Kitabı oku: «The Great God Gold», sayfa 7
Chapter Fourteen
In which Owen Becomes Anxious
When just on the point of retiring, the maid had brought Gwen up a telegram from Frank, stating that something serious had occurred, that he had returned to London unexpectedly, and that he was unable to come to the house as he preferred not to meet her father, and urging her to meet him at Earl’s Court Station at a quarter past ten that night.
In greatest alarm, and wondering what could possibly have occurred, the girl had dipped on the first things that had come to her hand and had dashed out to meet her lover.
Before going forth she had taken the maid into her confidence, saying:
“I have to go out, Laura. You need not mention anything to my father. Leave the front door unbolted. I will take the latch-key.”
The dark-eyed girl, with whom Miss Gwen was a great favourite, promised to say nothing, and had let her young mistress quietly out.
Gwen was puzzled why Frank should appoint to meet her at Earl’s Court. If the interview was to be a secret one, why had he not committed a breach of the convenances and asked her to his rooms? She had been there to tea once – in strictest secrecy, of course – but in company with a girl friend.
What untoward circumstances could have arisen to bring Frank back before he reached Copenhagen? He could not have got further than Hamburg, she reflected – if as far.
At Earl’s Court she alighted, and having ascended the stairs in eager expectation, passed through the booking-office into the Earl’s Court Road, expecting her lover to meet her.
But she was disappointed. He was not there. She glanced at the railway dock, and saw that it was already twenty-five minutes past ten. The receipt of the strange message had upset her. She felt that something terrible must have occurred if Frank “preferred” not to face her father. What could it be? She was half frantic with fear and apprehension.
From out the misty night the tall man standing in the shadow on the opposite side of the road was watching her every movement. At the kerb stood a taxi-cab which he had hailed, and now kept waiting. He had remarked to the driver that he expected a lady and would wait until she arrived.
For fully a quarter of an hour he allowed the girl to pace up and down the pavement outside the station, waiting with an impatience that was apparent. That message which she believed to be from Frank had filled her mind with all sorts of grave apprehensions. He would surely never appoint that spot as a meeting place if secrecy were not imperative.
She noticed that there were quiet deserted thoroughfares in the vicinity. There he no doubt intended to walk and explain the situation.
Yet why did he not come, she asked herself. Already he was half an hour late, while she, agitated and anxious, could scarcely contain herself.
Suddenly, however, a tall good-looking man in a dark overcoat stood before her and raised his silk hat. She was about to step aside and pass on when the man begged her pardon, and uttered her name, adding:
“I believe you are expecting my friend, Frank Farquhar?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I – I am.” And she regarded the stranger inquiringly.
“He has sent me, Miss Griffin, as he is unfortunately unable to keep the appointment himself?”
“Sent you – why?” asked the girl, looking him straight in the face.
“He has sent me to tell you that something unexpected has happened,” replied the man.
“What has occurred?” she gasped. “Tell me quickly.”
“Well,” he said with some deliberation. “I do not know whether you are aware that Mr Farquhar was interested in a great and remarkable secret – a secret which he was occupied in investigating?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. “I know all about it. He told me everything.”
“The contretemps which has occurred is in connection with that,” the stranger said. “He was on his way to Copenhagen, but was compelled to return. He has, I believe, gained the key to some extraordinary cipher or other, and therefore he wishes to see you at once, and in secret. He told me that at present his return to London must be kept confidential, as there are other unscrupulous people most anxious to learn the truth upon which such enormous possibilities depend.”
“He wants me to go to him,” the girl cried. “Where is he then?”
“Not far away,” the man replied. “If you will allow me to escort you, I will do so willingly, Miss Griffin.”
The girl hesitated. She naturally mistrusted strange men. He saw her hesitation, and added:
“I trust you will forgive me for not being with you at the time Frank appointed, but – well, I don’t wish to alarm you unduly, but he was not very well. I was sitting with him.”
“Then he’s ill!” she cried in alarm. “Tell me. Oh! do tell me what has occurred.”
“He will tell you himself,” was the ingenious reply. “But,” he added, as though in afterthought, “I ought to have given you my card.” And he produced one and handed it to her. The name upon it was “William Wetherton, Captain, 12th Lancers.”
“Do relieve my anxiety, Captain Wetherton,” the girl implored. “Tell me what has happened.”
“As I have already said, Farquhar has made a great discovery, and wishes at once to consult you. His indisposition was only temporary – an attack of giddiness,” he added, and he saw that she was wavering. “I’m an old friend of Frank’s,” he went on, “and he consulted me, as soon as the matter of the Hebrew secret came into his hands. Of course, he has very often mentioned you,” he laughed.
He was a well-spoken man, and beneath his smile the girl did not detect his cunning. Her natural caution was overcome by her frantic desire to see Frank, and hear what he had discovered. An instant’s reflection showed her that if he could not meet her it was only natural that he should send his friend Captain Wetherton – a man of whom he had spoken on several occasions. He was stationed at Hounslow, Frank had told her, and they often spent the evening together at the club and some “show” afterwards.
“There’s a ‘taxi’ across the way,” the Captain pointed out. “Let us take it – that is if I may be permitted to be your escort, Miss Griffin?”
“Is it far?”
“Oh, dear no,” he laughed, and raising his hand he called the cab he had already in waiting. The vehicle drew across, and as he entered after her he spoke to the man. He had already given him the address before he had approached her. As he sat by her side, the man’s face changed. In the semi-darkness she could not get a good look at his features, yet his chatter was gentlemanly and good-humoured. From his remarks it was apparent that he had known her lover for a long time, and held him in high esteem.
“As soon as Frank’s telegram arrived, I rushed out,” said the young girl. “It was a great surprise, for I believed him to be on his way to Copenhagen.”
“They’ll probably miss you at home, won’t they?” he asked, with a glance of admiration at the girl’s sweet face.
“Well,” she laughed, “my father doesn’t know I’m out. Laura, the maid, will leave the door unbolted and I’ve got the latch-key.”
The man seated at her side smiled, turning away his head lest she might wonder.
Acquainted as Gwen was with the streets of the West End, she saw that the course taken by the “taxi” was through Brompton Road and Knightsbridge to Hyde Park Corner, then straight up South Audley Street and across one of the squares, Grosvenor Square she believed it to be.
“Why isn’t Frank at his own rooms in Half Moon Street?” she asked with some curiosity.
“Because, having discovered the secret, he is now in fear of his rivals, so is compelled to go into hiding. I, alone, his best friend, know his whereabouts. Quite romantic, isn’t it?” he laughed.
“Quite. Only – well, only – Captain Wetherton, I do wish you would tell me what has really occurred. I feel that you are keeping something from me.”
“I certainly am, Miss Griffin,” was his prompt reply, a reply which contained more meaning than he had intended. “Frank, in sending me to you, made the stipulation that he should have the pleasure of telling you himself. All I can say is that I believe the knowledge of the secret will be the means of bringing to him wealth undreamed of, and a notoriety world-wide.”
He was purposely keeping her engrossed in conversation, in order that they might cross Oxford Street; hoping that in the maze of turnings beyond that main thoroughfare she might lose her bearings.
Suddenly the “taxi” pulled up with a jerk before a closed shop, in a dark, rather unfrequented but seemingly superior street, and the Captain opened the side door with his latch-key, disclosing a flight of red-carpeted stairs.
“Here are my rooms,” Wetherton explained. “Frank has sought refuge with me here. He is upstairs.”
Gwen ascended the stairs quickly to the second floor, where the Captain opened the door with his key, and a moment later she found herself in a large, well-furnished bachelor’s sitting-room where the electric lamps were shaded with yellow silk.
It was evidently the room of a man comfortably off, for the furniture had been chosen with taste, and the pretty knick-knacks and quaint curios upon the table showed the owner of the place to be a man of some refinement.
“Where is he?” inquired the girl, looking around blankly, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
The man turned upon her, and laughed roughly in her face.
She drew back in horror and alarm when, in an instant, she realised how utterly helpless she now was in the stranger’s hands. He had closed the door behind him and pushed back the bolt concealed beneath the heavy portiere.
“He is not here!” she gasped. “You’ve – you’ve lied to me. This is a trick!” she gasped.
“Pray calm yourself, my dear little girl,” he said, coolly lighting a cigarette. “Sit down. I want to have a quiet chat with you.”
“I will not, sir!” she answered, with rising anger. “Allow me, please, to go. I shall tell your friend Mr Farquhar of this disgraceful ruse.”
“You can tell him, my dear girl, whatever you please,” the fellow laughed insolently. “As a matter of fact, your lover does not know me from Adam. So you see it’s quite immaterial.”
“It is not immaterial,” she declared, with a fierce look of resentment: “You shall answer to him for this!”
“Possibly it will be you who will be compelled to answer to him, when he knows that you have accompanied me here alone to my rooms, at eleven at night – eh? What will your lover say to that, I wonder?”
“I have the telegram,” she cried, opening the little bag she carried.
It was not there!
“See,” he laughed. “I have the telegram!” And before her eyes he tossed it into the fire.
She bent to snatch it from the flame, but he seized her white wrist roughly and threw her backward upon the hearthrug. He had extracted the message from her bag as they had sat together in the darkness of the cab.
Struggling to her feet she screamed for help, and fought frantically with the man who had decoyed her there; fought with the fierce strength of a woman defending her dearest possession, her honour.
She saw how the man’s countenance had changed. There was an evil expression there which held her terrified.
She begged mercy from him, begged wildly upon her knees, but he only laughed in her face in triumph. She saw, now that the telegram was destroyed, that this man who had posed as Frank’s friend could make his vile story entirely complete.
She was helpless in the hands of a man whose very face betrayed his vile unscrupulousness.
In the struggle she felt his hot foetid breath upon her cheek. Her blouse of pale blue crêpe-de-chine was ripped right across the breast as she endeavoured to wrench herself from his grasp.
“Ah! Have mercy on me!” she screamed. “Let me go! Let me go! I’ll give you anything – I – I – I’ll be silent even – if you’ll only let me go! Ah! do – if you are a gentleman!”
But the fellow only laughed again, and held her more tightly.
Her bare chest heaved and fell quickly before him. Her breath came and went.
“You think,” he said in a cruel hard voice, “you think your lover will not believe me. But I see upon your flesh a mark – a natural blemish that you cannot efface. Listen to me quietly. Hear me, or else I shall tell him of its existence, and urge him to discover whether or not I have spoken the truth. Perhaps he will then believe me!”
“You brute!” cried the girl in sudden and breathless horror. “You blackguard! you intend to ruin me in Frank’s eyes. Let me go, I say! Let me go.” Again she struggled, trying to get to the window, but with his strong arms encircling her she was helpless as a child, for with a sudden effort he flung her backwards upon the couch, inert and senseless.
Chapter Fifteen
Reveals the Rivals
Sir Felix Challas, Baronet the well-known financier and philanthropist, was seated in his cosy library in Berkeley Square, dictating letters to his secretary between the whiffs of his mild after-breakfast cigar. He was a man of middle age, with slight side whiskers, a reddish face, and opulent bearing. In his frock-coat, fancy vest, and striped trousers, and white spats over his boots, he presented the acmé of style as far as dress was concerned. The whole world knew Sir Felix to be something of a dandy, for he had never, for the past ten years or so, been seen without a flower in his buttonhole. Like many another man in London he had amassed great wealth from small beginnings, until he was now a power in the world of finance, and as a philanthropist his name was a household word.
From a small leather shop somewhere in the Mile End Road he had risen to be the controlling factor of several of the greatest financial undertakings in the country; while the house of Challas and Bowen in Austin Friars was known in the City as one of the highest possible standing.
Though he owned that fine house in Berkeley Square, a beautiful domain in Yorkshire which he had purchased from a bankrupt earl, a villa at Cannes, racehorses, motors, and a splendid steam-yacht, he was still a bachelor, and a somewhat lonely man.
The papers mentioned his doings daily, gave his portrait frequently, and recorded with a flourish of trumpets his latest donation to this charity, or to that. Though he made enormous profits in his financial deals, yet he was a staunch churchman, his hand ever in his pocket for the various institutions which approached him. Indeed, if the truth were told, he, like others, had bought his birthday Baronetcy by making a princely donation to the Hospital Fund. This showed him to be a shrewd man, fully alive to the value of judicious advertisement.
In the years gone by he had mixed with many of the shady characters of the complex world of the City, but now, in his opulence, he had apparently cut himself adrift from them all, and prided himself upon his eminent respectability.
As he sat there that winter’s morning, leaning back in his big leather armchair before the fire, he was dictating a letter to the governors of a great orphanage at Bristol, promising to defray the cost of building a much needed wing of the institution.
Then, having done so, he added to his secretary, a rather smug looking man in black:
“And you might also write a paragraph to-day, Stone, and send it to the Press Association. You know what to say – ‘magnificent gift,’ and all that sort of thing. They’ll send it out to the newspapers.”
“Yes, Sir Felix,” answered the man, making a note in shorthand.
“Let’s see, what else is there? Ah! The Malms Syndicate! Write saying that I withdraw,” he remarked.
His secretary hesitated.
“But that, Sir Felix, means ruin to all three. They are all poor men.”
“That’s just what I intend,” he answered with a smile. “We shall do that business ourselves, as soon as they are out of it.”
So Mr Stone scribbled rapidly a letter in shorthand, which meant the ruin of three honest men, who, believing in the great financier’s promises, had taken upon themselves liabilities which they could not meet.
Such letters are not infrequent. The great philanthropist, whom the world looked up to as a model man, who did his utmost for the benefit of suffering humanity, and who had been rewarded by his Sovereign, collected his wealth by ways that would often not bear investigation. But being a big man, he was able to do things which a little man would fear to do. For were not Challas and Bowen, with their huge operations and big bank balances, above suspicion?
While dictating another letter, the butler, an elderly and pompous person, entered announcing: “Mr Jannaway, Sir Felix.”
“That will be enough for to-day, Stone,” the red-faced man said to the secretary, who rose at once, and followed the servant out of the room.
Next moment the man who had posed on the previous evening as “Captain Wetherton” entered the room, looking smart and spruce in a well-cut suit of blue serge.
“Well, Jim?” exclaimed the financier anxiously, as he rose to meet his visitor. “I’ve been expecting you all the morning. What news – eh?”
“Oh! It’s all right,” answered the man cheerily, flinging himself into an armchair without invitation, apparently quite at home in Challas’s house.
“Found out anything of interest?” inquired Sir Felix, pushing over the big silver cigar-box that stood upon the smoking-table.
“Well – I hardly know,” he answered hesitatingly. “Where’s the girl?”
“In Charlie’s rooms. I’ve had a devil of a scene with her. She’s obdurate.”
“A day’s confinement there will break her spirit, no doubt,” remarked Sir Felix. “Especially if she believes she’ll lose her lover.”
“I don’t know,” he answered dubiously. “She’s got a mind of her own, I can tell you. She’s a regular little spit-fire.”
The red-faced man laughed.
“Well, Jim,” he said. “You ought to know how to manage women, surely. Did my scheme work well?”
“Excellently. She got your ‘wire,’ and went to Earl’s Court at once. I followed and after a little persuasion she fell into the trap. While she was unconscious, I took the latch-key, and at half-past two let myself and old Erich into the house in Pembridge Gardens.”
“Well – did he find anything?”
“Yes. Griffin has taken photographic copies of the burnt papers, before giving them back into Farquhar’s hands, and from his copies of various early manuscripts of Ezekiel and Deuteronomy it’s quite plain that he is making a very careful and complete study.”
“It seems, then, that Griffin’s intention, is to discover the cipher for himself, and leave the ugly little Doctor out in the cold,” Sir Felix remarked with a snap. “But, Jim, this business is ours and nobody else’s. We must crush anybody and everybody, who attempts in any way to decipher that secret record. When the Dane brought it to me at the Ritz, in Paris, I laughed at the idea. Treasure-hunting was never in my line. But,” he added with a smile, “I took care to have a complete copy of his precious document made before I gave it back to him the next morning, and it is now in the safe over yonder. Like to see it?”
Jim Jannaway, the man who had on the previous night represented himself to be “Captain Wetherton,” the friend of Frank Farquhar, expressed eagerness to see it. Therefore the financier rose, and with the gold master-key upon his watch-chain, opened the heavy steel door, and handed his visitor a typed document bound in a dark green cover – a complete copy of the manuscript which Doctor Diamond had partly burned in that obscure hotel at the Gare du Nord.
The context of the half intelligible sentences was there – the context which Professor Griffin was longing to obtain. And moreover, as the man turned over the pages, reading swiftly, he came across a geometrical figure – a plan marked with numbers and corresponding explanations.
“Who made the discovery?” asked Jim Jannaway, late of His Majesty’s Army and now gambler, card-sharper, and swell-mobsman.
“The devil only knows,” laughed Sir Felix. “He says he did himself. The fellow was hard up and I gave him a hundred francs, but I believed the whole thing to be a huge hoax, until I consulted old Erich and he began to puzzle his brains. Then I saw that there might be something in it. My only fear is that Griffin and his friends may get ahead of us. But you’ve done well, Jim. You always do.”
“I do the dirty work of the firm,” laughed the man addressed, removing his cigar from his lips, “and devilish dirty work it is at times.”
“Well, you can’t complain of the pay. Isn’t it better to live as you are, a gentleman of means, than as I found you five years ago, a ‘crook’ who might be arrested at any moment?”
“I don’t complain at all, my dear fellow. Only – ”
“Only what?”
“Well, I really don’t see your object in enticing the girl to Charlie’s rooms. It might be awkward for us.”
Sir Felix laughed, snapping his fingers.
“What? Are you growing afraid?” he asked.
“Not at all, only I can’t see your object.”
“The object is simply to compromise her,” he said grimly. “She’s a confounded pretty girl. I saw her at the theatre with her aunt a week ago, and she was at Lady Ena’s wedding the other day, with her lover, Frank Farquhar. Of that man we must be wary. With his confounded newspapers, he has power,” he added.
“That’s the very reason why I fear we are treading on dangerous ground.”
“Bosh! leave all to me. The girl is in Charlie’s rooms, there let her stay for the present,” answered the man whom the world believed to be a pillar of the church, and a devout philanthropist.
Jim Jannaway saw that this man whom he served – the man who held him in his toils – had some mysterious evil design upon the unfortunate girl. He could not, however, discern exactly what it was. He had ordered him to keep her in that upstairs room, “and break her spirit,” as he put it.
The midnight search of the Professor’s study had revealed that he was in active pursuit of the truth. That meant Sir Felix taking steps to checkmate his efforts. Ever since the first moment it had been known by a chance visit to the hotel while Jules Blanc was lying there dead, that the fragments of the strange document had fallen into Doctor Diamond’s hands, private inquiry agents, employed by Sir Felix, had been silently watching the movements of the deformed Doctor, Frank Farquhar, and his friend, the Professor. All had been reported to the red-faced man sitting there at his ease – the man who controlled financial interests worth millions.
Sir Felix had been convinced by the foreign expert he had consulted that there really was something in the theory of the unknown discovery, and he intended that none should learn the truth except himself. He had Jim Jannaway, the unscrupulous, at his elbow, ready to do any dirty work, or make any risky move which he ordered. In a day Jim could, if he wished, summon up half a dozen of the most dangerous characters in London, pals of his, to assist him, for be it said he always paid well – with Sir Felix’s money, of course.
Against such a combination as Challas and Bowen, though Mr Thomas J. Bowen lived in New York and was seldom in London, no private person could stand. The great firm, with their agents all over the world, gathered confidential information from everywhere, and could plot to crush any one who attempted to carry through a business that was against their interests.
Hence any attempt on the part of Doctor Diamond, or Professor Griffin, to solve the problem in face of the opposition of Sir Felix, was foredoomed to failure, if not to disaster. But alas! both men were in ignorance of the fact that a complete copy of the dead man’s document was in the possession of the man whose hatred of the Jews, his enemies in business, was notorious; and who would therefore go to any length in order to secure, for his own satisfaction, the sacred relics and vessels of Solomon’s Temple – providing they still existed.
