THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE
In a narrow, drowsy side street at Rotterdam, bisected by a somnolent
canal, stood flush with the red-brick sidewalk a small clean house.
Wire blinds affixed to the windows of its ground and first floors gave
it a curious blinking air as though its eyes were only half open. To
the neat green front door was affixed a large brass plate inscribed
with the single name: “Schulz.”
A large woman, in a pink print dress with a white cloth bound about her
head, was vigorously polishing the plate as, on the morning following
her departure from London, Mary Trevert, Dulkinghorn’s letter of
introduction in her pocket, arrived in front of the residence of Mr.
William Schulz. Euan MacTavish had, on the previous evening, seen her
to her hotel and had then—very reluctantly, as it seemed to
Mary—departed to continue his journey to The Hague, his taxi piled high
with white-and-green Foreign Office bags, heavily sealed with scarlet
wax.
Mary Trevert approached the woman, her letter of introduction, which
Dulkinghorn, being an unusual person, had fastened down, in her hand.
“Schulz?” she said interrogatively.
“_Nicht da_,” replied the woman without looking up from her rubbing.
“Has he gone out?” asked Mary in English.
“_Verstehe nicht_!” mumbled the woman.
But she put down her cleaning-rag and, breathing heavily, mustered the
girl with a leisurely stare.
Mary repeated the question in German whereupon the woman brightened up
considerably.
The _Herr_ was not at home. The _Herr_ had gone out. On business,
_jawohl_. To the bank, perhaps. But the _Herr_ would be back in time
for _Mittagessen_ at noon. There was beer soup followed by
_Rindfleisch_ ...
Mary hesitated an instant. She was wondering whether she should leave
her letter of introduction. She decided she would leave it. So she
wrote on her card: “Anxious to see you as soon as possible” and the
name of her hotel, and gave it, with the letter, to the woman.
“Please see that Herr Schulz gets that directly he comes in,” she said.
“It is important!”
“_Gut, gut_!” said the woman, wiping her hands on her apron. She took
the card and letter, and Mary, thanking her, set off to go back to her
hotel.
About twenty yards from Mr. Schulz’s house a narrow alley ran off. As
Mary turned to regain the little footbridge across the canal to return
to the noisy street which would take her back to the hotel, she caught
sight of a man disappearing down this alley.
She only had a glimpse of him, but it was sufficient to startle her
considerably. He was a small man wearing a tweed cap and a tweed
travelling ulster of a vivid brown. It was not these details, however,
which took her aback. It was the fact that in the glimpse she had had
of the man’s face she had seemed to recognize the features of Mr.
Albert Edward Jeekes.
“What an extraordinary thing!” Mary said to herself. “It _can’t_ be Mr.
Jeekes. But if it is not, it is some one strikingly like him!”
To get another view of the stranger she hurried to the corner of the
alley. It was a mere thread of a lane, not above six yards wide,
running between the houses a distance of some sixty yards to the next
street. But the alley was empty. The stranger had disappeared.
Mary went a little way down the lane. A wooden fence ran down it on
either side, with doors at intervals apparently giving on the back
yards of the houses in the street. There was no sign of Mr. Jeekes’s
double, so she retraced her steps and returned to her hotel without
further incident.
She had not been back more than half an hour when a waiter came in to
the lounge where she was sitting.
“Miss Trevert?” he said. “Zey ask for you at ze delephone!”
He took her to a cabin under the main staircase.
“This is Miss Trevert speaking!” said Mary.
“I am speaking for Mr. Schulz,” a man’s voice answered—rather a nasal
voice with a shade of foreign inflexion—“he has had your letter. He is
very sorry he has been detained in the country, but would be very glad
if you would lunch with him to-day at his country-house.”
“I shall be very pleased,” the girl replied. “Is it far?”
“Only just outside Rotterdam,” the voice responded. “Mr. Schulz will
send the car to the hotel to pick you up at 11.45. The driver will ask
for you. Is that all right?”
“Certainly,” said Mary. “Please thank Mr. Schulz and tell him I will
expect the car at a quarter to twelve!”
Punctually at the appointed hour an open touring-car drove up to the
hotel. Mary was waiting at the entrance. The driver was a young
Dutchman in a blue serge suit. He jumped out and came up to Mary.
“Mees Trevert?” he said.
Mary nodded, whereupon he helped her into the car, then got back into
the driving-seat and they drove away.
A run of about twenty minutes through trim suburbs brought them out on
a long straight road, paved with bricks and lined with poplars. The day
was fine with a little bright sunshine from time to time and a high
wind which kept the sails of the windmills dotting the landscape
turning briskly. They followed the road for a bit, then branched off
down a side turning which led to a black gate. It bore the name “Villa
Bergendal” in white letters. The gate opened into a short drive fringed
by thick laurel bushes which presently brought them in view of an ugly
square red-brick house.
The car drew up at a creeper-hung porch paved in red tiles. The
chauffeur helped Mary to alight and, pushing open a glass door, ushered
the girl into a square, comfortably furnished hall. Some handsome
Oriental rugs were spread about: trophies of native weapons hung on the
walls, and there were some fine specimens of old Dutch chests and blue
Delft ware.
The chauffeur led the way across the hall to a door at the far end. As
Mary followed him, something bright lying on one of the chests caught
her eye. It was a vivid brown travelling ulster and on it lay a brown
tweed cap.
Mary Trevert was no fool. She was, on the contrary, a remarkably
quick-witted young person. The sight of that rather “loud” overcoat
instantly recalled the stranger so strikingly resembling Mr. Jeekes who
had disappeared down the lane as she was coming away from Mr. Schulz’s
house. Mr. Jeekes _was_ in Rotterdam then, and had, of course, been
sent by her mother to look after her. What a fool she had been to allow
Euan MacTavish to persuade her to tell her mother of her plans!
Mary suddenly felt very angry. How dare Mr. Jeekes spy on her like
this! She was quite capable, she told herself, of handling her own
affairs, and she intended to tell the secretary so very plainly. And
if, as she was beginning to believe, Mr. Schulz were acting hand in
glove with Mr. Jeekes, she would let him know equally plainly that she
had no intention of troubling him, but would make her own
investigations independently. With a heightened colour she followed the
chauffeur and passed through the door he held open for her.
She found herself in a small, pleasant room with a bright note of
colour in the royal blue carpet and window-curtains. A log-fire burned
cheerfully in the fireplace before which a large red-leather
Chesterfield was drawn up. On the walls hung some good old Dutch
prints, and there were a couple of bookcases containing books which, by
their bindings at least, seemed old and valuable.
At the farther end of the room was another door across which a curtain
of royal blue was drawn. Mary had scarcely entered the room when this
door opened and a man appeared.
He was carefully dressed in a well-cut suit of some dark material and
wore a handsome pearl pin in his black tie. He was a dark, sallow type
of man, his skin yellowed as though from long residence in the tropics.
A small black moustache, carefully trained outwards from the lips,
disclosed, as he smiled a greeting at his visitor, a line of broken
yellow teeth. His hair, which was grizzled at the temples, was black
and oily and brushed right back off the forehead. With his coarse black
hair, his sallow skin, and his small beady eyes, rather like a snake’s,
there was something decidedly un-English about him. As Mary Trevert
looked at him, somewhat taken aback by his sudden appearance, she
became conscious of a vague feeling of mistrust welling up within her.
The man closed the door behind him and advanced into the room, his hand
extended. Mary took it. It was dank and cold to the touch.
“A thousand apologies, my dear Miss Trevert,” he said in a soft, silky
voice, a trifle nasal, with a touch of Continental inflexion, “for
asking you to come out here to see me. The fact is I had an important
business conference here this morning and I have a second one this
afternoon. It was materially impossible for me to come into Rotterdam
... But I am forgetting my manners. Let me introduce myself. I am Mr.
Schulz ...”
Mary Trevert looked at him thoughtfully. Was this the friend of Ernest
Dulkinghorn, the man of confidence to whom he had recommended her? A
feeling of great uneasiness came over her. She listened. The house was
absolutely still. From the utter silence enveloping it—for aught she
knew—she and her unsavoury-looking companion might be the only persons
in it. And then she realized that, on the faith of a telephone call,
she had blindly come out to a house, the very address of which was
utterly unknown to her.
She fought down a sudden sensation of panic that made her want to
scream, to bolt from the room into the fresh air, anywhere away from
those snake eyes, that soft voice, that clammy hand. She collected her
thoughts, remembered that Jeekes must be somewhere in the house, as his
outdoor things were in the hall. The recollection reminded her of her
determination to tolerate no interference from Jeekes or her mother.
So she merely answered: “It was no trouble to come,” and waited for the
man to speak again.
He pulled forward the Chesterfield and made her sit down beside him.
“I had the letter of introduction,” he said, “and I want you to know
that my services are entirely at your disposal. Now, what can I do for
you?”
He looked at the girl intently—rather anxiously, she thought.
“That was explained in the letter,” she answered, meeting his gaze
unflinchingly.
“Yes, yes, of course, I know. I meant in what way do you propose to
make use of my ... my local knowledge?”
“I will tell you that, Mr. Schulz,” Mary Trevert said in a measured
voice, “when you tell me what you think of the mission which has
brought me here ...”
The snake’s eyes narrowed a little.
“For a young lady to have come out alone to Holland on a mission of
this description speaks volumes for your pluck and self-reliance, Miss
Trevert ...”
“I asked you what you thought of my mission to Holland, Mr. Schulz,”
Mary interposed coldly.
It was beginning to dawn on her that Mr. Schulz did not seem to know
anything about the object of her visit, but, on the contrary, was
seeking to elicit this from her by a process of adroit
cross-examination. She was rather puzzled, therefore, but also somewhat
relieved when he said:
“I can give my opinion better after you have shown me the letter ...”
“What letter?” said the girl.
“The letter from Elias van der Spyck and Company, to be sure,” retorted
the other quickly.
Mary dipped her hand into her black fox muff. Then she hesitated. She
could not rid herself of the suspicion that this man with the sallow
face and the yellow fangs was not to be trusted. She withdrew her hand.
“This is a very delicate matter, Mr. Schulz,” she said. “Our
appointment was made by telephone, and I think therefore I should ask
you to show me Mr. Dulkinghorn’s letter of introduction before I go any
further, so that I may feel quite sure in my mind that I am dealing
with one in whom I know Mr. Dulkinghorn to have every confidence ...”
Mr. Schulz’s yellow face went a shade yellower. His mouth twisted
itself into a wry smile, his thin lips fleshing his discoloured teeth.
He stood up rather stiffly.
“You are a guest in my house, Miss Trevert,” he said with offended
dignity, “I scarcely expected you to impugn my good faith. Surely my
word is sufficient ...”
He turned his back on her and took a couple of paces into the room in
apparent vexation. Then he returned and stood at the back of the
Chesterfield behind her. His feet made no sound on the thick carpet,
but some vague instinct made Mary Trevert turn her head. She saw him
standing there, twisting his hands nervously behind his back.
“Surely my word is sufficient ...” he repeated.
“In business,” said Mary boldly, “one cannot be too careful.”
“Besides,” Mr. Schulz urged, “this was a private letter which Mr. ...
Mr. Dulkinghorn certainly did not expect you to see. That makes it
awkward ...”
“I think in the circumstances,” said Mary, “I must insist, Mr. Schulz!”
She was now feeling horribly frightened. She strained her ears in vain
for a sound. The whole house seemed wrapped in a grave-like quiet. The
smile had never left Mr. Schulz’s face. But it was a cruel, wolfish
grin without a ray of kindliness in it. The girl felt her heart turn
cold within her every time her eyes fell on the mask-like face.
Mr. Schulz shrugged shoulders.
“Since you insist ...” he remarked. “But I think it is scarcely fair on
our friend Dulkinghorn. The letter is in the safe in my office next
door. If you come along I will get it out and show it to you ...”
He spoke unconcernedly, but stiffly, as though to emphasize the slight
put upon his dignity. One hand thrust jauntily in his jacket pocket, he
stepped across the carpet to the door with the blue curtain. He opened
it, then stood back for the girl to pass in before him.
“After you!” he said.
He had placed himself so close to the doorway that the black fox about
her neck brushed his face as she passed. Suddenly a warm, sickly whiff
of some sweet-smelling odour came to her. She stopped on the instant,
irresolute, alarmed. Then a dank hand was clapped on her face, covering
nostrils and mouth with a soft cloth reeking with a horrible cloying
drug. An arm with muscles like steel was passed round her waist and
held her in a vice-like grip against which she struggled in vain. She
felt her senses slipping, slipping ...