by Sax Rohmer
“Hullo!” came the latter’s voice from the next room.
“Nobody in there?”
“No. Empty room. Door’s locked. What’s up on your side?”
“Nothing. Mr. Lemage has joined us. Stand by for squalls. I’m going round to get in at the front-room window.”
He paused and listened. They all listened.
The rain droned monotonously on the roof, but there was no other sound.
Sheffield climbed out and passed around by the poplars and through the laurel bushes to the front. Dawson and Alden stood by the door. With a pair of handcuffs the inspector broke the glass, and, adopting the same method as the Frenchman, used his coat to protect his hands from the splintered pieces in forcing the catch. The rain came down in torrents. He was drenched to the skin.
Seizing the yellow blind, he tore it from the roller, and also pulled down the curtains. By the light of the bull’s-eye lantern which Dawson carried he surveyed the little sitting-room. Next, with a muttered exclamation, he leapt through and searched the one hiding-place — beneath a large sofa — which the room afforded.
On the common oval walnut table lay a caped overcoat and a rain-soaked silk hat.
The two doors — other than that guarded by Dawson and Alden — gave (1) on the room occupied by Harborne; (2) on the room occupied by Duquesne and Lemage. The keys were missing. The one window, other than that by which he had entered, was heavily barred, and in any case, visible from the front door of the cottage.
All five had seen their man enter; all had heard the banging door when Sheffield knocked. No possible exit had been unwatched for a single instant.
But the place was empty.
When the others, having searched painfully every inch of ground, joined the inspector in the front room, Harborne, taking up the silk-lined caped overcoat, observed something lying on the polished walnut beneath.
He uttered a hasty exclamation.
“Damn!” cried Duquesne at his elbow, characteristically saying the right thing at the wrong time. “A white odontoglossum crispum, with crimson spots!”
Across the table all exchanged glances.
“He is very handsome,” sighed the little Frenchman.
“That is an extreme privilege,” said his chief, shrugging composedly and lighting a cigarette. “It is so interesting to the women, and they are so useful. It was the women who restored your English Charles II. — but they were his ruin in the end. It is a clue, this white orchid, that inspires in me two solutions immediately.”
M. Duquesne suffered, temporarily, from a slight catarrh, occasioned, no doubt, by his wetting. But he lacked the courage to meet the drooping eye of his chief.
They were some distance from Laurel Cottage when Harborne, who carried the caped coat on his arm, exclaimed:
“By the way, who has the orchid?”
No one had it.
“M. Duquesne,” said Lemage calmly, “of all the stupid pigs you are the more complete.”
Sheffield ran back. Dawson had been left on duty outside the cottage. The inspector passed him and climbed back through the broken window. He looked on the table and searched, on hands and knees, about the floor.
“Dawson!”
“Sir?”
“You have heard or seen nothing suspicious since we left?”
Dawson, through the window, stared uncomprehendingly.
“Nothing, sir.”
The white orchid was missing.
CHAPTER XIX
THREE LETTERS
Sheard did not remain many minutes in Downing Street that night. The rooms were uncomfortably crowded and insupportably stuffy. A vague idea which his common sense was impotent to combat successfully, that he would see or hear from Séverac Bablon amidst that political crush proved to be fallacious — as common sense had argued. He wondered why his extraordinary friend — for as a friend he had come to regard him — had been unable to keep his appointment. He wondered when the promised news would be communicated.
That one of the Americans, or two, to whose presence he was becoming painfully familiar, had followed him since he had left the office he was well aware. But, as he had thrown off the man who had tried to follow him to Finchley Road, he was untroubled now. They had probably secured the Dulwich address; but that was due to no fault of his own, and, in any case, Bablon seemed to regard all their efforts with complete indifference. So, presumably, it did not matter.
On his way out he met two hot and burly gentlemen, rather ill-dressed, who were hastening in. Instinctively he knew them for detective officers. Hailing a cab at the corner, he sank restfully into the seat and felt in his pocket for his cigarette-case. There was a letter there also, which he did not recollect to have been there before he entered Downing Street.
In some excitement he took it out and opened the plain envelope.
It contained a correspondence-card and a letter. Both of these, and a third letter which reached its destination on the following morning, whilst all England and all France were discussing the amazing circumstances set forth in No. 2, are appended in full.
No. 1
“My dear Sheard, — I enclose the promised ‘exclusive to the Gleaner.’ It will appear in no other paper of London, but in two of Paris, to-morrow. Forgive me for sending you to Dulwich. I did so for a private purpose of my own, and rely upon your generous friendship to excuse the liberty. I write this prior to visiting Downing Street, where it will be quite impossible, amongst so many people, to speak to you. Do not fear that there exists any evidence of complicity between us. I assure you that you are safe.”
No. 2
“To the Editor of the Gleaner.
“Sir, — I desire to show myself, as always, a man of honour, and presume to request the freedom of your most valuable columns for that purpose. I address myself to the British public through the medium of the Gleaner as the most liberal journal in London, and that most opposed to government by plutocracy.
As the inventor of the digital system of identification, of the anthroposcopic method, and of the Code which bears my name, I am known to your readers, as well as for my years of labour against criminals of all classes and of all nations. I have been called the head of my profession, and shall I be accused of vanity if, with my hand upon my heart, I acknowledge that tribute and say, ‘It is well deserved’?
“Under date as above, I am resigning my office as Chief of that department which I have so long directed, being no more in a position to perform my duties as a man of honour, since I have been instructed to take charge of what is called ‘the Séverac Bablon case.’
“It is the first time that my duty to France has run contrary to my duty to the great, the marvellous man whom you know by that name, and to whom I owe all that I have, all that I am; whose orders I may not and would not disregard.
“By his instructions I performed to-day a little deception upon the representatives of English law and upon one of my esteemed colleagues — a most capable and honourable man, for whom I cherish extreme regard, and whom I would wish to see in the office I now resign. He is not one of Us, and in every respect is a suitable candidate for that high post.
“I was honoured, then, by instructions to impersonate my Leader. No reference here to my powers of disguise is necessary. I took the place of him you call Séverac Bablon at a certain Laurel Cottage in Dulwich. I entered with the key he had entrusted to me, too quickly to be arrested, if any had tried, and none made the attempt, which was an error of strategy (see Code, p-43). All in the dark I placed his coat and hat upon the table. I overlooked something in the gloom, but no matter. I correct my errors; it is the Secret. I was not otherwise disguised. It was not necessary. I waited until one of those watching broke into the little room at the back. I stood beside the window. Noiseless as the leopard I stepped behind him as he entered. I could have slain him with ease. I did not do so. I proclaimed myself. I was entering, too!
“Why should I name the man to whom I thus offered the one gre
at chance of a lifetime? No, I am so old at this game. He overlooked no more than another must have done — any more than I.
“But, although outside it poured with rain, my clothes were scarce wet. How had I watched and kept dry?
“He did not ask himself. No matter. I gave him his chance. We French, to-day, are sportsmen!
“I understand that my Leader brought about this contretemps with deliberation, in order to terminate my false position, and make prominent this statement, and I am instructed to remind my authorities that State secrets of international importance are in my possession and thus in his. But, lastly, I would assure France and the world that no blot of dishonour is upon my name because I have served two masters. My great Leader never did and never will employ this knowledge to any improper end. But he would have my Government know something — so very little — of his influence and of his power. He would have them recall those warrants for his apprehension that place him on a level with the Apache, the ruffian; that are an insult to a man who has never done wrong to a living soul, but who only has exercised the fundamental, the Divine, the Mosaic Law of Justice.
“I loved my work and I love France. But I grieve not. Other work will be given to me. I make my bow; I disappear. Adieu!
“I am, sir,
“Your obedient servant, “Victor Lemage “(late Service de Sûreté).”
No. 3
(Received by Lady Mary Evershed)
“When, in your brave generosity, you accompanied your friend and mine on her perilous journey to warn me that Mr. Oppner’s detectives had a plan for my capture, I knew, on the instant when you stepped into Laurel Cottage, that Miss Oppner had made a wise selection in the companion who should share her secret. I did not regret having confided that address to her discretion. The warning was unnecessary, but I valued it none the less. By an oversight, for which I reproach myself, a clue to your presence was left behind, when, but a few minutes before the police arrived, we left the cottage — which had served its purpose. But another of my good friends secured it, and I have it now. It is a white orchid. I have ventured to keep it, that it may remind me of the gratitude I owe to you both.”
CHAPTER XX
CLOSED DOORS
“Why can’t they open the doors? I can see there are people inside!”
A muffled roar, like that of a nearing storm at sea, drowned the querulous voice.
“Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!”
The monotonous orders of the police rose above the loud drone of the angry crowd.
Motor-buses made perilous navigation through the narrow street. The hooting of horns on taxi-cabs played a brisk accompaniment to the mournful chant. Almost from the Courts to the trebly guarded entrance of the Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank stretched that deep rank of victims. For, at the corner of Chancery Lane, the contents-bill of a daily paper thus displayed, in suitable order of precedence, the vital topics of the moment:
MISS PAULETTE DELOTUS NOT MARRIED
Australians’ Plucky Fight
IS SÉVERAC BABLON IN VIENNA?
BIG CITY BANK SMASH
SLUMP IN NICARAGUAN RAILS
To some, those closed doors meant the sacrifice of jewellery, of some part of the luxury of life; to others, they meant — the drop-curtain that blacked out the future, the end of the act, the end of the play.
“Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!”
“All right, constable,” said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling unmirthfully; “I’ll move on — and move out!”
He extricated himself from the swaying, groaning, cursing multitude, and stepped across to the opposite side of the street. Lost in unpleasant meditation, he stood, a spruce, military figure, bearing upon his exterior nothing indicative of the ruined man. He was quite unaware of the approach of a graceful, fair girl, whose fresh English beauty already had enslaved the imaginations of some fifty lawyers’ clerks returning from lunch. As ignorant of her train of conquests as Haredale was ignorant of her presence, she came up to him — and tears gleamed upon her lashes. She stood beside him, and he did not see her.
“Dick!”
The voice aroused him, and a flush came upon his tanned, healthy-looking face. A beam of gladness and admiration lost itself in a cloud, as mechanically he raised his hat, and, holding the girl’s hand, glanced uneasily aside, fearing to meet the anxious tenderness in the blue eyes which, now, were deepened to something nearer violet.
“It is true, then?” she asked softly.
He nodded, his lips grimly compressed.
“Who told you,” he questioned in turn, “that I had my poor scrapings in it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said wearily. “And it doesn’t matter much, does it?”
“Come away somewhere,” Haredale suggested. “We can’t stand here.”
In silence they walked away from the clamouring crowd of depositors.
“Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!”
“Where can we go?” asked the girl.
“Anywhere,” said Haredale, “where we can sit down. This will do.”
They turned into a cheap café, and, finding a secluded table, took their seats there, Haredale drearily ordering tea, without asking his companion whether she wanted it or not. It was improbable that Lady Mary Evershed had patronised such a tea-shop before, but the novelty of the thing did not interest her in the least. It was only her pride, the priceless legacy of British womanhood, which enabled her to preserve her composure — which checked the hot tears that burned in her eyes. For the mute misery in Haredale’s face was more than he could hide. With all his sang-froid, and all his training to back it, he was hard put to it to keep up even an appearance of unconcern.
Presently she managed to speak again, biting her lips between every few words.
“Had you — everything — there, Dick?”
He nodded.
“I was a fool, of course,” he said. “I never did have the faintest idea of business. There are dozens of sound investments — but what’s the good of whining? I have acted as unofficial secretary to Mr. Julius Rohscheimer for two years, and eaten my pride at every meal. But — I cannot begin all over again, Mary. I shall have to let him break me — and clear out.”
He dropped his clenched fists upon his knees, and under the little table a hand crept to his. He grasped it hard and released it.
Mary, with a strained look in her eyes, was drumming gloved fingers on the table.
“I detest Julius Rohscheimer!” she flashed. “He is a perfect octopus. Even father fears him — I don’t know why.”
Haredale smiled grimly.
“But there is someone who could prevent him from ruining your life, Dick,” she continued, glancing down at the table.
She did not look up for a few moments. Then, as Haredale kept silent, she was forced to do so. His grey eyes were fixed upon her face.
“Séverac Bablon? What do you know of him, Mary?”
She grew suddenly pale.
“I only know” — hesitating— “that is, I think, he is a man who, however misguided, has a love of justice.”
Haredale watched her.
“He is an up-to-date Claude Duval,” he said harshly. “It hurts me, rather, Mary, to hear you approve of him. Why do you do so? I have noticed something of this before. Do you forget that this man, for all the romance and mystery that surround him, still is no more than a common thief — a criminal?”
Mary’s lips tightened.
“He is not,” she said, meeting his eyes bravely. “That is a very narrow view, Dick-”
Then, seeing the pain in the grey eyes, and remembering that this man with whom she disputed had just lost his hopes in life — his hopes of her — she reached out impulsively and grasped his arm.
“Oh, Dick!” she said; “forgive me! But I am so utterly miserable, dear, that any poor little straw seems worth grasping at.”
So we must leave them; it was a situation full of poor
human pathos. The emotions surging within these two hearts would have afforded an interesting study for the magical pen of Charles Dickens.
But we cannot pause to essay it; the tide of our narrative bears us elsewhere.
Mr. J. J. Oppner, the pride of Wall Street, when, his fascinating daughter, Zoe, beside him, he rose to address his guests at the Hotel Astoria that evening, would have provided a study equally interesting to Charles Dickens or to the late Professor Darwin. It would have puzzled even the distinguished biologist to reconcile the two species, represented by Mr. Oppner and Zoe, with any common origin. The millionaire’s seamed and yellow face looked like nothing so much as a magnified section of a walnut. Whilst the girl, with her cloud of copper-dusted brown hair trapped within an Oriental head-dress, her piquant beauty enhanced, if that were possible, by the softly shaded lights, and the bewitching curves revealed by her evening gown borrowing a more subtle witchery from their sombre environment of black-coated plutocrats, justified the most inspired panegyric that ever had poured from the fountain-pen of a New York reporter. Mr. Oppner said:
“Gentlemen, — We have met this evening for a special purpose. With everyone’s permission, we will adjourn to another room and see how we can fix things up for Mr. Séverac Bablon.”
He led the way without loss of time, his small, dried figure lost between that of John Macready (“the King of Coolgardie”), a stalwart, iron-grey Irishman, and the unshapely bulk of Baron Hague, once more perilously adventured upon English soil.
Sir Leopold Jesson, trim, perfectly groomed, his high, bald cranium gleaming like the dome of Solomon’s temple, followed, deep in conversation with a red, raw-boned Scotsman, whose features seemed badly out of drawing, and whose eyebrows suggested shrimps. This was Hector Murray, the millionaire who had built and endowed more public baths and institutions than any man since the Emperor Vespasian. Last of all, went Julius Rohscheimer, that gross figurehead of British finance, saying, with a satirish smile, to Haredale, who had made an eighth at dinner: