CONCLUSION.
The two-column article which appeared in only one London morning
newspaper created a profound sensation. Quoted in part in the evening
newspapers throughout the country, it became the principal topic of
conversation in the clubs and in the streets, but in particular in
social circles over the whole of the United Kingdom.
That the most important secret information agency in London, an
organization which had come to be looked upon as the most enterprising
and trustworthy there had ever been in the Metropolis, and which half
the peerage, to say nothing of the ordinary aristocracy, had at one
time and another consulted in confidence, should suddenly be discovered
to be nothing more than the headquarters of a nest of rogues and
blackmailers, dealt Society a terrible blow.
The blow was all the harder because clients of the so-called
Metropolitan Secret Agency knew they had poured into the ears of the
benevolent-looking old man who called himself Alix Stothert, secrets
about themselves, their relatives, and their friends, which they would
not for untold gold have related had they dreamed such secrets might
ever be revealed. And now, to their horror, it seemed that at least
a dozen well-known Society people, or rather people well-known in
Society and believed to be the “soul of honor,” were, and had been all
the time, active members of the “Agency Gang,” as it was now termed,
prominent among them being Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson, Aloysius Stapleton,
handsome young Archie La Planta, and the rich retired tradesman and his
wife, Julius and Marietta Stringborg, to name only a few.
No wonder the Metropolitan Secret Agency had always known so much about
the intimate affairs of everybody in London who “mattered,” and about
the secret concerns of rich county folk throughout the country! The
knowledge possessed by the notorious Bertha Trost of Clifford Street,
who during the war had been quietly pushed out of the country as an
“undesirable alien” had been insignificant by comparison, people said.
And the Agency’s “methods of procedure” had been extremely simple. One
of their plans had consisted in worming out of useful clients as much
private information as possible of a compromising nature, not only
about themselves, but about their acquaintances and friends, piecing it
all together, and then, at a later date, instructing some accomplice to
approach or write anonymously to the prospective victims, threatening
them with public exposure if they refused to pay heavily for secrecy.
And so cleverly was this always done that the Agency invariably
safeguarded itself against risk of discovery.
Another method of procedure, equally effective, consisted in selling
secretly, at an enormous profit, the strange Chinese drug smuggled into
the country by Alphonse Michaud, and accomplices would then threaten
with exposure persons having it in their possession.
In addition to this, Michaud and other members of the Agency Gang
would administer the drug in a particular way themselves, so that
it deadened their victims’ memory from a time prior to the period
of unconsciousness which it produced. It was, the newspaper article
declared, a most extraordinary compound, and, being colorless and
devoid of all smell, could be administered without arousing the least
suspicion of its presence. For which reasons, no doubt, some members of
the gang had gone so for as to dope other members with it, when they
saw that by doing so they could themselves benefit.
That had happened, it seemed, on the occasion when Archie La Planta
had been called out of the box at the Alhambra whilst attending a
performance of the Russian Ballet. On that night he had met a friend in
the foyer, a member of the gang, who had suggested his joining him in
a drink in his rooms, which were close by, in Charing Cross Road. La
Planta, of course, all unsuspecting, had walked across to his friend’s
rooms, yet when he had recovered consciousness in his own chambers in
Albany, all recollection of his having gone to those rooms in Charing
Cross Road and afterwards being conducted back to his own chambers by
his “friend,” had completely faded from his memory.
And the reason he had been doped that night and in that way--this the
man who had doped him confessed afterwards under cross-examination--had
been to keep him away from Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson’s supper party, a few
hours later at her own house, where the same ruse had been employed by
the same man, with a woman accomplice, who unseen had then taken from
her the key of her safe, which they had then rifled, taking not only
the valuables it contained, but inadvertently a packet of letters which
proved to be the letters Cora Hartsilver had written to Sir Stephen
Lethbridge, and those he had written to her. These documents Jessica
had obtained some time before, by bribery, from servants dismissed by
Cora and by Sir Stephen for inefficiency, and she had been holding them
with a view to using them some day as levers to extort money from Cora;
but the woman who had stolen them from the safe had taken that step
herself and sent Cora the anonymous letter which had reached her when
in Jersey.
And all through it was the same. To right and left clients of the house
with the bronze face and intimate friends of Jessica, of Stapleton, of
La Planta’s, of Mrs. Stringborg and her husband, and of other members
of the Agency Gang, had been secretly pilloried and made to pay, while
from time to time members of the gang had themselves been victimized
by one or other of their own traitorous accomplices, generally through
the medium of the Chinese drug. Levi Schomberg, though not a member,
had by accident been made aware of the existence of the gang, its
ramifications and its methods, a client to whom he had once advanced a
considerable sum having promised to reveal what he called “the whole
organization of an extraordinary secret society of criminals operating
in this country and on the Continent” if Levi would cancel a portion
of the debt. This the moneylender had, after some demur, agreed to do,
with the result that afterwards he had been himself able to extort
money from Jessica and Stapleton, and other members, under threats of
exposure, in precisely the same way that they levied blackmail on their
victims.
“And La Planta,” Hopford said, as he and others were talking the case
over in the reporters’ room some time after his article had appeared.
“La Planta admits that he drugged Levi Schomberg in the box at the
Albert Hall on the night of the ball, though he swears it was not his
intention to poison him. Either he mistook the dose he administered
in the whisky and soda, he says, or else Levi must have had a weak
heart--Doctor Johnson will probably have something to say about that.
La Planta declares, too, that he gave the drug on the advice of
Stapleton, who handed him the actual dose, saying it was the right
amount. Whether it was or not, I suppose we shall never know, though
Stapleton has yet to be cross-examined. And another thing we shall
probably never know is why Levi Schomberg disliked Mrs. Hartsilver so
intensely. He never missed an opportunity of maligning her when her
back was turned. Can he at one time or another have tried to extort
money from her, and failed? Or have tried to make love to her, and been
turned down? Or can he have had some reason for fearing her?”
“Talking of that, Hopford,” his colleague said, after a pause, “do
you remember the night you stood up so stoutly for Mrs. Hartsilver,
the night I told you that you must be biased in her favor because you
knew her socially? What, after all, was the truth about those rumors
concerning her and concerning Captain Preston? Did you ever find out? I
tried to, but I heard nothing more.”
“Why,” Hopford answered, “that was more of the Agency Gang’s dirty
work. They invented a scandalous story, which they put up to Preston
when he was in his house-boat during Henley week. The story would
take too long to tell--George Blenkiron got it at first hand from the
Commissioner of Police, and retailed it to me practically word for
word. The upshot was that Preston would have either to abet--assisted
by Miss Hagerston, whom, I see, he is to marry next week--an attempt to
blackmail Mrs. Hartsilver, or himself be ruined financially, which of
course would have ended his army career. Members of the gang, Blenkiron
tells me the Commissioner of Police assures him, were the originators
of those unwholesome rumors which, you remember, were common talk in
clubland.”
“But how could they ruin Preston? What had he ever done to give the
gang an opening?”
“Nothing dishonorable, of course; I don’t believe he could be
dishonorable if he tried. But it seems that years ago he backed two
bills for a brother officer whom he looked upon as a friend. The
fellow turned out to be a scoundrel; was cashiered, later became one
of the gang’s ‘creatures,’ and actually faked the bills into bills for
much larger amounts. And those faked bills were, if Preston refused
to help in the plot against Mrs. Hartsilver--it had to do with some
compromising letters she had written--to be presented for payment this
month. Poor chap! No wonder he has been looking so dreadfully ill of
late. It would be interesting to know how many suicides the Agency Gang
has been responsible for directly and indirectly. Since that night at
Henley Preston has always carried a loaded pistol in his pocket, and he
vowed he would shoot that former brother officer of his dead if ever
he met him again. And he would have done it, too, and have chanced the
consequences.
“As for that robbery of Marietta Stringborg’s necklace at the ball at
the Albert Hall, the whole thing was a bluff. The pearls were not real,
and it was Stringborg himself who took them from his wife at supper
and slipped them into Miss Hagerston’s bag. Jessica Mervyn-Robertson
had become furious at Yootha Hagerston’s determination to find out
all about her, furious, too, with Mrs. Hartsilver, and the others who
were making the same attempt--she had heard about these attempts from
Stothert, because Preston, Mrs. Hartsilver and Miss Hagerston had
several times consulted the Metropolitan Secret Agency--and she had
made up her mind to ruin them financially and socially, and indeed
that, her first attempt to disgrace Miss Hagerston, might well have
been accomplished.
“Really,” he continued, “there would seem to be no end to the
machinations to which the Agency-Gang have had recourse within the past
few years. We shall never know one-tenth of the crimes they committed
or tried to commit. Several of the gang’s members were actually staying
with Sir Stephen Lethbridge at his place in Cumberland, Abbey Hall,
as his guests, when he shot himself. By the way, I hear that Fobart
Robertson has at last been discovered, living in a garret in Lyons, and
that he is being brought over to give evidence against his wife and
Stapleton and others regarding the secret exportation of the Chinese
drug from Shanghai long ago. He ought to prove a useful witness.”
And so the clouds which had so darkened Yootha’s and Cora’s happiness,
the happiness also of Preston and of Johnson, had at last almost
rolled away. The four had arranged to be married towards the end of
the month, and already were busy buying _trousseaux_, acknowledging
letters of congratulation and the receipt of presents, and attending
to the many other matters which so engross prospective brides and
bridegrooms. George Blenkiron had promised to act as best man to his
life-long friend, Charles Preston, and the latter had decided to send
in his papers at an early date, for, though an excellent soldier, the
monotonous life of an officer in peace time would, he knew, bore him to
extinction.
Harry Hopford had asked Johnson to allow him to be his best man, “in
return,” as he put it, “for services rendered, and the way I helped
to bring about your engagement!” Johnson suspected, and Cora knew,
that Hopford himself had been greatly attracted by “the beautiful
widow,” as she was commonly called; and perhaps had the lad not had
sense enough to realize that for him to hope to marry Cora when almost
his sole source of income consisted of the salary he was paid by the
newspaper to which he was attached, and the payments he received from
miscellaneous other journals to which he contributed, was hopeless, he
might have felt tempted to press his own suit.
True, he had once gone so far as to think the matter over seriously,
carefully weighing the pros and cons, but the decision he had come to
was that Cora did not care for him sufficiently to be likely to accept
him even should he have the audacity to propose to her. The thought
that if he did propose to her and she accepted him he would, after
the marriage, be in a position to abandon his profession and live
thenceforward on her income, of course, never entered his mind.
“I pity any woman who marries a journalist or a literary man,” he
said mentally, as he considered possibilities one night over a
cigar. “We writing folk may have our good points, but I think our
chronic irritability more than outweighs them, to say nothing of our
inconstancy where women are concerned, our ‘sketchiness,’ and our lack
of mental balance. If I were a woman I would any day sooner marry a
lawyer or a stockbroker than a man who earns his livelihood by his
pen. Such people at any rate give their wives a sporting chance of
being able to live with them in peace, whereas we news seekers and
scribblers----”
He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled as he mixed himself a brandy and
soda. Yet even then he could not wholly dispel from his imagination
the picture of Cora Hartsilver. Suddenly his telephone rang, and he
unhooked the receiver.
A fire had broken out in Smithfield and was making rapid headway--a big
fire--steamers hastening to it from all directions--yes, half a column,
but a column if possible--yes, not later than midnight----
He picked up his notebook and thrust it into his pocket, switched off
the light and went downstairs. A taxi was passing as he reached the
street, and he hailed it.
“Yes,” he said, as he passed swiftly along Oxford Street, “a
journalist’s wife must have a dog’s life!”
Some days later the newspapers contained an interesting “story,”
regarding a theft of diamonds some years previously in Amsterdam
from a well-known diamond merchant whose place of business had then
been situated in the Kalverstraat. The arrest of Archie La Planta
in London in connection with the Agency Gang crimes had, it seemed,
attracted the attention of the Amsterdam police, and among the
people in England with whom they had communicated was a certain Major
Guysburg. Eventually, the story ran, Major Guysburg had been called
upon to identify two men still residing in Amsterdam, one of whom, it
then transpired, had shared lodgings with La Planta at the time of
the robbery, and had now turned King’s evidence, while the other had
once been Alphonse Michaud’s secretary. After a good deal of legal
quibbling, Michaud was proved actually to have stolen stones which he
had himself insured, and for which, after the robbery, he had been paid
his claim in full.
On the night before their wedding--for finally Cora and Johnson and
Yootha and Preston had decided to get married in London on the same
day--the two happy couples with their best men, Hopford and Blenkiron,
sat at supper in the grill of the Piccadilly. Not too near the band
played the inevitable “Dardanella”; around them supper parties
chattered and laughed loudly; waiters carrying dishes and wine hurried
hither and thither as though their lives depended upon rapidity of
action.
Presently the manager approached, a broad smile on his pleasant face.
He came up to Preston.
“At the request of Mr. Hopford,” he said, “I have just informed six
officers of the Devon Regiment, who are dining in a private room
upstairs, that you and these ladies and gentlemen are dining here; and
on Mr. Hopford’s instructions I have given them other information.”
His smile widened.
“And the officers present their compliments and wish to say they hope
you and your friends will join them in their room at your convenience.”
“What are their names?” Preston asked.
The manager told him.
“Good heavens!” Preston exclaimed. “It’s my dear old C.O., and five of
the very best--we were all in France together about the time of the
first attack on Thiepval. I haven’t seen them since.”
He turned and addressed the manager:
“Will you please say that we accept the kind invitation, and will be up
shortly? Harry, you rascal, how did you find out about these officers
dining here?”
“Quite by accident, when I was prowling in search of news this morning.
My first idea was to look up your old C.O. at once. Then I decided
it would be better, because less formal, if I sprang the news on him
to-night, while they were at dinner, that you were to be married
to-morrow, and that we were all here to-night. I knew they would be
glad to see you again.”
He looked at Yootha.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked, for she was suddenly looking sad.
“Nothing at all,” she replied with a forced smile, though her moist
eyes belied her words. “I was thinking of my brothers, both still in
Mespot, and apparently likely to remain there. I have not seen either
for over two years, and to-night I feel a longing to have them here.
Their presence would complete my happiness.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Hopford answered with twinkling eyes.
“News came through to the office this evening, just as I was leaving,
that your brothers’ regiment has been ordered home, so probably you
will find your brothers awaiting you on your return to London from
your honeymoon unless,” he smiled mischievously, “they go direct to
Cumberland to stay with your father and your stepmother!”
THE END.
Transcriber’s Note:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged. Obsolete and
alternative spellings were retained. Misspelled words were corrected.
Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were
added.