CHAPTER XV
CONFIRMS CERTAIN SUSPICIONS
For yet another hour we sat together, but Lola would reveal nothing further.
She only repeated that serious warning, urging me to abandon this investigation of the strange affair at Cromer.
She refused to tell me the name under which old Gregory was known in Hatton Garden, and she likewise firmly declined to give me any information concerning the curious code which had been found in Gregory's room. Indeed, she affected ignorance of it, as well as of the mysterious spot in Ealing "where the two C's meet."
"My uncle is in Antwerp," she told me in reply to a question. "I join him to-morrow, and then we go travelling – where, I have no idea. But you know how erratic and sudden our movements necessarily are. The master usually meets my uncle in Antwerp, going there regularly in the guise of a diamond merchant."
"And you will not tell me the master's real name?" I asked persuasively.
"I am not allowed. If you discover it for yourself, then I shall not be to blame," she said, with a meaning smile. "But do, I beg of you, give up the search, M'sieu' Vidal. It can only end fatally if you still persist."
"You have warned me, Lola, and I thank you sincerely for doing so, but I shall continue to act as I have begun."
"At your own peril – a deadly peril!" she ejaculated, with an apprehensive look.
"I must accept the risk," I said quietly. "And I intend to still stand your friend, Lola."
"But you must not, you cannot!" she protested. "Of course I most deeply appreciate all that you have done for me – and how generous you have been, knowing that I am, alas! what I am. But I will not allow you to risk your life further on my account."
"That is really my own affair."
"No. It is mine. I am here to-day, in secret, solely to warn you – to ask you – to give up this inquiry, and allow the matter to rest a mystery," she protested. "Will you not do this for my sake?" she pleaded.
For a few seconds I paused, smiling at her. Then I replied —
"No. I cannot promise that. Young Craig was foully murdered, of that I am confident, and I intend to unravel the mystery."
"Even though it costs you your life?" she asked slowly.
Why, I wondered, was she so frantically anxious for me to abandon the inquiry? Was it really because she feared that her uncle might attempt to rid himself of me, or had she some other hidden motive?
The expression upon her sweet face had altered. It was eager and apprehensive – a curious look, such as I had never witnessed there before.
Deeply in earnest, she was persuading me, with all the arts of which she, as a woman, was capable to give up the investigation – why?
My refusal evidently caused her the greatest anxiety – even deadly fear. She would, however, reveal nothing more to me. Therefore, I told her point-blank that I would make her no promise.
"But you will think over my words," she said earnestly. "You will be forewarned of the evil that is intended!"
"If there is evil, then I will combat it," I replied briefly. "My first concern is yourself, Lola. Do you remember our confidential talks when we strolled together in the Bois – when you told me all your troubles, and your fears?"
"Yes," she replied in a strange, dreary voice. "But – but, I did not tell you all. You do not know," she added in a whisper.
"Tell me all," I urged. "I know you are – well, let us say it quite plainly – a thief."
"Ah! If I were only that, I might dare to look you in the face – to crave your sympathy – your interest – your generosity once again. But I cannot. No! I cannot," and she burst into tears.
"Are we not friends?" I queried. "And between friends surely there may be confidences."
"To a certain degree, yes. But there is a limit even to confidences between friends," was her slow, thoughtful reply, as she dried her eyes with a little wisp of lace.
I was disappointed. I had fully expected to obtain from her some clue which might lead to a solution of the mystery of Craig's death. But she was obdurate.
"Lola," I said, taking her trembling hand again, "I wish to tell you something."
"Well, what is it?" she asked.
"Simply this. I think I ought to tell you that, near that seat on the cliff at Cromer, where Craig was found, there was discovered a clear print of a lady's shoe," and I watched her countenance narrowly.
Her face went paler in an instant, and in her eyes showed a quick look of terror. But in a second she had recovered herself, and said —
"That is interesting. Do you think that its presence there gives any clue to the assassin?"
"I don't know," was my reply. I stood before her in wonder. Her perfect sang-froid was truly amazing. "But," I went on, "curiously enough, the same lady's shoe was found in Beacon House, after Gregory's property had been carried off. It fitted exactly the imprint in the sand near the seat."
The only sign that her mind was perturbed by my knowledge was a slight twitching at the corners of her pretty mouth. Yes, she preserved an astounding calm.
"That is curious," she remarked with unconcern.
"Very," I declared, still gazing fixedly into her white face. "And can you tell me nothing further regarding this affair?" I asked, bending to her, and speaking in a whisper.
She shook her head.
I did not suspect – nay, I could not bring myself to believe – that Edward Craig had fallen by her hand. Yet the facts were strange – amazingly strange – and her demeanour was stranger still.
We had tea together. She poured it out, and handed it to me daintily, with a sweet smile upon her lips. Then after a further chat, she drew on her long gloves, settled her skirts and prepared to leave.
"A letter addressed to the Poste Restante at Versailles will always find me," she said, in reply to my request for an address. "I use the name Elise Leblanc."
I made a rapid note of it upon my shirt-cuff, and having paid the bill, we descended, and walked together, through the busy streets of Norwich, to the Thorpe Station, where I saw her into the evening express for London.
"Au revoir, M'sieu' Vidal," she said, as she held my hand, before entering the first-class compartment. "Do heed my warning, I beg of you. Do not further imperil yourself. Will you?"
"I cannot promise," I replied with a smile.
"But you must not persist – or something will most surely happen," she declared. "Au revoir! If we meet again it must be in the strictest secrecy. My uncle must never know."
"Au revoir!" I said as the porter closed the door, and next moment the train moved off.
I saw her face smiling, and a white-gloved hand waving at the window, and then "The Nightingale" had gone.
A fortnight went by. I had packed my traps, and leaving Cromer, returned to my rooms in London, and then crossed to Paris, where I spent a week in close, anxious inquiry.
Paris in August is given over to the Cookites and provincials, and most of my friends were absent.
The Prefecture of Police was, however, the chief centre of my sphere of operations, for in that sombre room, with its large, littered writing-table, its telephones, its green-painted walls, and green-baize covered door, the private cabinet of my friend Henri Jonet – the famous Chief Inspector of the Sûreté– I sat on several occasions discussing the activity of Jeanjean and his clever gang.
Jonet was a sharp-featured, clean-shaven man of about forty-five, short and slightly stout, with a pair of merry dark eyes, his hair carefully brushed and trousers always well creased. He was something of a dandy in private life, even though he so often assumed various disguises, passing very frequently as a camelot, or a respectable workman. Of his successes in detection of crime all the world knew.
Next to the Chef de la Sûreté, Chief Inspector Jonet was the most famous police official in Paris, or even in France. In the course of the past few years he had many times dealt unsuccessfully with crimes in which the amazing Jules Jeanjean had been implicated.
I had on many occasions assisted him in his investigations into other matters, and, therefore, on the sultry afternoon, when I called and presented my card, I was shown up immediately into his private bureau – that dismal and rather depressing room, which I so well remembered.
We sat smoking together for a long time before I approached the subject upon which I had called to consult him.
He sat back in his chair enjoying the excellent Bogdanoff cigarette, a fellow to which he had handed to me, and recalling a strange affair that, a year ago, had occupied us both – a theft of bonds from a private bank in the Boulevard Haussmann.
Outside, the afternoon was blazing hot, therefore the green sun-shutters were closed, and the room was in semi-darkness. Jonet's big writing-table was piled with reports and correspondence, as well as one or two recently-arrived photographs of persons wanted by the police authorities of other European countries.
Now and then the telephone buzzed, and he would reply, and give instructions in a quick, sharp voice. Then he turned to me again and continued our conversation.
"The Benoy affair in March last was a sensational one – the murder of the jeweller while in his motor-car in the Forest of Fontainebleau – you remember," I remarked presently in French, leaning back in my chair and puffing at my cigarette. "You made no arrest, did you?"
"Yes, several. But we didn't get the culprits," he replied with a dry smile. "It was our friend Jules Jeanjean again, without a doubt. But he and his accomplices got clean away in the stolen car. It was found two days later a mile out of Maçon, painted grey, and bearing another number. The bandits evidently took train."
"Where to?"
"Who knows? Back to Paris, perhaps," was his reply, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Yet, though we made a close search, we found no trace whatever of the interesting Jules. Sapristí! I only wish I could lay hands upon him. He is undoubtedly the most daring and dangerous criminal in the whole of Europe," Jonet went on. "Of late we have had reports of his doings from Germany and Russia, but he always escapes. A big jewel robbery in Petersburg is his latest clever exploit. Yet how he disposes of his booty always puzzles me. He must get rid of it somewhere, and yet we never find any trace of it."
I said nothing. From his words I saw how utterly ignorant even Jonet was of the truth, and how little he suspected the actual fact that Jeanjean was not the originator of those ingenious crimes but merely the instrument of another and a master-brain.
The great police official drew a long sigh, and expressed wonder as to whether the elusive jewel-thief and assassin would ever fall into the hands of justice.
"At present he seems to bear quite a charmed life," he declared with a smile. "He openly defies us each time – sometimes even going the length of writing us an insulting letter, denouncing us as incompetent and heaping ridicule upon the whole department of the Sûreté. It is that which makes my officers so intensely keen to capture him."
"I fear you will never do so," I remarked.
"Why?"
"Because Jeanjean is too clever to be caught. He is wary, rich, and takes every precaution against surprise."
"You know him – eh?"
"Yes," I admitted. "But what is the latest information you have regarding him?"
Jonet took up the telephone and gave instructions for the dossier of the great criminal to be brought to him.
In a few moments a clerk entered bearing three formidable portfolios full of reports, photographs, lists of stolen jewellery, and other matters concerning the career of the man who had constantly baffled all attempts to capture him.
Jonet opened one of the portfolios and scanned several sheets of closely-written reports. Then he said —
"It seems that he, with a young girl, said to be a niece of his, were in Russia just prior to the great robbery from a jeweller in Petersburg. No doubt they were implicated in it. The girl, travelling alone, passed the frontier at Wirballen on the following day, but the telegram from the Petersburg police arrived at the frontier too late, and in Germany she disappeared."
"And what about Jeanjean?" I asked.
The famous Chief Inspector read on for a few moments. Then he replied —
"He was seen on the day of the theft, together with an Italian, believed to be one of his accomplices, but after that nothing further was heard of him until four days later. Then an inspector at Lille recognized him from his circulated photograph, but not being quite certain, and also knowing that, if the suspect were actually the man wanted, he would be armed, and recollecting the affair at Charleroi, he did not care to make a pounce single-handed. He went back to the police-station, but while he was looking for the photograph, his man, evidently seeing he was suspected, made his escape."
"And have you a photograph of the girl?" I asked anxiously.
"She has never been arrested, therefore we have no official portrait," was his reply. "But last summer, one of my assistants, a young man named Rothera, was in Dinard at the Hôtel Royal, keeping observation in another matter, when one evening he saw a young girl, who was staying in the hotel with an elderly aunt, meet in the Casino a man who greatly resembled Jeanjean. The pair went out and had a long stroll, speaking confidentially together. Meanwhile Rothera, like the inspector at Lille, went to the local bureau de police to turn up the description of the wanted man. Having done so, and having satisfied himself that it was actually the master-criminal so long wanted, he took three men and waited in patience in the country road along which the pair had strolled. Two hours elapsed, when, to their dismay, the young girl returned alone. Jeanjean, it was afterwards discovered, had a motor-car awaiting him about four kilometres away along the Dinan road. Rothera said nothing to the girl, but next day got into conversation with her in the hotel. He was exceedingly attentive through several succeeding days, and being an amateur photographer, asked to be allowed to take a snapshot of her. He had satisfied himself that, from her description, she was that female accomplice of the notorious jewel-thief, of whom we possessed no portrait. She, quite unsuspecting, believed Rothera to be an idle young man of means. He took the picture – and here it is," added the Inspector, and passed over to me a photograph of post-card size.
It was Lola. Lola, in a pretty white summer gown, lolling lazily in a long cane chair upon the beach at Dinard, and laughing merrily, her hat flung upon the ground, and her book in her lap. A pretty scene of summer idleness.
CHAPTER XVI
"WHERE THE TWO C'S MEET"
So Lola's portrait was in the hands of the French police. The fact jarred upon me.
But I was careful not to betray any of the agitation I felt, and after gazing upon it in silence I remarked in a light tone to Jonet —
"That is the only portrait you've got – eh? Rather good-looking, isn't she?"
"Good-looking! Ah, mon cher Vidal, extremely beautiful, I call her," declared the Inspector, taking the picture and gazing upon it. "Really," he added, "it hardly seems possible that such a pretty girl should be such a hardened and expert thief as she is reported to be."
"I thought Jeanjean was the thief," I said with a pretence of surprise.
Jonet lit a fresh cigarette, after offering me one. Then he said —
"It is on record here," and he tapped the damning portfolio that lay under his hand, "that in at least half a dozen cases the methods have been the same. The Nightingale – as the girl, whose real name is Lola Sorel, but who has a dozen aliases – is called by her friends, goes with her maid to one of the smartest hotels, say at Carlsbad, Nice, Aix, Trouville, or London, Berlin, anywhere, where there are usually wealthy women. She is a modest little person, and makes a long stay, keeping her blue eyes well open for any visitor possessed of valuable jewellery. Having fixed upon one, she carefully cultivates the lady's acquaintance, is extremely affable, and soon becomes on such intimate terms with her that she is admitted to her bedroom, and is then able to discover where the lady's jewels are kept – whether the case is sufficiently small to be portable, and if not, what kind of lock it has. Every detail she carefully notes and passes on to Jeanjean, who, when the coup is ready, appears from nowhere. He is too wary to stay in the same hotel."
"Then the girl has a maid with her!" I exclaimed.
"Invariably," was Jonet's reply. "But the methods by which the robberies are carried out are varied. In some cases the pretty Lola has simply seized an opportunity to transfer her 'friend's' jewel-case to her own room, whence it has been abstracted in her absence by Jeanjean. In other cases while she has been out with the owner of the jewels, motoring, or shopping, or at the theatre, Jeanjean, having had the tip from his niece, has slipped in and secured the valuables. Again this method has been varied by Lola stealing the best piece from the victim's room and in the night handing it to Jeanjean from her bedroom window, as was done at Cannes last winter, when the Princess Tynarowski lost her diamond collar after a brief acquaintance with the fascinating Lola. The latter remained in the hotel for nearly a fortnight following the theft and left still enjoying the greatest friendship of the unsuspecting victim."
"Then this girl must be very clever and daring," I exclaimed.
"Yes. She is the tool of that scoundrel Jeanjean," declared Jonet, closing the dossier. "Poor girl. Probably she acts entirely against her will. The brute has her in his power, as so many girls are in the power of unscrupulous men in the criminal under-world. They, in their innocence, commit one crime, perhaps unconsciously, and for years afterwards they are threatened with exposure to us; so, in order to purchase their liberty, they are forced to become thieves and adventuresses. Ah, yes, mon cher Vidal, that is a curious and tragic side of criminal life, one of which the world never dreams."
"Then you do not believe this girl is really a criminal from instinct?" I asked eagerly.
"No. She is under the all-compelling influence of Jeanjean, who will not hesitate to take a life if it suits him; the man who has set at naught every law of our civilized existence."
"Her position must be one full of terror," I said.
"Yes. Poor girl. Though I have never seen her, to my knowledge, yet I, even though I am a police functionary, cannot help feeling pity for her. Think what a girl forced into crime by such a man must suffer! Rothera in his report says she is extremely refined and full of personal charm."
"That is why wealthy women find her such a pleasant and engaging companion, I suppose."
"No doubt. Most middle-aged women take an interest in a pretty girl, especially if she can tell a good story of her unhappiness with her parents, or of some sorrowful love affair," remarked Jonet. "I expect she can romance as well as you can, my friend," he laughed. "And you are a professional writer."
"Better, in all probability," I rejoined, also laughing. "At any rate it seems that, by her romances, this fellow Jeanjean reaps a golden harvest."
"And I dare say her profits are not very much," said the police official. "He probably pays all her hotel bills, and gives her a little over for pocket money."
"And the maid?"
"Ah! She must be one of the gang. They would never risk being given away by one who was not in the swim. The maid, if she were in ignorance of what went on, would very quickly scent some mystery, for each time her young mistress found a new friend in an hotel she would notice that jewels invariably were reported missing, and a hue and cry raised. No. The maid is an accomplice, and at this moment I am doing all I can to fix the interesting pair."
"And you will arrest them?"
"Of course," he replied determinedly. "I sympathize with the pretty little thief, yet I have my duty to perform. Besides, if I have the interesting little lady here before me for interrogation, I shall, I think, not be very long before I discover our friend Jeanjean in his secret hiding-place."
I did not answer for several minutes.
A trap had evidently been laid for Lola, and, in her own interests, she should be warned.
Continuing, I further questioned my friend, and he told me some astounding stories of Jeanjean's elusiveness. I, however, said nothing of what I knew. I remained silent regarding the curious affair in Cromer, and as to my knowledge that the pretty villa near Algiers concealed the man for whom all the police of Europe were in search.
My chief concern was for Lola, and that same evening I wrote to her at the Poste Restante at Versailles giving her warning of what was intended. She was probably in Brussels, but in due course would, no doubt, receive my letter, and see me again, as I requested.
On two other occasions I saw Jonet, but he had no further information regarding Jeanjean and his gang. The chief point which puzzled him seemed to be the fact that not a single stone, out of all the stolen jewels, had been traced.
"The receiver is an absolute mystery," he declared. "Perhaps the stuff goes to London."
"Perhaps," I said. "Have you made inquiry of Scotland Yard?"
"Oh, yes. I was over there a month ago. But they either know nothing, or else they are not inclined to help us." Then with a faint smile he added, "As you know, mon cher ami, I have no very great admiration for your English police. Their laws are always in favour of the criminal, and their slowness of movement is astounding to us."
"Yes. Your methods are more drastic and more effective in the detection of crime," I admitted.
"And in its prevention," he added.
That day was the twenty-sixth of August, and as I walked along the Rue de Rivoli back to the Hotel Meurice, I suddenly remembered the mysterious tryst contained in that letter found in the pocket of Edward Craig. The appointment at the spot, "where the two C's meet," at Ealing.
I left Paris that night by the mail-train, crossed from Calais to Dover, and at noon next day alighted at Ealing Broadway station.
I had never been in Ealing before, and spent several hours wandering about its quiet, well-kept suburban roads, many of them of comfortable-looking detached villas. But I found the district a perfect maze of streets, therefore I went and sat on one of the seats in the small park in front of the station, wondering how best to act.
Two clear days were still before me ere the meeting which had apparently been arranged with old Gregory – the man with the master-mind.
"Where the two C's meet."
I lunched at the Feathers Hotel near the station, and all that hot afternoon wandered the streets, but failed to discover any clue. What "C's" were meant? Possibly two persons whose initials were C were in the habit of meeting at some spot, or in some house at Ealing – and Ealing is a big place when one is presented with such a problem.
Fagged and hungry, I returned to my rooms in Carlos Place, off Berkeley Square, where Rayner was awaiting me. He knew the object of my search, and as he admitted me, asked if I had been successful.
"No, Rayner, I haven't," I snapped. "I can see no ray of daylight yet. The appointment is an important one, no doubt, and one which we should watch. But how?"
"Well, sir," he replied, as I cast myself into my big arm-chair, and he got out my slippers, "we could watch the two railway stations at Ealing, and see if we detect old Gregory, or any of the others."
"They might go to Ealing in a tram or a taxi," I suggested.
"Yes, sir. But there'll be no harm in watching the trains, will there?" my man remarked. "If he went in a taxi he might leave by train."
"True," I said, and after a few seconds' reflection, added, "Yes. We'll try the trains."
So, on the night of the twenty-ninth, at about nine o'clock in the evening, I took up my post in the small arcade which formed the exit of the station and there waited patiently.
I was in a shabby tweed suit, with patched boots, and a cloth golf-cap, presenting the appearance of a respectable workman, as I smoked my short briar-pipe and idled over the Evening News.
As each train arrived I eagerly scanned the emerging passengers, while pretending to look in the shop window, but I saw nobody whom I knew.
The expression, "Where the two C's meet," kept running through my mind as I stood there in impatient inactivity. It was already past nine, and, in three-quarters of an hour, the fateful meeting, for somehow I felt that it was a fateful meeting, would be held.
The two "C's." The idea suddenly flashed across my mind, whether the spot indicated could be the junction of two roads, or streets, the names of which commenced with "C." Yet, how could I satisfy myself? If I searched Ealing again for roads commencing with a "C," I could only do so in daylight, too late to learn what I so dearly wished.
Of a porter I inquired the time of arrival of the next underground train and found that I had eight minutes. So I dashed along to the Feathers Hotel, where I obtained a map of the Ealing district and eagerly scanned it to find streets commencing with "C."
For some minutes I was unsuccessful, until of a sudden I noticed Castlebar Road, and examining the map carefully saw, to my excitement, that at an acute angle it joined another road, called Carlton Road, a triangular open space lying between the two thoroughfares.
It was the spot in Ealing where the two C's met!
I glanced at the clock.
It still wanted a quarter to ten, therefore I drained my glass hastily and, leaving the hotel, struck across the small open space opposite the station, in which, in a direct line, lay the junction of the two roads.
The evening was dark and sultry, with every indication of a thunderstorm. I remembered Rayner's vigil, but alas! had no time to go to him and explain my altered plans.
Along the dark, rather ill-lit, suburban road I hurried until, before me, I saw a big electric-light standard with four great inverted globes.
It showed a parting of the ways.
I looked at my watch as I passed a street-lamp, and saw that it wanted two minutes to ten.
And as I looked on ahead I saw, standing back in the shadow of the trees, on the left-hand, a dark figure, but in the distance I could not distinguish whether a man or a woman waited there.
I hurried forward, full of eagerness, to witness the secret meeting, and with an intention of watching and following those who met.
Yet, could I have foreseen the due result of such inquisitiveness, I scarcely think that I would have dared to tread ground so highly dangerous.