Kitabı oku: «Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo», sayfa 14
“Exactly. She did so every evening. Her habits were regular. Yet she never knew the extent of her winnings at the tables before she counted them. And she never did so until the following morning. That is what Franklyn told me in Venice when we met a month afterwards.”
“He learnt that from me,” The Sparrow said with a smile. “No,” he went on; “though old Cataldi could well have robbed his mistress, just as the maids could have done, and Yvonne would have been none the wiser, yet I do not think he would attempt to conceal his crime by shooting her, because by so doing he cut off all future supplies. If he were a thief he would not be such a fool. Therefore you may rest assured, Howell, that the hand that fired the shot was that of some person who desired to close Yvonne’s mouth.”
“She might have held some secret concerning old Cataldi. Or, on his part, he might have cherished some grievance against her. Italians are usually very vindictive,” replied the visitor. “On the other hand, it would be to Benton’s advantage that the truth concerning old Henfrey’s death was suppressed. Yvonne was about to tell the young man something—perhaps confess the truth, who knows?—when the shot was fired.”
“Well, my dear Howell, you have your opinion and I have mine,” laughed The Sparrow. “The latter I shall keep to myself—until my theory is disproved.”
Thereupon Howell took a cigar that his host offered him, and while he slowly lit it, The Sparrow crossed to the telephone.
He quickly found Lady Ranscomb’s number in the directory, and a few moments later was talking to the butler, of whom he inquired for Miss Dorise.
“Tell her,” he added, “that a friend of Mr. Henfrey’s wishes to speak to her.”
In a few moments The Sparrow heard the girl’s voice.
“Yes?” she inquired. “Who is speaking?”
“A friend of Mr. Henfrey,” was the reply of the man with the gloved hand. “You will probably guess who it is.”
He heard a little nervous laugh, and then:
“Oh, yes. I—I have an idea, but I can’t talk to you over the ‘phone. I’ve got somebody who’s just called. Mother is out—and–” Then she lowered her voice, evidently not desirous of being heard in the adjoining room. “Well, I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean? Does it concern Mr. Henfrey?”
“Yes. It does. There’s a man here to see me from Scotland Yard! What shall I do?”
The Sparrow gasped at the girl’s announcement.
Next second he recovered himself.
“A man from Scotland Yard!” he echoed. “Why has he called?”
“He knows that Mr. Henfrey is living at Shapley, in Surrey. And he has been asking whether I am acquainted with you.”
TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
WHAT LISETTE KNEW
A fortnight had gone by.
Ten o’clock in the morning in the Puerta del Sol, that great plaza in Madrid—the fine square which, like the similarly-named gates at Toledo and Segovia, commands a view of the rising sun, as does the ancient Temple of Abu Simbel on the Nile.
Hugh Henfrey—a smart, lithe figure in blue serge—had been lounging for ten minutes before the long facade of the Ministerio de la Gobernacion (or Ministry of the Interior) smoking a cigarette and looking eagerly across the great square. The two soldiers on sentry at the door, suspicious of all foreigners in the days of Bolshevism and revolution, had eyed him narrowly. But he appeared to be inoffensive, so they had passed him by as a harmless lounger.
Five minutes later a smartly-dressed girl, with short skirt, silk stockings, and a pretty hat, came along the pavement, and Hugh sprang forward to greet her.
It was Lisette, the girl whom he had met when in hiding in that back street in Genoa.
“Well?” he exclaimed. “So here we are! The Sparrow sent me to you.”
“Yes. I had a telegram from him four days ago ordering me to meet you. Strange things are happening—it seems!”
“How?” asked the young Englishman, in ignorance of the great conspiracy or of what was taking place. “Since I saw you last, mademoiselle, I have been moving about rapidly, and always in danger of arrest.”
“So have I. But I am here at The Sparrow’s orders—on a little business which I hope to bring off successfully on any evening. I have an English friend with me—a Mr. Franklyn.”
“I left London suddenly. I saw The Sparrow in the evening, and next morning, at eleven o’clock, without even a bag, I left London for Madrid with a very useful passport.”
“You are here because Madrid is safer for you than London, I suppose?” said the girl in broken English.
“That is so. A certain Mr. Howell, a friend of The Sparrow’s suggested that I should come here,” Hugh explained. “Ever since we met in Italy I have been in close hiding until, by some means, my whereabouts became known, and I had to fly.”
The smartly-dressed girl walked slowly at his side and, for some moments, remained silent.
“Ah! So you have met Hamilton Shaw—alias Howell?” she remarked at last in a changed voice. “He certainly is not your friend.”
“Not my friend! Why? I’ve only met him lately.”
“You say that the police knew of your hiding-place,” said mademoiselle, speaking in French, as it was easier for her. “Would you be surprised if Howell had revealed your secret?”
“Howell!” gasped Hugh. “Yes, I certainly would. He is a close friend of The Sparrow!”
“That may be. But that does not prove that he is any friend of yours. If you came here at Howell’s suggestion—then, Mr. Henfrey, I should advise you to leave Madrid at once. I say this because I have a suspicion that he intends both of us to fall into a trap!”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“I can give you no explanation,” said the girl. “Now I know that Hamilton Shaw sent you here, I can, I think, discern his motive. I myself will see Mr. Franklyn at once, and shall leave Madrid as soon as possible. And I advise you, Mr. Henfrey, to do the same.”
“Surely you don’t suspect that it was this Mr. Howell who gave me away to Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Hugh, surprised, but at the same time recollecting that The Sparrow had been alarmed at the detective’s visit to Dorise. He knew that Benton and Mrs. Bond had suddenly disappeared from Shapley, but the reason he could only guess. He had, of course, no proof that Benton and Molly were members of the great criminal organization. He only knew that Benton had been his late father’s closest friend.
He discussed the situation with the girl jewel-thief as they walked along the busy Carrera de San Jeronimo wherein are the best shops in Madrid, to the great Plaza de Canovas in the leafy Prado.
Again he tried to extract from her what she knew concerning his father’s death. But she would tell him nothing.
“I am not permitted to say anything, Mr. Henfrey. I can only regret it,” she said quietly. “Mr. Franklyn is at the Ritz opposite. I should like you to meet him.”
And she took him across to the elegant hotel opposite the Neptune fountain, where, in a private sitting-room on the second floor, she introduced him to a rather elderly, aristocratic-looking Englishman, whom none would take to be one of the most expert jewel-thieves in Europe.
When the door was closed and they were alone, mademoiselle suddenly revealed to her friend what Hugh had said concerning Howell’s suggestion that he should travel to Madrid.
Franklyn’s face changed. He was instantly apprehensive.
“Then we certainly are not safe here any longer. Howell probably intends to play us false! We shall know from The Sparrow the reason we are here, and, for aught we know, the police are watching and will arrest us red-handed. No,” he added, “we must leave this place—all three of us—as soon as possible. You, Lisette, had better go to Paris and explain matters to The Sparrow, while I shall fade away to Switzerland. And you, Mr. Henfrey? Where will you go?”
“To France,” was Hugh’s reply, on the spur of the moment. “I can get to Marseilles.”
“Yes. Go by way of Barcelona. It is quickest,” said the Englishman. “The express leaves just after three o’clock.”
Then, after he had thanked Hugh for his timely warning, the latter walked out more than ever mystified at the attitude of The Sparrow’s accomplices.
It did not seem possible that Howell should have told Scotland Yard that he was hiding at Shapley; yet it was quite evident that both mademoiselle and her companion were equally in fear of the man Howell, whose real name was Hamilton Shaw. The theory seemed to him a thin one, for Howell was The Sparrow’s intimate friend.
Yet, mademoiselle, while they had been discussing the situation, had denounced him as their enemy, declaring that The Sparrow himself should be warned of him.
That afternoon Hugh, having only been in Madrid twelve hours, left again on the long, dusty railway journey across Spain to Zaragoza and down the valley of the Ebro to the Mediterranean. After crossing the French frontier, he broke the journey at the old-world town of Nimes for a couple of days, and then went on to Marseilles, where he took up his quarters in the big Louvre et Paix Hotel, still utterly mystified, and still not daring to write to Dorise.
It was as well that he left Madrid, for, just as Lisette and Franklyn had suspected, the police called at his hotel—an obscure one near the station—only two hours after his departure. Then, finding him gone, they sought both mademoiselle and Franklyn, only to find that they also had fled.
Someone had given away their secret!
On arrival at Marseilles in the evening Hugh ate his dinner alone in the hotel, and then strolled up the well-lit Cannebiere, with its many smart shops and gay cafes—that street which, to many thousands on their way to the Near or Far East, is their last glimpse of European life. He was entirely at a loose end.
Unnoticed behind him there walked an undersized little Frenchman, an alert, business-like man of about forty-five, who had awaited him outside his hotel, and who leisurely followed him up the broad, main street of that busy city.
He was well-dressed, possessing a pair of shrewd, searching eyes, and a moustache carefully trimmed. His appearance was that of a prosperous French tradesman—one of thousands one meets in the city of Marseilles.
As Hugh idled along, gazing into some of the shop windows as he lazily smoked his cigarette, the under-sized stranger kept very careful watch upon his movements. He evidently intended that he should not escape observation. Hugh paused at a tobacconist’s and bought some stamps, but as he came out of the shop, the watcher drew back suddenly and in such a manner as to reveal to anyone who might have observed him that he was no tyro in the art of surveillance.
Walking a little farther along, Hugh came to the corner of the broad Rue de Rome, where he entered a crowded cafe in which an orchestra was playing.
He had taken a corner seat in the window, had ordered his coffee, and was glancing at the Petit Parisien, which he had taken from his pocket, when another man entered, gazed around in search of a seat and, noticing one at Hugh’s table, crossed, lifted his hat, and took the vacant chair.
He was the stranger who had followed him from the Louvre et Paix.
The young Englishman, all unsuspecting, glanced at the newcomer, and then resumed his paper, while the keen-eyed little man took a long, thin cigar which the waiter brought, lit it carefully, and sipped his coffee, his interest apparently centred in the music.
Suddenly a tall, dark-haired woman, who had been sitting near by with a man who seemed to be her husband, rose and left. A moment before she had exchanged glances with the watcher, who, apparently at her bidding, rose and followed her.
All this seemed quite unnoticed by Hugh, immersed as he was in his newspaper.
Outside the man and woman met. They held hurried consultation. The woman told him something which evidently caused him sudden surprise.
“I will call on you at eleven to-morrow morning, madame,” he said.
“No. I will meet you at the Reserve. I will lunch there at twelve. You will lunch with me?”
“Very well,” he answered. “Au revoir,” and he returned to his seat in the cafe, while she disappeared without returning to her companion.
The mysterious watcher resumed his coffee, for he had only been absent for a few moments, and the waiter had not cleared it away.
Hugh took out his cigarette-case and, suddenly finding himself without a match, made the opportunity for which the mysterious stranger had been waiting.
He struck one and handed it to his vis-a-vis, bowing with his foreign grace.
Then they naturally dropped into conversation.
“Ah! m’sieur is English!” exclaimed the shrewd-eyed little man. “Here, in Marseilles, we have many English who pass to and fro from the boats. I suppose, m’sieur is going East?” he suggested affably.
“No,” replied Hugh, speaking in French, “I have some business here—that is all.” He was highly suspicious of all strangers, and the more so of anyone who endeavoured to get into conversation with him.
“You know Marseilles—of course?” asked the stranger, sharply scrutinizing him.
“I have been here several times before. I find the city always gay and bright.”
“Not so bright as before the war,” declared the little man, smoking at his ease. “There have been many changes lately.”
Hugh Henfrey could not make the fellow out. Yet many times before he had been addressed by strangers who seemed to question him out of curiosity, and for no apparent reason. This man was one of them, no doubt.
The man, who had accompanied the woman whom the stranger had followed out, rose, exchanged a significant glance with the little man, and walked out. That the three were in accord seemed quite apparent, though Hugh was still unsuspicious.
He chatted merrily with the stranger for nearly half an hour, and then rose and left the cafe. When quite close to the hotel the stranger overtook him, and halting, asked in a low voice, in very good English:
“I believe you are Mr. Henfrey—are you not?”
“Why do you ask that?” inquired Hugh, much surprised. “My name is Jordan—William Jordan.”
“Yes,” laughed the man. “That is, I know, the name you have given at the hotel. But your real name is Henfrey.”
Hugh started. The stranger, noticing his alarm, hastened to reassure him.
TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
FRIEND OR ENEMY?
“You need not worry,” said the stranger to Hugh. “I am not your enemy, but a friend. I warn you that Marseilles is unsafe for you. Get away as soon as possible. The Spanish police have learnt that you have come here,” he went on as he strolled at his side.
Hugh was amazed.
“How did you know my identity?” he asked eagerly.
“I was instructed to watch for your arrival—and to warn you.”
“Who instructed you?”
“A friend of yours—and mine—The Sparrow.”
“Has he been here?”
“No. He spoke to me on the telephone from Paris.”
“What were his instructions?”
“That you were to go at once—to-night—by car to the Hotel de Paris, at Cette. A car and driver awaits you at the Garage Beauvau, in the Rue Beauvau. I have arranged everything at The Sparrow’s orders. You are one of Us, I understand,” and the man laughed lightly.
“But my bag?” exclaimed Hugh.
“Go to the hotel, pay your bill, and take your bag to the station cloak-room. Then go and get the car, pick up your bag, and get out on the road to Cette as soon as ever you can. Your driver will ask no questions, and will remain silent. He has his orders from The Sparrow.”
“Does The Sparrow ever come to Marseilles?” Hugh asked.
“Yes, sometimes—when anything really big brings him here. I have, however, only seen him once, five years ago. He was at your hotel, and the police were so hot upon his track that only by dint of great promptitude and courage he escaped by getting out of the window of his room and descending by means of the rain-water pipe. It was one of the narrowest escapes he has ever had.”
As the words left the man’s mouth, they were passing a well-lit brasserie. A tall, cadaverous man passed them and Hugh had a suspicion that they exchanged glances of recognition.
Was his pretended friend an agent of the police?
For a few seconds he debated within himself how he should act. To refuse to do as he was bid might be to bring instant arrest upon himself. If the stranger were actually a detective—which he certainly did not appear to be—then the ruse was to get him on the road to Cette because the legal formalities were not yet complete for his arrest as a British subject.
Yet he knew all about The Sparrow, and his attitude was not in the least hostile.
Hugh could not make up his mind whether the stranger was an associate of the famous Sparrow, or whether he was very cleverly inveigling him into the net.
It was only that exchange of glances with the passer-by which had aroused Hugh’s suspicions.
But that significant look caused him to hesitate to accept the mysterious stranger as his friend.
True, he had accepted as friends numbers of other unknown persons since that fateful night at Monte Carlo. Yet in this case, he felt, by intuition, that all was not plain sailing.
“Very well,” he said, at last. “I esteem it a very great favour that you should have interested yourself on behalf of one who is an entire stranger to you, and I heartily thank you for warning me of my danger. When I see The Sparrow I shall tell him how cleverly you approached me, and how perfect were your arrangements for my escape.”
“I require no thanks or reward, Mr. Henfrey,” replied the man politely. “My one desire is to get you safely out of Marseilles.”
And with that the stranger lifted his hat and left him.
Hugh went about fifty yards farther along the broad, well-lit street full of life and movement, for the main streets of Marseilles are alive both day and night.
By some intuition—why, he knew not—he suspected that affable little man who had posed as his friend. Was it possible that, believing the notorious Sparrow to be his friend, he had at haphazard invented the story, and posed as one of The Sparrow’s gang?
If so, it was certainly a very clever and ingenious subterfuge.
He was undecided how to act. He did not wish to give offence to his friend, the king of the underworld, and yet he felt a distinct suspicion of the man who had so cleverly approached him, and who had openly declared himself to be a crook.
That strange glance he had exchanged with the passer-by beneath the rays of the street-lamp had been mysterious and significant. If the passer-by had been a crook, like himself, the sign of recognition would be one of salutation. But the expression upon his alleged friend’s face was one of triumph. That made all the difference, and to Hugh, with his observation quickened as it had been in those months of living with daily dread of arrest, it had caused him to be seized with strong and distinct suspicions.
He felt in his hip pocket and found that his revolver, an American Smith-Wesson, was there. He had a dislike of automatic pistols, as he had once had a very narrow escape. He had been teaching a girl to shoot with a revolver, when, believing that she had discharged the whole magazine, he was examining the weapon and pulled the trigger, narrowly escaping shooting her dead.
For a few seconds he stood upon the broad pavement. Then he drew out his cigarette-case. In it were four cigarettes, two of which The Sparrow had given him when in London.
“Yes,” he muttered to himself. “Somebody must have given me away at Shapley, and now they have followed me! I will act for myself, and take the risks.”
Then he walked boldly on, crossed the road, and entered the big Hotel de Louvre et Paix. To appear unconcerned he had a drink at the bar, and ascending in the lift, called the floor-waiter, asked for his bill, and packed his bag.
“Ah!” he said to himself. “If I could only get to know where The Sparrow is and ask him the truth! He may be at that address in Paris which he gave me.”
After a little delay the bill was brought and he paid it. Then in a taxi he drove to the station where he deposited his bag in the cloak-room.
Close by the consigne a woman was standing. He glanced at her, when, to his surprise, he saw that she was the same woman who had been sitting in the cafe with a male companion.
Was she, he wondered, in league with his so-called friend? And if so, what was intended.
Sight of that woman lounging there, however, decided him. She was, no doubt, awaiting his coming.
He walked out of the great railway terminus, and, inquiring the way to the Rue Beauvau, soon found the garage where a powerful open car was awaiting him in the roadway outside.
A smart driver in a dark overcoat came forward, and apparently recognizing Hugh from a description that had been given to him, touched his cap, and asked in French:
“Where does m’sieur wish to go?”
“To the station to fetch my coat and bag,” replied the young Englishman, peering into the driver’s face. He was a clean-shaven man of about forty, broad-shouldered and stalwart. Was it possible that the car had been hired by the police, and the driver was himself a police agent?
“Very well, m’sieur,” the man answered politely. And Hugh having entered, he drove up the Boulevard de la Liberte to the Gare St. Charles.
As he approached the consigne, he looked along the platform, and there, sure enough, was the same woman on the watch, though she pretended to be without the slightest interest in his movements.
Hugh put on his coat, and, carrying his bag, placed it in the car.
“You have your orders?” asked Hugh.
“Yes, m’sieur. We are to go to Cette with all speed. Is not that so?”
“Yes,” was Hugh’s reply. “I will come up beside you. I prefer it. We shall have a long, dark ride to-night.”
“Ah! but the roads are good,” was the man’s reply. “I came from Cette yesterday,” he added, as he mounted to his seat and the passenger got up beside him.
Hugh sat there very thoughtful as the car sped out of the city of noise and bustle. The man’s remark that he had come from Cette on the previous day gave colour to the idea that no net had been spread, but that the stranger was acting at the orders of the ubiquitous Sparrow. Indeed, were it not for the strange glance the undersized little man had given to the passer-by, he would have been convinced that he was actually once again under the protection of the all-powerful ruler of the criminal underworld.
As it was, he remained suspicious. He did not like that woman who had watched so patiently his coming and going at the station.
With strong headlights glaring—for the night was extremely dark and a strong wind was blowing—they were soon out on the broad highway which leads first across the plain and then beside the sea, and again across the lowlands to old-world Arles.
It was midnight before they got to the village of Lancon, an obscure little place in total darkness.
But on the way the driver, who had told Hugh that his name was Henri Aramon, and who insinuated that he was one of The Sparrow’s associates, became most affable and talkative. Over those miles of dark roads, unfamiliar to Hugh, they travelled at high speed, for Henri had from the first showed himself to be an expert driver, not only in the unceasing traffic of the main streets of Marseilles, but also on the dark, much-worn roads leading out of the city. The roads around Marseilles have never been outstanding for their excellence, and after the war they were indeed execrable.
“This is Lancon,” the driver remarked, as they sped through the dark little town. “We now go on to Salon, where we have a direct road across the plain they call the Crau into Arles. From there the road to Cette is quite good and straight. The road we are now on is the worst,” he added.
Hugh was undecided. Was the man who was driving him so rapidly out of the danger zone his friend—or his enemy?
He sat there for over an hour unable to decide.
“This is an outlandish part of France,” he remarked to the driver presently.
“Yes. But after Salon it is more desolate.”
“And is there no railway near?”
“After Salon, yes. It runs parallel with the road about two miles to the north—the railway between Arles and Aix-en-Provence.”
“So if we get a breakdown, which I hope we shall not, we are not far from a railway?” Hugh remarked, as through the night the heavy car tore along that open desolate road.
As he sat there he thought of Dorise, wondering what had happened—and of Louise. If he had obeyed his father’s wishes and married the latter all the trouble would have been avoided, he thought. Yet he loved Dorise—loved her with his whole soul.
And she doubted him.
Poor fellow! Hustled from pillar to post, and compelled to resort to every ruse in order to avoid arrest for a crime which he did not commit, yet about which he could not establish his innocence, he very often despaired. At that moment he felt somehow—how he could not explain—that he was in a very tight corner. He felt confident after two hours of reflection that he was being driven over these roads that night in order that the police should gain time to execute some legal formality for his arrest.
Why had not the police of Marseilles arrested him? There was some subtle motive for sending him to Cette.
He had not had time to send a telegram to Mr. Peters in London, or to Monsieur Gautier, the name by which The Sparrow told him he was known at his flat in the Rue des Petits Champs, in the centre of Paris. He longed to be able to communicate with his all-powerful friend, but there had been no opportunity.
Suddenly the car began to pass through banks of mist, which are usual at night over the low marshes around the mouths of the Rhone. It was about half-past two in the morning. They had passed through the long dark streets of Salon, and were already five or six miles on the broad straight road which runs across the marshes through St. Martin-de-Crau into Arles.
Of a sudden Hugh declared that he must have a cigarette, and producing his case handed one to the driver and took one himself. Then he lit the man’s, and afterwards his own.
“It is cold here on the marshes, monsieur,” remarked the driver, his cigarette between his lips. “This mist, too, is puzzling. But it is nearly always like this at night. That is why nobody lives about here.”
“Is it quite deserted?”
“Yes, except for a few shepherds, and they live up north at the foot of the hills.”
For some ten minutes or so they kept on, but Hugh had suddenly become very watchful of the driver.
Presently the man exclaimed in French:
“I do not feel very well!”
“What is the matter?” asked Hugh in alarm. “You must not be taken ill here—so far from anywhere!”
But the man was evidently unwell, for he pulled up the car.
“Oh! my head!” he cried, putting both hands to his brow as the cigarette dropped from his lips. “My head! It seems as if it will burst! And—and I can’t see! Everything is going round—round! Where—where am I?”
“You are all right, my friend. Get into the back of the car and rest. You will be yourself very quickly.”
And he half dragged the man from his seat and placed him in the back of the car, where he fell inert and unconscious.
The cigarette which The Sparrow had given to Hugh only to be used in case of urgent necessity had certainly done its work. The man, whether friend or enemy, would now remain unconscious for many hours.
Hugh, having settled him in the bottom of the car, placed a rug over him. Then, mounting to the driver’s place, he turned the car and drove as rapidly as he dared back over the roads to Salon.
Time after time, he wondered whether he had been misled; whether, after all, the man who had driven him was actually acting under The Sparrow’s orders. If so, then he had committed a fatal error!
However, the die was cast. He had acted upon his own initiative, and if a net had actually been spread to catch him he had successfully broken through it. He laughed as he thought of the police at Cette awaiting his arrival, and their consternation when hour after hour passed without news of the car from Marseilles.
At Salon he passed half way through the town to cross roads where he had noticed in passing a sign-board which indicated the road to Avignon—the broad high road from Marseilles to Paris.
Already he had made up his mind how to act. He would get to Avignon, and thence by express to Paris. The rapides from Marseilles and the Riviera all stopped at the ancient city of the Popes.
Therefore, being a good motor driver, Hugh started away down the long road which led through the valley to Orgon, and thence direct to Avignon, which came into sight about seven o’clock in the morning.
Before entering the old city of walls and castles Hugh turned into a side road about two miles distant, drove the car to the end, and opening a gate succeeded in getting it some little distance into a wood, where it was well concealed from anyone passing along the road.
Then, descending and ascertaining that the driver was sleeping comfortably from the effects of the strong narcotic, he took his bag and walked into the town.
At the railway station he found the through express from Ventimiglia—the Italian frontier—to Paris would be due in twenty minutes, therefore he purchased a first-class ticket for Paris, and in a short time was taking his morning coffee in the wagon-restaurant on his way to the French capital.
