_By Foul Means_
_by_
PATRICK LEYTON
MYSTERY LIBRARY
WORLD LIBRARY GUILD
NEW YORK
Reprinted in the United States by special arrangement
with the English Publishers
_Copyright_, MCMXXIX, _by_
THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.
_Printed in the United States of America
by_
THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO.
CLEVELAND, OHIO
Contents
I. A Tragedy Recalled
II. Ardenmore
III. The Scrap of Paper
IV. A Light in the Tower
V. Smugglers?
VI. A Friend in Need
VII. A Talk with Inspector Mackay
VIII. The Message in the Papers
IX. An Engaging Young Criminal
X. A Telegram from Bessington
XI. Suspicions
XII. Richard Bessington on the Scene
XIII. The Bargain
XIV. The Secret of the Clock
XV. The Smugglers' Cache
XVI. Betty MacIvor's Postal Service
XVII. A Keen Ally
XVIII. The Coming of Antoine Dubosc
XIX. A Very Treacherous Villain
XX. Alec Crosby Makes Good
XXI. The Reason Why
XXII. The Beginning of a Journey
XXIII. Two Shots
XXIV. The End of a Journey
BY FOUL MEANS
CHAPTER I
A TRAGEDY RECALLED
"Do tell me, Frank, who is that remarkably beautiful woman over there
to your left? It's a party of three, four tables away."
The two friends were dining at a smart restaurant in Piccadilly, and
Henry Addison's companion, Frank Daneham, a fair, good-looking man of
about forty, with the keen, far-seeing eyes of the artist (in which
profession he had achieved great success), slowly turned his head and
glanced towards the table in question.
"Yes," he said, "I'm not surprised at your question. That's Hermione
Rodenberg, a dear friend of mine."
"What? Not the widow of old Rodenberg, the South African
multi-millionaire who died last year?"
"That's just who she is. The man on her left with the rather
saturnine cast of countenance, is Colonel Bessington--now retired--I
joined his regiment during the little fracas--The other woman is Iza
Marsh, Hermione's companion."
"By Jove!" Henry Addison pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
"Then she's rich as well as being the most beautiful creature I've
ever clapped eyes on in my life."
"Yes, my boy. The richest woman in England, and incidentally the
most unhappy."
"Not really? Well, of course, one can see that in her face," said
Addison, with another glance at the exquisite profile, the dazzling
pureness of complexion enhanced by dark chestnut curls, and above all
the pathetic downward curve of the sensitive mouth. "But why so?
Tell me."
"If you really want to know, I'm the man to spin the yarn," replied
the other. "For I happen to be the only person living, except
Hermione, who knows the true facts of a very remarkable story."
"Then by all means let's hear it," said Addison. "A fellow who has
just got back from the African jungle has a keen ear for home
stories. Besides, a woman with a face like that is bound to have
something in her life worth hearing about."
"I'll tell you if you'll give me your solemn word of honour never to
repeat it to a living soul. For it affects me too, and though it
happened a long time ago, still one never knows. For you see, did
the truth ever come to light, I might be liable to a long term of
penal servitude for being accessory after the fact to a nasty little
crime called murder."
"Lord! Man! You don't mean it?"
"Fact, I assure you. If I tell you, you will be the only man who
knows. One other who guesses, is that fellow over there, Dick
Bessington. But so long as it only remains at that all is well."
"Of course, you have my word, Frank, old man. That goes without
saying."
"Right. Well, as a matter of fact, I'm rather glad to be able to
talk about it. I've kept it locked up for nine years now, and there
can be no harm in telling you, anyhow. But I'll wait until we get
back to my rooms, where I can tell it without being overheard."
As they rose from the table half an hour later, Hermione Rodenberg
looked round, saw them, and gave the artist a radiant smile. Then,
making their way out through the maze of small tables, some still
occupied, others already empty, the two friends returned to Daneham's
rooms in Jermyn Street and were presently ensconced in easy chairs
before a crackling wood fire, when the artist at once began his story.
"First of all, do you ever remember hearing about a young fellow
called Dominic Arden?"
"Arden," repeated his friend. "Yes, of course I do. Old Scotch
family, or rather, English migrated to Scotland many generations
back. Old out-of-the-world place on the far north-east coast called
Ardenmore.
"That's the man. Well, what I am going to tell you about happened in
'17, when Dominic Arden was twenty and I a comparative youngster of
thirty, who had laid down the brush for the temporary sword, as you
know. The Ardens were as poor as rats; young Dominic--a remarkably
good-looking lad, by the way--joined up as a ranker in my regiment.
For we were great pals and I was awfully fond of him in spite of his
queer red-hot temper. Well, before he came out, he and Hermione
Craig were married."
"What? Mrs. Rodenberg?"
"The same. A complete love match, idyllic, poor kids!" Daneham
paused, and his friend, regarding him intently, realized that he was
about to listen to tragedy.
"Well, to go on. Dominic Arden was a bit of a dreamer, too. Had the
gift of writing, and might have made a name for himself had he lived,
but--well--it happened this way:
"Our headquarters--over in Flanders--were in an old farm-house. The
C.O., Colonel Grimshawe, was a bit of a bully and not particularly
nice in other ways. Hated the fellow myself and I wasn't alone in
this, but Bessington and he were great pals. We had just had a
hectic time and those who were left had retired to this comparatively
peaceful spot for a spell of rest. I was alone with Grimshawe in his
particular sanctum when the tragedy occurred. Dominic Arden had just
come in with a message for me, and at the moment old Grimshawe
happened to be talking about different women he had been mixed up
with, and girls whom he would like to have been mixed up with, and
among them he mentioned Hermione Craig. He had no idea, of course,
that Dominic was her husband, and that was his only excuse--where
there was none--for what he said. I remember his words distinctly,
and he spoke just as Dominic came into the room.
"'My dear fellow, Hermione Craig is just like all the rest of them.
You pay your money, you know, at least I do--' and he ended with a
nauseating laugh full of meaning. I won't attempt to describe my
feelings here, for, you see, I had seen Dominic come in and I had
seen his face. The next thing I realized was that he was standing
over the colonel, his face the colour of chalk and his eyes full of
hell.
"'You'll take that back, you swine!' he said, between gritted teeth.
'It's a damned lie and you know it. You'll take it back now, this
moment, or, by God! I'll kill you.'
"My dear fellow, I can hardly even now bear to think of what happened
then. And it was all so quick. There was no time even for me to
interfere. Grimshawe had risen, his red face purple with rage. He
could hardly speak. I heard him stammer something about a damned
scoundrel, and the next thing I knew was a sickening thud as Dominic,
who had immense strength of arm, felled him with a blow, and he went
down with his head striking a portion of the iron fender while
Dominic stood over him and I, galvanized into action at last, sprang
to my feet.
"Well, of course you have guessed what happened. The colonel was
dead when I got to him. The blow itself, though it split his
skull--for he fell on a point and was a tremendously heavy man--might
not have been instantly fatal, but I think it was actual shock that
killed him. Anyhow, he was dead, and there was I, a witness to
something that, if not actual murder (which in point of fact it was,
if you take the intention into consideration), could only be paid for
by death. And there was Dominic, the lad whom I loved almost as a
brother and there also, was my duty."
"My God! How ghastly!" ejaculated Henry Addison. "And what
actually, did you do, old man?"
"What I actually did no one save Dominic, Hermione, myself, and now
you, will ever know. Dominic was still standing over his victim when
I looked up from where I knelt beside the body.
"'He's dead,' I said.
"I'm glad to hear it,' said Dominic. 'I meant to kill the swine.'
His voice was loud, and a couple of Tommies alone in the next room
heard the words through the thin wooden partition which served as a
wall, and are still alive to give evidence, were it ever necessary.
I got up then, and faced him.
"'You know what this means, old man?' I said, and he replied quite
quietly:
"'Yes, I know. But after all, one more murder out here, judicial or
otherwise, is of little account.' And then he put his hands on my
shoulders and looked me in the face. 'Tell her, old man, tell her--'
But a sob choked him and it was then that I knew I couldn't send him
to his death--not that kind of death--and I flung him away and
pointed to the door.
"'Go, now at once,' I whispered. 'I will explain, only for God's
sake go.'
"'What! And leave you here to face it? Oh no.' He laughed at the
idea.
"But I explained to him that I meant to tell the real facts of what
had happened, with the addition only of an imaginary ending.
"'Take my revolver,' I said, thrusting it into his hand, 'I shall say
that you threatened to shoot me and so got away. I shall give you
three minutes to clear out and take your chance, and then I shall
give the alarm. If you don't agree to this I shall shoot you first
and then myself, and that's all there is about it.' That settled it,
of course.
"'After all,' he said, 'you are only giving me another choice of
death, but it's an honourable one, and for that I thank you.
Good-bye, old man. God bless you. You will know what to tell her,
for even if I escape with my life, I'm dead to her for ever.'
"When I looked up again he was gone. I waited three minutes and then
summoned help, and it was Bessington who came in first. I told him
what had happened, with the added lie at the end. But I have never
been quite sure that Bessington believed my story. For the fact of
there being no trace of Dominic Arden when they hurried out in search
of him, told rather against me. And Bessington, like his friend,
Grimshawe, is not altogether a pleasant man.
"Well, the end of the story is only what one could expect. Dominic
must have made his way to the fighting zone again, for his body was
among the killed, three days later; that is, if one can really
identify a man by his disc and number and so on, without the addition
of any physical help. For the head of the dead soldier was smashed
to a pulp, though undoubtedly the height, build, and general
appearance was that of Dominic Arden.
"All the same, Harry, I have a queer feeling that he is not dead, and
that one day--Ah well! of course it's ridiculous. He could never
show up again in any case."
"What a horrible tragedy," said Addison. "And what happened to
her--the wife?"
"As you see, she is still living--by some miracle--for she and
Dominic were twin souls. At the time I could not think why a
merciful Providence allowed her to live. After she had searched in
vain for traces of him she finally believed in his death, and then,
two years ago, to my complete amazement, she married old Rodenberg;
is now once more a widow, and Bessington is head over ears in love
with her, and God knows what will happen in that quarter. What
interests me most at the moment is that she has just bought
Ardenmore, the loneliest, most God-forsaken place you can imagine,
and where she swears she is going to live."
"Did the Ardens sell it then, or what?"
"As a matter of fact there are no more Ardens left. The old folk
sold the place soon after their son's death, and then died,
broken-hearted. Then the new owner got tired of it, never lived
there, I believe--and very gladly sold it to Mrs. Rodenberg. She,
poor soul, was extremely badly off--went out as a companion--until
she married Rodenberg who, of course, left her everything he
possessed. I often wondered--" And then Daneham broke off and
stared across into vacancy.
"What? Tell me, I am tremendously interested."
"Well, I wondered if actually she married him in order to buy the
place back. For you see, Dominic worshipped every corner of it. And
now she's going to live there, presumably--this is what she gives out
to the world generally--in order to escape from the money-grabbers,
begging letters, and all the things which make life a complete hell
to the rich, I believe."
"Ah, well, personally I could put up with a taste of that kind of
hell," observed Addison, dryly.
"You think so, but I doubt your sticking it for long. However, there
it is. Ardenmore is a gloomy house, hundreds of years old, standing
in a dense forest, with a queer old tower on the coast, once a
smuggling base, and, if rumour is right, repeating itself
historically now. There is also a secret connected with that tower
which Dominic discovered but never lived to tell. The place is
twenty miles from the nearest station, no telephone, no anything.
Hermione goes there directly with her companion and any
heavily-bribed servants who are willing to go. Of course, she knows
her own business best, but--well--I wonder!"
"It makes one wonder a bit," agreed his friend.
"Does she still believe that Dominic Arden died--out there?"
"That I am unable to tell you, for she never speaks of it now, though
in other respects she treats me as a true friend. What she really
thinks about that, is locked away in her heart, known only to
herself--and God."
"But she has bought back Ardenmore. Why?"
Frank Daneham shook his head and shrugged eloquently.
"And supposing," persisted the other, "that young Arden _did_ turn
up, what would happen?"
"My dear fellow," the artist gave a short laugh, "if seen and caught
he would be hanged for murder. Why, as I told you, that fellow
Bessington doubts my story, and what's more, doesn't believe that
Arden was really killed. He is probably, and for all I know to the
contrary, always on the watch for his return. That's the very devil
of the whole thing, don't you see, for remember he's in love with
Arden's wife."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Addison. "What a situation!"