AT THE EMPIRE
The better to show his contempt for the people whom he was robbing,
Melun had put away his revolver. This little piece of play-acting cost
him dear.
As he saw Westerham coming down the stairs his hand went to his
hip-pocket. But Westerham was first, and covered him in an instant.
“Put up your hands!” he ordered.
Melun obediently threw up his hands.
The other masked men now covered Westerham, but Melun cried out
sharply: “Stop that! No firing!”
For he knew who was the best shot, and who was likely to be quickest;
and he had no desire to risk his own skin.
“Tell the men to lower their hands,” said Westerham, “and you can put
your own hands down.”
Melun gave the order in a surly voice.
“Thank you!” said Westerham.
All this had passed in complete silence on the part of Lord Penshurst's
guests. Lord Penshurst also was far too astonished to speak.
“You must forgive my intrusion,” Westerham said, now addressing the
Prime Minister, “but I must ask you to allow me to have a word with
this man.” He pointed to Melun.
Without more ado he came down the staircase from the musicians' gallery
and walked over to Melun's side.
“You are an impudent scoundrel, Captain Melun,” he whispered in the
captain's ear, “but I will put a stop to this. You will have to call
your men off and restore all that property.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind!” snarled Melun.
“You won't, eh?” said Westerham. “Well, we will see.
“You know,” he added, still whispering, “that Lord Penshurst is
perfectly acquainted with your identity. The guests are in ignorance,
and therein lies your safety. But how many would recognise you if they
could see your face?”
Melun shot a vindictive look through his mask at Westerham.
“And so,” continued Westerham, quietly, “I will give you five seconds
to make up your mind. You either order all these jewels to be restored
to their proper owners or I will tear the mask from your face.”
“For Heaven's sake don't do that,” cried Melun in a low voice. “But it
will cost you your life, for I shall not be able to hold the men.”
“I shall not bother you to do so,” said Westerham; “I can manage them
quite well myself.”
Still keeping Captain Melun under observation, he turned about, while
his revolver covered the man who had collected the jewels. “Come here!”
he ordered.
The man came forward.
“Give me your gun!”
The man handed over his six-shooter without a word, and Westerham
placed it carefully on the floor.
“Now right-about!” he ordered, “and get the other men's weapons.”
The ruffian in the mask hesitated. “They will shoot me and you,
governor,” he said thickly.
“You had better be shot at by them than by me,” said Westerham. “My aim
rarely fails. Do as you're told.”
Westerham then turned to the other men. “All of you,” he said, “will
have to give up your guns. If necessary, Captain Melun and I will see
that you do it. However, I should recommend you to be quick. I warned
Scotland Yard before I left London of what was about to happen here,
and within a few minutes this place will be swarming with police.”
The men fidgeted uneasily and looked helplessly at Melun.
Melun wisely decided to assist Westerham.
“It's true,” he said, “and you'd better be quick.”
At this there was a good deal of grumbling, and one of the men cried
out that they had been betrayed.
Westerham turned on him sharply. “I am compounding a felony,” he cried;
“but still, if you are quick, you will get away. I won't detain you.”
By this time two or three men had come in from the hall to inquire the
meaning of the delay. They surveyed the scene uneasily.
“How many of you are there?” demanded Westerham, glancing towards the
door. “I suppose it is a case of twenty to one; but never mind. On
this occasion it is my move. Bring your guns over here one by one. You
on the left there start first.”
Lord Penshurst and Kathleen were staring in amazement at Westerham,
as indeed were all the guests. It was a simple exhibition of the
domination of one will over many. One by one the men came forward and
deposited their weapons at Westerham's feet.
When they had all laid down their arms he turned again to Melun. “You
can call your men off now,” he said.
Melun was in no mind to remain. Without a word he walked out of the
ball-room, calling on the men to accompany him; they followed him like
sheep.
“Just a minute, Lord Penshurst,” said Westerham, easily, “while I see
these visitors off the premises.”
He went out into the hall and watched the departure of the three cars.
Melun was shaking with rage. So angry was he, indeed, that his passion
overcame his fear, and as he was about to enter his car he stepped back
into the hall again and addressed Westerham.
“You shall pay for this, my gentleman,” he said in a shaking voice.
Westerham made no answer except to say, “You're wasting time, and if
you take my advice you will not return to town along the same route by
which you came.”
Then he turned on his heel and went back into the ball-room. There the
men were busy sorting out the jewels on the floor and restoring them
to their proper owners.
As Westerham came in there was a simultaneous movement towards him. A
half-score of hands were outstretched and a hundred voices clamoured
admiration and congratulation.
But Westerham held up his hand for silence.
“Be kind enough not to approach any nearer,” he said; “my business is
with Lord Penshurst. If I have been of any service to you I am glad;
but please let the matter rest at that.”
Westerham walked over to Lord Penshurst and looked reassuringly into
his face.
“Lord Penshurst,” he said, “I shall be grateful if you can spare me a
few minutes.”
“Certainly,” said the Prime Minister; “let us go to my own room.”
The Premier led the way across the hall and down a long corridor until
he came to the library. He bowed Westerham in before him and afterwards
closed the door.
There was open admiration in the Premier's eyes, but at the same time
he was distressed and ill at ease. Like the diplomat he was, he waited
for Westerham to speak the first word. Westerham spoke it.
“I think,” he said, “that the time has come for mutual explanations.”
“I have to thank you,” answered Lord Penshurst, “for having rid me of
these ruffians to-night, but as I imagine that you have only done so to
suit your own private ends,” he added coldly, “I think that it is you,
rather than myself, who should make the explanations.”
“Practically all the explanations that I can make,” said Westerham, “I
have already given to Lady Kathleen.”
“And a very pretty tale, too,” remarked the Premier, drily.
“None the less a true tale. I can furnish ample proof that I am the
Sir Paul Westerham who disappeared at Liverpool. I knew Lord Dunton
before I left England ten years ago, and he has twice visited me in the
States. I should hardly imagine you would doubt his word, and he can
certainly establish my identity. If that does not satisfy you, you can
apply to my solicitor, Mr. Hantell.”
Still the Premier looked thoroughly unconvinced, but in spite of this
Westerham plunged once more into the details of his meeting with Melun
and the bargain he had made with him.
“You will see from all that I have told you,” he concluded, “how good a
grip I have on that scoundrel. But for the influence that I can bring
to bear on him he would never have surrendered so quietly to-night.
“Of course this escapade of his, mad though it seems, was not without
a motive, and I judge that motive to be the further terrorising of
Lady Kathleen and yourself. Once more let me appeal to you to tell me
frankly and fully what it is that so distresses you.”
The Premier almost laughed. “You must think me a very credulous person
indeed,” he said, “if you expect me to believe such a tale as yours.
I have several reasons for thinking that you are no better than Melun,
I am not sure that you are not worse. If, for some reason, you have
served Lady Kathleen and myself, I presume it is merely a question of
thieves quarrelling among themselves.”
Westerham flushed hotly. But the Prime Minister, though he noticed
Westerham's annoyance, continued to speak quietly and coldly.
“Why should I go in search of Lord Dunton? If you are not a liar, send
Lord Dunton to me. Not that it would help matters, for if you were
fifty times Sir Paul Westerham you could not assist me, nor, indeed,
would I ask your assistance. But as I fully expect that you know as
much about my troubles as I do myself, it would in any case be waste
of breath to mention them; and certainly I am not going to mention
anything that will give you and Melun a stronger hold of me than you
have already.”
“But I tell you,” cried Westerham, “that I have nothing to do with
Melun's schemes. Nothing at all!”
“That, of course,” said Lord Penshurst, drily, “will presently be
proved by your friend Lord Dunton. In the meantime I warn you and your
accomplice Melun that you are rapidly driving me to desperation. I
admit that. I tell it to you to impress on you the necessity of not
going too far. It is rather unfortunate that the Prime Minister of
England should have to liken himself to a worm, but nevertheless I may
mention that even a worm will turn.”
This was exasperating, and Westerham found it hard to keep cool.
“Very well,” he said with a sigh, “I am sorry you think so badly of
me, and I will do my best to open your eyes as to the real truth of
matters. As, however, I cannot do that to-night, I will ask you to
allow me to withdraw.”
“I have no objection,” said the Premier, “but before you go perhaps I
may offer you some hospitality. I do not wish to be so ungrateful and
ungracious as to deny that I owe you some thanks for to-night's work.”
“I am much obliged,” answered Westerham, “but I would rather be excused
the humiliation of having to accept hospitality from the hands of a man
who does me so much injustice. Good-night.”
He passed out of the room, and the Premier let him go without a word.
In the hall the hosts of departing guests eyed him with curiosity and
some anxiety.
Lady Kathleen was standing at the foot of the staircase, and, to their
surprise, she stepped forward and held out her hand.
Westerham bowed over it but said nothing. He would indeed have choked
over any words which he might have sought to utter. He was, perhaps, in
as trying a position as he could well be in.
It might have been that Lady Kathleen expected him to say something,
for she gazed after his retreating figure a little sadly and wistfully.
The guests in their evening wraps drew aside to let this tall man in a
blue serge suit pass them.
A few of them held out their hands, and some of them called
“Good-night”; but Westerham passed on unheeding.
The taxicab in which he had come down from town was waiting at the
door, and stepping into it he ordered the man to return to London. It
was nearly three o'clock when he reached his hotel.
There, to his extreme annoyance, he was informed by the porter, who now
regarded him with open suspicion, that a gentleman was waiting to see
him.
“What is his name?” demanded Westerham, sharply.
“He didn't give any, sir,” said the man, “but he is in the
smoking-room.”
Westerham entered that vast and dimly-lighted apartment, to be greeted
on the threshold by Inspector Rookley.
“Good heavens! sir,” cried Westerham; “am I never to be rid of this
constant persecution?
“Surely,” he continued, “you received fairly explicit instructions
through the Commissioner from Lord Penshurst to let me alone?”
“I know, sir,” said the detective, soothingly, “but you have an
unfortunate habit of stirring us up afresh. I have called now about
this business at Trant Hall.”
“Oh!” said Westerham, starting, “what about it?”
“I understand,” said Rookley, “that you were there?”
“If it's any satisfaction for you to know it,” said Westerham, “I was.
But I don't quite remember seeing any members of the police force
there, and I should be glad to ascertain how it is that my presence at
the Hall was notified to you.”
“It came first of all by telephone from the local police,” said
Rookley, “and I then had a message 'phoned through from Lord
Penshurst. It seems that he sent word on your behalf, and he was at
great pains to tell us of the service you had rendered him. He said he
was telephoning because we might imagine that you were in mischief,
whereas you happened to be the man who had saved them all from theft
and possibly from violence.
“Of course, sir,” the detective continued, “that clears you more or
less. I cannot argue with the Prime Minister, or I would have pointed
out to him that you must have been in the business yourself or you
could never have got wind of the affair and turned up at all. So, as
this is a very serious matter indeed, I waited here to ask you what you
know about it.”
“Look here,” cried Westerham, annoyed past all endurance, “I don't know
half as much about this matter as Lord Penshurst does himself. If you
want to know what I had to do with it, go and ask the Prime Minister.
Personally, I decline to say anything at all.”
“You do?” Rookley was staring at him uneasily while he scratched his
head. He was as certain as he could be in his official mind that he was
constantly running up against the most astute of master criminals that
he had ever met. It perplexed him, too, beyond measure that, whenever
he felt his grip fastening on the man, the Prime Minister should step
in to save him.
He would truly have loved to arrest Westerham there and then upon
suspicion; but the telephonic message from Trant Hall made that
desirable object impossible.
“Well?” he began again.
“Good-night,” said Westerham; and turning on his heel he walked
contemptuously away, leaving the baffled detective to make what excuses
he could to the night porter, who, ignorant of the detective's
identity, was beginning to suspect him of being no more honest than he
should be.
Westerham slept badly, and awoke, after a succession of uneasy dreams,
at about nine o'clock in response to a knock at his door.
To his surprise it was neither the boots nor the chambermaid who
entered at his bidding; instead there stood before him a tall,
cadaverous man, wearing a long black frock-coat, whom he instantly
recognised as the manager.
The manager closed the door and walked over to Westerham's bedside. His
manner was at once offensive and deferential.
“You will have to excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I thought it better
to speak to you in your own room than to rouse any remark by sending a
message requesting you to speak to me in mine.
“I am aware that Lord Dunton called to visit you here, and I know
sufficient about his lordship to feel no uneasiness about his friends
as a rule. But really—you must pardon my saying so—you make things a
little awkward in this hotel.”
Westerham sat up in bed and looked at the man quizzically.
“Your appearances and disappearances,” continued the manager, avoiding
Westerham's eyes, “have already led to considerable comment. Besides,
after inquiry this morning, I discovered that Mr. Rookley from Scotland
Yard was here waiting for you till the small hours. Fortunately the
night porter did not know who he was, or things would have been still
more awkward.”
“On the other hand,” suggested Westerham, “it might have been that
Rookley called on me for the purpose of consulting me rather than of
holding an investigation as to my movements.”
The manager eyed him coldly.
“That's hardly what I have been given to understand,” he said.
Westerham reddened with anger. It seemed to him that Rookley, being
baffled, was seeking to make himself disagreeable. Westerham was
beginning to feel indeed something like an outcast, moved on from place
to place without time for rest.
“You want me to leave?” he asked shortly.
The manager made a queer sort of bow.
“Very well,” Westerham returned; “for my part I have no objection.”
To himself he reflected that within a few days the man would bitterly
regret his mistake.
So Westerham packed his little bag and went out. First he went on foot
to Victoria, where he left his bag in charge of the cloak-room.
Then he breakfasted at a restaurant, and after he had consumed a
moderate quantity of doubtful ham and still more doubtful eggs he
smoked cigarette after cigarette while he thought over the situation.
At last he hit upon a solution—as he thought—to the whole difficulty;
a solution which was so extraordinarily daring that he laughed to
himself as he conceived it.
The idea tickled his fancy immensely, but he did not embrace it without
all his customary caution.
Carefully and methodically he weighed the pros and cons of success,
only to be ultimately convinced that the arguments against the scheme
were of practically no account.
To secure the success of his enterprise, however, he needed at least
one assistant, and his mind turned without hesitation in the direction
of Dunton.
But before he saw Dunton it was expedient to ascertain the whereabouts
of Melun. Then it occurred to him that he had been more than foolish to
allow Melun to escape from Trant without having secured any information
as to where he now lay in hiding.
Had he returned to his rooms? That was doubtful; and the doubt was
confirmed when Westerham called at Rider Street to ascertain. Captain
Melun had not returned to town.
Grateful to Mme. Estelle for the timely news she had given him of
Melun's journey to Trant Hall, Westerham was by no means unmindful of
his promise to tell her of all that had happened.
He had simply delayed his visit because he had been in hopes that if he
could only find Melun he would be able to go to her with some definite
proposition.
For it was now entirely obvious that Melun, unable to be true to any
man or any woman, had merely been using Mme. Estelle as an agent, and
had not the faintest notion of fulfilling his promise to her.
It was inconceivable that unless Melun wished to push his advantage
to the utmost—that is to say, to the extreme limit of forcing Lord
Penshurst to agree to his marriage with Lady Kathleen—that he could
possibly have had the hardihood, not to say the foolhardiness, of
conducting the raid of the night before.
Two days previously Lady Kathleen had declared to Westerham that only
a week remained. Two days of that week had already slipped away, so
that now only five days were left in which to find Melun and bring his
works to naught.
Westerham wondered whether he would find Mme. Estelle tractable.
That also was open to doubt. And while he thought on the matter he
was tempted to go just a little back on his word and refuse her the
information she had asked for until she told him in what way he could
lay his hands on the truant captain.
But this, he reflected, in spite of all that was at stake, would be, to
say the least of it, dishonourable; and it was with every intention of
proving to Madame that the captain was playing her false that Westerham
took a cab and drove to St. John's Wood. He found Mme. Estelle alone
and anxious.
She gave him no greeting, though she almost ran towards him as he
entered the little drawing-room.
“What have you to tell me?” she cried.
“Nothing,” answered Westerham, “that is absolutely definite; but at
the same time I am convinced that Melun is not treating you justly
and honourably. After last night's affair was over—you may not have
heard that I defeated Melun's raid—I spoke for some time with Lord
Penshurst. He would tell me nothing; but, none the less, I am convinced
that Melun is insisting that his marriage with Lady Kathleen shall take
place at once.”
For some minutes Madame sat in complete silence, with her hands tightly
clasped together. Then she looked up and said, “Can you prevent that
without completely ruining Melun?”
“Yes,” said Westerham, thoughtfully. “I think I can contrive it; but I
must first know where I can see the captain.”
Madame rose and looked at him long and earnestly.
“Though I trust your word,” she said, “I can see that it would be very
difficult for you to meet him without some dreadful trouble arising. If
you can only see him in public it would not matter so much. You are a
gentleman and would not create a scene.
“Yes,” she went on, more to herself than to Westerham, “I think that
is the better way. To-night—just, I think, to prove that he cares for
nobody—Melun has taken a box at the Empire. I am going there with him.
It is possible that you could join us.”
Westerham laughed with some bitterness.
“I am obliged to you for your suggestion,” he said, “but you do
not seem to appreciate that I have been robbed by Melun of all the
appurtenances of a decent existence. It is to his efforts—and to
some extent yours—that I am at the present moment, in spite of all
my millions, homeless. I have not even a dress-suit to my name.
If, therefore, my appearance in your box this evening is a little
incongruous, you will have to excuse me.”
“Quite so; quite so,” said Mme. Estelle with a queer smile, the meaning
of which was not at the moment obvious to Westerham.
After this he took his departure; nor did he for the moment fulfill his
intention of visiting Dunton. It was useless to go to that young man
until after he had met Melun. After that meeting his plans might have
to be remodelled.
To distract his thoughts he went to a matinee, and afterwards dined
alone, lingering over his cigarette till the restaurant clock showed
him it was half-past nine.
He then made his way to the Empire and entered the lounge. From there
he was able to discern quite easily the box in which Melun was seated.
He made his way to it, and without even the formality of knocking
turned the handle of the door and went in.
As he did so Melun rose angrily to his feet, and, as though he had
never known Westerham in his life before, demanded what he meant by the
intrusion.
Westerham bowed to Mme. Estelle, and then turned his attention to the
captain.
“Don't be a fool,” he said shortly; “I have not the slightest intention
of being treated in this way. I think you had better sit down.”
For his own part, Westerham drew up a chair and seated himself in front
of the box so that his face and figure could be seen by all observers.
It was indeed the prospect of this which had so alarmed Melun and had
resulted in his taking up so tactless an attitude towards Westerham.
Melun was fearful lest some of those present in the theatre should have
been numbered among Lord Penshurst's guests of the night before, in
which case the freedom which Westerham made of his box might lead to a
suspicion that the captain himself was implicated in the raid.
Westerham smiled at the discomfited Melun as though he hugely enjoyed
the joke.
“You may well be alarmed,” he said, “and you had better be civil, or
I certainly shall not relieve you of my presence, which is apparently
obnoxious, and which I fancy you imagine to be a source of danger to
you.”
“Mark you, Melun,” he went on, turning his head away from Mme. Estelle
so that the woman could not catch his words. “Mark you, there are a
great many things about which I want an explanation. When I made my
bargain with you I had no idea that I should come to be regarded as a
partner in crime with a murderer. Things have gone too far.
“However, for Mme. Estelle's sake, I will not cross-examine you here. I
insist, however, that you shall tell me where and when I can find you.”
“And if I decline to say?”
Westerham had foreseen the possibility of this answer, and had made
up his mind as to how he should meet it if it came. He saw that he
could not extort a statement from Melun there, and was resolved on a
different method.
Without a word—and he knew that his silence would cause Melun the
deepest anxiety—he rose and left the box.
He waited patiently till the end of the performance and then succeeded
in following Melun into the street.
As he had counted on his doing, Melun took a hansom and drove away with
Mme. Estelle. Westerham followed.
The hansom in front of him bowled quickly along Piccadilly, turned up
Berkeley Street, and then made at a good pace for Davies Street. Here
Melun alighted, and having said “Good-night!” to Mme. Estelle, let
himself into a small private hotel with a latch-key.
Westerham, who had passed Melun's cab, stopped his own further up the
street and marked the house from the little window at the back of the
hansom. He was satisfied.
He immediately ordered the man to turn about and drive to Dunton's
room. Dunton was sitting before a fire, enjoying a pipe before he
turned in.
Westerham immediately plunged into every detail of his story which he
dared disclose and still keep faith with Lady Kathleen. Dunton heard
him out with open-mouthed wonder.
Next Westerham proceeded to explain to Dunton the counter-move against
Melun which he intended to put into execution on the morrow.
When he had finished speaking, Dunton rocked on his chair with
laughter, as though delighted beyond measure with the proposal.
And certainly Dunton had some justification for his merriment, for what
Westerham proposed, gravely and of fixed purpose, was the kidnapping of
the Prime Minister.