Kitabı oku: «The Sign of the Stranger», sayfa 15
Chapter Twenty Nine
Is Still More Mysterious
I held my breath. What mystery had I discovered? Marigold had been secretly done to death by these hard-faced foreigners!
There was no light save one single lamp at the far end of the road, and by its feeble rays I saw that the silhouettes of the two men who carried their burden to the carriage were those of the sallow-faced foreigner who had met the pair on Calais platform and the man who had awaited the arrival of the express at Milan.
Logan did not appear. He evidently remained in the house.
Of the identity of the victim there surely could be no doubt. It was she who had aided Marie Lejeune in the commission of some offence – that woman whose word could clear the character of my love Lolita.
What could I do? I stood in hesitation, utterly dumbfounded. I had fortunately discovered the truth how these men had ingeniously entrapped the woman towards whom Logan had shown a marked but false friendship, but alone and undefended I feared to rush forward and denounce them.
I recollected what the delegato of police had told me in Biffi’s and stood watching, confident that ere long I should be able to give the police such information as would lead to the arrest of the whole gang.
Little ceremony was used in handling the covered body of the lifeless woman. It was simply bundled into the cab, the two men got in with it, the door closed, and the vehicle was driven off rapidly in the direction of the town.
The instant it passed me I ran after it as fast as my legs could carry me, determined to follow it to its destination. My own idea, from the fact that the horse was a weak one, was that it was not going far – in fact only just sufficiently far to place the body in some place of concealment.
The wheels rattled over the stones, awakening the echoes of the silent streets as the cab turned towards the main thoroughfare in the direction of the city.
I was panting some distance behind, and had halted for a second to catch my breath, when all of a sudden, before I was aware of what had happened, I felt a crushing blow upon my skull, and fell to earth like a felled ox.
I only recollect having seen a thousand stars at that moment when the irresistible blow fell upon me – nothing else. My soft grey felt hat did not break the blow, the full force of which came down upon the top of my head, striking me in an instant dumb and unconscious.
Of what happened to me after that I have no knowledge whatever. I had, of course, acted unwisely in my quick eagerness to ascertain the truth, for by rushing after the vehicle I had exposed myself to the detection of those of the conspirators who were evidently outside the house keeping watch. My curiosity had misled me into a distinct error of judgment, and I had no doubt been felled by those whose motive it was to keep secret the tragic affair.
My next recollection was of a terrible throbbing in my brain. My head seemed aflame! My skull seemed to be boiling with molten lead. Ah! never in all my life shall I forget the torments I suffered for about an hour, yet unable to speak, unable to complain of them. Before my blinded eyes was a dull red haze, in which stars seemed to shoot with every throb of the blood through my poor unbalanced brain.
I believe at last I spoke, but of what I said I have no idea. Merely the ravings of delirium I have since been told. I felt something strange upon my brow, like burning coal or corrosive acid, yet when I knew the truth I found to my surprise that it was ice.
My first impression was that I was demented. I could not think of anything. Strange weird visions, mostly grotesque or gruesome, floated through my mind, but without motive or coherence. I tried to recollect the past, but I found I had none. My brain had been thrown out of its usual balance, and my sufferings were excruciating.
Ah! I now know some of those tortures which are the wages of sin, and I tell you I would not endure them again – no, not for a million in hard cash. My poor brain seemed to bubble and boil, as though my skull had been emptied and re-filled with molten metal, while the sound in my ears seemed as deafening as the noise of a thousand steam-hammers.
At last I knew that I was still breathing, my sore heavy eyes seemed less clouded, and the haze grew clearer. I heard other sounds above that maddening, crashing, hammering rending that deafened me – sounds of human voices.
My hot lips were touched by something cold, and I felt a few drops of some liquid dribble into my mouth. This I swallowed, for I believed that aid was at hand.
I tried to speak, but over the articulation of my words I had absolutely no control. What I said was not what I really intended to say in the least. Never have I experienced such a strange loss of control over my tongue before. I was sane, and yet insane at the same moment.
Slowly and with very great difficulty I regained my senses, when, to my surprise, I found a face in a wide head-dress of white linen, the face of a sister of one of the religious orders.
My eyes wandered to other beds around, all of them occupied, and on the wall was a gigantic crucifix. Then I knew that I was in a hospital. My head was bandaged, and two doctors seemed to be re-adjusting the folds of linen.
I inquired in English where I was, but suddenly recollected that I was in Milan, and in the same language the elder of the two doctors replied —
“Don’t trouble where you are, my dear sir. For the present remain quiet, and get better. You’ve taken a turn now, and will recover. Be thankful for that.”
“How long have I been here?” I asked, gazing around at the unfamiliar surroundings.
“Three days,” replied the sister, a calm-faced elderly woman, who wore a huge rosary and crucifix suspended from her girdle. “We thought you would not recover – until yesterday. But you will soon be better now.”
Then I recollected the terrible fate of the young Countess of Stanchester.
And after pondering and wondering I lapsed again into a lethargic state, remaining so for many hours.
It was not before the following day that my senses really fully returned, and when they did there came to my bedside a short rather stout fussy little man in a soft hat and snuff-coloured suit, by whose bearing I knew him at once to be a delegato of the Milan police.
“I regret to disturb you, signore,” he commenced, as he seated himself at my side, “but in the circumstances it is necessary. Are you aware of the conditions under which you were discovered?”
“No,” I answered. “Tell me.”
“Well,” he said, “the affair is a mystery upon which you no doubt can throw some light, but before questioning you I have to inform you that whatever you will say will be taken down in writing, and may be used in evidence, because you are under arrest.”
“What?” I said, starting up and glaring at him. “Under arrest – for what?”
“For murder.”
“That’s interesting, at any rate,” I exclaimed, half inclined to treat the matter as a joke. “And whom have I murdered, pray?”
“A woman.”
“Well,” I said, “if you will tell me where and how I was found I may perhaps be able to throw some light on the affair. If not, perhaps you will send for the British Consul, and I’ll make a statement to him.”
At first the detective seemed disinclined to tell me anything, but finding the unconcerned manner in which I took the serious charge, he at last told me certain facts that held me utterly dumb with astonishment.
“You were found insensible by some workmen who went to do some repairs in an apartment in a house beyond the Monforte gate – you and the woman. The knife with which you struck her was lying beside you, and we also have the hatchet with which she struck you on the head in self-defence.”
“What!” I gasped, amazed. “Do you allege that I killed the woman?”
“You are guilty until you prove yourself innocent,” was the man’s cold reply, regarding me with a keen quick glance in his dark eyes.
“Well, just tell me a little more about it,” I urged. “You say that some workmen found me in the same room as the woman, and between us was a knife and a hatchet. Whose house was it?”
“Ah! you are unaware of whose place it was? You broke into it during the absence of the proprietor and took up your quarters there, of course,” was the man’s reply. “You are a foreigner – English?”
“I am. And I think before we go any further you’d better send for the Consul and let me put a different complexion upon your story. Your theory is, of course, the natural and only one, if, as you say, a knife and a hatchet have been found. But you have not told me to whom the apartments belonged,” I said.
“They were rented by a man named Rondani, manager of the silk factory in the Via della Stella. He, however, locked up the place about a month ago, having been sent by his firm on a commission to Berlin. The other day a builder received the key by post, with orders to enter and effect certain repairs, and when the men went there they discovered you both in the dining-room and at once informed us. At first you were believed to be dead, but as the doctor declared that you were still alive you were brought here and placed under arrest.”
“But I’m innocent!” I declared dismayed. “I was attacked from behind in the open street.” And then I told him of my midnight vigil, and of the weird scene of which I had been witness. It seemed plain that having been recognised and struck down by the assassins they suddenly changed their plans, taking back the body of the young Countess as well as myself, ingeniously placing us in such a position as to make it appear that I was the actual murderer. No doubt they were under the belief that I had died from the effects of the blow.
I expressed anxiety to visit the scene of the assassination, to which the man replied —
“By all means. Indeed, we shall be compelled to take you there as soon as you are well enough.”
“Let me go now,” I urged. “I can drive there all right.”
“No – to-morrow,” he said.
“What have you found upon the woman?” I inquired.
“Several things – letters in English and other things. They are being translated.”
“Letters in English. May I see them?”
“At the trial,” he said. “Instead of gloating over your crime as you seem to be doing, would it not be better to try and establish your innocence?” he suggested.
“Why should I? I’m not guilty. Therefore I fear nothing. Only take me to the scene of the crime.”
“To-morrow you shall go. I promise you,” was his reply, and then he left, one of his assistants mounting guard over me, in fear, I suppose, that I might try and escape them.
The murder of Lady Stanchester was an appalling dénouement of the mystery, and increased it rather than threw any light upon the extraordinary circumstances. It was evident that she had been deliberately enticed there to her doom, and had I not fortunately followed her, her end would have remained a complete enigma.
The police had discovered certain letters. What, I wondered, did they contain? Would they at last throw any light upon the affair which, when it got into the papers, must startle English society.
At present her name was, of course, unknown, unless perchance any of the envelopes were with the letters. I felt sympathy for my friend George, and wondered how I could prevent her name from being known.
The hours crept slowly on; the day seemed never-ending. The presence of that scrubby-bearded little Italian sitting near me reading a newspaper idly, or gossiping with the men who lay in the neighbouring beds, was particularly irritating.
At last, however, when night came on and my guard was relieved, I slept, for the pain in my head wore me out and exhausted me.
Next day, in accordance with his word, the delegato, accompanied by two other police officials, arrived, and feeling sufficiently well I dressed and accompanied them downstairs, where a closed cab was in waiting. After a short drive we turned into the half-finished street so familiar to me, and pulled up before the house over the threshold of which I had seen, carried by the assassin, the lifeless body of one of the most admired women in England.
They conducted me up a flight of stairs to a landing at the back, and there entered one of the flats with a key. I noticed that the door had been sealed, for the delegato broke the seal before inserting the key.
Inside, the place was rather barely furnished, the home of a man with small means; but as we walked into the little dining-room the sight that met my eyes was terrible.
Upon the table were the remains of a supper – decaying fruit, half-consumed champagne and an unlit cigar lying on one of the plates. Places seemed to have been laid, for five, but the cloth had been half torn off in the struggle, and a dish lay upon the ground, smashed.
Upon the floor of painted stone, the usual floor of an Italian house, were great brown patches – pools of blood that had dried up, and into one the corner of the table-cloth had draggled, staining it with a mark of hideous ugliness.
On the ground, just as they had been found, lay a heavy hatchet with blood upon it, the instrument with which my unknown assailant had struck me down. While at a little distance lay a long very thin knife, with a finely tempered three-edged blade.
To the astonishment of my three guards I took it in my hand and felt its edge. The curious thought occurred to me that with such a weapon, thin and triangular, Hugh Wingfield had been so mysteriously done to death.
“Then this is where they enticed the woman – to an apartment that was not their own, and which they evidently entered by a false key! They invited her to supper, and then – well, they murdered her,” I said reflectively. “Where is the body? May I see it?”
The confronting of a murderer with his victim is part of the procedure of the Continental police, therefore the detectives were not adverse in the least to granting my request.
“Certainly,” answered the delegato. “It is here, in this room, awaiting the official inquiry.” With that he opened the door of the small bedroom adjoining, and there, stretched upon the bed, lay the body, covered with a sheet.
I approached it, to take a last look upon the woman whose end had been so terrible, at the same time wondering what evidence the police had secured in those letters found upon her.
“God!” I cried, when one of the men with a quick movement, and watching my face the while, drew away the sheet and revealed the white dead countenance.
I stood glaring at it, as one transfixed.
“Ah!” exclaimed the delegato in satisfaction. “It is a test that few can withstand. You recognise her as your victim – good!”
I let the fellow condemn me. I allowed him to form what theory he liked, for I was far too surprised and amazed to protest.
The truth was absolutely incredible. At first I could not believe my own eyes.
The dead woman was not Marigold, but another – Marie Lejeune!
Chapter Thirty
A Ray of Light
Surprise held me dumb.
It seemed quite evident by the fact that five places had been laid at table that the Frenchwoman must have already been in the flat awaiting the arrival of Marigold and her companions, and, further, that Logan and her ladyship had remained behind after the unfortunate woman had been carried to the cab.
These and a thousand other thoughts flashed through my bewildered mind as I stood aghast, my eyes riveted upon the dead white face of the woman whose single word could have saved my love.
She had died, alas! with that secret locked within her heart!
I recollected her quick vivacious manner in those exciting moments when we had met on the Chelsea Embankment, and how I had made a compact with her, one which it was now impossible for her to fulfil. She had hid from the police, first at Hayes’s Farm, where a dastardly attempt had been made upon her, and here, in that unoccupied flat, she had fallen the victim of her enemies. Why? What motive could Marigold and her friends have in her assassination?
That there was a motive, and a very strong one, was quite plain, but it certainly was in no way apparent to me. The mystery was maddening. I felt, indeed, that my weakened brain could not much longer stand the strain.
“You recognise her, I see!” exclaimed the delegato, with satisfaction. He had been watching me narrowly, and believed that the start I gave when the ghastly face was revealed was proof of my guilt.
“Yes, I recognise her,” was my answer. And glancing round the room I saw that it was dirty and neglected, having been unoccupied for some time. The assassins, I supposed, had cleaned the dining-room and salon in order that the victim should not suspect that she was in an apartment that had been so long closed. It was certainly bold and ingenious of them to enter a stranger’s house and use it for their nefarious purpose.
My captors led me back to the room in which I had been found, where one of them pointed to a dark stain upon the floor – the stain of my own blood. Beside it I saw my handkerchief cast aside. It had, no doubt, been used by my discoverers to staunch the blood. Again I took the heavy axe in my hand, and realised what a deadly weapon it was.
Then when the men had concluded making some other investigations they led me away, driving me back to the hospital in the cab, evidently entirely satisfied with their effort to fix the crime upon myself. The doctors had not yet discharged me, therefore I was put to bed again, and a detective mounted guard as before.
At my suggestion, the British Consul, Mr Martin Johnson, was informed, and visited me. He stood at my bedside, a pompous and superior person to whom I at once took an intense dislike. Happily he is now transferred, and his office is now occupied by a very courteous and pleasant-mannered member of His Majesty’s Consular Service. I had, however, the misfortune to call Mr Johnson without knowing the character of the man. He was one of those precious persons of whom there are far too many in the British Consular Service; men who object to be disturbed by the Englishman in distress, whose hours are from one till three, and whose duties in an inland city like Milan are almost nil. Mr Martin Johnson, something of a fop, believed himself an ornament of the Service, hence his annoyance when the police called him to my bedside at the hospital. He regarded me with combined pity and contempt, at the same time drawing himself up and speaking in a ha-don’t-you-know tone, supposed to be impressive.
I had heard of this superior person long ago, and as I lay in bed was amused at his attempt to impress upon me the importance of his position.
I explained to him how I had been discovered and arrested, and that I was entirely innocent of the crime alleged against me, whereupon he said snappily —
“Well, I can’t help you. You’ll have to prove your innocence. The police say that you’ve been confronted with the body of the woman, and that your attitude showed plainly that you were guilty.”
“But it’s monstrous!” I said. “I was attacked in the street by some ruffian, struck insensible, and carried up to the room.”
“You’ll have to prove that, What’s your name?”
I told him, without, however, mentioning my connexion with the Stanchesters.
“And the woman? You admitted to the police that you know her?”
“She’s a Frenchwoman named Lejeune – who was wanted by the police.”
He sniffed suspiciously, and rearranged his cravat in the mirror upon the wall.
“Well,” he remarked in Italian to the delegato who stood at his side. “This is a matter in which I really cannot intervene. The prisoner has to prove his innocence. How can I help him?”
“By doing your duty as Consul,” I chimed in. “By having an interview with the Questore and obtaining justice for me.”
“I know my duty, sir,” he snapped. “And it is not to investigate the case of every unknown tourist who gets into difficulty. If you have money, you can engage some lawyer for your defence – and if you haven’t, well I’m sorry for you.”
“Yours is a rather poor consolation, Mr Johnson,” I remarked in anger. “Am I to understand then that you refuse to help me – that you will not see the Questore on my behalf?”
“I’ve told you plainly, I am unable to interfere.”
“Then I shall complain to the Foreign Office regarding the inutility of their Consul in Milan and his refusal to assist British subjects in distress,” I said.
“Make whatever complaint you like. I have no time to discuss the matter further.” And he turned rudely upon his heel and left me, while the police drew their own conclusions from his attitude.
“Very well, my dear sir,” I called after him down the hospital ward, “when Sir Charles Renton asks for your explanation of your conduct to-day, you will perhaps regret that you were not a little more civil.”
My words fell upon him, causing him to turn back. Mention of the name of the head of his particular department of the Foreign Office stirred the thought within him that he might, after all, be acting contrary to his own interests. He was a toady and place-seeker of the first water.
“And of what do you complain, pray?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “I chance to know Sir Charles very intimately – in fact he is a relative of mine. Therefore when I return I shall not fail to describe to him this interview.” It was the truth. Sir Charles was my cousin.
“Then why didn’t you tell me that before, my dear sir?” asked the pompous official, in an instant all smiles and graces, for he knew too well that direct complaint to the head of his department meant transference to some abominable and desolate hole in West or East Africa. “Of course, I’m only too ready and anxious to serve any friend of Sir Charles,” he assured me.
“No doubt,” I said smiling and inwardly reflecting that, happily, members of our Consular Service were not all cast in that person’s mould. Previously he had put on the airs of an Ambassador – the air he assumed, I suppose, in the drawing-rooms of democratic Milan, but now he was all obsequiousness, declaring himself ready and anxious to carry out my smallest wishes in every respect.
“Well,” I said, regarding him contemptuously, “I can only tell you that the tragic affair that has just occurred concerns the honour of one of the greatest houses in England. I cannot be more explicit, otherwise I should betray a confidence. I am accused of murder, but I am, of course, innocent.”
“Of course,” he said. “Of course! These fools of police are always trying to parade their wonderful intelligence. But,” he added, “how are you going to prove yourself innocent?”
Strangely enough that very serious question had never occurred to me. I was in a country where the law regarded me as guilty, and not in England, where I should be looked upon as innocent until convicted.
I was silent, for I saw myself in a very serious predicament.
I would have asked him to telegraph to Keene or to Lolita, but I feared to give him the address lest he should institute inquiries, and I had no wish to mix up Lord Stanchester or his sister with the terrible affair.
“The only course I can suggest is the engagement of a good criminal counsel who will, without doubt, secure your acquittal at once when the case comes on for trial,” remarked the Consul. “Why the police arrested you appears to be an utter enigma, but in Italy it is not extraordinary. They had to make an arrest, so they detained you.”
“Shall I be detained long do you think?”
“Probably a month,” he replied regretfully. “Perhaps even more.”
My heart sank within me. I was to remain there a prisoner, inactive and in ignorance of the web of intrigue around my love. Too well I knew Lolita’s danger, and now, with the Frenchwoman dead, she would be compelled to face the inevitable.
A month of absence and of seclusion! What might happen in that period, I dreaded to contemplate. If I were free, I might be instrumental in bringing the murderers of Marie Lejeune to justice, but detained there it was impossible.
Of a sudden, like a flash, a brilliant idea occurred to me. There was just a chance that I could secure my release by a very fortuitous circumstance – the meeting of that delegato of police in Biffi’s café on the night of the murder!
At once I explained this incident to Mr Martin Johnson, described the appearance of the detective and his friend, and urged him to go to the Questore, place my statement before him, and if possible ascertain who was the delegato in question and confront me with him.
In an hour the Consul returned. He had seen the chief of police, and from my description it was believed that the detective was a brigadier named Gozi, who was that day over at Como. They had telegraphed for him to return, and he would come and see me at once.
This gave me hope, while knowledge of my statement and the interest the Consul was taking in my case aroused the interest of my guards. Even the doctor and nurses seemed to regard me differently.
The hours crept slowly by in that great house of suffering. A priest, a kindly cheery old man, came to my bedside and chatted. He was from Bologna, a city I knew well, and he had once when a young man been in London, attached to the Italian Church in Hatton Garden. The sunset that streamed through the long curtainless windows and fell upon the big crucifix before me, faded at last, the clear sky deepened into night, and the hush of silence fell upon the ward. Yet still beside me there sat the immovable figure of my guard, his arms folded as he dozed.
That night I passed in the torture of suspense. My head burned, my eyes seemed sore in the sockets, and I was apprehensive lest my hope of release might be a futile one.
In the morning, however, my friend of the café entered briskly with the doctor, who had conducted him to the scene of the tragedy on the previous day, and in a moment our recognition was mutual.
“Well,” he exclaimed, standing by me and regarding me with some surprise. “What has happened to you?”
“I’m under arrest,” was my reply. “Accused of murder.”
“So I hear,” he answered. “It seems that our meeting at Biffi’s was rather fortunate for you – eh?”
“Now you recognise me, I’ll tell you all that occurred,” I said quickly. And then I related to them both in detail all the startling incidents, just as I have already written them down.
“Then it was not the Englishwoman who was murdered?” he said. “You told me her name was Price – if I mistake not. After I left Biffi’s that night I somehow felt convinced that Ostini and Belotto were up to some mischief, and I afterwards regretted that I had not waited and watched them. They looked rather too prosperous to suit my fancy. You, of course, believed the dead woman to be your friend, the English lady?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And the Englishman – what of him?”
“I did not see him after he entered the house,” I answered.
Then, after I had furnished him with many other minute details of my startling adventure of that night in which I had so narrowly escaped death at the hands of the assassins, he held a brief consultation in private with his colleague, who was apparently his superior in rank.
And presently they both returned to my bedside and, to my joy, announced that it was decided to release me from custody.
Within half an hour an active search was being made for the four who had sat at table that night at Biffi’s, and although I hoped that the assassin would be caught, I felt a little apprehensive lest Marigold should fall into the hands of the police and the Earl’s name be dragged into the criminal court.
If she still remained at the Metropole the police must certainly discover her. I could only hope that she had already fled.
The mystery as to who had attacked me was still unsolved. If it were Logan, then was it not probable that she was aware of the blow that had been dealt me? The circumstances, indeed, pointed to the fact that, in the murder of Marie Lejeune, she was at least an accomplice.
That day I begged the doctors to allow me to go forth, but they were inexorable. Therefore for yet another day was I compelled to remain there in anxious uncertainty although free from the irritating presence of the guard.
