AT THE CAFÉ DE PARIS
IT was in the early days of January--damp and foggy in England.
Walter Fetherston sat idling on the _terrasse_ of the Café de Paris in
Monte Carlo sipping a "mazagran," basking in the afternoon sunshine, and
listening to the music of the Rumanian Orchestra.
Around him everywhere was the gay cosmopolitan world of the tables--that
giddy little after-the-war financier and profiteer world which amuses
itself on the Côte d'Azur, and in which he was such a well-known figure.
So many successive seasons had he passed there before 1914 that across at
the rooms the attendants and croupiers knew him as an habitué, and he was
always granted the _carte blanche_--the white card of the professional
gambler. With nearly half the people he met he had a nodding
acquaintance, for friendships are easily formed over the _tapis
vert_--and as easily dropped.
Preferring the fresher air of Nice, he made his headquarters at the
Hôtel Royal on the world-famed promenade, and came over to "Monte" daily
by the _rapide_.
Much had occurred since that autumn morning when he had stood with
Herbert Trendall in the big room at New Scotland Yard, much that had
puzzled him, much that had held him in fear lest the ghastly truth
concerning Sir Hugh should be revealed.
His own activity had been, perhaps, unparalleled. The strain of such
constant travel and continual excitement would have broken most men; but
he possessed an iron constitution, and though he spent weeks on end in
trains and steamboats, it never affected him in the least. He could
snatch sleep at any time, and he could write anywhere.
Whether or not Enid had guessed the reason of his urgent appeal to her
not to pass through France, she had nevertheless managed to excuse
herself; but a week after Mrs. Caldwell's departure she had travelled
alone by the Harwich-Antwerp route, evidently much to the annoyance of
the alert doctor of Pimlico.
Walter had impressed upon her the desirability of not entering
France--without, however, giving any plain reason. He left her to guess.
Through secret sources in Paris he had learnt how poor Paul Le Pontois
was still awaiting trial. In order not to excite public opinion, the
matter was being kept secret by the French authorities, and it had been
decided that the inquiry should be held with closed doors.
A week after his arrest the French police received additional evidence
against him in the form of a cryptic telegram addressed to the Château,
an infamous and easily deciphered message which, no doubt, had been sent
with the distinct purpose of strengthening the amazing charge against
him. He protested entire ignorance of the sender and of the meaning of
the message, but his accusers would not accept any disclaimer. So
cleverly, indeed, had the message been worded that at the Sûreté it was
believed to refer to the price he had received for certain bundles of
spurious notes.
Without a doubt the scandalous telegram had been sent at Weirmarsh's
instigation by one of his friends in order to influence the authorities
in Paris.
So far as the doctor was concerned he was ever active in receiving
reports from his cosmopolitan friends abroad. But since his quarrel with
Sir Hugh he had ceased to visit Hill Street, and had, apparently,
dropped the old general's acquaintance.
Sir Hugh was congratulating himself at the easy solution of the
difficulty, but Walter, seated at that little marble-topped table in the
winter sunshine, knowing Weirmarsh's character, remained in daily
apprehension.
The exciting life he led in assisting to watch those whom Scotland Yard
suspected was as nothing compared with the constant fear of the unmasking
of Sir Hugh Elcombe. Doctor Weirmarsh was an enemy, and a formidable one.
The mystery concerning the death of Bellairs had increased rather than
diminished. Each step he had taken in the inquiry only plunged him deeper
and deeper into an inscrutable problem. He had devoted weeks to
endeavouring to solve the mystery, but it remained, alas! inscrutable.
Enid and Mrs. Caldwell had altered their plans, and had gone to Sicily
instead of to Egypt, first visiting Palermo and Syracuse, and were at the
moment staying at the popular "San Domenico" at Taormina, amid that gem
of Mediterranean scenery. Sir Hugh and his wife, much upset by Blanche's
sudden arrival in London, had not gone abroad that winter, but had
remained at Hill Street to comfort Paul's wife and child.
As for Walter, he had of late been wandering far afield, in Petrograd,
Geneva, Rome, Florence, Málaga, and for the past week had been at Monte
Carlo. He was not there wholly for pleasure, for, if the truth be told,
there were seated at the farther end of the _terrasse_ a smartly dressed
man and a woman in whom he had for the past month been taking a very keen
interest.
This pair, of Swiss nationality, he had watched in half a dozen
Continental cities, gradually establishing his suspicions as to their
real occupation.
They had come to Monte Carlo for neither health nor pleasure, but in
order to meet a grey-haired man in spectacles, whom they received twice
in private at the Métropole, where they were staying.
The Englishman had first seen them sitting together one evening at one of
the marble-topped tables at the Café Royal in Regent Street, while he had
been idly playing a game of dominoes at the next table with an American
friend. The face of the man was to him somehow familiar. He felt that he
had seen it somewhere, but whether in a photograph in his big album down
at Idsworth or in the flesh he could not decide.
Yet from that moment he had hardly lost sight of them. With that
astuteness which was Fetherston's chief characteristic, he had watched
vigilantly and patiently, establishing the fact that the pair were in
England for some sinister purpose. His powers were little short of
marvellous. He really seemed, as Trendall once put it, to scent the
presence of criminals as pigs scent truffles.
They suddenly left the Midland Hotel at St. Pancras, where they were
staying, and crossed the Channel. But the same boat carried Walter
Fetherston, who took infinite care not to obtrude himself upon their
attention.
Monte Carlo, being in the principality of Monaco, and being peopled by
the most cosmopolitan crowd in the whole world, is in winter the
recognised meeting-place of _chevaliers d'industrie_ and those who
finance and control great crimes.
In the big atrium of those stifling rooms many an assassin has met his
hirer, and in many of those fine hotels have bribes been handed over to
those who will do "dirty work." It is the European exchange of
criminality, for both sexes know it to be a safe place where they may
"accidentally" meet the person controlling them.
It is safe to say that in every code used by the criminal plotters of
every country in Europe there is a cryptic word which signifies a meeting
at Monte Carlo. For that reason was Walter Fetherston much given to
idling on the sunny _terrasse_ of the café at a point where he could see
every person who ascended or descended that flight of red-carpeted stairs
which gives entrance to the rooms.
The pair whom he was engaged in watching had been playing at roulette
with five-franc pieces, and the woman was now counting her gains and
laughing gaily with her husband as she slowly sipped her tea flavoured
with orange-flower water. They were in ignorance of the presence of that
lynx-eyed man in grey flannels and straw hat who smoked his cigarette
leisurely and appeared to be so intensely bored.
No second glance at Fetherston was needed to ascertain that he was a most
thorough-going cosmopolitan. He usually wore his pale-grey felt hat at a
slight angle, and had the air of the easy-going adventurer, debonair and
unscrupulous. But in his case his appearance was not a true index to his
character, for in reality he was a steady, hard-headed, intelligent man,
the very soul of honour, and, above all, a man of intense patriotism--an
Englishman to the backbone. Still, he cultivated his easy-going
cosmopolitanism to pose as a careless adventurer.
Presently the pair rose, and, crossing the palm-lined place, entered the
casino; while Walter, finishing his "mazagran," lit a fresh cigarette,
and took a turn along the front of the casino in order to watch the
pigeon-shooting.
The winter sun was sinking into the tideless sea in all its
gold-and-orange glory as he stood leaning over the stone balustrade
watching the splendid marksmanship of one of the crack shots of Europe.
He waited until the contest had ended, then he descended and took the
_rapide_ back to Nice for dinner.
At nine o'clock he returned to Monte Carlo, and again ascended the
station lift, as was his habit, for a stroll through the rooms and a chat
and drink with one or other of his many friends. He looked everywhere for
the Swiss pair in whom he was so interested, but in vain. Probably they
had gone over to Nice to spend the evening, he thought. But as the night
wore on and they did not return by the midnight train--the arrival of
which he watched--he strolled back to the Métropole and inquired for them
at the bureau of the hotel.
"M'sieur and Madame Granier left by the Mediterranean express for Paris
at seven-fifteen this evening," replied the clerk, who knew Walter very
well.
"What address did they leave?" he inquired, annoyed at the neat manner in
which they had escaped his vigilance.
"They left no address, m'sieur. They received a telegram just after six
o'clock recalling them to Paris immediately. Fortunately, there was one
two-berth compartment vacant on the train."
Walter turned away full of chagrin. He had been foolish to lose sight of
them. His only course was to return to Nice, pack his traps, and follow
to Paris in the ordinary _rapide_ at eight o'clock next morning. And this
was the course he pursued.
But Paris is a big place, and though he searched for two whole weeks,
going hither and thither to all places where the foreign visitors mostly
congregate, he saw nothing of the interesting pair. Therefore, full of
disappointment, he crossed one afternoon to Folkestone, and that night
again found himself in his dingy chambers in Holles Street.
Next day he called upon Sir Hugh, and found him in much better spirits.
Lady Elcombe told him that Enid had written expressing herself delighted
with her season in Sicily, and saying that both she and Mrs. Caldwell
were very pleased that they had adopted his suggestion of going there
instead of to overcrowded Cairo.
As he sat with Sir Hugh and his wife in that pretty drawing-room he knew
so well the old general suddenly said: "I suppose, Fetherston, you are
still taking as keen an interest in the latest mysteries of crime--eh?"
"Yes, Sir Hugh. As you know, I've written a good deal upon the subject."
"I've read a good many of your books and articles, of course," exclaimed
the old officer. "Upon many points I entirely agree with you," he said.
"There is a curious case in the papers to-day. Have you seen it? A young
girl found mysteriously shot dead near Hitchin."
"No, I haven't," was Walter's reply. He was not at all interested. He was
thinking of something of far greater interest.