet him at the Carlton Club,
close by, in half an hour.
“I must see you, my boy,” he said urgently. “Something has happened. I
can’t tell you over the ’phone. Don’t fail to come over to me.”
Such a message I could not disobey. Punctually I met him in the great
hall of the well-known political club. Forthwith he took me up into
one of the private rooms.
“Look here, Lionel,” he said very seriously. “You’ve never been frank
with me! Now, tell me the whole truth.” And his big dark eyes fixed
themselves on me--the eyes of the greatest legal cross-examiner of his
time.
Under that keen, searching glance of his there had flinched murderers,
and criminals of more or less notoriety who had gone down in the
police annals of Great Britain as notorious cases. As a cross-examiner
no one had ever superseded him at the criminal Bar. The late Sir
Edward Marshall Hall had been acknowledged to be a great criminologist
and a marvelous advocate. But stout old John Gell, with his jelly-like
stomach when he laughed, was declared to be on a par with the dead
pleader who had been such a prominent member of the Crimes Club.
John Gell, K.C., had taken Sir Edward’s place in the public
estimation, and perhaps deservedly so. He had been called to the Bar
on the same day as Sir Hawley Hayes, the Director of Public
Prosecutors, and they had been life-long friends, ever since both were
glad enough to have their briefs marked with two guineas to appear in
County Court cases.
“Joan has gone with her mother to dine with Lady Tickencote,” he said,
glancing at the closed door. “I should have gone, but I wanted to see
you on a matter of extreme urgency.” I noticed on his broad,
clean-shaven face a look of mystery that I had never before seen
there.
“Now, look here, Lionel!” he said again in a hard voice such as he
used towards a hostile witness in court. “Why haven’t you been quite
open with me?”