Chapter Twenty One
More Mystery
Ignorant of the fate of my friends, I was unceremoniously bundled into a fiacre and driven to the police bureau, where for nearly three hours I was closely questioned regarding my own identity and my knowledge of Harvey Shaw.
Aix-les-Bains being a gambling centre, it attracts half the escrocs in Europe; hence, stationed here and there are several of the smartest and shrewdest police officials which France possesses. At the hands of Victor Tramu and two of his colleagues I was subjected to the closest interrogation in a small bare room with threadbare carpet and walls painted dark green, the headquarters of the Sûreté in that district. The population of Aix in summer is much the same as that of Monte Carlo in winter – a heterogeneous, cosmopolitan collection of wealthy pigeons and hawks of both sexes and all nationalities.
From the thousand and one questions with which I fenced I tried to gather the nature of the offence of which Harvey Shaw was culpable, but all to no avail. I asked Tramu point-blank if he and his foster-daughter had been arrested, but no information would he give.
“I am asking questions – not you, m’sieur,” was his cold reply.
All the interrogation seemed directed towards ascertaining the hiding-place of Shaw in England.
“You knew him in England,” remarked Tramu, seated at a table upon which was a telephone instrument, while I stood between the two agents of police who had arrested me. “Where did you first meet him?”
“At a railway station.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“I had a message to deliver – a letter from a dead friend.”
Tramu smiled incredulously, as did also the two other officials at his side.
“And this dead friend – who was he?” asked the renowned detective.
“A man whom I had met on a steamer between Naples and London. He was a stranger to me, but being taken ill on board, I tried to do what I could for him. He died in London soon after our arrival.”
“His name?”
“Melvill Arnold.”
Victor Tramu stroked his brown beard.
“Arnold! Arnold!” he repeated. “Melvill Arnold – an English name. He was an Englishman, of course?”
“Certainly.”
“Arnold! Arnold!” he repeated, gazing blankly across the room. “And he was a friend of the suspect Shaw, eh?”
“I presume so.”
“Arnold!” he again repeated reflectively, as though the name recalled something to his memory. “Was he an elderly, grey-haired man who had lived a great deal in Egypt and was an expert in Egyptology eh?”
“He was.”
Tramu sprang to his feet, staring at me, utterly amazed.
“And he is dead, you say?”
“He is – he died in my presence.”
“Arnold!” he cried, turning to his colleagues. “All, yes. I remember now. I recollect – a most remarkable and mysterious mail. Dieu! what a colossal brain! What knowledge – what a staunch friend, and what a formidable enemy! And he is, alas! dead. Describe to me the circumstances in which he died, Monsieur Kemball,” he added, in a voice full of regret and sympathy.
In response, I briefly told him the story, much as I have related it in these pages, while all listened attentively.
“And he actually compelled you to burn the banknotes, eh?” asked the officer of the Sûreté. “He wilfully destroyed his fortune – the money which I had hoped to recover – the money which he – But, no! He is dead, so we need say no more.”
“Then you knew poor Arnold, Monsieur Tramu?” I remarked.
“Quite well,” laughed the brown-bearded man seated at the table. “For years the police of Europe searched for him in vain. He was far too wary and clever for us. Instead of enjoying the pleasures of the capitals, he preferred the desert and his studies of Egyptian antiques. He moved about so quickly, and with so many precautions, that we never could lay hands upon him. Indeed, it is said that he kept two ex-agents of police, whose duty it was to watch us, and keep him informed regarding our movements. His was, indeed, a master mind – a greater man than your associate, Harvey Shaw.”
“What were the charges against Arnold?” I asked eagerly. “Why were you so anxious to secure his arrest?”
“Oh, there were a dozen different charges,” he replied. “But now he is dead, let his memory as a very remarkable man rest in peace. Our present action concerns the man Shaw. Where did you visit him in England?”
“He visited me at my house, Upton End.”
“And you did not visit him?”
“I saw him twice at the Carlton Hotel in London, and once at the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool.”
“And you declare that you have no knowledge of his offences?” asked the official shrewdly.
“If I had, I certainly should not have accepted his invitation to come here on a motor-tour,” was my quick reply.
“And the girl? You mean to say that you have no suspicion of her offence?”
“Her offence!” I cried. “Tell me – I beg of you to tell me! – what allegation there is against her.”
“Ah, my dear m’sieur, of that you will know soon enough,” replied the detective, again stroking his beard. “I fear that, if your ignorance of the truth is not feigned, the revelations forthcoming will – well, greatly astonish you.”
“But surely Mademoiselle is not a criminal!” I cried, staring at him in dismay.
“Wait and hear the evidence against her.”
“I will not believe it.”
“Ah! because you are enamoured of her – eh, Monsieur Kemball?” exclaimed the great detective, with a shrewd twinkle in his large brown eyes. “A man is always loath to believe that his well-beloved can do wrong. Bien! I urge you to wait and see what the revelations bring forth – to carefully weigh over the hideous story before giving further thought to her.”
“I need no advice. Monsieur,” I protested angrily. “If you make allegations, you should surely tell me their nature.”
“That is for you to discover,” he answered, with a crafty smile. “You have refused to assist me; therefore I, in turn, refuse to satisfy your curiosity.”
“You have arrested me because I happen to be on friendly terms with this man and his daughter. Therefore surely I may be told the offence alleged against them,” I protested in anger.
“The fact you have revealed – namely, that Shaw and Melvill Arnold were friends – is quite sufficient to prove what I really suspected. The man’s identity is made entirely plain, even though you refused to give me information.”
“They are my friends,” I remarked resentfully.
“Perhaps they will be so no longer when you know the actual truth concerning them,” he said, smiling grimly.
“And what is this terrible charge against them, pray?”
“Have I not already told you that you will know quite soon enough?” was the prompt reply of the renowned detective, whose name was as a household word in France; and his two companions smiled.
The telephone bell rang, and one of them took up the receiver and listened.
Then he handed it to Tramu, who, from his words, I gathered, was speaking with the commissary of police at the Gare du Lyon, in Paris, asking that an incoming train should be carefully watched.
“Thank you. Advise me as soon as it arrives,” he added, and placing the receiver down, he rang off.
Again he returned to the attack, endeavouring to discover from me where in England Shaw had hidden himself. But I was just as evasive as he was himself. I was fighting for the woman I loved. I told him vaguely that they lived in the North of England in order to mislead him, but I declared I did not know their actual place of residence.
But he only smiled incredulously, replying —
“Monsieur is enamoured of Mademoiselle. I have watched you both for two days past, and I know that you are aware of her address in England.”
This man had actually been watching us, while we had been all unconscious of espionage! Fierce anger again rose within me. I admitted to myself that I had acted foolishly in associating with a man whom I knew to be a fugitive from justice; but it certainly never occurred to me that I might be subjected to such an ordeal as that I was undergoing.
Alternatively threatening, coaxing, warning, and gesticulating, Tramu, a past-master in the art of interrogation, cross-examined me until the first rose-flush of dawn showed through the window. But he obtained nothing more from me. I told him frankly that, as he refused to give me any information, I, on my part, would remain dumb.
His annoyance was apparent. He had expected me to meekly relate all I knew, but instead he found that I could be as evasive in my answers as he was clever in putting his questions. In turn quite half a dozen police officials entered the room and regarded me with considerable curiosity, until in anger I cried —
“This action of yours, Monsieur Tramu, is disgraceful! I know this is your abominable French police system, but I demand that word of my arrest be sent to the British Consul, with whom I shall lodge complaint.”
“My dear m’sieur,” laughed the man with the tiny red button in his lapel, “that will be quite unnecessary. I think at this late hour we may now! dispense with your further presence. You are free to go;” and addressing a man in uniform, he added, “Bring in the chauffeur.”
I turned upon my heel and left the room, but as I went along the corridor I saw at the farther end Harris seated between two uniformed officers.
Surely they would obtain no information from him, for he had only been engaged for the tour, and knew nothing further of Harvey Shaw or of Asta except – ah! he might know their address at Lydford!
So I shouted along the corridor to him:
“Harris! Don’t tell them Mr Shaw’s address in England, whatever you do.”
“Right you are, sir,” he replied cheerily. “This is a funny job, ain’t it, sir? They arrested me in bed.”
“Where’s Mr Shaw?”
“Don’t know, sir. I suppose he and Miss Asta are in here somewhere,” was his reply, as they ushered him into the room where the great Tramu awaited him.
On my return to the hotel the sleepy night-porter admitted me.
No; he had seen nothing of Monsieur Shaw or of Mademoiselle.
Hastily I ascended the stairs to our suite of apartments, but they were not there. The beds had not been slept in, but their baggage had been piled up – evidently by the police, in readiness for removal and examination. The drawers and wardrobes had evidently been searched after their arrest, for the rooms were in great disorder.
In my own room, during my absence, everything had been turned topsy-turvy. The lock of my steel dispatch-box had been broken and its contents turned out upon the bed. In France, when the police make a domiciliary visit, they certainly do it most thoroughly.
Was it possible that in examining the effects of Shaw and Asta the police had ascertained the address of their hiding-place in England?
I stood in the centre of the room gazing at the heap of papers and letters upon the bed, apprehensive and bewildered.
Returning below, I induced the big Swiss night-porter to rouse the manager; and some ten minutes later the latter came to me in trousers and coat, evidently not in a very good-humour at being disturbed.
He seemed surprised to see me there, and I said with a laugh —
“I suppose you believed I had been arrested?”
“Well,” he replied, “the police took you away.”
“For interrogation only,” I replied. “But I am in search of my friends.”
“And the police are in search of them also, I believe,” he replied abruptly. “It does no good to the reputation of the hotel to have such visitors, m’sieur.”
“Then they have not been arrested!” I cried in delight.
“No. Mademoiselle, I believe, must have recognised the inspector of the Sûreté from Paris as she was coming downstairs. She rushed back and told her father, and hastily seizing her dressing-case, while he took a small bag, they both descended the service stairs and made their exit by the back premises. There was a door below which is always kept locked, but Monsieur Shaw had somehow provided himself with a key in case of emergency, for we found it in the lock. When the police, after arresting you, went upstairs to take the pair, they found they had already flown. They must have rushed down to the station and caught the Paris night express, which was due just about the time they would arrive there.”
“And the police are furious,” I said. “They must be.”
“They have, I believe, just missed a most important, capture.”
“What was the charge against them?” I inquired “Ah, they would not tell me,” was his reply. “They seemed to be acting with great caution and secrecy. They made a careful examination of everything, and only left about three-quarters of an hour ago.”
And with that I was compelled to remain satisfied.
Chapter Twenty Two
The Secret of Harvey Shaw
For three days I remained in Aix, awaiting some news or message from the fugitives – but none came.
Tramu called and saw me twice, evidently astounded at the channel of escape which Shaw had so cunningly prepared. He had, no doubt, obtained an impression of one of the servants’ master keys, and had one cut to fit the locked door which prevented visitors from passing out by any other way save by the front hall. He had anticipated that flight might be necessary, and the fact that he had prepared for it showed that he was both cunning and fearless.
Asta’s injunctions to me to say nothing showed plainly that they intended still to keep their hiding-place a secret. And if Shaw was the adventurer I believed, it was not likely that either he or she would carry anything by which to reveal their more respectable identity.
So at length, full of grave apprehensions, I left Aix, sickened by its music and summer gaiety, and travelled home, halting one night at the Grand in Paris, and duly arrived at the Cecil in London. There I found a batch of letters sent on to me from Upton End, and among them was a formal letter from a firm of solicitors called Napier and Norman, 129, Bedford Row, W.C., stating that they were acting for the late Mr Guy Nicholson of Titmarsh Court, and asking me to call upon them without delay.
Exercising caution lest I should be watched, I had immediately on arrival telephoned from my hotel bedroom to Lydford, but the response came back it a woman’s voice that “the master” and Miss Asta were still abroad. Therefore about noon on the morning following my return I went round to Bedford Row in a taxi, and was quickly shown into the sombre private room of an elderly, quiet-spoken man – Mr George Napier, head of the firm.
“I’m extremely glad you have called, Mr Kemball,” he said, as he leaned back in his chair. “I believe you were present at Titmarsh very soon after the unfortunate death of our client, Mr Guy Nicholson. Indeed, I remember now that we met at the inquest. Well, Mr Nicholson, with his father and grandfather! before him, entrusted his affairs in our hands, and, naturally, after his decease we searched his effects for any papers that were relative to his estate, or any private papers which should not fall into anybody’s hands. Among them we found this letter, sealed just as you see it, and addressed to you. He evidently put it aside, intending to post it in the morning, but expired in the night.”
And taking a letter from a drawer in his writing-table, he handed it across to me.
I glanced at the superscription, and saw that it was addressed ready for the post and that a stamp was already upon it.
“Poor Nicholson’s death was a most mysterious one,” I exclaimed, looking the solicitor full in the face; “I don’t believe that he died from natural causes.”
“Well, I fear we cannot get away from the medical evidence,” replied the matter-of-fact, grey-faced man, peering through his spectacles. “Of course the locked door was a most curious circumstance – yet it may be accounted for by one of the servants, in passing before retiring, turning the key. Or, as you suggested at the inquest, the servant who entered the library in the morning may have thought the door was locked. It might have caught somehow, as locks sometimes do.”
I shook my head dubiously, and with eager fingers tore open the message from the dead.
From its date, it had evidently been written only a few hours prior to his untimely end, and it read —
“Strictly Private.
“Dear Mr Kemball, – I fear, owing to the fact that I have promised Asta to take her motoring on Sunday, that I may not be able to keep my appointment with you. Since my confidential conversation with you, I have watched and discovered certain things at Lydford which cause me the keenest apprehension. Shaw is not what he pretends to be, and many of his movements are most mysterious. By dint of constant watching both while I have been guest there and also by night when they have believed me to be safely at home, I have ascertained several very remarkable facts.
“First. In secret and unknown to any – even to his gardeners – he sets clever traps for small birds, which he visits periodically at night, and takes away the unfortunate creatures he finds therein.
“Secondly. He is in the habit of going forth in the night and walking through Woldon Woods to a spot close to Geddington village, at the corner of the road from Newton, and there meeting a middle-aged man who frequently stops at the inn. Once I followed them and overheard some of their conversation. They were planning something, but what I could not make out. However, I feel sure that they both discovered my presence, and hence he seems in fear of me and annoyed whenever I visit Lydford.
“Thirdly. In his bedroom there is a cupboard beside the fireplace. The door is enamelled white, and at first is not distinguishable from the rest of the panelling. Examine it, and you will see that it is secured by two of the most expensive and complicated of modern locks. What does that cupboard contain? The contents are not plate or valuables, for there is a large fireproof safe downstairs. Some mystery lies there.
“Fourthly. Though he makes most clever pretences of devotion to Asta, he hates her. Poor girl, she loves him, and cannot see those black, covert looks he so often gives her when her back is turned. But I have seen them, and I know – at least, I have guessed – the reason.
“Fifthly. If you are a frequent guest there, you will hear him sometimes utter a strange shrill whistle for no apparent purpose, as though he does it quite unknowingly. But it is with a purpose. What purpose?
“I feel that Asta is in danger, and it is therefore my duty to protect her and elucidate the mystery of the strange conspiracy which I feel convinced is now in progress. It is to discuss these matters, and to combine to keep vigilant watch, that I am anxious to spend a few hours with you. Think carefully over these five points, and if I am unable to come on Sunday I will motor over on Monday about eleven in the morning.
“Meanwhile be careful not to show that you either know or suspect anything. I know Shaw suspects me, and therefore by some means I must remove his suspicions.
“That, however, will be a matter for us to discuss seriously when we meet.
“Asta has told me of a strange and extremely weird incident which occurred to her one night a little while ago in the house of a friend – the apparition of a black shadowy hand. I believe I have the solution of the mystery – a most remarkable and terrible one.
“I ask your assistance in this affair, and am eager to meet you to discuss it fully. Kindly destroy this letter. – Yours very sincerely, – “Guy Nicholson.”
I sat dumbfounded. It was just as I had believed. The man struck down so suddenly had discovered the actual truth! He had watched in patience and learned some strange and startling facts.
The reference to the hand filled my mind with the hideous recollection of what I had seen in that roadside inn at Arnay-le-Duc – and of Arnold’s strange warning. Who was Harford – the name I was to remember. Asta had told her lover of her own experience, and he had solved the mystery!
Yet he had not been spared to reveal it to me. His lips had been closed by death. The name of Harford was still unknown to me.
How long I sat there staring at the closely written letter in my hand I know not. But I was awakened to a consciousness of where I was by Mr Napier’s quiet voice exclaiming —
“I see that my late client’s letter has made a great impression upon you, Mr Kemball. I presume it is of a purely private character, eh?”
“Purely private,” I managed to reply. “It does not concern his affairs in any way whatsoever, and it is marked ‘strictly private.’”
“Oh, very well. I, of course, have no wish whatever to inquire into your private affairs with my dead client,” replied the solicitor. “I believed that it might contain something important, and for that reason hesitated to send it through the post.”
“Yes,” I said meaningly, “it does contain something important – very important, Mr Napier. Had this been placed in my hand in time, my poor friend’s life might have been saved.”
“What do you mean?” he asked quickly, staring at me across the table. “Have you evidence – evidence of foul play?”
“No evidence, but I find a distinct motive.”
“Anything upon which we could work in order to bring the culprit to justice – if Mr Nicholson did not really die a natural death?”
“I tell you he did not!” I cried angrily. “The village jury were impressed by the medical evidence, as all rustic juries are. Your client, Mr Napier, discovered another man’s secret, and the latter took steps to close his lips.”
“But can you prove this? Can you name the man?”
“Yes,” I said, “I can name the man. And one day I shall prove it.”
“You can! Why not place the matter in the hands of the police, together with what is revealed in that letter?” he suggested. “Allow me to act.”
“I shall act myself. At present it is not a matter for the police. Certain facts have come to my knowledge which, if told at Scotland Yard, would not be believed. Therefore at present I intend to keep my knowledge strictly to myself,” and replacing the dead man’s message in its envelope, I put it safely into my breast-pocket, and, taking leave of the solicitor, was soon in my taxi whirling along Holborn.
Why had Nicholson suspected that Shaw’s affection for his foster-daughter was only feigned? Why did he allege that Shaw hated her? Why was he in such mortal terror lest some evil should befall her?
Perhaps, after all, in watching so closely he had, as is so easy, discovered certain circumstances and misjudged them, for certainly as far as I could see Shaw was entirely devoted to the girl who had been his constant companion ever since her childhood days. Nevertheless, that strange letter, penned by the man whose intention it had been to reveal to me the secret of the weird shadow of the night, had caused me to determine to continue the vigil which had been so abruptly ended.
I, too, would watch closely as soon as I learnt of their hiding-place, as closely as the dead man had done. If Asta were in actual peril, then I would stand as her protector in place of the upright, honest young fellow who, it seemed, had lost his life in the attempt.
But the days, nay weeks, went on. September ended and October came with rain and chilly wind, and though I returned to Upton End, and frequently made inquiry over the telephone to Lydford, yet, though I wrote to Davis at the Poste Restante at Charing Cross, I could learn no news of them. They had descended those back stairs of the hotel at Aix, and disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed them up.
One day in the middle of October, with sudden resolve to carry out Nicholson’s injunction to investigate, I drove over to Lydford, and on arrival, about noon, found all smart and well-kept as though its owner were in residence.
I told a rather lame story to the housekeeper, who, knowing me, came to me in the long, chintz-covered drawing-room, the blinds of which were down. She had not heard from her master for a month past, the pleasant-faced woman explained. He was then in Aix. I said that I had left him there and returned to England, and was now anxious to discover where he was.
Then, after a brief chat, I exhibited my left forefinger enveloped in an old glove, and told her that on my way I had some engine-trouble and had hurt my finger.
“I believe Mr Shaw keeps up in his room a small medicine chest,” I said, for I recollected that he once told me that he kept one there. “I wonder if I might go up and try and find a piece of bandage.”
“Certainly,” replied Mrs Howard, and she led me upstairs to the apartment over the drawing-room, which I had come to Lydford for the purpose of examining. It was a large, airy, and well-furnished room, with a big book-case at one end and a canary in a cage at the window.
Without much difficulty she discovered the small black japanned box, containing various surgical drugs and bandages, and I at once sent her down to obtain a small bowl of warm water.
Then, the instant she had gone, I sought for the cupboard indicated by the dead man’s letter.
Yes, it was there, a long, narrow cupboard beside the fireplace, secured by two large locks of a complicated character such as one finds on safe or strongroom doors.
I bent and examined them thoroughly.
The bed, I noticed, was set so that the eyes of any one lying in it would be upon that door.
What secret could be concealed there? What had the dead man suspected? Ay, what indeed?