Chapter Eight.
Some Grave Suspicions
For a moment all was confusion. Colonel Napier sprang to his feet with an angry gesture, and even Lord Cyril Cuthbertson rose and crossed over to the place where Fotheringay was sitting near the fire, and consulted him in low and anxious tones.
Curiously enough, Casteno appeared to be the least perturbed of any of us, although he had made such a dramatic entry. Somehow he seemed to take his position in that conference as a matter of right, and when he saw that none of the others were prepared to talk to him on any terms, but were determined to treat him as a bold, impertinent interloper, he swung round from them and stepped up to my desk, where I sat idly playing with a pen.
“It is not true that I am the wretch whom Colonel Napier has spoken of,” he said to me very simply, looking me straight in the eyes. “It is not true that I am an enemy of England, such as Lord Cuthbertson has suggested. It is not true that I am engaged in any dishonourable or unpatriotic enterprise; nor was it begun, as they pretend, by my flight from a monastery in Mexico coincident with the disappearance of Father Calasanctius; nor did it include in its train the killing of that exceedingly foolish and indiscreet personage, Sutton. On the contrary, I assert here that all and each of those allegations are false; and what is perhaps the more intolerable is the fact that Lord Cyril knows it, has on his file at the Foreign Office a full report of the affair, coupled with a diplomatic request that the man should be found and returned to his friends.”
And he turned and faced the Secretary for Foreign Affairs with a striking look of defiance; but that nobleman would not take up his challenge. He merely drew a little closer to the earl, who was now standing listening to him with an expression of the most grave concern, and the shot went wide.
In no sense disconcerted, however, Don José confronted me again.
“You see,” he said significantly, “Lord Cuthbertson’s striking change of manner when I am here to face him out. I repeat to you that he dare not deny what I have just told you, although it suited his purpose well enough to blacken my name when I was not here to speak up for myself. The point for you now to consider,” he went on in a lower tone, “is, as a man of honour, not whether you can take up the cause of Lord Cuthbertson but if you can throw me over on such flimsy, unsubstantial talk as this has been.”
“If he doesn’t, Doris shall never speak to him again,” cut in Colonel Napier, who was an old Anglo-Indian, and nothing if not a most persistent fire-eater.
Don José turned as swiftly as though he had been stung by a snake. “Colonel, that is not worthy of you,” he cried. “I beg you withdraw it for your own sake, for I warn you most solemnly that before a day has gone you will regret it.”
“And I, as an Englishman, jealous of my country’s success, refuse,” thundered the old soldier. “Let it be enough that I have spoken. Mr Glynn can make his own choice.” And throwing back his shoulders he stalked impressively out of the room.
Almost unobserved, too, the Secretary for Foreign Affairs and Earl Fotheringay had also manoeuvred their steps towards the doorway; and now, when Casteno tried to speak with them, they took advantage of a pause created by the sudden rattle of the colonel’s carriage as he drove towards the Strand to slip out of the room. A minute later there arose the sound of a loud commotion, as of doors banged and of horses urged to a gallop, and both of their broughams followed hard in the old soldier’s wake.
“You see,” said Don José to me, with a little bitterness, “they are not men big enough to face me out over this matter. They prefer to fling their poisoned darts at me and to leave them to work their own mischief, whilst they scuttle off like naughty children who have thrown some stones through a window and are quite content with the sight of the damage they have done, without a thought of the anguish of the householder. Well, well! all this is the trouble which you will no doubt remember that I, at least, expected and warned you against when I asked you to join forces with me. I must not now rail against my own fate, but I do appeal to you – give me a fair chance, do not desert me.”
For an instant I wavered. This quest now had assumed truly gigantic dimensions. Even Cooper-Nassington seemed only a dim, far-off figure against the overwhelming personality of Cuthbertson. More than that, I knew if I clung to Casteno I should have one of the most stern fights with Colonel Napier, who would stop at nothing to keep Doris apart from me.
None the less, I had my own notions of honour likewise, and it did not concern me much that they differed from Earl Fotheringay’s or Lord Cyril Cuthbertson’s. After all, had I not taken my fee from Don José? Had he not paid me all that I asked? Had I not passed him the sacred pledge of my word? And so, at last, I gave my decision.
“I have seen nothing in your life, your behaviour, or your conduct,” I cried, “to warrant me in throwing you over in the way those men have suggested. Until I find some good reason to believe that your intentions are dishonourable, that your career has been criminal, that your desires are hostile to England, I cannot desert you.”
“Well spoken,” replied Don José earnestly. “Your determination does you credit. Believe me, you shall find no cause to make you ashamed that you ever allied yourself with me. On the contrary, as you go deeper into this business you will realise that you have done well to stick to me, however baffling and perplexing may seem some of the adventures I may have to ask you to undertake. And that reminds me of the real business we have in hand to-night! How did you get on at the House of Commons with Cooper-Nassington?”
“Very much better than I could have dared to expect,” I replied with frankness, and returning him his sealed packet addressed to Cuthbertson. In a few graphic sentences I described to him how I had gone to the house of the hunchback with the Member of Parliament, and the extraordinary adventures we had undergone there. Instead, however, of being pleased with the result of the quest, I could see that the Spaniard was greatly disturbed at something that had happened on that occasion. At first he would not tell why we ought not to congratulate ourselves that Zouche had promised to decipher those manuscripts and communicate their contents within a fortnight to Mr Cooper-Nassington. He tried to put me off with commonplace expressions like “Time will prove,” “Never count your chickens,” and “Trust no man further than you can throw him;” but when he realised that I was not going to be denied he admitted that my news about the attempts on the hunchback’s life was much more serious than anybody had any idea of, because they might terrify Zouche and make him do things he would not otherwise dream of.
“But we two are men with brains, hands, resolution,” I interjected. “Why need we stand by and let other people like Fotheringay come in and benefit by our labours? Let us mount guard over Zouche until he has got through his task of deciphering the documents.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” returned Casteno, “but it is not so easy to do as it seems. For one thing, Zouche would not let us act in the capacity of his guardians if he knew we had any aspirations at all for that office. Another thing – where can we hide ourselves? And then,” he added after a significant pause, “I wanted you to be busy on another mission. I had a particular reason for wishing that you should go down to Southampton to-morrow afternoon, when the royal mail steamer Atrato is expected. A lady whom I want you to meet is coming by that boat. As a matter of fact, she is bringing certain valuable documents for me and for the Order of St. Bruno, and she will need all the protection you can give her between the Solent and the Thames if she isn’t kidnapped by some friends of Fotheringay, who, when he was in Mexico, learnt all about her treasures.”
“In that case you must watch the hunchback,” I said decisively, “whilst I run down from Waterloo to Southampton. The whole business won’t take me more than ten hours from London to dock and dock to London.”
“But how on earth shall I watch Zouche? How shall I gain admission to his shop without his knowledge? And where can I hide myself without any undue risk of being found out?”
“A house like his, full of the most extraordinary curiosities, is the best hiding-place one could have,” I replied. “The only trouble is to get inside it, but I am sure if I go with you and help you, and we watch our chance, say whilst his man is taking down the shutters, we can both slip in and run up to the first-floor showroom, which is over the parlour. Once there I will help you to conceal yourself, and also open up for you a peep-hole in the ceiling of the room where the hunchback does his research work, without the slightest fear you will be pounced on. Why, old curiosity shops in London are never disturbed or dusted! Dust is part of the stock-in-trade. Most dealers seem perfectly satisfied if they sell one thing out of each room per week – and often that one thing may be merely a miniature or a coin!”
“All right, I’ll leave the arrangements with you,” answered the Spaniard, with a laugh. “For the present, however, the most important thing for you at least seems to be sleep. I propose, therefore, that before we make another move of any kind you turn in and get a few hours’ sleep whilst I mount guard.”
“Yes, I’m tired,” I admitted, with a half-smothered yawn; “and, after all, we can do nothing at the hunchback’s until about nine o’clock, so I think I will do as you suggest.” And placing some more coal on the fire I wished him good-night and made my way to my adjacent bedroom, where, throwing myself on the sofa, I closed my eyes and endeavoured to push myself off into a soft, dreamless slumber.
Now it is a curious thing that, whereas in the ordinary way I am about one of the heaviest and solidest sleepers you could meet in a day’s journey, when danger threatens me or my interests I seem to have some special intuition which keeps me awake and sensitive to the slightest omen or sound. I can’t explain it. There it is. Ever since I was a boy I have possessed it, and not once has it failed to warn me when I ought to be up and about.
And the odd part of it was that it made itself most painfully evident this night on which Don José Casteno proffered to look after me. In vain I heard his own soft and regular breathing as I crept to the half-open door noiselessly and listened to his movements. In vain I drew the clothes right over my head and conjured up sheep jumping over a stile; pigs elbowing each other through a half-open gate; dogs passing in endless procession, each with a most plaintive look of entreaty that I should wear my brain out counting them for some unseen but remorseless master-calculator – I could not go to sleep. Even the Brahmin magic word “O – om,” which I repeated slowly twice a minute, expelling the air each time most completely from my lungs, failed to hypnotise me. And then all at once I heard something – a slow grating sound that seemed to suggest treachery and mischief.
With all my senses painfully alert I wriggled off my bed and went on hands and knees, dressed only in my trousers and shirt, to the door of my outer office. To my surprise I found Casteno, crouching on his knees also, in front of the fire, which threw a powerful rosy glare on his clean-shaven features. He had pulled a long evil-looking dagger out of a belt hidden near his waist and was sharpening its edge on the hearthstone!
He meant mischief. To whom?
Suddenly, before I had time to think, he rose, and taking up his clerical-looking hat he stepped noiselessly across the office and hastened off down the street, a look of terrible resolution on his face.
Whither was he bound?
Had he heard something that had put him on his guard as he sat crouched over the fire in my arm-chair? Had he seen something or somebody that meant mischief to me? Or had he suddenly resolved to take advantage of those early morning hours to avenge himself on some enemy who lived near at hand? That was where I felt myself as up against a solid wall; it was so hard to divine what was at the back of a foreign stranger with a past that might have been crowded with duel and vendetta and adventure that had given birth to a dozen most deadly hatreds and lusts for revenge.
Half mechanically I went to the doorway and peered through the early morning haze up and down Stanton Street. I could see no one – nothing suspicious – nothing suggestive at all. I was just about to return to my bedroom when I was startled by something playing about my feet. In a flash I looked down, and to my astonishment found Colonel Napier’s clumber spaniel gazing at me with the most appealing eyes.
“Hulloa, Fate!” I said, giving him his customary but oddly suggestive name. “Where have you sprung from? What are you doing here? Did you run after your master’s carriage when the colonel came with Lord Cuthbertson and get locked in some cupboard in the office here, or did you fall asleep on a pile of papers?”
The dog looked up, wagging his tail. Then all at once he gave a sharp bark, and swinging round he tore through the open door down the street as hard as he could pelt. For an instant I was quite astonished. As a rule the dog would stop and fuss with me and play several tricks. Now his manner was so curious that I decided at last he must have expected I should follow him.
“But that must be a long time yet,” I told myself, with a sigh. “I can never see Doris now until I have cleared up this mystery of the manuscripts for Don José.” And, shrugging my shoulders, I made my way back to the bedroom where, feeling sleep was out of the question, and that I must try in real earnest to solve the mystery of the expedition of the Spaniard, I had a tub, and made a hurried toilet, and then set to work to get myself some breakfast.
In about half-an-hour’s time, however, Don José returned, and when he caught sight of me up and dressed he gave such a start of terror I thought that he would drop on the floor in a fit.
“Well,” I said lightly. “You didn’t expect to see me about, did you? Fact was, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to make myself a cup of tea. Where have you been to at this ungodly hour?”
“To a friend’s,” he stammered. “A friend’s in Whitehall Court. Just a call – a friendly call. A man I know in Whitehall Court.”
“In Whitehall Court,” I repeated, bending over some toast I was buttering. “Why, that’s where Colonel Napier lives! Did you happen to see a clumber spaniel heading in that direction? He was here a few minutes ago, but suddenly he bolted for his home in great distress, and I thought that – ”
But I never completed the sentence.
All at once I was startled by the sound of a loud fall.
I looked round.
To my surprise I found that Don José Casteno had dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
Chapter Nine.
The Hunchback Tries a New Ruse
Fortunately, or unfortunately, as the sequel must determine, Don José Casteno’s attack of faintness was not of long duration. Almost, indeed, as I snatched up a flask of brandy from my travelling case and darted across the office to his assistance, he gave a long deep sigh, his eyelids fluttered, and the next moment he sat up, gazing in a bewildered fashion round the room. He took, however, a deep draught of the spirit when I pressed it upon him, but when I ventured to inquire what it was that had caused him to collapse after his walk through the streets from the Embankment to the Strand his eyes grew large and troubled, although he made a tremendous effort to hide his agitation.
“Really, nothing happened to me,” he said in a quick, disjointed fashion. “I visited the man at Whitehall I wished to see, and then, fearing I had done wrong in leaving you unprotected as you slept trusting to my presence, I ran as hard as I could back to your office. The fact is, I must have got rather out of condition of late, and the exertion took more out of me than I intended. You must forgive me this time, and I’ll be more careful in future.”
“Then you didn’t see anything of Colonel Napier’s clumber spaniel?” I queried, and in spite of myself there arose a certain accent of suspicion in my tones.
“No, I didn’t,” he replied, but he kept his gaze steadily averted from mine. “No doubt I ran too fast to notice anything. Besides, I always keep my head down.” And, pretending to yawn, he rose unsteadily to his feet and took a seat near the table, whereon I had laid breakfast for us both.
Of course, I should like to have asked him about the knife which I had watched him sharpen with so much diabolical care, but I realised that for some secret reason this innocent-looking Spaniard was not really telling me the truth about his early morning mission; and, not wanting to be filled up with any more fables, I decided to hold my tongue about the matter, for a time at all events. The incident, however, had put me thoroughly on my guard, and, without letting him become conscious of what was, after all, a rather subtle change of front, I kept a much closer watch than usual on him right through the meal, when we chatted a lot of commonplaces.
All the same, he seemed to feel that we had little time to waste when breakfast was finished and we had started our cigarettes. As the seconds slipped on, and I showed no unusual haste to be off, his manner grew jerky and nervous, and finally he gave the signal to rise with a quick apology to me.
“Really, we must be off,” he said. “I feel quite anxious about what is happening at the hunchback’s. Do let us get into some secure place of concealment before Lord Fotheringay or his envoy appears again on the scene.”
With a great affectation of laziness I rose and followed him down Stanton Street; and this time I put a double safety-lock on my office, to save me from any more surprise visits from men like Lord Cyril Cuthbertson. Now, as it happens, the quickest route from Stanton Street to the Strand is by way of a long, dark, narrow passage, and although Casteno hurried past I made him retrace his steps for a few yards and walk with me through this. At first I imagined I had done this from purely British obstinacy and habit, but all at once I became conscious that some deeper influence and habit must have been at work, for on rounding a bend I was startled to come across a group of early printers’ boys and charwomen gathered excitedly around some object that lay on the ground. This tiny crowd instinctively parted at our approach, and as we passed into their midst I was horrified to see Colonel Napier’s clumber spaniel Fate stretched on the path, with a great gaping cut over its heart!
“Some brute has stabbed it,” said one of the boys, who had been kneeling beside it endeavouring to stop the flow of blood with his dirty handkerchief. “I did my best for him, but he was too far gone. He’s almost dead.” But suddenly the dog seemed to rouse himself – to lift his head – then, catching sight of Casteno, he gave a low growl and made a movement as if he would snap at his legs.
The Spaniard jumped back nimbly, and one of the women exclaimed: “Why, mister, he seems to know you.”
“He doesn’t. I have never seen him before,” cried Casteno. And just then death convulsions seized the poor brute, and as the crowd watched the dog die the incident passed rapidly out of mind. I did not, however, forget it totally, nor the fact that Fate was one in a thousand for sagacity and faithfulness. But what, perhaps, impressed me the most was the shape and size of the wound in the dog’s side. I could have sworn that it had been made by the dagger I had seen Don José sharpen in the glare of my office fire!
Unfortunately, up to that point I had nothing definite to go upon except the most wild and improbable suspicion. After all, why should the Spaniard kill Colonel Napier’s dog? Nothing was to be gained by a piece of petty revenge such as that. As a consequence, I did not worry myself about the incident further, but contented myself by giving the boy who had spoken to me first a shilling to wheel the dead dog to Whitehall Court, and then Casteno and I hastened along Parliament Street and soon appeared outside the closed curio shop.
To all appearances, then, nothing unusual had happened to Peter Zouche or to his premises. The street in which the old curiosity store stood was just as silent and deserted as it had been the previous night when Mr Cooper-Nassington and I drove up and had that memorable interview with the hunchback about the contents of the manuscripts. Nobody seemed astir, no detective appeared on the watch.
Like shadows we crossed the road, inspected the shutters, and gently but noiselessly tried the handle of the door. We soon saw that there was no chance of gaining admission by these methods, but a moment later I caught sight of a long iron pipe that ran from the roof to the ground by the side of the door.
“Can you climb?” I whispered to the Spaniard, recalling, all at once, the favourite method of the portico thief.
He nodded. “I served as a sailor once,” he returned.
“Then follow me,” I said, and seizing this pipe I travelled up by hands and knees until I reached the level of the first-floor window-sill. Then out I whipped my knife, and, forcing back the catch, I raised the sash, with the result that in less than twenty seconds after I had hit on this ruse the window had been closed again, and both of us stood inside the hunchback’s stronghold in perfect freedom and safety.
“This is better than waiting until the assistant comes to open the shop,” I said. “After all, he might have given us some trouble, whereas here we are landed all right before he appears at all. Now to explore and to get into position where you can see, without being seen, all that Master Zouche is up to.”
And we turned and picked our way carefully through the maze of curios with which the place was littered – the antique chests, the old carved cabinets, dainty pieces of Chippendale and Sheraton, with here and there a heathen idol or an Egyptian mummy case flanked by vessels and candelabra torn from holy places in Christian churches. All were flung pell-mell together, as though the man who owned them despised them, and had deposited them there as so much lumber, instead of being, as they really were, worth thousands and thousands of pounds.
Right at the back part of the room we were delighted to find a trap-door let into the floor, and raising this we dropped into a clean, if small, recess, which in times past had doubtless been used for storing valuable old pictures, for in different places we found several canvases that had been taken out of their frames and carefully deposited and packed with their faces to the wall. From the position of a tiny window that had been let into the far end I gathered that at length we had reached a position over the parlour in which I felt sure we should come upon the hunchback. So, closing the trap-door upon us, we went down on our hands and knees and set to bore experimental holes between the rafters, to see whether we could distinguish our exact whereabouts.
After two or three disappointments we succeeded in locating the room I was in search of, and, to our delight, found Peter Zouche there, curled up in the great chair-bedstead which he ordinarily used as an arm-chair near the fire. He had evidently just awoke and lit his fire, for he sat huddled over the burning sticks near a tiny kettle which was steaming merrily, his eyes fixed blankly in space, as though his mind were lost in the maze of some profound speculation.
For some minutes he did not move at all. Then suddenly he seemed to come to some rapid decision, for he sprang out of the chair and went hurriedly to an old Dutch cupboard in a recess, from which he took a big square steel box, like a Foreign Office despatch box, painted mahogany colour, with heavy brass clamps at the corners.
“The manuscripts!” whispered Casteno excitedly as he saw the old man thrust a long skinny hand into his trouser pocket and produce therefrom a bunch of jangling keys. But I shook my head. I remembered the hunchback’s boast to Mr Cooper-Nassington that he had hidden those precious documents in a place where they could be found only by himself. That ordinary-looking safe would attract the attention of the most careless and superficial of burglars.
As it chanced, there were three or four padlocks attached to the case, and each one had to be opened by a separate key, so that over a minute elapsed before the Hunchback succeeded in raising the lid and in disclosing to view what the box really contained – a neat-fitting wig of black and a beard. These he fitted on his head and face, giving him the appearance of some Polish Jew who had but newly arrived on these hospitable shores.
“What on earth can he be up to?” interjected Casteno, who was really now worked up to a painful degree of nervous tension.
“Nothing good, I’m certain,” I returned rather grimly. “My experience has always been that, when men are ashamed of their own features in the ordinary business of life, they are also ashamed of the deeds which they propose to do with a false countenance.”
All this time, however, old Peter was busy in putting the finishing touches to his disguise – in changing his coat and vest, in donning some greasy rags, which he rounded off by a muffler, a coat green with age, and a slouch hat so dirty and worn that few would venture to pick it up from the street, much less place it on their own heads. Finally, after a long and narrow inspection in a beautiful old Venetian mirror that hung on the wall, he seemed satisfied with the change he had effected in his appearance, for he stepped briskly to the mantelpiece and touched a small electric bell, which sounded somewhere high above our heads.
For a moment it looked as though the summons would not be answered. But only for a moment. Later we caught the sounds of tired feet clamping heavily down the wooden stairs until they reached the shop level, then the door of the parlour (I can call it nothing else, it was so typical of its middle-class namesake), was thrust open, and a youth entered bearing a most extraordinary resemblance to my companion Don José Casteno!
Unfortunately, I hadn’t time to remark on this further before the hunchback himself began to speak, and I had to bend all my energies and senses to catching the drift of the conversation, which was carried on in a low foreign-sounding tone.
“Well, Paul,” began the hunchback briskly, “I have taken your advice, like a good father, and have disguised myself in the costume you suggested. What do you think of the transformation? Is it a success?”
“It will do all right,” said the tired-looking youth sullenly. “Only take care how you hold your shoulders. Most people give themselves away by the fashion in which they carry themselves, and you, as a hunchback, worst of all.”
Zouche, like most deformed persons, was painfully sensitive, but to my surprise he did not seem to resent the youth’s bluntness. “Any other advice?” he proceeded, “mind, I want all your tips. I may be gone for a long time.”
“No,” said the youth he called Paul, slowly and critically. “There’s not much to find fault with just at present. Don’t get excited, though, whatever happens. Train your hands not to reveal your true feelings, and, above all, distort that tell-tale voice of yours. Pal in with some foreigner for a day or two, and pick up his trick of speech and intonation.”
“I will, I will,” replied the hunchback. “And now for those manuscripts. Have you prepared those dummies?”
“Yes,” answered Paul. “Here they are – the three of them – and I’ve taken so much pains with the writing which I have faked on them that I would defy anybody to tell, under a day’s examination with microscope and acid, that they are not the real, genuine article you bought for one thousand eight hundred pounds at the sale of Father Calasanctius’ effects at the auction mart.”
“Good,” cried Zouche, rubbing his hands together in the most approved method of the Jewish pedlar. “Pass them over to me.” And the youth produced from a leather case which he had been carrying unperceived by his side three documents so exactly like the real thing I had fought for that I could have sworn myself that they were in real truth the three coveted manuscripts of the sacred lake!
The hunchback, however, did not pass them lightly. He took each one over to the window and examined it with great care, and only when he had assured himself that certain marks were present on each one of them, that all alike presented the same appearance of age and use and treatment, did he place them carefully in the steel box from which he had taken his wig and beard. Then he turned the keys in the locks, and, mounting a chair, he thrust open a secret panel in the rafters, pushed inside this hiding-place the box with the forged documents – as it happened, within two feet of the exact spot where we were stretched, full length, listening to his conversation.
Then he got down and turned again to Paul. “That is all right,” he said gaily. “That is a good thing done, and I shouldn’t be surprised if in a critical moment it doesn’t save both my life and my fortune. Now you have got your lesson by heart, haven’t you? You know what to do when any of those men like Hugh Glynn or the Earl of Fotheringay, or any of those Jesuit spies, come pottering about here! You play the avaricious fool, do you see? Pretend that you know a lot, and that you could tell them a lot if it were only made worth your while, and bleed each one of them for all the cash you can, in return for the information that I have vanished, and also for permission to turn this shop upside down to find the manuscripts, which you can hint you are certain are concealed somewhere about here.”