The ravine! We were crossing it! I glanced along the corridor. Nobody came in sight.
Next instant I saw three white lights arranged in a row. But we flashed past them!
For some reason, why, I knew not, the plot had failed!
I dared not go to the compartment of either of my companions, so after sitting up a further half-hour I crept back to my sleeping-berth feeling very drowsy, and turning in, slept heavily.
I was awakened by a loud hammering upon my door, and an excited voice outside calling:
“Mr. Hargreave! Mr. Hargreave!”
I opened it in astonishment to find the gray-headed old millionaire in his pajamas.
“I’ve been robbed!” he gasped. “I can’t wake the conductor. He’s been drugged, I believe! What number is Mr. Rayne’s compartment?”
“Number four,” I answered. “But what has been taken?” I asked.
“Bonds that I was taking to my agent in Marseilles – over sixty thousand pounds’ worth! My kitbag has been opened and the dispatch-box has been opened also while I’ve been asleep. The thief has evidently had the conductor’s key or he couldn’t have got into my compartment! The bonds must be still in the possession of one of the passengers,” he added. “Our last stop was at Mâcon and I was awake then.”
Together we woke up Rayne, who at once busied himself in great alarm.
“Possibly the bonds have been thrown from the train to an accomplice,” he suggested, exchanging glances with me.
“No. I’m sure they are still here – in the car. When next we stop I will prevent anyone leaving, and have all the passengers searched. The one thing that puzzles me is how the thief got to work without waking me, as I always place a little electric alarm on my bag when travelling with securities – and secondly, how did he manage to open both the bag and the dispatch-box it contained?”
“Well,” said Rayne. “Don’t let us raise any alarm, but just wait till we get to Lyons. Then we’ll see that nobody alights before we call the police.” Then, turning to me, he said: “You’ll keep one door, Hargreave, and I’ll keep the other, while Mr. Blumenfeld gives information.”
Thus we waited. But I was sorely puzzled as to the whereabouts of the stolen bonds. If Duperré had taken them, how had he got rid of them? That he had done so was quite plain by Rayne’s open attitude.
Presently, in the dawn, we ran slowly into Lyons, whereupon, with Rayne, I mounted guard, allowing no one to leave. Two men wanted to descend to obtain some café au lait, as is customary, and were surprised when prevented.
The commissary of police, with several plain-clothes officers, were quickly upon the spot, and to them Mr. Blumenfeld related his story – declaring that while lying awake he smelt a very strong odor of roses which caused him to become drowsy, and he slept. On awakening he saw that his dispatch-box had been rifled.
When the millionaire explained who he was and the extent of his loss, the commissary was at once upon the alert, and ordered every passenger to be closely searched. In consequence, everyone was turned out and searched, a woman searching the female passengers, Signorina Lacava waxing highly indignant. Rayne, Duperré and myself were also very closely searched, while every nook and cranny of the compartments and baggage were rummaged during the transit of the train from Lyons down to Marseilles. The missing bonds could not be discovered, nor did any suspicion attach to anyone.
I confess myself entirely puzzled as to what had actually occurred. The well-arranged plan to drop them from the train beyond Dijon had failed, I knew, because old Mr. Blumenfeld was still awake; but what alternative plan had been put into action?
It was only when we arrived in Marseilles that the bewildered conductor, a most reliable servant of the wagon-lit company, recovered from his lethargy and could not in the least account for his long heavy sleep. He had, it appeared, smelt the same pleasant perfume of roses as Mr. Blumenfeld. At Marseilles there was still more excitement and inquiry, but at last we moved off to Toulon and along the beautiful Côte d’Azur, with its grey-green olives and glimpses of sapphire sea.
We were passing along by the seashore, when I ventured to slip into Duperré’s compartment, old Blumenfeld and his wife being then in the luncheon-car adjoining.
I inquired in a whisper what had happened.
For answer he crossed to one of the windows and drew down the brown cloth blind used at night, when upon the inside I saw, to my astonishment, some bonds spread out and pinned to the fabric!
He touched the spring, the blind rolled up and they disappeared within.
Each of the four blinds in his compartment contained their valuable documents which, in due course, he removed and placed in his pockets before he stepped out upon the platform at Hyères. He was, of course, an entire stranger to Rudolph and me, and we continued our journey with the victimized millionaire to Cannes, where we were compelled to remain for a week lest our abrupt return should excite anybody’s suspicion. Meanwhile, of course, Duperré was already back in London with the spoils.
In the whole affair Rayne, whose master-brain was responsible for the ingenious coup, remained with clean hands and ready at any moment to prove his own innocence.
The original plan of tossing out the sixty thousand pounds’ worth of bonds to Tracy, who was waiting with his three warning lights, failed because of old Blumenfeld’s sleeplessness, but it was substituted by a far more secretive yet simple plan – one never even dreamed of by the astute police attached to the Paris, Lyons and Mediterranean Railway. It being daylight at Lyons, the blinds were up!
CHAPTER VII
LITTLE LADY LYDBROOK
From the very first I felt that, owing to my passionate love for Lola, I was treading upon very thin ice.
As the cat’s-paw of her father I was being drawn into such subtle devilish schemes that I felt to draw back must only bring upon my head the vengeance, through fear, of a man who was so entirely unscrupulous and so elusive that the police could never trace him.
Why a few weeks later I had been sent to Biarritz with Vincent was an enigma I failed to solve. At any rate, at Rayne’s suggestion, we had gone there and had stayed under assumed names at the Hôtel du Palais, that handsome place standing high upon the rocks with such charming views of the rocky headland of St. Martin and the dozen grey-green islets.
We both lived expensively and enjoyed ourselves at the Casino and elsewhere, but the object of our visit was quite obscure. I knew, however, that Duperré was prospecting new ground, but in what direction I failed to discover. One day we returned to London quite suddenly, but he refused to disclose anything concerning the object of our visit, which, after all, had been for me quite an enjoyable holiday.
About a week after our return Rayne called me into the morning-room. The keen grey-eyed middle-aged man was smoking a cigar and with him was Madame, whose cleverness as a crook was only equalled by that of her husband.
“Well, Hargreave!” exclaimed Rayne. “I hope you had a nice time at Biarritz, eh? Well, I want you to go on a further little holiday down to Eastbourne. Drive the Rolls down to the Grand Hotel there and stay as a gentleman of leisure.”
“I’m always that nowadays,” I laughed.
“Stay there under the name of George Cottingham,” he went on, “and spend rather freely, so as to give yourself a good appearance. You understand?”
“No, I don’t understand,” I said. “At least, I don’t understand what game is to be played.”
“You needn’t, George,” was his short reply. “You are paid not to understand, and to keep your mouth shut. So please recollect that. Now at the hotel,” he went on, “there is staying Lady Lydbrook, wife of the great Sheffield ironmaster. I want you to scrape up acquaintance with her.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For reasons best known to myself,” he snapped. “It’s nice weather just now, and you ought to enjoy yourself at Eastbourne. It’s a smart place for an English resort, and there’s lots going on there. They will think you such a nice sociable young man. Besides, you will spend money and make pretense of being rich. And let me give you a valuable tip. On the first evening you arrive at the hotel call the valet, give him a pound note and tell him to go out and buy a pound bottle of eau-de-Cologne to put in your bath. There’s nothing that gets round an hotel so quickly as wanton extravagance like that. The guests hear of it through the servants, and everyone is impressed by your wealth.”
I laughed. Only a man with such a brain as Rudolph Rayne could have thought of such a ruse to inspire confidence.
Two days later I arrived at the smart south coast hotel. Though not the season, Eastbourne was filled by quite a fashionable crowd. The Grand, situated at the far end of the town towards Beachy Head, is the resort of wealthy Londoners. I arrived alone in the showy Rolls just before luncheon, when many of the visitors were seated in the cane chairs outside or on the glass-covered veranda.
I noticed, too, that the Rolls was well scrutinized, as well as myself. Under my assumed name, I took one of the most expensive rooms, and later, in the big dining-room, the waiter pointed out to me Lady Lydbrook, a young, blue-eyed, fluffy-haired little lady who, exquisitely dressed, was seated in a corner with another young woman about her own age.
They were chatting merrily, quite unconscious of the fact that I was watching them.
Her companion was dark and exceedingly well dressed. I learnt from the waiter that Sir Owen Lydbrook was not with his wife, and that the name of her companion was Miss Elsie Wallis.
“I fancy she’s on the stage, sir,” the man added confidently. “Only I don’t know her stage name. They’ve been ’ere nearly a month. Sir Owen is in Paris, I think. They say ’e’s a lot older than ’er.”
I realized in the cockney waiter a man who might be useful, hence I gave him a substantial tip when I signed the bill for my meal.
Why Rayne had ordered me to contrive to make the acquaintance of the fluffy-haired little woman was a problem that was beyond me, save that I knew full well the motive was, without doubt, an evil one.
It goaded me to frenzy to think that Lola should eventually be called upon in all her innocence to become, like myself, an unwilling agent in the carrying out of Rayne’s subtle and insidious plots.
I was his paid servant, hence against my will I was forced to obey. My ever-present hope was to be able one day to extricate Lola from that atmosphere of criminality and mystery in which she lived, that environment of stealthy plotting and malice aforethought.
On the evening of my arrival there happened to be a dance in the hotel, and watching, I saw Lady Lydbrook enter the ballroom. She looked very charming in a dance frock of bright orange, with a wreath of silver leaves in her hair. Her gown was certainly the most chic of any in the room, and she wore a beautiful rope of pearls.
Presently I summoned courage, and bowing, invited her to dance with me. She smiled with dignity and accepted. Hence we were soon acquaintances, for she danced beautifully, and I am told that I dance fairly well. After the fox-trot we sat down and chatted. I told her that I had only arrived that day.
“I saw you,” she said. “What a topping car you have! Ours is a Rolls but an old pattern. I’m always pressing my husband to get rid of it and buy a new model. But he won’t. Business men are all the same. They tot up figures and weigh the cost of everything,” and she laughed lightly, showing a set of pearly teeth. “They weigh up everything one eats and wears. I hope you’re not a business man?”
“No. I’m not,” I replied with a smile. “If I were I might be a bit richer than I am.”
“Money! Bah!” she exclaimed as she waved the big ostrich feather that served her as fan. “It’s all very well in its way, but some men get stifled with their money-bags, just as Owen is. Their wealth is so great that its very heaviness presses out all their good qualities and only leaves avarice behind.”
“But to have great wealth at one’s command must be a source of great joy. Look how much good one could do!” I said philosophically.
“Good! Yes,” she laughed. “The rich man can be philanthropic – if he is not a business man, Mr. Cottingham. The latter – if he tries to do good to his fellow-creatures – is dubbed a fool in his business circles and invariably comes to grief. At least that is what Owen tells me. He’s double my age, and he ought to know,” added the charming little woman.
I admitted that there was much truth in what she had said. Indeed, we had already grown to be such good friends that, at her invitation, the night being clear and moonlit, we strolled out of the hotel and along the promenade, half-way to the pier, and back.
Her companion, Miss Wallis, I had seen in the ballroom dancing with an elderly man who had “the City” stamped all over him. We chatted upon many subjects as we strolled in the balmy moonlit night.
“I expect my husband back in a day or two. He has been to Warsaw upon some financial business for the Government. When we leave here we go to Trouville for a week or so, and in the autumn I believe we go to America. My husband goes over each year.”
Then I learned from her that they had a town house in Curzon Street, a country place in Berkshire, and a villa at Cannes. They had, it appeared, only recently been married.
“We generally manage to get to Cannes each winter for a month or two. I love the Riviera,” she said. “Do you know it?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve been there once or twice.”
“The Villa Jaumont is out on the road to Nice, on the left. Perhaps if you happen to be there this winter you will call. I shall be most delighted to see you.”
When presently we were back in the hotel and I had gone to my room, I realized that I had made rather good progress. I had ingratiated myself with her, and she had grown very confidential, inasmuch as I was already able to judge that she rather despised her elderly and parsimonious husband, and that she preferred to lead her own untrammelled life.
But what was the real object of my mission?
A few days later I received a scribbled note signed “Rudolph” to say that a friend of his, an Italian named Giulio Ansaldi, was arriving at the hotel and would meet me in strictest secrecy. I was to leave my bedroom door unlocked at midnight, when he would enter unannounced. Enclosed was half one of Duperré’s visiting-cards torn across in a jagged manner.
“Your visitor will present to you the missing half of the enclosed card as credential,” he wrote. “If the two pieces fit, then trust him implicitly and act according to his instructions which he will convey from me.”
I turned over the portion of the torn visiting-card, wondering what fresh instructions I was to receive in such strict secrecy.
I thought of Lola and wondered whether she had returned home from a visit she was paying in Devonshire, and whether, by her watchfulness, she had gained any inkling of the nature of this latest plot.
Little Lady Lydbrook had now become my constant companion. Her friend, Elsie Wallis, had apparently become on friendly terms with a tall, slim, dark-haired young man who often took her out in his car, while on several occasions Lady Lydbrook had accepted my invitation for an afternoon run and tea somewhere. The one fact that I did not like was that a quiet, middle-aged man seemed always to be watching our movements, for whether we chatted together in the lounge, went out motoring, walking on the promenade, or dancing, he always appeared somewhere in the vicinity. But on the day I received Rayne’s note he had paid his bill and left the hotel, a fact by which my mind was much relieved.
That day I motored my pretty little friend over to Brighton, where we lunched at the Métropole and arrived back for tea. Her husband, she said, had that morning telegraphed to her from Hamburg regretting that he could not rejoin her at present as he was on his way to Italy.
“I suppose all our plans are upset again!” she remarked with a pretty pout, as she sat at my side while we went carefully through the old-world town of Lewes. She had become just a little inquisitive about myself. It seemed that she enjoyed her dances with me. Indeed, she admitted it, but I could discern that she was a good deal puzzled as to my means of livelihood. I had to be very circumspect, yet for the life of me I could not imagine why I had been ordered to carry on what was, after all, a mild flirtation with a very pretty young married lady.
I could see that the other visitors at the hotel were whispering, and more especially had I incurred the displeasure of a Mrs. Glenbury, an elderly lady of distinctly out-of-date views, who with pathetic effort tried to ape youth.
Late in the evening after our return from Brighton, I took a long stroll alone along the lower promenade, close to the beach, which at night is very ill-lit, being below the level of the well-illuminated roadway. I suppose I had walked for quite a couple of miles when, on my return, I discerned in front of me two figures, a man and a woman. A ray of light from the roadway above shone on them as they passed, and I noticed that while the woman wore an ordinary dark cloth coat, the man was in tweeds and a golf cap.
An altercation had arisen between them.
“All right,” he cried. “You won’t live here very much longer – I’ll see to that! You’ve tried to do me down, and very nearly succeeded. And now you refuse to give me even a fiver!”
Those words aroused my curiosity. I held back; for my feet fell noiselessly because of my rubber heels. I strained my ears to catch their further conversation.
“I’ve never refused you, Arthur!” replied the woman’s voice.
I held my breath. The voice was Lady Lydbrook’s. I could recognize it anywhere!
I watched. The young man’s attitude was certainly threatening.
“I don’t intend now that you’ll get off lightly. You’ll have to pay me not a fiver but fifty pounds to-night. So go back to the hotel and bring me out a cheque. I’ll wait at the Wish Tower. But mind it isn’t a dud one. If it is, then, by gad! I’ll tell them right away. And won’t the fur fly then, eh?”
He spoke in a refined voice, though his appearance was that of a loafer.
His companion was evidently in fear. She tried to argue, to cajole, and to appear defiant, but all was useless. He only laughed triumphantly at her as they walked along the deserted promenade in the direction of the hotel.
Suddenly they halted. I held back at once. They conversed in lower tones – intense words that I could not catch. But it seemed to me that the frail little woman who was so often my companion was cowed and terrified. Why? What did she fear?
She left him, while he drew back into the shadow. I waited also in the shadow for nearly ten minutes, then I passed on, ascended some steps and reëntered the hotel. In the lounge I sank into a seat in a hidden corner and lit a cigarette. Presently I heard the swish of a woman’s skirt behind me, and rising, peered out. It was Lady Lydbrook on her way out. She was carrying the cheque to the mysterious stranger!
Alone in my room that night I threw myself into a chair and pondered deeply. I had learned that Lady Lydbrook was under the influence of that ill-dressed man who spoke so well, and whom I at first took to be an undergraduate or perhaps a hospital student.
It was a point to report to Rayne. Somehow I felt a rising antagonism towards the young man who had successfully extracted fifty pounds from my dainty little companion who was so passionately fond of jewels and who frequently wore some exquisite rings and pendants. What hold could the fellow have upon her?
Next morning she appeared bright and radiant at breakfast – which, of course, she took with her rather retiring friend Elsie Wallis – and I smiled across at her. She was, after all, a bright up-to-date little married woman possessed of great wealth and influence, her whole life being devoted to self-enjoyment at the expense of her elderly and despised husband. She was a typical girl of society who had married an old man for his money and afterwards sought younger male society. We have them to-day in hundreds on every side.
After breakfast we went together along the sea-front where the band was playing. The weather was glorious and Eastbourne looked at its best.
I now regarded her as a mystery after what I had witnessed on the previous night.
“I’m horribly bored here!” she declared to me, as in her white summer gown she strolled by my side towards the town. “Owen is not coming, so I think I shall soon get away somewhere.”
“What about your friend Elsie?” I asked, wondering whether her decision had any connection with the unwelcome arrival of that mysterious young man in tweeds.
“Oh, she’s going back to London to-day – so I shall be horribly lonely,” she replied.
I recollected her nervousness and apprehension before she had paid the man who had undoubtedly blackmailed her, and became more than ever puzzled.