CONCERNS TWO VISITORS
SEPTEMBER 2ND
About a week after my visit to Scotland Yard a strange incident occurred.
I was seated one afternoon in my modest lodgings off the King’s Road,
Chelsea, when a card bearing the name “Karl Flugel” was brought to me by
my landlady.
My visitor, on being shown in, proved to be a queer-looking old
gentleman, with longish fair hair and fair beard, and a pair of grey eyes
which beamed forth from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He was curiously
dressed, for though it was a warm day he wore a thick blue reefer jacket,
almost like an overcoat, but cut very short and adorned by flat, wide
braid. It was an amazing coat, of a cut that I had never seen before,
either in England or out of it. His trousers were of light grey flannel,
and he wore white spats over his patent-leather boots, which gave him an
appearance _très drôle_.
Behind him stood a pretty, fair-haired girl, well-dressed _en deuil_, and
wearing a big black hat—a girl whose face struck me as particularly sweet
and charming. I judged her to be about twenty, extremely dainty, graceful
and refined.
Flugel, speaking French with a German accent, was profuse in his
apologies for disturbing me, and at first I could not quite make out
the reason he had called. But soon afterwards, when both had seated
themselves, he suddenly looked straight at me through his _pince-nez_ and
said—
“The object of my visit, I fear, mademoiselle, you may regard as somewhat
strange. The fact is, mademoiselle, I have heard that you were acquainted
with a very dear friend of mine, recently dead—Monsieur Cornforth.”
_Dieu!_ At mention of that name my heart beat quickly. Here was actually
one who had been the friend of the mysterious deceased!
I fear I did not control my surprise, for I noticed a faint smile
overspreading his fresh-coloured features. The girl raised her eyes to
mine for a second, and then dropped them.
“It is true that I know Monsieur Cornforth,” I said, much interested. “I
only returned from Florence ten days ago.”
“I understand,” he remarked, “that you live in Florence with Madame
Kennedy-Foster, eh? A very delightful old city. So full of ancient charm.
And, of course, you have been to the Villa Borelli?”
“_Mais oui_,” I replied. “In fact, I was present with the police when the
body of your unfortunate friend was found.”
“Ah, yes!” sighed my visitor. “It was very sad—very sad. I was amazed
when I received the telegram announcing his death.”
I wondered who had sent the queer old gentleman the news. As far as I was
aware the police telegram was the only intimation of the strange affair
that had gone to England.
“Then news was conveyed to m’sieur?” I remarked. “Who sent you word?”
“A person who was in Mr. Cornforth’s confidence,” was his guarded
reply. He was not to be caught napping, evidently. The girl’s eyes were
wandering round the room.
“And how were you aware that I knew Monsieur Cornforth—or that I was
staying here?”
“Cornforth himself told me that he knew you. But,” he added evasively,
“the real object of my call is to learn some actual details regarding my
dear friend’s mysterious end. I can discover nothing tangible. But you,
who were present with the police, evidently know the truth. If you do,
may I ask you to explain it to me—his friend?”
“_Certainement_,” I said. “I think the Italian police are most anxious to
meet somebody who was the dead man’s friend. They have been advertising
for his relatives—but without success.”
“Yes, yes,” he laughed, as though enjoying the discomfiture of the
police. “I saw the advertisements, and they much amused me. They show
how utterly ignorant the police are concerning the deceased or his
antecedents. Fancy advertising for the heirs of William Cornforth! Oh, it
is really too amusing!” he laughed.
“_Pourquoi?_” I asked, in some surprise. “A quantity of valuable property
was found in the house and taken possession of by the British Consul.
They belong to somebody.”
“They belong to this young lady here—Miss Cornforth—the dead man’s only
child,” Flugel replied, introducing his companion.
I expressed my sympathy with her in her bereavement, whereupon I saw that
tears were welling in her big blue eyes, as she said in a faltering voice—
“Mademoiselle, my father was, unfortunately, a rather erratic man. I had
not seen him for two years. I did not even know that he was living in
Florence. I believed he was leading a secluded life, buried somewhere in
a London suburb. He was not fond of the society of his fellow-men.”
“_Extraordinaire!_ And yet in Florence he went out a great deal. In the
short time he lived there he became most popular in a rather exclusive
set.”
“Miss Agnes has been living in Yorkshire with an aunt,” the old man
explained. “Poor Cornforth was—well, just a trifle eccentric. Yet he was
one of the most remarkable men in Europe.”
I nodded. Inspector Stephens had also told me how remarkable he was as a
daring and dangerous criminal.
I looked at the pretty, modest _fillette_ before me, surprised that she
could be the daughter of a man who had been described as a veritable
fiend.
In response to the German’s appeal, I gave a minute description of
the curious circumstances in which the mysterious Cornforth had been
discovered, and how all the searching police inquiries had proved
abortive. I could see it was painful to Mademoiselle Agnes, yet it
struck me that the old man was secretly exulting in causing the girl
unhappiness. Why, I could not exactly tell.
_A son tour_ I noticed a queer, wistful look in her gaze when her eyes
met mine—an expression of terror combined with weariness. She seemed to
hold her companion in mistrust, and I wondered whether she were not there
against her will, compelled to hear from me the tragic details of her
lost father’s death.
“He was wanted by the police,” remarked Flugel, heedless of the girl’s
feelings. “And it was surely not surprising.”
“I don’t quite follow m’sieur,” I said. “Of what crime was he accused?”
But the old fellow only laughed, beaming at me through his spectacles.
And, like Inspector Stephens, he refused to reply directly to my question.
_Curieux!_ There really seemed a conspiracy of silence on every hand.
“You referred to the fact that certain jewels were discovered in the
house,” Monsieur Flugel said presently.
“_Mais oui_, gems worth several thousands.”
“Where did they find them?”
“Secreted in a cavity of the concrete wall of the strong-room,” I
replied. “It puzzled the police why he should have caused his study to be
converted into an impregnable chamber,” I added.
“That surely does not puzzle Scotland Yard,” he remarked quietly.
“The Italian police are, of course, ignorant of the true facts. The
strong-room was constructed with a distinct purpose.”
“_Par exemple_ the domestics say that it was only closed at certain
times. At others, the door stood open, and the servants passed freely in
and out.”
“Exactly. He would not always keep it locked, for he did not wish to
unduly excite suspicion.”
“Of what?”
“Of the extraordinary truth.”
I described the dramatic sequel to the affair—the shooting of the police
agent Bruno in the same room, whereat the _jeune fille_ sat staring at
me, as though in terror.
“Was the poor man actually found shot—just as my dear father had been?”
she gasped quickly.
“_Mais oui_, mademoiselle, in a very similar manner,” I replied. “It has
greatly puzzled the police, for the affair is quite unaccountable, except
perhaps that somebody knew of the hiding-place of those gems and desired
to get possession of them.”
“But you say that the body of the police agent lay there six or seven
hours undiscovered. Surely the assassin had sufficient time to search the
place?”
“_Ah, non!_ The jewels had already been removed to the bank,” I answered.
The old man was silent, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“The jewels were Cornforth’s,” he said at last; “therefore they rightly
belong to Miss Agnes. If sold, they would realise for her a comfortable
fortune—is that not so?”
“_Parfaitement._”
“And yet the most unfortunate point is that this young lady cannot come
forward and claim relationship.”
“_Pourquoi non?_”
“For several reasons.”
“No,” cried the girl. “I—I could not acknowledge my poor father,
because—because they would compel me to yield up his secret.”
“His secret,” I cried. “_Parbleu!_ What secret did he possess?”
“One that, if it were known that I was still alive, they would compel me
to disclose.”
“Still alive,” I echoed. “Then are you believed to be dead, mademoiselle?”
She nodded in the affirmative, overcome by emotion.
“So now you understand the situation?” said the man Flugel to me. “Miss
Agnes cannot claim her dead father’s property herself, and she is,
of course, anxious to obtain it in some roundabout way, without the
authorities knowing that she is Mr. Cornforth’s daughter.”
“I don’t quite see how that is to be accomplished, m’sieur. Mademoiselle
will have to prove relationship.”
“Which she can do quite easily. There are persons who can, and who would,
no doubt, be only too willing to identify her.”
“_Bien sûr_, but I cannot see why she does not risk it,” I remarked.
“My dear mademoiselle,” he cried, “is it likely that she would boldly go
forward and place herself at the mercy of the police. You don’t know the
true seriousness of the affair, or you would never suggest that.”
“_Tiens!_ I’ve been trying to learn the truth,” I laughed. “But you
reveal nothing.”
“Is it likely that I would reveal the secret of my dead friend?” he asked
reproachfully.
“_Mais non_; but if the jewels are to be inherited by Mademoiselle
Agnes, then most certainly the truth must be told.”
“It is a truth entirely unsuspected,” he said. “The Italian police, with
the Chevalier Ansaldi at their head, are extremely shrewd and clever, but
I tell you they will never discover the true story of the murders in the
strong-room at the Villa Borelli.”
“_Zut!_ They evidently know at Scotland Yard,” I remarked.
“No. They are in complete ignorance. They know that Cornforth and Bruno
were both assassinated, but by whom they are quite as much in the dark as
you are,” he declared.
“_Bien_, and who, pray, is aware of the truth—the murderer, and——”
The old man’s eyes became filled with a peculiar light as he sat near the
window. I saw a curious change in his features. His eyebrows contracted
and his mouth hardened.
“Well,” he said hesitatingly at last, “the only man who can solve the
mystery is myself. The fact is—I know the truth!”
“_Diable!_ Then why don’t you make a statement to the police?” I cried
eagerly. “Surely the assassin should be arrested and punished.”
“I have no incentive to assist the police. Scotland Yard hounded down my
friend, therefore why should I help them?”
“In order to avenge the death of your friend,” I said quietly.
“Yes—do,” cried the girl, appealing to her companion. “Go to Scotland
Yard and tell them what you know.”
But the crafty old German only shook his head, saying—
“If the police desire information, they must pay for it. I am acting
in your interests, my dear Miss Agnes. If the authorities, in order to
learn the truth, care to hand over half the jewels to you, and half
to myself, then I could reveal to them the actual facts. But that is
impossible—because you must still remain dead. The secret in your
possession is worth even more than all the jewels found in your father’s
house.”
_Mystère._ What great secret could it be that she should prefer to lose a
fortune rather than reveal her identity to the authorities?
The situation was extraordinary.
I had already discerned that Monsieur Flugel was a keen and cunning old
man, whose intention was to profit by his knowledge, whatever it might
be. In reply to my questions, I learnt that the girl lived at a small
village three miles from York, and had for a couple of years been earning
her living as a school-teacher. During her father’s residence in England
they had lived at Brighton, where Flugel had been her father’s constant
companion.
I tried to persuade the old man to go with me to see Inspector Stephens,
but he ridiculed the suggestion.
“No,” he replied. “To make any statement would probably reveal the fact
of Miss Agnes being still alive—a risk which she cannot afford to run.”
“_Ecoutez._ Why is she believed to be dead?” I demanded. “In what manner
was she supposed to die?”
“By drowning—eighteen months ago,” was his response. “She went out for a
swim while staying at the house of an old schoolfellow at Sheringham, but
never returned. It was all arranged, and completely deceived the press
and the police. Search was made for the body, but it was not recovered
till a month afterwards, when that of a young woman was actually washed
up near Hunstanton, and was buried as that of Agnes Cornforth.”
“_Et pourquoi?_”
“Because, mademoiselle, we knew that, sooner or later, she would be
arrested—just as they tried to arrest her father. So we conceived the
idea of thus escaping further inquiry,” my visitor answered.
“Then they do not suspect you of possessing any secret knowledge of
Monsieur Cornforth or his doings?”
“No,” laughed the old man. “That’s just the amusing point. They suspect
other people who know nothing, but have never suspected me.”
“_Alors_, if the police knew that Mademoiselle Agnes were still alive,
would the result be so very serious?” I inquired, looking the girl
straight in the face as I spoke.
“Yes—very. They must never know that. I—I intend to preserve my father’s
secret at all hazards,” she cried. “I would commit suicide rather than
betray it into their hands,” she added vehemently, in a tone which showed
that she meant what she said. “Therefore,” she added, “I trust to you to
preserve my secret—to tell the police nothing of my visit to you.”
“_Moi_, I shall certainly respect your wishes, mademoiselle,” I replied.
“But somehow I cannot help thinking that your father’s assassin ought to
be brought to justice.”
“Alas!” she said, shaking her head in sorrow. “That can never be—never
without disclosing the fact that I am still alive. If that were known I
should find myself under arrest in two hours. Ah!” she added, “you do not
know the remarkable nature of my father’s secret.”
“Whatever it is, mademoiselle, I confess I am in favour of avenging his
death.”
But she shook her head, declaring in a hoarse, strained voice—
“Ah! that can never be done—_never_!”