CLOSE QUARTERS
Sir Hubert was all eagerness to undertake his mission. He reached the
station at least half an hour too soon. Anyone seeing him there would
readily admit that the barrister could not have chosen an agent less
guileful in appearance. The very cut of his clothes, the immaculate
character of his white spats, bespoke the elderly British gentleman.
At last the train arrived. The vast majority of its passengers were
Sicilian peasants or business men returning to Palermo from the interior
of the island. To Sir Hubert's delight, he at once caught sight of Gros
Jean and the Turks, whom, of course, he quickly identified as the
loungers on the tower of the Chateau d'If.
It occurred to him that there was a remote chance of recognition by Gros
Jean, so he busied himself for an instant in a seeming scrutiny of the
bookstall until they had passed. A little further down the platform he
caught sight of Inspector Winter, that worthy individual being engaged
in a fiercely unintelligible controversy with an Italian porter as to
the possession of his portmanteau.
Sir Hubert hurried forward, and seized the amazed policeman by his hand,
wringing it warmly. To tell the truth, Winter did not know for a moment
who it was that accorded him such a cordial greeting, for, as it
subsequently transpired, the policeman was not aware of Sir Hubert's
journey to Marseilles, nor did he guess that Edith was with him.
The stolid detective, however, quickly recovered himself, and his first
words were--
"Did Mr. Brett fully understand my signal?"
"I think so," said the other; "but he will tell you all about that
afterwards. At present he wishes you to ascertain Gros Jean's intended
residence."
Mr. Winter smiled with the peculiar air of superiority affected by
Scotland Yard.
"Oh, that is too easy," he condescended to explain. "I have been talking
to him."
"You don't say so!"
"Yes, I have. My French is bad, and his English is worse, but he
understands that I am in the wholesale grocery trade. I have come to
Palermo to buy currants!"
"Most extraordinary! How very clever of you!"
Mr. Winter drew himself up with an air of professional pride.
"That is nothing, sir," he said. "We often make queer acquaintanceships
in the way of business. But Gros Jean is a smart chap. He eyed me
curiously when he happened to hear that I was the fifth passenger who
wished to leave the steamer at Messina, so I took the bull by the horns
and made myself useful to him in the matter of getting his baggage out
of the hold."
"Marvellous!" gasped Sir Hubert.
"The upshot of it was that he gave me some advice about currants. We
stayed in the same hotel at Messina, travelled together in the train,
and I am going to put up at the Campo Santo Hotel, where he will stay
with the Turks."
Meanwhile the subject of their conversation had quitted the station, and
Sir Hubert's respect for Mr. Winter's powers as a sleuth-hound yielded
to anxiety lest the slippery Frenchman might vanish once and for all.
"Hadn't we better follow him?" he suggested.
Mr. Winter winked knowingly. "Don't be anxious, sir. He wants to be seen
in my company. He believes I am here for trading purposes, and the
association will be useful to him."
Nevertheless the baronet was glad to find that Mr. Winter's confidence
was not misplaced, when, ten minutes later, he again encountered the
Frenchman and the Turks at the door of the Campo Santo, a cheap and
popular hotel near the square that forms the centre of Palermo.
The detective was eminently suited for the _rôle_ he now filled.
"Ah, monsoo," he cried with boisterous good humour, "permittez-moi
introducer un friend of mine, Monsoo Smeeth, de Londres, you know. Je ne
savez pas les noms de votre companiongs, but they are très bons
camarades, je suis certain."
Gros Jean was most complaisant.
"It ees von grand plaisir, m'sieu," he said, whilst the Turks gravely
bowed their acknowledgments.
The upshot of this extraordinary meeting was that when Mr. Winter had
secured a room and the party had ordered dinner, the six men set out
for a stroll through the town.
Sir Hubert strove hard to so manoeuvre their ramble that they should
pass the Hotel de France, and perchance come under the astonished eyes
of Brett and the others.
But this amiable design was frustrated by Gros Jean's eagerness to visit
the post-office, which lay in a different direction.
One of the Turks, none other than Hussein-ul-Mulk, spoke English fairly
well, and it puzzled the old baronet considerably to answer his
questions.
Yet the situation passed off well. Gros Jean came out of the
post-office, apparently without having obtained any missives--a letter,
of course, could not possibly await him--and suggested that they should
wander towards the harbour.
Sir Hubert strongly recommended the spectacular beauty of the street
where the Hotel de France lay, but Gros Jean politely insisted that he
wished to make some inquiries at the shipping office, and Mr. Winter
backed him up, being ignorant of the baronet's real motive.
There was nothing to do but yield gracefully.
They walked along the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. Sir Hubert, fresh with
memories of his morning's drive with a guide, pointed out the chief
buildings, becoming sadly mixed up in the names of some of them.
Still, this was a safer topic than his previous conversation with
Hussein-ul-Mulk, so he persevered gamely.
They soon reached the quay. Sir Hubert became almost incoherent with
agitation when they passed the _Blue-Bell_ and came into full view of
Edith, Jack, Fairholme and Daubeney, who happened to leave the hotel
shortly before five o'clock in order to visit the yacht and secure a
good cup of tea.
Brett refused to accompany them, on the ground that his Italian scout,
the pilot, might bring news at any hour, and he must remain within
immediate call.
It was a supreme moment when Gros Jean halted and called general
attention to the smart-looking vessel and the tea-drinkers.
Sir Hubert keenly examined the top of the funnel, and tried
simultaneously to yawn and light a cigar. In the result he nearly choked
himself. Mr. Winter, somewhat more prepared for emergencies, endeavoured
to interest Gros Jean in the wonderful clearness of the water.
But Hussein-ul-Mulk and his two sedate friends suddenly betrayed a keen
interest in Fairholme.
When they last met the earl on the tower of the Chateau d'If they were
so engrossed in the object of their visit to Marseilles that he had
passed them unnoticed.
But now, looking steadily at him--for Fairholme was seated facing them,
and was striving to maintain the semblance of an animated chat with
Edith--there came to the Turks a memory, each instant becoming more
definite, of an exciting scene in the Rue Barbette, and the opportune
arrival of a stalwart young Englishman, backed up by a couple of
gendarmes.
Hussein-ul-Mulk's swarthy countenance reddened with suspicious anger. He
drew Gros Jean on one side and whispered something to him. The Frenchman
started violently.
"They have recognized you, Bobby!" murmured the quick-witted Edith.
"Oh, why didn't we remain with Mr. Brett!"
There is no knowing what might have happened had not Fate stepped in to
decide in dramatic fashion the important issues at stake.
Whilst Gros Jean and the Turk were still conferring in stealthy tones,
and the English people endeavoured to keep up an appearance of complete
unconcern, a tramp steamer swung round the corner of the mole that
protects the harbour.
In tow, with sails trimly furled and six people standing on her small
deck--a lady and gentleman and four sailors--was the _Belles Soeurs_,
fishing-smack No. 107, from Marseilles. Instantly a watcher, otherwise
unperceived, ran off from the quay at top speed towards the Hotel de
France.
Gros Jean, the Turks, Edith, Fairholme--each and every member of the two
parties on the wharf and on the deck of the _Blue-Bell_--momentarily
forgot the minor excitement of the situation in view of this unexpected
apparition.
"_Voilà! Ils viennent! Venez vite!_" cried Gros Jean.
He ran further along the quay, followed by the Turks.
"Quick, Bobby! Oh, Jack, do something! Mr. Brett could not foresee this,
though he seemed to have an inspiration that kept him in the hotel. What
can we do? Dubois and the girl will know you at once! Jack, shouldn't
you keep out of sight?--go below--go and fetch Mr. Brett. Oh, dear, this
is dreadful!"
Thus did Edith, for once yielding to feminine irresolution, appeal to
her lover and brother, vainly seeking to discover the best line of
action to follow in this disastrous circumstance, for she knew that the
diamonds must now be in the personal possession of Dubois. It was a
golden opportunity to recover the stolen gems. If once he eluded the
grasp of his pursuers after landing they might--probably would--secure
him, but not the diamonds.
Daubeney, now purple with perplexity, and Fairholme, swearing softly
under his breath, sprang from the deck to the low wall of the quay.
Almost unconsciously they joined Sir Hubert and Mr. Winter. Edith
followed them. She glanced at her brother. He was gazing curiously,
vindictively, at the two figures on the deck of the _Belles Soeurs_.
There was a fierce gleam in his eyes, a set expression in his closed
lips, a nervous twitching at the corners of his mouth, that betokened
the overpowering emotions of the moment.
With a woman's intuition Edith realized that no power on earth, no
consideration of expediency, would restrain him from laying violent
hands on Dubois at the first possible opportunity. She knew there must
be a struggle, in which Gros Jean and the Turks, perhaps the four
sailors, would participate. They might use knives and firearms, whereas
the Englishmen were unarmed.
So she ran back on board the yacht and cried to the Scotch engineer--
"Oh, Mr. Macpherson! Please come with some of your men! There may be a
fight on the wharf, and Mr. Daubeney and the others will be
outnumbered!"
Macpherson for once forgot his cautiousness. There was none of the
characteristic slowness of the Scottish nation in his manner or language
as he yelled down the fore-hatch: "Tumble up, there! Some damned
Eye-talians are goin' to hammer the boss. Bring along a monkey-wrench
or the first thing to hand. Shar-r-p's the wo-r-rd!"
Forthwith there poured from the hatchway a miscellaneous mob of seamen,
firemen and stewards. Following Edith and Macpherson, they ran along the
quay. Already there was something unusual in progress. Loungers by the
harbour, perceiving a disturbance, were running towards the scene of
action.
A solitary Italian policeman, swaggering jauntily over the paved
roadway, was suddenly startled out of his self-complacency.
"_Caramba!_" he shouted. Drawing his sabre, he broke into a run.
For matters had developed with melodramatic suddenness. Casting off the
steamer's tow-ropes, the _Belles Soeurs_ swung alongside the wharf
much more easily and quickly than did the friendly vessel by whose aid
she had so soon reached Palermo.
Both steamer and smack had already been searched by the Customs'
officers, who boarded them in the quarantine station, and the reason
that the schooner had not been earlier sighted from the shore was
supplied by the mere chance that she was rendered invisible by close
proximity to her bigger companion.
The instant that the fishing-boat was tied to the wharf, Mlle. Beaucaire
sprang ashore. Gros Jean, breathless and excited, was there to greet
her. But the greeting between father and daughter was not very cordial.
The innkeeper seemed to be dumbfounded with surprise at her early
arrival.
Dubois followed more leisurely. He took no notice of Gros Jean, and
appeared to be looking around for a cab. Two of the sailors were handing
up a couple of portmanteaus from the deck. Hussein-ul-Mulk and the two
other Turks, unable to restrain their excitement, crowded round the
pink-and-white Frenchman, jabbering volubly, but Mademoiselle and her
father moved some slight distance away.
At this juncture Mr. Winter strode resolutely forward, seized Dubois
firmly by the shoulder, and said--
"Henri Dubois! In the name of the King of England I arrest you for the
murder of----"
The detective's words were stopped by a blow.
A wild struggle promptly ensued. The man turned on him like a tiger, and
the Turks joined in. Gros Jean, too, ran back to take a hand in the
fray. Fairholme, Sir Hubert, Daubeney and Talbot flung themselves on the
would-be rescuers, and the four French sailors of the _Belles Soeurs_
leaped ashore to assist their passenger in this unlooked-for attack.
Frantic yells and oaths came from the confused mob, and knives were
drawn. Talbot had but one desire in life--to get his fingers on Dubois'
throat. He had almost reached him, for Winter clung to his prey with
bull-dog tenacity, when an astounding thing happened. The Frenchman's
handsome moustaches fell off, and beneath the clever make-up on her face
were visible the boldly handsome features of La Belle Chasseuse, now
distorted by rage and fear.
"You fool!" yelled Talbot to Winter. "You have let him escape!"
Tearing himself from the midst of the fight, he was just in time to see
the female figure, which he now knew must be Dubois masquerading in his
mistress's clothes, jumping into a cab and driving off towards the Corso
Vittorio Emmanuele.
"Come on, Fairholme!" he cried. "He cannot get away! Here comes an empty
carriage!"
But now Macpherson and his allies had reached the scene. Using a
"monkey-wrench or the first thing to hand," they placed the Turks, Gros
Jean, and the crew of the _Belles Soeurs_ on the casualty list.
Mr. Winter's indignation on finding that he had arrested a woman was
painful. In his astonishment he released his grasp and turned to look at
the disappearing vehicle containing the criminal he so ardently longed
to lay hands upon.
La Belle Chasseuse, with the vicious instinct of her class, felt that
Talbot's pursuit of her lover must be stopped at all costs.
She suddenly produced a revolver and levelled it at him. Fairholme and
Edith alone noted her action. At the same instant they rushed towards
her, but the girl reached her first.
With a frenzied prayer that she might be in time--for she had been told
of this woman's prowess with a pistol--Edith caught hold of her wrist
and pulled it violently. Her grip not only disconcerted Mademoiselle's
deadly aim, but also caused her to press the trigger. There was a loud
report, a scream, and Edith collapsed to the ground with a severe bullet
wound in her left shoulder. Even her cloth jacket was set on fire by the
close proximity of the weapon.
It is to be feared that Fairholme flung La Belle Chasseuse from off the
quay into the harbour with unnecessary violence. Indeed, the Italian
onlookers, not accustomed to sanguinary broils, subsequently agreed that
this was the _pièce de resistance_ of the spectacle, for the lady was
pitched many feet through the air before she struck the water, whence
she was rescued with some difficulty.
[Illustration: "Fairholme flung La Belle Chasseuse with unnecessary
violence." --_Page 278._]
Careless how or where Mademoiselle ended her flight, the earl dropped on
his knees beside Edith and quickly pressed out the flames of the burning
cloth with his hands. He burnt himself badly in the act, but of this he
was insensible. Then he bent closer and looked desperately, almost
hopelessly, into her face.
"Speak to me, darling!" he moaned in such a low, broken-hearted voice
that even Sir Hubert, himself almost mad with grief, realized how the
other suffered.
Edith heard him. She opened her eyes, and smiled bravely.
"I don't think it is serious," she murmured. "I was hit high
up--somewhere in the shoulder. Don't fret, there's a dear."
Then she fainted.
Not knowing why Fairholme did not join him, Talbot raced towards the
carriage he had seen approaching. It was a smart vehicle, with a sleek,
well-groomed horse, and he guessed that it must be a private conveyance.
Gazing anxiously around, he could not see another carriage anywhere in
the vicinity. There was nothing for it but the method of the brutal
Saxon. Explanations would need precious time and might be wasted. So
Talbot jumped into the victoria, hauled the coachman off the box, threw
him into the roadway, seized the reins, and climbed into the vacant
seat.
Brett, hurrying with the pilot from the Hotel de France, saw a veiled
and curious-looking female vehemently urging the driver of a carriage to
proceed up the main street of Palermo as fast as his horse could travel.
Even in the turmoil of thought caused by the pilot's intelligence he
noted something peculiar in the lady's manner. Half a minute later he
encountered Talbot, driving an empty vehicle and furiously compelling
with reins and whip a lazy animal to exert himself.
Brett shouted to him. He might as well have addressed a whirlwind.
"I saw them all together on the yacht when I came away, signor,"
exclaimed the pilot. "That is, all except the old signor, who was
walking with some Turks, a Frenchman, and another who looked like an
Englishman."
"The old signor was walking with the Turks?" cried Brett.
"Without doubt. He conversed with them. I thought it strange that he
took no notice of those on board the yacht, but just then the
steamer----"
"Now," said Brett to himself, "Winter has arrested somebody. Talbot is
on the right track!"
Yielding to impulse he stopped suddenly and called a cab.
"Here!" he said to the pilot, "ask the driver if he saw two carriages
pass up the Corso just now at a very fast pace? Very well! Tell him to
follow them if possible. Jump in with me. I may need your services as
interpreter. We must overtake one or both of those carriages!"