"I want to see Mr. Zevenboom if he's at home," said the latter. "If he is, just tell him, my lad, that I should like to speak to him, will you?"
"That's all very well," said the boy with an assurance beyond his years, "but how am I to do it if I don't know your name? Ain't a thought reader, am I?"
"Tell him Mr. Burrell would like to speak to him," said the detective without any appearance of displeasure at the lad's impertinence. "I fancy he will know who I am, even if you don't!"
"Right you are, I'll be back in a moment."
So saying, the lad disappeared into an inner apartment with an air that seemed to insinuate that if Mr. Zevenboom might be impressed by the stranger, it was certainly more than he was. His feelings received rather a shock, however, when his employer informed him in a stage whisper that Mr. Burrell "was the great detective" and made him show him in at once and not keep him waiting. Jacob was accordingly ushered in, with becoming ceremony, and found himself received by a little man, whose beady black eyes and sharp features proclaimed his nationality more plainly than any words could have done.
"Ah, mein dear friend," said he, "I am glad to see you. It is long since we have met, and you are looking as well as ever you did."
"I am all right, thank you," said Burrell genially. "Thank goodness, in spite of hard work, there's never very much the matter with me."
Before he seated himself the other went to a cupboard at the back of his desk and, having unlocked it, took from it a cigar box, one of a number of others, which he placed upon the table at his guest's elbow.
"Try one of these," he said, "you will smoke nothing better in all Europe. I pledge you the word of Israel Zevenboom to that."
"I can quite believe you," said Burrell, and then mindful of the business that had brought him there, he added, "if there's one man in all London who knows a good cigar I suppose you are that one."
The little man grinned in high appreciation of the compliment.
"Cigars or cigarettes, I tell you, it's all the same to me," he said, spreading his hands apart. "There is no tobacco grown, or upon the market, that I can not put a name to."
"And you are familiar with all the best makers, I suppose?"
The other again spread his hands apart as if such a question was not of sufficient importance to require an answer.
"I know them all," he continued pompously. "And they all know me. Morris and Zevenboom is a firm whose name is famous with them all."
A pause of upward of half a minute followed this remark, during which Burrell lit his cigar.
"And now what can I do for you, my friend?" the other inquired. "I shall be most happy to oblige you as far as lies in my power. You were very good to me in de matter of – "
He paused for a moment. Then he thought better of it and came to a sudden stop.
"Well, in the matter that we both remember," he added finally.
"I want a little information from you, that I believe it is in your power to give," said Burrell, taking a note book from his pocket and from it producing the scrap of cigarette he had taken from the gutter of the house in Burford Street. He placed it on the desk before his companion.
"I want you to tell me if you can who are the makers of these cigarettes, and whether they can be obtained in England?"
The other took up his glasses and perched them on the end of his delicate nose, after which he held the charred fragment of the cigarette up to the light. This did not seem to satisfy him, so he took it to the window and examined it more closely. He turned it over, smelt it, extracted a shred of the tobacco, smelt that, and at last came back to the table.
"That cigarette was made by my good friend Kosman Constantinopolous, of Cairo, a most excellent firm, but as yet they have no representatives in England. Some day they will have."
"Where is the nearest place at which these cigarettes can be obtained?" asked Burrell.
"In Paris – if you like I will give you the address," the other replied, "or better still I will get some for you should you desire to have some. They are expensive but the tobacco is good."
"I won't trouble you to procure me any just now, thank you," Burrell answered. "I only wanted to try and fix the maker's name. It comes into some important business that I am just now at work upon. I suppose I can rely upon your information being correct? It will make a big difference to me."
"My good friend, you may be quite sure of that," the other answered with pride. "I am Israel Zevenboom, the expert, and after fifty years' experience, should not be likely to make a mistake in such a simple matter as that."
Then, at Burrell's request, he thereupon wrote down the address of the firm in Paris, after which the detective thanked him heartily for his trouble and bade him good-bye.
"To-morrow," said Burrell to himself, "if all goes well, I will take a run down to Mr. Henderson's country seat and make a few inquiries there. After that it looks as if Paris is likely to be the scene of my next operations. There are one or two little preliminaries, however, that must be settled before I leave England."
He was as good as his word, and the mid-day train next day landed him upon the platform at Detwich. He inquired how far it was to the Hall, and on being informed of his direction, set off along the High Road at a swinging pace. He was a man who never rode when he could walk, and, had he not chosen another profession, it is possible he might have made a name for himself in the athletic world as a pedestrian.
"It seems a sad thing," he said to himself, as he turned in through the lodge gates and began to cross the park, "that a young gentleman owning such a beautiful place as this should be clapped into limbo on a charge of murder. But here I suppose is what the literary gentlemen call the 'Irony of Fate.' However, it's my business to get him out of the scrape he's in if I can, and not to bother my head about anything else."
Having reached the house he sent his name in to Mrs. Henderson, and asked for an interview. Her daughter Kitty was with her in the morning room when the butler entered.
"Mr. Jacob Burrell?" she said in a puzzled way, looking at the card the man had handed to her. "I don't know the name, do you, Kitty?"
"Why, yes, mother, of course I do," the girl replied. "How could you forget? He is the famous detective whom the lawyers have engaged to take up the case for poor Godfrey. Tell him that we will see him at once, Williamson, and show him in here."
A few moments later Burrell made his appearance and bowed to the two ladies. That he was not at all the sort of individual they had expected to see was evident from the expressions upon their faces.
"Doubtless, ladies, you have heard my name and the business upon which I am engaged," he said, by way of introducing himself.
They acknowledged that they had done so, and when they had invited him to be seated, inquired what success he had so far met with. He shook his head cautiously.
"In these sort of cases you must not expect to succeed all at once," he said. Then observing the look upon their faces he added: "You see, Mrs. Henderson, a big case, unless the evidence is very clear and straightforward, is not unlike a Chinese puzzle, being a lot of little pieces cut out of one big block. Well, all the little cubes are tipped out upon the floor in confusion, and before you can begin to put them together it is necessary to familiarize yourself with the rough outlines of the parts and to make yourself acquainted with the sizes, shapes, and numbers of the pieces you have to work with. That done you can begin your work of putting them together."
"Mr. Burrell is quite right, mother," Kitty remarked. "We must be patient and not expect too much at first. We ourselves know that Godfrey is innocent, and Mr. Burrell will very soon demonstrate it to the world, I am very sure." Then turning to the detective she continued: "Since you have spared the time to come down here, it is only natural to suppose that you desire to ask us questions. If so, please do not hesitate to put them. My mother and I will – only too thankfully – do all that lies in our power to assist you in your work."
"Well, miss," said Burrell, "I won't deny that there are certain questions I should like to put to you. In the meantime, however, if you will allow me, I'll just take a walk round the place, and if I have your permission to enter your brother's rooms, it's just possible I may be able to find something that will be of advantage to him there."
"Go where you please," said Mrs. Henderson. "Heaven knows at such a time we should place no restrictions upon any one. If you can save my poor boy – I shall be grateful to you forever."
"Be sure, madam, I will do my best. I can't say more."
Kitty rose from her chair.
"Perhaps it would be better for me to show you my brother's studio first," she said. "Will you come with me?"
Burrell followed her out of the room and down the long corridor to the room in question. Kitty left him there, and for upward of half-an-hour he remained in the apartment, busily engaged upon what he called "forming his own impressions." After that he passed through the French windows out into the grounds beyond, had a few minutes' conversation with some of the men, and, when he had exhausted that portion of the business, returned to the house to find that luncheon had been provided for him in the library. He thereupon sat down to it and made an excellent meal. That finished, he was wondering what he should do next, when Kitty entered the room.
"I hope you have been well looked after, Mr. Burrell," she said. "You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like?"
"Nothing at all, thank you," he answered, "unless I might ask you for a cigarette?"
"A cigarette," she replied, with a suggestion of astonishment, for he did not look like the sort of man who would have cared for anything less than a pipe or a strong cigar. "That is very unfortunate, for I am afraid we have not one in the house. My brother Godfrey, you see, never smokes them, and I remember his saying just before – " she paused for a moment and a look of pain came into her face, "just before this trouble occurred," she continued, "that the supply he had laid in for his friends was exhausted and that he must order some more." Then she appeared to recollect something, for her face brightened. "Ah!" she cried, "now I come to think of it, we do happen to have a box which Mr. Fensden left here before he went away. If you'll excuse me, I'll get it."
He thanked her and she left the room, whereupon he walked to the window and stood looking out upon the lawn, drumming with the fingers of his right hand upon the pane before him. What his thoughts were at that moment will in all probability never be known, but when, a few minutes later, Kitty returned with a box of cigarettes in her hand, he turned to greet her with as much excitement in his face as he had ever been known to show about anything. The box in question was flat and square, with some Arabic writing in gold upon the lid and the inscription Kosman Constantinopolous et Cie, Cairo.
Jacob Burrell may or may not have been a cigarette smoker (for my part I have never seen him with so mild a weed between his lips). I only know that on this particular occasion he stood with the cigarette in one hand for some time without lighting it, and the box in the other.
"Did I understand you to say that Mr. Fensden gave these cigarettes to your brother?" he inquired at last, after he had turned certain matters over in his mind.
"Yes," she replied. "He used to say laughingly that the weakest of all Godfrey's weak points was his dislike to Egyptian cigarettes, and that if he would only try to cultivate the taste for that tobacco, he would be converted from barbarism to comparative civilization. You have seen Mr. Fensden, of course?"
"I saw him in Court," Burrell replied, apparently without much interest. "And now, I think, with your permission, miss, I will return to the station. I have seen all that is necessary for my purpose here, and am anxious to get back to town as soon as possible. There are several matters there that demand my attention." Kitty was silent for a moment. Then she gained her courage and spoke out.
"Mr. Burrell," she said, laying her hand upon his arm, "I suspect you can very well imagine what a terrible time of suspense this is for us. As I said this morning, we all know that my brother is innocent of the crime with which he is charged. But how can we prove it? All our hopes are centred upon you. You have done such wonderful things in the past that surely you can bring the real perpetrator of this hideous crime to justice. Can you not give us even a grain of hope to comfort us? My poor mother is fretting herself to a shadow about it."
"I scarcely know what I can say just yet," he replied. "I, of course, have begun to form my own theories, but they are too unsubstantial as yet for me to be able to pin any faith upon them – much less to allow you to do so. This, however, I will tell you, and any one who knows me will tell you that it is something for me to admit. What I say is that up to the present moment, I have been more successful than I had dared to hope I should be. Like yourselves, I have a conviction that your brother is innocent, and you may believe me when I say that it won't be my fault if we can't prove it. May I ask you to rest content with that? I can not say more."
"I can not thank you sufficiently for your kindness," she answered. "Your words give me fresh hope. May I tell Miss Devereux what you say?"
"Miss Devereux?" asked Burrell, who for the moment had forgotten the young lady in question.
"It is to Miss Devereux that my brother is engaged," Kitty answered. "You may imagine how sad she is. Yet she has been, and still is, so brave about it."
"Not braver than you are, I'll be bound," said Burrell gallantly. "And now I will wish you good-afternoon."
He did so, and refusing her offer of a carriage to take him, was soon striding across the park on his way back to the railway station. As he walked along he thought of what he had done that day, and of the strange good fortune that had so far attended his efforts.
"It is only the merest guess," he said to himself, "and yet it's the old, old story. It is when they think themselves most secure, and that detection is impossible, that they are in the greatest danger. At that point some minute circumstance is sufficient to give them away, and it's all over. This looks as if it will prove another example of the one rule."
It was nearly five o'clock when he reached London. Arriving there he called a hansom and bade the man drive him with all speed to Mr. Codey's office. As it happened he was only just in time to catch the lawyer, who was on the point of leaving.
"Halloa, Burrell," cried the genial Mr. Codey on seeing him, "you seem excited. What's the matter now?"
"I didn't know that I had anything to be excited about," Burrell replied with a smile at the lawyer's attempt to draw him out. "I only thought I would drop in upon you, sir, to let you know that I am leaving for the Continent first thing to-morrow morning. I may be away a week, possibly a fortnight. I'm not able to put a definite time upon it, for it will all depend upon circumstances."
"Then I suppose, as usual, you are beginning to find yourself on the right track," the lawyer remarked drily.
"And, just as usual, sir, I reply that that's as may be," said the other. "I don't deny that I've got hold of a piece of information that may eventually put me on the proper line – but I've got to sift it first – before I can act upon it. That's why I'm going abroad."
"Don't be any longer than you can help about it, then," returned the lawyer. "You know when the trial comes off?"
"As well as you do, sir! That's why I want to get away at once. There's no time to be wasted – that's if we're to be properly posted."
"Well, then, good-bye, and may good luck go with you."
Next morning Burrell, acting on the plan he had made, left London for Paris, with the portion of cigarette in his pocket.
CHAPTER XIV
The first night of his sojourn in Paris was spent at the residence of a friend who was also a well-known Stamp Collector. They dined at a Restaurant together, and spent the remainder of the evening at a Café discussing matters connected with their joint hobby. Had one looked in upon Jacob Burrell then, as he sat sipping a glass of brandy and water, it would have been difficult to imagine that this man who was so emphatic and precise about Water Marks, Bâtonné Papers, Misprints, and Fudges, was in Paris for the sole reason of elucidating a terrible crime, and in the hope of bringing the criminal to justice.
Next morning he was up early and, as soon as was compatible with calling hours, was on his way to the office of which Zevenboom had given him the address. Sending his name in to the head of the firm, he asked for an interview. This was promptly granted him and he was ushered into the proprietor's office, a charming little apartment fragrant with the odour of the divine weed. Now Burrell's French is not particularly good, but Monsieur Zacroft's English was certainly a good deal worse. However, they managed after a fashion, and with the help of a clerk, to make each other understand, and that was perhaps all that was wanted. Zacroft inquired with much solicitude after the bodily welfare of his good friend Zevenboom, and on being assured that the latter enjoyed excellent health, so far as Burrell was aware, proceeded to ask in what way he could be of service to the Englishman. The latter immediately commenced to explain, speaking in a louder tone than usual and using many gesticulations, as an Englishman so often does, in the hope of making his meaning clearer to his auditor. Later on Burrell produced the charred remnant of the cigarette. The Frenchman admitted that the cigarette shown to him was of the same brand as that manufactured by Messrs. Kosman & Constantinopolous of Cairo, of which wealthy firm, he took care to point out, he was the Parisian representative. He was also acquainted with Mr. Victor Fensden, and admitted that he had supplied that gentleman with cigarettes of the brand mentioned for some years past.
Burrell admitted to himself that so far this was very good. He hoped that there would be still better news to follow.
"Perhaps you can tell me when he obtained his last consignment from you?" he said, after a short pause.
The manager begged Burrell to excuse him while he went into his shop to ask the question. When he returned he laid a piece of paper before the other. The latter took it up and examined it carefully, though he was not at all prepared to find that the information would be of much value to him. The surprise he received, however, almost took his breath away. It was the work of a moment to whip out his pocket-book and to open it.
He turned the leaves until he arrived at the entry he wanted.
"And am I to understand you to say that Mr. Fensden wrote to you from England for them? Are you quite sure of it?"
"Quite sure," replied the other, and intimated in exceedingly poor English that he was prepared to show his customer's letter in proof of the genuineness of his assertion. He did so, and Burrell examined it carefully. Ultimately he prevailed upon the other to permit him to keep the letter.
"I wouldn't lose it for a thousand pounds," he said to himself. "Good gracious, this is nothing less than a stupendous piece of luck. It's the last thing in the world I should have thought of."
He thanked the little tobacco merchant for his courtesy, and bade him farewell, promising to remember him most affectionately to Zevenboom when next he should see him. After that he went off to make arrangements about his journey from Paris to Naples.
It was at a late hour of the night when he reached that famous Italian city. Tired out he betook himself to his hotel, slept the sleep of the just, and rose in the morning with the pleasant feeling that the day before him was likely to prove a busy and also an exciting one. After he had breakfasted, which he made a point of doing in the solid English fashion, he smoked a contemplative cigar, and interested himself after his own fashion in the billings and cooings of a young newly married couple, who were staying at the hotel awaiting the arrival of the out-going Australian Mail Boat. Then, having discovered the interpreter whom the hotel manager had found for him, he set off for the street in which he had been told Teresina Cardi and her mother had dwelt.
"'See Naples and die' they say," he muttered to himself, as he made his way out of one into another tortuous and unsavoury street. "It should have been 'smell Naples and die.' A connoisseur could discover a hundred fresh unsavouries in every hundred yards."
At last they found themselves in the street in question, and, after some little hunting, discovered the house in which the murdered girl had resided with her mother. The interpreter questioned the head of the family who lived on the ground floor. With many flourishes and bows, the latter, whose only work in life, it would appear, was to smoke cigarettes upon the doorstep, informed him that the Signora Cardi was dead and that the funeral had been a most imposing one.
"Ask him what has become of the daughter," said Burrell, who was anxious to discover whether or not the man were aware of the murder.
"Gone," was the laconic reply. Eventually he condescended to add, "An Englishman came to see her, and the signorina went away with him. I can tell you no more."
He manufactured for himself another cigarette, with the air of a man who has done everything he could to prove himself hospitable, and is not quite certain whether he has succeeded in the attempt. At this juncture Burrell rattled the money in his pocket.
"Ask him if he thinks he would know the man again if he were to see him," he said. "Tell him also that I will pay him well for any information he may give me."
A vehement debate ensued – which might have lasted from three to five minutes. At the end the interpreter translated.
"He says, your Excellency, that he could pick the man out from a hundred."
"He's been a jolly long time saying it," said Burrell, and as he spoke he took from his pocket half-a-dozen photographs which he had brought with him for that purpose. "However, he shall try!"
Among the number were likenesses of Fensden and Henderson. There were also others of men who had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. The proprietor of the ground floor rooms picked them up one by one and examined them critically. When he reached Fensden's portrait he held it up immediately.
"That is the man," he said to the interpreter. "I need look no farther. I should know him anywhere."
Burrell replaced the photographs in his pocket.
"Ask him if he has any idea where the man he speaks of stayed when he was in Naples," Burrell remarked to the man, but upon this subject it appeared that the other could give no sort of information, though he volunteered for a reward to find out. This help, however, Burrell declined. After rewarding him, he retraced his steps to the hotel.
"It should not be difficult," he thought as he went along, "to discover the Englishman's abode during the time he was in Naples. He is not the sort of man to put up anywhere but at a good hotel."
Foreseeing for this reason that the number of the hotels at which the man he was inquiring about would be likely to stay, were limited, he resolved to institute investigations that afternoon. He was very soon successful. At the second at which he called he discovered that Fensden had resided there and that he had left again on the 3rd of February. The manager knew nothing of any liaison with a girl of the city, nor could he say where his guest went after he left Naples. His servants were equally ignorant, though one of them believed Signor Fensden's destination to have been Rome. Thanking the manager for his courtesy, Burrell left the hotel more than a little disappointed, to spend the remainder of the afternoon securing affidavits as to dates and generally verifying the discoveries he had made.
"Well, I suppose there's nothing for it but to try Rome," he said to himself, when he had considered the matter in all its details.
Early next morning he accordingly shook the highly scented dust of Naples from his feet, and in due course reached the Italian capital. He had been there many times before, and in consequence he was a great favourite at the hotel where he usually resided. The owner welcomed him effusively, somewhat as he would have done a long-lost brother of whom he stood in some little awe, and trusted that he had come to make a long stay.
"I am afraid not," said Burrell. "I have got an important piece of business on hand just now which must be completed as quickly as possible. I am trying to hunt up the doings of an Englishman, who I have reason to believe came here from Naples with a Neapolitan girl, in February last. Possibly he may have stayed with you. Here is his photograph. See if you can recognise him!"
He thereupon produced the photograph of Fensden, and laid it on the table for the manager's inspection. The latter, however, shook his head. He could not remember the face among his guests.
"In that case I must begin my rounds of the hotels again, I suppose," said Burrell.
After luncheon he did so. The result, however, was by no means satisfactory. He made inquiries at every hotel of importance, and at many that were not, but try as he would he could glean no tidings of the pair whose doings he was so anxious to trace.
"It's evident I've gone wrong somewhere," he said to himself. "I don't think I will waste any more time in this place, but go straight on to Vienna and look about me there. We know that the box hailed from the Austrian capital and that the wedding ring was manufactured in the same country. For my own part I don't believe they came to Rome at all."
Once more he resumed his journey and at length had the satisfaction of finding himself in Francis Joseph's famous city. He was very fond of Vienna, partly because he had made two important captures there, and possibly more so for the reason that one of the best deals in stamps he had ever effected was brought to a head in that delightful city. On this occasion he lost no time, but set to work immediately on his arrival. In this town, however, the search was not destined to prove a difficult one. He had not been more than twice unsuccessful when he tried the Hotel National in the Käarntner Strasse. The manager himself admitted that he had a bad memory for faces, but he was quite sure of one thing, if they had stayed at his hotel, his head waiter would be sure to recollect them. That functionary was immediately summoned to the council, and the photograph was placed before him. He had no sooner looked upon it than he recognised it as being the likeness of the gentleman who had stayed there with an Italian girl. They had come to Vienna to be married it was said.
"To be married?" said Burrell in astonishment. "What do you mean by that? Weren't they married when they arrived?"
Before the waiter could answer, light had dawned upon the manager, who thereupon chimed in.
"Ah, my friend, I remember now," he said. "That was the gentleman who was married at the Church of Funfhaus in the Gurtel Strasse. Now I can recall the pair perfectly."
"The Church of Funfhaus in the Gurtel Strasse, you said, I think," said Burrell, making a note of the name in his pocket-book for future reference. "Pray how long did the happy couple remain with you?"
"For upward of a fortnight," the manager replied, consulting a book. "But they were not happy all the time!"
"What do you mean by that? Why were they not happy?"
"For a very simple reason," the manager replied. "I mean that toward the end of their stay it was becoming plain to most of us that the gentleman was a little neglectful of his bride. Yet she was a beautiful girl! Ah! a beautiful girl!"
"It was the waning of the honeymoon," said Burrell cynically. "Poor girl, it didn't last long." He paused for a while to pursue his own thoughts, then he continued aloud, "Have you any idea where they went after they left here?"
The manager reflected for a moment.
"To Munich, I believe. But of that I am not quite certain. We will ask Adolphe."
The head waiter was once more consulted, and corroborated his superior. The couple had left for Munich with the intention of proceeding later to Paris. He was sure of this for the reason that he had heard the gentleman talking to the lady on the subject on the morning of their departure.
The next day was spent by Burrell in collecting further evidence. He interviewed the worthy clergyman who had married them, obtained certain necessary documents from him, discovered the jeweller who had sold them the wedding ring, and when he had learned all he wanted to know, took the train and started for Munich.
In Munich he discovered the hotel at which they had stayed and sundry other particulars which might, or might not, prove useful later on. Thence he continued his journey to Paris, where more discoveries awaited him. At last, and none too soon, he boarded the steamer which was to carry him to England. Even this short voyage was not devoid of interest, and by the time he reached London once more, he felt that there was not very much standing between him and the end. But what remained was in all probability more important than the beginning. There was a blank to be filled in, and filled in it must be, somehow or another, before the trial commenced.
His first act on reaching home was to write out a true and complete record of his doings since he had left London. This done he consulted the memoranda he had received from the representative of Messrs. Kosman, Constantinopolous & Co., in Paris, and then set off by train to the little town of Staines. From Staines to the charming little village of Laleham is a comparatively short and a most charming walk. It was almost mid-day by the time he reached the village and began to look about him for Laburnum Cottage. When he discovered it it proved to be a pretty little thatched building standing in a garden which in summer would be bright with hollyhocks, nasturtiums and other homely flowers. A card in the window proclaimed the fact that apartments could be had within, but at that particular season of the year this announcement would be little likely to attract attention. Pushing open the gate, Burrell made his way up the garden path to the neat little porch where he gave a smart rat-tat with his stick upon the door. The sound had scarcely died away before it was opened to him by a stout, matronly person, dressed in black, and wearing a cap and a neat white apron.