for you about a quarter of an hour afterwards. I thought nobody knew you were down here.”
“For me!” gasped Henfrey, instantly alarmed.
“Yes, I answered the ‘phone. It was a girl’s voice!”
“A girl! Who?”
“I don’t know who she was. She wouldn’t give her name,” Louise replied. “She asked if we were Shapley, and I replied. Then she asked for you. I told her that you were out in the car and asked her name. But she said it didn’t matter at all, and rang off.”
“I wonder who she was?” remarked Hugh, much puzzled and, at the same time, greatly alarmed. He scented danger. The fact in itself showed that somebody knew the secret of his hiding-place, and, if they did, then the police were bound to discover him sooner or later.
Half an hour afterwards he took Mrs. Bond aside, and pointed out the peril in which he was placed. His hostess, on her part, grew alarmed, for though Hugh was unaware of it, she had no desire to meet the police. That little affair in Paris was by no means forgotten.
“It is certainly rather curious,” the woman admitted. “Evidently it is known by somebody that you are staying with me. Don’t you think it would be wiser to leave?”
Hugh hesitated. He wished to take Benton’s advice, and told his hostess so. With this she agreed, yet she was inwardly highly nervous at the situation. Any police inquiry at Shapley would certainly be most unwelcome to her, and she blamed herself for agreeing to Benton’s proposal that Hugh should stay there.
“Benton will be back to-morrow,” Hugh said. “Do you think it safe for me to remain here till then?” he added anxiously.
“I hardly know what to think,” replied the woman. She herself had a haunting dread of recognition as Molly Maxwell. She had crossed and recrossed the Atlantic, carefully covering her tracks, and she did not intend to be cornered at last.
After dinner, Hugh, still greatly perturbed at the mysterious telephone call, played billiards with Louise. About a quarter to eleven, however, Mrs. Bond was called to the telephone and, closing the door, listened to an urgent message.
It was from Benton, who spoke from London–a few quick, cryptic, but reassuring words–and when the woman left the room three minutes later all her anxiety as to the police had apparently passed.
She joined the young couple and watched their game. Louise handled her cue well, and very nearly beat her opponent. Afterwards, when Louise went out, Mrs. Bond closed the door swiftly, and said:
“I’ve been thinking over that little matter, Mr. Henfrey. I really don’t think there is much cause for alarm. Charles will be back to-morrow, and we can consult him.”
Hugh shrugged his shoulders. He was much puzzled.
“The fact is, Mrs. Bond, I’m tired of being hunted like this!” he said. “This eternal fear of arrest has got upon my nerves to such an extent that I feel if they want to bring me for trial–well, they can. I’m innocent–therefore, how can they prove me guilty?”
“Oh! you mustn’t let it obsess you,” the woman urged. “Mr. Benton has told me all about the unfortunate affair, and I greatly sympathize with you. Of course, to court the publicity of a trial would be fatal. What would your poor father think, I wonder, if he were still alive?”
“He’s dead,” said the young man in a low, hoarse voice; “but Mademoiselle Ferad knows the secret of his death.”
“He died suddenly–did he not?”
“Yes. He was murdered, Mrs. Bond. I’m certain of it. My father was murdered!”
“Murdered?” she echoed. “What did the doctors say?”
“They arrived at no definite conclusion,” was Hugh’s response. “He left home and went up to London on some secret and mysterious errand. Later, he was found lying upon the pavement in a dying condition. He never recovered consciousness, but sank a few hours afterwards. His death is one of the many unsolved mysteries of London.”
“The police believe that you went to the Villa Amette and murdered Mademoiselle out of revenge.”
“Let them prove it!” said the young fellow defiantly. “Let them prove it!”
“Prove what?” asked Louise, as she suddenly reopened the door, greatly to the woman’s consternation.
“Oh! Only somebody–that Spicer woman over at Godalming–has been saying some wicked and nasty things about Mr. Henfrey,” replied Mrs. Bond. “Personally, I should be annoyed. Really those gossiping people are simply intolerable.”
“What have they been saying, Hugh?” asked the girl.
“Oh, it’s really nothing,” laughed Henfrey. “I apologize. I was put out a moment ago, but I now see the absurdity of it. Forgive me, Louise.”
The girl looked from Mrs. Bond to her guest in amazement.
“What is there to forgive?” she asked.
“The fact that I was in the very act of losing my temper. That’s all.”
Presently, when Louise was ascending the stairs with Mrs. Bond, the girl asked:
“Why was Hugh so put out? What has Mrs. Spicer been saying about him?”
“Only that he was a shirker during the war. And, naturally, he is highly indignant.”
“He has a right to be. He did splendidly. His record shows that,” declared the girl.
“I urged him to take no notice of the insults. The Spicer woman has a very venomous tongue, my dear! She is a vicar’s widow!”
And then they separated to their respective rooms.
Half an hour later Hugh Henfrey retired, but he found sleep impossible; so he got up and sat at the open window, gazing across to the dim outlines of the Surrey hills, picturesque and undulating beneath the stars.
Who could have called him on the telephone? It was a woman, but the voice might have been that of a female telephone operator. Or yet–it might have been that of Dorise! She knew that he was at Shapley and looked it up in the telephone directory. If that were the explanation, then she certainly would not give away the secret of his hiding-place.
Still he was haunted by a great dread the whole of that night. The Sparrow had told him he had acted foolishly in leaving his place of concealment in Kensington. The Sparrow was his firm friend, and in future he intended to obey the little old man’s orders implicitly–as so many others did.
Next morning he came down to breakfast before the ladies, and beside his plate he found a letter–addressed to him openly. He had not received one addressed in his real name for many months. Sight of it caused his heart to bound in anxiety, but when he read it he stood rooted to the spot.
Those lines which he read staggered him; the room seemed to revolve, and he re-read them, scarce believing his own eyes.
He realized in that instant that a great blow had fallen upon him, and that all was now hopeless. The sunshine of his life, had in that single instant, been blotted out!
TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER
THE MAN WITH MANY NAMES
At the moment he had read the letter Mrs. Bond entered the room.
“Hallo! You’re down early,” she remarked. “And already had your letters, I see! They don’t generally come so early. The postman has to walk over from Puttenham.”
Then she took up her own and carelessly placed them aside. They consisted mostly of circulars and the accounts of Guildford tradesmen.
“Yes,” he said, “I was down early. Lately I’ve acquired the habit of early rising.”
“An excellent habit in a young man,” she laughed. “All men who achieve success are early risers–so a Cabinet Minister said the other day. And really, I believe it.”
“An hour in the early morning is worth three after dinner. That is why Cabinet Ministers entertain people at breakfast nowadays instead of at dinner. In the morning the brain is fresh and active–a fact recently discovered in our post-war days,” Hugh said.
Then, as his hostess turned to the hot-plate upon the sideboard, lifting the covers to see what her cook had provided, he re-scanned the letter which had been openly addressed to him. It was from Dorise:
“I refuse to be deceived any longer, I have discovered that you are now a fellow-guest with the girl Louise, to whom you introduced me. And yet you arranged to meet me at Farnham, believing that I was not aware of your close friendship with her! I have believed in you up to the present, but the scales have now fallen from my eyes. I thought you loved me too well to deceive me–as you are doing. Hard things are being said about you–but you can rest content that I shall reveal nothing that I happen to know. What I do know, however, has changed my thoughts concerning you. I believed you to be the victim of circumstance. Now I know you have deceived me, and that I, myself, am the victim. I need only add that someone else–whom I know not–knows of your hiding-place, for, by a roundabout way, I heard of it, and hence, I address this letter to you.–DORISE.”
Hugh Henfrey stood staggered. There was no mistaking the meaning of that letter now that he had read it a second time.
Dorise doubted him! And what answer could he give her? Any explanation must, to her, be but a lame excuse.
Hugh ate his breakfast sullenly. To Louise, who put in a late appearance, and helped herself off the hot-plate, he said cheerfully:
“How lazy you are!”
“It’s not laziness, Hugh,” replied the girl. “The maid was so late with my tea–and–well, to tell the truth, I upset a whole new box of powder on my dressing-table and had to clean up the mess.”
“More haste–less speed,” laughed Hugh. “It is always the same in the morning–eh?”
When the girl sat down at the table Hugh had brightened up. Still the load upon his shoulders was a heavy one. He was ever obsessed by the mystery of his father’s death, combined with that extraordinary will by which it was decreed that if he married Louise he would acquire his father’s fortune.
Louise was certainly very good-looking, and quite charming. He admitted that as he gazed across at her fresh figure on the opposite side of the table. He, of course, was in ignorance of the fact that Benton, who had adopted her, was a clever and unscrupulous adventurer, whose accomplice was the handsome woman who was his hostess.
Naturally, he never dreamed that that quiet and respectable house, high on the beautiful Surrey hills, was the abode of a woman for whom the police of Europe were everywhere searching.
His thoughts all through breakfast were of The Sparrow–the great criminal, who was his friend. Hence, after they rose, he strolled into the morning-room with his hostess, and said:
“I’ll have to go to town again this morning. I have an urgent letter. Can Mead take me?”
“Certainly,” was the woman’s reply. “I have to make a call at Worplesdon this afternoon, and Louise is going with me. But Mead can be back before then to take us.”
So half an hour later Hugh was driving up the steep High Street of Guildford on his way to London.
He alighted in Piccadilly, at the end of Half Moon Street, soon after eleven, and, dismissing Mead, made his way to Ellerston Street to the house of Mr. George Peters.
He rang the bell at the old-fashioned mansion, and a few moments later the door was opened by the manservant he had previously seen.
In an instant the servant recognized the visitor.
“Mr. Peters will not be in for a quarter of an hour,” he said. “Would you care to wait, sir?”
“Yes,” Hugh replied. “I want to see him very urgently.”
“Will you come in? Mr. Peters has left instructions that you might probably call; Mr. Henfrey, is it not?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh. The man seemed to possess a memory like that of a club hall-porter.
Young Henfrey was ushered into a small but cosy little room, which, in the light of day, he saw was well-furnished and upholstered. The door closed, and he waited.
A few moments after he distinctly heard a man’s voice, which he at once recognized as that of The Sparrow.
The servant had told him that Mr. Peters was absent, yet he recognized his voice–a rather high-pitched, musical one.
“Mr. Henfrey is waiting,” he heard the servant say.
“Right! I hope you told him I was out,” The Sparrow replied.
Then there was silence.
Hugh stood there very much puzzled. The room was cosy and well- furnished, but the light was somewhat dim, while the atmosphere was decidedly murky, as it is in any house in Mayfair. One cannot obtain brightness and light in a West End house, where one’s vista is bounded by bricks and mortar. The dukes in their great town mansions are no better off for light and air than the hard-working and worthy wage- earners of Walworth, Deptford, or Peckham. The air in the working- class districts of London is not one whit worse than it is in Mayfair or in Belgravia.
Hugh stood before an old coloured print representing the hobby-horse school–the days of the “bone-shakers”–and studied it. He awaited Il Passero and the advice which he had promised to give.
His ears were strained. That house was curiously quiet and forbidding. The White Cavalier, whom he had believed to be the notorious Sparrow, had been proved to be one of his assistants. He had now met the real, elusive adventurer, who controlled half the criminal adventurers in Europe, and had found in him a most genial friend. He was there to seek his advice and to act upon it.
As he reflected, he realized that without the aid of The Sparrow he would have long ago been in the hands of the police. So widespread was the organization which The Sparrow controlled that it mattered not in what capital he might be, the paternal hand of protection was placed upon him–in Genoa, in Brussels, in London–anywhere.
It seemed that when The Sparrow protected any criminal the fugitive was safe. He had been sent to Mrs. Mason in Kensington, and he had left her room against The Sparrow’s will.
Hence his peril of arrest. It was that point which he wished to discuss with the great arch-criminal of Europe.
That house was one of mystery. The servant had told him that he was expected. Why? What did The Sparrow suspect?
The whole atmosphere of that old-fashioned place was mysterious and apprehensive. And yet its owner had succeeded in extricating him from that very perilous position at Monte Carlo!
Suddenly, as he stood there, he heard voices again. They were raised in discussion.
One voice he recognized as that of The Sparrow.
“Well, I tell you my view is still the same,” he exclaimed. “What you have told me does not alter it, however much you may ridicule me!”
“Then you know the truth–eh?”
“I really didn’t say so, my dear Howell. But I have my suspicions– strong suspicions.”
“Which you will, in due course, impart to young Henfrey, I suppose?”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “The lad is in serious peril. I happen to know that.”
“Then why don’t you warn him at once?”
“That’s my affair!” snapped the gentleman known in Mayfair as Mr. Peters.
“IF Henfrey is here, then I’d like to meet him,” Howell said.
It seemed as though the pair were in a room on the opposite side of the passage, and yet, though Hugh stood at some distance away, he could hear the words quite distinctly. At this he was much surprised. He did not, however, know that in that house in Ellerston Street there had been constructed a curious system of ventilation of the rooms by which a conversation taking place in a distant apartment could be heard in certain other rooms.
The fact was that The Sparrow received a good many queer visitors, and some of their whispered conversations while they awaited him were often full of interest.
The house was, in more than one way, a curiosity. It had a secret exit through a mews at the rear–now converted into a garage–and several other mysterious contrivances which were unsuspected by visitors.
“It would hardly do for him to know what we know, Mr. Peters–eh?” Hugh heard Howell say a moment later. It was the habit of The Sparrow’s accomplices to address their great director–the brain of criminal Europe–by the name under which they inquired for him. The Sparrow had twenty names–one for every city in which he had a cosy /pied-a-terre/. In Paris, Lisbon, Madrid, Marseilles, Vienna, Hamburg, Budapest, Stockholm and on the Riviera, he was, in all the cities, known by a different name. Yet each was so distinct, and each individuality so well kept up, that he snapped his fingers at the police and pitied them their red tape, ignorance, and lack of initiative.
Truly, Il Passero, the cosmopolitan of many names and half a dozen nationalities, had brought criminality to a fine art.
Hugh, standing there breathless, listened to every word. Who was this man Howell?
“Hush!” cried The Sparrow suddenly. “What a fool I am! I quite forgot to close the ventilator in the room to which the young fellow has been shown! I hope he hasn’t overheard! I had Evans and Janson in there an hour ago, and they were discussing me, as I expected they would! It was a good job that I took the precaution of opening the ventilator, because I learned a good deal that I had never suspected. It has placed me on my guard. I’ll go and get young Henfrey. But,” he added, “be extremely careful. Disclose nothing you know concerning the affair.”
“I shall be discreet, never fear,” replied his visitor.
A moment later The Sparrow entered the room where Henfrey was, and greeted him warmly. Then he ushered him down the passage to the room wherein stood his mysterious visitor.
The room was such a distance away that Hugh was surprised that he could have heard so distinctly. But, after all, it was an uncanny experience to be associated with that man of mystery, whose very name was uttered by his accomplices with bated breath.
“My friend, Mr. George Howell,” said The Sparrow, introducing the slim, wiry-looking, middle-aged man, who was alert and clean-shaven, and plainly but well dressed–a man whom the casual acquaintance would take to be a solicitor of a fair practice. He bore the stamp of suburbia all over him, and his accent was peculiarly that of London.
His bearing was that of high respectability. The diamond scarf-pin was his only ornament–a fine one, which sparkled even in that dull London light. He was a square-shouldered man, with peculiarly shrewd, rather narrow eyes, and dark, bushy eyebrows.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Henfrey,” he replied, with a gay, rather nonchalant air. “My friend Mr. Peters has been speaking about you. Had a rather anxious time, I hear.”
Henfrey looked at the stranger inquisitively, and then glanced at The Sparrow.
“Mr. Howell is quite safe,” declared the man with the gloved hand. “He is one of Us. So you may speak without fear.”
“Well,” replied the young man, “the fact is, I’ve had a very apprehensive time. I’m here to seek Mr. Peters’ kind advice, for without him I’m sure I’d have been arrested and perhaps convicted long ago.”
“Oh! A bit of bad luck–eh? Nearly found out, have you been? Ah! All of us have our narrow escapes. I’ve had many in my time,” and he grinned.
“So have all of us,” laughed the bristly-haired man. “But tell me, Henfrey, why have you come to see me so quickly?”
“Because they know where I’m in hiding!”
“They know? Who knows?”
“Miss Ranscomb knows my whereabouts and has written to me in my real name and addressed the letter to Shapley.”
“Well, what of that?” he asked. “I told her.”
“She tells me that my present hiding-place is known!”
“Not known to the police? /Impossible/!” gasped the black-gloved man.
“I take it that such is a fact.”
“Why, Molly is there!” cried the man Howell. “If the police suspect that Henfrey is at Shapley, then they’ll visit the place and have a decided haul.”
“Why?” asked Hugh in ignorance.
“Nothing. I never discuss other people’s private affairs, Mr. Henfrey,” Howell answered very quietly.
Hugh was surprised at the familiar mention of “Molly,” and the declaration that if the Manor were searched the police would have “a decided haul.”
“This is very interesting,” declared The Sparrow. “What did Miss Ranscomb say in her letter?”
For a second Hugh hesitated; then, drawing it from his pocket, he gave it to the gloved man to read.
Hugh knew that The Sparrow was withholding certain truths from him, yet had he not already proved himself his best and only friend? Brock was a good friend, but unable to assist him.
The Sparrow’s strongly marked face changed as he read Dorise’s angry letter.
“H’m!” he grunted. “I will see her. We must discover why she has sent you this warning. Come back again this evening. But be very careful where you go in the meantime.”
Thus dismissed, Hugh walked along Ellerston Street into Curzon Street towards Piccadilly, not knowing where to go to spend the intervening hours.
The instant he had gone, however, The Sparrow turned to his companion, who said:
“I wonder if Lisette has revealed anything?”
“By Jove!” remarked The Sparrow, for once suddenly perturbed. /”I never thought of that!”/
TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
CLOSING THE NET
“Well–recollect how much the girl knows!” Howell remarked as he stood before The Sparrow in the latter’s room.
“I have not forgotten,” said the other. “The whole circumstances of old Henfrey’s death are not known to me. That it was an unfortunate affair has long ago been proved.”
“Yvonne was the culprit, of course,” said Howell. “That was apparent from the first.”
“I suppose she was,” remarked The Sparrow reflectively. “But that attempt upon her life puzzles me.”
“Who could have greater motive in killing her out of revenge than the dead man’s son?”
“Agreed. But I am convinced that the lad is innocent. Therefore I gave him our protection.”
“I was travelling abroad at the time, you recollect. When I learnt of the affair through Franklyn about a week afterwards I was amazed. The loss of Yvonne to us is a serious one.”
“Very–I agree. She had done some excellent work–the affair in the Rue Royale, for instance.”
“And the clever ruse by which she got those emeralds of the Roumanian princess. The Vienna police are still searching for her–after three years,” laughed the companion of the chief of the international organization, whose word was law in the criminal underworld of Europe.
“Knowing what you did regarding the knowledge of old Mr. Henfrey’s death possessed by Lisette, I have been surprised that you placed her beneath your protection.”
“If she had been arrested she might have told some very unpleasant truths, in order to save herself,” The Sparrow remarked, “so I chose the latter evil.”
“Young Henfrey met her. I wonder whether she told him anything?”
“No. I questioned her. She was discreet, it seems. Or at least, she declares that she was.”
“That’s a good feature. But, speaking frankly, have you any idea of the identity of the person–man or woman–who attempted to kill Yvonne?” asked Howell.
“I have a suspicion–a pretty shrewd suspicion,” replied the little bristly-haired man.
His companion was silent.
“And you don’t offer to confide in me your suspicions–eh?”
“It is wiser to obtain proof before making any allegations,” answered The Sparrow, smiling.
“You will still protect Lisette?” Howell asked. “I agree that, like Yvonne, she has been of great use to us in many ways. Beauty and wit are always assets in our rather ticklish branch of commerce. Where is Lisette now?”
“At the moment, she’s in Madrid,” The Sparrow replied. “There is a little affair there–the jewels of a Belgian’s wife–a fellow who, successfully posing as a German during the occupation of Brussels, made a big fortune by profiteering in leather. They are in Madrid for six months, in order to escape unwelcome inquiries by the Government in Brussels. They have a villa just outside the city, and I have sent Lisette there with certain instructions.”
“Who is with her?”
“Nobody yet. Franklyn will go in due course.”
Howell’s thin lips relaxed into a curious smile.
“Franklyn is in love with Lisette,” he remarked.
“That is why I am sending them together to execute the little mission,” The Sparrow said. “Lisette was here a fortnight ago, and I mapped out for her a plan. I went myself to Madrid not long ago, in order to survey the situation.”
“The game is worth the candle, I suppose–eh?”
“Yes. If we get the lot Van Groot, in Amsterdam, will give at least fifteen thousand for them. Moulaert bought most of them from old Leplae in the Rue de la Paix. There are some beautiful rubies among them. I saw Madame wearing some of the jewels at the Palace Hotel, in Madrid, while they were staying there before their villa was ready. Moulaert, with his wife and two friends from the Belgian Legation, dined at a table next to mine, little dreaming with what purpose I ate my meal alone.”
Truly, the intuition and cleverness of The Sparrow were wonderful. He never moved without fully considering every phase of the consequences. Unlike most adventurers, he drank hardly anything. Half a glass of dry sherry at eleven in the morning, the same at luncheon, and one glass of claret for his dinner.
Yet often at restaurants he would order champagne, choice vintage clarets, and liqueurs–when occasion demanded. He would offer them to his friends, but just sip them himself, having previously arranged with the waiter to miss filling his glass.
Of the peril of drink “Mr. Peters” was constantly lecturing the great circle of his friends.
Each year–on the 26th of February to be exact–there was held a dinner at a well-known restaurant in the West End–the annual dinner of a club known as “The Wonder Wizards.” It was supposed to be a circle of professional conjurers.
This dinner was usually attended by fifty guests of both sexes, all well-dressed and prosperous, and of several nationalities. It was presided over by a Mr. Charles Williams.
Now, to tell the truth, the guests believed him to be The Sparrow; but in reality Mr. Williams was the tall White Cavalier whom Hugh had believed to be the great leader, until he had gone to Mayfair and met the impelling personality whom the police had for so long failed to arrest.
The situation was indeed humorous. It was The Sparrow’s fancy to hold the reunion at a public restaurant instead of at a private house. Under the very nose of Scotland Yard the deputy of the notorious Sparrow entertained the chiefs of the great criminal octopus. There were speeches, but from them the waiters learned nothing. It was simply a club of conjurers. None suspected that the guests were those who conjured fortunes out of the pockets of the unsuspecting. And while the chairman–believed by those who attended to be The Sparrow himself–sat there, the bristly-haired, rather insignificant-looking little man occupied a seat in a far-off corner, from where he scrutinized his guests very closely, and smiled at the excellent manner in which his deputy performed the duties of chairman.
Because it was a club of conjurers, and because the conjurers displayed their new tricks and illusions, after an excellent dinner the waiters were excluded and the doors locked after the coffee.
It was then that the bogus Sparrow addressed those present, and gave certain instructions which were later on carried into every corner of Europe. Each member had his speciality, and each group its district and its sanctuary, in case of a hue-and-cry. Every crime that could be committed was committed by them–everything save murder.
The tall, thin man whom everyone believed to be The Sparrow never failed to impress upon his hearers, after the doors were carefully locked, that however they might attack and rob the rich, human life was sacred.
It was the real Sparrow’s order. He abominated the thought of taking human life, hence when old Mr. Henfrey had been foully done to death in the West End he had at once set to work to discover the actual criminal. This he had failed to do. And afterwards there had followed the attempted assassination of Yvonne Ferad, known as Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo.
The two men stood discussing the young French girl, Lisette, whom Hugh had met when in hiding in the Via della Maddalena in Genoa.
“I only hope; that she has not told young Henfrey anything,” Howell said, with distinct apprehension.
“No,” laughed The Sparrow. “She came to me and told me how she had met him in Genoa and discovered to her amazement that he was old Henfrey’s son.”
“How curious that the pair should meet by accident,” remarked Howell. “I tell you that Benton is not playing a straight game. That iniquitous will which the old man left he surely must have signed under some misapprehension. Perhaps he thought he was applying for a life policy–or something of that short. Signatures to wills have been procured under many pretexts by scoundrelly relatives and unscrupulous lawyers.”
“I know. And the witnesses have placed their signatures afterward,” remarked The Sparrow thoughtfully. “But in this case all seems above board–at least so far as the will is concerned. Benton was old Henfrey’s bosom friend. Henfrey was very taken with Louise, and I know that he was desirous Hugh should marry her.”
“And if he did, Hugh would acquire the old man’s fortune, and Benton would step in and seize it–as is his intention.”
“Undoubtedly. All we can do is to keep Hugh and Louise apart. The latter is in entire ignorance of the true profession of her adopted father, and she’d be horrified if she knew that Molly was simply a clever adventuress, who is very much wanted in Paris and in Brussels,” said the gloved man.
“A good job that she knows nothing,” said Howell. “But it would be a revelation to her if the police descended upon Shapley Manor–wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. That is why I must see Dorise Ranscomb and ascertain from her exactly what she has heard. I know the police tracked Hugh to London, and for that reason he went with Benton down into Surrey–out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
“Well, before we can go farther, it seems that we should ascertain who shot Yvonne,” Howell suggested. “It was a most dastardly thing, and whoever did it ought to be punished.”
“He ought. But I’m as much in the dark as you are, Howell; but, as I have already said, I entertain strong suspicions.”
“I’ll suggest one name–Benton?”
The Sparrow shook his head.
“The manservant, Giulio Cataldi?” Howell ventured. “I never liked that sly old Italian.”
“What motive could the old fellow have had?”
“Robbery, probably. We have no idea what were Yvonne’s winnings that night–or of the money she had in her bag.”
“Yes, we do know,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “According to the police report, Yvonne, on her return home, went to her room, carrying her bag, which she placed upon her dressing-table. Then, after removing her cloak and hat, she went downstairs again and out on to the veranda. A few minutes later the young man was announced. High words were heard by old Cataldi, and then a shot.”
“And Yvonne’s bag?”
“It was found where she had left it. In it were three thousand eight hundred francs, all in notes.”
“Yet Franklyn told me that he had heard how Yvonne won quite a large sum that night.”
“She might have done so–and have lost the greater part of it,” The Sparrow replied.
“On the other hand, what more feasible than that the old manservant, watching her place it there, abstracted the bulk of the money–a large sum, no doubt–and afterwards, in order to conceal his crime, shot his mistress in such circumstances as to place the onus of the crime upon her midnight visitor?”
“That the affair was very cleverly planned there is no doubt,” said The Sparrow. “There is a distinct intention to fasten the guilt upon young Henfrey, because he alone would have a motive for revenge for the death of his father. Of that fact the man or woman who fired the shot was most certainly aware. How could Cataldi have known of it?”
“I certainly believe the Italian robbed his mistress and afterwards attempted to murder her,” Howell insisted.
“He might rob his mistress, certainly. He might even have robbed her of considerable sums systematically,” The Sparrow assented. “The maids told the police that Mademoiselle’s habit was to leave her bag with her winnings upon the dressing-table while she went downstairs and took a glass of wine.”
“Exactly. She did so every evening. Her habits were regular. Yet she never knew the extent of her winnings at the tables before she counted them. And she never did so until the following morning. That is what Franklyn told me in Venice when we met a month afterwards.”
“He learnt that from me,” The Sparrow said with a smile. “No,” he went on; “though old Cataldi could well have robbed his mistress, just as the maids could have done, and Yvonne would have been none the wiser, yet I do not think he would attempt to conceal his crime by shooting her, because by so doing he cut off all future supplies. If he were a thief he would not be such a fool. Therefore you may rest assured, Howell, that the hand that fired the shot was that of some person who desired to close Yvonne’s mouth.”
“She might have held some secret concerning old Cataldi. Or, on his part, he might have cherished some grievance against her. Italians are usually very vindictive,” replied the visitor. “On the other hand, it would be to Benton’s advantage that the truth concerning old Henfrey’s death was suppressed. Yvonne was about to tell the young man something –perhaps confess the truth, who knows?–when the shot was fired.”
“Well, my dear Howell, you have your opinion and I have mine,” laughed The Sparrow. “The latter I shall keep to myself–until my theory is disproved.”
Thereupon Howell took a cigar that his host offered him, and while he slowly lit it, The Sparrow crossed to the telephone.
He quickly found Lady Ranscomb’s number in the directory, and a few moments later was talking to the butler, of whom he inquired for Miss Dorise.
“Tell her,” he added, “that a friend of Mr. Henfrey’s wishes to speak to her.”
In a few moments The Sparrow heard the girl’s voice.
“Yes?” she inquired. “Who is speaking?”
“A friend of Mr. Henfrey,” was the reply of the man with the gloved hand. “You will probably guess who it is.”
He heard a little nervous laugh, and then:
“Oh, yes. I–I have an idea, but I can’t talk to you over the ‘phone. I’ve got somebody who’s just called. Mother is out–and—-” Then she lowered her voice, evidently not desirous of being heard in the adjoining room. “Well, I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean? Does it concern Mr. Henfrey?”
“Yes. It does. There’s a man here to see me from Scotland Yard! What shall I do?”
The Sparrow gasped at the girl’s announcement.
Next second he recovered himself.
“A man from Scotland Yard!” he echoed. “Why has he called?”
“He knows that Mr. Henfrey is living at Shapley, in Surrey. And he has been asking whether I am acquainted with you.”
TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
WHAT LISETTE KNEW
A fortnight had gone by.
Ten o’clock in the morning in the Puerta del Sol, that great plaza in Madrid–the fine square which, like the similarly-named gates at Toledo and Segovia, commands a view of the rising sun, as does the ancient Temple of Abu Simbel on the Nile.
Hugh Henfrey–a smart, lithe figure in blue serge–had been lounging for ten minutes before the long facade of the Ministerio de la Gobernacion (or Ministry of the Interior) smoking a cigarette and looking eagerly across the great square. The two soldiers on sentry at the door, suspicious of all foreigners in the days of Bolshevism and revolution, had eyed him narrowly. But he appeared to be inoffensive, so they had passed him by as a harmless lounger.
Five minutes later a smartly-dressed girl, with short skirt, silk stockings, and a pretty hat, came along the pavement, and Hugh sprang forward to greet her.
It was Lisette, the girl whom he had met when in hiding in that back street in Genoa.
“Well?” he exclaimed. “So here we are! The Sparrow sent me to you.”
“Yes. I had a telegram from him four days ago ordering me to meet you. Strange things are happening–it seems!”
“How?” asked the young Englishman, in ignorance of the great conspiracy or of what was taking place. “Since I saw you last, mademoiselle, I have been moving about rapidly, and always in danger of arrest.”
“So have I. But I am here at The Sparrow’s orders–on a little business which I hope to bring off successfully on any evening. I have an English friend with me–a Mr. Franklyn.”
“I left London suddenly. I saw The Sparrow in the evening, and next morning, at eleven o’clock, without even a bag, I left London for Madrid with a very useful passport.”
“You are here because Madrid is safer for you than London, I suppose?” said the girl in broken English.
“That is so. A certain Mr. Howell, a friend of The Sparrow’s suggested that I should come here,” Hugh explained. “Ever since we met in Italy I have been in close hiding until, by some means, my whereabouts became known, and I had to fly.”
The smartly-dressed girl walked slowly at his side and, for some moments, remained silent.
“Ah! So you have met Hamilton Shaw–alias Howell?” she remarked at last in a changed voice. “He certainly is not your friend.”
“Not my friend! Why? I’ve only met him lately.”
“You say that the police knew of your hiding-place,” said mademoiselle, speaking in French, as it was easier for her. “Would you be surprised if Howell had revealed your secret?”
“Howell!” gasped Hugh. “Yes, I certainly would. He is a close friend of The Sparrow!”
“That may be. But that does not prove that he is any friend of yours. If you came here at Howell’s suggestion–then, Mr. Henfrey, I should advise you to leave Madrid at once. I say this because I have a suspicion that he intends both of us to fall into a trap!”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“I can give you no explanation,” said the girl. “Now I know that Hamilton Shaw sent you here, I can, I think, discern his motive. I myself will see Mr. Franklyn at once, and shall leave Madrid as soon as possible. And I advise you, Mr. Henfrey, to do the same.”
“Surely you don’t suspect that it was this Mr. Howell who gave me away to Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Hugh, surprised, but at the same time recollecting that The Sparrow had been alarmed at the detective’s visit to Dorise. He knew that Benton and Mrs. Bond had suddenly disappeared from Shapley, but the reason he could only guess. He had, of course, no proof that Benton and Molly were members of the great criminal organization. He only knew that Benton had been his late father’s closest friend.
He discussed the situation with the girl jewel-thief as they walked along the busy Carrera de San Jeronimo wherein are the best shops in Madrid, to the great Plaza de Canovas in the leafy Prado.
Again he tried to extract from her what she knew concerning his father’s death. But she would tell him nothing.
“I am not permitted to say anything, Mr. Henfrey. I can only regret it,” she said quietly. “Mr. Franklyn is at the Ritz opposite. I should like you to meet him.”
And she took him across to the elegant hotel opposite the Neptune fountain, where, in a private sitting-room on the second floor, she introduced him to a rather elderly, aristocratic-looking Englishman, whom none would take to be one of the most expert jewel-thieves in Europe.
When the door was closed and they were alone, mademoiselle suddenly revealed to her friend what Hugh had said concerning Howell’s suggestion that he should travel to Madrid.
Franklyn’s face changed. He was instantly apprehensive.
“Then we certainly are not safe here any longer. Howell probably intends to play us false! We shall know from The Sparrow the reason we are here, and, for aught we know, the police are watching and will arrest us red-handed. No,” he added, “we must leave this place–all three of us–as soon as possible. You, Lisette, had better go to Paris and explain matters to The Sparrow, while I shall fade away to Switzerland. And you, Mr. Henfrey? Where will you go?”
“To France,” was Hugh’s reply, on the spur of the moment. “I can get to Marseilles.”
“Yes. Go by way of Barcelona. It is quickest,” said the Englishman. “The express leaves just after three o’clock.”
Then, after he had thanked Hugh for his timely warning, the latter walked out more than ever mystified at the attitude of The Sparrow’s accomplices.
It did not seem possible that Howell should have told Scotland Yard that he was hiding at Shapley; yet it was quite evident that both mademoiselle and her companion were equally in fear of the man Howell, whose real name was Hamilton Shaw. The theory seemed to him a thin one, for Howell was The Sparrow’s intimate friend.
Yet, mademoiselle, while they had been discussing the situation, had denounced him as their enemy, declaring that The Sparrow himself should be warned of him.
That afternoon Hugh, having only been in Madrid twelve hours, left again on the long, dusty railway journey across Spain to Zaragoza and down the valley of the Ebro to the Mediterranean. After crossing the French frontier, he broke the journey at the old-world town of Nimes for a couple of days, and then went on to Marseilles, where he took up his quarters in the big Louvre et Paix Hotel, still utterly mystified, and still not daring to write to Dorise.
It was as well that he left Madrid, for, just as Lisette and Franklyn had suspected, the police called at his hotel–an obscure one near the station–only two hours after his departure. Then, finding him gone, they sought both mademoiselle and Franklyn, only to find that they also had fled.
/Someone had given away their secret!/
On arrival at Marseilles in the evening Hugh ate his dinner alone in the hotel, and then strolled up the well-lit Cannebiere, with its many smart shops and gay cafes–that street which, to many thousands on their way to the Near or Far East, is their last glimpse of European life. He was entirely at a loose end.
Unnoticed behind him there walked an undersized little Frenchman, an alert, business-like man of about forty-five, who had awaited him outside his hotel, and who leisurely followed him up the broad, main street of that busy city.
He was well-dressed, possessing a pair of shrewd, searching eyes, and a moustache carefully trimmed. His appearance was that of a prosperous French tradesman–one of thousands one meets in the city of Marseilles.
As Hugh idled along, gazing into some of the shop windows as he lazily smoked his cigarette, the under-sized stranger kept very careful watch upon his movements. He evidently intended that he should not escape observation. Hugh paused at a tobacconist’s and bought some stamps, but as he came out of the shop, the watcher drew back suddenly and in such a manner as to reveal to anyone who might have observed him that he was no tyro in the art of surveillance.
Walking a little farther along, Hugh came to the corner of the broad Rue de Rome, where he entered a crowded cafe in which an orchestra was playing.
He had taken a corner seat in the window, had ordered his coffee, and was glancing at the /Petit Parisien/, which he had taken from his pocket, when another man entered, gazed around in search of a seat and, noticing one at Hugh’s table, crossed, lifted his hat, and took the vacant chair.
He was the stranger who had followed him from the Louvre et Paix.
The young Englishman, all unsuspecting, glanced at the newcomer, and then resumed his paper, while the keen-eyed little man took a long, thin cigar which the waiter brought, lit it carefully, and sipped his coffee, his interest apparently centred in the music.
Suddenly a tall, dark-haired woman, who had been sitting near by with a man who seemed to be her husband, rose and left. A moment before she had exchanged glances with the watcher, who, apparently at her bidding, rose and followed her.
All this seemed quite unnoticed by Hugh, immersed as he was in his newspaper.
Outside the man and woman met. They held hurried consultation. The woman told him something which evidently caused him sudden surprise.
“I will call on you at eleven to-morrow morning, madame,” he said.
“No. I will meet you at the Reserve. I will lunch there at twelve. You will lunch with me?”
“Very well,” he answered. “/Au revoir/,” and he returned to his seat in the cafe, while she disappeared without returning to her companion.
The mysterious watcher resumed his coffee, for he had only been absent for a few moments, and the waiter had not cleared it away.
Hugh took out his cigarette-case and, suddenly finding himself without a match, made the opportunity for which the mysterious stranger had been waiting.
He struck one and handed it to his /vis-a-vis/, bowing with his foreign grace.
Then they naturally dropped into conversation.
“Ah! m’sieur is English!” exclaimed the shrewd-eyed little man. “Here, in Marseilles, we have many English who pass to and fro from the boats. I suppose, m’sieur is going East?” he suggested affably.
“No,” replied Hugh, speaking in French, “I have some business here– that is all.” He was highly suspicious of all strangers, and the more so of anyone who endeavoured to get into conversation with him.
“You know Marseilles–of course?” asked the stranger, sharply scrutinizing him.
“I have been here several times before. I find the city always gay and bright.”
“Not so bright as before the war,” declared the little man, smoking at his ease. “There have been many changes lately.”
Hugh Henfrey could not make the fellow out. Yet many times before he had been addressed by strangers who seemed to question him out of curiosity, and for no apparent reason. This man was one of them, no doubt.
The man, who had accompanied the woman whom the stranger had followed out, rose, exchanged a significant glance with the little man, and walked out. That the three were in accord seemed quite apparent, though Hugh was still unsuspicious.
He chatted merrily with the stranger for nearly half an hour, and then rose and left the cafe. When quite close to the hotel the stranger overtook him, and halting, asked in a low voice, in very good English:
“I believe you are Mr. Henfrey–are you not?”
“Why do you ask that?” inquired Hugh, much surprised. “My name is Jordan–William Jordan.”
“Yes,” laughed the man. “That is, I know, the name you have given at the hotel. But your real name is Henfrey.”
Hugh started. The stranger, noticing his alarm, hastened to reassure him.
TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
FRIEND OR ENEMY?
“You need not worry,” said the stranger to Hugh. “I am not your enemy, but a friend. I warn you that Marseilles is unsafe for you. Get away as soon as possible. The Spanish police have learnt that you have come here,” he went on as he strolled at his side.
Hugh was amazed.
“How did you know my identity?” he asked eagerly.
“I was instructed to watch for your arrival–and to warn you.”
“Who instructed you?”
“A friend of yours–and mine–The Sparrow.”
“Has he been here?”
“No. He spoke to me on the telephone from Paris.”
“What were his instructions?”
“That you were to go at once–to-night–by car to the Hotel de Paris, at Cette. A car and driver awaits you at the Garage Beauvau, in the Rue Beauvau. I have arranged everything at The Sparrow’s orders. You are one of Us, I understand,” and the man laughed lightly.
“But my bag?” exclaimed Hugh.
“Go to the hotel, pay your bill, and take your bag to the station cloak-room. Then go and get the car, pick up your bag, and get out on the road to Cette as soon as ever you can. Your driver will ask no questions, and will remain silent. He has his orders from The Sparrow.”
“Does The Sparrow ever come to Marseilles?” Hugh asked.
“Yes, sometimes–when anything really big brings him here. I have, however, only seen him once, five years ago. He was at your hotel, and the police were so hot upon his track that only by dint of great promptitude and courage he escaped by getting out of the window of his room and descending by means of the rain-water pipe. It was one of the narrowest escapes he has ever had.”
As the words left the man’s mouth, they were passing a well-lit brasserie. A tall, cadaverous man passed them and Hugh had a suspicion that they exchanged glances of recognition.
Was his pretended friend an agent of the police?
For a few seconds he debated within himself how he should act. To refuse to do as he was bid might be to bring instant arrest upon himself. If the stranger were actually a detective–which he certainly did not appear to be–then the ruse was to get him on the road to Cette because the legal formalities were not yet complete for his arrest as a British subject.
Yet he knew all about The Sparrow, and his attitude was not in the least hostile.
Hugh could not make up his mind whether the stranger was an associate of the famous Sparrow, or whether he was very cleverly inveigling him into the net.
It was only that exchange of glances with the passer-by which had aroused Hugh’s suspicions.
But that significant look caused him to hesitate to accept the mysterious stranger as his friend.
True, he had accepted as friends numbers of other unknown persons since that fateful night at Monte Carlo. Yet in this case, he felt, by intuition, that all was not plain sailing.
“Very well,” he said, at last. “I esteem it a very great favour that you should have interested yourself on behalf of one who is an entire stranger to you, and I heartily thank you for warning me of my danger. When I see The Sparrow I shall tell him how cleverly you approached me, and how perfect were your arrangements for my escape.”
“I require no thanks or reward, Mr. Henfrey,” replied the man politely. “My one desire is to get you safely out of Marseilles.”
And with that the stranger lifted his hat and left him.
Hugh went about fifty yards farther along the broad, well-lit street full of life and movement, for the main streets of Marseilles are alive both day and night.
By some intuition–why, he knew not–he suspected that affable little man who had posed as his friend. Was it possible that, believing the notorious Sparrow to be his friend, he had at haphazard invented the story, and posed as one of The Sparrow’s gang?
If so, it was certainly a very clever and ingenious subterfuge.
He was undecided how to act. He did not wish to give offence to his friend, the king of the underworld, and yet he felt a distinct suspicion of the man who had so cleverly approached him, and who had openly declared himself to be a crook.
That strange glance he had exchanged with the passer-by beneath the rays of the street-lamp had been mysterious and significant. If the passer-by had been a crook, like himself, the sign of recognition would be one of salutation. But the expression upon his alleged friend’s face was one of triumph. That made all the difference, and to Hugh, with his observation quickened as it had been in those months of living with daily dread of arrest, it had caused him to be seized with strong and distinct suspicions.
He felt in his hip pocket and found that his revolver, an American Smith-Wesson, was there. He had a dislike of automatic pistols, as he had once had a very narrow escape. He had been teaching a girl to shoot with a revolver, when, believing that she had discharged the whole magazine, he was examining the weapon and pulled the trigger, narrowly escaping shooting her dead.
For a few seconds he stood upon the broad pavement. Then he drew out his cigarette-case. In it were four cigarettes, two of which The Sparrow had given him when in London.
“Yes,” he muttered to himself. “Somebody must have given me away at Shapley, and now they have followed me! I will act for myself, and take the risks.”
Then he walked boldly on, crossed the road, and entered the big Hotel de Louvre et Paix. To appear unconcerned he had a drink at the bar, and ascending in the lift, called the floor-waiter, asked for his bill, and packed his bag.
“Ah!” he said to himself. “If I could only get to know where The Sparrow is and ask him the truth! He may be at that address in Paris which he gave me.”
After a little delay the bill was brought and he paid it. Then in a taxi he drove to the station where he deposited his bag in the cloak- room.
Close by the /consigne/ a woman was standing. He glanced at her, when, to his surprise, he saw that she was the same woman who had been sitting in the cafe with a male companion.
Was she, he wondered, in league with his so-called friend? And if so, what was intended.
Sight of that woman lounging there, however, decided him. She was, no doubt, awaiting his coming.
He walked out of the great railway terminus, and, inquiring the way to the Rue Beauvau, soon found the garage where a powerful open car was awaiting him in the roadway outside.
A smart driver in a dark overcoat came forward, and apparently recognizing Hugh from a description that had been given to him, touched his cap, and asked in French:
“Where does m’sieur wish to go?”
“To the station to fetch my coat and bag,” replied the young Englishman, peering into the driver’s face. He was a clean-shaven man of about forty, broad-shouldered and stalwart. Was it possible that the car had been hired by the police, and the driver was himself a police agent?
“Very well, m’sieur,” the man answered politely. And Hugh having entered, he drove up the Boulevard de la Liberte to the Gare St. Charles.
As he approached the /consigne/, he looked along the platform, and there, sure enough, was the same woman on the watch, though she pretended to be without the slightest interest in his movements.
Hugh put on his coat, and, carrying his bag, placed it in the car.
“You have your orders?” asked Hugh.
“Yes, m’sieur. We are to go to Cette with all speed. Is not that so?”
“Yes,” was Hugh’s reply. “I will come up beside you. I prefer it. We shall have a long, dark ride to-night.”
“Ah! but the roads are good,” was the man’s reply. “I came from Cette yesterday,” he added, as he mounted to his seat and the passenger got up beside him.
Hugh sat there very thoughtful as the car sped out of the city of noise and bustle. The man’s remark that he had come from Cette on the previous day gave colour to the idea that no net had been spread, but that the stranger was acting at the orders of the ubiquitous Sparrow. Indeed, were it not for the strange glance the undersized little man had given to the passer-by, he would have been convinced that he was actually once again under the protection of the all-powerful ruler of the criminal underworld.
As it was, he remained suspicious. He did not like that woman who had watched so patiently his coming and going at the station.
With strong headlights glaring–for the night was extremely dark and a strong wind was blowing–they were soon out on the broad highway which leads first across the plain and then beside the sea, and again across the lowlands to old-world Arles.
It was midnight before they got to the village of Lancon, an obscure little place in total darkness.
But on the way the driver, who had told Hugh that his name was Henri Aramon, and who insinuated that he was one of The Sparrow’s associates, became most affable and talkative. Over those miles of dark roads, unfamiliar to Hugh, they travelled at high speed, for Henri had from the first showed himself to be an expert driver, not only in the unceasing traffic of the main streets of Marseilles, but also on the dark, much-worn roads leading out of the city. The roads around Marseilles have never been outstanding for their excellence, and after the war they were indeed execrable.
“This is Lancon,” the driver remarked, as they sped through the dark little town. “We now go on to Salon, where we have a direct road across the plain they call the Crau into Arles. From there the road to Cette is quite good and straight. The road we are now on is the worst,” he added.
Hugh was undecided. Was the man who was driving him so rapidly out of the danger zone his friend–or his enemy?
He sat there for over an hour unable to decide.
“This is an outlandish part of France,” he remarked to the driver presently.
“Yes. But after Salon it is more desolate.”
“And is there no railway near?”
“After Salon, yes. It runs parallel with the road about two miles to the north–the railway between Arles and Aix-en-Provence.”
“So if we get a breakdown, which I hope we shall not, we are not far from a railway?” Hugh remarked, as through the night the heavy car tore along that open desolate road.
As he sat there he thought of Dorise, wondering what had happened–and of Louise. If he had obeyed his father’s wishes and married the latter all the trouble would have been avoided, he thought. Yet he loved Dorise–loved her with his whole soul.
And she doubted him.
Poor fellow! Hustled from pillar to post, and compelled to resort to every ruse in order to avoid arrest for a crime which he did not commit, yet about which he could not establish his innocence, he very often despaired. At that moment he felt somehow–how he could not explain–that he was in a very tight corner. He felt confident after two hours of reflection that he was being driven over these roads that night in order that the police should gain time to execute some legal formality for his arrest.
Why had not the police of Marseilles arrested him? There was some subtle motive for sending him to Cette.
He had not had time to send a telegram to Mr. Peters in London, or to Monsieur Gautier, the name by which The Sparrow told him he was known at his flat in the Rue des Petits Champs, in the centre of Paris. He longed to be able to communicate with his all-powerful friend, but there had been no opportunity.
Suddenly the car began to pass through banks of mist, which are usual at night over the low marshes around the mouths of the Rhone. It was about half-past two in the morning. They had passed through the long dark streets of Salon, and were already five or six miles on the broad straight road which runs across the marshes through St. Martin-de-Crau into Arles.
Of a sudden Hugh declared that he must have a cigarette, and producing his case handed one to the driver and took one himself. Then he lit the man’s, and afterwards his own.
“It is cold here on the marshes, monsieur,” remarked the driver, his cigarette between his lips. “This mist, too, is puzzling. But it is nearly always like this at night. That is why nobody lives about here.”
“Is it quite deserted?”
“Yes, except for a few shepherds, and they live up north at the foot of the hills.”
For some ten minutes or so they kept on, but Hugh had suddenly become very watchful of the driver.
Presently the man exclaimed in French:
“I do not feel very well!”
“What is the matter?” asked Hugh in alarm. “You must not be taken ill here–so far from anywhere!”
But the man was evidently unwell, for he pulled up the car.
“Oh! my head!” he cried, putting both hands to his brow as the cigarette dropped from his lips. “My head! It seems as if it will burst! And–and I can’t see! Everything is going round–round! Where– /where am I/?”
“You are all right, my friend. Get into the back of the car and rest. You will be yourself very quickly.”
And he half dragged the man from his seat and placed him in the back of the car, where he fell inert and unconscious.
The cigarette which The Sparrow had given to Hugh only to be used in case of urgent necessity had certainly done its work. The man, whether friend or enemy, would now remain unconscious for many hours.
Hugh, having settled him in the bottom of the car, placed a rug over him. Then, mounting to the driver’s place, he turned the car and drove as rapidly as he dared back over the roads to Salon.
Time after time, he wondered whether he had been misled; whether, after all, the man who had driven him was actually acting under The Sparrow’s orders. If so, then he had committed a fatal error!
However, the die was cast. He had acted upon his own initiative, and if a net had actually been spread to catch him he had successfully broken through it. He laughed as he thought of the police at Cette awaiting his arrival, and their consternation when hour after hour passed without news of the car from Marseilles.
At Salon he passed half way through the town to cross roads where he had noticed in passing a sign-board which indicated the road to Avignon–the broad high road from Marseilles to Paris.
Already he had made up his mind how to act. He would get to Avignon, and thence by express to Paris. The /rapides/ from Marseilles and the Riviera all stopped at the ancient city of the Popes.
Therefore, being a good motor driver, Hugh started away down the long road which led through the valley to Orgon, and thence direct to Avignon, which came into sight about seven o’clock in the morning.
Before entering the old city of walls and castles Hugh turned into a side road about two miles distant, drove the car to the end, and opening a gate succeeded in getting it some little distance into a wood, where it was well concealed from anyone passing along the road.
Then, descending and ascertaining that the driver was sleeping comfortably from the effects of the strong narcotic, he took his bag and walked into the town.
At the railway station he found the through express from Ventimiglia– the Italian frontier–to Paris would be due in twenty minutes, therefore he purchased a first-class ticket for Paris, and in a short time was taking his morning coffee in the /wagon-restaurant/ on his way to the French capital.
TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
THE MAN CATALDI
On the day that Hugh was travelling in hot haste to Paris, Charles Benton arrived in Nice early in the afternoon.
Leaving the station it was apparent he knew his way about the town, for passing down the Avenue de la Gare, with its row of high eucalyptus trees, to the Place Massena, he plunged into the narrow, rather evil-smelling streets of the old quarter.
Before a house in the Rue Rossette he paused, and ascending to a flat on the third floor, rang the bell. The door was slowly opened by an elderly, rather shabbily-attired Italian.
It was Yvonne’s late servant at the Villa Amette, Giulio Cataldi.
The old man drew back on recognizing his visitor.
“Well, Cataldi!” exclaimed the well-dressed adventurer cheerily. “I’m quite a stranger–am I not? I was in Nice, and I could not leave without calling to see you.”
The old man, with ill-grace scarcely concealed, invited him into his shabby room, saying:
“Well, Signor Benton, I never thought to see you again.”
“Perhaps you didn’t want to–eh? After that little affair in Brussels. But I assure you it was not my fault. Mademoiselle Yvonne made the blunder.”
“And nearly let us all into the hands of the police–including The Sparrow himself!” growled the old fellow.
“Ah! But all that has long blown over. Now,” he went on, after he had offered the old man a cigar. “Now the real reason I’ve called is to ask you about this nasty affair concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne. You were there that night. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” the old fellow declared promptly. “Since that night I’ve earned an honest living. I’m a waiter in a cafe in the Avenue de la Gare.”
“A most excellent decision,” laughed the well-dressed man. “It is not everyone who can afford to be honest in these hard times. I wish I could be, but I find it impossible. Now, tell me, Giulio, what do you know about the affair at the Villa Amette? The boy, Henfrey, went there to demand of Mademoiselle how his father died. She refused to tell him, angry words arose–and he shot her. Now, isn’t that your theory–the same as that held by the police?”
The old man looked straight into his visitor’s face for a few moments. Then he replied quite calmly:
“I know nothing, Signor Benton–and I don’t want to know anything. I’ve told the police all I know. Indeed, when they began to inquire into my antecedents I was not very reassured, I can tell you.”
“I should think not,” laughed Benton. “Still, they never suspected you to be the man wanted for the Morel affair–an unfortunate matter that was.”
“Yes,” sighed the old fellow. “Please do not mention it,” and he turned away to the window as though to conceal his guilty countenance.
“You mean that you /know/ something–but you won’t tell it!” Benton said.
“I know nothing,” was the old fellow’s stubborn reply.
“But you know that the young fellow, Henfrey, is guilty!” exclaimed Benton. “Come! you were there at the time! You heard high words between them–didn’t you?”
“I have already made my statement to the police,” declared the old Italian. “What else I know I shall keep to myself.”
“But I’m interested in ascertaining whether Henfrey is innocent or guilty. Only two persons can tell us that–Mademoiselle, who is, alas! in a hopeless mental state, and yourself. You know–but you refuse to incriminate the guilty person. Why don’t you tell the truth? You know that Henfrey shot her!”
“I tell you I know nothing,” retorted the old man. “Why do you come here and disturb me?” he added peevishly.
“Because I want to know the truth,” Benton answered. “And I mean to!”
“Go away!” snapped the wilful old fellow. “I’ve done with you all–all the crowd of you!”
“Ah!” laughed Benton. “Then you forget the little matter of the man Morel–eh? That is not forgotten by the police, remember!”
“And if you said a word to them, Signor Benton, then you would implicate yourself,” the old man growled. Seeing hostility in the Englishman’s attitude he instantly resented it.
“Probably. But as I have no intention of giving you away, my dear Giulio, I do not think we need discuss it. What I am anxious to do is to establish the guilt–or the innocence–of Hugh Henfrey,” he went on.
“No doubt. You have reason for establishing his guilt–eh?”
“No. Reasons for establishing his innocence.”
“For your own ends, Signor Benton,” was the shrewd old man’s reply.
“At one time there was a suspicion that you yourself had fired at Mademoiselle.”
“What!” gasped the old man, his countenance changing instantly. “Who says that?” he asked angrily.
“The police were suspicious, I believe. And as far as I can gather they are not yet altogether satisfied.”
“Ah!” growled the old Italian in a changed voice. “They will have to prove it!”
“Well, they declare that the shot was fired by either one or the other of you,” Benton said, much surprised at the curious effect the allegation had upon the old fellow.
“So they think that if the Signorino Henfrey is innocent I am guilty of the murderous attack–eh?”
Benton nodded.
“But they are seeking to arrest the signorino!” remarked the Italian.
“Yes. That is why I am here–to establish his innocence.”
“And if I were to tell you that he was innocent I should condemn myself!” laughed the crafty old man.
“Look here, Giulio,” said Benton. “I confess that I have long ago regretted the shabby manner in which I treated you when we were all in Brussels, and I hope you will allow me to make some little amend.” Then, taking from his pocket-book several hundred-franc notes, he doubled them up and placed them on the table.
“Ah!” said the old man. “I see! You want to /buy/ my secret! No, take your money!” he cried, pushing it back towards him contemptuously. “I want none of it.”
“Because you are now earning an honest living,” Benton sneered.
“Yes–and Il Passero knows it!” was Cataldi’s bold reply.
“Then you refuse to tell me anything you know concerning the events of that night at the Villa Amette?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “Take your money, and leave me in peace!”
“And I have come all the way from England to see you,” remarked the disappointed man.
“Be extremely careful. You have enemies, so have I. They are the same as those who denounced the signorino to the police–as they will no doubt, before long, denounce you!” said the old man.
“Bah! You always were a pessimist, Giulio,” Benton laughed. “I do not fear any enemies–I assure you. The Sparrow takes good care that we are prevented from falling into any traps the police may set,” he added after a moment’s pause.
The old waiter shook his head dubiously.
“One day there may be a slip–and it will cost you all very dearly,” he said.
“You are in a bad mood, Giulio–like all those who exist by being honest,” Benton laughed, though he was extremely annoyed at his failure to learn anything from the old fellow.
Was it possible that the suspicions which both Molly and he had entertained were true–namely, that the old man had attempted to kill his mistress? After all, the hue-and-cry had been raised by the police merely because Hugh Henfrey had fled and successfully escaped.
Benton, after grumbling because the old man would make no statement, and again hinting at the fact that he might be the culprit, left with very ill grace, his long journey from London having been in vain.
If Henfrey was to be free to marry Louise, then his innocence must first be proved. Charles Benton had for many weeks realized that his chance of securing old Mr. Henfrey’s great fortune was slowly slipping from him. Once Hugh had married Louise and settled the money upon her, then the rest would be easy. He had many times discussed it with Molly, and they were both agreed upon a vile, despicable plot which would result in the young man’s sudden end and the diversion of his father’s fortune.
The whole plot against old Mr. Henfrey was truly one of the most elaborate and amazing ones ever conceived by criminal minds.
Charles Benton was a little too well known in Nice, hence he took care to leave the place by an early train, and went on to Cannes, where he was a little less known. As an international crook he had spent several seasons at Nice and Monte Carlo, but had seldom gone to Cannes, as it was too aristocratic and too slow for an /escroc/ like himself.
Arrived at Cannes he put up at the Hotel Beau Site, and that night ate an expensive dinner in the restaurant at the Casino. Then, next day, he took the /train-de-luxe/ direct for Calais, and went on to London, all unconscious of the sensational events which were then happening.
On arrival in London he found a telegram lying upon his table among some letters. It was signed “Shaw,” and urged him to meet him “at the usual place” at seven o’clock in the evening. “I know you are away, but I’ll look in each night at seven,” it concluded.
It was just six o’clock, therefore Benton washed and changed, and just before seven o’clock entered a little cafe off Wardour Street, patronized mostly by foreigners. At one of the tables, sitting alone, was a wiry-looking, middle-aged man–Mr. Howell, The Sparrow’s friend.
“Well?” asked Howell, when a few minutes later they were walking along Wardour Street together. “How did you get on in Nice?”
“Had my journey for nothing.”
“Wouldn’t the old man tell anything?” asked Howell eagerly.
“Not a word,” Benton replied. “But my firm opinion is that he himself tried to kill Yvonne–that he shot her.”
“Do you really agree with me?” gasped Howell excitedly. “Of course, there has, all along, been a certain amount of suspicion against him. The police were once on the point of arresting him. I happen to know that.”
“Well, my belief is that young Henfrey is innocent. I never thought so until now.”
“Then we must prove Cataldi guilty, and Henfrey can marry Louise,” Howell said. “But the reason I wanted to get in touch with you is that the police went to Shapley.”
“To Shapley!” gasped Benton.
“Yes. They went there the night you left London. Evidently somebody has given you away!”
“Given me away! Who in the devil’s name can it be? If I get to know who the traitor is I–I’ll–by gad, I’ll kill him. I swear I will!”
“Who knows? Some secret enemy of yours–no doubt. Molly has been arrested and has been up at Bow Street. They also arrested Louise, but there being no charge against her, she has been released. I’ve sent her up to Cambridge–to old Mrs. Curtis. I thought she’d be quite quiet and safe there for a time.”
“But Molly arrested! What’s the charge?”
“Theft. An extradition warrant from Paris. That jeweller’s affair in the Rue St. Honore, eighteen months ago.”
“Well, I hope they won’t bring forward other charges, or it will go infernally bad with her. What has The Sparrow done?”
“He’s abroad somewhere–but I’ve had five hundred pounds from an unknown source to pay for her defence. I saw the solicitors. Brigthorne, the well-known barrister, appeared for her.”
“But all this is very serious, my dear Howell,” Benton declared, much alarmed.
“Of course it is. You can’t marry the girl to young Henfrey until he is proved innocent, and that cannot be until the guilt is fixed upon the crafty old Giulio.”
“Exactly. That’s what we must do. But with Molly arrested we shall be compelled to be very careful,” said Benton, as they turned toward Piccadilly Circus. “I don’t see how we dare move until Molly is either free or convicted. If she knew our game she might give us away. Remember that if we bring off the Henfrey affair Molly has to have a share in the spoils. But if she happens to be in a French prison she won’t get much chance–eh?”
“If she goes it will be ten years, without a doubt,” Howell remarked.
“Yes. And in the meantime much can happen–eh?” laughed Benton.
“Lots. But one reassuring fact is that, as far as old Henfrey’s fate is concerned, Mademoiselle’s lips are closed. Whoever shot her did us a very good turn.”
“Of course. But I agree we must fix the guilt upon old Cataldi. He almost as good as admitted it by his face when I taxed him with it. Why not give him away to the Nice police?”
“No, not yet. Certainly not,” exclaimed Howell.
“It’s a pity The Sparrow does not know about the Henfrey business. He might help us. Dare we tell him? What do you think?”
“Tell him! Good Heavens! No! Surely you are fully aware how he always sets his face against any attempt upon human life, and no one who has taken life has ever had his forgiveness,” said Howell. “The Sparrow is our master–a fine and marvellous mind which has no equal in Europe. If he had gone into politics he could have been the greatest statesman of the age. But he is Il Passero, the man who directs affairs of every kind, and the man at the helm of every great enterprise. Yet his one fixed motto is that life shall not be taken.”
“But in old Henfrey’s case we acted upon our own initiative,” remarked Benton.
“Yes. Yours was a wonderfully well-conceived idea. And all worked without a hitch until young Henfrey’s visit to Monte Carlo, and his affection for that girl Ranscomb.”
“We are weaning him away from her,” Benton said. “At last the girl’s suspicions are excited, and there is just that little disagreement which, broadening, leads to the open breach. Oh! my dear Howell, how could you and I live if it were not for that silly infection called love? In our profession love is all-conquering. Without it we could make no progress, no smart coups, no conquests of women who afterwards shed out to us money which at the assizes they would designate by the ugly word ‘blackmail.'”
“Ah! Charles. You were always a philosopher,” laughed his companion– the man who was a bosom friend of The Sparrow. “But it carries us no nearer. We must, at all costs, fix the hand that shot Yvonne.”
“Giulio shot her–without a doubt!” was Benton’s quick reply.
They were standing together on the kerb outside the Tube station at Piccadilly Circus as Benton uttered the words.
“Well, my dear fellow, then let us prove it,” said Howell. “But not yet, remember. We must first see how it goes with Molly. She must be watched carefully. Of course, I agree that Giulio Cataldi shot Yvonne. Later we will prove that fact, but the worst of it is that the French police are hot on the track of young Henfrey.”
“How do you know that?” asked his companion quickly.
“Well,” he answered, after a second’s hesitation, “I heard so two days ago.”
Then Howell, pleading an urgent meeting with a mutual friend, also a crook like themselves, grasped the other’s hand, and they parted.
TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
LISETTE’S DISCLOSURES
At ten o’clock on the morning that Hugh Henfrey left Avignon for Paris, The Sparrow stood at the window of his cozy little flat in the Rue des Petits Champs, where he was known to his elderly housekeeper– a worthy old soul from Yvetot, in the north–as Guillaume Gautier.
The house was one of those great old ones built in the days of the First Empire, with a narrow entrance and square courtyard into which the stage coaches with postilions rumbled before the days of the P.L.M. and aircraft. In the Napoleonic days it had been the residence of the Dukes de Vizelle, but in modern times it had been converted into a series of very commodious flats.
The Sparrow, sprightly and alert, stood, after taking his /cafe au lait/, looking down into the courtyard. He had been reading through several letters and telegrams which had caused him some perturbation.
“They are playing me false!” he muttered, as he gazed out of the window. “I’m certain of it–quite certain! But, Gad! If they do I’ll be even with them! Who could have given Henfrey away in London–/and why/?”
He paced the length of the room, his teeth hard set and his hands clenched.
“I thought they were all loyal after what I have done for them–after the fortunes I have put into their pockets. Fancy! One of them a well- known member of Parliament–another a director of one of the soundest insurance companies! Nobody suspects the really great crooks. It is only the little clumsy muddlers whom the police catch and the judge makes examples of!”
Then crossing back to the window, he said aloud:
“Lisette ought to be here! She was due in from Toulouse at nine o’clock. I hope nothing further has happened. One thing is satisfactory–young Henfrey is safe.”
As a matter of fact, the girl had spoken to The Sparrow from her hotel in Toulouse late on the previous night, and told him that her “friend Hugh” was in Marseilles.
Even to the master criminal the whole problem was increasingly complicated. He could not prove the innocence of young Henfrey, because of the mysterious, sinister influence being brought to bear against him. He had interested himself in aiding the young fellow to evade arrest, because he had no desire that there should be a trial in which he and his associates might be implicated.
The Sparrow hated trials of any sort. With him silence was golden, and very wisely he would pay any sum rather than court publicity.
Half an hour went past, but the girl he expected did not put in an appearance.
Monsieur Gautier–the man with the gloved hand–was believed by his old housekeeper to be a rich and somewhat eccentric bachelor, who was interested in old clocks and antique silver, and who travelled extensively in order to purchase fine specimens. Indeed it was by that description he was registered in the archives of the Surete, with the observation that notwithstanding his foreign name he was an Englishman of highest standing.
It was never dreamed that the bristly-haired alert little man, who was so often seen in the salerooms of Paris when antique silver was being sold, was the notorious Sparrow.
Lisette’s failure to arrive considerably disturbed him. He hoped that nothing had happened to her. Time after time, he walked to the window and looked out eagerly for her to cross the courtyard. In those rooms he sometimes lived for weeks in safe obscurity, his neighbours regarding him as a man of the greatest integrity, though a trifle eccentric in his habits.
At last, just before eleven, he saw Lisette’s smart figure in a heavy travelling coat crossing the courtyard, and a few moments later she was shown into his room.
“You’re late!” the old man said, as soon as the door was closed. “I feared that something had gone wrong! Why did you leave Madrid? What has happened?” he asked eagerly.
“Happened!” she echoed in French. “Why, very nearly a disaster! Someone has given us away–at least, Monsieur Henfrey was given away to the police!”
“Not arrested?” he asked breathlessly.
“No. We all three managed to get away–but only just in time! I had a wire to-night from Monsieur Tresham, telling me guardedly that within an hour or so after we left Madrid the police called at my hotel–and at Henfrey’s.”
“Who can have done that?” asked The Sparrow, his eyes narrowing in anger, his gloved hand clenched.
“Your enemy–and mine!” was the girl’s reply. “Franklyn is in Switzerland. Monsieur Henfrey is in Marseilles–at the Louvre et Paix –and I am here.”
“Then we have a secret enemy–eh?”
“Yes–and he is not very far to seek. Monsieur Howell has done this!”
“Howell! He would never do such a thing, my dear mademoiselle,” replied the gloved man, smiling.
“Oh! wouldn’t he? I would not trust either Benton or Howell!”
“I think you are mistaken, mademoiselle. They have never shown much friendship towards each other.”
“They are close friends as far as concerns the Henfrey affair,” declared mademoiselle. “I happen to know that it was Howell who prepared the old man’s will. It is in his handwriting, and his manservant, Cooke, is one of the witnesses.”
“What? /You know about that will, Lisette?/ Tell me everything.”
“Howell himself let it out to me. They were careful that you should not know. At the time I was in London with Franklyn and Benton over the jewels of that ship-owner’s wife, I forget her name–the affair in Carlton House Terrace.”
“Yes. I recollect. A very neat piece of business.”
“Well–Howell told me how he had prepared the will, and how Benton, who was staying with old Mr. Henfrey away in the country, got him to put his signature to it by pretending it to be for the purchase of a house at Eltham, in Kent. The house was, indeed, purchased at Benton’s suggestion, but the signature was to a will which Howell’s man, Cooke, and a friend of his, named Saunders, afterwards witnessed, and which has now been proved–the will by which the young man is compelled to marry Benton’s adopted daughter before he inherits his father’s estates.”
“You actually know this?”
“Howell told me so with his own lips.”
“Then why is young Henfrey being made the victim?” asked The Sparrow shrewdly. “Why, indeed, have you not revealed this to me before?”
“Because I had no proof before that Howell is /our/ enemy. He has now given us away. He has some motive. What is it?”
The bristly-haired little man of twenty names and as many individualities pondered for a moment. It was evident that he was both apprehensive and amazed at the suggestion the pretty young French girl had placed before him.
When one finds a betrayer, then in order to fix his guilt it becomes necessary to discover the motive.
The Sparrow was in a quandary. Seldom was he in such a perturbed state of mind. He and his accomplices could always defy the police. It was not the first time in his career, however, that he had found a traitor in his camp. If Howell was really a traitor, then he would pay dearly for it. Three times within the last ten years there had been traitors in the great criminal organization. One was a Dutchman; the second was a Greek; and the third a Swiss. Each died–for dead men tell no tales.
The Sparrow ordered some /cafe noir/ from his housekeeper and produced a particularly seductive brand of liqueur, which mademoiselle took– together with a cigarette.
Then she left, he giving her the parting injunction:
“It is probable that you will go to Marseilles and meet young Henfrey. I will think it all over. You will have a note from me at the Grand Hotel before noon to-morrow.”
TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
THE INQUISITIVE MR. SHRIMPTON
An hour later Hugh stood in The Sparrow’s room, and related his exciting adventure in Marseilles and on the high road.
“H’m!” remarked the man with the gloved hand. “A very pretty piece of business. The police endeavoured to mislead you, and you, by a very