A GRISLY THREAT
Westerham had listened to Lord Penshurst's long recital with great
attention. From time to time he raised his eyebrows, but for the rest
he gave no sign of astonishment.
As the Premier concluded Westerham rose and held out his hand.
“We have not much time before us, Lord Penshurst,” he said, “but I
think I can promise you that you shall have the papers back before the
three days are out.
“Meantime,” he continued, “let us get back to Downing Street at once,
and in spite of the sensation that your continued disappearance will
cause, I think you had better not let it be known that you are back at
your official residence. To do that would be to allow Melun to suppose
that I had failed in my purpose, and if he thinks that—then we shall
fail indeed.”
The return to Downing Street was made in Lowther's car, and the Premier
entered No. 10 by the back door. There they were met by the news of
Lady Kathleen's disappearance, and the aged and much-shaken Premier was
utterly prostrated with grief.
The situation, of course, was not only painful, but dangerous. The news
of the disappearance of the Prime Minister had created a profound
sensation, not only in England, but abroad, and the cables all over the
world were humming with the news of the astounding event.
Downing Street had at once been cleared of the public, but, seeking
to allay alarm as far as possible, those in authority had permitted
the representatives of various newspapers to wait about the house for
tidings. As it was close on midnight and the newspapers were nearing
the approach of the next day's issue, the reporters were clamouring for
some word.
Westerham therefore decided to take a bold course, and he issued a
short statement to the effect that the Premier and his daughter had
merely left town for a few days, and that there was not the slightest
cause for public anxiety.
The public, of course, knew better, for practically every detail of the
breaking open of the Cabinet Council Chamber had been passed from mouth
to mouth. The episode, indeed, was already the wonder of the age.
Late as was the hour of their return to Downing Street, Westerham
decided on immediate action in his search for Lady Kathleen, and
summoned help from Scotland Yard. When the inevitable Mr. Rookley
presented himself, Westerham, despite the terrible anxiety of the
moment, could not restrain a little smile.
Rookley started back as he saw him and his face blanched. Westerham's
explanation, though not wholly satisfactory to the detective, was to
the point.
“I think it would have been better if you had told me before, Sir
Paul,” the detective grumbled.
“Never mind about that,” said Westerham, shortly, “we must get to work.”
And so, though he was intensely weary, Westerham and Rookley, together
with Dunton and Mendip, started for Madame Estelle's villa in St.
John's Wood. Repeated pulls at the bell produced no response, and so
they decided to burst open the garden gate. This they did, only to find
the house shuttered and in darkness. There was no time for scruples
and, obtaining entrance to the house, they searched the place from
ceiling to roof. There was no sign of any life.
“Limehouse!” cried Westerham. “We must try Limehouse!”
“Limehouse?” demanded Rookley. “What do you mean?”
In a few words Westerham gave Rookley the history of the crime club and
his connection with it.
“Really, Sir Paul,” grumbled Rookley, “I think we had better engage
your services at the Yard; you seem to know a good deal more about
London than we do.”
“I am afraid I do,” said Westerham, bitterly.
They started for Limehouse, but on the way Westerham came to the
conclusion that they would be too late to serve any purpose. It was
three o'clock, and by this time the place would be closed.
Nothing remained, therefore, but to return to Downing Street and seek
a few hours' rest. Westerham, fully dressed, flung himself on his bed,
but could not sleep.
At nine o'clock he went to visit the Premier in his room, and was
shocked to see how aged and white and shaky Lord Penshurst looked.
Westerham cheered him as best he could, and then, summoning Rookley,
set out to look for Bagley, the smug banker of Herne Hill.
They brought Bagley a prisoner back to Downing Street, but in spite of
every inducement and every threat, he declared that he knew nothing
whatsoever of the whereabouts of Melun.
Half maddened with terror as to Kathleen's fate, Westerham next turned
his search in the direction of the gaming house. But Melun had covered
his tracks well. The house was as silent and devoid of any clue as had
been the villa in St. John's Wood. There was nothing to do but wait
till night and perfect the arrangements for the raid on Limehouse.
The arrangements which Rookley made were complete, and worked smoothly.
So overwhelming was the force of constables that surrounded the house
that resistance on the part of the members of the crime club was
rendered quite impossible.
In the little room in the front of the house Westerham established a
species of impromptu police-court. One by one the members of the club
were brought in to him, and one by one they satisfied him that they had
no knowledge of Melun's whereabouts.
Still, Westerham had them safely kept under lock and key. It was
noon when this curious inquisition was over, and then he immediately
returned to Downing Street and sought the Premier's room.
As Westerham entered he looked up with a smile which he fondly
imagined was cheerful. His words were gloomy enough, and to Westerham
seemed to have a certain amount of reproach in them.
“Do you realise,” he said, “that we have practically only twenty-four
hours left in which to find Lady Kathleen and to recover the papers?”
Westerham straightened himself up and looked squarely at the Premier.
“The time is short,” he said quietly, “but I have no fear that we shall
not succeed.
“You must remember,” he went on, “that up to the present it is we who
have made all the efforts. What is Melun doing? It is very strange that
he should have remained quiet so long. It is my opinion that he has put
off communication until the last possible moment in order to make his
claims all the more effective.”
“Do you really think that is so?” cried Lord Penshurst eagerly. “For my
part, I was beginning to fear that, despairing of being able to move
us, he had crossed to Germany in hopes of making terms there.”
Westerham shook his head in dissent at this view of the question,
though, as a matter of fact, he was growing terribly anxious himself
lest Melun should after all have transferred his efforts to Prussia.
“No, no!” he said to the Premier, “I am perfectly certain that he will
turn up just in the nick of time. Otherwise, why should he hold Lady
Kathleen as hostage for so long? You may, I think, rest assured that he
would not still be detaining her if he had abandoned all hope of being
able to reduce us to surrender.”
The afternoon wore painfully away, and for the first time Westerham
learned how time can drag. Up to the point at which he found himself
completely foiled in his search for Lady Kathleen he had scarcely
counted the hours or even the days. Incident had been crowded on
incident, and action upon action.
But now that he found himself faced with the necessity of waiting for
the slightest sign that could send him on the trail again, he had to
meet and endure the greatest trial that he had ever known.
It was such a helpless and almost hopeless position. Still it was
not without some hope, and hope helped considerably to mitigate his
sufferings between the hours of noon and three o'clock.
And then, just as he had predicted—just as he had calculated it must
come to pass—the expected message came. It came in the shape of a
telegram addressed to the Premier, which read as follows:
“If you accept my terms, wire, not later than four o'clock, to
Smith-Brown-Smith, care of Poste Restante, St Martin's-le-Grand. This
is final.—M.”
The receipt of this wire threw the Premier into a state of great
agitation, and he was for answering it at once.
“The offer must be refused finally,” he cried. “Don't you see, Sir
Paul, that, after all that's been said and done, I cannot possibly
accept it? It is not in my power to do so, and there appears to be no
way out of the difficulty.
“Surely,” he went on in a wailing voice, “no man was ever in worse
straits. It is a question of my daughter or Armageddon!”
Westerham restrained him, pointing out that in such a matter as this an
answer could not be made on the spur of the moment. It was a matter, he
urged, that required considerable thought.
Quietly and concisely he constructed in his own mind a theory which
accounted for the despatch of the telegram, and, as he thought it over,
he became convinced that, in spite of its bold statement, the telegram
was unreliable. He became certain that the offer which was made them
was by no means final.
He said as much to the Prime Minister, and explained his reasons.
“It is ridiculous to suppose,” he argued, “that Melun is such a fool as
to think that we shall agree to his terms in this way.
“In the first place, we have no assurance that Lady Kathleen is to be
restored to us even for a time, and in the second place, Melun is not
the type of man to take anything on trust. Whatever risks he may run in
regard to Lady Kathleen he would certainly not leave the handing over
of the money to chance.
“No! Let us by all means send a reply to the address he gives, but
instead of accepting or not accepting his terms let us word it in
this way: ‘Cannot accept any terms by wire. Make appointment at
which matters can be discussed. Will guarantee your immunity from
disagreeable consequences.’”
The Premier clutched feverishly at this suggestion. “Yes, yes!” he
cried. “I see now that it is the better way. Let's send the telegram
at once.”
So the telegram was despatched, and Westerham and the Premier sat down
to wait again.
Lord Penshurst had suggested that the post-office should be watched
in order that Smith-Brown-Smith or his messenger might be watched and
followed home.
But Westerham argued against such a course, pointing out that in broad
daylight it would be practically impossible for even the most astute of
followers to avoid the notice of the pursued.
“Believe me,” he urged, “that such a step would be most unwise, and at
the best we should only succeed in arousing Melun's suspicions. And if
he thought we intended to try to catch him tripping, it would merely
drive him to extremes. Remember that we have to consider not only Lady
Kathleen's safety, but the guarding of the secret. We must not push
Melun to the point of throwing him into the arms of Germany.”
Somewhat against his will, the Premier finally gave in to this
argument. For the next two hours he sat with Westerham alert, anxious,
and watchful.
Towards four o'clock the answer to the wire came, but in a form so
unlooked for and so terrible that even Westerham was for a time
unnerved.
It came not in the shape of a telegram, but in the form of a small
square cardboard box, neatly wrapped in brown paper and addressed to
the Prime Minister.
It was brought by a District Messenger boy, who, in response to
inquiries whence the package came, could only say that it had been
handed in at the Oxford Street office by a gentleman of distinctly
foreign appearance.
Though the parcel was addressed to Lord Penshurst, Westerham took it
from the attendant and with his own hands laid it carefully and softly
down on the Premier's table.
For a moment Westerham looked reflectively at the Prime Minister. “I
wonder,” he said slowly, “if this parcel comes from Melun?”
Lord Penshurst was all eagerness. “Let's open it at once and see,” he
said.
But Westerham pushed the Prime Minister's hands away from the package.
“Leave it alone,” he said, “we don't know what it may contain.”
Lord Penshurst glanced at him sharply. “Good Heavens!” he cried, “you
don't mean to tell me that you think Melun would dare to send me a bomb
or something of that sort?”
“One never knows,” said Westerham, thoughtfully. “I think we had better
send for Rookley.”
Rookley came and surveyed the mysterious package with a suspicious
gaze. He picked it up gently, and then almost smiled as he laid it down
again.
“I don't think you need fear its containing anything in the nature of
an explosive,” he said; “certainly not an infernal machine. It is much
too light.”
Westerham nodded, and without a word drew a knife from his pocket and
cut the string. Unfolding the paper, he laid bare a brown cardboard box.
Both the Premier and Rookley were leaning eagerly over Westerham's
shoulders as he raised the lid.
Then the three men cried out together and stood rigid as though frozen
with horror.
Lord Penshurst gave a second cry, and reeling backwards would have
fallen had not Westerham caught him in his arms.
For lying on the top of a little pile of shavings was a human ear. It
was the small, round ear of a woman, and against the blood-stained lobe
glittered a single diamond.
“Oh, God!” cried the Premier, turning away his ashen face. “It's my
daughter's!”