SCOTLAND YARD INTERVENES
Mme. Estelle was at home, and Westerham was immediately shown into a
long, low, pretty drawing-room, which gave on to a garden at the back
of the house.
Judged, indeed, from Madame's pose, and from the gown she wore, she
might have been expecting visitors.
The lights were shaded so that the hard lines on her face were
softened, and in the dimness of the pretty room she looked the really
beautiful woman she once must have been.
In his generous spirit—though he knew nothing of Madame's past, and
practically nothing of her present—his heart was touched by a certain
air of loneliness the woman wore, and by the very pleasant smile of
greeting which she gave him.
Sir Paul was conscious that Mme. Estelle surveyed him with a certain
amount of quiet wonderment. And it came home to him that for the first
time for many years he had been shaken out of himself—so badly shaken
out of himself that evidently his countenance bore some traces of his
unquiet mind.
Madame's words of welcome were, however, quite conventional, and bore
no evidence of surprise. “This is a most unexpected pleasure,” she
said.
“The pleasure, I assure you,” answered Westerham in the same
conventional strain, “is entirely mine. I do not wish in the least to
be discourteous, but I have to tell you that I have called on business.”
Madame nodded as if she understood. “Suppose,” she said, in a pleasant
voice, “that while we discuss business we drink tea.”
“I shall be more than delighted,” returned Westerham, though he was
anxious to get the matter over and go back to the quiet of his room,
where he could think without interruption.
So Madame rang the bell, gave her orders, and the tea came in.
It was not till they were alone again and fairly certain of not being
interrupted that Westerham went straight to the point.
“Madame,” he said, and his tone was formal—so formal that he paused
for a moment to be amused at himself; he might have been a family
solicitor about to talk business with a difficult client.
“Whatever they may have been to you,” he continued, “the last few days
have meant much to me. Possibly you are aware of how I made Captain
Melun's acquaintance.”
Madame pursed up her mouth and smiled. “I can guess,” she said; “but,
of course, versions differ.”
Westerham's heart gave a little bound of triumph. After all, this woman
was not wholly sunk in admiration of the gallant captain.
“Never mind about the versions,” he said; “we met. Without attempting
to make an _ex-parte_ statement, I may say that I practically foisted
myself upon Melun. I think I may even go so far as to say that I
compelled him to reveal himself to me in his most unpleasant light, and
also to introduce to me various of his friends. You will, of course,
pardon my including you in that number.”
Making a bow that was half a mock, Madame smiled—not altogether a
pleasant smile.
“Les affaires sont les affaires,” said Madame. “Let us be strictly
businesslike. Allow me to put the matter as I think you should have put
it had you been entirely plain. Do you”—her face grew a little hard
again—“blackmail the blackmailer?”
“To be perfectly honest,” said Westerham, “I do.”
Madame nodded her head up and down several times as though she
completely understood.
“Now the first of my discoveries,” Westerham continued, “was that Melun
had some sort of hold over the Prime Minister, Lord Penshurst.”
Madame started.
“I also discovered that whatever that hold might be, the secret
involved his daughter. Then I think by a perfectly reasonable and
logical course of argument I came to the conclusion that the secret,
however closely it might be guarded, did not reflect one particular
kind of dishonour upon Lord Penshurst.”
Madame nodded again. “I presume you mean,” she said—“I am speaking, of
course, as a woman of the world—that whatever Lord Penshurst had to be
afraid of, he was at least not terrified of any exposure of his morals.”
“Quite so,” agreed Westerham. “More than that; both from his
reputation and the little I have seen of him I am sure that he is so
honourable a man that he is not guarding any secret that might imperil
his family's standing. Indeed, I am convinced that whatever he has to
keep to himself it does not include any of the ordinary crimes and
offences of men.”
Again Madame nodded.
“Now, Mme. Estelle,” Westerham continued, speaking more sharply than
before, “you may or may not be aware that I purchased an insight into
Melun's mode of life at the price of a hundred thousand pounds.”
Madame's face went first white and then red.
“That's the first I have heard of it,” she said, and there was an angry
quietude in her voice.
“None the less, it is so,” said Westerham. “You know who I am; you know
therefore what my resources are. Such a sum is nothing to me.
“Now,” and he raised his voice so that it became loud and very clear,
“I will double that sum if you will tell me what the secret is.”
Lying back on her cushions, Madame stared at him with open mouth; then
she sat forward and spoke slowly.
“Will you allow me to speak,” she said, “as it were, man to man? Two
hundred thousand pounds cannot buy for me that which I desire.”
She laughed harshly.
Mme. Estelle, as though she were far away, said dreamily, and a little
wistfully. “Still, I will try.”
She roused herself from her momentary abstraction and shook her head
almost fiercely. “I cannot help you because I do not know what the
secret is,” she cried.
Westerham looked at her with his cold, bright eyes, and saw that she
spoke the truth, and he was amazed.
If she did not know what the secret was, then she could not know the
price of it.
Should he tell her the price?
Melun had said nothing to him on that point, but he could clearly see
where matters were trending. Money, he understood, would be of little
value to Melun compared to a marriage with Kathleen.
He started, and started to such a degree that Madame surveyed him with
open suspicion. “Sacrifice,” he said to himself. “Sacrifice.”
“Was that what she meant?”
And then he added to himself: “Oh, Heaven! If that's the sacrifice,
then it shall never be.”
Outwardly, however, he only straightened his back and made a formal
little bow to the astonished woman on the sofa.
“I believe you, Madame,” he said, “when you declare that you do not
know.”
For a few moments he lapsed into silence, debating with himself whether
he should drop the bombshell into Madame's camp now, or whether he
should keep what, to this woman, would be the coping-stone of Melun's
villainy—his intention to marry Kathleen—until such a moment when its
dramatic force would turn the scales in his favour.
It required almost superhuman resolution on Westerham's part to hold
this second secret to himself. But with an effort he held his lips in
silence.
With the silence, too, he suddenly recognised that he had come into
possession of a fact that would prove a mighty weapon with which to
deal both with Mme. Estelle and with Melun.
Here in truth were wheels within wheels.
He felt strangely softened to this unhappy woman, who was evidently
trusting much and being trusted little; and with his pity came a
speculation as to what extent Melun was playing fair and square with
his other confederates in blackmail.
He realised now that the captain was in a position to play for his own
hand, and that neither the financing of Bagley nor the ambitions of
Mme. Estelle, nor yet the brutal violence of Crow and his subsidiary
hooligans in Limehouse were necessary to his object.
With this conclusion came more complete puzzlement than before.
It was the word “murderess” employed by Kathleen which distressed him
most. Facile and swift as his imagination was, he had as yet been
unable to build up any theory which could possibly account for the
obstinate and desperate manner in which Lord Penshurst and his daughter
were guarding their extraordinary secret.
So long, indeed, did Westerham stand in silence, lost in his own
thoughts, that it was with a start he realised that Mme. Estelle was
gazing at him with wide-open, fearful eyes. He was quick to grasp the
necessity of breaking the silence.
And he deliberately chose to bring matters back to a businesslike
method by being excessively brutal.
“You will pardon me,” he said, “but I came here expecting to find a
liar. I have been agreeably disappointed.”
In the pause which followed the words he coldly watched the woman
wince. But the anger which stole across her face convinced him that she
had now been speaking the truth.
He held out his hand. Madame rose and took it.
“I am sorry to ask you again,” he said, “but will you once more give
me your word of honour as a woman that you do not know what all this
mystery is about?”
“I know,” said Mme. Estelle, “that Melun hopes to obtain some advantage
from Lord Penshurst; beyond that I know nothing.”
Then suddenly she cast aside her reserve and drew a little closer to
him.
“Forgive plain speaking on my part,” she said, “but I am perfectly
certain that you are being dragged into some horrible disaster. I will
be frank and honest with you. I have been given to understand that the
cultivation of your acquaintance will free us—I am speaking now for
Captain Melun and myself—from those embarrassments which trouble us so
much, but I think—I cannot tell why—that it is unfair you should be
drawn into this business.
“You don't know, I am afraid, quite what Melun is capable of. I have
seen”—here she shuddered a little and broke off.
“Why will you not listen to me,” she continued presently, “and get
clear while there is yet time? There is no reason why your good name
should be besmirched; there is no reason”—and she faltered in her
speech—“there is no reason why you should lose——”
“No reason,” said Westerham, in an even voice, “why I should lose my
life?”
Mme. Estelle gave a little gasping sigh and drew away from him.
“Oh!” she cried, turning away her face, “you are pitilessly logical.”
They were standing thus, Westerham looking at Mme. Estelle with his
searching gaze while her face was turned towards the window, when the
door opened behind them.
The prim voice of the trim maid said, “Captain Melun.”
Westerham gathered himself together with a laugh. It was rather like
the star situation of a highly-coloured melodrama.
“If Mme. Estelle will pardon the phrase,” he said. “Speak of the
devil——” He stopped short, shrugged his shoulders, and made a little
bow towards Melun.
For his part, the captain was entirely without embarrassment, having
been warned by the maid that Westerham was with Madame.
“Quite so,” he said. His look, however, was so vicious that Westerham
had some inclination to stay and see that Mme. Estelle did not suffer
physically as the result of his call. He reflected, however, that Mme.
Estelle was evidently a brave woman and Melun a cowardly man.
It was, therefore, with an easy mind on this score that he stepped
forward and held out his hand to Madame.
“Thank you very much,” he said, “for an exceedingly pleasant,
agreeable hour. I hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure of
calling again.”
Madame bowed and took his hand. Her own was clammy and wet.
To Melun, Westerham only nodded. The more he dealt with this man the
more he regarded him as a lackey to be ordered here and there.
“I trust,” he said, and there was an undertone of command in his voice,
“that I shall see you at the hotel to-night.”
When he gained the street, Westerham told his chauffeur to go home; he
had been cramped by travelling in the car, and had a wish to walk. He
stepped out briskly towards St. John's Wood Road.
At the corner between the Red Lion Hotel and the underground station
he saw a news-boy yelling for dear life and waving about him a
fiery-coloured placard. The wind caught it, and blowing it flat against
the lad's knees enabled Westerham to read the contents' bill:—
“EXTRAORDINARY GAGGING OUTRAGE IN THE WEST END.”
There were times when Westerham suffered from the quick intuition of a
woman, and at this moment it came home to him that this contents' bill
affected himself.
His second thoughts were that his first impression was nonsense, but
his third thoughts were that it was foolish to distrust his intuition;
crossing the road, he bought a copy of the paper from the news-boy.
So certain was he that he was in some way connected with the gagging
outrage, of which he as yet knew nothing, that he opened the paper
perfectly prepared for a shock. It was well that he had braced himself,
for in heavy type on the main page he read the following:—
“An extraordinary gagging outrage was discovered at about four o'clock
this afternoon at No. 17B Bruton Street, Bond Street. The scene was the
flat of a Mr. James Robinson, a gentleman who took a suite of these
fashionable chambers less than a week ago.
“Mr. Robinson, who, it is understood, has only been in London a short
time, and has since his arrival purchased a magnificent motor car, has
not been sleeping regularly at his chambers. As a matter of fact, our
representative was given to understand that he has been away visiting
friends in the country.
“He returned, however, to London at about one o'clock to-day, and
having lunched, told his valet to send round for the car which he had
not hitherto used. He was heard to instruct the chauffeur to drive
along the Hertfordshire Road, upon which it was concluded that he
did not intend to return till late. Up to the time of going to press
nothing has been heard of him.
“About four o'clock the doorkeeper, having some message to give to Mr.
Robinson's valet, went up to the chambers and knocked at the door.
Receiving no reply, the man entered by a pass-key, and was astonished
to find the whole place in a state of great disorder. Rushing into the
dining-room, he discovered that everything had been turned upside down.
He then proceeded to the bedroom, where he found Mr. Robinson's valet
securely bound hand and foot and his mouth gagged.
“Before summoning the police, the doorkeeper took the gag out of the
mouth of Charles Blyth, the valet, and then released his hands and feet.
“Upon the police being summoned, the man, who was suffering
considerably from shock, stated that shortly after Mr. Robinson
had left there had come a knock at the door. On opening it, he was
confronted by a very tall and powerful-looking man, who, he is quite
certain, was a gentleman. He was well dressed in a lounge suit and
black bowler hat, but, to the valet's surprise and dismay, wore a mask
over his face.
“Continuing, the valet says that in less time than it took him to make
the statement, the stranger had rushed into the flat and seized his
throat in a vice-like grip.
“His assailant then pushed a gag—which apparently consists of a torn
pillowcase—into his mouth, and, throwing him to the floor, partially
stunned him.
“After this the stranger bound him hand and foot, subsequently lifting
him bodily on to the bed, where he left him while he ransacked the
rooms from top to bottom.
“As far as can be judged at present, theft was not the motive of the
stranger's extraordinary proceedings, for not a single thing is missing
from Mr. Robinson's rooms, though every piece of paper has been turned
over and every article of clothing evidently searched.
“Presumably the mysterious assailant was looking for some particular
object which he expected to be there. Whether he found it or not is
open to question, and no further light can be thrown on the matter
until Mr. Robinson returns.”
“Mr. Robinson,” said Westerham to himself, “will return at once,” and,
hailing a hansom, he directed the man to drive as fast as he could to
Bruton Street.
On the way he was rather troubled over the fact that he had called on
Mme. Estelle, as it was quite possible that by this time the police had
discovered where he had been during the afternoon, unless his chauffeur
had been more discreet than usual.
At Bruton Street Westerham found his rooms in much the same condition
as the newspaper had described.
The valet, pale and troubled-looking, was seated on a chair in the
dining-room, evidently fending off question after question which was
being put to him by a couple of men whom, without much effort of
imagination, Westerham instantly recognised as detectives.
As he stood on the threshold, the elder and taller of the two men left
the valet and approached him.
“You are Mr. Robinson?” he asked.
Westerham nodded.
“My name, sir,” said the big man, “is Inspector Rookley, from Scotland
Yard. We were, of course, called in by the police in Vine Street. This
is a most mysterious affair.”
“Apparently,” said Westerham, easily. “I have been reading about it in
the evening papers.”
“I think it will be better,” said Mr. Rookley, gravely, “if my
colleague takes your valet away while I make a few inquiries.”
“I am not at all sure that I desire any inquiries to be made.”
Mr. Rookley was first astounded and then suspicious.
“But, sir,” he protested, “this is a most peculiar case.”
“I agree with you,” said Westerham, “a most peculiar case, a most
puzzling case. But, at the same time, I cannot see, in the least, how
it concerns you.”
“I am sure, sir,” said Mr. Rookley, with meaning, “that the sooner I
remove your valet the better.”
“Just as you please. As I find you in my flat, and as apparently you
want to talk, and as, moreover, I have nothing on earth to do, I
suppose I had better talk with you. May I offer you a whisky-and-soda?”
“Not now, sir,” said Mr. Rookley severely, and he beckoned to his
colleague to take the astonished valet away.
When they were alone, Mr. Rookley turned sharply on Westerham and
demanded in a dictatorial voice: “What does it all mean?”
“Now really,” Westerham laughed, “I should have supposed that that was
the question I should have asked you. You, Mr. Rookley, of Scotland
Yard, as detective, should be more versed in the wicked ways of this
life than I am.
“I have my rooms entered by a stranger, who gags my valet, and who
subsequently turns all my effects topsy-turvy. You are summoned by the
police to catch the offender. When are you going to catch him?”
Mr. Rookley was used to what he himself called “cool hands,” but, as he
said afterwards, this was the coolest hand he had ever met.
However, he was equal to the occasion.
“How do you suppose, sir,” he asked, “we are to make an arrest if you
don't provide us with some data to go on?”
“Data!” exclaimed Westerham. “Surely there is plenty of data here, and
I can tell you nothing more.”
“Now come, sir,” urged the detective, “you must admit that you yourself
are rather a peculiar person, and, mind you, sir, we of the Yard are no
respecters of persons. You came here a week ago. You apparently dropped
from the skies. No one knows who you are, and yet you have plenty of
money. You buy a big motor car, you order a lot of new clothes, and
then you disappear.”
Westerham nodded. “Quite true,” he said. “Go on.”
“And then,” continued the detective, “you reappear. You order out the
car, and scarcely is your back turned before this business happens.
“Now, my opinion is—and probably you know more about it than I
do—that the gentleman who went through your things was looking for
some special thing. I say a ‘gentleman’ advisedly, for valets of the
description that you have got do not make mistakes on that score.
“Of course,” Mr. Rookley droned on, “gentlemen sometimes do wild
things. I have known a few in my time. Maybe there was some quarrel
about some lady. Maybe you have taken something belonging to some lady
which the other gentleman thought you should not have taken. For the
moment we really do not suspect anything more serious, though naturally
we are making inquiries.”
“I trust they will prove satisfactory,” said Westerham.
“You may rest assured they will, sir,” snapped Mr. Rookley. “We seldom
fail. Of course, it is open to us to put what construction we like upon
this matter if you do not choose to explain.
“There is the beginning of many big affairs in such a comparative
trifle as this. Why not, for your own sake, and for our sakes, tell us
all about it?
“I have to warn you that as things stand your position is very awkward.
If you refuse to give an explanation of your movements you must expect
to be regarded with suspicion—and I assure you that with us it is not
a far cry from suspicion to action. In fact, the consequences may be
exceedingly serious for you. There is such a thing, you know,” added
the detective, adopting a more bullying tone, “as being arrested on
suspicion. Come, tell me, where did you sleep last night?”
“My dear man,” said Westerham, suavely, “I have not the slightest
intention of telling you.”