The Second Victorian Mystery Megapack, page 18
“That seems to me,” said Westerham, “an unwise thing to do.”
The detective grew a trifle alarmed. What he had said was only partially true, and he felt that he had gone too far.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “Of course, within reason, we are bound to respect Lord Penshurst’s wishes, but Scotland Yard is not a political association; it is a police force, and if we find crime being introduced into politics it is certainly our business to inquire into the matter.”
“Do I understand you to suggest that Lord Penshurst would dabble in crime?” asked Westerham.
The detective threw up his hands in horror.
“Certainly not!” he said vehemently. “Certainly not! It is you we still suspect, not Lord Penshurst. Good gracious! Certainly not!”
“You suspect me, I presume, to such an extent,” replied Westerham, “that if I left this hotel I am pretty sure to be followed. Well, follow me,” he added with a laugh, “and catch me if you can.”
And taking up his hat he walked out.
He was perfectly right in his suspicions, and as he moved down the Strand and looked into the shop windows he was conscious that a bulky man dogged his footsteps. The pursuit, however, rather sharpened Westerham’s wits than otherwise, and raised his spirits rather than depressed them. It served to take his thoughts from the grim business which was beginning to weigh him down.
Westerham’s notions of evading capture were somewhat immature, as it was a new experience for him to find the police constantly upon his track. Very little ingenuity, however, sufficed to rid him, at least for a time, of his pursuers.
He strolled along Piccadilly and up the Burlington Arcade.
He entered Truefit’s, where he made a small and totally unnecessary purchase.
By this move he knew that he placed the detective who followed him in an awkward position.
He was conscious that the man’s face was pressed against the glass in an endeavour to keep him in sight. He did not enter the shop from the very obvious fear of becoming too obtrusive.
Westerham sauntered down the shop, and then, before the detective had any chance of making even an attempt at pursuit, he slipped out into Bond Street and clambered on to a passing omnibus.
As the heavy vehicle lumbered past the clubs in Piccadilly, Westerham took a long breath of relief, and startled the other passengers by laughing aloud. He went on to Victoria, where he made several purchases, including a second-hand kit-bag.
Armed with this, he walked boldly into the Buckingham Palace Hotel and there booked a room.
Immediately after this he wrote a note to Lord Dunton, asking him to call at once, for he was anxious that he should be warned in time of the visit the two men he had met at the gaming-house the night before would surely pay him.
Little by little Westerham had begun to confide in Dunton. For in spite of that youthful nobleman’s apparent flightiness he was, as a matter of fact, discretion itself and a very tomb for secrets.
To his dismay, however, the messenger-boy whom he had dispatched with the note returned with word that Lord Dunton had a couple of days before run over to Paris, and that he was not expected back till the following afternoon.
This landed Westerham in a particularly awkward predicament. It was imperative that he should see Melun as soon as possible, if only for the purpose of threatening to give him into charge for murder. It was only, too, from Melun that he was likely to hear any news of Lady Kathleen until Dunton returned to help him out of his difficulty.
On the other hand, should he send for Melun, Melun was shrewd enough to warn the police at once of Westerham’s whereabouts. And this, as his complete freedom of movement might become absolutely necessary, Westerham could not afford to risk.
Twenty-four hours, then, he remained in the hotel, chafing against the delay, and pacing the floor of his room hour by hour in a vain endeavour to unravel the tangled skein of mystery in which he was enmeshed.
On the following day, as Dunton had not arrived by four o’clock, Westerham sent round to his rooms again, only to receive the heart-breaking news that Dunton was still absent. He despatched a further and yet more urgent message to Dunton’s rooms, and sat down to wait again.
It was half-past seven when Dunton leisurely descended from a hansom and strolled up the steps of the hotel.
Westerham almost rushed forward to meet him, and grasping him by the arm dragged him into the smoking-room.
There he made as complete a statement as he dared of all that had happened in the past two days; and Lord Dunton opened his innocent-looking blue eyes very wide indeed.
“By Jove,” he said from time to time.
“I should not tell you all this,” Westerham concluded, “unless I were absolutely certain that I could trust you.
“I have no idea who the men were that I saw at the Faro Club, but I don’t suppose that it will be long before they call.”
“I fancy that they have called already,” said Dunton. “When I got back this afternoon I found that cards had been left by Lord Cuckfield and a chap by the name of Mendip. My man said that they came together, so I presume they are the Johnnies you mean. And I won’t let the grass grow under my feet. I’ll look them up to-night and tell them that they have got to keep their mouths shut and to take you on trust.
“By the way,” added Dunton, “this business seems to grow ‘curiouser and curiouser’ as Alice would say. I should have been back before but some unaccountable inclination made me break my journey at Rouen. I was there this afternoon, and who should I see but the heroine of all this mystery.”
“What!” shouted Westerham, utterly shaken out of himself, “not Lady Kathleen?”
“Lady Kathleen herself,” answered Dunton.
“Good God!” cried Westerham. “The crisis must be at hand indeed. She has been lured over there to her death.”
Dunton dropped his eyeglass and stared at his friend in amazement. Westerham was almost beside himself with anxiety and rage.
“Don’t sit staring there like a gibbering idiot,” he almost yelled, “but give me some money. Quick! They have taken my notes, and I have practically spent all my loose cash on the things I need here.”
Dunton began to fumble in his pockets. “You cannot expect a fellow to have much about him when he has just come back from Paris,” he grumbled. “Still, I think I can dig up twenty pounds or so.”
Westerham stood over him. “Come along! Come along!” he urged. “Every penny you have got.”
With a queer smile Dunton emptied his pockets and poured the contents into Westerham’s palms.
“All right! All right!” he said. “Don’t be in such a hurry. It’s most disturbing.”
“You fool!” cried Westerham again. “Don’t you understand that I have only ten minutes in which to catch the boat-train?”
And without another word he bolted out of the room.
CHAPTER XV
BY ORDER OF THE CZAR
Swift as the cab was, Westerham only caught the boat-train by a minute, and at that without a ticket.
He had then two hours for calm reflection, and to some extent self-reproach. Never in his life before had he been so unnerved, and the expressions of irritation which he had made at the Buckingham Palace Hotel before Dunton did not seem to him good.
He saw that his was not a fit state of mind to be in if he intended to steer safely through the troubled waters ahead of him.
Some things were growing clearer to his mind. More and more he was coming to realise the clever, if circuitous, means by which Melun was seeking to break down Lady Kathleen’s resistance and render his own task harder.
But this new move disturbed him more than any which had yet been made. He could find no reason for the scene of the conflict being suddenly transferred from England to France, unless, indeed, Melun had at last come to the conclusion that Westerham was too dangerous a man to play with.
Soon he saw, however, that speculation was utterly useless. All his efforts must be concentrated upon his finding Lady Kathleen, and if necessary compelling her by sheer force to capitulate and take him into her confidence.
He set his heart upon this so strongly that he persuaded himself that there were no difficulties in his way. It would be strange indeed if, when the moment came, he would not be able to induce Lady Kathleen to reveal those things which up to then she had so obstinately and persistently hid.
The night was calm, and the passage to Dieppe a smooth one, but on the quay Westerham received a sharp demonstration that the difficulties which he had mentally brushed aside nevertheless remained to be grappled with in actual fact.
To begin with, he had no luggage. He did not even possess an overcoat, and as it had come on to rain, and for the sake of greater freedom of thought he had remained on deck, his appearance was already travel-worn and bedraggled.
Small wonder, therefore, that as he presented the ticket with which he had been provided at Newhaven the officials of the douane regarded him with keen suspicion.
“Monsieur has nothing to declare?” they asked.
He could only shrug his shoulders and say:
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
To avoid further questionings he added: “I have not even an overcoat.”
They looked him up and down, and his appearance inspired a certain amount of respect. None the less, they took counsel together, and with an ever-watchful eye Westerham saw them approach a portly person of an intensely British aspect.
Presently this individual came up to him and asked in most unmistakably English terms what Westerham’s destination might be.
Westerham told the man shortly that his destination was Rouen.
“You must excuse me, sir,” said the man, whom Westerham guessed to be a Scotland Yard representative at the port of Dieppe, “but it is rather unusual for gentlemen to travel without luggage and without even so much as an overcoat. It is even more curious,” he added, “when they start on a journey without first taking a ticket.”
Westerham surveyed the man coolly with a faintly insolent air. He was coming to realise that whereas in ordinary times the consciousness of his own good faith enabled him to pass every barrier with the superiority born of an easy conscience, it required some brazenness to face obstructions of this sort when he had a desire for secrecy.
And the fat man was evidently shrewd. He might take life easily on the quay, and watch with thoughtful and even drowsy eyes the coming and going of innumerable English voyagers, but for all that his alertness only slept, and though he had an instinctive trust of Westerham’s face and manner, still he could not deny that appearances were against the Englishman who travelled so unprovided for a journey and with such evident haste.
“Of course,” he said apologetically, “you will excuse my being persistent in making inquiries, for, after all, that is only my duty.”
“Quite so,” said Westerham, with a genial smile, “and how can I help you to do it?”
With some pomposity of manner the English detective produced a fat note-book.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I must ask you to give me your name.”
Westerham smiled a little to himself to think how futile was such a precaution on the man’s part. He was at liberty to give him what name he chose; he could give him the first name that came into his head.
“I think,” he laughed, “that for safety’s sake you had better call me Charles Grey, though how on earth you are to ascertain whether that is my real name or not I confess I cannot see.”
The fat detective sucked in his lips and wrote the name laboriously in his book.
“After all,” he said, with some asperity, “people who give wrong names and addresses seldom come to any good.”
“I suppose not,” said Westerham, and walked a little moodily towards the train. He paid the guard handsomely enough to warrant the man’s not forgetting to call him at Rouen. But still Westerham felt that he had so much at stake that he could leave nothing to chance, and so he sat upright, wakeful and watchful, while the train rushed through the apple trees of Normandy to the old cathedral city.
When he arrived there it was raining hard, and he was conscious that he was again an object of suspicion as he stood on the steps of the station looking about him in search of a fiacre.
No vehicle was in sight, and Westerham set himself to tramp up the hill to the Hôtel de la Cloche, at which he had stayed long years before, and of which he still entertained a lively recollection of its cleanness and its quaintness.
The hotel slept, and Westerham heard the bell pealing through the silent house as he stood shivering and waiting on the doorstep.
Presently he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn and a shock-headed night porter thrust his face out into the damp morning air.
The sight of Westerham’s tall figure drew his immediate attention.
“What does Monsieur require?” he asked in accents which were at once civil and surprised.
“Let me in,” said Westerham, “and I will do my best to explain.”
The man switched on the electric light, and Westerham, treading warily on the polished parquet floor, made his way to a seat. He was feeling fatigued and not a little miserable.
First he took the precaution of drawing a couple of half-crowns from his pocket and slipping them into the man’s hand.
“You need not be alarmed at my appearance,” he said. “I am not a fugitive from justice. I am merely an English gentleman who has lost his friends and who is in search of them.
“Tell me if you have staying in this hotel a very tall young English lady with dark hair and dark eyes? It is possible that she is travelling incognito, but if she has given her right name it will be the Lady Kathleen Carfax.”
The man scratched his head and looked worried.
“I would help Monsieur if I could,” he said, “but I can only assure him that there is no English lady staying in this hotel at all. Alas! the season is very bad, and we have few English visitors.”
That Lady Kathleen was not at the Hôtel de la Cloche did not disconcert Westerham very much. He had foreseen that she was hardly likely to stay in the most prominent hotel in the town. He had merely called there because he knew that if one wishes to make one’s path smooth in a foreign city it is just as well first to win the confidence of some hotel porter.
“It is many years,” he said to the man, “since I stayed here. In fact, I have practically no recollection of Rouen except of this hotel and the cathedral. I should therefore be very much obliged if you could furnish me with a complete list of all the hotels where English people are likely to be found.”
“Why now,” said the man, “that is an exceedingly simple affair.” And he rattled off a list of hotels.
Westerham repeated them after him, but found he could not remember so many. Therefore he wrote them down.
“And you think,” he asked, “that this is a complete list?”
“Quite complete, I should say,” said the man, “for Monsieur’s purpose.”
With a weary air Westerham rose from the cane-backed chair on which he was seated.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said to the porter, “but I must go in search of this lady at once.”
The man spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture. “It is still very dark,” he said, “and Monsieur will find the hotels closed. Moreover, I do not wish to be rude to Monsieur, all the night porters may not be so accommodating as myself.
“Permit me to help Monsieur,” he went on. “Monsieur will pardon me, but possibly this may be some romance.”
He shrugged his shoulders again, but with such an air of civility and respect that Westerham could not quarrel with him.
“At any rate, it is not my business to inquire. For the time it is merely my end to serve Monsieur well. Be seated for a little while I make coffee and bring rolls and butter. It will fortify Monsieur against the damp air.”
Laughing a little, Westerham sat down again, and suffered the man to bustle about. The fellow was deft indeed, and soon Westerham was glad that he had listened to his counsel.
The dawn came up, and the porter turned the lights out, and Westerham sat in the twilight of the early morning smoking more or less contentedly cigarettes of the Caporal brand.
Shortly after six the man, who had been busy cleaning boots, returned and made a gesture towards the sunlight, which was streaming into the room.
“If Monsieur is in haste,” he said, “I will not seek to detain him. By this time the other hotels will be open. If Monsieur’s mission is urgent he should continue his search.”
His air was so friendly and so charming that Westerham resorted to the only expression of appreciation of which he could conceive. He gave the man another five shillings, and pledged him to silence. None the less, he had little faith that the man would keep his tongue still. The Frenchman must talk.
Thereafter Westerham went out into the fresh morning air and began his search. In turn he visited the Hôtel de la Poste, the Grand, the Europe, and the rest of them.
It cost him a pretty sum to purchase the confidence of half-suspicious and still sleepy porters, but by the time he had worked through the list of hotels with which the man at the Hôtel de la Cloche had provided him he had come to the conclusion that Lady Kathleen was of a certainty not in one of these hostelries.
Was she still in Rouen? The doubt troubled Westerham greatly, but he reflected that she might have elected to put up at a more humble hotel than any of those at which he had called. So with the assistance of a fairly friendly policeman he secured a second and much longer list of minor inns.
