A WHITE ORCHID
Whoever could have taken a peep into a certain bare-looking room at
Scotland Yard some three hours after Sheard had left Finchley Road must
have been drawn to the conclusion that the net was closing more tightly
about Séverac Bablon than he supposed.
Behind a large, bare table, upon which were some sheets of foolscap, a
metal inkpot, and pens, sat Chief Inspector Sheffield. On three
uncomfortable-looking chairs were disposed Detective Sergeant Harborne,
he of the Stetson and brogues, and M. Duquesne, of Paris. Stetson and
brogues, as became a non-official, observed much outward deference
towards the Chief Inspector in whose room he found himself.
"We may take it, then," said Sheffield, with a keen glance of his
shrewd, kindly eyes towards the American and the celebrated little
Frenchman, "that Bablon, when he isn't made up, is a man so extremely
handsome and of such marked personality that he'd be spotted anywhere.
We have some reason to believe that he's a Jew. The head of the greatest
Jewish house in Europe has declined to deny, according to M. Duquesne,
that he knows who he is, and"--consulting a sheet of foolscap--"Mr.
Alden, here, from New York, volunteers the information that H. T.
Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, went to see Bablon this morning. We are aware,
from information by Sir Leopold Jesson, that this newspaper man is
acquainted with B. But we can't act on it. We understand that Bablon has
a house in or near to London. None of us"--looking hard at Alden--"have
any idea of the locality. There are two rewards privately offered,
totalling £3,000--which is of more interest to Mr. Alden than to the
rest of us--and M. Duquesne is advised this morning that his Chief is
coming over at once. Now, we're all as wise as one another"--with a
second hard look at his French confrère and Alden--"so we can all set
about the job again in our own ways."
After this interesting conference, whereof each member had but sought to
pump the others, M. Duquesne, entering Whitehall, almost ran into a tall
man, wearing a most unusual and conspicuous caped overcoat, silk lined;
whose haughty, downward glance revealed his possession of very large,
dark eyes; whose face was so handsome that the little Frenchman caught
his breath; whose carriage was that of a monarch or of one of the
musketeers of Louis XIII.
With the ease of long practice, M. Duquesne formed an unseen escort for
this distinguished stranger.
Arriving at Charing Cross, the latter, without hesitation, entered the
telegraph office. M. Duquesne also recollected an important matter that
called for a telegram. In quest of a better pen he leaned over to the
compartment occupied by the handsome man, but was unable to get so much
as a glimpse of what he was writing. Having handed in his message in
such a manner that the ingenious Frenchman was foiled again, he strode
out, the observed of everyone in the place, but particularly of M.
Duquesne.
To the latter's unbounded astonishment, at the door he turned and raised
his hat to him ironically.
Familiar with the characteristic bravado of French criminals, that
decided the detective's next move. He stepped quickly back to the
counter as the polite stranger disappeared.
"I am Duquesne of Paris," he said in his fluent English to the clerk who
had taken the message, and showed his card. "On official business I wish
to inspect the last telegram which you received."
The clerk shook his head.
"Can't be done. Only for Scotland Yard."
Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment in
feckless argument. It was hard that he should have to share this
treasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard,
and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, with
Inspector Sheffield.
The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne and
Sheffield the following was written:
"Sheard, _Gleaner_, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eight
to-night."
Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening's
expedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-boned
man, with a great, sparsely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. He
sat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slow
glance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder.
M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand.
It was the great Lemage.
There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, England
and the United States were combining against Séverac Bablon. It seemed
that at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo.
At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothes
constable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room.
"Well, Dawson?" said the inspector, looking up from his writing.
"Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir,
to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago."
"What is he like, this Mr. Sanrack?"
"A tall, dark gentleman. Very handsome. Looks like an actor."
"Sanrack--Séverac," mused Sheffield. "Daring! All right, Dawson, you can
go. You know where to wait."
Fifteen minutes later arrived M. Duquesne. He had been carpeted by his
chief for invoking the aid of the London police in the matter of the
telegram.
"Five methods occur to me instantly, stupid pig," the great Lemage had
said, "whereby you might have learnt its contents alone!"
Heavy with a sense of his own dull powers of invention--for he found
himself unable to conceive one, much less five such schemes--M. Duquesne
came into the inspector's room.
"Does your chief join us to-night?" inquired Sheffield, on learning that
the famous investigator was in London.
"He may do so, m'sieur; but his plans are uncertain."
Almost immediately afterwards they were joined by Harborne, and all
three, entering one of the taxi-cabs that always are in waiting in the
Yard, set out for Dulwich Village.
The night was very dark, with ample promise of early rain, and as the
cab ran past Westminster Abbey a car ahead swung sharply around
Sanctuary Corner. Harborne, whose business it was to know all about
smart society, reported:
"Old Oppner's big Panhard in front. Going our way--Embankment is 'up.' I
wonder what his Agency men are driving at? Alden's got something up his
sleeve, I'll swear."
"I'd like a peep inside that car," said Sheffield.
Harborne took up the speaking-tube as the cab, in turn, rounded into
Great Smith Street.
"Switch off this inside light," he called to the driver, "and get up as
close alongside that Panhard ahead as you dare. She's not moving fast.
Stick there till I tell you to drop back."
The man nodded, and immediately the gear snatched the cab ahead with a
violent jerk. At a high speed they leapt forward upon the narrow road,
swung out to the off-side to avoid a bus, and closed up to the
brilliantly-lighted car.
It was occupied by two women in picturesque evening toilettes. One of
them was a frizzy haired soubrette and the other a blonde. Both were
conspicuously pretty. The fair girl wore a snow white orchid, splashed
with deepest crimson, pinned at her breast. Her companion, who lounged
in the near corner, her cloak negligently cast about her and one rounded
shoulder against the window, was reading a letter; and Harborne, who
found himself not a foot removed from her, was trying vainly to focus
his gaze upon the writing when the fair girl looked up and started to
find the cab so close. The light of a sudden suspicion leapt into her
eyes as, obedient to the detective's order, the taxi-driver slowed down
and permitted the car to pass. Almost immediately the big Panhard leapt
to renewed speed, and quickly disappeared ahead.
Harborne turned to Inspector Sheffield.
"That was Miss Zoe Oppner, the old man's daughter."
"I know," said Sheffield sharply. "Read any of the letter?"
"No," admitted Harborne; "we were bumping too much. But there's a
political affair on to-night in Downing Street. I should guess she's
going to be there."
"Why? Who was the fair girl?"
"Lady Mary Evershed," answered Harborne. "It's her father's 'do'
to-night. We want to keep an eye on Miss Oppner, after the Astoria Hotel
business. Wish we had a list of guests."
"If Séverac Bablon is down," replied Sheffield; grimly, "I don't think
she'll have the pleasure of seeing him this evening. But where on earth
is she off to now?"
"Give it up," said Harborne, philosophically.
"Oh, she of the golden hair and the white _odontoglossum_," sighed the
little Frenchman, rolling up his eyes. "What a perfection!"
They became silent as the cab rapidly bore them across Vauxhall Bridge
and through south-west to south-east London, finally to Dulwich Village,
that tiny and dwindling oasis in the stucco desert of Suburbia.
Talking to an officer on point duty at a corner, distinguished by the
presence of a pillar-box, was P.C. Dawson in mufti. He and the other
constable saluted as the three detectives left the cab and joined them.
"Been here long, Dawson?" asked Sheffield.
"No, sir. Just arrived."
"You and I will walk along on the far side from this Laurel Cottage,"
arranged the inspector, "and M. Duquesne might like a glass of wine,
Harborne, until I've looked over the ground. Then we can distribute
ourselves. We've got a full quarter of an hour."
It was arranged so, and Sheffield, guided by Dawson, proceeded to the
end of the Village, turned to the left, past the College buildings, and
found himself in a long, newly-cut road, with only a few unfinished
houses. Towards the farther end a gloomy little cottage frowned upon the
road. It looked deserted and lonely in its isolation amid marshy fields.
In the background, upon a slight acclivity, a larger building might
dimly be discerned. A clump of dismal poplars overhung the cottage on
the west.
"It's been a gate lodge at some time, sir," explained Dawson. "You can
see the old carriage sweep on the right. But the big house is to be
pulled down, and they've let the lodge, temporarily, as a separate
residence. There's no upstairs, only one door and very few windows. We
can absolutely surround it!"
"H'm! Unpleasant looking place," muttered Sheffield, as the two walked
by on the opposite side. "No lights. When we've passed this next tree,
slip along and tuck yourself away under that fence on the left. Don't
attempt any arrest until our man's well inside. Then, when you hear the
whistle, close in on the door. I'll get back now."
Ten minutes later, though Laurel Cottage presented its usual sad and
lonely aspect, it was efficiently surrounded by three detectives and a
constable.
Sheffield's scientific dispositions were but just completed when a
cursing taxi-man deposited Sheard half way up the road, having declined
resolutely to bump over the ruts any further. Dismissing the man, the
keenest copy-hunter in Fleet Street walked alone to the Cottage, all
unaware that he did so under the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes. Finding
a rusty bell-pull he rang three times. But none answered.
It was at the moment when he turned away that Mr. Alden and an Agency
colleague, who--on this occasion successfully--had tracked him since he
left the _Gleaner_ office, turned the corner by the Village. Seeing him
retracing his steps, they both darted up a plank into an unfinished
house with the agility of true ferrets, and let him pass. As he
re-entered the Village street one was at his heels. Mr. Alden strolled
along to Laurel Cottage.
With but a moment's consideration, he, taking a rapid glance up and down
the road, vaulted the low fence and disposed himself amongst the unkempt
laurel bushes flanking the cottage on the west. The investing forces
thus acquired a fifth member.
Then came the threatened rain.
Falling in a steady downpour, it sang its mournful song through poplar
and shrub. Soon the grey tiled roof of the cottage poured its libation
into spouting gutters, and every rut of the road became a miniature
ditch. But, with dogged persistency, the five watchers stuck to their
posts.
When Sheard had gone away again, Inspector Sheffield had found himself,
temporarily, in a dilemma. It was something he had not foreseen. But,
weighing the chances, he had come to the conclusion to give the others
no signal, but to wait.
At seven minutes past eight, by Mr. Alden's electrically lighted
timepiece, a car or a cab--it was impossible, at that distance, to
determine which--dropped a passenger at the Village end of the road. A
tall figure, completely enveloped in a huge, caped coat, and wearing a
dripping silk hat, walked with a swinging stride towards the ambush--and
entered the gate of the cottage.
M. Duquesne, who, from his damp post in a clump of rhododendrons on the
left of the door had watched him approach, rubbed his wet hands
delightedly. Without the peculiar coat that majestic walk was
sufficient.
"It is he!" he muttered. "The Séverac!"
With a key which he must have held ready in his hand, the new-comer
opened the door and entered the cottage. Acting upon a pre-arranged
plan, the watchers closed in upon the four sides of the building, and
Sheffield told himself triumphantly that he had shown sound generalship.
With a grim nod of recognition to Alden, who appeared from the laurel
thicket, he walked up to the door and rang smartly.
This had one notable result. A door banged inside.
Again he rang--and again.
Nothing stirred within. Only the steady drone of the falling rain broke
the chilling silence.
Sheffield whistled shrilly.
At that signal M. Duquesne immediately broke the window which he was
guarding, and stripping off his coat, he laid it over the jagged points
of glass along the sashes and through the thickness of the cloth forced
back the catch. Throwing up the glassless frame, he stepped into the
dark room beyond.
To the crash which he had made, an answering crash had told him that
Detective-sergeant Harborne had effected an entrance by the east window.
Cautiously he stepped forward in the darkness, a revolver in one hand;
with the other he fumbled for the electric lamp in his breast pocket.
As his fingers closed upon it a slight noise behind him brought him
right-about in a flash.
The figure of a man who was climbing in over the low ledge was
silhouetted vaguely in the frame of the broken window.
"_Ah!_" hissed Duquesne. "Quick! speak! Who is that?"
"Ssh! my Duquesne!" came a thick voice. "Do you think, then, I can leave
so beautiful a case to anyone?"
Duquesne turned the beam of the lantern on the speaker.
It was Victor Lemage.
Duquesne bowed, lantern in hand.
"Waste no moment," snapped Lemage. "Try that door!" pointing to the only
one in the room.
As the other stepped forward to obey, the famous investigator made a
comprehensive survey of the little kitchen, for such it was. Save for
its few and simple appointments, it was quite empty.
"The door is locked."
"Ah, yes. I thought so."
"Hullo!" came Sheffield's voice through the window, "who's there,
Duquesne?"
"It is M. Lemage. M'sieur, allow me to make known the great Scotland
Yard Inspector Sheffield."
With a queer parody of politeness, Duquesne turned the light of his
lantern alternately upon the face of each, as he mentioned his name.
Sheffield bowed awkwardly. For he knew that he stood in the presence of
the undisputed head of his profession--the first detective in Europe.
"You have not left the front door unguarded, M'sieur the Inspector?"
inquired Lemage sharply.
"No, Mr. Lemage," snapped Sheffield, "I have not. My man Dawson is
there, with an Agency man, too."
"Then we surround completely the room in which he is," declared Lemage.
Such was the case, as a glance at the following plan will show.
[Illustration]
"There are, then, three ways," said Lemage. "We may break into the front
room from here, or from the room where is m'sieur your colleague. There
is, no doubt, a door corresponding to this one. The other way is to go
in by the window of that front room, for I have made the observation
that its other window, that opens on the old drive to the east, is
barred most heavily. Do I accord with the views of m'sieur?"
"Quite," said Sheffield crisply. "We'll work through the front window.
Hullo, Harborne!"
"Hullo!" came the latter's voice from the next room.
"Nobody in there?"
"No. Empty room. Door's locked. What's up on your side?"
"Nothing. Mr. Lemage has joined us. Stand by for squalls. I'm going
round to get in at the front-room window."
He paused and listened. They all listened.
The rain droned monotonously on the roof, but there was no other sound.
Sheffield climbed out and passed around by the poplars and through the
laurel bushes to the front. Dawson and Alden stood by the door. With a
pair of handcuffs the inspector broke the glass, and, adopting the same
method as the Frenchman, used his coat to protect his hands from the
splintered pieces in forcing the catch. The rain came down in torrents.
He was drenched to the skin.
Seizing the yellow blind, he tore it from the roller, and also pulled
down the curtains. By the light of the bull's-eye lantern which Dawson
carried he surveyed the little sitting-room. Next, with a muttered
exclamation, he leapt through and searched the one hiding-place--beneath
a large sofa--which the room afforded.
On the common oval walnut table lay a caped overcoat and a rain-soaked
silk hat.
The two doors--other than that guarded by Dawson and Alden--gave (1) on
the room occupied by Harborne; (2) on the room occupied by Duquesne and
Lemage. The keys were missing. The one window, other than that by which
he had entered, was heavily barred, and in any case, visible from the
front door of the cottage.
All five had seen their man enter; all had heard the banging door when
Sheffield knocked. No possible exit had been unwatched for a single
instant.
But the place was empty.
When the others, having searched painfully every inch of ground, joined
the inspector in the front room, Harborne, taking up the silk-lined
caped overcoat, observed something lying on the polished walnut beneath.
He uttered a hasty exclamation.
"Damn!" cried Duquesne at his elbow, characteristically saying the right
thing at the wrong time. "A white _odontoglossum crispum_, with crimson
spots!"
Across the table all exchanged glances.
"He is very handsome," sighed the little Frenchman.
"That is an extreme privilege," said his chief, shrugging composedly and
lighting a cigarette. "It is so interesting to the women, and they are
so useful. It was the women who restored your English Charles II.--but
they were his ruin in the end. It is a clue, this white orchid, that
inspires in me two solutions immediately."
M. Duquesne suffered, temporarily, from a slight catarrh, occasioned, no
doubt, by his wetting. But he lacked the courage to meet the drooping
eye of his chief.
They were some distance from Laurel Cottage when Harborne, who carried
the caped coat on his arm, exclaimed:
"By the way, who _has_ the orchid?"
No one had it.
"M. Duquesne," said Lemage calmly, "of all the stupid pigs you are the
more complete."
Sheffield ran back. Dawson had been left on duty outside the cottage.
The inspector passed him and climbed back through the broken window. He
looked on the table and searched, on hands and knees, about the floor.
"Dawson!"
"Sir?"
"You have heard or seen nothing suspicious since we left?"
Dawson, through the window, stared uncomprehendingly.
"Nothing, sir."
The white orchid was missing.