The Place of Dragons: A Mystery

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE ROAD OF RICHES

  When my doctor first allowed me forth on foot it was fully a week later.

  I had driven to Brentford in a taxi on three occasions to visit Lola,taking her fresh flowers, grapes and other dainties. Each time Irecognized a marked improvement in her.

  I felt certain that every movement of mine was being watched, butneither Rayner nor myself could discover any one spying upon us. I hadalways flattered myself that nobody could keep observation upon mewithout I detected them, and I certainly felt considerable chagrin at mypresent helplessness.

  Rayner, a shrewd, clever watcher himself, was up to every ruse in thescience of keeping observation and remaining unseen. Yet he also failedto discover any one.

  Therefore, one morning I left Carlos Place in a taxi and drove to King'sCross Station, where I alighted, paid the man, and went on to the mainline departure platform. Thence I passed across to the arrival platform,so as to evade any pursuer, though no one had followed me to myknowledge, and then I drove down to Brentford.

  Though still weak, I that afternoon accompanied the dainty littleinvalid down to Bournemouth, where I saw her comfortably installed witha very worthy family--a retired excise officer and his wife anddaughter, living at Boscombe--and, after a night at the _Bath Hotel_, Ireturned to London to resume my investigations.

  Through three days following I felt very unwell and unable to go out,the journey to Bournemouth having rather upset me in my weak state.Indeed, it was not before another week that one afternoon I alightedfrom a taxi at Holborn Circus and strolled leisurely down Hatton Gardenin search of the watchmaker's Lola had indicated.

  I found it with but little difficulty, about half-way down on theleft-hand side.

  A stranger passing along Hatton Garden, that dreary, rather mean street,leading from busy Holborn away to the poverty-stricken district ofSaffron Hill, with its poor Italian denizens and its Italian church,would never dream that it contained all the chief wholesale dealers inprecious stones in London. In that one street, hidden away in the safesof the various dealers, Jew and Gentile, are gems and pearls worthmillions.

  The houses are sombre, grimed, and old-fashioned, and there is an air ofmiddle-class respectability about them which disguises from the strangerthe real character of their contents. The very passers-by are for themost part shabby, though, now and then, one may see a well-dressed manenter or leave one of the houses let out in floors to the diamonddealers.

  It is a street of experts, of men who pay thousands of pounds for asingle stone, and who regard the little paper packets of glitteringdiamonds as the ordinary person would regard packets of seed-peas.

  Many a shabby man with shiny coat, and rather down at heel, passing upthe street, carries in his pocket, in a well-worn leathern wallet,diamonds, rubies or emeralds worth the proverbial king's ransom.

  On that autumn afternoon the sun was shining brightly as I passed thehouse where "Gregory Vernon's" office was situated. Seldom, indeed, doesthe sun shine in Hatton Garden or in Saffron Hill, but when it does itbrings gladness to the hearts of those sons and daughters of the sunnyItaly, who are wearing out their lives in the vicinity. To them, bornand bred in the fertile land where August is indeed the Lion Month, thesun is their very life. Alas! it comes to them so very seldom, but whenit does, the women and children go forth into the streets bare-headed toenjoy the "bella giornata."

  And so it was then. Some Italian women and children, with a few oldmen, white-haired and short of stature, were passing up and down theRoad of Riches into which I had ventured.

  I knew not, of course, whether old Gregory was still in London. He mightbe at his upper window for aught I knew. Therefore I had adopted thedress of a curate of the Church of England, a disguise which on many anoccasion had stood me in good stead. And as I loitered through the road,with eyes about me on all hands, I presented the appearance of thehard-worked curate of a poor London parish.

  Before the watchmaker's I halted, looking in at the side door, where Isaw written up with the names in dark, dingy lettering, "Loicq Freres,Second Floor."

  Beyond was a dark, well-worn stair leading to the other offices, but alllooked so dingy and so dismal, that it was hard to believe that withinwere stored riches of such untold value.

  I did not hesitate long, but with sudden resolve entered boldly andmounted the stairs.

  On the second floor, on a narrow landing, was a dingy, dark-brown dooron which the words "Loicq Freres" were painted.

  At this I knocked, whereupon a foreign voice called, "Come in."

  I entered a clerk's room where, at a table, sat a man who, when heraised his head and sallow face, I recognized instantly as themysterious motor-cyclist of Cromer, the man Egisto Bertini, who had socleverly evaded me on the night of my long vigil on the Norwich road,and who had assisted Gregory, or Vernon as he called himself, to removethe jewels from Beacon House.

  He did not, of course, recognize me, though I knew his face in aninstant. He rose and came forward.

  "Is Mr. Gregory Vernon in?" I asked, assuming a clerical drawl.

  "No, sare," replied the dark-eyed Italian. "Can I gif him any message?"he asked with a strong accent.

  The reply satisfied me, for my object in going there was not to see theman whose real name was Vernon, but to get a peep at the unsuspiciousheadquarters of the greatest criminal in Europe.

  "Ah, I--I called to ask him to be good enough to subscribe to an outingwe are giving to the poor children of my parish--that of St. Anne's. Wehave much poverty, you know, and the poor children want a day in thecountry before autumn is over. Several kind friends----"

  "Meester Vernon, he will not be able to make a subscription--he isaway," broke in the Italian.

  My quick eye had noticed that opposite me was a door of ground-glass. Ashadow had flitted across that glass, for the short curtains behind itwere inadvertently drawn slightly aside.

  Some one was within. If it were Vernon, then he might have a secret holefor spying and would recognize me. Thereupon I instantly altered myposition, turning my back towards the door, as though unconsciously.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you could subscribe a trifle yourself, ifonly one shilling?" and I took out a penny account book with which I hadprovided myself.

  "Ah, no," was his reply. "I haf none to gif," and he shook his head andheld out his palms. "Meester Vernon--he reech man--me, no! Me onlyclerk!"

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you will tell Mr. Vernon that the ReverendHarold Hawke called."

  "Yes, sare," replied the expert motor-cyclist, whom I knew to be one ofthe clever gang. And he pretended to scribble something upon a pad. Heposed as a clerk perfectly, even to the shabbiness of his office-coat.He presented the appearance of a poor, under-paid foreign clerk, of whomthere are thousands in the City of London.

  Standing in such a position that old Mr. Vernon could not see my face, Iconversed with the Italian a few moments longer as I wished to make somefurther observations. What I saw surprised me, for there seemed everyevidence that a _bona fide_ trade was actually conducted there.

  The shadow across the private office had puzzled me. I entertained astrong suspicion that old Vernon was within that room, and the man,Egisto Bertini, had orders to tell all strangers that his master wasabsent.

  If he feared arrest--as no doubt he did, knowing that Lola might make astatement to the police--then it was but natural that he would not seeany stranger.

  No. I watched Bertini very closely as I chatted with him, feelingassured that he was lying.

  So I apologized for my intrusion, as a good curate should do, anddescended the dark, narrow stairs with the firm conviction that GregoryVernon was actually in his office.

  In the street I walked leisurely towards Holborn, fearing to hurry lestthe crafty old man should be watching my departure. Having turned thecorner, however, I rushed to the nearest telephone and got on to Rayner.

  He answered me quickly, and I gave him instructio
ns to dress instantlyas a poor, half-starved labourer--for my several suits of disguisefitted him--and to meet me at the earliest moment at Holborn Circus,outside Wallis's shop.

  "All right, sir," was the man's prompt reply. "I'll be there inside halfan hour."

  "And, Rayner," I added, "bring my small suit-case with things for thenight, and an extra suit. Drop it at the cloak-room at Charing Cross onyour way here. I may have to leave London."

  "Anything interesting, sir?" he asked, his natural curiosity rising.

  "Yes. I'll tell you when we meet," was my answer, and I rang off.

  I have always found clerical clothes an excellent disguise for keepingobservation. It may be conspicuous, but the clergyman is never regardedwith any suspicion, where an ill-dressed man who loiters is in peril ofbeing interfered with by the police, "moved on," or even taken intocustody on suspicion of loitering for the purpose of committing afelony. England is not exactly the "free country" which those ignorantof our by-laws are so fond of declaring.

  Having spoken to Rayner, I returned to the corner of Hatton Garden, andidling about aimlessly, kept a sharp eye upon the watchmaker's shop.

  If my visit to the offices of Loicq Brothers had aroused any suspicionin the mind of Gregory Vernon, then he would, no doubt, make a bolt forit. If not, he would remain there till he left for his home.

  In the latter case I should certainly discover the place of his abode,and take the first step towards striking the blow.

  On the one hand, I argued that Vernon would never dare to remain inEngland after his brutal attack upon Lola, knowing that the police mustquestion her. Then there was the tell-tale excavation in the garden atSpring Grove--the nameless grave ready prepared for her! But, on theother hand, I recollected the subtle cunning of the man, his boldaudacity, his astounding daring, and his immunity hitherto from theslightest suspicion.

  The flitting shadow upon the ground-glass was, I felt confident, hissilhouette--that silhouette I had known so well--when he had been in thehabit of passing the _Hotel de Paris_, at Cromer, a dozen times a day.

  The afternoon wore on, but I still remained at the Holborn end of HattonGarden, ever watchful of all who came and went. Rayner was longer thanhe had anticipated, for he had to drive down to Charing Cross beforecoming to me. But at last I saw a wretched, ill-dressed, pale-faced manalight from a bus outside Wallis's drapery shop, and, glancing round, hequickly found me.

  I walked round a corner and, when we met, I explained in a few briefwords the exact situation.

  Then I instructed him to pass down Hatton Garden to the ClerkenwellRoad end and watch there while I maintained a vigilance in Holborn. WhenVernon came out we would both follow him, and track him to hisdwelling-place.

  I told Rayner of Bertini's presence there as a clerk, whereupon my mangrew full of vengeful anger, expressing a hope that later on he wouldmeet the Italian face to face and get even for the treatment meted outto him on that memorable night at Cromer.

  We had walked together to the end of the Road of Riches in earnestdiscussion, when, on suddenly glancing along the pavement in thedirection of the watchmaker's, I recognized the figure of a well-dressedman coming in our direction.

  I held my breath, for his presence there was entirely unexpected.

  It was Jules Jeanjean.