CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“SOME SENSATIONAL REVELATIONS”
The days dragged by. The papers were full of the robbery, declaring that it had been executed so neatly as to betray the hand of experts.
A gang of Continental thieves was suspected, because, as a matter of fact, a robbery similar in detail had, six months before, taken place on the night express between Cologne and Berlin. In that case also a strange ticket-inspector had been seen. The stolen property had, no doubt, been thrown from the train to accomplices. Such method was perfectly safe for the thief, because, unless actually detected in the act of tossing out a bag or parcel, no evidence could very well be brought against him.
Therefore the police, and through them the newspapers, decided that the same gang was responsible for the theft of the Archduchess’s necklace as for the robbery in Germany.
Myself, I read eagerly every line of what appeared in the morning and evening press.
Many ridiculous theories were put forward by some journalists in working up the “story,” and more than once I found cruel and unfounded reflections cast upon the sole female member of the party – my dear wife.
This was all extremely painful to me – all so utterly incomprehensible that, as I sat alone in the silence of my deserted home, I felt that no further misfortune could fall upon me. The iron of despair had entered my very soul.
Marlowe called one afternoon, and I was compelled to make excuse for Sylvia’s absence, telling him she was down at Mrs. Shuttleworth’s.
“You don’t look quite yourself, old man,” he had said. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” I laughed faintly. “I’m a bit run down, that’s all. Want a change, I suppose. I think I shall go abroad.”
“I thought your wife had had sufficient of the Continent,” he remarked. “Curiously enough,” he added, as he sat back and blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke from his lips, “I thought I saw her the day before yesterday standing on the railway platform at Banbury. I was coming down from Birmingham to Oxford, and the train slowed down in passing Banbury. I happened to be looking out at the time, and I could have sworn that I saw her.”
“At Banbury!” I ejaculated, leaning forward.
“Yes. She was wearing a dark blue dress, with a jacket to match, and a small dark blue hat. She was with an elderly lady, and was evidently waiting for a train. She gave me the impression that she was starting on a journey.”
“How old was her companion?”
“Oh, she was about forty, I should think – neatly dressed in black.”
“It couldn’t have been she,” I said reflectively.
“My dear Owen, Mrs. Biddulph’s beauty is too marked for one to be mistaken – especially a friend, like myself.”
“Then you are quite certain it was she – eh, Jack?”
My tall friend stretched his long legs out on the carpet, and replied —
“Well, I’d have bet a hundred to a penny that it was she. She wasn’t at home with you on that day, was she?”
I was compelled to make a negative reply.
“Then I’m certain I saw her, old man,” he declared, as he rose and tossed his cigarette-end away.
It was upon my tongue to ask him what he had known of her, but I refrained. She was my wife, and to ask such a question would only expose to him my suspicions and misgivings.
So presently he went, and I was left there wretched in my loneliness and completely mystified. The house seemed full of grim shadows now that she, the sun of my life, had gone out of it. Old Browning moved about silent as a ghost, watching me, I knew, and wondering.
So Sylvia had been seen at Banbury. According to Jack, she was dressed as though travelling; therefore it seemed apparent that she had hidden in that quiet little town until compelled to flee owing to police inquiries. Her dress, as described by Jack, was different to any I had ever seen her wear; hence it seemed as though she had disguised herself as much as was possible. Her companionship with the elder woman was also somewhat strange.
My only fear was that the police might recognize her. While she remained in one place, she would, no doubt, be safe from detection. But if she commenced to travel, then most certainly the police would arrest her.
Fortunately they were not in possession of her photograph, yet all along I remained in fear that the manager of the Coliseum might make a statement, and this would again connect me with the gang.
Yes, I suppose the reader will dub me a fool to have married Sylvia. Well, he or she may do so. My only plea in extenuation is that I loved her dearly and devotedly. My love might have been misplaced, of course, yet I still felt that, in face of all the black circumstances, she was nevertheless true to those promises made before the altar. I was hers – and she was mine.
Even then, with the papers raising a hue-and-cry after her, as well as what I had discovered regarding her elopement, I steadfastly refused to believe in her guilt. Those well-remembered words of affection which had fallen from her lips from time to time I knew had been genuine and the truth.
That same night I read in the evening paper a paragraph as follows —
“It is understood that the police have obtained an important clue to the perpetrators of the daring theft of the diamond necklet belonging to the Archduchess Marie Louise, and that an arrest is shortly expected. Some highly sensational revelations are likely.”
I read and re-read those significant lines. What were the “sensational revelations” promised? Had they any connection with the weird mystery of that closed house in Porchester Terrace?
I felt that perhaps I was not doing right in refraining from laying before the Criminal Investigation Department the facts of my strange experience in that long-closed house. In that neglected garden, my own grave lay open. What bodies of other previous victims lay there interred?
I recollected that in the metropolis many bodies of murdered persons had been found buried in cellars and in gardens. A recent case of the discovery of an unfortunate woman’s body beneath the front doorsteps of a certain house in North London was fresh within my mind.
Truly the night mysteries of London are many and gruesome. The public never dream of half the brutal crimes that are committed and never detected. Only the police, if they are frank, will tell you of the many cases in which persons missing are suspected of having been victims of foul play. Yet they are mysteries never solved.
I went across to White’s and dined alone. I was in no mood for the companionship of friends. No one save myself knew that my wife had disappeared. Jack suspected something wrong, but was not aware of what it exactly was.
I went down to Andover next day and called upon the Shuttleworths. Mrs. Shuttleworth was kind and affable as usual, but whether my suspicions were ungrounded or not, I thought the rector a trifle brusque in manner, as though annoyed by my presence there.
I recollected what the man Lewis had told his friends – that he had seen Shuttleworth down in the Ditches – one of the lowest neighbourhoods – of Southampton. The rector had told him all that had transpired!
Why was this worthy country rector, living the quiet life of a remote Hampshire village, in such constant communication with a band of thieves?
I sat with him in his well-remembered study for perhaps an hour. But he was a complete enigma. Casually I referred to the great jewel theft, which was more or less upon every one’s tongue.
“I seldom read newspaper horrors,” he replied, puffing at his familiar pipe. “I saw something in the head-lines of the paper, but I did not read the details. I’ve been writing some articles for the Guardian lately, and my time has been so fully occupied.”
Was this the truth? Or was he merely evading the necessity of discussing the matter?
He had inquired after Sylvia, and I had been compelled to admit that she was away. But I did so in such a manner that I implied she was visiting friends.
Outside, the lawn, so bright and pleasant in summer, now looked damp and dreary, littered by the brown drifting leaves of autumn.
Somehow I read in his grey face a strange expression, and detected an eagerness to get rid of me. For the first time I found myself an unwelcome visitor at the rectory.
“Have you seen Mr. Pennington of late?” I asked presently.
“No, not for some time. He wrote me from Brussels about a month ago, and said that business was calling him to Spain. Have you seen him?” he asked.
“Not very recently,” I replied vaguely.
Then again I referred to the great robbery, whereat he said —
“Why, Mr. Biddulph, you appear as though you can’t resist the fascination that mysterious crime has for you! I suppose you are an ardent novel-reader – eh? People fond of novels always devour newspaper mysteries.”
I admitted a fondness for healthy and exciting fiction, when he laughed, saying —
“Well, I myself find that nearly half one reads in some of the newspapers now-a-days may be classed as fiction. Even party politics are full of fictions, more or less. Surely the public must find it very difficult to winnow the truth from all the political lies, both spoken and written. To me, elections are all mere campaigns of untruth.”
And so he again cleverly turned the drift of our conversation.
About five o’clock I left, driving back to Andover Junction, and arriving at Waterloo in time for dinner.
I took a taxi at once to Wilton Street, but there was no letter from Sylvia. She gave no sign. And, indeed, why should she, in face of her letter of farewell?
I dressed, and sat down alone to my dinner for the first time in my own dining-room since my wife’s disappearance.
Lonely and sad, yet filled with fierce hatred of those blackguardly adventurers, of whom her own father was evidently one, I sat silent, while old Browning served the meal with that quiet stateliness which was one of his chief characteristics. The old man had never once mentioned his missing mistress, yet I saw, by the gravity of his pale, furrowed face, that he was anxious and puzzled.
As I ate, without appetite, he chatted to me, as had been his habit in my bachelor days, for through long years of service – ever since I was a lad – he had become more a friend than a mere servant. From many a boyish scrape he had shielded me, and much good advice had he given me in those reckless days of my rather wild youth.
His utter devotion to my father had always endeared him to me, for to him there was no family respected so much as ours, and his faithfulness was surely unequalled.
Perhaps he did not approve of my marriage. I held a strong suspicion that he had not. Yet old servants are generally apt to be resentful at the advent of a new mistress.
I was finishing my coffee and thinking deeply, Browning having left me alone, when suddenly he returned, and, bending, said in his quiet way —
“A gentleman has called, Mr. Owen. He wishes to see you very particularly.” And he handed me a card, upon which I saw the name: “Henri Guertin.”
I sprang to my feet, my mind made up in an instant. Here was one actually of the gang, and I would entrap him in my own house!
I would compel him to speak the truth, under pain of arrest.
“Where is he?” I asked breathlessly.
“I have shown him into the study. He’s a foreign gentleman, Mr. Owen.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “But now, don’t be alarmed, Browning – just stay outside in the hall. If I ring the bell, go straight to the telephone, ring up the police-station, and tell them to send a constable here at once. My study door will be locked until the constable arrives. You understand?”
“Perfectly, Mr. Owen, but – ” And the old man hesitated, looking at me apprehensively.
“There is nothing whatever to fear,” I laughed, rather harshly perhaps. “Carry out my orders, that’s all.”
And then, in fierce determination, I went along the hall, and, opening the study door, entered, closing it behind me, and as I stood with my back to it I turned the key and removed it.
“Well, M’sieur Guertin,” I exclaimed, addressing the stout man in gold pince-nez in rather a severe tone, “and what, pray, do you want with me?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A CONTRETEMPS
The stout, round-faced Frenchman rose, and, bowing with his irritating politeness, answered —
“I wish to consult you, Monsieur Biddulph, upon a confidential matter concerning your wife.”
“What does my wife concern you, pray, sir?” I asked angrily.
“Ah! calm yourself, m’sieur,” he said suddenly, dropping into French; “I am here as your friend.”
“I hardly believe that,” I replied incredulously. “My friend cannot be the accomplice of my enemies. You are acquainted with Reckitt and with Pennington – the men implicated in the recent theft of the diamonds of the Archduchess Marie Louise!”
He started and looked at me quickly.
“What do you know of that?” he inquired, with rather undue eagerness.
“I know more concerning you than you think,” was my firm reply. “And I give you an alternative, Monsieur Guertin. Either you will reveal to me the whole truth concerning those men Reckitt and Forbes and my wife’s connection with them, or I shall telephone to the police, and have you arrested as a member of the gang.”
“My dear monsieur,” he replied, with a good-humoured smile, “I can’t tell you facts of which I possess no knowledge. I am here to make inquiry of you – to – ”
“To mislead me further!” I cried angrily. “You and your friends may be extremely clever – you have succeeded in enticing my wife away from her home, and you expect to befool me further. Remember that I nearly lost my life in that grim house in Bayswater. Therefore at least I can secure the arrest of one member of the gang.”
“And you would arrest me – eh?” he asked, looking me straight in the face, suddenly growing serious.
“Yes, I intend to,” I replied, whipping out my revolver from my hip pocket.
“Put that thing away,” he urged. “Be reasonable. What would you profit by arresting me?”
“You shall either speak – tell me the truth, or I will hand you over to the police. I have only to touch this bell” – and I raised my hand to the electric button beside the fireplace – “and a telephone message will call a constable.”
“And you really would give me in charge – eh?” laughed my visitor.
“I certainly intend doing so,” I answered angrily.
“Well, before this is done, let us speak frankly for a few moments,” suggested the Frenchman. “You tell me that you nearly lost your life in some house in Bayswater. Where was that?”
“In Porchester Terrace. What is the use of affecting ignorance?”
“I do not affect ignorance,” he said, and I saw that a change had completely overspread his countenance. “I only wish to know the extent of your knowledge of Reckitt and Forbes.”
“I have but little knowledge of your friends, I’m pleased to say,” was my quick rejoinder. “Let us leave them out of the question. What I desire to know is the whereabouts of my wife.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I regret that I have no knowledge of where madame may be.”
“But you have!” I cried, facing him angrily. “She is probably with Pennington, her father, who seems to be one of your undesirable fraternity.”
“No, she is not with him, most certainly,” my visitor declared. “I know that for a fact. She is probably with Lewis.”
“And who is this fellow Lewis?” I demanded.
For a moment he was silent.
“I think you had better ask madame, your wife,” he replied at last.
“Do you intend to cast a slur upon her?” I cried, facing him resentfully.
“Not in the least,” was his cool answer. “I have merely replied to your question.”
“And have given me most impertinent advice! Will you, or will you not, tell me who the fellow is?”
“At present, monsieur, I must refuse.”
“Then I shall press the bell, and give you into custody.”
“Ah!” he laughed, “that will be distinctly amusing.”
“For me, perhaps – not for you.”
“Monsieur is at liberty to act as he deems best,” said my visitor.
Therefore, irritated by the fellow’s manner, and in the hope that he would at the eleventh hour relent, I pressed the bell.
It rang loudly, and I heard old Browning go to the telephone beneath the stairs. In a few minutes the constable would arrive, and at least one member of the dangerous gang would be secured.
“Perhaps you will let me pass,” he said, crossing towards the door immediately after I had rung the bell. But I placed myself against it, revolver in hand, preventing him and holding him at bay.
“Very well,” he laughed. “I fear, Mr. Biddulph, that you are not acting judiciously. You refuse to accept my statement that I am here as your friend!”
“Because you, on your part, refuse to reply to my questions.”
But he only shrugged his shoulders again without replying.
“You know quite well where my wife is.”
“Alas! I do not,” the fellow declared emphatically. “It was to obtain information that I called.”
“You cannot deny that you know that pair of criminals, Reckitt and Forbes?”
“I have surely not denied knowledge of them!”
“Yet you refuse to tell me who this man is who enticed my wife from my side – the man who presided over that secret council at the George Hotel at Stamford!”
“I am prepared to be frank with you in return for your frankness, monsieur,” he answered.
But I saw in his evasive replies an intention to mislead me into a belief that he was actuated towards me by friendly motives. Therefore my antagonism increased. He had defied me, and I would give him into custody.
Presently there came a loud knocking at the door, and, upon my opening it, a police-sergeant stood upon the threshold.
“I give this man into custody,” I said, addressing him and pointing to the Frenchman.
“Upon what charge, sir?” asked the burly officer, whose broad shoulders filled the doorway, while I saw a constable standing behind him.
“On suspicion of being associated with the theft of the diamonds of the Archduchess Marie Louise,” I replied.
“Come, monsieur,” laughed my visitor, speaking again in English, “I think we have carried this sufficiently far.” And, placing his hand in his breast-pocket, he produced a small folded yellow card bearing his photograph, which he handed to me. “Read that!” he added, with a laugh of triumph.
I saw that the printed card was headed “Préfecture de Police, Ville de Paris,” and that it was signed, countersigned, and bore a large red official seal.
Quickly I scanned it, and, to my abject dismay, realized that Henri Guertin was chief of the first section of the sûreté– he was one of the greatest detectives of France!
I stammered something, and then, turning to the sergeant, red and ashamed, I admitted that I had made a mistake in attempting to arrest so distinguished an official.
The two metropolitan officers held the card in their hands, and, unable to read French, asked me to translate it for them, which I did.
“Why,” cried the sergeant, “Monsieur Guertin is well known! His name figures in the papers only this morning as arresting two Englishmen in Paris for a mysterious murder alleged to have been committed in some house in Bayswater!”
“In Bayswater!” I gasped. “In Porchester Terrace?”
“Yes,” replied the famous French detective. “It is true that I know Reckitt and Forbes. But I only knew them in order to get at the truth. They never suspected me, and early yesterday morning I went to the snug little apartments they have in the Rue de Rouen, and arrested them, together with two young Frenchmen named Terassier and Brault. Concealed beneath a loose board in the bedroom of the last-named man I found the missing gems.”
“Then Terassier and Brault were the two men who met the others in Stamford, and carried the diamonds across to the Continent, intending to dispose of them?”
“Exactly. There was a hitch in disposing of them in Amsterdam, as had been intended, and though the diamonds had been knocked from their settings, I found them intact.”
He told me that Forbes was the actual thief, who had so daringly travelled to Finsbury Park and collected the tickets en route. He had practically confessed to having thrown the bag out to Reckitt and Pennington, who were waiting at a point eight miles north of Peterborough. They had used an electric flash-lamp as they stood in the darkness near the line, and the thief, on the look-out for the light, tossed the bag out on to the embankment.
“Then my father-in-law is a thief!” I remarked, with chagrin, when the sergeant and constable had been dismissed. “It was for that reason my wife dare not face me and make explanation!”
“You apparently believe Arnold Du Cane, alias Winton, alias Pennington, to be Sylvia’s father – but such is not the case,” remarked the great detective slowly. “To his career attaches a very remarkable story – one which, in my long experience in the unravelling of mysteries of crime, has never been equalled.”
“Tell me it,” I implored him eagerly. “Where is my poor wife?”