Hushed Up! A Mystery of London
“Yes, I know; he was arrested for fraud in my presence as he came down the staircase in the hotel,” I interrupted.
“He was arrested upon a much more serious charge,” exclaimed the stranger. “He was certainly wanted in Berlin and Hanover for frauds in connection with an invention, but the most serious charge against him was one of murder.”
“Murder!” I gasped. “I never knew that!”
“Yes – the murder of a young English statesman named Ronald Burke at a villa near Nice. Surely you read reports of the trial?”
I confessed that I had not done so.
“Well, it was proved conclusively that he was a member of a very dangerous gang of criminals who for several years had committed some of the most clever and audacious thefts. The organization consisted of over thirty men and women, of varying ages, all of them expert jewel thieves, safe-breakers, or card-sharpers. Twice each year this interesting company held meetings – at which every member was present – and at such meetings certain members were allotted certain districts, or certain profitable pieces of business. Thus, if half-a-dozen were to-day operating in London as thieves or receivers, they would change, and in a week would be operating in St. Petersburg, while those from Russia would be here. So cleverly was the band organized that it was practically impossible for the police to make arrests. It was a more widespread and wealthy criminal organization than has ever before been unearthed. But the arrest of your friend Harriman, alias Bell, on a charge of murder was the means of exposing the conspiracy, and the ultimate breaking up of the gang.”
“And what of Bell?”
“He narrowly escaped the guillotine, and is now imprisoned for life at Devil’s Island.”
“And you saw him with me at Paris?” I remarked, in wonder at this strange revelation. “He certainly never struck me as an assassin. He was a shrewd man – a swindler, no doubt, but his humorous bearing and his good-nature were entirely opposed to the belief that his was a sinister nature.”
“Yet it was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he and another man killed and robbed a young Englishman named Burke,” responded the Frenchman. “Perhaps you, yourself, had a narrow escape. Who knows? It was no doubt lucky for you that he was arrested.”
“But I understood that the charge was one of fraud,” I said. “I intended to go to the trial, but I was called to Italy.”
“The charge of fraud was made in order not to alarm his accomplice,” replied the stranger.
“How do you know that?” I inquired.
“Well” – he hesitated – “that came out at the trial. There were full accounts of it in the Paris Matin.”
“I don’t care for reading Assize Court horrors,” I replied, still puzzled regarding my strange companion’s intimate knowledge concerning the man whose dramatic and sudden arrest had, on that memorable afternoon, so startled me.
“When I saw your face just now,” he said, “I recognized you as being at the Grand Hotel with Bell. Do you know,” he laughed, “you were such a close friend of the accused that you were suspected of being a member of the dangerous association! Indeed, you very narrowly escaped arrest on suspicion. It was only because the reception clerk in the hotel knew you well, and vouched for your respectability and that Biddulph was your real name. Yet, for a full week, you were watched closely by the sûreté.”
“And I was all unconscious of it!” I cried, realizing how narrowly I had escaped a very unpleasant time. “How do you know all this?” I asked.
But the Frenchman with the gold glasses and the big amethyst ring upon his finger merely laughed, and refused to satisfy me.
From him, however, I learned that the depredations of the formidable gang had been unequalled in the annals of crime. Many of the greatest jewel robberies in the European capitals in recent years had, it was now proved, been effected by them, as well as the theft of the Marchioness of Mottisfont’s jewels at Victoria Station, which were valued at eighteen thousand pounds, and were never recovered; the breaking open of the safe of Levi & Andrews, the well-known diamond-merchants of Hatton Garden, and the theft of a whole vanload of furs before a shop in New Bond Street, all of which are, no doubt, fresh within the memory of the reader of the daily newspapers.
Every single member of that remarkable association of thieves was an expert in his or her branch of dishonesty, while the common fund was a large one, hence members could disguise themselves as wealthy persons, if need be. One, when arrested, was found occupying a fine old castle in the Tyrol, he told me; another – an expert burglar – was a doctor in good practice at Hampstead; another kept a fine jeweller’s shop in Marseilles, while another, a lady, lived in style in a great château near Nevers.
“And who exposed them?” I asked, much interested. “Somebody must have betrayed them.”
“Somebody did betray them – by anonymous letters to the police – letters which were received at intervals at the Préfecture in Paris, and led to the arrest of one after another of the chief members of the gang. It seemed to have been done by some one irritated by Bell’s arrest. But the identity of the informant has never been ascertained. He deemed it best to remain hidden – for obvious reasons,” laughed my friend at my side.
“You seem to know a good many facts regarding the affair,” I said. “Have you no idea of the identity of the mysterious informant?”
“Well” – he hesitated – “I have a suspicion that it was some person associated with them – some one who became conscience-stricken. Ah! M’sieur Biddulph, if you only knew the marvellous cunning of that invulnerable gang. Had it not been for that informant, they would still be operating – in open defiance of the police of Europe. Criminal methods, if expert, only fail for want of funds. Are not some of our wealthiest financiers mere criminals who, by dealing in thousands, as other men deal in francs, conceal their criminal methods? Half your successful financiers are merely successful adventurers. The dossiers of some of them, preserved in the police bureaux, would be astounding reading to those who admire them and proclaim them the successful men of to-day – kings of finance they call them!”
“You are certainly something of a philosopher,” I laughed, compelled to admit the truth of his argument; “but tell me – how is it that you know so much concerning George Harriman, alias Bell, and his antecedents?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PROOF POSITIVE
I was greatly interested, even though I was now filled with suspicion.
Somehow I had become impressed with the idea that the stranger might have been one of the daring and dangerous association, and that he had related that strange story for the purpose of misleading me.
But the stranger, who had, in the course of our conversation, told me that his name was Pierre Delanne, only said —
“You could have read it all in the Matin, my dear monsieur.”
His attitude was that of a man who knew more than he intended to reveal. Surely it was a curious circumstance, standing there in the night, listening to the dramatic truth concerning the big-faced American, Harriman, whom I had for so long regarded as an enigma.
“Tell me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said, “for what reason have you followed me to London?”
He laughed as he strode easily along at my side towards the Duke of York’s steps.
“Haven’t I already told you that I did not purposely follow you?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, but I don’t believe it,” was my very frank reply. He had certainly explained that, but his manner was not earnest. I could see that he was only trifling with me, trifling in an easy, good-natured way.
“Bien!” he said; “and if I followed you, Monsieur Biddulph, I assert that it is with no sinister intent.”
“How do I know that?” I queried. “You are a stranger.”
“I admit that. But you are not a stranger to me, my dear monsieur.”
“Well, let us come to the point,” I said. “What do you want with me?”
“Nothing,” he laughed. “Was it not you yourself who addressed me?”
“But you followed me!” I cried. “You can’t deny that.”
“Monsieur may hold of me whatever opinion he pleases,” was Delanne’s polite reply. “I repeat my regrets, and I ask pardon.”
He spoke English remarkably well. But I recollected that the international thief – the man who is a cosmopolitan, and who commits theft in one country to-night, and is across the frontier in the morning – is always a perfect linguist. Harriman was. Though American, with all his nasal intonation and quaint Americanisms, he spoke half-a-dozen Continental languages quite fluently.
My bitter experiences of the past caused considerable doubt to arise within me. I had had warnings that my mysterious enemies would attack me secretly, by some subtle means. Was this Frenchman one of them?
He saw that I treated him with some suspicion, but it evidently amused him. His face beamed with good-nature.
At the bottom of the broad flight of stairs which lead up to the United Service Club and Pall Mall, I halted.
“Now look here, Monsieur Delanne,” I said, much puzzled and mystified by the man’s manner and the curious story he had related, “I have neither desire nor inclination for your company further. You understand?”
“Ah, monsieur, a thousand pardons,” cried the man, raising his hat and bowing with the elegance of the true Parisian. “I have simply spoken the truth. Did you not put to me questions which I have answered? You have said you are engaged to the daughter of my friend Penning-ton. That has interested me.”
“Why?”
“Because the daughter of my friend Penning-ton always interests me,” was his curious reply.
“Is that an intended sarcasm?” I asked resentfully.
“Not in the least, m’sieur,” he said quickly. “I have every admiration for the young lady.”
“Then you know her – eh?”
“By repute.”
“Why?”
“Well, her father was connected with one of the strangest and most extraordinary incidents in my life,” he said. “Even to-day, the mystery of it all has not been cleared up. I have tried, times without number, to elucidate it, but have always failed.”
“What part did Sylvia play in the affair, may I ask?”
“Really,” he replied, “I scarcely know. It was so utterly extraordinary – beyond human credence.”
“Tell me – explain to me,” I said, instantly interested. What could this man know of my well-beloved?
He was silent for some minutes. We were still standing by the steps. Surely it was scarcely the place for an exchange of confidences.
“I fear that monsieur must really excuse me. The matter is purely a personal one – purely confidential, and concerns myself alone – just – just as your close acquaintanceship with Mademoiselle Sylvia concerns you.”
“It seems that it concerns other persons as well, if one may judge by what has recently occurred.”
“Ah! Then your enemies have arisen because of your engagement to the girl – eh?”
“The girl!” How strange! Pennington’s mysterious friends of the Brescia road had referred to her as “the girl.” So had those two assassins in Porchester Terrace! Was it a mere coincidence, or had he, too, betrayed a collusion with those mean blackguards who had put me to that horrible torture?
Had you met this strange man at night in St. James’s Park, would you have placed any faith in him? I think not. I maintain that I was perfectly justified in treating him as an enemy. He was rather too intimately acquainted with the doings of Harriman and his gang to suit my liking. Even as he stood there beneath the light of the street-lamp, I saw that his bright eyes twinkled behind those gold pince-nez, while the big old-fashioned amethyst he wore on his finger was a conspicuous object. He gave one the appearance of a prosperous merchant or shopkeeper.
“What makes you suggest that the attempt was due to my affection for Sylvia?” I asked him.
“Well, it furnishes a motive, does it not?”
“No, it doesn’t. I have no enemies – as far as I am aware.”
“But there exists some person who is highly jealous of mademoiselle, and who is therefore working against you in secret.”
“Is that your opinion?”
“I regret to admit that it is. Indeed, Monsieur Biddulph, you have every need to exercise the greatest care. Otherwise misfortune will occur to you. Mark what I – a stranger – tell you.”
I started. Here again was a warning uttered! The situation was growing quite uncanny.
“What makes you expect this?”
“It is more than mere surmise,” he said slowly and in deep earnestness. “I happen to know.”
From that last sentence of his I jumped to the conclusion that he was, after all, one of the malefactors. He was warning me with the distinct object of putting me off my guard. His next move, no doubt, would be to try and pose as my friend and adviser! I laughed within myself, for I was too wary for him.
“Well,” I said, after a few moments’ silence, as together we ascended the broad flight of steps, with the high column looming in the darkness, “the fact is, I’ve become tired of all these warnings. Everybody I meet seems to predict disaster for me. Why, I can’t make out.”
“No one has revealed to you the reason – eh?” he asked in a low, meaning voice.
“No.”
“Ah! Then, of course, you cannot discern the peril. It is but natural that you should treat all well-meant advice lightly. Probably I should, mon cher ami, if I were in your place.”
“Well,” I exclaimed impatiently, halting again, “now, what is it that you really know? Don’t beat about the bush any longer. Tell me, frankly and openly.”
The man merely raised his shoulders significantly, but made no response. In the ray of light which fell upon him, his gold-rimmed spectacles glinted, while his shrewd dark eyes twinkled behind them, as though he delighted in mystifying me.
“Surely you can reply,” I cried in anger. “What is the reason of all this? What have I done?”
“Ah! it is what monsieur has not done.”
“Pray explain.”
“Pardon. I cannot explain. Why not ask mademoiselle? She knows everything.”
“Everything!” I echoed. “Then why does she not tell me?”
“She fears – most probably.”
Could it be that this strange foreigner was purposely misleading me? I gazed upon his stout, well-dressed figure, and the well-brushed silk hat which he wore with such jaunty air.
In Pall Mall a string of taxi-cabs was passing westward, conveying homeward-bound theatre folk, while across at the brightly-lit entrance of the Carlton, cabs and taxis were drawing up and depositing well-dressed people about to sup.
At the corner of the Athenæum Club we halted again, for I wanted to rid myself of him. I had acted foolishly in addressing him in the first instance. For aught I knew, he might be an accomplice of those absconding assassins of Porchester Terrace.
As we stood there, he had the audacity to produce his cigarette-case and offer me one. But I resentfully declined it.
“Ah!” he laughed, stroking his greyish beard again, “I fear, Monsieur Biddulph, that you are displeased with me. I have annoyed you by not satisfying your natural curiosity. But were I to do so, it would be against my own interests. Hence my silence. Am I not perfectly honest with you?”
That speech of his corroborated all my suspicions. His motive in following me, whatever it could be, was a sinister one. He had admitted knowledge of Harriman, the man found guilty and sentenced for the murder of the young English member of Parliament, Ronald Burke. His intimate acquaintance with Harriman’s past and with his undesirable friends showed that he must have been an associate of that daring and dangerous gang.
I was a diligent reader of the English papers, but had never seen any mention of the great association of expert criminals. His assertion that the Paris Matin had published all the details was, in all probability, untrue. I instinctively mistrusted him, because he had kept such a watchful eye upon me ever since I had sat with Sylvia’s father in the lounge of that big hotel in Manchester.
“I don’t think you are honest with me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said stiffly. “Therefore I refuse to believe you further.”
“As you wish,” laughed my companion. “You will believe me, however, ere long – when you have proof. Depend upon it.”
And he glanced at his watch, closing it quickly with a snap.
“You see – ” he began, but as he uttered the words a taxi, coming from the direction of Charing Cross, suddenly pulled up at the kerb where we were standing – so suddenly that, for a moment, I did not notice that it had come to a standstill.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, when he saw the cab, “I quite forgot! I have an appointment. I will wish you bon soir, Monsieur Biddulph. We may meet again – perhaps.” And he raised his hat in farewell.
As he turned towards the taxi to enter it, I realized that some one was inside – that the person in the cab had met the strange foreigner by appointment at that corner!
A man’s face peered out for a second, and a voice exclaimed cheerily —
“Hulloa! Sorry I’m late, old chap!”
Then, next instant, on seeing me, the face was withdrawn into the shadow.
Delanne had entered quickly, and, slamming the door, told the man to drive with all speed to Paddington Station.
The taxi was well on its way down Pall Mall ere I could recover from my surprise.
The face of the man in the cab was a countenance the remembrance of which will ever haunt me if I live to be a hundred years – the evil, pimply, dissipated face of Charles Reckitt!
My surmise had been correct, after all. Delanne was his friend!
Another conspiracy was afoot against me!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THROUGH THE MISTS
It was now the end of September.
All my fears had proved groundless, and I had, at last, learned to laugh at them. For me, a new vista of life had been opened out, for Sylvia had now been my wife for a whole week – seven long dreamy days of perfect love and bliss.
Scarce could we realize the truth that we were actually man and wife.
Pennington had, after all, proved quite kind and affable, his sole thought being of his daughter’s future happiness. I had invited them both down to Carrington, and he had expressed delight at the provision I had made for Sylvia. Old Browning, in his brand-new suit, was at the head of a new staff of servants. There were new horses and carriages and a landaulette motor, while I had also done all I could to refurnish and renovate some of the rooms for Sylvia’s use.
The old place had been very dark and dreary, but it now wore an air of brightness and freshness, thanks to the London upholsterers and decorators into whose hands I had given the work.
Pennington appeared highly pleased with all he saw, while Sylvia, her arms entwined about my neck, kissed me in silent thanks for my efforts on her behalf.
Then came the wedding – a very quiet one at St. Mary Abbot’s, Kensington. Besides Jack Marlowe and a couple of other men who were intimate friends, not more than a dozen persons were present. Shuttleworth assisted the vicar, but Pennington was unfortunately ill in bed at the Hôtel Métropole, suffering from a bad cold. Still, we held the wedding luncheon at the Savoy, and afterwards went up to Scarborough, where we were now living in a pretty suite at the Grand Hotel overlooking the harbour, the blue bay, and the castle-crowned cliffs.
It was disappointing to Sylvia that her father had not been present at the wedding, but Elsie Durnford and her mother were there, as well as two or three other of her girl friends. The ceremony was very plain. At her own request, she had been married in her travelling-dress, while I, man-like, had secretly been glad that there was no fuss.
Just a visit to the church, the brief ceremony, the signature in the register, and a four-line announcement in the Times and Morning Post, and Sylvia and I had become man and wife.
I had resolved, on the morning of my marriage, to put behind me all thought of the mysteries and gruesomeness of the past. Now that I was Sylvia’s husband, I felt that she would have my protection, as well as that of her father. I had said nothing to her of her strange apprehensions, for we had mutually allowed them to drop.
We had come to Scarborough in preference to going abroad, for my well-beloved declared that she had had already too much of Continental life, and preferred a quiet time in England. So we had chosen the East Coast, and now each day we either drove out over the Yorkshire moors, or wandered by the rolling seas.
She was now my own – my very own! Ah! the sweet significance of those words when I uttered them and she clung to me, raising her full red lips to mine to kiss.
I loved her – aye, loved her with an all-consuming love. I told myself a thousand times that no man on earth had ever loved a woman more than I loved Sylvia. She was my idol, and more, we were wedded, firmly united to one another, insunderably joined with each other so that we two were one.
You satirists, cynics, misogamists and misogynists may sneer at love, and jeer at marriage. So melancholy is this our age that even by some women marriage seems to be doubted. Yet we may believe that there is not a woman in all Christendom who does not dote upon the name of “wife.” It carries a spell which even the most rebellious suffragette must acknowledge. They may speak of the subjection, the trammel, the “slavery,” and the inferiority to which marriage reduces them, but, after all, “wife” is a word against which they cannot harden their hearts.
Ah! how fervently we loved each other. As Sylvia and I wandered together by the sea on those calm September evenings, avoiding the holiday crowd, preferring the less-frequented walks to the fashionable promenades of the South Cliff or the Spa, we linked arm in arm, and I often, when not observed, kissed her upon the brow.
One evening, with the golden sunset in our faces, we were walking over the cliffs to Cayton Bay, a favourite walk of ours, when we halted at a stile, and sat together upon it to rest.
The wide waters deep below, bathed in the green and gold of the sinking sun, were calm, almost unruffled, unusual indeed for the North Sea, while about us the birds were singing their evening song, and the cattle in the fields were lying down in peace. There was not a breath of wind. The calmness was the same as the perfect calmness of our own hearts.
“How still it is, Owen,” remarked my love, after sitting in silence for a few minutes. From where we sat we could see that it was high tide, and the waves were lazily lapping the base of the cliffs deep below. Now and then a gull would circle about us with its shrill, plaintive cry, while far on the distant horizon lay the trail of smoke from a passing steamer. “How delightful it is to be here – alone with you!”
My arm stole round her slim waist, and my lips met hers in a fond, passionate caress. She looked very dainty in a plain walking costume of cream serge, with a boa of ostrich feathers about her throat, and a large straw hat trimmed with autumn flowers. It was exceptionally warm for the time of year; yet at night, on the breezy East Coast, there is a cold nip in the air even in the height of summer.
That afternoon we had, by favour of its owner, Mr. George Beeforth, one of the pioneers of Scarborough, wandered through the beautiful private gardens of the Belvedere, which, with their rose-walks, lawns and plantations, stretched from the promenade down to the sea, and had spent some charming hours in what its genial owner called “the sun-trap.” In all the north of England there are surely no more beautiful gardens beside the sea than those, and happily their good-natured owner is never averse to granting a stranger permission to visit them.
As we now sat upon that stile our hearts were too full for words, devoted as we were to each other.
“Owen,” my wife exclaimed at last, her soft little hand upon my shoulder as she looked up into my face, “are you certain you will never regret marrying me?”
“Why, of course not, dearest,” I said quickly, looking into her great wide-open eyes.
“But – but, somehow – ”
“Somehow, what?” I asked slowly.
“Well,” she sighed, gazing away towards the far-off horizon, her wonderful eyes bluer than the sea itself, “I have a strange, indescribable feeling of impending evil – a presage of disaster.”
