Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MORE MYSTERY

Nothing definite, however, could I gather from the hotel people.

They knew nothing, and seemed highly annoyed that such an incident should occur in their quiet and highly aristocratic house.

Next day Sylvia waited for news of her father, but none came.

Delanne called about eleven o’clock in the morning, and had a brief interview with her in private. What passed between them I know not, save that the man, whose real name was Guertin, met me rather coldly and afterwards bade me adieu.

I hated the fellow. He was always extremely polite, always just a little sarcastic, and yet, was he not the associate of the man Reckitt?

I wished to leave Paris and return to London, but Sylvia appeared a little anxious to remain. She seemed to expect some secret communication from her father.

“Thank Heaven!” she said, on the day following Delanne’s call, “father has escaped them. That was surely a daring dash he made. He knew that they intended to kill him.”

“But I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you mean they would kill him openly?”

“Of course. They have no fear. Their only fear is while he remains alive.”

“But the law would punish them.”

“No, it would not,” she responded, shaking her head gravely. “They would contrive an ‘accident.’”

“Well,” I said, “he has evaded them, and we must be thankful for that. Do you expect to hear from him?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I shall probably receive a message to-night. That is why I wish to remain, Owen. I wonder,” she added rather hesitatingly, “I wonder whether you would consider it very strange of me if I asked you to let me go out to-night at ten o’clock alone?”

“Well, I rather fear your going out alone and unprotected at that hour, darling,” I responded.

“Ah! have no fear whatever for me. I shall be safe enough. They will not attempt anything just now. I am quite confident of that. I – I want to go forth alone, for an hour or so.”

“Oh, well, if it is your distinct wish, how can I refuse, dear?”

“Ah!” she cried, putting her arm fondly about my neck, “I knew you would not refuse me. I shall go out just before ten, and I will be back long before midnight. You will excuse my absence, won’t you?”

“Certainly,” I said. And thus it was arranged.

Her request, I admit, puzzled me greatly, and also caused me considerable fear. My past experience had aroused within me a constant phantom of suspicion.

We lunched at the Ritz, and in the afternoon took a taxi into the Bois, where we spent an hour upon a seat in one of the by-paths of that beautiful wood of the Parisians. On our return to the hotel, Sylvia was all eagerness for a message, but there was none.

“Ah! he is discreet!” she exclaimed to me, when the concierge had given her a negative reply. “He fears to send me word openly.”

At ten o’clock that night, however, she had exchanged her dinner gown for a dark stuff dress, and, with a small black hat, and a boa about her neck, she came to kiss me.

“I won’t be very long, dearest,” she said cheerily. “I’ll get back the instant I can. Don’t worry after me. I shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

But recollections of Reckitt and his dastardly accomplice arose within me, and I hardly accepted her assurance, even though I made pretence of so doing.

For a few moments I held her in my arms tenderly, then releasing her, she bade me au revoir merrily, and we descended into the hall together.

A taxi was called, and I heard her direct the driver to go to the Boulevard Pereire. Then, waving her hand from the cab window, she drove away.

Should I follow? To spy upon her would be a mean action. It would show a lack of confidence, and would certainly irritate and annoy her. Yet was she not in peril? Had she not long ago admitted herself to be in some grave and mysterious danger?

I had only a single moment in which to decide. Somehow I felt impelled to follow and watch that she came to no harm; yet, at the same time, I knew that it was not right. She was my wife, and I dearly loved her and trusted her. If discovered, my action would show her that I was suspicious.

Still I felt distinctly apprehensive, and it was that apprehension which caused me, a second later, to seize my hat, and, walking out of the hotel, hail a passing taxi, and drive quickly to the quiet, highly respectable boulevard to which she had directed her driver.

I suppose it was, perhaps, a quarter of an hour later when we turned into the thoroughfare down the centre of which runs the railway in a deep cutting. The houses were large ones, let out in fine flats, the residences mostly of the professional and wealthier tradesman classes.

We went along, until presently I caught sight of another taxi standing at the kerb. Therefore I dismissed mine, and, keeping well in the shadow, sauntered along the boulevard, now quiet and deserted.

With great precaution I approached the standing taxi on the opposite side of the way. There was nobody within. It was evidently awaiting some one, and as it was the only one in sight I concluded that it must be the same which Sylvia had taken from the hotel.

Some distance further on I walked, when, before me, I recognized her neat figure, and almost a moment afterwards saw her disappear into a large doorway which was in complete darkness – the doorway of what seemed to be an untenanted house.

I halted quickly and waited – yet almost ashamed of myself for spying thus.

A moment later I saw that, having believed herself unobserved, she struck a match, but for what reason did not seem apparent. She appeared to be examining the wall. She certainly was not endeavouring to open the door. From the distance, however, I was unable to distinguish very plainly.

The vesta burned out, and she threw it upon the ground. Then she hurriedly retraced her steps to where she had left her cab, and I was compelled to bolt into a doorway in order to evade her.

She passed quite close to me, and when she had driven away I emerged, and, walking to the doorway, also struck a light and examined the same stone wall. At first I could discover nothing, but after considerable searching my eyes at last detected a dark smudge, as though something had been obliterated.

It was a cryptic sign in lead pencil, and apparently she had drawn her hand over it to remove it, but had not been altogether successful. Examining it closely, I saw that the sign, as originally scrawled upon the smooth stone, was like two crescents placed back to back, while both above and below rough circles had been drawn.

The marks had evidently some prearranged meaning – one which she understood. It was a secret message from her father, without a doubt!

At risk of detection by some agent of police, I made a further close examination of the wall, and came upon two other signs which had also been hurriedly obliterated – one of three double triangles, and another of two oblongs and a circle placed in conjunction. But there was no writing; nothing, indeed, to convey any meaning to the uninitiated.

The wall of that dark entry, however, was no doubt the means of an exchange of secret messages between certain unknown persons.

The house was a large one, and had been let out in flats, as were its neighbours; but for some unaccountable reason – perhaps owing to a law dispute – it now remained closed.

I was puzzled as to which of the three half-obliterated signs Sylvia had sought. But I took notice of each, and then walked back in the direction whence I had come.

I returned at once to the hotel, but my wife had not yet come back. This surprised me. And I was still further surprised when she did not arrive until nearly one o’clock in the morning. Yet she seemed very happy – unusually so.

Where had she been after receiving that secret message, I wondered? Yet I could not question her, lest I should betray my watchfulness.

“I’m so sorry to have left you alone all this long time, Owen,” she said, as she entered the room and came across to kiss me. “But it was quite unavoidable.”

“Is all well?” I inquired.

“Quite,” was her reply. “My father is already out of France.”

That was all she would vouchsafe to me. Still I saw that she was greatly gratified at the knowledge of his escape from his mysterious enemies.

The whole situation was extraordinary. Why should this man Delanne, the friend of Reckitt and no doubt a member of a gang of blackmailers and assassins, openly pursue him to the death? It was an entire enigma. I could discern no light through the veil of mystery which had, all along, so completely enshrouded Pennington and his daughter.

Still I resolved to put aside all apprehensions. Why should I trouble?

I loved Sylvia with all my heart, and with all my soul. She was mine! What more could I desire?

Next evening we returned to Wilton Street. She had suddenly expressed a desire to leave Paris, perhaps because she did not wish to again meet her father’s enemy, that fat Frenchman Guertin.

For nearly a month we lived in perfect happiness, frequently visiting the Shuttleworths for the day, and going about a good deal in town. She urged me to go to Carrington to shoot, but, knowing that she did not like the old place, I made excuses and remained in London.

“Father is in Roumania,” she remarked to me one morning when she had been reading her letters at the breakfast-table. “He sends his remembrances to you from Bucharest. You have never been there, I suppose? I’m extremely fond of the place. There is lots of life, and the Roumanians are always so very hospitable.”

“No,” I said, “I’ve never been to Bucharest, unfortunately, though I’ve been in Constanza, which is also in Roumania. Remember me to your father when you write, won’t you?”

“Certainly. He wonders whether you and I would care to go out there for a month or two?”

“In winter?”

“Winter is the most pleasant time. It is the season in Bucharest.”

“As you please, dearest,” I replied. “I am entirely in your hands, as you know,” I laughed.

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Owen,” she declared. “You are always indulging me – just like the spoilt child I am.”

“Because I love you,” I replied softly, placing my hand upon hers and looking into her wonderful eyes.

She smiled contentedly, and I saw in those eyes the genuine love-look: the expression which a woman can never feign.

Thus the autumn days went past, happy days of peace and joy.

Sylvia delighted in the theatre, and we went very often, while on days when it was dry and the sun shone, I took her motoring to Brighton, to Guildford, to Tunbridge Wells, or other places on the well-known roads out of London.

The clouds which had first marred our happiness had now happily been dispelled, and the sun of life and love shone upon us perpetually.

Sometimes I wondered whether that ideal happiness was not too complete to last. In the years I had lived I had become a pessimist. I feared a too-complete ideal. The realization of our hopes is always followed by a poignant despair. In this world there is no cup of sweetness without dregs of bitterness. The man who troubles after the to-morrow creates trouble for himself, while he who is regardless of the future is like an ostrich burying its head in the sand at sign of disaster.

Still, each of us who marry fondly believe ourselves to be the one exception to the rule. And perhaps it is only human that it should be so. I, like you my reader, believed that my troubles were over, and that all the lowering clouds had drifted away. They were, however, only low over the horizon, and were soon to reappear. Ah! how differently would I have acted had I but known what the future – the future of which I was now so careless – held in store for me!

One night we had gone in the car to the Coliseum Theatre, for Sylvia was fond of variety performances as a change from the legitimate theatre. As we sat in the box, I thought – though I could not be certain – that she made some secret signal with her fan to somebody seated below amid the crowded audience.

My back had been turned for a moment, and on looking round I felt convinced that she had signalled. It was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it, yet I hesitated, fearing lest she might be annoyed. I trusted her implicitly, and, after all, I might easily have mistaken a perfectly natural movement for a sign of recognition. Therefore I laughed at my own foolish fancy, and turned my attention again to the performance.

At last the curtain fell, and as we stood together amid the crush in the vestibule, the night having turned out wet, I left her, to go in search of our carriage.

I suppose I was absent about two or three minutes, but on my return I could not find her.

She had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed her up.

I waited until the theatre was entirely empty. I described her to the attendants, and I had a chat with the smart and highly popular manager, but no one had seen her. She had simply disappeared.

I was frantic, full of the wildest dread as to what had occurred. How madly I acted I scarcely knew. At last, seeing to remain longer was useless, now that the theatre had closed, I jumped into the brougham and drove with all haste to Wilton Street.

“No, Mr. Owen,” replied Browning to my breathless inquiry, “madam has not yet returned.”

I brushed past him and entered the study.

Upon my writing-table there lay a note addressed to me.

I recognized the handwriting in an instant, and with trembling fingers tore open the envelope.

What I read there staggered me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IN FULL CRY

The amazing letter which I held in my nerveless fingers had been hurriedly scribbled on a piece of my wife’s own notepaper, and read —

“Dear Owen – I feel that our marriage was an entire mistake. I have grossly deceived you, and I dare not hope ever for your forgiveness, nor dare I face you to answer your questions. I know that you love me dearly, as I, too, have loved you; yet, for your own sake – and perhaps for mine also – it is far best that we should keep apart.

“I deeply regret that I have been the means of bringing misfortune and unhappiness and sorrow upon you, but I have been the tool of another. In shame and deepest humiliation I leave you, and if you will grant one favour to an unhappy and penitent woman, you will never seek to discover my whereabouts. It would be quite useless. To-night I leave you in secret, never to meet you again. Accept my deepest regret, and do not let my action trouble you. I am not worthy of your love. Good-bye. Your unhappy – Sylvia.”

I stood staring at the uneven scribbled lines, blurred as they were by the tears of the writer.

What had happened? Why had she so purposely left me? Why had she made that signal from the theatre-box to her accomplice?

She admitted having grossly deceived me, and that she was unworthy. What did she mean? In what manner had she deceived me?

Had she a secret lover?

That idea struck me suddenly, and staggered me. In some of her recent actions I read secrecy and suspicion. On several occasions lately she had been out shopping alone, and one afternoon, about a week before, she had not returned to dress for dinner until nearly eight o’clock. Her excuse had been a thin one, but, unsuspicious, I had passed it by.

Had I really been a fool to marry her, after all? I knew Marlowe’s opinion of our marriage, though he had never expressed it. That she had been associated with a shady lot had all along been apparent. The terrors of that silent house in Porchester Terrace remained only too fresh within my memory.

That night I spent in a wild fever of excitement. No sleep came to my eyes, and I think Browning – to whom I said nothing – believed that I had taken leave of my senses. The faithful old servant did not retire, for at five in the morning I found him seated dozing in a chair outside in the hall, tired out by the watchful vigil he had kept over me.

I tried in vain to decide what to do. I wanted to find Sylvia, to induce her to reveal the truth to me, and to allay her fear of my reproaches.

I loved her; aye, no man in all the world ever loved a woman better. Yet she had, of her own accord, because of her own shame at her deception, bade farewell, and slipped away into the great ocean of London life.

Morning dawned at last, cold, grey and foggy, one of those dispiriting mornings of late autumn which the Londoner knows so well. Still I knew not how to act. I wanted to discover her, to bring her back, and to demand of her finally the actual truth. All the mystery of those past months had sent my brain awhirl.

I had an impulse to go to the police and reveal the secret of that closed house in Porchester Terrace. Yet had she not implored me not to do so? Why? There was only one reason. She feared exposure herself.

No. Ten thousand times no. I would not believe ill of her. Can any man who really loves a woman believe ill of her? Love is blind, it is true, and the scales never fall from the eyes while true affection lasts. And so I put suspicion from my mind, and swallowed the cup of coffee Browning put before me.

The old man, the friend of my youth, knew that his mistress had not returned, and saw how greatly I was distressed. Yet he was far too discreet a servant to refer to it.

I entered the drawing-room, and there, in the grey light, facing me, stood the fine portrait of my well-beloved in a silver frame, the one she had had taken at Scarborough a week after our marriage.

I drew it from its frame and gazed for a long time upon it. Then I put it into an envelope, and placed it in my pocket.

Soon after ten o’clock I returned to the Coliseum, and showed the portrait to a number of the attendants as that of a lady who was missing. All of them, both male and female, gazed upon the picture, but nobody recognized her as having been seen before.

The manager, whom I had seen on the previous night, sympathized with me, and lent me every assistance. One after another of the staff he called into his big office on the first floor, but the reply was always the same.

At length a smart page-boy entered, and, on being shown the portrait, at once said to the manager —

“Why, sir, that’s the lady who went away with the gentleman who spoke to me!”

“Who was he?” I demanded eagerly. “What did he say? What was he like?”

“Well, sir, it was like this,” replied the boy. “About a quarter of an hour before the curtain fell last night I was out in the vestibule, when a tall dark gentleman, with his hair slightly grey and no moustache, came up to me with a lady’s cloak in his hand – a dark blue one. He told me that when the audience came out a fair young lady would come up to me for the cloak, as she wanted to get away very quickly, and did not want to wait her turn at the cloak-room. There was a car – a big grey car – waiting for her outside.”

“Then her flight was all prepared!” I exclaimed. “What was the man like?”

“He struck me as being a gentleman, yet his clothes seemed shabby and ill-fitting. Indeed, he had a shabby-genteel look, as though he were a bit down on his luck.”

“He was in evening clothes?”

“No, sir. In a suit of brown tweeds.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“I waited till the curtain fell, and then I stood close to the box-office with the cloak over my arm. There was a big crush, as it was then raining hard. Suddenly a young lady wearing a cream theatre-wrap came up to me hastily, and asked me to help her on with the cloak. This I did, and next moment the man in tweeds joined her. I heard him say, ‘Come along, dear, we haven’t a moment to lose,’ and then they went out to the car. That’s all I know, sir.”

I was silent for a few moments. Who was this secret lover, I wondered? The lad’s statement had come as an amazing revelation to me.

“What kind of car was it?” I asked.

“A hired car, sir,” replied the intelligent boy. “I’ve seen it here before. It comes, I think, from a garage in Wardour Street.”

“You would know the driver?”

“I think so, sir.”

It was therefore instantly arranged that the lad should go with me round to the garage, and there try to find the man who drove the grey car on the previous night.

In this we were quickly successful. On entering the garage there stood, muddy and dirty, a big grey landaulette, which the boy at once identified as the one in which Sylvia had escaped. The driver was soon found, and he explained that it was true he had been engaged on the previous night by a tall, clean-shaven gentleman to pick up at the Coliseum. He did so, and the gentleman entered with a lady.

“Where did you drive them?” I asked quickly.

“Up the Great North Road – to the George Hotel at Stamford, about a hundred miles from London. I’ve only been back about a couple of hours, sir.”

“The George at Stamford!” I echoed, for I knew the hotel, a quiet, old-fashioned, comfortable place much patronized by motorists to and fro on the north road.

“You didn’t stay there?”

“Only just to get a drink and fill up with petrol. I wanted to get back. The lady and gentleman were evidently expected, and seemed in a great hurry.”

“Why?”

“Well, near Alconbury the engine was misfiring a little, and I stopped to open the bonnet. When I did so, the lady put her head out of the window, highly excited, and asked how long we were likely to be delayed. I told her; then I heard her say to the gentleman, ‘If they are away before we reach there, what shall we do?’”

“Then they were on their way to meet somebody or other – eh?”

“Ah! that I don’t know, sir. I drew up in the yard of the hotel, and they both got out. The lady hurried in, while the gentleman paid me, and gave me something for myself. It was then nearly four o’clock in the morning. I should have been back earlier, only I had a puncture the other side of Hatfield, and had to put on the ‘Stepney.’”

“I must go to Stamford,” I said decisively. Then I put something into his palm, as well as into that of the page-boy, and, entering a taxi, drove back home.

An hour later I sat beside my own chauffeur, as we drove through the steadily falling rain across Hampstead Heath, on our hundred-mile journey into Lincolnshire.

We both knew every inch of the road, having been over it many times. As it was wet, police-traps were unlikely, so, having negotiated the narrow road as far as Hatfield, we began to “let her out” past Hitchin, and we buzzed on over the broad open road through Stilton village. We were hung up at the level-crossing at Wansford, but about half-past three in the afternoon we swept over the brow of the hill beneath the high wall of Burghley Park, and saw beneath us the roofs and many spires of quiet old Stamford.

Ten minutes later we swung into the yard of the ancient George, and, alighting, entered the broad hall, with its splendid old oak staircase, in search of the manageress.

She related a rather curious story.

On the previous night, about eleven o’clock, there arrived by car two well-dressed gentlemen who, though English, conversed together in French. They took rooms, but did not retire to bed, saying that they expected two friends who were motoring, and who would arrive in the night. They sat over the fire in the lounge, while the staff of the hotel all retired, save the night-boots, an old retainer. The latter stated that during the night, as he passed the door of the lounge, he saw through the crack of the door the younger of the two men examining something which shone and sparkled in the light, and he thought to be diamonds. This struck him as somewhat curious; therefore he kept a watchful eye upon the pair.

One he described as rather stout, dark, and bald-headed – the exact description of Pennington – and the other description the man afterwards gave to me caused me to feel confident that the second man was none other than the scoundrel Reckitt. What further piece of chicanery had they been guilty of, I wondered?

“About four in the morning a grey car drove up, sir,” went on the boots, “and a lady with a dark cloak over her evening dress dashed in, and they both rose quickly and welcomed her. Then, in order that I should not understand, they again started talking in some foreign language – French I expect it was. A few moments later the gentleman came in. They welcomed him warmly, addressing him by the name of Lewis. I saw the bald-headed man wring his hand heartily, and heard him exclaim: ‘By Jove! old man, you can’t think how glad we are to see you back again! You must have had a narrow squeak! Not another single living man would have acted with the determination and bravery with which you’ve acted. Only you must be careful, Lewis, old man – deuced careful. There are enemies about, you know.’ Then the gentleman said: ‘I know! I’m quite aware of my peril, Arnold. You, too, had a narrow shave in Paris a short time ago – I hear from Sonia.’ ‘Yes,’ laughed the other, ‘she acted splendidly. But, as you say, it was a very close thing. Have you seen Shuttleworth yet?’ he asked. The other said: ‘He met me, in the Ditches at Southampton, two nights ago, and told me all that’s happened.’ ‘Ah! And Sonia has told you the rest, I suppose?’ he asked; to which the other man replied in the affirmative, adding: ‘It’s a bad job, I fear, for Owen Biddulph – a very bad job for the fellow!’ That was all the conversation that I overheard at that time, for they then rang the bell and ordered whisky and sodas.”

“And what else did you see or hear?” I asked eagerly, much puzzled by his statement.

“They struck me as rather a suspicious lot, sir,” the man said. “After I had taken them in their drinks they closed the door, and seemed to hold some sort of a consultation. While this was going on, two men drove up in another car, and asked if a Mr. Winton was here. I told him he was – for the bald-headed gentleman had given the name of Douglas Winton. They were at once welcomed, and admitted to the conference.”

“Rather curious – to hold a conference in such a manner and at such an hour!” I remarked.

“Yes, sir. It was a secret meeting, evidently. They all spoke in another language. The two men who last arrived were no doubt foreigners.”

“Was one of them stout and wore gold-rimmed glasses?” I inquired quickly.