On the night of their departure I was tired and must have slept soundly after a heavy day, when I was suddenly awakened by a strong light flashed into my face, and at the same instant I saw a hand holding a silken cord which had been slowly slipped beneath my ear as I lay upon the pillow.
For a second I held my breath, but next moment I realized that I was being attacked, and that the cord being already round my neck with a slip-knot, those sinewy hands I had seen in the flash of light intended to strangle me.
My only chance was to keep cool. So I grunted in pretense of being only half-awake, and turning very slightly to my side, my hand slowly reached against my pillow. At any second the cord might be drawn tight when all chance of giving the alarm would be swept away from me. Yet my assailant was deliberate, apparently in order to make quite certain that the cord around my neck should effect its fatal purpose.
Of a sudden I grasped what I had against my pillow – a small rubber ball – and suddenly shooting out my hand in his direction, squeezed it.
A yell of excruciating pain rang through the hotel, and he sprang back, releasing his hold upon the cord.
Then next moment, when I switched on the light, I found the man Hauser dancing about my room, his face covered with his hands – blinded, and his countenance burnt by the dose of sulphuric acid I had, in self-defense, squirted full into it.
For defense against secret attack the rubber ball filled with acid Rayne always compelled me to carry, as being far preferable to revolver, knife or sword-cane. It is easily carried, easily concealed in the palm of the hand, makes no noise, and if used suddenly is entirely efficacious.
My assailant, blinded, shrieking with pain, and his face forever scarred, quickly disappeared to make what excuse he might. Later I found that he had previously tampered with the brass bolt of my door by removing the screws of the socket, enlarging the holes and embedding the screws in soft putty so that on turning the handle and pressing the door the socket gave way and fell noiselessly upon the carpet!
This attempt upon me at once proved that I was on the right scent, and according to Rayne’s instructions I that day followed Madame and Lola back to Salerno.
On changing trains at the Central Station at Rome I bought a newspaper, and the first heading that met my eyes was one which told of a mysterious robbery of the wonderful pearls of the Princess di Acquanero.
With avidity I read that the young Princess, as noted for her beauty as for her jewels, the only daughter of the millionaire Italian shipowner Andrea Ottone, of Genoa, who had married the Prince a year ago, had been robbed of her famous string of pearls under most mysterious circumstances.
Two days before she had been staying at the great Castello di Antigniano, near Bari, where her uncle, the Baron Bertolini, had been entertaining a party of friends. On dressing for dinner she found that her jewel-case had been rifled and the pearls, worth twenty thousand pounds sterling, were missing!
“The police have a theory that the guilty person was introduced into the castello by one of the many servants,” the report went on. “The thief, whoever it was, must, however, have had great difficulty in reaching the Princess’ room, as the Baron, knowing that his lady guests bring valuable jewelry, always sets a watch upon the only staircase by which the ladies’ rooms can be approached.”
With the paper in my hand the train slowly drew out of Rome on its way south. My mind was filled with suspicion. I was wondering vaguely whether the Marchesa Romanelli had been among the guests, for I recollected those words of Fra Pacifico that “the woman had committed sacrilege in the House of God.”
Could it be possible that he knew the Marchesa to be a thief who had stolen some valuable church plate from one or other of the ancient churches in Italy? If so, then, though the wife of the Admiral, she was also a thief.
On arrival at Salerno I took Madame aside, and telling her of my adventure with the man Hauser, I showed her the newspaper and declared my suspicions.
“It may be so,” she said. “If she is so friendly with this banker whose past is quite obscure, it may be her hand which takes the stuff and passes it on to Zuccari, who in turn sells it to Hauser.”
With that theory I agreed.
On the following day I took train into Naples, and that afternoon I called upon the Marchesa.
Fortunately I found her alone, and when I was shown into her salon I thought she looked rather wan and pale, but she greeted me affably and expressed delight that I should call before returning to England.
As we chatted she let drop, as I expected she would, the fact that she had been staying at the Castello di Antigniano.
“You’ve seen in the papers, I suppose, all about the pearls of the Princess di Acquanero?” she went on. “A most mysterious affair!”
I looked the pretty woman straight in the face, and replied:
“Not so very mysterious, Marchesa.”
“Why not?” she asked, opening her big, black eyes widely.
“Not so mysterious if I may be permitted to look inside that ornament over there – the heirloom of the Romanelli – the Silver Spider,” I said calmly.
“What do you mean?” she cried resentfully. “I don’t understand you.”
I smiled.
“Then let me be a little more explicit,” I said. “Have you heard of a man named Hauser? Well, he made an attempt upon my life. Hence I am here this afternoon to see you. May I lift the body of the Silver Spider and look inside?”
“Certainly not!” she cried, facing me boldly.
“Then you fear me – eh?”
“I do not fear you. I don’t know you!” she cried.
I laughed, and said:
“Then if not, why may I not be permitted to look inside your husband’s family heirloom?”
She was silent for a moment. My question nonplussed her. I was, I confess, bitter because of the deliberate attempt to kill me.
“I will not allow any stranger to tamper with our Silver Spider!” she cried resentfully.
“Very well. Then I shall take my own course, and I shall inform your husband that you stole the Princess’s pearls, that your banker friend acts as intermediary in your clever thefts, and that Hauser disposes of the jewels in Amsterdam.”
“I – I – ” she gasped.
“I know everything,” I said, while she looked around bewildered. “I know that you are playing a crooked game even with those who played straight with you before your marriage to the Marchese. He is in ignorance of your past. But I know it. Listen!” and I paused and looked straight into her eyes.
“You were a widow with a young daughter before you married the Marchese. That was nine years ago. To him you passed yourself off as the widow of an Italian advocate named Terroni, of Perugia; but you were not. You are Austrian. Your name is Frieda Hoheisel, and you were an adventuress and a thief! You married a certain man who is to-day in a monastery at Signa in the Val d’Arno, and though you pose as the loving wife of one of Italy’s premier admirals, you are a noted jewel-thief, and commit these robberies in order to supply your bogus banker friend Zuccari with funds. Now,” I added, “I will take the Princess’s necklace from the Silver Spider and you will, in my presence, pack it up and address it to her. I will post it.”
“Never! I risked too much to get it!” she cried, her face aflame.
“Very well. Then within an hour your husband and the police will know the truth. Remember, I have been suspected of making inquiries by your friends and have very nearly lost my life in consequence.”
“But – oh! I can’t – ”
“You shall, woman!” I thundered. “You shall give back those stolen pearls!”
And crossing to the table whereon stood the Silver Spider, I opened it, and there within reposed the pearls in a place that nobody would suspect.
I stood over her while she packed them into a common cardboard box and addressed them to the Princess in Rome. At first she demurred about her handwriting, but I insisted. I intended her to take the risk – just as I had taken a risk.
And, further, I compelled her to order her car, and we drove to the General Post Office in Naples, where I saw that she registered the valuable packet.
The anonymous return of the pearls was a nine days’ wonder throughout Italy; but the Marchesa never knew how I had obtained my information, and never dreamed that I had come to her upon a mission of inquiry from the one person in all the world whom she feared, the man in whose clutches she had been for years – the mysterious “Golden Face.”
When, with Lola and Madame, I returned home a week later and explained the whole of my adventures, Rayne sat for a few moments silent. Then, as I looked, I saw vengeance written upon his face.
“I suspected that she was playing me false, and selling stuff in secret through that fellow Zuccari! She is carrying on the business by herself. I now have proof of it – and I shall take my own steps! You will see!”
He did – and a month later the Marchesa Romanelli was arrested and sent to prison for the theft of a pair of diamond earrings belonging to a fellow-guest staying at one of the great palaces of Florence.
It was a scandal that Italy is not likely to easily forget.
CHAPTER XIII
ABDUL HAMID’S JEWELS
Rudolph Rayne, though the ruler of aristocratic Crookdom, was sometimes most sympathetic and generous towards lovers.
The following well illustrates his strange abnormal personality and complex nature:
One night I chanced to enter his bedroom at Half Moon Street, when I found him looking critically through a quantity of the most magnificent sparkling gems my eyes had ever seen. Some were set as pendants, brooches, and earrings, while others – great rubies and emeralds of immense value – were uncut.
As I entered he put his hands over them in distinct annoyance. Then, a few seconds later, removed them, saying with a queer laugh:
“A nice little lot this, eh? One of the very finest collections I’ve seen.”
On the table lay a pair of jewelers’ tweezers and a magnifying glass, therefore it was apparent that, as a connoisseur of gems, he had been estimating their value.
“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “They certainly are magnificent! Whose are they?”
“They once belonged to the dead Sultan Abdul Hamid of Turkey,” he replied; “but at present they belong to me!” He laughed grimly.
Inwardly I wondered by what means the priceless gems had fallen into his hands. He read my thoughts at once, for he said:
“You are curious, of course, as to how I became possessed of them. Naturally. Well, Hargreave, it’s a very funny story and concerns a real good fellow and, incidentally, a very pretty girl. Take a cigar, sit down, and I’ll tell you frankly all about it – only, of course, not a word of the facts will ever pass your lips – not to Lola, or to anybody else. Your lips are sealed.”
“I promise,” I said, selecting one of his choice cigars and lighting it, my curiosity aroused.
“Then listen,” he said, “and I’ll tell you the whole facts, as far as I’ve been able to gather them.”
What he recounted was certainly romantic, though a little involved, for he was not a very good raconteur. However, in setting down this curious story – a story which shows that he was not altogether bad, and was a sportsman after all – I have rearranged his words in narrative form, so that readers of these curious adventures may fully understand.
“How horribly glum you are to-night, dear! What’s the matter? Are you sad that we should meet here – in Paris?” asked a pretty girl.
“Glum!” echoed the smooth-haired young man in the perfectly fitting dinner-jacket and black tie. “I really didn’t know that I looked glum,” and then, straightening himself, he looked across the table à deux in the gay Restaurant Volnay at the handsome, dark-haired, exquisitely dressed girl who sat before him with her elbows on the table.
“Yes, you really are jolly glum, my dear Old Thing. You looked a moment ago as serious as though you were going to a funeral,” declared the girl. “The war is over, you are prospering immensely – so what on earth causes you to worry?”
“I’m not worrying, dearest, I assure you,” he replied with a forced smile, but her keen woman’s intuition told her that her lover was not himself, and that his mind was full of some very keen anxiety.
Charles Otley had taken her to a most amusing play at the Palais-Royal, a comedy which had kept the house in roars of laughter all the evening, and now, as they sat at supper, she saw that his spirits had fallen to a very low ebb. This puzzled her greatly.
Peggy Urquhart, daughter of Sir Polworth Urquhart, of the Colonial Service, who until the Armistice had held a high official appointment at Hong Kong, was one of the smartest and prettiest young women in London Society. She was twenty-two, a thorough-going out-of-door girl who looked slightly older than she really was. Her father had retired as soon as war was over, and they had come to England. By reason of her mother being the daughter of the Earl of Carringford, she had soon found herself a popular figure in a mad, go-ahead post-war set.
She had known Charlie Otley soon after she had left Roedene – long before they had gone out to Hong Kong – and now they were back they were lovers in secret.
Charlie, who had been a motor engineer before he “joined up” in the war and got his D.S.O. and his rank as captain, had done splendidly. On being demobilized he had returned to his old profession, taking the managership of a very well-known Bond Street firm.
The directors, finding in Otley a man who knew his business, whose persuasive powers induced many persons to purchase cars, and whose fearless tests at Brooklands were paragraphed in the daily newspapers, treated him most generously and left everything, even many of their financial affairs, in his hands.
Lady Urquhart was, however, an ambitious woman. She inherited all the exclusiveness of the Carringfords, and she was actively scheming to marry Peggy to Cis Eastwood, the heir to the estates of old Lord Drumone. It was the old story of the ambitious mother. Peggy knew this, and, smiling within herself, had pledged her love to Charlie. Hence, with the latitude allowed to a girl nowadays, she went about a good deal with him in London – to the Embassy, the Grafton, the Diplomats, and several of the smartest dance-clubs, of which both were members.
Though Otley was often at her house in Mount Street, and frequently met Lord Drumone’s fair-haired and rather effeminate son there, Peggy’s mother never dreamed they were in love. Both were extremely careful to conceal it, and in their efforts they had been successful.
The orchestra was at the moment playing that plaintive Hungarian gypsy air, Bela’s Valse Banffy, that sweet, weird song of the Tziganes which one hears everywhere along the Danube from Vienna to Belgrade.
“Look here, Charlie,” said the girl, much perturbed at what she had recognized in his handsome countenance. “Tell me, Old Thing, what’s the matter?”
“Matter – why, nothing!” he replied, laughing. “I was only thinking.” And he looked around upon the smart crowd of Parisians who were laughing and chatting.
“Of what?”
He hesitated for a second. In that hesitation the girl who loved him so fondly, and who preferred him to old Drumone’s son and a title, realized that he had some heavy weight upon his mind, and quickly she resolved to learn it, and try to bear the burden with him.
Since her return from China, with all its Asiatic mysteries, its amusements, and its quaint Eastern life, she had had what she declared to be a “topping” time in London. Her beauty was remarked everywhere and her sweet charm of manner appealed to all. Her mother, who had returned from her exile in the Far East, went everywhere, while her father, a hard, austere Colonial official who had browsed upon reports, and regarded all natives of any nationality or culture as mere “blacks,” was one of those men who had never been able to assimilate his own views with those of the nation to which he had been sent as British representative. He was a hide-bound official, a man who despised any colored race, and treated all natives with stern and unrelenting hand. Indeed, the Colonial Office had discovered him to be a square peg in a round hole, and at Whitehall they were relieved when he went into honorable retirement.
“Do tell me what’s the matter, dear,” whispered the girl across the table, hoping that the pair seated near them did not know English.
“The matter! Why, nothing,” again laughed the handsome young man. “Have a liqueur,” and he ordered two from the waiter. “I can’t think what you’ve got into your head to-night regarding me, Peggy. I was only reflecting for a few seconds – on some business.”
“Grave business – it seems.”
“Not at all. But we men who have to earn our living by business have to think overnight what we are to do on the morrow,” he said airily, as he handed his cigarette-case to her and then lit the one she took.
“But Charlie – I’m certain there’s something – something you are concealing from me.”
“I conceal nothing from you, dearest,” he answered, looking across the little table straight into her fine dark eyes. Then again he bent towards her and whispered very seriously: “Do you really love me, Peggy?”
In his glance was a tense eager expression, yet upon his face was written a mystery she could not fathom.
“Why do you ask, dear?” she said. “Have I not told you so a hundred times. What I have said, I mean.”
“You really mean – you really mean that you love me – eh?” he whispered in deep earnestness as he still bent to her over the table, his eyes fixed on hers. And he drew a long breath.
“Yes,” she answered. “But why do you ask the question in that tone? How tragic you seem!”
“Because,” and he sighed, “because your answer lifts a great weight from my mind.” Then, after a pause, he added: “Yet – yet, I wonder – ”
“Wonder what?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “I was only wondering.”
“But you really are tantalizing to-night, my dear boy,” she said. “I don’t understand you at all.”
“Ah! you will before long. Let’s go out into the lounge,” he suggested. “It’s growing late.”
So, having drained their two glasses of triple sec, they passed out into the big palm-lounge, which is so popular with the Parisians after the play.
Peggy and her parents had come to Paris in mid-December to do some shopping. Before she had been exiled to China, Lady Urquhart’s habit was to go to Paris twice each year to buy her hats and gowns, for she was always elegantly dressed, and she took care that her daughter should dress equally well.
Indeed, the gown worn by Peggy that night was one of Worth’s latest creations, and her cloak was an expensive one of the newest mode. They were staying at the Continental when Charlie, who had some business in Paris on behalf of his firm, had run over for three days really to meet in secret the girl he loved. That night Peggy had excused herself to her mother, saying that she was going out to Neuilly to dine with an old schoolfellow – a little matter she had arranged with the latter – but instead, she had met Charlie at Voisin’s, and they had been to the theater together.
Peggy, amid the exuberant atmosphere of Paris with its lights, movement and gaiety – the old Paris just as it was before the war – naturally expected her lover to be gay and irresponsible as she herself felt. Instead, he seemed gloomy and apprehensive. Therefore the girl was disappointed. She thought a good deal, but said little.
Though the distance between the Volnay and the Rue de Rivoli was not great, Charlie ordered a taxi, and on the way she sat locked in his strong arms, her lips smothered with his hot, passionate kisses, until they parted.
Little did she dream, however, the bitterness in her lover’s heart.
Next morning at eleven o’clock, as Peggy was coming up the Avenue de l’Opéra, she passed the Brasserie de la Paix, that popular café on the left-hand side of the broad thoroughfare, the place where the Parisian gets such exquisite dishes at fair prices. Charlie was seated in the window, as they had arranged, and on seeing her, he dashed out and joined her.
“Well?” she asked. “How are you to-day? Not so awfully gloomy, I hope.”
“Not at all, dearest,” he laughed, for his old nonchalance had returned to him. “I’ve been full of business since nine o’clock. I have an appointment out at La Muette at two, and I’ll have to get back to London to-night.”
“To-night!” she echoed disappointedly. “We don’t return till next Tuesday.”
“I have to be back to see my people about some cars that can’t be delivered for another six weeks. There’s a beastly hitch about delivery.”
“Well,” said the girl, as they walked side by side in the cold, bright morning. The winter mornings are always bright and clearer in Paris than in London. “Well, I have some news for you, dear.”
“What news?” he asked.
“Lady Teesdale has asked us up to Hawstead, her place in Yorkshire. In her letter to mother this morning she mentions that she is also asking you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. And, of course, you’ll accept. Won’t it be ripping? The Teesdales have a lovely old place – oak-paneled, ghost-haunted, and all that sort of thing. We’ve been there twice. The Teesdales’ shooting-parties are famed for their fun and merriment.”
“I know Lady Teesdale,” Otley said. “But I wonder why she has asked me?”
“Don’t wonder, dear boy – but accept and come. We’ll have a real jolly time.”
And then they turned into the Boulevard des Italiens and idled before some of the shops.
At noon she was compelled to leave him and return to her mother. He put her into a taxi outside the Grand Hotel, and then they parted.
Before doing so, the girl said:
“What about next Wednesday? Shall we meet?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Very well,” she exclaimed. “Wednesday at six – eh? I’ll come up to your rooms. We can talk there. I don’t like to see you so worried, dear. There’s something you’re concealing from me, I’m sure of it.”
Then he bent over her hand in a fashion more courtly than the “Cheerio!” of to-day, and standing on the curb watched the taxi speed down the Rue de la Paix.
“Ah!” he murmured aloud, drawing a deep sigh. “Ah! If she only knew! —if she only knew!”
He strode along the boulevard caring nothing where his footsteps led him. The gay, elegant, careless crowd of Paris passed, but he had no eyes for it all.
“Shall I tell her?” he went on aloud to himself. “Or shall I fade out, and let her learn the worst after I’m gone? Yet would not that be a coward’s action? And I’m no coward. I went through the war – that hell at Vimy, and I did my best for King and Country. Now, when love happens and all that life means to a man is just within my grasp, I have to retire to ignominy or death. I prefer the latter.”
Next morning he stepped from the train at Victoria and drove to his rooms in Bennett Street, St. James’s. He was still obsessed by those same thoughts which had prevented him from sleeping for the past week. His man, Sanford, who had been his batman in France, met him with a cheery smile, and after a bath and a shave he went round to his business in Bond Street.
He was of good birth and had graduated at Brasenose. His father had been a well-known official at the Foreign Office in the days of King Edward and had died after a short retirement. In his life Charlie had done his best, and had distinguished himself not only in his Army career, but in that of the world of motoring, where his name was as well known as any of the fearless drivers at Brooklands.
Otley was, indeed, a real good fellow, whose personality dominated those with whom he did business, and the many cars, from Fords to Rolls, which he sold for the profit of his directors paid tribute to his easy-going merriment and his slim, well-set-up appearance. Those who met him in that showroom in Bond Street never dreamed of the alert leather-coated and helmeted figure who tore round the rough track at Brooklands testing cars, and so often rising up that steep cemented slope, the test of great speed.
At six o’clock on the Wednesday evening he stood in his cosy room in Bennett Street awaiting Peggy. At last there was a ring at the outer door, and Sanford showed her in.
She entered merrily, bringing with her a whiff of the latest Paris perfume, and grasping his hand, cried:
“Well, are you feeling any happier?”
“Happier!” he echoed. “Why, of course!”
“And have you had Lady Teesdale’s letter?”
“Yes. And I’ve accepted.”
“Good. We’ll have a real good time. But the worst of it is Cis has been asked too!”
“I suppose your mother engineered that?”
“I don’t think so. You see, he’s Lady Teesdale’s nephew. And it’s a big family party. Old Mr. Bainbridge, the steel king of Sheffield, and his wife are to be there. She is a fat, rather coarse woman who has wonderful jewels. They say that old Bainbridge gave eighty thousand pounds for a unique string of stones, emeralds, diamonds, rubies and sapphires which belonged to the old Sultan of Turkey, Abdul Hamid, and which were sold in Paris six months ago.”
“Yes. I’ve always heard that the old fellow has money to burn. Wish I had!”
“So do I, Charlie. But, after all, money isn’t everything. What shall we do to-night?”
“Let’s dance later on – shall we?” he suggested, and she consented readily.
They sat by the fire together for half an hour chatting, while she told him of her doings in Paris after he had left. Then she rose and made an inspection of his bachelor room, examining his photographs, as was her habit. Ten years ago a girl would hesitate to go to a bachelor’s room, but not so to-day when women can venture wherever men can go.
On that same afternoon Sir Polworth Urquhart, returning home to Mount Street at six o’clock, found among his letters on the study table a thin one which bore a Hong Kong stamp. The superscription was, he saw, in a native hand. He hated the sly Chinese and all their ways.
On tearing it open he found within a slip of rice-paper on which some Chinese characters had been traced. He looked at them for a few seconds and then translated them aloud to himself:
“Tai-K’an has not forgotten the great English mandarin!”
“Curse Tai-K’an!” growled Sir Polworth under his breath. “After ten years I thought he had forgotten. But those Orientals are slim folk. I hope his memory is a pleasant one,” he added grimly as he rose and placed the envelope and the paper in the fire.
“A very curious message,” he reflected as he passed back to his writing-table. “It’s a threat – because of that last sign. I remember seeing that sign before and being told that it was the sign of vengeance of the Tchan-Yan, the secret society of the Yellow Riband. But, bah! what need I care? I’m not in China now – thank Heaven!”
As he seated himself to answer his correspondence, however, a curious drama rose before his eyes. One day, ten years ago, while acting as Deputy-Governor, he had had before him a criminal case in which a young Chinese girl was alleged to have caused her lover’s death by poison. The girl was the daughter of a small merchant named Tai-K’an, who sold all his possessions in order to pay for the girl’s defense.
The case was a flimsy one from the start, but in the native court where it was heard there was much bribery by the friends of the dead lover. Notwithstanding the fact that Tai-K’an devoted the whole of his possessions to his daughter’s defense, and that strong proof of guilt fell upon a young Chinaman who was jealous of the dead man, the poor girl was convicted of murder.
Sir Polworth remembered all the circumstances well. At the time he did not believe in the girl’s guilt, but the court had decided it so, therefore why should he worry his official mind over the affairs of mere natives? The day came – he recollected it well – when the sentence of death was put before him for confirmation. Tai-K’an himself, a youngish man, came to his house to beg the clemency of the great British mandarin. With him was his wife and the brother of the murdered man. All three begged upon their knees that the girl should be released because she was innocent. But he only shook his head, and with callous heartlessness signed the death-sentence and ordered them to be shown out.
The girl’s father then drew himself up and, with the fire of hatred in his slant black eyes, exclaimed in very good English:
“You have sent my daughter to her death though she is innocent! You have a daughter, Sir Polworth Urquhart. The vengeance of Tai-K’an will fall upon her. Remember my words! May the Great Mêng place his curse upon you and yours for ever!” And the trio left the Deputy-Governor’s room.
That was nearly ten years ago.
He paced the room, for his reflections even now were uneasy ones. He remembered how the facts were placed before the Colonial Office and how the sentence of death was commuted to one of imprisonment. For five years she remained in jail, until the real assassin committed suicide after writing a confession.
Yet like all Chinese, Tai-K’an evidently nursed his grievance, and time had not dulled the bitterness of his hatred.
But the offensive Chinaman was in Hong Kong – therefore what mattered, Sir Polworth thought. So he seated himself and wrote his letters.