CLOSED DOORS
"Why can't they open the doors? I can see there are people inside!"
A muffled roar, like that of a nearing storm at sea, drowned the
querulous voice.
"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"
The monotonous orders of the police rose above the loud drone of the
angry crowd.
Motor-buses made perilous navigation through the narrow street. The
hooting of horns on taxi-cabs played a brisk accompaniment to the
mournful chant. Almost from the Courts to the trebly guarded entrance of
the Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank stretched that deep
rank of victims. For, at the corner of Chancery Lane, the contents-bill
of a daily paper thus displayed, in suitable order of precedence, the
vital topics of the moment:
MISS PAULETTE DELOTUS _NOT_ MARRIED
Australians' Plucky Fight
IS SÉVERAC BABLON IN VIENNA?
BIG CITY BANK SMASH
SLUMP IN NICARAGUAN RAILS
To some, those closed doors meant the sacrifice of jewellery, of some
part of the luxury of life; to others, they meant--the drop-curtain that
blacked out the future, the end of the act, the end of the play.
"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"
"All right, constable," said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling unmirthfully;
"I'll move on--and move out!"
He extricated himself from the swaying, groaning, cursing multitude, and
stepped across to the opposite side of the street. Lost in unpleasant
meditation, he stood, a spruce, military figure, bearing upon his
exterior nothing indicative of the ruined man. He was quite unaware of
the approach of a graceful, fair girl, whose fresh English beauty
already had enslaved the imaginations of some fifty lawyers' clerks
returning from lunch. As ignorant of her train of conquests as Haredale
was ignorant of her presence, she came up to him--and tears gleamed upon
her lashes. She stood beside him, and he did not see her.
"Dick!"
The voice aroused him, and a flush came upon his tanned, healthy-looking
face. A beam of gladness and admiration lost itself in a cloud, as
mechanically he raised his hat, and, holding the girl's hand, glanced
uneasily aside, fearing to meet the anxious tenderness in the blue eyes
which, now, were deepened to something nearer violet.
"It is true, then?" she asked softly.
He nodded, his lips grimly compressed.
"Who told you," he questioned in turn, "that I had my poor scrapings in
it?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said wearily. "And it doesn't matter much, does
it?"
"Come away somewhere," Haredale suggested. "We can't stand here."
In silence they walked away from the clamouring crowd of depositors.
"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"
"Where can we go?" asked the girl.
"Anywhere," said Haredale, "where we can sit down. This will do."
They turned into a cheap café, and, finding a secluded table, took their
seats there, Haredale drearily ordering tea, without asking his
companion whether she wanted it or not. It was improbable that Lady Mary
Evershed had patronised such a tea-shop before, but the novelty of the
thing did not interest her in the least. It was only her pride, the
priceless legacy of British womanhood, which enabled her to preserve her
composure--which checked the hot tears that burned in her eyes. For the
mute misery in Haredale's face was more than he could hide. With all his
sang-froid, and all his training to back it, he was hard put to it to
keep up even an appearance of unconcern.
Presently she managed to speak again, biting her lips between every few
words.
"Had you--everything--there, Dick?"
He nodded.
"I was a fool, of course," he said. "I never did have the faintest idea
of business. There are dozens of sound investments--but what's the good
of whining? I have acted as unofficial secretary to Mr. Julius
Rohscheimer for two years, and eaten my pride at every meal. But--I
_cannot_ begin all over again, Mary. I shall have to let him break
me--and clear out."
He dropped his clenched fists upon his knees, and under the little table
a hand crept to his. He grasped it hard and released it.
Mary, with a strained look in her eyes, was drumming gloved fingers on
the table.
"I detest Julius Rohscheimer!" she flashed. "He is a perfect octopus.
Even father fears him--I don't know why."
Haredale smiled grimly.
"But there is _someone_ who could prevent him from ruining your life,
Dick," she continued, glancing down at the table.
She did not look up for a few moments. Then, as Haredale kept silent,
she was forced to do so. His grey eyes were fixed upon her face.
"Séverac Bablon? What do you know of him, Mary?"
She grew suddenly pale.
"I only know"--hesitating--"that is, I _think_, he is a man who, however
misguided, has a love of justice."
Haredale watched her.
"He is an up-to-date Claude Duval," he said harshly. "It hurts me,
rather, Mary, to hear you approve of him. Why do you do so? I have
noticed something of this before. Do you forget that this man, for all
the romance and mystery that surround him, still is no more than a
common thief--a criminal?"
Mary's lips tightened.
"He is not," she said, meeting his eyes bravely. "That is a very narrow
view, Dick-"
Then, seeing the pain in the grey eyes, and remembering that this man
with whom she disputed had just lost his hopes in life--his hopes of
_her_--she reached out impulsively and grasped his arm.
"Oh, Dick!" she said; "forgive me! But I am so utterly miserable, dear,
that any poor little straw seems worth grasping at."
So we must leave them; it was a situation full of poor human pathos. The
emotions surging within these two hearts would have afforded an
interesting study for the magical pen of Charles Dickens.
But we cannot pause to essay it; the tide of our narrative bears us
elsewhere.
Mr. J. J. Oppner, the pride of Wall Street, when, his fascinating
daughter, Zoe, beside him, he rose to address his guests at the Hotel
Astoria that evening, would have provided a study equally interesting to
Charles Dickens or to the late Professor Darwin. It would have puzzled
even the distinguished biologist to reconcile the two species,
represented by Mr. Oppner and Zoe, with any common origin. The
millionaire's seamed and yellow face looked like nothing so much as a
magnified section of a walnut. Whilst the girl, with her cloud of
copper-dusted brown hair trapped within an Oriental head-dress, her
piquant beauty enhanced, if that were possible, by the softly shaded
lights, and the bewitching curves revealed by her evening gown borrowing
a more subtle witchery from their sombre environment of black-coated
plutocrats, justified the most inspired panegyric that ever had poured
from the fountain-pen of a New York reporter. Mr. Oppner said:
"Gentlemen,--We have met this evening for _a_ special purpose. With
everyone's _per_mission, we will _ad_journ to another room and see how
we can fix things up for Mr. Séverac Bablon."
He led the way without loss of time, his small, dried figure lost
between that of John Macready ("the King of Coolgardie"), a stalwart,
iron-grey Irishman, and the unshapely bulk of Baron Hague, once more
perilously adventured upon English soil.
Sir Leopold Jesson, trim, perfectly groomed, his high, bald cranium
gleaming like the dome of Solomon's temple, followed, deep in
conversation with a red, raw-boned Scotsman, whose features seemed badly
out of drawing, and whose eyebrows suggested shrimps. This was Hector
Murray, the millionaire who had built and endowed more public baths and
institutions than any man since the Emperor Vespasian. Last of all, went
Julius Rohscheimer, that gross figurehead of British finance, saying,
with a satirish smile, to Haredale, who had made an eighth at dinner:
"You won't mind amusing Miss Oppner, Haredale, till we're through with
this little job? It's out of your line; you'll be more at home here, I'm
sure."
The room chosen for this important conference was a small one, having
but a single door, which opened on a tiny antechamber; this, in turn,
gave upon the corridor. When the six millionaires had entered, and Mr.
Oppner had satisfied himself that suitable refreshments were placed in
readiness, he returned to the corridor. Immediately outside the door
stood Mr. Aloys. X. Alden.
"You'll sit right there," instructed Oppner. "The man's bringing a chair
and smokes and liquor, and you'll let nobody in--_nobody_. We can't be
heard out here, with the anteroom between and both doors shut; there's
only one window, and this is the sixth storey. So I guess our Bablon
palaver will be private, some."
Alden nodded, bit off the end of a cheroot, and settled himself against
the wall. Mr. Oppner returned to his guests. In another room Zoe and Sir
Richard Haredale struggled with a conversation upon sundry matters
wherein neither was interested in the least. Suddenly Zoe said, in her
impulsive, earnest way:
"Sir Richard, I know you won't be angry, but Mary is my very dearest
friend; we were at school together, too; and--she told me all about it
this afternoon. I understand what this loss means to you, and that it's
quite impossible for you to remain with Mr. Rohscheimer any longer; that
you mean to resign your commission and go abroad. It isn't necessary for
me to say I am sorry."
He thanked her mutely, but it was with a certain expectancy that he
awaited her next words. Rumour had linked Zoe Oppner's name with that of
Séverac Bablon, extravagantly, as it seemed to Haredale; but everything
connected with that extraordinary man _was_ extravagant. He recalled how
Mary, on more than one occasion, had exhibited traces of embarrassment
when the topic was mooted, and how she had hinted that Séverac Bablon
might be induced to interest himself in his, Haredale's, financial loss.
Could it be that Mary--perhaps through her notoriously eccentric
American friend--had met the elusive wonder-worker? Haredale, be it
remembered, was hard hit, and completely down. This insane suspicion had
found no harbourage in his mind at any other time; but now, he hugged it
dejectedly, watching Zoe Oppner's pretty, expressive face for
confirmatory evidence.
"Of course, the bank has failed for more than three millions," said the
girl earnestly; "but, in your own case, can nothing be done?"
Haredale lighted a cigarette, slightly shaking his head.
"I shall have to clear out. That's all"
"Oh!--but--it's real hard to say what I want to say. But--my father has
business relations with Mr. Rohscheimer. May I try to do something?"
Haredale's true, generous instincts got the upper hand at that. He told
himself that he was behaving, mentally, like a cad.
"Miss Oppner," he said warmly, "you are all that Mary has assured me.
You are a real chum. I can say no more. But it is quite impossible,
believe me."
There was such finality in the words that she was silenced. Haredale
abruptly changed the subject.
An hour passed.
Two hours passed.
Zoe began to grow concerned on her father's behalf. He was in poor
health, and his physician's orders were imperative upon the point of
avoiding business.
Half-way through the third hour she made up her mind.
"He has wasted his time long enough," she pronounced firmly--and the
expression struck Haredale as oddly chosen. "I am going to inform him
that his 'conference' is closed."
She passed out into the corridor to where Mr. Alden, his chair tilted at
a comfortable angle, and his brogue-shod feet upon a coffee-table which
bore also a decanter, a siphon, and a box of cigars, contentedly was
pursuing his instructions. He stood up as she appeared.
"Mr. Alden," she said, "I wish to speak to Mr. Oppner."
The detective spread his hands significantly.
"I respect your scruples, Mr. Alden," Zoe continued, "but my father's
orders did not apply to me. Will you please go in and request him to see
me for a moment?"
Perceiving no alternative, Alden opened the door, crossed the little
anteroom, and knocked softly at the inner door.
He received no reply to his knocking, and knocked again. He knocked a
third, a fourth time. With a puzzled glance at Miss Oppner he opened the
door and entered.
An unemotional man, he usually was guilty of nothing demonstrative. But
the appearance of the room wrenched a hoarse exclamation from his stoic
lips.
In the first place, it was in darkness; in the second, when, with the
aid of the electric lantern which he was never without, he had dispersed
this darkness--he saw that _it was empty_!
The scene of confusion that ensued upon this incredible discovery defies
description.
All the telephones in the Astoria could not accommodate the frantic
people who sought them. Messenger boys in troops appeared. Hundreds of
guests ran upstairs and hundreds of guests ran downstairs. Every
groaning lift, ere long, was bearing its freight of police and pressmen
to the scene of the most astounding mystery that ever had set London
agape.
Soon it was ascertained that the current had been disconnected in some
way from the room where the six magnates had met. But how, otherwise
than through the door, they had been spirited away from a sixth floor
apartment, was a problem that no one appeared competent to tackle; that
they had not made their exit via the door was sufficiently proven by the
expression of stark perplexity which dwelt upon the face of Mr. Aloys.
X. Alden.
Whilst others came and went, scribbling hasty notes in dog-eared
notebooks, he, a human statue of Amaze, gazed at the open window,
continuously and vacantly. Jostled by the crowds of curious and
interested visitors, he stood, the most surprised man in the two
hemispheres.
Short of an airship, he could conceive no device whereby the missing six
could have made their silent departure. He was shaken out of his stupor
by Haredale.
"Pull yourself together, Mr. Alden," cried the latter. "Can't we _do_
something? Here's half Scotland Yard in the place and nobody with an
intelligent proposal to offer."
Mr. Alden shook himself, like a heavy sleeper awakened.
"Where's Miss Oppner?" he jerked.
Haredale started.
"I don't know," was his reply; "but I can go and see."
He forced his way past the knot of people at the door, ignoring
Inspector Sheffield, who sought to detain him. Rapidly he ran through
the rooms composing the suite. In one he met Zoe's maid, wringing her
hands with extravagant emotion.
"Where is your mistress?"
"She has gone out, m'sieur. I cannot tell where. I do not know."
Haredale's heart gave a leap--and seemed to pause.
He ran to the stairs, not waiting for the overworked lift, and down into
the hall.
"Has Miss Oppner gone out?" he demanded of the porter.
"Two minutes ago, sir."
"In her car?"
"No, sir. It was not ready. In a cab."
"Did you hear her directions?"
"No, sir. But the boy will know."
The boy was found.
"Where was Miss Oppner going, boy?" rapped Haredale.
"Eccleston Square, sir," was the prompt reply.
The Marquess of Evershed's. Then his suspicions had not been unfounded.
He saw, in a flash of inspiration, the truth. Zoe Oppner had seen in
this disappearance the hand of Séverac Bablon--if, indeed, if she did
not _know_ it for his work. She was anxious about her father. She wished
to appeal to Séverac Bablon upon his behalf. And she had gone--not
direct to the man--but to Eccleston Square. Why? Clearly because it was
Lady Mary, and not herself, who had influence with him.
Hatless, Haredale ran out into the courtyard. Rohscheimer's car was
waiting, and he leapt in, his grey eyes feverish. "Lord Evershed's," he
called to the man; "Eccleston Square."