Chapter Nine
Denizens of Soho
A dirty, frowsy room, with furniture old and rickety, a ceiling blackened, and a faded carpet full of holes.
Its two occupants, dark, sallow-looking foreigners in shabby-genteel attire, sat conversing seriously in French, between frequent whiffs of caporal cigarettes of the most rank description.
Bateman’s Buildings, Soho – where, on the second floor of one of the houses, this apartment was situated – is a thoroughfare but little known, even to dwellers in the immediate vicinity. The wandering Londoner, whose peregrinations take him into the foreign quarter, might pass a dozen times between Frith and Greek Streets without discovering its existence. Indeed, his search will not be rewarded until he pauses halfway down Bateman Street and turns up a narrow and exceedingly uninviting passage between a marine-store dealer’s and the shop of a small vendor of vegetables and coals. He will then find himself at Bateman’s Buildings, a short, paved court, lined on each side by grimy, squalid-looking houses, the court itself forming the playground of a hundred or so spirited juveniles of the unwashed class.
It is altogether a very undesirable place of abode. The houses, in comparison with those of some neighbouring thoroughfares, certainly put forward a sorry pretence towards respectability; for a century ago some well-to-do people resided there; and the buildings, even in their present state of dilapidation and decay, have still a solid, substantial air about them. Now, however, they are let out in tenements, and the inhabitants are almost wholly foreigners.
Soho has always been the abode of the French immigrant. But Time, combined with a squabbling County Council, has affected even cosmopolitan London; and Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road have now opened up the more inaccessible haunts, rendering them more conventional, if less interesting. Notwithstanding this, it is still the French quarter. French laundresses abound in great variety, with cheap French cafés where one can obtain absinthe, groseille, or grenadine, and where Jacques Bonhomme can dine with potage and three plats for less than a shilling, while French bakers are a feature at every turn.
Within a small radius of Bateman’s Buildings several thousand strangers struggle for the bare necessaries of life – deluded Germans, Belgians, and Frenchmen, who thought the English Metropolis a second El Dorado, and have found it nothing beyond a focus for squalid poverty, hunger, and crime.
The two men who were seated together in this upper room were no exception. Although not immigrants in search of employment, yet they were disappointed that the business which brought them over had not resulted profitably, and, moreover, they were considerably dejected by reason of their funds being almost exhausted.
They sat opposite one another at the table, with an evil-smelling paraffin lamp between them.
The silence was broken by the elder man.
“You must admit, Pierre,” he exclaimed in French, contracting his dark bushy eyebrows slightly, “it is no use sitting down and giving vent to empty lamentations. We must act.”
Pierre Rouillier, the young man addressed, was tall and lean, with jet black hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a thin face, the rather melancholy expression of which did not detract from the elements of good looks which his features possessed.
“Why can’t we remain here quietly in hiding for a time?” he suggested. “If we wait, something good may turn up.”
“Remain and do nothing!” echoed Victor Bérard. “Are you an imbecile? While we rest, the chance may slip from us.”
“There’s no fear of that,” Pierre replied confidently. “My opinion is that we can remain here for a month or two longer with much advantage to ourselves.”
“Bah!” ejaculated his companion, a short and rather stout man, about ten years his senior, whose brilliant dark eyes gleamed with anger and disgust.
“Well, speaking candidly,” continued Pierre, “do you really think it advisable to do anything just now?”
“I see nothing to prevent it; but, of course, it would be impossible to carry out our primary intention just at present. In fact, until the business is more developed any attempt would be mere folly.”
“Exactly. That’s just my reason for remaining idle.”
“The fact is, you’re afraid,” exclaimed Bérard, regarding him contemptuously.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of making a false move,” he replied; and then he added: “Look here, Pierre, leave everything to me. Hitherto we have transacted our various affairs satisfactorily, and there’s no reason why we should not be successful in this. It only requires tact and caution – qualities with which both of us are fortunately well endowed. When it is complete we shall leave this wretched country.”
“As for myself, I shouldn’t be sorry if we were going to-morrow,” remarked the younger man morosely. “I’m sick of the whole business.”
“Oh, are you?” exclaimed Bérard fiercely. “What in the name of the devil is the matter with you, you impudent coward? We entered upon this affair together; our course is quite plain, and now, just when we are within an ace of success, you want to back out of it. You’re mad!”
“Perhaps I am,” replied Pierre warmly. “But you are too enthusiastic, and I have a presentiment that the whole affair will end in disaster.”
“Disaster! You talk like a woman,” Bérard exclaimed. “How is it that other delicate matters you and I have negotiated have not ended in a contretemps, eh?”
“Nom d’un chien! And what have we gained by them? Why, simply nothing. You have been clever, it’s true; but in this, if we don’t wait until a more favourable opportunity occurs, we shall bungle. And if we do, you know the consequences.”
“But while we are waiting we must have money from somewhere.”
“We must wait,” declared Pierre. “We ought to out of this wretched rabbit-warren, and dress a bit more respectably. Do you think we’re likely to (unreadable). Je n’ai pas un rond,” he added in the argot of the criminal circles of Montmartre.
Bérard shrugged his shoulders, and pulled a wry face.
“We can but try,” he observed, selecting a fresh cigarette and lighting it.
At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was heard upon them.
“Hark!” exclaimed the younger man. “She has arrived! She promised she would come to-night.”
The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Valérie Dedieu entered.
Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat, battered and faded.
Her disguise was complete.
“Well, you see I’m here as requested,” she exclaimed, as she burst into the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged old leather sofa.
“Ah, ma petite lapin, we’re glad you’ve come,” Bérard replied, with a smile. “If Mahomet can’t go to the mountain because he has no decent clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet.”
“That’s so,” she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a chair at the table. “I look nice in this get-up, don’t I? Pierre, give me a cigarette. You’ve apparently forgotten your manners towards a lady,” she added reproachfully.
The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.
“Now, how have you been getting on?” she inquired.
“Deuced badly,” Bérard replied. “We’re hard up and must have money.”
“Money! C’est du réchauffé! Valérie cried in dismay. Mon Dieu! I’ve none. I’m almost penniless, and must have some from you.”
“What?” cried Rouillier. “You can’t give us any?”
“No, not a sou,” she replied. “An appearance such as I’m bound to keep up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are something enormous.”
“Then how do you expect we can live?” asked Bérard, with an injured expression and violent gesticulation.
“I’m sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor. You know better how to obtain funds than I. Live as you’ve lived for the past five years. You both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will continue to do so somehow or other.”
“This handsome salon looks like luxury, doesn’t it?” remarked Pierre, smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.
“Well, certainly there’s nothing gorgeous about it,” she admitted, laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.
Bérard shook his head impatiently. He did not care to be reminded of days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not at her visit.
“Look here,” he said, gazing up at her suddenly. “It’s no use chattering like an insane magpie. What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know, and I care very little,” she replied candidly. “I want money, and if I don’t get it the whole affair will collapse.”
And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent unconcern.
“But how are we to get it? No one will lend it to us.”
“Don’t talk absurdly. I have no desire to be acquainted with the means by which you obtain it. I want a thousand pounds. And,” she added coolly, “I tell you I must have it.”
The two men were silent. They knew Valérie of old, and were fully convinced that argument was useless.
Leaning her elbows upon the table, she puffed at her rank cigarette with all the gusto of an inveterate smoker, and watched their puzzled, thoughtful faces.
“Would that sum suffice until – ?” Bérard asked mysteriously, giving her a keen glance, and not completing the sentence.
Although her face was naturally pallid, it was easy to discern that the agitation of the last few moments had rendered it even more pale than usual, and her hand was twitching impatiently.
“Yes,” she answered abruptly.
“Couldn’t you make shift with five hundred?” he suggested hesitatingly.
“No,” she said decisively; “it would be absolutely useless. I must have a thousand to settle my present debts; then I can go on for six, perhaps twelve months, longer.”
“And after that?” inquired Pierre.
She arched her eyebrows, and, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug, replied —
“Well – I suppose I shall have the misfortune to marry some day or another.”
All three smiled grimly.
“How are matters progressing in that direction?” Victor asked, with a curious expression.
“As favourably as can be expected,” replied Valérie in an indifferent tone. “If a woman is chic and decorous at the same time, and manages to get in with a good set, she need not go far for suitors.”
“Have you seen the Sky Pilot?” inquired Victor, with a thoughtful frown.
“Yes, I met Hubert Holt a few days ago at Eastbourne. He asked after you.”
“Shall I find him at the usual place?”
“Yes; but it would not be safe to go there.”
“Then I’ll write. I must see him to-morrow.”
“Why?”
“You want le pognon?” he asked snappishly.
“I do.”
“Then, if we are to get it, he must give us his aid,” he said ominously.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, evidently comprehending his meaning. “But you are not very hospitable,” she added. “Have you got anything to drink?”
“Not a drop.”
“Malheureux! you’ve fallen on evil times, my dears,” she said, laughing uneasily.
Taking out her small, silver-mounted purse, she emptied its contents upon the table. This consisted of two sovereigns and some silver. The former she handed to Victor, saying, —
“That’s all I can give you just now.”
He put them into his pocket without a word of thanks, while she sat back in her chair whistling a few bars of a popular chansonette eccentrique.
“Pierre,” Bérard said sullenly, at the same time vigorously apostrophising the “diable,” “we’re in a difficulty, and the only way we can obtain the money is by another – er – disappearance.”
“What, again?” cried Valérie. “Why, poor Pierre is vanishing fast enough already. He’s almost a skeleton now,” and she pointed at his lean figure derisively.
“I don’t get enough to eat nowadays,” declared he, pulling a wry face.
“Do stop your chatter, Valérie,” Victor said angrily, “I’m talking business.”
“Oh, pardon, m’sieur?” and she pouted like a spoiled child.
“It’s generally a safe trick. How much would it bring in?” asked the younger man of his companion.
“Two thousand sterling.”
“Just the sum,” interrupted mademoiselle, striking the table in her enthusiasm. “We’ll divide it. When can I have my half?”
“As soon as possible, but don’t be impatient, as hurried action means certain failure.”
“All right,” she replied boldly, removing the cigarette from her lips, and contemplating it. “You can keep your fatherly advice for somebody else,” she added, grinning across the table at Rouillier.
Tossing the cigarette into the grate, she rose.
“What, are you going so soon?” asked the younger homme de faciende.
“Yes, it’s late; and, besides, I can’t go straight home in such a get-up as this.”
Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and then struck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain from laughing. When they grew serious again, she said —
“Now, one word; shall I have the money? I think we understand one another sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don’t we?”
Victor Bérard nodded an affirmative. He had decided. “You will promise me?”
“Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks,” he replied. “Of course, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plans boldly, it will be all right.”
“Bien,” she said in a satisfied tone. “And now you can both come out with me, and have the pleasure of regaling me with a glass of wine; for,” she added, with a little mock curtsey, “I feel faint after all this exertion.”
“Very well,” said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.
“We’ll drink to another successful disappearance,” Valérie said, patting him playfully on the cheek. “The dear boy will prove our salvation from misery, provided he doesn’t blunder.”
“Not much fear of that,” answered the young man she caressed. “It isn’t the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my work too well to take an incautious step,” he remarked in a low whisper, as the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.
“That’s all very well,” muttered Bérard, “but we can’t afford to act rashly, for it’ll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at best.”
Chapter Ten
Deadly Pair
A month had elapsed.
In the exquisite little drawing-room of a first-floor flat in Victoria Street, Westminster, where tender lights filtered through the golden shadows of silken hangings, sat Valérie. Her attitude was one of repose – deep, unruffled. From the crown of her handsome head to the tip of her dainty shoe she was perfect. With her eyes fixed seriously upon the ceiling, she sat crouching in her chair with all the abandon of a dozing tigress. The room, a glowing blaze of colour, and carpeted with rich skins, was a fitting jungle. With all a woman’s cunning she had chosen a tea-gown of pale heliotrope silk, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline, and diffused a faint breath of violets about her.
She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.
“I wonder whether he will come?” she exclaimed, aloud.
As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet French maid, entered.
“M’sieur Trethowen,” she announced.
He followed quickly on the girl’s heels, with a fond, glad smile.
“I must really apologise, my dear Valérie. Have I kept you waiting?” he cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.
She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with contemplative eyes as he rushed on.
“I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained in the City upon business. However, I’ve brought the dog-cart round. The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb.”
“Indeed,” she said languidly. Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright afternoon. “Yes, it is lovely,” she assented. “But you must excuse me to-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she replied with a smile; “really nothing. A mere headache. I shall be better to-morrow.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“No, thanks,” she answered, motioning him to a seat beside her.
“No, no, at your feet; Valérie – always at your feet,” the young man replied gayly, throwing himself down before her, and flinging his head back in order to gaze more intently into the dark, brilliant eyes above him.
Keeping time with a heavy finger, he sang, in a not unmusical baritone, two lines of an old French love song:
“Non, ma jeunesse n’est pas morte,
Il n’est pas mort ton souvenir.”
But his fair companion was almost oblivious to the importance of the burden of his melody. With her little pointed chin against the rose of her palm, she sat lost in a world of reverie.
“Do you ever see Jack Egerton now?” she asked suddenly.
He smiled, accustomed to her wilful wanderings.
“Yes, frequently,” he said in turn. “We have known one another so long, that I look upon him as my best friend.”
“Your best friend!” she echoed. “Ah! that is to be regretted. Then you could not have known him when he was a student in Paris.”
“No; tell me about him,” Hugh asked anxiously.
“Although I knew him, I shall say nothing beyond the fact that his was an unenviable reputation.”
His lips were parted in surprise as he looked at her.
“My darling,” he said, a trifle coldly, “you can’t expect me to judge my friend without being aware of his offence.”
“His offence?” she exclaimed, with a start. “What – what do you mean? What do you know of his offence?”
He was astonished at her sudden and intense interest.
“Nothing beyond what you have just told me,” he replied calmly, although her strange agitation had not escaped him.
It seemed as if she had unintentionally referred to something she wished to hide. Drawing a long breath, she quickly recovered herself.
“Ah, I understand,” she said; “I thought you were referring to – other things.”
The mention of Paris had brought vividly to his memory the strange letters and the photograph he had discovered among his dead brother’s papers. A dozen times he had resolved upon approaching the subject, in an endeavour to find out how they came into his possession, but each time he had refrained from doing so because he feared causing her annoyance.
Piqued by the uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken of Egerton, he uttered a question which the moment after the words fell from his lips he regretted.
“Valérie,” he said, grasping her hand, and gazing earnestly into her eyes, “I have a curious desire to know whether you ever were acquainted with my brother?”
The light died out of her face instantly. She turned pale as death, her delicate nostrils dilated, and her lips quivered strangely.
“What do you mean?” she gasped.
“I simply asked whether you were ever acquainted with my brother Douglas, who was murdered, poor fellow.”
“Murdered!” she cried hoarsely. “Was Douglas Trethowen murdered?”
“Yes; I thought you were aware of that painful incident.”
“Dieu!” she ejaculated, with a shudder. “I knew he was dead, but I was told he died of fever,” she said in a harsh, low voice.
“Then you knew him?”
“No – I – we were not acquainted,” she replied, endeavouring to remain calm, at the same time passing her slim hand across her blanched face.
Her breast heaved convulsively, and her limbs trembled. But it was only for a moment.
“Strange that you did not know him,” Hugh said in a tone of distrust.
“What caused you to think that he and I were friends?” she asked, rather haughtily, bracing herself up with an effort.
He hesitated. He was on the point of telling her of his discovery and demanding an explanation, but he decided that such a course might be indiscreet.
“Well,” he replied, “I had reason for believing so.”
“What was your reason?” she inquired, breathless with anxiety, as if half fearing his reply.
He had determined not to tell her the truth.
“Oh, a very foolish one,” replied he, with a laugh. “It was a mere fancy.”
“Only a fancy,” she said dreamily. “Are you sure it was nothing more?”
“Why are you so anxious to know?” he demanded, raising her hand to his lips.
“It’s feminine curiosity, I suppose,” she said, smiling.
“Well, then, I assure you it was only an absurd notion that somehow took possession of me.”
“An absurd notion,” she echoed absently. “Why, of course it is! How could I have known your brother when I have been so little in England?”
“You might have met him in society.”
“No; believe me, to my knowledge I have never seen him. If I had, what difference could it make?”
“If you entertained any affection for him – ”
“What nonsense you are talking to-day, Hugh,” she interrupted, with a little derisive laugh. “I really believe you are jealous.”
“Perhaps I am,” he admitted; “but, you see, I love so well that any such shortcoming you really must excuse.”
He laughed inwardly at the glibness of his invention.
But her manner had suddenly changed.
“You will love me always, will you not, Hugh?” she whispered earnestly.
“Yes, dearest; of course I shall,” he replied tenderly. “I have spoken unkindly – forgive me.”
Bravely smothering a storm of rising sobs, she held him with both her small hands until she had sufficiently controlled herself to speak.
“I thought a few moments ago that – that you no longer cared for me,” she said, with an effort, watching the effect of her words with wide-open, earnest eyes.
“No, Valérie, you were mistaken,” he replied in a low, intense tone. “I love you, and nothing shall ever part us.”
They had risen, and were standing together before the fireplace.
For a moment she stared vacantly before her. Then she threw herself into his arms, and, clinging to him convulsively, hid her face upon his shoulder.
“I love you, Hugh; I love you more than I have loved any man,” she murmured.
He strained her to his heart – a heart remorseful, even miserable and unhappy. Not even her declaration of love brought him a ray of consolation, for the gnawing consciousness of some deep mystery connected with her past, and the danger of their love for one another, had crushed all happiness from his soul.
And although he was feigning love and endeavouring to console her, yet there was no help for it – they were inseparable, their beings were knit together, their hearts were one.
She possessed the fatal power of fascination. He was under her spell.
With an effort to shake off the gloom that was possessing him, he spoke to her words of comfort.
She tried to reply, but a great sob choked her utterance.
Presently she released herself gently but firmly, saying —
“You must go, Hugh; you have been here too long, and I am not well to-day. I want to be alone.”
“Yes, you are right,” replied he woefully. “I ought not to have caused you this pain. I am to blame.”
Yet something of hope returned to him as he spoke, for she clasped her arms around his neck, and, clinging to him closely, fixed upon him a look of moving appeal.
Slowly she drew down his head towards her face, and then gave him a warm, passionate kiss.
“Good-bye, Hugh,” she said in a broken pleading voice. “Remember you have one who loves you more dearly than life.”
“I’ve been a fool. Forgive me for speaking as I did,” he entreated.
“Yes,” she replied, with a sigh; “if we love one another, why should there be any mistrust between us?”
Why? Had he not cause for apprehension? he asked himself.
But her arms were about his neck, her head pillowed upon his shoulder. The sweet perfume of violets intoxicated him. In a moment he became convinced that she was terribly in earnest, and was confident of her intense affection.
“I have no mistrust whatever, darling,” he said reassuringly, stroking her hair with infinite tenderness.
“I – I am satisfied,” she murmured. “But tell me, Hugh, once more, that I shall be your wife.”
“Yes, indeed you shall, dearest; I care for no one else but you,” said he, with a grave look.
Her labouring heart throbbed against his as their lips met in a long last caress. His anguished soul invoked the blessing on her that his quivering lips refused to utter, and he tore himself away.
He took one look back, and saw her totter a few steps after him with arms outstretched, then stop.
Gazing upon her with a loving glance, he waved his hand, and passed out.
When he had gone she stood motionless and silent for a few moments, looking wildly around, but mute under the leaden weight of her thoughts. Then she walked with slow, uneven steps to the ottoman by the fire, and sank upon it.
The fierce strain had been removed from her nerves, and her happiness found vent in hysterical sobs.
“I hate myself. It’s horrible, and yet I am powerless,” she cried passionately.
Then she lapsed into a silence broken only by long, deep sighs.