Produced by D. Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE ALBERT GATE MYSTERY
Being Further Adventures of
REGINALD BRETT, _Barrister Detective_
BY LOUIS TRACY
_Author of_ "WINGS OF THE MORNING," "THE STOW-MARKET MYSTERY," "THE
FINAL WAR," ETC., ETC.
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 9 & 11 East 16th Street, New York :: _1904_
Copyright, 1904
BY R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
[Illustration: Hussein-ul-Mulk. --_Frontispiece._]
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I A MYSTERIOUS CRIME 7
II MEHEMET ALI'S NOTE 18
III WHAT THE POLICE SAW 29
IV THE MURDERS 42
V A STARTLING CLUE 51
VI A JOURNEY TO PARIS 69
VII THE HOUSE IN THE RUE BARBETTE 87
VIII WHAT HAPPENED IN THE RUE BARBETTE 100
IX A MONTMARTRE ROMANCE 115
X ON GUARD 125
XI A DISCONCERTED COMMISSARY 140
XII THE INNKEEPER 161
XIII THE RELEASE 176
XIV "TOUT VA BIEN" 198
XV "MARIE" 209
XVI THE HALL-PORTER'S DOUBTS 223
XVII THE YACHT "BLUE-BELL" 235
XVIII TALBOT'S ADVENTURES 247
XIX THE RACE 259
XX CLOSE QUARTERS 269
XXI THE FIGHT 281
XXII PIECING THE PUZZLE 292
THE ALBERT GATE MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
A MYSTERIOUS CRIME
Reginald Brett, barrister-at-law and amateur detective, had seldom been
more at peace with the world and his own conscience than when he entered
the dining-room of his cosy flat this bright October morning.
Since the famous affair of Lady Delia Lyle's disappearance and death, he
had not been busy, and the joy of healthy idleness is only known to the
hard worker. Again, while dressing, he had received a letter inviting
him to a quiet shoot at a delightful place in the country.
All these things blended with happy inconsequence to render Brett
contented in mind and affable in manner.
"It's a fine morning, Smith," he said cheerily, as he settled himself at
the table where his "man" was already pouring out the coffee.
"Bee-utiful, sir," said Smith.
"Smith!"
"Yessir."
"Not even the best English autumn weather can stand being called
'bee-utiful.' Don't do it. You will open the flood-gates of Heaven."
Smith laughed decorously. He had not the slightest idea what his master
meant, but if it pleased Mr. Brett to be jocose, it was the duty of a
servant who knew his place to be responsive.
The barrister fully understood Smith's delicate appreciation--and its
limits. He instantly noticed that the morning paper, instead of reposing
next to his folded napkin, was placed out of reach on a sideboard, and
that the eggs and bacon made their appearance half a minute too soon.
As an expert swordsman delights to execute a pass _en tierce_ with an
umbrella, so did the cleverest analytical detective of the age resolve
to amaze his servitor.
"Smith," he said suddenly, composing his features to their most severe
cross-examination aspect, "I think the arrangement is an excellent one."
"What arrangement, sir."
"That Mrs. Smith and yourself should have a few days' holiday, while
Mrs. Smith's brother takes your place during my forthcoming visit to
Lord Northallerton's--why, man, what is the matter? Is it too hot?"--for
the cover Smith had lifted off the bacon and eggs clattered violently on
the table.
"'Ot, sir. 'Ot isn't the word. You're a fair licker, that's what you
are."
Smith invariably dropped his h's when he became excited.
"Smith, I insist that you shall not call me names. Pass the paper."
"But, sir----"
"Pass the paper. Utter another word and I refuse to accept Mrs. Smith's
brother as your _locum tenens_."
Smith was silenced by the last terrible epithet. Yet he was so
manifestly nervous that Brett resolved o enlighten him before plunging
into the day's news.
"For the last time, Smith," he said, "I will explain to you why it is
hopeless for you to think of concealing tradesmen's commissions from
me."
The shot went home, but the enemy was acquainted with this method of
attack, and did not wince.
"You knew that Lord Northallerton had recently invited me to his October
pheasant-shooting. During the last few days a youth, who grotesquely
reproduces Mrs. Smith's most prominent features, has mysteriously
tenanted the kitchen, ill-cleaned my boots, and bungled over the studs
in my shirts. This morning a letter came with the crest and the
Northallerton postmark. Really, Smith, considering that you have now
breathed the same air as myself for eight long years, I did not expect
to be called on for an explanation. Besides, you have destroyed a
masterpiece."
"Sir----" began Smith.
"Oh, I understand; there is nothing broken but your reputation. Don't
you see that the mere placing of the newspaper at a distance, so that
you might have a chance to speak before I opened it, was a subtle
stroke, worthy of Lecocq. Yet you demand feeble words. What a pity!
Know, Smith, that true genius is dumb. Speech may be silvern, but
silence is surely golden."
The barrister solemnly unfolded the paper, and Smith faded from the
room. On a page usually devoted to important announcements, the
following paragraphs stood forth in the boldness of leaded type:--
"MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE IN THE WEST END.
"An affair of some magnitude--perhaps a remarkable crime--has
taken place in an Albert Gate mansion.
"Owing to the reticence of the authorities, it is at present
impossible to arrive at a definite conclusion as to the nature
or extent of the incident, but it is quite certain that public
interest will be much excited when details are forthcoming.
All sorts of rumours attain credence in the locality, the murder
of several prominent persons being not the least persistent of
these. Without, however, giving currency to idle speculation,
several authentic statements may be grouped into a connected form.
"Four weeks ago a party of Turkish gentlemen of high rank in
Constantinople, arrived in London and took up their abode in the
house in question, after some structural alterations, pointing at
great security within and without, had been planned and executed.
"Attending these Turkish gentlemen, or officials, was a numerous
suite of Moslem guards and servants, whilst, immediately following
their arrival, came from Amsterdam some dozen noted experts in the
diamond-cutting industry. These were lodged in a neighbouring
private hotel, where they were extremely uncommunicative as to
their business in London. They were employed during the day at the
Albert Gate house. The presence in the mansion, both day and night,
of a strong force of Metropolitan police, tended to excite local
curiosity to an intense degree, but no clear conception of the
business of the occupants was allowed to reach the public.
"Whatever it was that took place, the full particulars were not
only well known to the authorities--the presence of the police
hints even at Governmental sanction--but matters proceeded on
normal lines until yesterday morning.
"Then it became clear that a remarkable development must have
occurred during the preceding night, as the whole of the Dutch
workmen and the Turkish attendants were taken off in cabs by the
police, not to Morton Street Police Station, but to Scotland Yard;
this in itself being a most unusual course to adopt. They are
unquestionably detained in custody, but they have not yet been
charged before a magistrate.
"The police, later in the day, carried off some of these men's
personal belongings, from both hotel and mansion.
"A sinister aspect was given to the foregoing mysterious proceedings
by the presence at Albert Gate, early in the day, of two police
surgeons, who were followed, about twelve o'clock, by Dr. Tennyson
Coke, the greatest living authority on toxicology.
"Dr. Coke and the other medical gentlemen subsequently refused to
impart the slightest information as to the reasons that led the
police to seek their services, and the Scotland Yard authorities
are adamant in the matter.
"The representative of a news agency was threatened with arrest for
trespass when he endeavoured to gain admission to the Albert Gate
house, and it is quite evident that the police are determined to
prevent the facts from leaking out at present--if they can by any
means accomplish their wishes."
Brett read this interesting statement twice slowly. It fascinated him.
Its very vagueness, its admissions of inability to tell what had really
happened, its adroit use of such phrases as "Turkish gentlemen of high
rank," "Noted experts in the diamond-cutting industry," "The greatest
living authority on toxicology," betrayed the hand of the disappointed
journalistic artist.
"Excellent!" he murmured aloud. "It is the breath of battle to my
nostrils. I ought to tip Smith for my breakfast. Had I read this
earlier, I would not have eaten a morsel."
He carefully examined the page at the back. It contained matter of no
consequence--a London County Council debate--so he took a pair of
scissors from his pocket and cut out the complete item, placing the slip
as a votive offering in front of a finely-executed bust of Edgar Allen
Poe, that stood on a bookcase behind him.
Within three minutes the scissors were again employed. The new cutting
ran--
"There is trouble at Yildiz Kiosk. A Reuter's telegram from
Constantinople states that a near relative of the Sultan has fled
to France. The Porte have asked the French Government to apprehend
him, but the French Ambassador has informed Riaz Pasha that this
course is impracticable in the absence of any criminal charge."
"These two are one," said the barrister, as he turned towards Poe's bust
and laid the slip by the side of its predecessor. This time he had
mutilated a critique of an Ibsensite drama.
The rest of the newspaper's contents had no special interest for him,
and he soon threw aside the journal in order to rise, light a cigarette,
and muster sufficient energy to write a telegram accepting Lord
Northallerton's invitation for the following day.
He was on the point of reaching for a telegraph form when Smith entered
with a card. It bore the name and address--
"The Earl of Fairholme, Stanhope Gate."
"Curious," thought Brett. "Where is his lordship?" he said aloud--"at
the door, or in the street?"
(His flat was on the second floor.)
"In a keb, sir."
"Bring his lordship up."
A rapid glance at "Debrett" revealed that the Earl of Fairholme was
thirty, unmarried, the fourteenth of his line, and the possessor of
country seats at Fairholme, Warwickshire, and Glen Spey, Inverness.
The earl entered, an athletic, well-groomed man, one whose lines were
usually cast in pleasant places, but who was now in an unwonted state of
flurry and annoyance.
Each man was favourably impressed by the other. His lordship produced an
introductory card, and Brett was astonished to find that it bore the
name of the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
"I have come----" commenced his lordship hesitatingly.
But the barrister broke in. "You have had a bad night, Lord Fairholme.
You wish for a long and comfortable chat. Now, won't you start with a
whiskey and soda, light a cigar, and draw an easy chair near the fire?"
"'Pon my honour, Mr. Brett, you begin well. You give me confidence.
Those are the first cheerful words I have heard during twenty-four
hours."
The earl was easily manoeuvred into a strong light. Then he made a
fresh start.
"You have doubtless heard of this Albert Gate affair, Mr. Brett?"
"You mean this?" said the other, rising and handing to his visitor the
longer paragraph of the two he had selected from the newspaper.
"That is very curious," said the earl, momentarily startled. But he was
too preoccupied by his thoughts to pay much heed to the incident. He
merely glanced at the cutting and went on:
"Yes, that is it. Well, Edith--Miss Talbot, I mean--vows that she won't
marry me until this beastly business is cleared up. Of course, we all
know that Jack didn't slope with the diamonds. He's tied up or dead, for
sure. But--no matter what may have become of him--why the dickens that
should stop Edith from marrying me is more than I can fathom. Just look
at some of the women in Society. They don't leave it to their relatives
to be mixed up in a scandal, I can tell you. Still, there you are. Edith
is jolly clever and awfully determined, so you've got to find him, Mr.
Brett. Dead or alive, he must be found, and cleared."
"He shall," said Brett, gazing into the fire.
The quiet, self-reliant voice steadied the young peer. He checked an
imminent flow of words, picked up the newspaper slip again, and this
time read it.
Then he blushed.
"You must think me very stupid, Mr. Brett, to burst out in such a manner
when you probably have never heard of the people I am talking about."
"You will tell me, Lord Fairholme, if you get quietly to work and try
to speak, so far as you find it possible, in chronological sequence."
His lordship knitted his brows and smoked in silence. At last he found
utterance.
"That's a good idea of yours. It makes things easier. Well, first of
all, Edith and I became engaged. Edith is the daughter of the late
Admiral Talbot. She and Jack, her brother, live with their uncle,
General Sir Hubert Fitzjames, at 118, Ulster Gardens. Jack is in the
Foreign Office; he is just like Edith, awfully clever and that sort of
thing, an assistant secretary I think they call him. Now we're getting
on, aren't we?"
"Splendidly."
"That's all right. About a month ago a chap turns up from
Constantinople, a kind of special Envoy from the Sultan, and he explains
to the Foreign Office that he has in his possession a lot of uncut
diamonds of terrific value, including one as big as a duck's egg, to
which no figures would give a price. Do you follow me?"
"Each word."
"Good. Well--I can't tell you why, because I don't know, and I could not
understand it if I did--there was some political importance attached to
these gems, and the Sultan roped our Foreign Office into it. So the
Foreign Office placed Jack in charge of the business. He fixed up the
Envoy in the house at Albert Gate, got a lot of diamond cutters and
machinery for him, gave him into the charge of all the smart policemen
in London; and what do you think is the upshot?"
"What?"
"The Envoy, his two secretaries, and a confidential servant were
murdered the night before last, the diamonds were stolen, and Jack has
vanished--absolutely gone clean into space, not a sign of him to be
found anywhere. Yesterday Edith sends for me, cries for half an hour,
tells me I'm the best fellow that ever lived, and then I'm jiggered if
she didn't wind up by saying that she couldn't marry me."
The Earl of Fairholme was now worked up to fever heat. He would not calm
down for an appreciable period, so Brett resolved to try the effect of
curiosity.
He wrote a telegram to Lord Northallerton:--
"Very sorry, but I cannot leave town at present. Please ask
me later. Will explain reason for postponement when we meet."
He had touched the dominant note in mankind.
"Surely!" cried the earl, "you have not already decided upon a course of
action?"
"Not exactly. I am wiring to postpone a shooting fixture."
"What a beastly shame!" exclaimed the other, in whom the sporting
instinct was at once aroused. "I'm awfully sorry my affairs should
interfere with your arrangements in this way."
"Not a bit," cried Brett. "I make it a sacred rule of life to put
pleasure before business. I mean," he explained, as a look of
bewilderment crossed his hearer's face, "that this quest of ours
promises to be the most remarkable affair I have ever been engaged in.
That pleases me. Pheasant-shooting is a serious business, governed by
the calendar and arranged by the head-keeper."
An electric bell summoned Smith. The barrister handed him the telegram
and a sovereign.
"Read that message," he said. "Ponder over it. Send it, and give the
change of the sovereign to Mrs. Smith's brother, with my compliments and
regrets."