Kitabı oku: «The Under-Secretary», sayfa 14
Chapter Twenty Five.
In which the Stranger states his Mission
“Well, what do you want?” Chisholm inquired sharply, glancing keenly at the foreigner, and not approving of his appearance.
“I want a word with the signore,” the man who had accosted him answered, with an air almost of authority.
“I don’t know you,” replied the Under-Secretary, “and have no desire to hold intercourse with perfect strangers.”
“It is true that I am unknown to the signore,” said the man in very fair English, “but I am here, in London, on purpose to speak with you. I ascertained that you were visiting at yonder palazzo; therefore, I waited.”
“And why do you wish to speak with me? Surely you might have found a more fitting opportunity than this – you could have waited until to-morrow.”
“No. The signore is watched,” said the man as he began to walk at Dudley’s side among the throngs of people, for in Knightsbridge there is always considerable movement after the theatres have closed and the tide of pleasure-seekers is flowing westward. “I have waited for this opportunity to ask the signore to make an appointment with me.”
“Can’t you tell me your business now?” inquired Chisholm suspiciously, not half liking the fellow’s look. He spoke English fairly well, but his rather narrow face was not a reassuring one. An Englishman is always apt, however, to judge the Italian physiognomy unjustly, for those who look the fiercest and the most like brigands are, in the experience of those who live in Italy, generally the most harmless persons.
“To speak here is impossible,” he declared, glancing about him. “I must not be seen with you. Even at this moment it is dangerous. Give me a rendezvous quickly, signore, and let me leave you. We may be seen. If so, my mission is futile.”
“You have a mission, then. Of what character?”
“I will tell you everything, signore, when we meet. Where can I see you?”
“At my house in St. James’s Street – in an hour’s time.”
“Not so. That is far too dangerous. Let us meet in some unfrequented café where we can talk without being overheard. I dare not, for certain reasons, be seen near the signore’s abode.”
The man’s mysterious manner was anything but convincing, but Dudley, perceiving that he was determined to have speech with him, told him at last to follow him. The stranger instantly dropped behind among the crowd without another word, while the master of Wroxeter continued on his way past Hyde Park Corner and along Piccadilly, where gaiety and recklessness were as plentiful as ever, until making a quick turn, he entered a narrow court to the left, which led to Vine Street, the home of the notorious police-station of the West End. Half-way up the court was a wine-bar, a kind of Bodega, patronised mostly by shopmen from the various establishments in Regent Street. This he entered, looked round to see which of the upturned barrels that served as tables was vacant, and then seated himself in a corner some distance away from the men and women who were drinking port, munching biscuits, and laughing more and more merrily as closing time drew near. Then, about ten minutes later, the stranger slunk in, cast a quick suspicious glance in the direction of the merrymakers, walked across the sanded floor and joined him.
“I hope we have not been seen,” were his opening words as he seated himself upon the stool opposite Chisholm.
“I hope not, if the danger you describe really exists,” Dudley replied. After he had ordered a glass of wine for his companion he scrutinised for a few seconds the narrow and rather sinister face in front of him. With the full light upon him, the stranger looked weary and worn. Chisholm judged him to be about fifty, a rather refined man with a grey, wiry moustache, well-bred manners, and a strange expression of superiority that struck Dudley as peculiar.
“You are Tuscan,” he said, looking at the man with a smile.
The other returned his glance in undisguised wonderment.
“How did the signore know when I have only spoken in my faulty English?” he asked in amazement.
Chisholm laughed, affecting an air of mysterious penetration, with a view to impressing his visitor. The man’s rather faded clothes were of foreign cut, and his wide felt hat was un-English, but he did not explain to him that the unmistakable stamp of the Tuscan was upon him in the tiny object suspended from his watch-chain, a small piece of twisted and pointed coral set in gold, which every Tuscan in every walk of life carries with him, either openly, or concealed upon his person, to counteract the influence of the Evil Eye.
“It is true that I am Tuscan,” the man said. “But I must confess that the signore surprises me by his quickness of perception.”
“I have travelled, and know Italy well,” was all the explanation Dudley vouchsafed.
“And I arrived from Italy this evening,” said the stranger. “I have been sent to London expressly to see the signore.”
“Sent by whom?”
“By the signore’s friend – a signorina inglese.”
“Her name?”
“The Signorina Mortimer.”
Mention of that name caused Dudley to start and fix his eyes upon the stranger with the sallow face.
“She has sent you. Why?”
“To deliver to you an urgent message,” was the man’s response. “I have here a credential.” And fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat he produced an envelope, open and without superscription, which he handed to Chisholm.
From it the latter drew forth a piece of folded white paper, which he opened carefully.
What he saw struck him aghast. Within the folds was concealed an object, simple, it is true, but of a nature to cause him to hold his breath in sheer astonishment.
The paper contained what Dudley had believed to be still reposing in the safe at Wroxeter. It was the revered relic of a day long past, the token of a love long dead – the little curl he had so faithfully treasured.
The woman into whose hands he had so irretrievably given himself had stolen it. She had secured it by stealth on that night when, conversing with him in the library, she had confessed her knowledge of his secret, so that he had been forced by overwhelming circumstances to make the unholy compact which was driving him to despair. Time after time he had risked his life against fearful odds, snatched it from savage treachery, fought for it in open fight in wild regions where the foot of a white man had never before trod, plucked it from the heart of battle; but never had he cast it so recklessly upon the dice-board of Fate as on that night when she, the Devil’s angel, had appeared to him in the guise of a saviour.
His mouth grew hard as he thought of it. What did it matter? Life was sweet after all, and she had rescued him from suicide. Impulse rode rough-shod over reason, as it so often does with impetuous men of Dudley Chisholm’s stamp; his inborn love of adventure, which had carried him far afield into remote corners of the earth, was up in arms against sober thought.
Upon the paper in which the lock of hair was wrapped were a few words, written in ink in a firm feminine hand.
He spread the paper out and read them. The message was very brief, but very pointed:
“The bearer, Francesco Marucci, is to be trusted implicitly. – Muriel Mortimer.”
That was all. Surely no better credential could there be than the return of the treasured love-token which she had so ingeniously secured.
“Well?” he inquired, refolding the paper and replacing it in its envelope. “And your message? What is it?”
“A confidential one,” replied the Tuscan. “The Signorina ordered me to find you at once, the instant that I reached London. I left Florence the day before yesterday and travelled straight through, by way of Milan and Bâle. She gave me the address of that palazzo where you have been visiting, and I waited in the street until you came out.”
“But you have told me that I am watched,” said Dudley. “Who is taking an interest in my movements?”
“That is the reason why I am in London. As the signore is watched by the most practised and experienced secret agents, it was with difficulty that I succeeded in approaching him. If those men track me down and discover who I am, then all will be lost – everything.”
The paper he held in his hand told him that this stranger could be trusted. He was essentially a man of the world, and was not in the habit of trusting those whom he did not know. And yet, what credential could be more convincing than that innocent-looking love-token of the past?
“But why are these men, whoever they are, watching me? What interest can they possibly have in my movements? The day of the Irish agitation is over,” he said in a somewhat incredulous tone.
“The signorina in her message wishes to give you warning that you are in the deadliest peril,” the man said in a low voice, bending towards him so that none should overhear.
“Speak in Italian, if you wish,” Dudley suggested. “I can understand, and it will be safer.”
The eyes of Francesco Marucci sparkled for a moment at this announcement, and he exclaimed in that soft Tuscan tongue which is so musical to English ears:
“Benissimo! I had no idea the signore knew Italian. The signorina did not tell me so.”
It chanced that Chisholm knew Italian far better than French. As he had learnt it when, in his youth, he had spent two years in Siena, he spoke good Italian without that curious aspiration of the “c’s” which is so characteristically Tuscan.
“Perhaps the signorina did not know,” he said in response.
“The signore is to be congratulated on speaking so well our language!” the stranger exclaimed. “It makes things so much easier. Your English is so very difficult with its ‘w’s’ and its Greek ‘i’s’, and all the rest of the puzzles. We Italians can never speak it properly.”
“But the message,” demanded Dudley rather impatiently. “Tell me quickly, for in five minutes or so this place will be closed, and we shall be turned out into the street.”
“The message of the signorina is a simple one,” answered Marucci in Italian. “It is to warn you to leave England secretly and at once. To fly instantly – to-morrow – because the truth is known.”
“The truth known!” he gasped, half rising from his seat, then dropping back and glaring fixedly at the stranger.
“Yes,” the man replied. “It is unfortunately so.”
“How do you know that?”
“How?” repeated the thin-faced Tuscan, bending towards Chisholm in a confidential manner. “Because I chance to be in the service of your enemies.”
“What? You are in the British Secret Service?” cried the Under-Secretary, amazed by this revelation.
“Si, signore. I am under the Signor Capitano Cator.”
“And you are also in the service of the Signorina Mortimer?”
“That is so,” answered the man, smiling.
“You are actually one of Cator’s agents?”
“The signore is correct,” he answered. “I am an agent in the service of the British Government, mainly employed in France and Belgium. Indeed, if the Signor Sotto-Secretario reflects, he will remember a report upon the Toulon defences which reached the Intelligence Department a few months ago, and about which a rather awkward question was asked in the House of Commons.”
“Yes, I recollect. The elaborate report, which was produced confidentially, I myself saw at the time. It was by one Cuillini, if I remember right.”
“Exactly! Benvenuto Cuillini and Francesco Marucci are one and the same person.”
The young statesman sat speechless. This man Marucci was the most ingenious and faithful of all Cator’s secret agents, and the manner in which he had obtained the plans of the defences of Toulon was, he knew, considered by the Intelligence Department to be little short of miraculous. The report was a most detailed and elaborate one, actually accompanied by snapshot photographs and a mass of information which would be of the greatest service if ever England fought France in the Mediterranean.
“Then you, Signor Marucci, are really my friend?” he exclaimed at last.
“I am the friend of the Signorina Mortimer,” he replied, correcting him.
“And who is the Signorina Mortimer,” Chisholm demanded. “Who and what is she that you should be her intimate friend? Tell me.”
Chapter Twenty Six.
Shows Signori of the Suburbs
The wiry Italian with the bristly moustache glanced at him half suspiciously; then a smile lit up his face for an instant.
“The Signorina Mortimer is an English signorina whom I have known a long time. Francesco Marucci is a friend of all the English.”
“I know. But in this matter you are actually working against the efforts of your own department.”
“As I have already explained to the signore, I am but the signorina’s messenger,” he declared, in a tone which showed him to be a past-master in the art of evasion. “She urges you to pay an immediate visit to a certain person here in London, and to leave for the Continent to-morrow morning – for Italy.”
“To go to her? Why cannot she come to England?”
“Because just at present that is impossible,” the man replied.
“And this visit you speak of. To whom is it?” The Italian drew from his pocket a small and shabby wallet, about six inches square, of the kind used in Italy to carry the paper money. From this he took a card, on which was written an address at Penge.
“She asks you to call at the house indicated immediately this card comes into your possession,” he said. “As your visit is expected, you had better go to-night.”
“For what reason?”
“For reasons known to her alone,” replied the messenger. “I am not in the possession of the motives of the signorina in this affair.”
“Speak candidly, Marucci,” said Chisholm. “You, as confidential agent of the British Government, know all about this matter. You cannot deny that?”
“I know the facts only so far as it is necessary for me to know them,” answered the Italian warily. He was still much impressed by the manner in which the Signor Sotto-Secretario had pronounced his nationality.
“You know the object of my visit to Penge, eh?”
“No, signore, I assure you that I do not. I am merely obeying orders given me by the signorina, and I hope to leave Charing Cross at nine o’clock to-morrow morning on my return to Italy.”
“Did she explain to you the manner in which the truth had been revealed?” he inquired eagerly.
“No, but I can guess,” was his companion’s answer, given in a low voice. “Some one has denounced you, and consequently your English police have received information which necessitates your flying the country and remaining hidden until you can prove an unshakeable alibi.”
Dudley was silent, thoughtfully polishing the silver handle of his cane with his glove.
“Were no instructions given you as to the mode in which I should escape? If I am watched, as you allege, then the ordinary routes to the Continent are under observation and the Channel ports closed to me.”
“No instructions were given me,” he replied. “You are to pay a visit to that address, and afterwards to leave for Florence, where I am to meet you at the Hotel Savoy. To-day is Thursday; I shall call for you at the hotel at midday on Monday.”
The hunted man reflected, for the position was both embarrassing and serious. Here were peremptory orders from the woman to whom he had sold himself as the price of his secret, to the effect that he should renounce everything, leave England, and become known at Scotland Yard as a criminal fugitive. He was to part from Claudia, whom he loved, and who loved him with all her soul; to leave her without farewell and without any words breathing patience and courage. And this, after his solemn declarations of an hour before!
What would she think of him – she who had been just as much a part of his life as he of hers?
In those brief moments he remembered the wild, uncurbed passion of her love; how that she had exalted him as her idol, as the one person who held her future in his hands, the one person whose kiss gave life to her. She was wealthy, almost beyond the wildest dreams of her youth; but riches availed her not. Her heart was bursting with the great and boundless love she bore him. He knew this; knew it all, and sighed as he faced the inevitable.
What an ignominious ending to a brief and brilliant career! It had been a thousand times better if he had cast the offer of the temptress aside, and swallowed the fatal draught he had prepared! The jury would have pronounced him to be the victim of temporary insanity, and all the ugly story that was now in possession of Scotland Yard would have been hushed for ever, and the high honour of the Chisholms saved from public blemish.
Bah! He had been weak, he told himself, and for his lack of courage he must now suffer. His thoughts turned again to suicide, but on reflection he saw that to take his own life was now unavailing. The truth was known at the Home Office, and the police would reveal it at the inquiry into the cause of his decease.
He was helpless, utterly helpless, in the hands of a clever adventuress.
Long and steadily he looked at the Italian. This man with the thin, haggard face, grey moustache and deeply furrowed brow, was actually the most daring and ingenious of all the confidential agents employed by the British Intelligence Department on the Continent. Known to the Department as Benvenuto Cuillini, it was owing to his astuteness, indomitable energy, and patient inquiry that the British Government were often put in possession of information of the highest possible value in the conduct of diplomacy or of war. There is, of course, in the Englishman’s mind an emphatic dislike of the employment of spies, but we have nowadays to face hard facts, and must pander to no sentimentalities in dealing with avowed enemies. The recent Transvaal war has shown the hopeless inefficiency of our secret service in South Africa, and has taught every Englishman the lesson that, even though he may be disinclined to employ spies, he must keep pace with other nations. Furthermore, it has proved to him that knowledge is power and that it may often be the means of saving many valuable lives.
The barman, feeling thankful that the end of his day’s work was at last reached, shouted in a stentorian voice:
“Time, gentlemen! Time!”
This announcement caused every one to drain his glass and rise.
“You will lose no time in visiting the house indicated upon the card, will you?” urged the secret agent. “And I shall meet you at the Savoy in Florence on Monday next at noon. That is a definite appointment.”
“If you wish,” Chisholm replied mechanically. And both went out, walking slowly down the court.
Before turning into Piccadilly, the Italian halted, declaring it was best that they should not be seen in company. He therefore wished Dudley good-night, and “buon viaggio.”
Should he return to Albert Gate and speak with Claudia for the last time? Ah! if only he dared to tell her the ghastly truth; to lay bare his innermost consciousness and expose to her the secret of his sin! Ah! if he only could! If he only dared to ask for her guidance, as he had so often done at the other crises of his life! She loved him; but would she love him any longer when she knew the appalling truth?
No. It was quite impossible. Even to the passionate love of a woman there is a limit.
He stood in hesitation on the crowded pavement, under the portico of the St. James’s Restaurant. To go down to the House was out of the question. Should he return to Claudia? He glanced at his watch. No. It was too late. What excuse could he make for seeking an interview with her after she had retired for the night and the great house was closed. If he went there he must perforce tell her of his intended flight – that they must, in future, be apart. This would result in a scene; and he hated scenes.
He would write to her. It was the only way. After to-morrow he, whose career had been so brilliant and full of promise, whose life was supposed by all to be so free from any cares, save those belonging to his political office, would be a fugitive upon whose track the police would raise a hue and cry throughout all the various countries which had treaties of extradition with England.
“It is God’s justice,” he murmured. “I have sinned, and this is my punishment.”
Two rough-voiced women jostled him, making some silly remarks about his star-gazing.
This roused him, and he permitted himself to drift with the crowd along to the Circus, where, having glanced at the address upon the card the spy had given him, he hailed one of the hansoms which were slowly filing past.
When the man received orders to drive to Worthington Road, Penge, he was sarcastic, and seemed disinclined to take the fare.
“It’s a long way, gov’nor,” said the driver, when Dudley had announced his intention of paying well.
“I can’t go there and back under a couple o’ quid.”
“Very well, that’s agreed,” Chisholm said. He stepped into the cab, threw himself into a corner, and gave himself up to a long and serious train of thought.
He loved Claudia, and hated the mysterious woman, who had in a manner so remarkable learned the truth regarding the one tragic event in his past. Muriel’s innocent-looking face utterly belied her crafty and avaricious nature. Gifted with the countenance of a child, her active brain was that of an adventuress. A dangerous woman for any man to associate with. And he, Dudley Chisholm, who had so long prided himself upon his shrewd observance of men and women and his quick perception, had been utterly and completely deceived.
The long drive across Westminster Bridge and along the wide and apparently endless thoroughfares with their rows of gas-lamps, through the suburbs of Walworth, Camberwell, Denmark Hill, and Sydenham, passed unnoticed. He was so much preoccupied that he did not realise his whereabouts until they were descending the hill past Sydenham Station, where they turned to the right by Venney Road, thus heading for Penge. The suburban roads were quiet and deserted; the horse’s hoofs and the tinkling of the bell were the sole disturbers of the night.
Presently the cabman pulled up to ask the solitary policeman the direction of the road which Dudley had mentioned; then he drove on again. At last, after making several turns, they passed down Green Lane and entered a road of small detached villas, rather artistically built, with red and white exteriors. Apparently they were only just finished, for in front of some there still were piles of bricks and building rubbish, while before others boards stood announcing that this or that “desirable residence” was “to be let or sold.”
The road was a cul-de-sac which terminated in a newly worked brickfield. When nearly at the end of it, the cab suddenly pulled up before a house of exactly the same appearance as its unlet neighbour, save for the fact that the Venetian blinds were down, and that a gas-jet was burning behind the fan-light of the door.
“This is it, sir,” announced the cabman through the trap-door in the roof. Dudley left the cab and passed through the newly painted iron gate and up the short path to the door, at which he knocked with a firm and sounding rat-tat.
There were signs of scuttling within. His quick eye noticed that one of the slats of the Venetian blind in the bay window of the parlour had been lifted for an instant by some person who had evidently been watching for him, and then dropped again quickly.
The low-pitched voices of men sounded ominously within, but the door was not opened.
He waited fully five minutes, listening attentively the while; he clearly heard a sound which was suspiciously like the despairing cry of a woman.
Then he knocked loudly again.
Dudley Chisholm was by no means a timid man. A dozen times he had faced death during his erratic wanderings in the almost unknown regions of the far east. He was of the type of athletic Englishman that prefers the fist as a weapon at close quarters to any knife or revolver. That whispering within, however, unnerved him; while the woman’s ejaculation was also distinctly uncanny. The cabman was awaiting him, it was true, and could be relied upon to raise an alarm if there should be any attempt at foul play. The remembrance of this, to a certain degree, reassured him.
He had come there in obedience to the orders of the woman who held his future in her hands, but he did not like the situation in the least.
His second summons was answered tardily by an old woman, withered and bent, who came shuffling down the little hall grumbling to herself, and who, on throwing open the door, inquired what he wanted.
“I think I am expected here,” was all he could reply, handing her the card which the Italian had given him.
The old hag took it in her claw-like fingers and examined it suspiciously.
“Are you Mr Chisholm?” she inquired.
Dudley nodded in the affirmative.
“Then come in – come in. They’ve been expecting you these two days.” She closed the door behind and led the way through the barely furnished hall into a back sitting-room on the left, which contained a little furniture of a kind to suggest that it had been purchased on the instalment system.
He seated himself, wondering who were the persons by whom he was expected. When his guide had gone he strained his ears to catch any sound of the woman’s voice which he had heard raised in distress after his first knock at the door. But all was silent. Only the paraffin lamp on the table with its shade of crimson paper spluttered as it burned low, for it was now about half-past two in the morning.
The association of ideas caused him to recollect all he had ever heard about strange nocturnal adventures met with by men in unknown houses in the suburbs; and as he sat awaiting the arrival of the persons who apparently took such a deep interest in his welfare he could not help becoming a prey to misgivings.
Suddenly he heard low whisperings out in the hall, and some words, distinct and ominous reached him.
“Well, if it must be, I suppose it must,” he heard a voice say. “But recollect I am no party to such a thing.”
A low, sarcastic laugh was the sole answer to this protest. The next instant the door opened, and there entered two men, one young, tall, and muscular, with an ugly scar across his lower jaw, and the other very old, feeble, and white-haired. Both were foreigners. Chisholm knew they were Italians before either of them spoke.
“Buona sera!” exclaimed the elder man, greeting the visitor in a squeaky voice. “You are the Signor Chisholm, and the English signorina in Florence has sent you to us. Benissimo! We have been awaiting you these two days. I presume our friend Marucci has only just arrived in London.”
“He arrived this evening,” said Chisholm. “But before we go further may I not know who it is I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“My name is Sisto Bernini. Our friend here,” he added, indicating his companion, “is Tonio Rocchi.” The younger man, a dark-eyed, black-haired, rather handsome fellow grinned with satisfaction. Chisholm glanced at him, but was not reassured. There was a strange mystery about the whole affair.
“You have been sent to us because you desire to avoid the police, and escape from England,” the old man continued. “To get you away is difficult, very difficult, because you are a man so extremely well-known. We often assist our own countrymen to get, safely back to Italy after any little fracas, but with you it is very different.”
“And by what means are you able to get them secretly out of the country?” inquired Chisholm, much interested in this newly discovered traffic.
“By various means. Sometimes as stowaways; at others, in our own fishing-smack from one or other of the villages along the south coast. There are a dozen different ways.”
“And are none safe for me?”
The old man shook his head dubiously.
“For you, all are dangerous.”
“All, save one,” chimed in the younger man, exchanging glances with his companion.
“And what is that?” Chisholm asked.
“It is our secret,” the old man replied, shutting his thin lips tightly with a grin of self-satisfaction.
“I was informed by Marucci that you were prepared to assist me!” exclaimed Chisholm in a tone of annoyance; “but if you are not, then I may as well wish you good-night.”
“If the signore will exercise a little patience, he shall hear our plan,” the old man Bernini assured him. “I am all attention.”
“Then let us speak quite frankly,” squeaked the old fellow. “You desire to escape from the police who, for all we know, are now watching you. That you have been watched during the past few days is evident. Tonio, here, has himself seen detectives following you. Well, we are prepared to undertake the risk – in exchange, of course, for a certain consideration.”
“To speak quite candidly you intend to blackmail me – eh? It isn’t at all difficult to see your drift.”
“If the signore desires a service rendered, he must be prepared to pay,” declared the younger man. “Sisto has a plan, but it is expensive.”
“And how much would it cost me?” inquired Chisholm, still preserving his outward calm, although he saw that he had fallen among a very undesirable and unscrupulous set.
“Ten thousand pounds sterling,” was the old man’s prompt reply.
