"All we that are called women, know as well
As men, it were a far more noble thing
To grace where we are graced, and give respect
There, where we are respected: yet we practise
A wilder course, and never bend our eyes
On men with pleasure, till they find the way
To give us a neglect; then we, too late,
Perceive the loss of what we might have had,
And dote to death."
Mr. Faunce's profession, more especially since he left Scotland
Yard, had lain for the most part among the upper classes. He had
been employed in delicate investigations that had brought him in
touch with some of the mightiest in the land, and he knew his peerage
almost as well as if his own name had been recorded in that golden
book. His aristocratic clients found him as kindly and sympathetic
as he was shrewd and trustworthy. He never made the galled jade
wince by a tactless allusion. He always took an indulgent view of
the darkest case when he discussed it with the delinquent's family.
He could turn a father's wrath to pity by his shrewd excuses for a
son's misconduct, making forgery appear only a youthful ebullition,
proceeding rather from want of thought than want of honesty. But he was
always on the side of the angels, and always urged generous dealing
when a woman was in question. If wrongs had to be righted, a breach
of promise case quashed, Faunce was always the victim's advocate. His
tactfulness soothed the offended parent's pride, the betrayed husband's
self-respect. People liked him and trusted him; and the family skeleton
was brought out of the cupboard, and submitted freely to his inspection.
He knew a good deal of the lives of men about town; and among the
baser specimens of this trivial race he knew Richard Rannock, late of
the Lanarkshire Regiment. When he left Grosvenor Square, with Lady
Perivale's case neatly engraved upon the tablet of his brain, needing
no shorthand note to assist his memory, he was prepared to find that
the slander from which the lady suffered had been brought about by some
deliberate perfidy on the part of her rejected suitor. He knew of cruel
things, and dastardly things, that Rannock had done in the course of
his chequered career, mostly in the relation of hawk to pigeon; he knew
the man's financial affairs to have been desperate for the last ten
years; and that although he had contrived to live among young men of
means and position, with the reputation of being an open-hearted, wild
kind of fellow, he had lived like the buzzard and the kite, and the
cruel eye had been ever on the watch, and the hungry beak ever ready to
pounce upon the unsuspecting quarry.
Faunce's first business was to find the woman. When he had marked her
down, he would turn his attention to the man. He was in Algiers as soon
as train and boat could take him there, and being as much at his ease
in Africa as at Charing Cross, sauntered slowly under the meridian
sun along the dazzling street from the steamer to the hotel, chose
his room amidst the echoing emptiness of the corridors, where the hum
of the mosquito was the only sound, made his expeditious toilet, and,
with clean-shaved chin, spotless shirt, and well-brushed alpaca coat,
lounged into the French manager's bureau.
The manager knew Mr. Faunce, who had spent a week at the hotel
during the previous autumn, in the interests of a wronged husband,
whose high-born wife had danced away from the marital mansion with a
favourite partner, as gaily as if an elopement were only a new figure
in the cotillon. Faunce had run the poor little lady to earth in this
very hotel, hidden in an armoire, among perfumed silk petticoats and
lace flounces. He had found her, and had taken her straight home to
her husband, tearful and ashamed, but only guilty of such a girlish
escapade as husbands can forgive.
She had parted with her lover at Marseilles. He was to cross in a
different steamer, to throw pursuers off the scent. And his steamer had
been delayed, and she was alone at the hotel in Algiers, frightened out
of her wits, when Faunce retrieved her.
The manager was delighted to see the English detective, offered his
cigar-case, proposed drinks. Faunce never refused a cigar, and rarely
accepted a drink.
"Merci, mon ami, I had breakfast on the steamer half an hour ago," and
then Faunce unfolded his business.
He affected no secrecy with M. Louis, the manager, who was _bon zig_,
and the essence of discretion.
Such and such a man--here followed a graphic description of Colonel
Rannock--had been at the hotel in the last tourist season--date
unknown. It might have been before Christmas, or it might have been
any time before April. He had come from Sardinia or Corsica, or he
was going to one of those islands. He had a lady with him, young and
handsome, and he was supposed to be travelling under an alias, and not
under his own name--Rannock.
The manager looked puzzled. The most minute description will hardly
conjure up the distinct image of one particular man. There are
generally a dozen men in any prosperous hotel who would fit Faunce's
description of Colonel Rannock--tall, dark, an aquiline nose, a heavy
moustache, eyes rather too near together, forehead prominent over the
eyes, receding sharply above the perceptive ridge, hands and feet
small, air thoroughbred.
"Que diable," said the manager, "we had a very good season. Les
messieurs de cette espèce fourmillaient dans l'hôtel. I could count one
such on every finger."
"Could you count ten such women as that?" asked Faunce, taking Lady
Perivale's photograph from his letter-case and laying it on the
manager's desk.
"Sapristi!" said M. Louis, looking at Lady Perivale's photograph. "Yes,
I remember her. Elle était une drôlesse."
If Faunce's mind had harboured any lingering doubt of Lady Perivale's
innocence, that phrase would have dispelled it. In no circumstances
could the woman he had seen in Grosvenor Square have so conducted
herself as to merit such a description.
"Look at it a little closer," said Faunce, "and tell me pour sûr that
you know the lady."
"No, I don't know her. Your photograph is uncommonly like her, but
not the very woman--unless it was taken some years ago. This lady is
younger than the woman who was here last February, by at least half a
dozen years."
"The photograph was taken recently, as you can see by the dress," said
Faunce; "and now tell me about the woman who was here."
"You are looking for her?"
"Yes!"
"Forgery, or"--and the manager's eyes opened wider, and his nostrils
quivered with excitement--"murder?"
"Neither. I want the lady in the witness-box, not in the dock. Her
evidence is required in the interests of a client of mine, and I am
prepared to pay handsomely for any information that will help me to
find her."
"Monsieur Faunce has always the good sense. Well, what do you want to
know about her?"
"Everything that you or any of your personnel can tell me."
"She was here for a little over a fortnight, with her husband--now
that I think of him, just the man you describe--tall, dark, hook-nose,
prominent brow, eyes near together, heavy moustache, drank a good deal,
chiefly Cognac, the lady preferred champagne; spent every night at
the club, seldom came home till the hotel was shut; the night porter
would tell you his hours; quarrelled with the lady, tried to beat her,
and got the worst of it; came to the déjeuner with a black eye and a
scratched cheek. My faith, but they were a pretty couple! They would
have made a pretty scandal if they had stayed much longer."
"Was he able to pay his bill?"
"Oh yes; he would always be able. There were two young Americans--what
is it you others call your richards? Les oiseaux d'ouf. They went to
the club with him every night, they played piquet in his salon of an
afternoon, they brought flowers and gloves and chocolates for the
lady. The poor children! How they were played! And there was a diamond
merchant from the Transvaal. He, too, admired Madame, and he, too,
played piquet in the salon."
"And Madame; was she very civil to these gentlemen?"
"Civil? She treated them like the dirt under her feet. She laughed at
them to their noses. Elle faisait ses farces sur tout le monde. Ah! but
she had a droll of tongue. Quel esprit, quelle blague, quel chic! But
it was a festival to listen to her."
"Had she the air of a woman who had been a lady, and who had
dégringolé?"
"Pas le moins du monde. She was franchement canaille. Elle n'avait pas
dégringolé. She had rather risen in the world. Some little grisette,
perhaps; some little rat of the Opera--but jolie à croquer--tall,
proud, with an air of queen!"
"You often had a chat with her, I dare say, Monsieur Louis, as she went
in and out of the hotel?"
"Mais, oui. She would come into the bureau, to ask questions, to order
a carriage, and would stop to put on her gloves--she had no femme de
chambre--and though her clothes were handsome, she was a slovenly
dresser, and wore the same gown every day, which is not the mark of a
lady."
"In these casual conversations did you find out who she is, where she
lives, in London or elsewhere?"
"From her conversation I would say she lives nowhere--a nomad, drifting
about the world, drinking her bottle of champagne with her dinner,
crunching pralines all the afternoon, smoking nine or ten cigarettes
after every meal, and costing pas mal d'argent to the person who has
to pay for her caprices. She talked of London, she talked of Rome, of
Vienna--she knows every theatre and restaurant in Paris, but not half a
dozen sentences of French."
"A free lance," said Faunce. "Now for the name of this lady and
gentleman."
The name had escaped Monsieur Louis. He had to find the page in his
ledger.
"Mr. and Mrs. Randall, numbers 11 and 12, first floor, from February
7th to February 25th."
Randall! The name that Miss Rodney's Duchess had told her, and which
Lady Perivale had told Faunce.
"And the lady's Christian name? Can you remember that? You must have
heard her pseudo-husband call her by it."
Louis tapped his forehead smartly, as if he were knocking at the door
of memory.
"Tiens, tiens, tiens! I heard it often--it was some term of endearment.
Tiens! It was Pig!"
"Pig!--Pigs are for good luck. I wonder what kind of luck this one will
bring Colonel----Randall. And what did she call him? Another term of
endearment?"
"She called him sometimes Dick, but the most often Ranny. When they
were good friends, bien entendu. There were days when she would not
address him the word. Elle savait comment se faire valoir!"
"They generally do know that, when they spring from the gutter," said
Faunce.
He had learnt a good deal. Such a woman--with such beauty, dash,
devilry--ought to be traceable in London, Paris, or New York, anywhere.
He told himself that it might take him a long time to find her--or time
that would be long for him, an adept in rapid action--but he felt very
sure that he could find her, and that when he found her he could mould
her to his will.
There was only one thing, Faunce thought, that would make her
difficult--a genuine attachment to Rannock. If she really loved him, as
such women can love, it might be hard work to induce her to betray him,
even though no fatal consequences to him hung upon her secrecy. He knew
the dogged fidelity which worthless women sometimes give to worthless
men.
The hotel was almost empty, so after a prolonged siesta Mr. Faunce
dined with the manager in the restaurant, which they had to themselves,
while half a dozen tourists made a disconsolate little group in the
desolation of the spacious dining-room.
Faunce did not pursue the subject of the Randalls and their behaviour
during the social meal, for he knew that the manager's mind having been
set going in that direction he would talk about them of his own accord,
a surmise which proved correct, for M. Louis talked of nothing else;
but there were no vital facts elicited over the bottle of Pommery which
Mr. Faunce ordered.
"The lady was something of a slattern, you say?" said Faunce. "In that
case she would be likely to leave things--odd gloves, old letters,
trinkets--behind her. Now, in my work things are often of the last
importance. Trifles light as air, mon ami, are sign-posts and guiding
stars for the detective. You may remember Müller's hat--his murdered
victim's, with the crown cut down--thriftiness that cost the German
youth dear. I could recall innumerable instances. Now, did not this
lady leave some trifling trail, some litter of gloves, fans, letters,
which your gallantry would treasure as a souvenir?"
"If you come to that, her room was a pig-sty."
"To correspond with her pet name."
"But the hotel was full, and I set the chambermaids at work ten minutes
after the Randalls drove to the boat. We had people coming into the
rooms that afternoon."
"And you had neither leisure nor curiosity to seek for relics of the
lovely creature?"
Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"Is my room on the same floor?"
"Mais oui."
"And I have the same chambermaid?"
"Yes. She is the oldest servant we have, and she stays in the hotel all
the summer; while most of our staff are in Switzerland."
This was enough for Faunce. He retired to his room early, after smoking
a couple of cigarettes under the palm trees in front of the hotel, in
the sultry hush of the summer night. The scene around him was all very
modern, all very French--a café-concert on the right, a café-concert on
the left--and it needed an occasional Arab stalking by in a long white
mantle to remind him that he was in Africa. He meant to start on his
return journey to London by the next boat. He was not going to Corsica
or Sardinia in search of new facts. He trusted to his professional
acumen to run the lady to ground in London or Paris.
He shut the window against insect life, lighted his candles, and seated
himself at the table, with his writing-case open before him, and then
rang the dual summons which brings the hotel chambermaid.
"Be so good as to get me some ink," he said.
The chambermaid, who was elderly and sour-visaged, told him that ink
was the waiter's business, not hers. He should have rung once, not
twice, for ink.
"Never mind the ink, Marie," he said, in French. "I want something more
valuable even than ink. I want information, and I think you can give it
to me. Do you remember Monsieur and Madame Randall, who had rooms on
this floor before Easter?"
Yes, she remembered them; but what then?
"When Madame Randall left she was in a hurry, was she not?"
"She was always in a hurry when she had to go anywhere--unless she was
sulky and would not budge. She would sit like a stone figure if she had
one of her tempers," the chambermaid answered, with many contemptuous
shrugs.
"She left hurriedly, and she left her room in a litter--left all sorts
of things behind her?" suggested Faunce, with an insinuating smile.
The chambermaid's sharp black eyes flashed angrily, and the chambermaid
tossed her head in scorn. And then she held out a skinny forefinger
almost under Faunce's nose.
"She has not left so much as that," she said, striking the finger on
the first joint with the corresponding finger of the other hand. "Not
so much as that!" and from her vehemence Faunce suspected that she
had reaped a harvest of small wares, soiled gloves and lace-bordered
handkerchiefs, silk stockings with ravelled heels.
"What a pity," he said in his quietest voice, "for I should have been
glad to have given you a couple of napoleons for any old letters or
other documents that you might have found among the rubbish when you
swept the rooms."
"For letters, they were all in the fireplace, torn to shreds," said the
chambermaid; "but there was something--something that I picked up, and
kept, in case the lady should come back, when I could return it to her."
"There is always something," said Faunce. "Well, Marie, what is it?"
"A photograph."
"Of the lady?"
"No, Monsieur, of a young man--pas grand' chose. But if Monsieur values
the portrait at forty francs it is at his disposition, and I will
hazard the anger of Madame should she return and ask me for it."
"Pas de danger! She will not return. She belongs to the wandering
tribes, the people who never come back. Since the portrait is not of
the lady herself, and may be worth nothing to me, we will say twenty
francs, ma belle."
The chambermaid was inclined to haggle, but when Faunce shrugged his
shoulders, laid a twenty-franc piece upon the table, and declined
further argument, she pocketed the coin, and went to fetch the
photograph.
It was the least possible thing in the way of portraits, of the kind
called "midget," a full-length portrait of a young man, faded and
dirty, in a little morocco case that had once been red, but was soiled
to blackness.
"By Jove!" muttered Faunce, "I ought to know that face."
He told himself that he ought to know it, for it was a familiar face, a
face that spoke to him out of the long ago; but he could not place it
in the record of his professional experiences. He took the photo out
of the case, and looked at the back, where he found what he expected.
There is always something written upon that kind of photograph by that
kind of woman.
"_San Remo,_
"_Poor old Tony._ _November 22th, '88._"
The 22th, the uneducated penmanship sprawling over the little card,
alike indicated the style of the writer.
"Poor old Tony!" mused Faunce, slowly puffing his last cigarette,
with the midget stuck up in front of him, between the two candles.
"Who is Tony? A swell, by the cut of his clothes, and that--well, the
good-bred ones have an air of their own, an air that one can no more
deny than one can describe it. Poor old Tony! At San Remo--condemned
by the doctors. There's death in every line of the face and figure. A
consumptive, most likely. The last sentence has been passed on you,
poor beggar! Poor old Tony! And that woman was with you at San Remo,
the companion of a doomed man, dying by inches. And she must have been
in the flower of her beauty then, a splendid creature. Was she very
fond of you, I wonder, honestly, sincerely attached to you? I think she
was, for her hand trembled when she wrote those words! Poor old Tony!
And there is a smudge across the date, that might indicate a tear.
Well, if I fail in running her to earth in London, I could trace some
part of her past life at San Remo, and get at her that way. But who was
Tony? I'm positive I know the face. Perhaps the reflex action of the
brain will help me," concluded Faunce.
The reflex action did nothing for Mr. Faunce, in the profound slumber
which followed upon the fatigue of a long journey. No suggestion as
to the original of the photograph had occurred to him when he put it
in his letter-case next morning. It was hours afterwards, when he was
lying in his berth in the steamer, "rocked in the cradle of the deep,"
wakeful, but with his brain in an idle, unoccupied state, that Tony's
identity flashed upon him.
"Sir Hubert Withernsea," he said to himself, sitting up in his berth,
and clapping his hand upon his forehead. "That's the man! I remember
him about town ten years ago--a Yorkshire baronet with large estates
in the West Riding--a weak-kneed youth with a passion for the Fancy,
always heard of at prize-fights, and entertaining fighting men, putting
up money for private glove-fights; a poor creature, born to be the prey
of swindlers and loose women."
Faunce looked back to that period of ten years ago, which seemed
strangely remote, more by reason of the changes in ideas and fashions,
whim and folly, than by the lapse of time. He searched his mind for the
name of any one woman in particular with whom Sir Hubert Withernsea had
been associated, but here memory failed him. He had never had business
relations with the young man, and though his ears were always open to
the gossip of the town, he kept no record of trivial things outside the
affairs of his clients. One young fool more or less travelling along
the primrose path made no impression upon him. But with the knowledge
of this former episode in the pseudo-Mrs. Randall's career, it ought
to be easy for him to find out all about her in London, that focus
of the world's intelligence, where he almost invariably searched for
information before drawing any foreign capital.