Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MORE MYSTERY

  Nothing definite, however, could I gather from the hotel people.

  They knew nothing, and seemed highly annoyed that such an incidentshould occur in their quiet and highly aristocratic house.

  Next day Sylvia waited for news of her father, but none came.

  Delanne called about eleven o'clock in the morning, and had a briefinterview with her in private. What passed between them I know not,save that the man, whose real name was Guertin, met me rather coldlyand afterwards bade me adieu.

  I hated the fellow. He was always extremely polite, always just alittle sarcastic, and yet, was he not the associate of the manReckitt?

  I wished to leave Paris and return to London, but Sylvia appeared alittle anxious to remain. She seemed to expect some secretcommunication from her father.

  "Thank Heaven!" she said, on the day following Delanne's call, "fatherhas escaped them. That was surely a daring dash he made. He knew thatthey intended to kill him."

  "But I don't understand," I said. "Do you mean they would kill himopenly?"

  "Of course. They have no fear. Their only fear is while he remainsalive."

  "But the law would punish them."

  "No, it would not," she responded, shaking her head gravely. "Theywould contrive an 'accident.'"

  "Well," I said, "he has evaded them, and we must be thankful for that.Do you expect to hear from him?"

  "Yes," she replied, "I shall probably receive a message to-night. Thatis why I wish to remain, Owen. I wonder," she added ratherhesitatingly, "I wonder whether you would consider it very strange ofme if I asked you to let me go out to-night at ten o'clock alone?"

  "Well, I rather fear your going out alone and unprotected at thathour, darling," I responded.

  "Ah! have no fear whatever for me. I shall be safe enough. They willnot attempt anything just now. I am quite confident of that. I--I wantto go forth alone, for an hour or so."

  "Oh, well, if it is your distinct wish, how can I refuse, dear?"

  "Ah!" she cried, putting her arm fondly about my neck, "I knew youwould not refuse me. I shall go out just before ten, and I will beback long before midnight. You will excuse my absence, won't you?"

  "Certainly," I said. And thus it was arranged.

  Her request, I admit, puzzled me greatly, and also caused meconsiderable fear. My past experience had aroused within me a constantphantom of suspicion.

  We lunched at the Ritz, and in the afternoon took a taxi into theBois, where we spent an hour upon a seat in one of the by-paths ofthat beautiful wood of the Parisians. On our return to the hotel,Sylvia was all eagerness for a message, but there was none.

  "Ah! he is discreet!" she exclaimed to me, when the _concierge_ hadgiven her a negative reply. "He fears to send me word openly."

  At ten o'clock that night, however, she had exchanged her dinner gownfor a dark stuff dress, and, with a small black hat, and a boa abouther neck, she came to kiss me.

  "I won't be very long, dearest," she said cheerily. "I'll get back theinstant I can. Don't worry after me. I shall be perfectly safe, Iassure you."

  But recollections of Reckitt and his dastardly accomplice arose withinme, and I hardly accepted her assurance, even though I made pretenceof so doing.

  For a few moments I held her in my arms tenderly, then releasing her,she bade me _au revoir_ merrily, and we descended into the halltogether.

  A taxi was called, and I heard her direct the driver to go to theBoulevard Pereire. Then, waving her hand from the cab window, shedrove away.

  Should I follow? To spy upon her would be a mean action. It would showa lack of confidence, and would certainly irritate and annoy her. Yetwas she not in peril? Had she not long ago admitted herself to be insome grave and mysterious danger?

  I had only a single moment in which to decide. Somehow I felt impelledto follow and watch that she came to no harm; yet, at the same time, Iknew that it was not right. She was my wife, and I dearly loved herand trusted her. If discovered, my action would show her that I wassuspicious.

  Still I felt distinctly apprehensive, and it was that apprehensionwhich caused me, a second later, to seize my hat, and, walking out ofthe hotel, hail a passing taxi, and drive quickly to the quiet, highlyrespectable boulevard to which she had directed her driver.

  I suppose it was, perhaps, a quarter of an hour later when we turnedinto the thoroughfare down the centre of which runs the railway in adeep cutting. The houses were large ones, let out in fine flats, theresidences mostly of the professional and wealthier tradesman classes.

  We went along, until presently I caught sight of another taxi standingat the kerb. Therefore I dismissed mine, and, keeping well in theshadow, sauntered along the boulevard, now quiet and deserted.

  With great precaution I approached the standing taxi on the oppositeside of the way. There was nobody within. It was evidently awaitingsome one, and as it was the only one in sight I concluded that it mustbe the same which Sylvia had taken from the hotel.

  Some distance further on I walked, when, before me, I recognized herneat figure, and almost a moment afterwards saw her disappear into alarge doorway which was in complete darkness--the doorway of whatseemed to be an untenanted house.

  I halted quickly and waited--yet almost ashamed of myself for spyingthus.

  A moment later I saw that, having believed herself unobserved, shestruck a match, but for what reason did not seem apparent. Sheappeared to be examining the wall. She certainly was not endeavouringto open the door. From the distance, however, I was unable todistinguish very plainly.

  The vesta burned out, and she threw it upon the ground. Then shehurriedly retraced her steps to where she had left her cab, and I wascompelled to bolt into a doorway in order to evade her.

  She passed quite close to me, and when she had driven away I emerged,and, walking to the doorway, also struck a light and examined the samestone wall. At first I could discover nothing, but after considerablesearching my eyes at last detected a dark smudge, as though somethinghad been obliterated.

  It was a cryptic sign in lead pencil, and apparently she had drawn herhand over it to remove it, but had not been altogether successful.Examining it closely, I saw that the sign, as originally scrawled uponthe smooth stone, was like two crescents placed back to back, whileboth above and below rough circles had been drawn.

  The marks had evidently some prearranged meaning--one which sheunderstood. It was a secret message from her father, without a doubt!

  At risk of detection by some agent of police, I made a further closeexamination of the wall, and came upon two other signs which had alsobeen hurriedly obliterated--one of three double triangles, and anotherof two oblongs and a circle placed in conjunction. But there was nowriting; nothing, indeed, to convey any meaning to the uninitiated.

  The wall of that dark entry, however, was no doubt the means of anexchange of secret messages between certain unknown persons.

  The house was a large one, and had been let out in flats, as were itsneighbours; but for some unaccountable reason--perhaps owing to a lawdispute--it now remained closed.

  I was puzzled as to which of the three half-obliterated signs Sylviahad sought. But I took notice of each, and then walked back in thedirection whence I had come.

  I returned at once to the hotel, but my wife had not yet come back.This surprised me. And I was still further surprised when she did notarrive until nearly one o'clock in the morning. Yet she seemed veryhappy--unusually so.

  Where had she been after receiving that secret message, I wondered?Yet I could not question her, lest I should betray my watchfulness.

  "I'm so sorry to have left you alone all this long time, Owen," shesaid, as she entered the room and came across to kiss me. "But it wasquite unavoidable."

  "Is all well?" I inquired.

  "Quite," was her reply. "My father is already out of France."

  That was all she would vouchsafe to me. Still I saw that she wasgreatly
gratified at the knowledge of his escape from his mysteriousenemies.

  The whole situation was extraordinary. Why should this man Delanne,the friend of Reckitt and no doubt a member of a gang of blackmailersand assassins, openly pursue him to the death? It was an entireenigma. I could discern no light through the veil of mystery whichhad, all along, so completely enshrouded Pennington and his daughter.

  Still I resolved to put aside all apprehensions. Why should I trouble?

  I loved Sylvia with all my heart, and with all my soul. She was mine!What more could I desire?

  Next evening we returned to Wilton Street. She had suddenly expresseda desire to leave Paris, perhaps because she did not wish to againmeet her father's enemy, that fat Frenchman Guertin.

  For nearly a month we lived in perfect happiness, frequently visitingthe Shuttleworths for the day, and going about a good deal in town.She urged me to go to Carrington to shoot, but, knowing that she didnot like the old place, I made excuses and remained in London.

  "Father is in Roumania," she remarked to me one morning when she hadbeen reading her letters at the breakfast-table. "He sends hisremembrances to you from Bucharest. You have never been there, Isuppose? I'm extremely fond of the place. There is lots of life, andthe Roumanians are always so very hospitable."

  "No," I said, "I've never been to Bucharest, unfortunately, thoughI've been in Constanza, which is also in Roumania. Remember me to yourfather when you write, won't you?"

  "Certainly. He wonders whether you and I would care to go out therefor a month or two?"

  "In winter?"

  "Winter is the most pleasant time. It is the season in Bucharest."

  "As you please, dearest," I replied. "I am entirely in your hands, asyou know," I laughed.

  "That's awfully sweet of you, Owen," she declared. "You are alwaysindulging me--just like the spoilt child I am."

  "Because I love you," I replied softly, placing my hand upon hers andlooking into her wonderful eyes.

  She smiled contentedly, and I saw in those eyes the genuine love-look:the expression which a woman can never feign.

  Thus the autumn days went past, happy days of peace and joy.

  Sylvia delighted in the theatre, and we went very often, while on dayswhen it was dry and the sun shone, I took her motoring to Brighton, toGuildford, to Tunbridge Wells, or other places on the well-knownroads out of London.

  The clouds which had first marred our happiness had now happily beendispelled, and the sun of life and love shone upon us perpetually.

  Sometimes I wondered whether that ideal happiness was not too completeto last. In the years I had lived I had become a pessimist. I feared atoo-complete ideal. The realization of our hopes is always followed bya poignant despair. In this world there is no cup of sweetness withoutdregs of bitterness. The man who troubles after the to-morrow createstrouble for himself, while he who is regardless of the future is likean ostrich burying its head in the sand at sign of disaster.

  Still, each of us who marry fondly believe ourselves to be the oneexception to the rule. And perhaps it is only human that it should beso. I, like you my reader, believed that my troubles were over, andthat all the lowering clouds had drifted away. They were, however,only low over the horizon, and were soon to reappear. Ah! howdifferently would I have acted had I but known what the future--thefuture of which I was now so careless--held in store for me!

  One night we had gone in the car to the Coliseum Theatre, for Sylviawas fond of variety performances as a change from the legitimatetheatre. As we sat in the box, I thought--though I could not becertain--that she made some secret signal with her fan to somebodyseated below amid the crowded audience.

  My back had been turned for a moment, and on looking round I feltconvinced that she had signalled. It was on the tip of my tongue torefer to it, yet I hesitated, fearing lest she might be annoyed. Itrusted her implicitly, and, after all, I might easily have mistaken aperfectly natural movement for a sign of recognition. Therefore Ilaughed at my own foolish fancy, and turned my attention again to theperformance.

  At last the curtain fell, and as we stood together amid the crush inthe vestibule, the night having turned out wet, I left her, to go insearch of our carriage.

  I suppose I was absent about two or three minutes, but on my return Icould not find her.

  She had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed herup.

  I waited until the theatre was entirely empty. I described her to theattendants, and I had a chat with the smart and highly popularmanager, but no one had seen her. She had simply disappeared.

  I was frantic, full of the wildest dread as to what had occurred. Howmadly I acted I scarcely knew. At last, seeing to remain longer wasuseless, now that the theatre had closed, I jumped into the broughamand drove with all haste to Wilton Street.

  "No, Mr. Owen," replied Browning to my breathless inquiry, "madam hasnot yet returned."

  I brushed past him and entered the study.

  Upon my writing-table there lay a note addressed to me.

  I recognized the handwriting in an instant, and with trembling fingerstore open the envelope.

  What I read there staggered me.