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CHAPTER XXIII
FOLLOWS THE ELUSIVE JULES

The man of a hundred aliases, and as many crimes, was walking swiftly in our direction, and I only just had time to nip back and cross to the street refuge in the centre of Holborn Circus.

Rayner recognized him in an instant, and I had just time to exclaim —

"There's Jeanjean! Take him up, but be careful. Got your revolver?"

"Trust me, sir," Rayner laughed. "I don't forget Cromer."

"Be careful," I whispered, and next instant we had separated.

I saw Jeanjean gain the end of the drab thoroughfare and glance around apprehensively. He was dressed smartly in a well-cut suit of blue serge and wore a grey hat of soft felt, and a pair of yellow wash-leather gloves, like those poor Craig had habitually affected. His quick, shifty eyes searched everywhere for a few seconds, then he turned into the bustle of the traffic in Holborn and walked westward in the direction of Oxford Street.

A moment later Rayner, a poor wretched-looking figure, penurious and ill, crossed from the opposite side of the road and lounged slowly after Jeanjean until I lost them amidst the crowd.

I was divided in my intentions, for if I followed the pair I should miss the Italian clerk, and as he undoubtedly was a member of the interesting association, I felt that it would be judicious to follow and ascertain where he lived.

For nearly two hours, nevertheless, my vigilance remained unrewarded. Office-boys came forth from the various houses laden with letters, and middle-aged clerks carried in black bags packets of precious stones in order to insure them for transmission by post. Then as the dusk crept on, the offices and workshops in the vicinity emptied their workers, who hurried home by train or motor-bus, while in a constant stream came weary Italians, painfully and patiently dragging piano-organs and ice-cream barrows on their way to their quarters at the other end of the road, their day's wanderings over.

A perfect panorama of London life passed by me as I stood there watching in vain.

At length, about seven o'clock, when it had grown dark and the street-lamps had been lit, I saw the figure of the Italian emerge from the door, and turning his back towards me, he walked in the direction of Clerkenwell Road.

In eagerness I took a few quick steps after him, but halted as a sudden suggestion arose within me. If Jeanjean had been there it was for consultation with his chief – the man he regarded as his master – the master-mind of that daring and dangerous association. Was it possible, therefore, that these two men had left the place at long intervals, because of the suspicion in which they held the curate who had called for a subscription? Was it possible that Gregory Vernon, alias Gregory, and alias a dozen other names, no doubt, was still safe in his high-up dingy little office wherein lay concealed stolen gems of untold value?

Rayner was, without doubt, hot upon the track of the elusive bandit whose empreintes digitales, and whose cliches and relevés were so carefully preserved in that formidable dossier at the Prefecture of Police of the Seine. Rayner was a past master in the art of observation, and I felt convinced that ere long I should learn where Jeanjean made his headquarters in London.

Therefore, after a second's reflection, I decided not to follow Bertini, but to still remain on and watch for the clever old rascal to whose plots so many jewel robberies in Europe, with and without violence, were due. By some vague intuition I felt that if Jeanjean dared to go to the offices of Loicq Freres, then certainly the elder man would have no hesitation. But their daring was astounding in face of the circumstances.

Perhaps, so completely and entirely did they hold Lola in their grip, that they felt confident she dare not reveal the truth. Was it not a fact, alas! that the sweet, dainty little girl was actually a thief, forced into crime and trained by her uncle to act the part of decoy, her very innocence disarming suspicion? Her youth was her protection, for nobody would believe that she was actually a clever adventuress and a professional thief.

Ah! how I pitied her, knowing all that I did. How often recollections arose in my mind of that never-to-be-forgotten night in Scotland when she had inadvertently entered my bedroom, and I had seized her – of her piteous appeal to me, and of her expression of heartfelt thanks when I allowed her her liberty. Yes, assuredly Lola Sorel was to be pitied, not blamed. She had been struggling all along to free herself from those bonds of guilt which had bound her to that unscrupulous brutal gang of malefactors who were undoubtedly the most dangerous criminals in Europe. But, alas! all in vain. They had held her in their inexorable grip until, fearing lest she should appeal to me and make revelations, the sinister-faced old rascal who ruled them had ruthlessly struck her down and left her for dead.

Such a formidable band as that, constituted as it was, and with enormous funds at command, could hold the police in contempt. Money was of no object, and Lola had once told me how police officials, both in Berlin and in Rome, had been judiciously "squared" by a certain obscure lawyer who had an office in the Italian capital, and who, being a member of the gang, conducted their legal affairs – which mainly consisted in the obtaining of information concerning the whereabouts of jewels in the possession of private families, and in bribing any obnoxious police official, from a sous-prefet down to a humble agent.

Bribery among the Continental police is far more rife than is generally supposed. Poor pay, especially in Italy, is the prime cause. There are, of course, black sheep in every flock, even in England, but in the southern countries the aspect of the flock is much darker than in the northern ones. Many a law-breaker to-day pays toll to the police, even in our own London, and from the street bookmaker in the East End slums to the keeper of the luxurious gaming-house near Piccadilly Circus, hundreds of men are allowed to carry on their nefarious practices by sending anonymous presents to the private addresses of those who might trouble them.

So it is even in matters criminal. There is not a single member of the Criminal Investigation Department who has not been sorely tempted at one time or another. And perhaps in the light of certain recent prosecutions, and the allegations of Mr. Keir Hardie, big names – the names of certain men who are leaders of our present-day life and thought – are suppressed, and grave scandals concealed by the judicious application of gold.

My watch proved a wearying one, especially in my weak state.

With the darkness there were fewer people in the streets. The City traffic had now died down, and at eight o'clock Hatton Garden had become practically deserted.

I had been chatting to the constable on duty, who, on account of my clerical attire, had not viewed me with any suspicion, when of a sudden Rayner alighted from a taxi and approached me.

"Well?" I asked eagerly, when we were together.

"He gave me the slip, sir," exclaimed my man breathlessly. "He's devilish clever, he is, sir."

"You surely knew that before, Rayner," I said, reproachfully.

"Yes, and I took every precaution. But he did me in the end."

"How?"

"Well, when he left here, he walked as far as Gamage's very leisurely. Then he took a taxi up to Baker Street Station. I followed him, and saw that he took a ticket to Swiss Cottage, where he took another taxi along the Finchley Road, alighting at the end of a rather quiet thoroughfare of superior houses called Arkwright Road. He went into one of them, a new red-brick house, called Merton Lodge."

"You were near when he entered?" I asked.

"Quite. I watched the door open to admit him, but couldn't see who opened it," he replied. "Then I waited for nearly two hours, concealing myself in the area of an unoccupied house close by. The road was so quiet and unfrequented that I dare not show myself. The house seemed smart and well-kept, with a large garden behind."

"No one came out?"

"Nobody. But at last I grew impatient and got out on to the pavement, when, a few seconds later, the door opened, and a middle-aged, dark-eyed man came out straight up to me. He had a Hebrew cast in his features. Without ado, he asked me with indignation why I was watching his house. Whereupon I told him I was waiting for a friend who had entered there. In reply, he denied that any friend of mine was there. He said, 'I object to my house being watched like this, and if you don't be off, I shall telephone for the police, and have you arrested for loitering. I believe you intend to commit a burglary.'"

"Ah! that was rather disconcerting, eh, Rayner?"

"Yes, sir. What could I do? I saw I'd been spotted, and so the game was up. Well, a thought occurred to me, and I replied to him, 'Very good. Telephone at once. I'll be pleased to have a constable here to help me.' It was a bold move, but it worked. He believed me to be a detective, and his tone altered at once. 'I tell you,' he said, 'I have nobody in my house. Nobody has come in since I returned home at five o'clock. You may search, if you wish!' I smiled and said, 'Oh, so you don't now suspect me of being a thief?' 'Well,' he replied, 'if you think your friend is here, come over and satisfy yourself.'"

"Clever of him – very clever," I remarked. "But there might have been a trap! Jeanjean would set one without the slightest hesitation."

"Just what I suspected, sir," replied Rayner. "At first I hesitated, but I had my revolver with me, so I resolved to search the place. Just as I crossed the road a constable turned the corner idly, and in a moment I was beside him. In a few words I asked him to accompany me, at the same time slipping a couple of half-crowns into his hand, much to the chagrin of the occupier of the house. To the constable I explained that I had reason to believe that a friend of mine was hidden in the house and I had been invited to search. So together we went in, and while the constable remained in the hall, I went from room to room with the dark-faced Hebrew. The place was well furnished, evidently the abode of a man of wealth and taste. He was something of a student, too, for in a corner of the small library at the rear, on the ground-floor, was a table, and on it several queer-looking electrical instruments and a telephone receiver. From room to room I went, and found nobody. Indeed, there was nobody else in the house except a sallow-looking youth, the son of the man who had invited me in. The back premises, however, told their own tale. At the end of the dark garden was a door in the wall, leading to a narrow lane beyond the tradesmen's entrance. By that way Jules Jeanjean had escaped nearly two hours before!"

"So he has eluded you, as he always does," I remarked regretfully.

"Yes. But the owner of Merton Lodge no doubt knows him and gives him shelter when he's in London," Rayner said.

"He may, but, if I judge correctly, Jeanjean knew he was followed from the first, and simply led you there to mystify you. He entered by the front door and went out at once by the back one," I said. "In all probability he only knows the owner of Merton Lodge quite slightly. If not, why did the Hebrew come out so boldly and ask you to search?"

"Bluff," declared Rayner promptly.

"No, not exactly," I remarked. "If Jeanjean knew he was followed he would never have gone to a house where he could be again found, depend upon it. No. He perhaps told the person who opened the door to him some cock-and-bull story, and only remained in the house a minute or two. To me, all seems quite clear. He led you on a wild-goose chase, Rayner," I laughed, as we stood together in Holborn.

Yet scarcely had these words left my mouth when there passed close by us a thin, old gentleman in black, and wearing a silk hat. His grey hair and beard were close-cropped, but his broad forehead and narrow chin could not be disguised.

I held my breath as I recognized him at a glance. He had not noticed me, for my back had been towards him. Yet my heart beat quickly, for might he not have identified me by my clerical hat!

It was the man I had suspected of lying closely concealed in his office – old Gregory Vernon, the dealer in stolen gems.

CHAPTER XXIV
MAKES A STARTLING DISCLOSURE

He crossed Holborn, walking leisurely, and smoking a cigar, and continued down St. Andrew Street and along towards Shoe Lane, I strolling after him at some distance behind.

At that hour the thoroughfare was practically deserted, therefore concealment was extremely difficult. Yet by his leisurely walk I felt convinced that in passing he had, fortunately, not recognized me.

Behind me came Rayner to see, as he swiftly put it, "that no harm came" to me.

The old man in the full enjoyment of his cigar, and apparently quite happy that if his offices were watched his two confederates would have taken off the watchers, strolled along St. Bride Street as far as the corner of Ludgate Hill, when he hailed a taxi and drove westward. His example I quickly followed, leaving Rayner standing on the kerb, unable to follow, as no third cab was in sight.

Up Fleet Street we drove quickly and along the Strand as far as Charing Cross, when the taxi I was pursuing turned into Northumberland Avenue and pulled up before the Hôtel Metropole.

I drew up further along, at the corner of the Embankment, at the same time watching the old man pay the driver and enter, being saluted by the uniformed porter, who evidently knew him.

For about five minutes I waited. Then I entered the hotel, where I also was well known, having very often stayed there.

Of the porter at the door, who touched his hat as I went in, I asked the name of the old gentleman who had just entered.

"I don't know his name, sir. He often stays here. They'll tell you at the key-office."

So I ascended the stairs into the hall, and made inquiry of the sharp-eyed, dark-faced man at the key-counter.

"Oh, Mr. Vernon, you mean, sir? Been in about five minutes. He's just gone up in the lift – Room 139a, first-floor – shall I send your name up, Mr. Vidal?"

"No, I'll go up," I said. "You're sure he is up in his room?"

"Quite sure, sir. He took his key about five minutes ago."

"Is he often here?"

"Every month," was the reply. "He usually spends about a week with us, and always has the same room."

"What is he? Have you any idea?"

"I've heard that he's a diamond-broker. Lives in Paris, I fancy."

"Has he many callers?"

"One or two business men sometimes; but only one lady."

"A lady!" I echoed. "Who?"

"Oh, a very pretty young French girl who comes sometimes to see him," replied the clerk. Then, after reflection, he added: "I think the name is Sorel – Mademoiselle Sorel."

I started at mention of the name.

"Does she come alone?" I asked. "Excuse me making these inquiries," I added apologetically, "but I have strong reasons for doing so."

"Once she came alone, I think about six weeks ago. But she generally comes with a tall, rather ugly, but well-dressed Frenchman of about forty-five, a man who seems to be Mr. Vernon's most intimate friend."

I asked for a further description of her companion, and decided that it was Jules Jeanjean.

"Is the hotel detective about?" I asked.

"Yes. He's somewhere down on the smoking-room floor. Do you want him?" he asked, surprised.

I replied in the affirmative. Whereupon a page was at once dispatched, and returned with an insignificant-looking man, an ex-sergeant of Scotland Yard, engaged by the hotel as its private inquiry agent.

He knew me well, therefore I said —

"Will you come up with me to 139a. I want to see a Mr. Vernon, and there may be a little trouble. I may have to call in the police."

"What's the trouble, sir?" he asked in surprise, though he knew me to be an investigator of crime.

"Only a little difference between us," I said. "He may have a revolver. Have you got one?"

The detective smiled, and produced a serviceable-looking Colt from his hip-pocket, while I drew a long, plated, hammerless Smith & Wesson, which has been my constant companion throughout my adventurous life.

Then together we ascended in the lift, and passed along the corridor till we found the room which the clerk had indicated.

I tapped loudly at the door, at the same moment summoning all my self-possession. I was about to secure one of the most cunning and clever criminals on earth.

There was no answer. Yet I distinctly heard some one within the room.

Again I knocked loudly.

Then I heard footsteps advancing to the door, which was thrown open, and a chambermaid stood there.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said apologetically.

I drew back in dismay.

"Is Mr. Vernon in here?" I asked breathlessly.

"Mr. Vernon – the gentleman in this room, sir?"

"Yes. He has come up here, I know."

"He did come in a few minutes ago, and took a small leather case, but he went out again at once."

"Went out? You saw him?"

"Yes. He was coming out just as I came in, sir," replied the girl.

"Gone!" I gasped, turning to the ex-sergeant.

"He must have gone down the stairs, sir," the man suggested.

With a glance round the room, which only contained a suit-case, I dashed down the stairs and into the hall.

Of the porter at the door I asked a quick question.

"No, sir," he replied. "Mr. Vernon hasn't gone out this way. He may have gone out by the door in Whitehall Place."

I rushed through the hotel and, at the door indicated, the man in uniform told me that Mr. Vernon had left on foot five minutes before, going towards Whitehall.

I hurried after him, but alas! I was too late.

Again, he had evaded me!

So I returned to my rooms utterly fagged by the long vigil, and feeling thoroughly ill. Indeed, in my weak state, it had been a somewhat injudicious proceeding, yet I felt anxious and impatient, eager to strike a crushing blow against the daring band who held poor Lola so completely in their power.

The result of my imprudence, however, was another whole week in bed, and a further confinement to my room for a second week. Meanwhile Rayner was active and watchful.

Observation upon the offices of Loicq Frères showed that only an English clerk was left in charge, and that neither Vernon, Jeanjean nor Bertini had since been there. Vigilance upon Merton Lodge, in Hampstead, also resulted in nothing. It was clear, therefore, that the trio had become alarmed at my visit to Hatton Garden, even though I had exercised every precaution to avoid recognition.

As I sat in my big arm-chair, day after day, unable to go out, I carefully reviewed all the events of the past, just as I have set them down in these pages. Somehow – how it came to pass, I cannot tell – I found myself thinking more than ever of Lola Sorel, the sweet-faced, innocent-looking girl whose career had been fraught with so much tragedy, apprehension and bitterness.

Every day, nay, every hour, her pretty, fair face arose before my vision – that pale, delicately-moulded countenance, with the big, blue, wondering eyes, larger and more perfect than the eyes of any woman I had ever before met in the course of my adventurous career.

Time after time I asked myself why my thoughts should so constantly revert to her. Sleeping or waking, I dreamed ever of that dainty little figure with its sweet, rather sad face, the pathetic countenance of the pretty Parisienne who had so gradually fascinated and entranced me.

Within myself, I laughed at my own feelings of sympathy towards her. Why should I entertain any regard for a girl who, after all, was only a thief – a girl whose innocence had decoyed men, and caused women to betray the whereabouts of their jewels, so that her associates could rob them with impunity?

From the moment when I had seized her in my bedroom at Balmaclellan I had pitied her, and that pity had now deepened into keen sympathy for her, held, as she was, in those bonds of guilt, yet struggling always to free herself, like a poor frightened bird beating its wings against the bars.

Had I fallen in love with her? Time after time I asked myself that question. But time after time did I scout the very idea and laughed myself to ridicule.

The thought that I loved Lola Sorel, beautiful as she was, seemed utterly absurd.

Yes. During that fortnight of forced inactivity I had plenty of time to carefully analyse the whole situation, to examine every detail of the mystery surrounding the death of Edward Craig and, also, to formulate fresh plans.

One fact was evident – that Vernon and his friends intended that Lola should die. In addition, so subtle were they, I knew not when some secret and desperate attack might not be made upon myself.

Foul play was intended. Of that I had no doubt.

The autumn days were passing. Business London had returned from the country and the sea, and even the blinds of houses in Berkeley Square were, one after another, being raised, indicative of the fact that many people in Society were already again in town.

I exchanged letters with Lola almost daily. She was very happy and had greatly improved, she said, and also expressed a hope that we should soon meet, a hope which I devoutly reciprocated.

My one great fear, however, was that some dastardly attack might be made upon her if any of the bandits succeeded in discovering her hiding-place. For that reason I sent Rayner to Bournemouth in secret to watch the house, and to ascertain whether any signs of intended evil were apparent.

He remained there a week, until one morning in October I received an urgent telegram from him asking me, if I were well enough, to lose no time in coming to Bournemouth. He gave no reason for the urgency of his message, but gravely apprehensive, I took the next train from Waterloo, arriving in Bournemouth about four o'clock. Rayner refused to meet me openly, so I drove to the Grand Hotel, where he was staying, and found him in his room awaiting me.

"There's something up, sir," he said very seriously, when I had closed the door. "But I can't exactly make out what is intended. Mademoiselle does not, of course, know I'm here. She went to the Winter Gardens with two young ladies last night, and they were followed by a man – a stranger. He went behind them to the concert, and sat in the back seats watching them, and when they walked home, he followed."

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"Never, sir."

"Is he young or old?"

"Young, and looks like a gentleman."

"A foreigner?"

"No, an Englishman, sir," was my man's reply. "I dare say if we go along to Boscombe to-night, and watch the house, we might see him. He's up to no good, I believe."

I readily adopted Rayner's suggestion.

As soon as darkness fell, we took the tram eastward, and at length alighted at the end of a quiet road of comfortable red-brick villas, in one of which Lola was residing, a road which ran from the highway towards the sea.

Separating, I passed up the road, while my man waited at the corner. The house of my friends stood in its own small garden, a neat, artistic little red-and-white place with a long verandah in front and a pleasant garden full of dahlias. As I passed it I saw that many of the rooms were lit, and I was eager to go and ring at the door and meet Lola, after our long separation.

But I remembered I was there to watch and to ward off any danger that might threaten. Therefore I turned upon my heel, and finding a hedge, behind which lay some vacant land, I hid myself behind it and waited, wondering what had become of Rayner.

All was quiet, save for the rumble of electric trams passing along the main road to Bournemouth. From where I lurked, smoking a cigarette, I could hear a woman's sweet contralto voice singing gaily one of the latest songs of the Paris Café concerts, which ran —

 
"C'est la femme aux bijoux,
Celle qui rend fou,
C'est une enjôleuse,
Tous ceux qui l'ont aimée,
Ont souffert, ont pleuré.
 
 
Ell' n'aime que l'argent,
Se rit des serments,
Prends garde à la gueuse!
Le cœur n'est qu'un joujou,
Pour la femme aux bijoux!"
 

La femme aux bijoux! The words fell upon my ears, causing me to ponder. Was she not herself "La femme aux bijoux"! How strangely appropriate was that merry chanson which I had so often heard in Paris, Brussels, and elsewhere.

Suddenly the train of my reflections was interrupted by the sound of a light footstep coming in my direction, and, peering eagerly forth, I discerned the figure of a rather smart-looking man advancing towards me.

I watched him come forward, tall and erect, into the light of the street-lamp a little to my left. He was well dressed in a smart suit of dark brown with well-creased trousers, and wore a soft Hungarian hat of dark-brown plush. On his hands were wash-leather gloves and he carried a gold-mounted stick.

As he came nearer I saw his face, and my heart gave a great leap. I stared again, not being able to believe my own eyes!

Was it, indeed, any wonder? How would you, my reader, have felt in similar circumstances? I ask, for the man who came past me, within a couple of feet from where I stood concealed, all unconscious of my presence, was no stranger.

It was Edward Craig – Edward Craig, risen from the dead!