CHAPTER XV
CONFIRMS CERTAIN SUSPICIONS
For yet another hour we sat together, but Lola would reveal nothingfurther.
She only repeated that serious warning, urging me to abandon thisinvestigation of the strange affair at Cromer.
She refused to tell me the name under which old Gregory was known inHatton Garden, and she likewise firmly declined to give me anyinformation concerning the curious code which had been found inGregory's room. Indeed, she affected ignorance of it, as well as of themysterious spot in Ealing "where the two C's meet."
"My uncle is in Antwerp," she told me in reply to a question. "I joinhim to-morrow, and then we go travelling--where, I have no idea. But youknow how erratic and sudden our movements necessarily are. The masterusually meets my uncle in Antwerp, going there regularly in the guise ofa diamond merchant."
"And you will not tell me the master's real name?" I askedpersuasively.
"I am not allowed. If you discover it for yourself, then I shall not beto blame," she said, with a meaning smile. "But do, I beg of you, giveup the search, M'sieu' Vidal. It can only end fatally if you stillpersist."
"You have warned me, Lola, and I thank you sincerely for doing so, but Ishall continue to act as I have begun."
"At your own peril--a deadly peril!" she ejaculated, with anapprehensive look.
"I must accept the risk," I said quietly. "And I intend to still standyour friend, Lola."
"But you must not, you cannot!" she protested. "Of course I most deeplyappreciate all that you have done for me--and how generous you havebeen, knowing that I am, alas! what I am. But I will not allow you torisk your life further on my account."
"That is really my own affair."
"No. It is mine. I am here to-day, in secret, solely to warn you--to askyou--to give up this inquiry, and allow the matter to rest a mystery,"she protested. "Will you not do this for my sake?" she pleaded.
For a few seconds I paused, smiling at her. Then I replied--
"No. I cannot promise that. Young Craig was foully murdered, of that Iam confident, and I intend to unravel the mystery."
"Even though it costs you your life?" she asked slowly.
Why, I wondered, was she so frantically anxious for me to abandon theinquiry? Was it really because she feared that her uncle might attemptto rid himself of me, or had she some other hidden motive?
The expression upon her sweet face had altered. It was eager andapprehensive--a curious look, such as I had never witnessed therebefore.
Deeply in earnest, she was persuading me, with all the arts of whichshe, as a woman, was capable to give up the investigation--why?
My refusal evidently caused her the greatest anxiety--even deadly fear.She would, however, reveal nothing more to me. Therefore, I told herpoint-blank that I would make her no promise.
"But you will think over my words," she said earnestly. "You will beforewarned of the evil that is intended!"
"If there is evil, then I will combat it," I replied briefly. "My firstconcern is yourself, Lola. Do you remember our confidential talks whenwe strolled together in the Bois--when you told me all your troubles,and your fears?"
"Yes," she replied in a strange, dreary voice. "But--but, I did not tellyou all. You do not know," she added in a whisper.
"Tell me all," I urged. "I know you are--well, let us say it quiteplainly--a thief."
"Ah! If I were only _that_, I might dare to look you in the face--tocrave your sympathy--your interest--your generosity once again. But Icannot. No! I cannot," and she burst into tears.
"Are we not friends?" I queried. "And between friends surely there maybe confidences."
"To a certain degree, yes. But there is a limit even to confidencesbetween friends," was her slow, thoughtful reply, as she dried her eyeswith a little wisp of lace.
I was disappointed. I had fully expected to obtain from her some cluewhich might lead to a solution of the mystery of Craig's death. But shewas obdurate.
"Lola," I said, taking her trembling hand again, "I wish to tell yousomething."
"Well, what is it?" she asked.
"Simply this. I think I ought to tell you that, near that seat on thecliff at Cromer, where Craig was found, there was discovered a clearprint of a lady's shoe," and I watched her countenance narrowly.
Her face went paler in an instant, and in her eyes showed a quick lookof terror. But in a second she had recovered herself, and said--
"That is interesting. Do you think that its presence there gives anyclue to the assassin?"
"I don't know," was my reply. I stood before her in wonder. Her perfectsang-froid was truly amazing. "But," I went on, "curiously enough, thesame lady's shoe was found in Beacon House, after Gregory's property hadbeen carried off. It fitted exactly the imprint in the sand near theseat."
The only sign that her mind was perturbed by my knowledge was a slighttwitching at the corners of her pretty mouth. Yes, she preserved anastounding calm.
"That is curious," she remarked with unconcern.
"Very," I declared, still gazing fixedly into her white face. "And canyou tell me nothing further regarding this affair?" I asked, bending toher, and speaking in a whisper.
She shook her head.
I did not suspect--nay, I could not bring myself to believe--that EdwardCraig had fallen by her hand. Yet the facts were strange--amazinglystrange--and her demeanour was stranger still.
We had tea together. She poured it out, and handed it to me daintily,with a sweet smile upon her lips. Then after a further chat, she drew onher long gloves, settled her skirts and prepared to leave.
"A letter addressed to the Poste Restante at Versailles will always findme," she said, in reply to my request for an address. "I use the nameElise Leblanc."
I made a rapid note of it upon my shirt-cuff, and having paid the bill,we descended, and walked together, through the busy streets of Norwich,to the Thorpe Station, where I saw her into the evening express forLondon.
"_Au revoir_, M'sieu' Vidal," she said, as she held my hand, beforeentering the first-class compartment. "Do heed my warning, I beg of you.Do not further imperil yourself. Will you?"
"I cannot promise," I replied with a smile.
"But you must not persist--or something will most surely happen," shedeclared. "_Au revoir!_ If we meet again it must be in the strictestsecrecy. My uncle must never know."
"_Au revoir!_" I said as the porter closed the door, and next moment thetrain moved off.
I saw her face smiling, and a white-gloved hand waving at the window,and then "The Nightingale" had gone.
A fortnight went by. I had packed my traps, and leaving Cromer, returnedto my rooms in London, and then crossed to Paris, where I spent a weekin close, anxious inquiry.
Paris in August is given over to the Cookites and provincials, and mostof my friends were absent.
The Prefecture of Police was, however, the chief centre of my sphere ofoperations, for in that sombre room, with its large, litteredwriting-table, its telephones, its green-painted walls, and green-baizecovered door, the private cabinet of my friend Henri Jonet--the famousChief Inspector of the _Surete_--I sat on several occasions discussingthe activity of Jeanjean and his clever gang.
Jonet was a sharp-featured, clean-shaven man of about forty-five, shortand slightly stout, with a pair of merry dark eyes, his hair carefullybrushed and trousers always well creased. He was something of a dandy inprivate life, even though he so often assumed various disguises, passingvery frequently as a camelot, or a respectable workman. Of his successesin detection of crime all the world knew.
Next to the Chef de la Surete, Chief Inspector Jonet was the most famouspolice official in Paris, or even in France. In the course of the pastfew years he had many times dealt unsuccessfully with crimes in whichthe amazing Jules Jeanjean had been implicated.
I had on many occasions assisted him in his investigations into othermatters, and, therefore, on the sultry afternoon, when I called andpresented my card
, I was shown up immediately into his privatebureau--that dismal and rather depressing room, which I so wellremembered.
We sat smoking together for a long time before I approached the subjectupon which I had called to consult him.
He sat back in his chair enjoying the excellent Bogdanoff cigarette, afellow to which he had handed to me, and recalling a strange affairthat, a year ago, had occupied us both--a theft of bonds from a privatebank in the Boulevard Haussmann.
Outside, the afternoon was blazing hot, therefore the green sun-shutterswere closed, and the room was in semi-darkness. Jonet's bigwriting-table was piled with reports and correspondence, as well as oneor two recently-arrived photographs of persons wanted by the policeauthorities of other European countries.
Now and then the telephone buzzed, and he would reply, and giveinstructions in a quick, sharp voice. Then he turned to me again andcontinued our conversation.
"The Benoy affair in March last was a sensational one--the murder of thejeweller while in his motor-car in the Forest of Fontainebleau--youremember," I remarked presently in French, leaning back in my chair andpuffing at my cigarette. "You made no arrest, did you?"
"Yes, several. But we didn't get the culprits," he replied with a drysmile. "It was our friend Jules Jeanjean again, without a doubt. But heand his accomplices got clean away in the stolen car. It was found twodays later a mile out of Macon, painted grey, and bearing anothernumber. The bandits evidently took train."
"Where to?"
"Who knows? Back to Paris, perhaps," was his reply, flicking the ashfrom his cigarette. "Yet, though we made a close search, we found notrace whatever of the interesting Jules. _Sapristi!_ I only wish I couldlay hands upon him. He is undoubtedly the most daring and dangerouscriminal in the whole of Europe," Jonet went on. "Of late we have hadreports of his doings from Germany and Russia, but he always escapes. Abig jewel robbery in Petersburg is his latest clever exploit. Yet how hedisposes of his booty always puzzles me. He must get rid of itsomewhere, and yet we never find any trace of it."
I said nothing. From his words I saw how utterly ignorant even Jonet wasof the truth, and how little he suspected the actual fact that Jeanjeanwas not the originator of those ingenious crimes but merely theinstrument of another and a master-brain.
The great police official drew a long sigh, and expressed wonder as towhether the elusive jewel-thief and assassin would ever fall into thehands of justice.
"At present he seems to bear quite a charmed life," he declared with asmile. "He openly defies us each time--sometimes even going the lengthof writing us an insulting letter, denouncing us as incompetent andheaping ridicule upon the whole department of the _Surete_. It is thatwhich makes my officers so intensely keen to capture him."
"I fear you will never do so," I remarked.
"Why?"
"Because Jeanjean is too clever to be caught. He is wary, rich, andtakes every precaution against surprise."
"You know him--eh?"
"Yes," I admitted. "But what is the latest information you haveregarding him?"
Jonet took up the telephone and gave instructions for the dossier of thegreat criminal to be brought to him.
In a few moments a clerk entered bearing three formidable portfoliosfull of reports, photographs, lists of stolen jewellery, and othermatters concerning the career of the man who had constantly baffled allattempts to capture him.
Jonet opened one of the portfolios and scanned several sheets ofclosely-written reports. Then he said--
"It seems that he, with a young girl, said to be a niece of his, were inRussia just prior to the great robbery from a jeweller in Petersburg. Nodoubt they were implicated in it. The girl, travelling alone, passed thefrontier at Wirballen on the following day, but the telegram from thePetersburg police arrived at the frontier too late, and in Germany shedisappeared."
"And what about Jeanjean?" I asked.
The famous Chief Inspector read on for a few moments. Then he replied--
"He was seen on the day of the theft, together with an Italian, believedto be one of his accomplices, but after that nothing further was heardof him until four days later. Then an inspector at Lille recognized himfrom his circulated photograph, but not being quite certain, and alsoknowing that, if the suspect were actually the man wanted, he would bearmed, and recollecting the affair at Charleroi, he did not care to makea pounce single-handed. He went back to the police-station, but while hewas looking for the photograph, his man, evidently seeing he wassuspected, made his escape."
"And have you a photograph of the girl?" I asked anxiously.
"She has never been arrested, therefore we have no official portrait,"was his reply. "But last summer, one of my assistants, a young man namedRothera, was in Dinard at the _Hotel Royal_, keeping observation inanother matter, when one evening he saw a young girl, who was staying inthe hotel with an elderly aunt, meet in the Casino a man who greatlyresembled Jeanjean. The pair went out and had a long stroll, speakingconfidentially together. Meanwhile Rothera, like the inspector at Lille,went to the local bureau de police to turn up the description of thewanted man. Having done so, and having satisfied himself that it wasactually the master-criminal so long wanted, he took three men andwaited in patience in the country road along which the pair hadstrolled. Two hours elapsed, when, to their dismay, the young girlreturned alone. Jeanjean, it was afterwards discovered, had a motor-carawaiting him about four kilometres away along the Dinan road. Rotherasaid nothing to the girl, but next day got into conversation with her inthe hotel. He was exceedingly attentive through several succeeding days,and being an amateur photographer, asked to be allowed to take asnapshot of her. He had satisfied himself that, from her description,she was that female accomplice of the notorious jewel-thief, of whom wepossessed no portrait. She, quite unsuspecting, believed Rothera to bean idle young man of means. He took the picture--and here it is," addedthe Inspector, and passed over to me a photograph of post-card size.
It was Lola. Lola, in a pretty white summer gown, lolling lazily in along cane chair upon the beach at Dinard, and laughing merrily, her hatflung upon the ground, and her book in her lap. A pretty scene of summeridleness.
The Place of Dragons: A Mystery Page 15