Aramon, and who insinuated that he was one of The Sparrow’s associates,
became most affable and talkative. Over those miles of dark roads,
unfamiliar to Hugh, they travelled at high speed, for Henri had from the
first showed himself to be an expert driver, not only in the unceasing
traffic of the main streets of Marseilles, but also on the dark,
much-worn roads leading out of the city. The roads around Marseilles
have never been outstanding for their excellence, and after the war they
were indeed execrable.
“This is Lancon,” the driver remarked, as they sped through the dark
little town. “We now go on to Salon, where we have a direct road across
the plain they call the Crau into Arles. From there the road to Cette is
quite good and straight. The road we are now on is the worst,” he added.
Hugh was undecided. Was the man who was driving him so rapidly out of
the danger zone his friend--or his enemy?
He sat there for over an hour unable to decide.
“This is an outlandish part of France,” he remarked to the driver
presently.
“Yes. But after Salon it is more desolate.”
“And is there no railway near?”
“After Salon, yes. It runs parallel with the road about two miles to the
north--the railway between Arles and Aix-en-Provence.”
“So if we get a breakdown, which I hope we shall not, we are not far
from a railway?” Hugh remarked, as through the night the heavy car tore
along that open desolate road.
As he sat there he thought of Dorise, wondering what had happened--and
of Louise. If he had obeyed his father’s wishes and married the latter
all the trouble would have been avoided, he thought. Yet he loved
Dorise--loved her with his whole soul.
And she doubted him.
Poor fellow! Hustled from pillar to post, and compelled to resort to
every ruse in order to avoid arrest for a crime which he did not commit,
yet about which he could not establish his innocence, he very
often despaired. At that moment he felt somehow--how he could not
explain--that he was in a very tight corner. He felt confident after two
hours of reflection that he was being driven over these roads that
night in order that the police should gain time to execute some legal
formality for his arrest.
Why had not the police of Marseilles arrested him? There was some subtle
motive for sending him to Cette.
He had not had time to send a telegram to Mr. Peters in London, or to
Monsieur Gautier, the name by which The Sparrow told him he was known at
his flat in the Rue des Petits Champs, in the centre of Paris. He longed
to be able to communicate with his all-powerful friend, but there had
been no opportunity.
Suddenly the car began to pass through banks of mist, which are usual at
night over the low marshes around the mouths of the Rhone. It was about
half-past two in the morning. They had passed through the long dark
streets of Salon, and were already five or six miles on the broad
straight road which runs across the marshes through St. Martin-de-Crau
into Arles.
Of a sudden Hugh declared that he must have a cigarette, and producing
his case handed one to the driver and took one himself. Then he lit the
man’s, and afterwards his own.
“It is cold here on the marshes, monsieur,” remarked the driver, his
cigarette between his lips. “This mist, too, is puzzling. But it is
nearly always like this at night. That is why nobody lives about here.”
“Is it quite deserted?”
“Yes, except for a few shepherds, and they live up north at the foot of
the hills.”
For some ten minutes or so they kept on, but Hugh had suddenly become
very watchful of the driver.
Presently the man exclaimed in French:
“I do not feel very well!”
“What is the matter?” asked Hugh in alarm. “You must not be taken ill
here--so far from anywhere!”
But the man was evidently unwell, for he pulled up the car.
“Oh! my head!” he cried, putting both hands to his brow as the cigarette
dropped from his lips. “My head! It seems as if it will burst! And--and
I can’t see! Everything is going round--round! Where--_where am I_?”
“You are all right, my friend. Get into the back of the car and rest.
You will be yourself very quickly.”
And he half dragged the man from his seat and placed him in the back of
the car, where he fell inert and unconscious.
The cigarette which The Sparrow had given to Hugh only to be used in
case of urgent necessity had certainly done its work. The man, whether
friend or enemy, would now remain unconscious for many hours.
Hugh, having settled him in the bottom of the car, placed a rug over
him. Then, mounting to the driver’s place, he turned the car and drove
as rapidly as he dared back over the roads to Salon.
Time after time, he wondered whether he had been misled; whether, after
all, the man who had driven him was actually acting under The Sparrow’s
orders. If so, then he had committed a fatal error!
However, the die was cast. He had acted upon his own initiative, and if
a net had actually been spread to catch him he had successfully broken
through it. He laughed as he thought of the police at Cette awaiting
his arrival, and their consternation when hour after hour passed without
news of the car from Marseilles.
At Salon he passed half way through the town to cross roads where he had
noticed in passing a sign-board which indicated the road to Avignon--the
broad high road from Marseilles to Paris.
Already he had made up his mind how to act. He would get to Avignon,
and thence by express to Paris. The _rapides_ from Marseilles and the
Riviera all stopped at the ancient city of the Popes.
Therefore, being a good motor driver, Hugh started away down the
long road which led through the valley to Orgon, and thence direct to
Avignon, which came into sight about seven o’clock in the morning.
Before entering the old city of walls and castles Hugh turned into a
side road about two miles distant, drove the car to the end, and opening
a gate succeeded in getting it some little distance into a wood, where
it was well concealed from anyone passing along the road.
Then, descending and ascertaining that the driver was sleeping
comfortably from the effects of the strong narcotic, he took his bag and
walked into the town.
At the railway station he found the through express from
Ventimiglia--the Italian frontier--to Paris would be due in twenty
minutes, therefore he purchased a first-class ticket for Paris, and in
a short time was taking his morning coffee in the _wagon-restaurant_ on
his way to the French capital.
TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
THE MAN CATALDI
On the day that Hugh was travelling in hot haste to Paris, Charles
Benton arrived in Nice early in the afternoon.
Leaving the station it was apparent he knew his way about the town,
for passing down the Avenue de la Gare, with its row of high eucalyptus
trees, to the Place Massena, he plunged into the narrow, rather
evil-smelling streets of the old quarter.
Before a house in the Rue Rossette he paused, and ascending to a flat
on the third floor, rang the bell. The door was slowly opened by an
elderly, rather shabbily-attired Italian.
It was Yvonne’s late servant at the Villa Amette, Giulio Cataldi.
The old man drew back on recognizing his visitor.
“Well, Cataldi!” exclaimed the well-dressed adventurer cheerily. “I’m
quite a stranger--am I not? I was in Nice, and I could not leave without
calling to see you.”
The old man, with ill-grace scarcely concealed, invited him into his
shabby room, saying:
“Well, Signor Benton, I never thought to see you again.”
“Perhaps you didn’t want to--eh? After that little affair in Brussels.
But I assure you it was not my fault. Mademoiselle Yvonne made the
blunder.”
“And nearly let us all into the hands of the police--including The
Sparrow himself!” growled the old fellow.
“Ah! But all that has long blown over. Now,” he went on, after he had
offered the old man a cigar. “Now the real reason I’ve called is to ask
you about this nasty affair concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne. You were
there that night. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” the old fellow declared promptly. “Since that night I’ve
earned an honest living. I’m a waiter in a cafe in the Avenue de la
Gare.”
“A most excellent decision,” laughed the well-dressed man. “It is not
everyone who can afford to be honest in these hard times. I wish I could
be, but I find it impossible. Now, tell me, Giulio, what do you know
about the affair at the Villa Amette? The boy, Henfrey, went there to
demand of Mademoiselle how his father died. She refused to tell him,
angry words arose--and he shot her. Now, isn’t that your theory--the
same as that held by the police?”
The old man looked straight into his visitor’s face for a few moments.
Then he replied quite calmly:
“I know nothing, Signor Benton--and I don’t want to know anything. I’ve
told the police all I know. Indeed, when they began to inquire into my
antecedents I was not very reassured, I can tell you.”
“I should think not,” laughed Benton. “Still, they never suspected you
to be the man wanted for the Morel affair--an unfortunate matter that
was.”
“Yes,” sighed the old fellow. “Please do not mention it,” and he turned
away to the window as though to conceal his guilty countenance.
“You mean that you _know_ something--but you won’t tell it!” Benton
said.
“I know nothing,” was the old fellow’s stubborn reply.
“But you know that the young fellow, Henfrey, is guilty!” exclaimed
Benton. “Come! you were there at the time! You heard high words between
them--didn’t you?”
“I have already made my statement to the police,” declared the old
Italian. “What else I know I shall keep to myself.”
“But I’m interested in ascertaining whether Henfrey is innocent or
guilty. Only two persons can tell us that--Mademoiselle, who is, alas!
in a hopeless mental state, and yourself. You know--but you refuse to
incriminate the guilty person. Why don’t you tell the truth? You know
that Henfrey shot her!”
“I tell you I know nothing,” retorted the old man. “Why do you come here
and disturb me?” he added peevishly.
“Because I want to know the truth,” Benton answered. “And I mean to!”
“Go away!” snapped the wilful old fellow. “I’ve done with you all--all
the crowd of you!”
“Ah!” laughed Benton. “Then you forget the little matter of the man
Morel--eh? That is not forgotten by the police, remember!”
“And if you said a word to them, Signor Benton, then you would implicate
yourself,” the old man growled. Seeing hostility in the Englishman’s
attitude he instantly resented it.
“Probably. But as I have no intention of giving you away, my dear
Giulio, I do not think we need discuss it. What I am anxious to do is to
establish the guilt--or the innocence--of Hugh Henfrey,” he went on.
“No doubt. You have reason for establishing his guilt--eh?”
“No. Reasons for establishing his innocence.”
“For your own ends, Signor Benton,” was the shrewd old man’s reply.
“At one time there was a suspicion that you yourself had fired at
Mademoiselle.”
“What!” gasped the old man, his countenance changing instantly. “Who
says that?” he asked angrily.
“The police were suspicious, I believe. And as far as I can gather they
are not yet altogether satisfied.”
“Ah!” growled the old Italian in a changed voice. “They will have to
prove it!”
“Well, they declare that the shot was fired by either one or the
other of you,” Benton said, much surprised at the curious effect the
allegation had upon the old fellow.
“So they think that if the Signorino Henfrey is innocent I am guilty of
the murderous attack--eh?”
Benton nodded.
“But they are seeking to arrest the signorino!” remarked the Italian.
“Yes. That is why I am here--to establish his innocence.”
“And if I were to tell you that he was innocent I should condemn
myself!” laughed the crafty old man.
“Look here, Giulio,” said Benton. “I confess that I have long ago
regretted the shabby manner in which I treated you when we were all in
Brussels, and I hope you will allow me to make some little amend.” Then,
taking from his pocket-book several hundred-franc notes, he doubled them
up and placed them on the table.
“Ah!” said the old man. “I see! You want to _buy_ my secret! No, take
your money!” he cried, pushing it back towards him contemptuously. “I
want none of it.”
“Because you are now earning an honest living,” Benton sneered.
“Yes--and Il Passero knows it!” was Cataldi’s bold reply.
“Then you refuse to tell me anything you know concerning the events of
that night at the Villa Amette?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “Take your money, and leave me in peace!”
“And I have come all the way from England to see you,” remarked the
disappointed man.
“Be extremely careful. You have enemies, so have I. They are the same as
those who denounced the signorino to the police--as they will no doubt,
before long, denounce you!” said the old man.
“Bah! You always were a pessimist, Giulio,” Benton laughed. “I do not
fear any enemies--I assure you. The Sparrow takes good care that we
are prevented from falling into any traps the police may set,” he added
after a moment’s pause.
The old waiter shook his head dubiously.
“One day there may be a slip--and it will cost you all very dearly,” he
said.
“You are in a bad mood, Giulio--like all those who exist by being
honest,” Benton laughed, though he was extremely annoyed at his failure
to learn anything from the old fellow.
Was it possible that the suspicions which both Molly and he had
entertained were true--namely, that the old man had attempted to kill
his mistress? After all, the hue-and-cry had been raised by the police
merely because Hugh Henfrey had fled and successfully escaped.
Benton, after grumbling because the old man would make no statement, and
again hinting at the fact that he might be the culprit, left with very
ill grace, his long journey from London having been in vain.
If Henfrey was to be free to marry Louise, then his innocence must first
be proved. Charles Benton had for many weeks realized that his chance of
securing old Mr. Henfrey’s great fortune was slowly slipping from him.
Once Hugh had married Louise and settled the money upon her, then the
rest would be easy. He had many times discussed it with Molly, and they
were both agreed upon a vile, despicable plot which would result in the
young man’s sudden end and the diversion of his father’s fortune.
The whole plot against old Mr. Henfrey was truly one of the most
elaborate and amazing ones ever conceived by criminal minds.
Charles Benton was a little too well known in Nice, hence he took care
to leave the place by an early train, and went on to Cannes, where he
was a little less known. As an international crook he had spent several
seasons at Nice and Monte Carlo, but had seldom gone to Cannes, as it
was too aristocratic and too slow for an _escroc_ like himself.
Arrived at Cannes he put up at the Hotel Beau Site, and that night ate
an expensive dinner in the restaurant at the Casino. Then, next day, he
took the _train-de-luxe_ direct for Calais, and went on to London, all
unconscious of the sensational events which were then happening.
On arrival in London he found a telegram lying upon his table among some
letters. It was signed “Shaw,” and urged him to meet him “at the usual
place” at seven o’clock in the evening. “I know you are away, but I’ll
look in each night at seven,” it concluded.
It was just six o’clock, therefore Benton washed and changed, and
just before seven o’clock entered a little cafe off Wardour Street,
patronized mostly by foreigners. At one of the tables, sitting alone,
was a wiry-looking, middle-aged man--Mr. Howell, The Sparrow’s friend.
“Well?” asked Howell, when a few minutes later they were walking along
Wardour Street together. “How did you get on in Nice?”
“Had my journey for nothing.”
“Wouldn’t the old man tell anything?” asked Howell eagerly.
“Not a word,” Benton replied. “But my firm opinion is that he himself
tried to kill Yvonne--that he shot her.”
“Do you really agree with me?” gasped Howell excitedly. “Of course,
there has, all along, been a certain amount of suspicion against him.
The police were once on the point of arresting him. I happen to know
that.”
“Well, my belief is that young Henfrey is innocent. I never thought so
until now.”
“Then we must prove Cataldi guilty, and Henfrey can marry Louise,”
Howell said. “But the reason I wanted to get in touch with you is that
the police went to Shapley.”
“To Shapley!” gasped Benton.
“Yes. They went there the night you left London. Evidently somebody has
given you away!”
“Given me away! Who in the devil’s name can it be? If I get to know who
the traitor is I--I’ll--by gad, I’ll kill him. I swear I will!”
“Who knows? Some secret enemy of yours--no doubt. Molly has been
arrested and has been up at Bow Street. They also arrested Louise, but
there being no charge against her, she has been released. I’ve sent her
up to Cambridge--to old Mrs. Curtis. I thought she’d be quite quiet and
safe there for a time.”
“But Molly arrested! What’s the charge?”
“Theft. An extradition warrant from Paris. That jeweller’s affair in the
Rue St. Honore, eighteen months ago.”
“Well, I hope they won’t bring forward other charges, or it will go
infernally bad with her. What has The Sparrow done?”
“He’s abroad somewhere--but I’ve had five hundred pounds from an unknown
source to pay for her defence. I saw the solicitors. Brigthorne, the
well-known barrister, appeared for her.”
“But all this is very serious, my dear Howell,” Benton declared, much
alarmed.
“Of course it is. You can’t marry the girl to young Henfrey until he is
proved innocent, and that cannot be until the guilt is fixed upon the
crafty old Giulio.”
“Exactly. That’s what we must do. But with Molly arrested we shall
be compelled to be very careful,” said Benton, as they turned toward
Piccadilly Circus. “I don’t see how we dare move until Molly is either
free or convicted. If she knew our game she might give us away. Remember
that if we bring off the Henfrey affair Molly has to have a share in the
spoils. But if she happens to be in a French prison she won’t get much
chance--eh?”
“If she goes it will be ten years, without a doubt,” Howell remarked.
“Yes. And in the meantime much can happen--eh?” laughed Benton.
“Lots. But one reassuring fact is that, as far as old Henfrey’s fate
is concerned, Mademoiselle’s lips are closed. Whoever shot her did us a
very good turn.”
“Of course. But I agree we must fix the guilt upon old Cataldi. He
almost as good as admitted it by his face when I taxed him with it. Why
not give him away to the Nice police?”
“No, not yet. Certainly not,” exclaimed Howell.
“It’s a pity The Sparrow does not know about the Henfrey business. He
might help us. Dare we tell him? What do you think?”
“Tell him! Good Heavens! No! Surely you are fully aware how he always
sets his face against any attempt upon human life, and no one who has
taken life has ever had his forgiveness,” said Howell. “The Sparrow is
our master--a fine and marvellous mind which has no equal in Europe. If
he had gone into politics he could have been the greatest statesman
of the age. But he is Il Passero, the man who directs affairs of every
kind, and the man at the helm of every great enterprise. Yet his one
fixed motto is that life shall not be taken.”
“But in old Henfrey’s case we acted upon our own initiative,” remarked
Benton.
“Yes. Yours was a wonderfully well-conceived idea. And all worked
without a hitch until young Henfrey’s visit to Monte Carlo, and his
affection for that girl Ranscomb.”
“We are weaning him away from her,” Benton said. “At last the girl’s
suspicions are excited, and there is just that little disagreement
which, broadening, leads to the open breach. Oh! my dear Howell, how
could you and I live if it were not for that silly infection called
love? In our profession love is all-conquering. Without it we could make
no progress, no smart coups, no conquests of women who afterwards shed
out to us money which at the assizes they would designate by the ugly
word ‘blackmail.’”
“Ah! Charles. You were always a philosopher,” laughed his companion--the
man who was a bosom friend of The Sparrow. “But it carries us no nearer.
We must, at all costs, fix the hand that shot Yvonne.”
“Giulio shot her--without a doubt!” was Benton’s quick reply.
They were standing together on the kerb outside the Tube station at
Piccadilly Circus as Benton uttered the words.
“Well, my dear fellow, then let us prove it,” said Howell. “But not yet,
remember. We must first see how it goes with Molly. She must be watched
carefully. Of course, I agree that Giulio Cataldi shot Yvonne. Later we
will prove that fact, but the worst of it is that the French police are
hot on the track of young Henfrey.”
“How do you know that?” asked his companion quickly.
“Well,” he answered, after a second’s hesitation, “I heard so two days
ago.”
Then Howell, pleading an urgent meeting with a mutual friend, also a
crook like themselves, grasped the other’s hand, and they parted.
TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
LISETTE’S DISCLOSURES
At ten o’clock on the morning that Hugh Henfrey left Avignon for Paris,
The Sparrow stood at the window of his cozy little flat in the Rue des
Petits Champs, where he was known to his elderly housekeeper--a worthy
old soul from Yvetot, in the north--as Guillaume Gautier.
The house was one of those great old ones built in the days of the First
Empire, with a narrow entrance and square courtyard into which the
stage coaches with postilions rumbled before the days of the P.L.M. and
aircraft. In the Napoleonic days it had been the residence of the Dukes
de Vizelle, but in modern times it had been converted into a series of
very commodious flats.
The Sparrow, sprightly and alert, stood, after taking his _cafe au
lait_, looking down into the courtyard. He had been reading through
several letters and telegrams which had caused him some perturbation.
“They are playing me false!” he muttered, as he gazed out of the window.
“I’m certain of it--quite certain! But, Gad! If they do I’ll be even
with them! Who could have given Henfrey away in London--_and why_?”
He paced the length of the room, his teeth hard set and his hands
clenched.
“I thought they were all loyal after what I have done for them--after
the fortunes I have put into their pockets. Fancy! One of them a
well-known member of Parliament--another a director of one of the
soundest insurance companies! Nobody suspects the really great crooks.
It is only the little clumsy muddlers whom the police catch and the
judge makes examples of!”
Then crossing back to the window, he said aloud:
“Lisette ought to be here! She was due in from Toulouse at nine o’clock.
I hope nothing further has happened. One thing is satisfactory--young
Henfrey is safe.”
As a matter of fact, the girl had spoken to The Sparrow from her hotel
in Toulouse late on the previous night, and told him that her “friend
Hugh” was in Marseilles.
Even to the master criminal the whole problem was increasingly
complicated. He could not prove the innocence of young Henfrey, because
of the mysterious, sinister influence being brought to bear against him.
He had interested himself in aiding the young fellow to evade arrest,
because he had no desire that there should be a trial in which he and
his associates might be implicated.
The Sparrow hated trials of any sort. With him silence was golden, and
very wisely he would pay any sum rather than court publicity.
Half an hour went past, but the girl he expected did not put in an
appearance.
Monsieur Gautier--the man with the gloved hand--was believed by his
old housekeeper to be a rich and somewhat eccentric bachelor, who
was interested in old clocks and antique silver, and who travelled
extensively in order to purchase fine specimens. Indeed it was by that
description he was registered in the archives of the Surete, with the
observation that notwithstanding his foreign name he was an Englishman
of highest standing.
It was never dreamed that the bristly-haired alert little man, who was
so often seen in the salerooms of Paris when antique silver was being
sold, was the notorious Sparrow.
Lisette’s failure to arrive considerably disturbed him. He hoped that
nothing had happened to her. Time after time, he walked to the window
and looked out eagerly for her to cross the courtyard. In those rooms
he sometimes lived for weeks in safe obscurity, his neighbours regarding
him as a man of the greatest integrity, though a trifle eccentric in his
habits.