THE THIN-FACED STRANGER
I pretended not to notice him as I pushed past him and presently
returned with water. Lady Fitzgraham, Connie Stapleton, and several
others also clamoured for water to moisten their parched lips, and when
I had attended to Dulcie I gave them some. For the next two hours
everything was confusion. All the passengers had been severely shaken,
and some were seriously hurt, but fortunately not one had been killed.
Our extraordinary escape I shall always attribute to the fact that we
travelled in a Pullman, a car that has most wonderful stability.
A large crowd had assembled at Gare St. Lazare to witness the arrival of
the special with the passengers who had travelled in our ill-fated
train. Now that I had collected my scattered thoughts once more I was
resolved at the earliest possible moment to inform Lady Fitzgraham of
the discovery I had made, for I had come to the firm conclusion that
some, at any rate, of the jewellery that bag contained must be hers,
some of the jewellery which had been stolen on board the boat.
Upon our arrival at the "Continental" I discovered that Gastrell and
Connie Stapleton's friends numbered no less than twelve, without
counting Lady Fitzgraham or myself, so that in all we were sixteen. Of
the people I had met before, whom I believed to be members of the gang,
only Jasmine Gastrell was absent. What most puzzled me was what the
reason could be they had all come to Paris. Did the London police
suspect them, and were they fleeing from justice in consequence? That, I
decided, seemed hardly likely. Could they be contemplating some _coup_
on the Continent, or had they come over to prepare with greater security
some fresh gigantic robbery in England? That seemed far more probable,
and just then I remembered that in less than a fortnight the
coming-of-age festivities of Lord Cranmere's son would begin—February
the 28th. What complicated matters to some extent was that I had no
means of ascertaining beyond doubt which members of this large party
were actually members of the gang I now knew to exist, and which, if
any, besides Dulcie, Lady Fitzgraham, and myself, also, I fancied, the
man named Wollaston, were honest folk, some of them possibly dupes. Lady
Fitzgraham I knew well by name and repute, and there could be no
possibility of her being mixed up in criminal or even shady
transactions. That the robbery of her famous jewels, by whomsoever it
had been committed, had been premeditated and carefully planned, there
seemed hardly room to doubt.
Next day all the Paris newspapers contained reports of the suicide—as
they evidently all believed it to have been—and of the robbery on board
the boat. The usual theories, many of them so far-fetched as to be
almost fantastic, were advanced, and all kinds of wild suggestions were
made to account for the dead man's having been disguised. Not until
three days later was the sensational announcement made in the newspapers
that he had proved to be George Preston, the famous English detective,
who had retired upon pension only the year before.
We had been four days in Paris, and nothing in the least suspicious had
occurred. I had been unable to tell Lady Fitzgraham of my suspicions
regarding the whereabouts of her stolen jewels, for she had not dined at
the "Continental," nor had I seen her after our train had reached Paris,
or even on the train after the accident. The hotel manager was under the
impression, I had discovered while conversing with him, that we had all
met by accident either in the train or on the boat, as the accommodation
needed had been telegraphed for from Dieppe. He also was quite
convinced—this I gathered at the same time—that our party consisted of
people of considerable distinction, leaders of London Society, an
impression no doubt strengthened by the almost reckless extravagance of
every member of the party.
The robbery and the supposed suicide on board the boat were beginning to
be less talked about. It was the evening of our fourth day in Paris, and
I had just finished dressing for dinner, when somebody knocked. I called
"Come in," and a man entered. Without speaking he shut the door behind
him, turned the key in the lock, and came across to me.
He was tall and thin, a rather ascetic-looking individual of middle age,
with small, intelligent eyes set far back in his head, bushy brows and a
clean-shaven face—clearly an American. He stood looking at me for a
moment or two, then said:
"Mr. Berrington, I think."
I started, for my make-up was perfect still, and I firmly believed that
none had penetrated my disguise. Before I could answer, the stranger
continued:
"You have no need to be alarmed, Mr. Berrington; I am connected with the
Paris _Surete_, and George Preston was a colleague and an intimate
friend of mine. We had been in communication for some time before his
death, and I knew of his disguise; he had given me details of his line
of action in connection with the people you are with; for he knew that
in impersonating Alphonse Furneaux and associating himself so closely
with this group of criminals he ran a grave risk. Still," he went on,
speaking smoothly and very rapidly, "I believe this tragedy would not
have occurred—for that he was murdered I feel certain, though I have no
proof—had the real Furneaux not succeeded in making good his escape
from the room where Preston had confined him in his own house, a room
where he had more than once kept men under lock and key when he wanted
them out of the way for a while."
As the stranger stopped speaking, he produced from his pocket a card
with a portrait of himself upon it, and the autograph signature of the
Prefect of Police.
"Well," I said, feeling considerably relieved, "what have you come to
see me about?"
"Your life is in danger," he answered bluntly, "in great danger.
Alphonse Furneaux has penetrated your disguise, and I have every reason
to believe that he has betrayed your identity to the rest of the gang.
If that is so, you can hardly escape their vengeance unless you leave
here at once, under my protection, and return to London. Even there you
will need to be extremely careful. Please prepare to come now. It may
already be too late."
"I can't do that," I answered firmly, facing him. "Miss Challoner, the
daughter of Sir Roland Challoner, has unwittingly become mixed up with
these people; she suspects nothing, and as yet I have been unable to
warn her of the grave risk she runs by remaining with them. It is solely
on her account that I am here. I must remain by her at all costs to
protect her—and to warn her as soon as possible."
"You can safely leave that to me, Mr. Berrington," the stranger
answered, with a keen glance. "If you stay here another night I won't be
responsible for your safety—indeed, I don't consider that I am
responsible for it now. Quick, please, pack your things."
"Impossible," I replied doggedly. "You don't understand the situation,
Mr.—"
"Albeury—Victor Albeury."
"You don't understand the situation, Mr. Albeury—I am engaged to be
married to Miss Challoner, and I can't at any cost desert her at such a
time. She has struck up an extraordinary friendship with Mrs. Stapleton,
who is staying in this hotel and is mixed up with the gang, and I want
to watch their movements while retaining my disguise."
"But of what use is your disguise," Albeury cut in quickly, "now that,
as I told you, these scoundrels are aware of your identity, or will be
very soon? You have no idea, Mr. Berrington, of the class of criminal
you have to deal with. These men and women have so much money and are so
presentable and plausible, also so extremely clever, that you would have
the greatest difficulty in inducing any ordinary people to believe they
are not rich folk of good social standing, let alone that they are
criminals. If you insist upon remaining here it will be nothing less
than madness."
"And yet I insist," I said.
The stranger shrugged his shoulders. Then he sat down, asked if he might
light a cigarette, and for a minute or so remained wrapped in thought.
"Supposing that I could induce Miss Challoner to come away," he said
suddenly, "would you come then?"
"Of course I should," I answered. "I have told you it is only because
she is here that I remain here."
Albeury rose abruptly, and tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the
grate.
"Wait here until I return," he said.
He unlocked the door, and went out of the room. I heard his footsteps
grow fainter and fainter as he went along the corridor.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, as he did not return, I went out
into the passage, locked the door of my room behind me, and walked
slowly in the direction Albeury had gone. I knew the number of Dulcie's
room to be eighty-seven—it adjoined the bedroom occupied by Connie
Stapleton, which opened into a private sitting-room; this I had
ascertained from one of the hotel porters. As I reached the door of the
sitting-room I heard voices—a man's voice, and the voices of two women.
The man was Albeury. The women, who both spoke at once, were certainly
Connie Stapleton and Dulcie. They were in the room, and by their tones I
judged them to be wrangling with Albeury. I knocked boldly.
Summoned to enter by Connie Stapleton, I walked straight in and faced
them. At once the wrangling ceased.
There was a look in Connie Stapleton's eyes that I had never seen there
before. Hitherto I had seen only her attractive side. When I had
conversed with her she had always seemed most charming—intelligent,
witty, amusing. Now her eyes had in them a cold, steely glitter.
"What do you want, Michael Berrington?" she asked icily. "Don't you
think it's time you took off that disguise?"
The sound of a little gasp diverted my attention. I turned, and my gaze
met Dulcie's. Her expression betrayed fear.
"Yes, I am Michael Berrington," I said quietly, speaking now in my
natural voice, and looking Connie Stapleton full in the eyes. "As you
have discovered my identity you probably know why I am disguised—just
as you most likely know why George Preston was disguised when you, or
some of your gang, strangled him on board the boat."
Connie Stapleton's eyes seemed gradually to resemble a snake's. Her lips
were tightly closed. Her face was livid. For some moments she stood
there, glaring at me. Then she spoke again:
"This man," she said, indicating Albeury, "has been speaking of you. He
tells me that he has advised you to return to England, and I have told
him it is now too late. You won't see England again, Mr. Berrington—I
tell you that quite openly, before this police officer, whom I have
known for many years. I do so with impunity because he knows that if he
betrays me I can reveal something I know about him—and should do so
at once."
I was about to speak, when my gaze again met Dulcie's. She had turned
suddenly pale. Now she glanced apprehensively first at her friend, then
at me, and then at the American detective Albeury. Deep perplexity as
well as fear was in her eyes.
"Do tell me what it all means," she implored, looking up at me; for the
first time for many days she seemed to need my help. "So many things
have puzzled me during the past days—I have seen so much and heard so
much that I can't understand." She turned to Mrs. Stapleton. "Connie,"
she cried out impetuously, "why have you suddenly changed? Why have you
turned against me? What have I done or said that has given you offence?"
Before Mrs. Stapleton had time to answer, I spoke:
"Dulcie," I exclaimed, "I will say now what I have wanted for days to
tell you, though I have not had a chance of doing so, and I knew that if
I wrote a letter you would show it to this woman, who would invent some
plausible story to make you disbelieve me. Now listen. This woman is not
what you believe her to be. In her presence I tell you that she is an
adventuress of an odious description, and that, in becoming friendly
with you, also in becoming engaged to your father, she has acted from
the basest motives. Dulcie, you must leave her at once, and come
away with me."
I saw an extraordinary look of repugnance creep into Dulcie's eyes as
she cast a half-frightened glance at Connie Stapleton, seated staring at
her with an unconcealed sneer.
"Connie," she said bitterly, "oh, Connie, don't look at me like that!"
The woman laughed.
"Can't you see I have no further use for you, you little fool?" she
retorted harshly. "Go with him—go with your lover, return to your
doddering old father—if you can get to him—who had the amazing
effrontery to ask me to become his wife—I, who am young enough to be
his granddaughter!"
At that instant I caught the sound of a door being closed carefully.
Something prompted me to step out into the passage, and I came face to
face with Gastrell, who had evidently just left Connie Stapleton's other
room and so must have overheard our conversation, also whatever
conversation with Albeury she might have had before I entered. For some
moments we stood looking at each other without speaking. He appeared to
be calm and wholly unconcerned.
"Do you want me for anything?" he asked suddenly.
"No," I answered. "I have been to see Mrs. Stapleton."
"That's rather obvious, as you have this instant left her room. Is there
anything she can do for you?"
"Do for me?"
"Yes."
He came slowly up to me; then, speaking into my face, he said in a hard
undertone:
"You have tried to spy upon us—and failed. Your companion, George
Preston, spied upon us—he is dead. By this time to-morrow—"
Without another word he went past me down the corridor. He turned the
corner at the end, and a moment later I heard the iron gates of the lift
shut with a clatter, and the lift descending.
Just then it was that Dulcie rushed out into the corridor. Catching
sight of me, she sprang forward and clung to me, trembling.
"Oh, Mike! Mike!" she cried piteously, "I am so terrified. I have just
heard such dreadful things—Mike, your life is in danger—you must get
away from here at once!"
"That's what I am going to do," I said, with an assumption of calmness I
was far from feeling. "And you must come with me, my darling. What about
your clothes and things? Can you get them packed quickly?"
Still clinging to me, she hesitated.
"I—I am afraid to go back into that room," she exclaimed at last.
"Connie has suddenly turned upon me—I believe she can't bear me
any more."
"I'm glad to hear that," I answered, intensely relieved at last. Ah, if
only the woman had "turned upon" her long before, I thought, how much
better it would have been for Dulcie.
"But surely," I said, "you can go into your own room to pack your
things."
This proposition evidently troubled her.
"No," she said after an instant's pause. "Doris Lorrimer is in my room."
"And what if she is? She can't prevent your packing your own things?"
"She can, and she will. Oh, Mike," she continued bitterly, "you don't
know—you can't understand. Doris Lorrimer is under Connie's control,
just as I have been. Connie seems to have some extraordinary power over
her. She does everything Connie tells her to, and Connie has told her
not to let me go—to retain my belongings if I attempt to leave."
"But a moment ago Mrs. Stapleton told you to go—she said she had done
with you; I heard her myself."
"She doesn't mean it. I am terrified of her now, Mike; I want to get
away from her, but I daren't. If I go, something awful will happen to
me—I know it will!"
Though I had long suspected it, only now did I realize the fearful hold
that this woman had obtained over Dulcie, who seemed hardly able any
longer to exercise her will. This, I knew, must in a measure be the
result of the woman's having hypnotized her. My mind was made up in
a moment.
"Dulcie," I exclaimed firmly, "you are coming with me to-night—you
understand? To-night—whether you take your things or not is not of
consequence. I'll see to everything. Don't return to your room. Don't
see Mrs. Stapleton again. Come with me—now."
Albeury appeared in the passage. Seeing us, he approached.
"Go at once, Mr. Berrington," he said in a tone of authority. "It is
even more serious than I thought. You haven't a moment to lose."
"I am taking Miss Challoner with me," I replied. "I refuse to leave her
here."
He glanced at each of us in turn.
"Must you?" he said. "Why not leave Miss Challoner to me? I will answer
for her safety. I am too well known in Paris even for reckless people
such as we have to deal with now to attempt to oppose me or to do _me_
an injury."
"Either Miss Challoner comes with me, or I remain," I replied
stubbornly. Something seemed suddenly to have set me on my mettle. "But
how is it, Mr. Albeury," I added quickly, "that if these people know you
are connected with the police, and you know as much about them as you
appear to do, you can't at once have them arrested?"
"We require circumstantial evidence," he answered, "definite evidence of
some kind, which at present we haven't got. In cases such as this we
can't arrest on suspicion. Much of my information about these people
comes from George Preston. People of this description are extremely
difficult to arrest, because, in spite of what is practically known
about them, nothing against them can be proved. That is where their
cleverness comes in—no matter what they do, they keep out of reach of
the law. But come, Mr. Berrington, I must get you away at once—no,
don't return to your room," as I was moving in that direction, "Come
downstairs at once, and bring Miss Challoner with you—we won't go by
the lift, if you don't mind."
Dulcie had an evening wrap over her arm. Taking it from her, I wrapped
it about her shoulders, then slipped on the thin overcoat I had with me.
Quickly we followed Albeury to the end of the corridor. We were about to
descend the stairs, when an unexpected sight arrested our attention.