Kitabı oku: «The Golden Face: A Great 'Crook' Romance», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XVII
THE SIGN OF NINETY-NINE

At half-past eight I called for Duperré’s wife at the hotel, and she came down wearing a plain, dark-brown motor coat with a small, close-fitting cap to match. She was, indeed, unusually dowdy in appearance.

“Well, George,” she exclaimed, as she sat behind me in the car and I drove down Pall Mall, “we’re going out on a little adventure, I understand. Do you know where we’re going?”

“Down to Ripley, on the Portsmouth Road,” I replied. “I have to meet a man named Houston at the Talbot Hotel. That’s all I know,” I answered.

“Yes,” she said. “I know Houston. We must be careful to-night – very careful.”

We went through the crooked roads of Kingston and out through Surbiton towards Ditton, when, after a long silence, she exclaimed as she bent towards me:

“Tell me, George, have you ever heard the name of Gori, and if so, in what connection? I ask this in confidence between ourselves, as the outcome may mean much to both of us.”

“I don’t quite understand you, Madame,” was my polite reply. “I only wish your husband had asked that question.”

“Look here,” she said in a low, tense voice, “you love Lola! I know you do. Then will you, for her sake, reply to me openly and frankly? Have you in these past few days met a bald-headed Italian named Luigi Gori? And in what circumstances?”

I remained silent for some minutes. Then I said:

“I have met a man named Gori. He called upon Rudolph.”

“When?” she gasped.

“He called on Monday night.”

Madame Duperré held her breath for a few moments. She seemed to be calculating.

“I recognize certain grave probabilities in Gori’s visit,” she said, and then lapsed again into silence.

Presently I pulled up before the big old seventeenth-century posting-house in the long, quiet village of Ripley, once noted in the late Victorian craze of the “push-bike” as being the Mecca of the daring cyclist who ran out of London and back.

The great gateway through which the mail coaches for Portsmouth used to rumble was dark and cavernous, but on the right I saw a small door, and opening it found myself in a very low-ceiled but cosy bar, in which burned a great log fire with shining pewters above it. The Talbot is nothing if not a link with the days of the highwaymen of Weybridge Heath. Few inns in England are so unspoiled by modern improvements as the Talbot, at Ripley.

In the rather dim light of that low-pitched, well-warmed inn parlor, with its wide, inviting chimney-corner, I saw four men. One of them, facing the firelight, I recognized from the photographs Rayne had shown me – the man with the moonstone in his tie.

I ordered my drink loudly, and looked him full in the face. Then, when a few moments later I had drunk it, I wished the barman good night and went out. Reëntering the car, I drove out of the village towards Guildford, and there waited expectantly. In ten minutes he came out of the darkness.

“Mr. Hargreave?” he asked, and, after replying, I invited him inside the car, whereupon he at once recognized Madame in the half-light. It was plain that they were known to each other.

“I expected Vincent would be with you. Where is he?” asked the man named Houston.

“He’s away. I don’t know exactly where he is,” Madame replied. “But what game are we going to play to-night?”

“A very merry one. It may be amusing, it may be tragic,” was the man’s reply. “We’re picking up May Cranston at Horsley Station presently.”

“May Cranston!” echoed Madame, astounded. “I thought she went to America after that affair in Dinard!”

“So she did, but she’s back again. May is a pretty shrewd girl, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that. But why are we meeting her?”

“She’ll probably tell you,” was the fellow’s reply, and, at his direction, I turned the car into a narrow side road which ran for miles through woods and coppices until at last, after passing through two small villages, we came to a wayside station dimly lit by oil lamps.

There we waited for about a quarter of an hour, when the slow train from Waterloo ran in, and from a first-class carriage there stepped a tall, well-dressed girl wearing a rich fur coat and small hat. She was evidently expecting the car to meet her, for she walked straight up to it and entered, being greeted by Madame and Houston, who were inside.

I followed the newcomer and got into the driver’s seat, whereupon Madame introduced me.

The moment she opened her lips I knew she was American, and also from her speech and expressions I knew that she was a crook who moved in good society.

“We’ll drive through Merrow and over to Hindhead,” Houston said. “We’d better avoid the High Street of Guildford, for the police might possibly spot the car. So we’ll go by the side roads. I was over there three days ago on a motor-bike, so I’ll pilot you.”

And then he turned to gossip merrily with the good-looking American girl, who seemed most enthusiastic concerning our mysterious adventure.

“To-night ought to bring us a clear twenty thousand pounds,” he said.

“More, my dear Teddy,” the girl replied. “But since I saw you in Chicago four months ago I’ve had a very narrow squeak. I was nearly pinched by old Shenstone from New York. Dicky Diamond gave me the tip, and I cleared out from my hotel just in time. Had to leave all my trunks and eight thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry behind me. And now I dare not claim them, for the police have seized them. Somebody gave me away, but I don’t know who. Wouldn’t I like to know – just! You bet I’d get even on them!”

“A good job you were warned,” said Madame. “Dicky was over here last June. I spent the evening with him at Prince’s.”

“He’s over here now. Waiting for me in Liverpool. I’ve got my passage booked back for to-morrow night, so if the hue and cry is raised I shall have left. I’m in the passengers’ list as Mrs. George C. Meredith, wife of the well-known Chicago stock-broker. See my ring!” she laughed, holding up her hand in the semi-darkness. “Ain’t it a real fine one? And you are my mother, Madame! See?”

“But where are we going?” asked Duperré’s wife.

“Going to make an unexpected call upon old Bethmeyer,” she replied.

“Bethmeyer!” I exclaimed. “What, old Sir Joseph Bethmeyer, the millionaire whom they call the mystery man of Europe, the man who is said to have a finger in every financial pie all over Europe?”

“Yes, I guess it’s the same man,” replied our sprightly companion. “He lives at Frenbury Park, a splendid place between Hindhead and Farnham.”

What, I wondered, could they possibly want with Sir Joseph Bethmeyer, the man who had, it was said, been behind the ex-Emperor Carl in his endeavor to regain the throne of the Hapsburgs, and who was declared to be immensely wealthy, though the source of his great riches could never be discovered. I knew him from the photographs so frequently in the papers, a stout, full-bearded, Teutonic-looking man, who claimed Swedish nationality, and who frequently gave large sums to charity, apparently in order to propitiate the British Government, who were more than suspicious of his oft-repeated good intentions.

At Houston’s suggestion we stopped at a small hotel in Godalming, and there had supper, for it was yet early, and the American girl had dropped a hint that we should not go near Frenbury till past midnight. As we sat at table in a private room, I saw that she was exceedingly handsome, with a pair of coal-black eyes and a shrewd, alert expression, but her American accent was not always pronounced. Indeed, when she liked, she could conceal it altogether.

She wore a fine diamond bracelet, her only ornament. Yet during our meal Houston whispered something to her, whereupon she half drew from beneath her fur coat something that glinted in the light, and I saw it was a very serviceable-looking revolver.

A few moments later we heard a car pull up, and a heavy-booted man entered the hall of the hotel. The door of our room opened, and a thick-set, clean-shaven man of about forty glanced in inquisitively, almost instantly shutting the door again.

Next second May Cranston sprang to her feet with blanched face and terrified eyes.

“That’s Hedley! – old Bethmeyer’s secretary! If he’s recognized me, then the game is up,” she whispered hoarsely.

“But did he?” queried Houston, who sat next to her. “I don’t think he noticed anybody. He simply saw that this was a private party and withdrew. He’s evidently gone to the bar.”

“He’s on his way to Frenbury from London, no doubt,” said the girl.

“Don’t go farther if you think there’s any risk,” Madame urged.

“But it must be done, and to-night!” the girl said. “Remember I leave Liverpool to-morrow evening if there’s trouble, and you – my mother – have got to see me off!”

“I’ll go into the bar and watch him,” I volunteered, and rising, I went to a kind of pigeon-hole which gave access to the bar, and through which I could see into the room beyond. The man whom Miss Cranston had recognized as Hedley was smoking a cigarette and calmly drinking a whisky-and-soda. Afterwards I walked to the door and saw that the car was turned towards London, a reassuring fact which I reported to my companions.

“Then he’s going away from Frenbury, and won’t be at home to-night!” cried the American girl gleefully.

When he had gone we drove nearly to Petersfield, and it was considerably past midnight when, on our return, we descended that long hill which leads from Hindhead. Then, after turning off the main road for some time, we came to a narrow lane which led into a dark wood, where Houston suddenly stopped me and ordered me to switch out the lights.

Scarcely had I done this when two men emerged mysteriously from the shadow, and one of them, addressing Houston, said:

“You’re pretty punctual, Teddy! Sam isn’t here yet. He’s walking from Haslemere.”

“No! he’s here all right!” exclaimed a voice clearly in the darkness, as a third man came forward.

“May is in the car,” Houston explained. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes; when you get along here fifty yards more you can see the house. The old fellow sleeps in the first-floor room on the corner. The light has just been switched off, so he’s gone to bed all right.”

Meanwhile the American girl had stepped from the car, and, greeting them all as “boys,” listened to what was said.

“Let’s hope the old boy will sleep comfortably, eh?” she laughed gayly. “If he doesn’t it will be the worse for him! His wife is in Paris, or she might prove a bit of trouble to us.”

“I know the ground exactly,” remarked one of the three men. “I wasn’t in service here as footman for six weeks for nothing,” he added with a laugh.

“Well, come on,” said Houston, who seemed to be the leader of the adventures. “Let’s get to work,” and, picking up a bag which one of the men had put down, he pressed into my hand a short, circular electric torch, saying:

“Be careful not to press the button, because when the light is switched on the shot is fired! Only you might require it. One never knows! Come on.”

May Cranston walked noiselessly with us, while in front the three men stalked quietly, speaking only in low whispers. Soon we came to a path which led into a great park, which we skirted, keeping still in the shadow of the trees, for the moon, though nearly gone, still shed some unwelcome light. The silence was only broken by our footsteps on the leaves. Silhouetted against the sky was the magnificent old castle-like mansion with many turrets in which dwelt the world’s mystery man of finance.

At last we approached quite close to the house, and, crossing the broad terrace, we halted at the direction of our guide who had acted as footman there.

Before us was a row of long French windows. One of these the man known as Sam attacked in a methodical way with a short steel jimmy, and in a few moments he had noiselessly opened it, and while somebody showed a torch, we all entered what was, I found, a long and luxurious drawing-room.

“Mr. Hargreave! You remain here!” said the girl Cranston, who now assumed the leadership. “If occasion arises don’t hesitate to use your torch. All you have to do is to keep this way of retreat open. Leave all the rest to us.”

Then, still guided by the ex-footman, she disappeared with the four men.

What was intended I could not guess. We had broken into one of the most magnificent houses in England, and no doubt an extensive burglary had been planned.

I waited in the big, dark room for nearly twenty minutes, when suddenly I heard heavy, stumbling footsteps returning, and became conscious that the men, aided by the woman, were carrying with them a heavy human form. It was enveloped in black cloth and trussed up firmly with stout rope.

“Say, are you all right, Mr. Hargreave?” inquired the American girl-crook.

I replied in the affirmative, whereupon she whispered: “Good! Come right along. It’s worked beautifully. The old boy started up to see me at his bedside, and put on his dressing-gown to talk to me. Oh! it was real fun! He dared only speak in a whisper for fear the servants overheard. I told him I was thirsty, and he took me into his study. We had drinks, and I put him quietly to sleep with a couple of drops of the soothing syrup. When he comes to himself he’ll have the shock of his life. Six months ago in Philadelphia – when I wanted some money – he defied me. Now it will cost the old skinflint a very big sum if he wants to see the light of day again! If he won’t pay up, well, we are none the worse off, are we?”

A quarter of an hour later they had placed the unconscious form of Sir Joseph in the car, and, bidding farewell to the three stalwart men, who were, no doubt, professional thieves from London, we started back swiftly through Farnham and Aldershot, thence by way of Reading and along the Bath Road to a lonely house somewhere outside Hounslow, where the American girl stopped me.

There the unconscious man was carried in, and while the others remained in the house – which I think had been taken furnished and specially for the purpose – I was ordered to return to London alone, which I did, most thankful to end that exciting night’s adventure.

On my return to the garage off the Tottenham Court Road at half-past three in the morning, the man on duty told me that a man’s voice had inquired for me about nine o’clock.

“He seemed very anxious indeed to find you. But he told me to give you a number – number ninety-nine! Sounds like a doctor, eh, sir?” remarked the man.

I stood aghast at the message.

“Are you sure that was the number?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. I wrote it down here. He gave a Mayfair telephone number,” and he showed me the note he had made.

It was a message from Rayne! That number was the one agreed upon by all of us as a signal that some extreme danger had occurred, and it became necessary for us all to keep apart and disperse.

I got into the car and drove out of the garage again, not knowing how to act. In Oxford Street, at that hour silent and deserted, I drew up, and, taking a piece of paper from my notebook, I wrote down the figures “99,” and, placing it in a small envelope which I fortunately found in my wallet, I addressed it to Madame Duperré, and left it with the night porter at the Carlton, urging him to give it to her immediately on her return.

Then I drove to the Strand telegraph office, and thence dispatched a well-guarded message to Lola at Scarborough, telling her to meet me without fail at the Station Hotel at Hull that afternoon and bring her passport with her.

This she did, and when we met I told her of her father’s unwelcome visitor, the man Gori, and that he feared the police. Both of us decided to pose as runaway lovers and leave the country, which we did, I having succeeded in obtaining two berths upon a Wilson steamer crossing to Bergen.

It was not until a week later that we read in the English newspapers the sensation caused by the arrest of Mr. Rudolph Rayne of Overstow Hall, Yorkshire, upon an extradition warrant applied for by the Danish Government. The prisoner had been brought up at Bow Street, and, after certain mysterious evidence had been given, he had been remanded.

In due course Rayne was conveyed to Copenhagen, where he was tried for complicity in a great bank fraud on the Danish National Bank, and sent to twenty years’ penal servitude. Hence to the British public Rayne’s actual activities were never revealed.

I can only suppose that my warning to Madame had its effect, and that she, her husband and all her friends took flight.

Whether they obtained the money they sought as ransom for old Sir Joseph Bethmeyer I know not. Probably they did, for nothing appeared in the papers concerning his disappearance.

Eventually I succeeded in getting Lola safely to her aunt in Paris, where, though her father’s downfall is still a great blow to her, she is living in peace under another name, while I have found honest employment in the office of a French shipping company in Bordeaux.

Lola is my fiancée, and we are to be married next June. One subject, however, we have mutually agreed never to mention, namely, the evil machinations and ingenious activities of her father, the man who had, for some mysterious reason of his own, ascertained that I could sing, and who, in overconfidence at his own cunning, was at last unmasked – “The Golden Face.”