The Place of Dragons: A Mystery

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE HOUSE IN HAMPSTEAD

  I dashed down to the platform, three steps at a time, followed by mythree companions, but ere I gained it the train had begun to move out ofthe station.

  One of the Italian police officers shouted to the scarlet-cappedstation-master to have the train stopped, but that stately official, hishands behind his back, only walked calmly in our direction to hear thevoluble words which fell from the French officer's lips.

  By that time the train had rounded the curve and was dropping fromsight.

  My heart sank within me. Once again Jeanjean had escaped!

  We were making frantic inquiry regarding the two fugitives when aporter, who chanced to overhear my words, expressed a belief that theyhad not left by the Rome express, but for Turin by the train that hadand started a quarter of an hour before.

  I rushed to the booking office, and, after some inquiry of the lazy,cigar-smoking clerk, learned that two foreigners, answering thedescriptions of the men I wanted, had taken tickets for London by way ofthe Mont Cenis Paris-Calais route. He gave me the ticket numbers.

  Yes. The porter was correct. They had left by the express for Turin, andthe frontier at Modane!

  With Fournier and the two policemen, I went to the Questura, or CentralPolice Office, situated in a big, gloomy, old medieval palace--for Genoais eminently a city of ancient palaces--and before the Chief of theBrigade Mobile, a dapper little man with bristling white hair and yellowboots, I laid information, requesting that the pair be detained at thefrontier.

  When I revealed the real name of the soi-disant Comte d'Esneux, thepolice official started, staring at me open-mouthed. Then, even as wesat in his bare, gloomy office with its heavily-barred windows--theoriginal windows of the palace, in the days when it had also been afortress--he spoke over the telephone with the Commissary of Police atBardonnechia in the Alps, the last Italian station before the great MontCenis tunnel is entered.

  After me he repeated over the wire a minute description of both menwanted, while the official at the other end wrote them down.

  "They will probably travel by the train which arrives from Turin at6.16," the Chief of the Brigade Mobile went on. "The numbers of theirtickets are 4,176 B. and 4,177 B., issued to London. Search them, asthey may have stolen jewels upon them. Understand?"

  An affirmative reply was given, and the white-haired little manreplaced the telephone receiver.

  Thanking him I went outside into the Via Garibaldi, with a sigh ofrelief. At last the two men were running straight into the arms of thepolice. My chief thought now was of Lola. Where could she be, that shehad not answered my urgent letters sent to the Poste Restante atVersailles?

  The next train--the through sleeping-car express from Rome toCalais--left at a few minutes to six, and for this we were compelled towait.

  I recollected that Lola had told me how Jeanjean was in the habit ofcommunicating with his confederate Hodrickx, who had also established awireless station in Genoa. Thereupon I made inquiry, and found thataerial wires were placed high over the roof of a house close to theAcqua Sola Gardens at the end of the broad, handsome Via Roma.

  The house, however, was tenantless, Hodrickx, apparently a Belgian,having sold his furniture and disappeared, no one knew where, afortnight previously.

  At six o'clock we entered the Calais express, and travelling by way ofAlessandria and Turin, ascended, through the moon-lit Alps, that night aperfect fairyland, up the long steep incline, mounting ever higher andhigher, until the two engines hauling the _train-de-luxe_ at last, atmidnight, pulled up at the little ill-lit station of Bardonnechia.There, we hastily alighted and sought the Commissary of Police.

  To him Fournier presented his card of identity which every Frenchdetective carries, and at once the brown-bearded official told us that,although strict watch had been kept upon every train, the fugitives hadnot arrived!

  "They may have left the train at Turin, and gone across to Milan, andthence by the Gotthard route to Basle and Paris," he suggested to me."If they believe they were followed that is what they most certainlywould do."

  Then he swiftly turned over the leaves of a timetable upon the desk ofhis little office, and, after a minute examination, added in Italian--

  "If they have gone by that route they will join the same Channel-boat atCalais as this train catches, whether they go from Basle, by way ofParis, or direct on to Calais."

  The train we had travelled by was still waiting in the station, for oneof the engines was being detached.

  "Then you suggest that we had better go by this?" I said.

  "I certainly should, Signore, if I were you," was his polite answer."Besides they are wanted in England, you say, therefore it would bebetter to arrest them on the English steamer, or on their arrival inDover, and thus avoid the long formalities of extradition. OurGovernment, as you know, never gives up criminals to England."

  Instantly I realized the soundness of his argument, and, thanking him,we both climbed back into the _wagon-lit_ we had occupied, and were soonslowly entering the black, stifling tunnel.

  Need I further describe that eager, anxious journey, save to say thatwhen next day we traversed the Ceinture in Paris, and arrived from theGare de Lyon, at the Gare du Nord, we kept a vigilant and expectantwatch, for it was there that the two men might join our train. Ourwatch, however, proved futile. They might have joined the ordinaryexpress from Paris to Calais which had left half an hour before us--oursbeing a _train-de-luxe_. So we possessed ourselves in patience till atlength, after a halt at Calais-Ville, we slowly drew up on the quay nearwhere the big white Dover boat was lying.

  The soft felt hat I had bought in Genoa, I pulled over my eyes, and thenrushed along the gangway, and on board, with Fournier at my side, makinga complete tour of the vessel, peeping into every cabin, and in everyhole and corner, to discover the fugitives.

  Already the gangway was up, and the three blasts sounded upon the sirenannouncing the departure of the boat. Therefore the pair, if on board,could not now escape.

  Throughout the hour occupied in the crossing I was ever active, and whenwe were moored beside the pier in Dover Harbour, I stood at the gangwayto watch every one leave.

  Yet all my efforts were, alas! in vain.

  They had evidently changed their route to London a second time, and hadtravelled from Bale to Brussels and Ostend!

  The thought occurred to me as I stood watching the last passengersleaving the steamer. If they had travelled direct by way of Ostend, thenthey would be seated in the train for Charing Cross, for the Ostend boathad been in half an hour, we were told.

  The train, one of those gloomy, grimy, South-Eastern "expresses," waswaiting close by. Therefore I ran frantically from end to end, peeringinto each carriage, but, to my dismay, the men I sought were not there!

  So Fournier and I entered a first-class compartment and, full of bitterdisappointment, travelled up to Charing Cross, where we arrived aboutseven o'clock.

  I was alighting from the train into the usual crowd of arrivingpassengers, and their friends who were present to meet them, for thereis always a quick bustle when the boat-train comes alongside the customsbarrier, when of a sudden my quick eyes caught sight of two men inHomburg hats and overcoats.

  My heart gave a bound.

  Vernon and Jeanjean had alighted from the same train in which I andFournier had travelled, and were hurrying out of the station.

  Jeanjean carried a small brown leather handbag, while Vernon had only awalking-stick. Both men looked fagged, weary and travel-worn.

  "Look!" I whispered to Fournier. "There they are!"

  Then, holding back in the crowd, and keeping our eyes upon the hats ofthe fugitives, we followed them out into the station yard, where theyhurriedly entered a taxi and drove away, all unconscious of ourpresence.

  In another moment we were in a second taxi, following them up RegentStreet, through Regent's Park, and along Finchley Road, until suddenlythey turned into Arkwrigh
t Road.

  Then I stopped our vehicle and descended, just in time to see them enterthe house called Merton Lodge--the house which Rayner had described tome on the night of my long vigil at the corner of Hatton Garden.

  For a few moments I stood, undecided how to act. Should I drive at onceto Scotland Yard and lay the whole affair before them, or should I stillkeep my counsel until I rediscovered Lola?

  I knew where they were hiding, and if I watched, I might learn somethingfurther. Both Rayner and Fournier were known to the two culprits.Therefore I decided to invoke the aid of an ex-detective-sergeant who,since his retirement from Scotland Yard, had more than once assisted me.

  Truth to tell, I had a far higher opinion of the astuteness of the Parispolice than that of Scotland Yard. The latter disregarded my theories,whereas Jonet was always ready to listen to me. For that reason Ihesitated to go down to the "Yard," preferring to send word to Jonet,and allow him to act as he thought fit.

  William Benham lived in the Camberwell New Road; so I went to thenearest telephone call-box and, ringing him up, asked him to meet me atSwiss Cottage Station and bring a trustworthy friend.

  I knew that Merton Lodge had a convenient exit at the rear, hence, to bewatched effectively, two men must be employed.

  Towards half-past nine, leaving Fournier to watch at the end of theroad, I met Benham, who came attired as one of the County Councilemployes engaged in watering the roads at night, accompanied by aburly-looking labourer who was introduced to me as an ex-detective fromVine Street. Without revealing the whole story, or who the two men were,I explained that I had followed them post-haste from Algiers, and thatboth were wanted for serious crimes. All I desired was that a strictsurveillance should be placed upon them, and that they should befollowed and all their movements watched.

  "Very well, Mr. Vidal," Benham replied.

  He was a pleasant-faced, grey-haired man, with a broad countenance, anda little grey moustache.

  "I quite understand," he said. "We'll keep on them, and if I find itnecessary, I'll get a third person. They won't get very far ahead of us,you bet," he laughed.

  "They're extremely wary birds," I cautioned. "So you'll both of you becompelled to keep your eyes skinned."

  "You merely want to know what's doing--eh?"

  "Yes. I'm fagged out, and want a rest to-night. I'll come up and see youin the morning," I said.

  Then we entered a bar, and having had a drink together, we went toArkwright Road, where I rejoined Fournier, and with him returned to myrooms.

  Next day nothing happened. The two men wanted, wearing differentclothes, and Vernon in blue glasses, went out about eleven for a walk asfar as Hampstead Heath, and returned to luncheon. That was all mywatchers reported.

  On the following evening, however, I met Benham by appointment in a barin the Finchley Road, when he said--

  "There's something in the wind, Mr. Vidal. But I can't make out what itis. This afternoon a well-dressed man, apparently an Italian, called,and about half an hour later a smart young French girl, with fair hair,and wearing a short dark blue dress and brown silk stockings and shoes,also paid the pair a visit. She's there now."

  From the further description he gave of her, I found that it talliedexactly with the identity of Lola.

  And she was there! with Vernon and his two confederates.

  "There's also something else strange about that house, Mr. Vidal," addedBenham. "I dare say you didn't notice it in the dark, but away,half-hidden by the trees in the garden, there's a long stretch of fourwires, suspended from two high poles. A wireless telegraph, I take it tobe."

  "Wireless at Merton Lodge!" I cried.

  "Yes. To-day I asked a man who was repairing an underground wire in theFinchley Road, and he says it's a very powerful station, and he wondersthat the Post Office ever licensed it."

  "It was probably licensed as a small station, and then its power wassecretly increased," I suggested.

  "But you say that the young French lady is still there?"

  "Yes," replied Benham, "she was when I left ten minutes ago."