THE LISTENER
Sheard sat with both elbows resting upon his writing-table. A suburban
quietude reigned about him, for the hour was long past midnight. Before
him was spread out the final edition of the _Gleaner_ and prominent upon
the front page appeared:--
SIR LEOPOLD JESSON AND
MR. HOHSMANN
FALL INTO LINE
With a tact which was inspired by private information from a certain
source, the _Gleaner_ had pooh-poohed the story of the mysterious cards
received by the guests at Julius Rohscheimer's. The story had leaked
out, of course, but Sheard was in no way responsible for the leakage.
Frantically, representatives of the _Gleaner's_ rivals had sought for
confirmation from the lips of the victims; but, as had been foreseen by
the astute Sheard, no confirmation was forthcoming. There had been an
informal council held at the urgent request of Rohscheimer, whereat it
had been decided that for the latter to appear, now, in the light of a
victim of Séverac Bablon, would be for him to throw away such advantages
as might accrue--to throw a potential peerage after his lost £100,000!
Baron Hague had been coerced into silence, and had left for Berlin
without seeing a single newspaper man. Mr. Elschild had persisted that
his donation was entirely a voluntary one. Jesson had been most urgent
for placing the true facts before Scotland Yard, but had finally fallen
in with Rohscheimer's wishes.
"You see, Jesson," the latter had argued, "I'll never get my money back.
It's gone as completely as if I'd burnt it! All I've got to hope for is
a peerage; and I'd lose that if I started crying."
"I agree," Antony Elschild had contributed, "Rohscheimer had suddenly
become a popular hero! So that a title is all the return he is ever
likely to get for his money. It is popularly expected that Hohsmann and
yourself will also subscribe. You must remember that owing to the
attitude of a section of the Press it is not generally believed that
Séverac Bablon has anything to do with this burst of generosity!"
Jesson had muttered something about "the _Gleaner_," and a decision had
been arrived at to organise a private campaign against Séverac Bablon
whilst professing, publicly, that he was in no way concerned in the
swelling of the _Gleaner_ fund.
Now, Jesson and Hohsmann had both sent huge cheques to the paper, and
interviews with the philanthropic and patriotic capitalists appeared
upon the front page. Sheard had not done either interview.
Encouraged by their amazing donations, the general public was responding
in an unheard-of manner to the _Gleaner's_ appeal. The Marquess of
Evershed had contributed a long personal letter, which was reproduced in
the centre of the first page of every issue. The Imperialistic spirit
ran rampant throughout Great Britain.
Meanwhile, Mr. Oppner's detectives were everywhere. Inspector Sheffield,
C.I.D., was not idle. And Sheard found his position at times a dangerous
one.
He stood up, walked to the grate, and knocked out his pipe. Having
refilled and lighted it, he tiptoed upstairs, and from a convenient
window surveyed the empty road. So far as he could judge, its emptiness
was real enough. Yet on looking out a quarter of an hour earlier, he had
detected, or thought he had detected, a lurking form under the trees
some hundred yards beyond his gate.
His visit to the Astoria, the morning before, had been in response to an
invitation from Séverac Bablon, but divining that he was closely
watched, he had sent the message to Gale--an American friend whom he
knew to have just arrived--which had fallen into the hands of Mr. Aloys.
X. Alden. Sheard had actually had an appointment with Gale, and had rung
him up later in the morning--gaining confirmation of his suspicions, in
the form of Gale's story of the empty envelope.
Then, at night, his American friend had been followed to the house and
followed back again to the hotel. This had been merely humorous; but
to-night there existed more real cause of apprehension. Sheard had
received a plain correspondence card, bearing the following, in a small
neat hand:
"Do not bolt your front door. Expect me at about one o'clock A.M."
For a time it had been exciting, absorbingly interesting, to know
himself behind the scenes of this mystery play which had all the world
for an audience. But it was a situation of quite unique danger. Séverac
Bablon was opposed to tremendous interests. Apart from the activity of
the ordinary authorities, there were those in the field against this man
of mystery to whom money, in furtherance of their end, was no object.
Sheard realised, at times--and these were uncomfortable times--that his
strange acquaintance with Séverac Bablon quite conceivably might end in
Brixton Prison.
Yet there are some respects wherein the copy-hunter and the scalp-hunter
tally. The thrill of the New Journalism has enlisted in the ranks of the
Fleet Street army some who, in a former age, must have sought their
fortune with the less mighty weapon. A love of adventure was some part
of the complement of Sheard; and now, suspecting that a Pinkerton man
lurked in the neighbourhood, and uncertain if his wife slept, he awaited
his visitor, with nerves tensely strung. But there was an exquisite
delight tingling through his veins--an appreciation of his peril wholly
pleasurable.
Faintly, he heard a key grate in the lock of the front door. The door
was opened, and gently closed.
Sheard stood up.
Into the study walked Séverac Bablon.
He was perfectly attired, as usual; wore evening-dress, and a heavy
fur-lined coat. His silk hat he held in his hand. As he stood within the
doorway, where the rays from the shaded lamp failed to touch his
features, he seemed, in the semi-light, a man more than humanly
handsome.
"The house is watched," began Sheard--and broke off.
A shadow had showed, momentarily, upon the cream of the drawn
casement-curtains. Someone was crouching on the lawn, under the study
window.
"Did you see that?" jerked the pressman. "Somebody looked in! The
curtain isn't quite drawn to at that corner."
"My dear Sheard"--Séverac Bablon's musical voice was untroubled by any
trace of apprehension--"there is no occasion to worry! Mr. Aloys. X.
Alden looked in!"
"But----"
"Had it been Inspector Sheffield there had been some cause for
excitement. Inspector Sheffield, if I am rightly informed, holds a
warrant for my arrest. Mr. Alden is an unofficial investigator."
"But he can call a constable!"
"Reflect, Sheard. If he calls a constable, what happens?"
"You are arrested!"
"Not so; but I will grant you that much for the sake of argument. To
whom would the credit fall?"
"Patently, Mr. Alden."
"Wrong! You know that it is wrong! The official service would reap every
gain! Believe me, Sheard, Mr. Alden will not reveal my presence here to
a living soul! He may try to trap me when I leave, but there will be no
clamouring on the door by members of the Metropolitan Police force, as
you seemingly apprehend!"
Séverac Bablon threw himself into the big arm-chair, and lighted a
cigarette--a yellow cigarette.
"The trick you played upon Alden yesterday was such as no man with a
sense of humour could well have resisted," he said. "But it was
indiscreet."
"I know."
"Suspicion pointed to you as the perpetrator of the card trick at
Rohscheimer's. You must not run unnecessary risks."
"It was a thrilling moment for me, when I leant over to Miss Hohsmann,
my right hand extended for the salt or something of the kind, and my
left stretched behind her chair!"
"Jesson, of course, was looking in the opposite direction?"
"I selected a moment when he was talking to Lady Vignoles, and those
shaded table lights helped me very much. I could just reach the table,
and I intentionally touched Salome's hand with mine, in laying down the
card."
"She actually saw your hand!"
"I fancy not. She felt my fingers touch hers, I think. She turned so
quickly that Jesson turned, too, and just as she was taking the card
up."
"Critical moment."
"Not in the least. My object would have been as well served if the card
had gone no further. But my infernal sense of humour prompted me to make
a bid for complicating the mystery. I dropped my arm, of course, as
Jesson turned to her, and it never occurred to Salome that the hand
which had placed the card beside her was any other than that of her
neighbour on the left, Jesson. Before she could address him, or he
address her, I inquired if I might examine the card. Jesson continued
his conversation with Lady Vignoles, and the 'second notice' passed all
around the table."
"Excellent! Do you know, Sheard, these childish little conjuring tricks
help me immensely! Can you picture Julius Rohscheimer cowering
throughout a whole night before the rod of a trousers-stretcher
projecting from a wardrobe door!"
"Was that the solution of the 'patriotic' mystery?"
"Certainly. Adeler, who was concealed in the wardrobe, armed with the
necessary written threats, made his escape directly Rohscheimer's cheque
was in his hand--leaving the rod to mount guard whilst you got the
announcement into print and induced the Marquess to pay an early morning
visit."
Séverac Bablon's handsome face looked almost boyish as he related how
the financier had been forced to play the part of a patriot. Sheard,
watching him, found new matter for wonderment.
This was the man who claimed to command the destinies of eight million
people--the man who claimed to wield the power of a Solomon. This was
Séverac Bablon, the most inscrutably mysterious being who had ever sown
wonderment throughout the continents, the man who juggled with vast
fortunes as Cinquevalli juggles with billiard-balls! This was the man
whose great velvety eyes could gleam with uncanny force, whose will
could enthrall hypnotically, for whom the police of the world searched,
for whose apprehension huge rewards were offered, whose abode was
unknown, whose accomplices were unnumbered, to whom no door was locked,
from whose all-seeing gaze no secret was secret!
It was difficult, all but impossible, to realise.
"Yet I am he," said the melodious voice.
Sheard started as though a viper had touched him. He stared at his
visitor in wide-eyed amazement.
"Heavens! Was I thinking aloud?"
"Practically. Your mind was so intensely concentrated upon certain
incidents in my career--see, your pipe is out--that, in a broad sense, I
could hear you thinking!"
Sheard laughed dryly, and relighted his pipe. Séverac Bablon's trick of
replying to unspoken questions was too singular to be forgotten lightly.
"Mr. Hohsmann is now of my friends," continued the strange visitor. "You
received the paragraph? Ah! I see it appears in your later edition."
"But Jesson?"
"Sir Leopold can never be my friend, nor do I desire it. There is an
incident in his career----You understand? I do not reproach him with it.
It should never have been recalled to him had he held his purse-strings
less tightly. But it served as a lever. It was a poor one, for, though
he does not know it, I would cast stones at no man. But it served. He
has made his contribution. I begin to achieve something, Sheard. The
_Times_ has a leader in the press showing how the Jews are the backbone
of British prosperity, and truer patriots than any whose fathers crossed
with Norman William."
He ceased speaking, abruptly, and with his eyes, drew Sheard's attention
again to the window. Since Séverac Bablon's arrival, indeed, the
journalist had glanced thither often enough. But, now, he perceived
something which made him wonder.
There was a street lamp at the corner of the road, and, his own
table-lamp leaving the further window in shade, it was possible to
detect the presence of anything immediately outside by its faint shadow.
Something round was pressed upon a corner of the lower pane.
Séverac Bablon stepped to the table and scribbled upon a sheet of
paper:--
"He has some kind of portable telephonic arrangement designed for the
purpose, attached to the glass. No doubt he can follow our conversation.
He may attempt to hold me up as I leave the house. He cannot enter, of
course, or we could arrest him on a charge of housebreaking! You have a
back gate. If you will permit me to pass through your domestic offices
and your garden, I will leave by that exit. Continue to talk for some
minutes after I am gone. Do not fear that there is any evidence of my
having been here. Alden can prove nothing."
Replacing the pencil on the tray:
"I want you to join me at a little supper on Wednesday evening," said
Séverac Bablon. "Practically all our influential friends will be
present----"
He ignored Sheard's head-shakes and expressive nods directed towards the
window.
"There is an old house which I have rented for a time at Richmond. It is
known as 'The Cedars,' and overlooks the Thames. The grounds are fairly
extensive, and bordered by two very quiet roads. In fact, it is an ideal
spot for my purpose. I will send you further particulars"--he glanced
towards the window--"in writing. We meet there on Wednesday at
nine-thirty. Can I rely upon you?"
"Yes," said Sheard, wondering at the other's indiscretion, "unless I
wire you to the contrary. I might be unable to turn up at the last
moment, of course."
"You are nervous!" Séverac Bablon smiled, and slipped from the room.
"On the contrary," said Sheard, addressing the window. "There is nothing
I enjoy better than an evening in a haunted house!"
(Perhaps, he argued, Alden was not absolutely certain of his visitor's
identity. He did not know at what point in the conversation the
telephone device had come into action. It was a pity to waste words; he
might as well endeavour to throw the eavesdropper off the scent, in
addition to covering Séverac Bablon's retreat.)
"Let us hope, Professor," he resumed, with this laudable intention,
"that the Society for Psychical Research will be the richer in knowledge
for our experiment on Wednesday evening!"
Mr. Aloys. X. Alden, with his ear to the ingenious little "electric
eavesdropper," experienced an unpleasant chill upon hearing the visitor
within addressed as "Professor."
He had conceived the idea that Sheard--whom he strongly suspected, might
hold interviews with the mysterious and elusive Séverac Bablon in the
small hours of the morning, at his own house, when the rest of the
household were retired.
Mr. Alden had watched for five nights when he knew the pressman to be at
home. On four of them Sheard's light had been extinguished before
midnight. To-night, the fifth, it had remained burning, and long
vigilance had been rewarded.
A car had drawn up at some distance from the house, and its occupant had
proceeded forward on foot. He had been admitted so rapidly that Alden
had been unable to ascertain by whom. The car, too, had been driven off
immediately. He had had no chance of taking the number; but was astute
enough to know that in any event it would have availed him little,
since, if the car were Bablon's the number would almost certainly be a
false one.
For once in a way, Mr. Alden became excited. Whom could so late a
visitor be, save one who wished to keep secret his visit? In attaching
his eavesdropper he had clumsily raised his head above the level of the
window-ledge, but he had hoped that this gross error of strategy had
passed unnoticed. For a time he had failed to pick up the conversation
until his ear became attuned to the subdued tone in which it was
conducted. Thus, he had lost the key to its purport and had had to
improvise one.
But, even so, words had passed which had amply confirmed his suspicions;
so much so that, whilst he listened, all but breathlessly, he was
devising a scheme for capturing Sheard's visitor, single-handed, as he
left the house. Furthermore, he was devising a way out of the difficulty
in the event of the captive proving to be another than Séverac Bablon.
The latter part of the duologue had puzzled him badly. The visitor
seemed to have ceased talking altogether, and Sheard's remarks had in
some inexplicable way drifted into quite a different channel. They
appeared to appertain to what had preceded them but remotely. The
relation seemed forced.
Still the visitor said nothing. Sheard continued to talk, and in upon
the mind of the detective shone a light of inspiration.
He detached the cunning little instrument, crawled across the lawn and
slunk out at the gate. Then he _ran_ around to the rear of the house. A
narrow lane there was, and into its black mouth he plunged without
hesitation.
The gate of the tradesmen's entrance was unbolted.
Alden was perfectly familiar with the nightly customs of the Sheard
establishment, and knew this to be irregular. He tilted his hat back and
scratched his head reflectively.
Then, from somewhere down the road, on the other side of the house, came
the sound of a curious whistle, an eerie minor whistle.
Like an Indian, Alden set off running. He rounded the corner as a car
whirled into view five hundred yards further along, and from the next
turning on the right. It stopped. One of its doors slammed.
It was off again. It had vanished.
Mr. Alden carefully extracted a cheroot from his case and lighted it
with loving care.