I laughed, for I felt convinced that he was a respectable person, and I really began to feel uncomfortable.
Indeed, I muttered an apology for my rather rough behaviour, and at the same time I noticed upon the left side of his neck a deep scar probably left by an abscess.
“My dear señor, it was quite forgiveable in the circumstances,” he declared, offering me a cigarette and taking one himself. “I had supper at a restaurant after the theatre to-night and ate something which had disagreed with me. Half an hour ago I felt faint, so I rose and went to find my friend Pedro Espada, who came with me from Burgos, and I entered your room in mistake. He must be in the room next yours.”
“Shall we seek him?” I asked.
“No. I feel much better now, thanks,” was his reply. “The fright has chased away all faintness! Besides, we should have to go down to the office and ascertain in which room he really is. I shall be all right now,” he assured me.
He went on to say that he had come to Madrid in connexion with a large estate in Granada, to which a client of his had laid claim.
“I shall be here for a week at least, therefore I hope you will give me the pleasure of spending an evening with Pedro and myself. We will dine at a restaurant and go to one of the variety theatres afterwards.”
I thanked him, and laughing at our encounter we parted quite good friends.
On returning to my room I examined the bolt, and found that the screws of the brass socket had been forced from the woodwork and it was lying on the floor.
That fact caused suspicion to again arise in my mind. Surely considerable force must have been used to break away the socket from the woodwork. Yet I had heard nothing!
However, I returned to bed, and leaving the lights on I reflected upon the strange episode. The fellow’s excuse was quite a legitimate one, yet I could not put from myself the fact that the door had been forced. By whom, if not by him?
And yet he was so cool it seemed impossible that he was a thief whom I had caught red-handed.
After half an hour I rose again and thoroughly examined the bolt, when my suspicion was increased by a strange discovery. In my absence the socket of the bolt had been removed, the screw holes enlarged and filled up with bread kneaded into a paste; into this the screws had been placed so that although I had bolted the door I could not secure it, for the smallest pressure from outside would break the fastening from the woodwork!
The dodge was one often practised by hotel thieves. But what proof had I that the lawyer from Burgos had prepared that bolt? I had no means of knowing when the screws had been rendered unstable, or by whom. It might have been done even before I had occupied that room, for the paste was hard and crumbling.
Nevertheless the fact remained that my door had been prepared for a midnight theft, and I had found a stranger in my room. So with a resolve to make further inquiry next morning, I threw myself down and slept.
I must have been tired and overwrought, for it was past nine o’clock when I awoke and drew up the blinds.
Then as I crossed to ring the bell for my coffee and hot water I made a very curious discovery.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
ANOTHER STRANGE DISCLOSURE
On the ground, close to my bed, were three brass-headed carpet pins which had apparently spilt accidentally out of a box.
The sharp point of each was upturned, and it was a marvel that during the night I had not stepped upon them.
How had they come there? Was it by accident or design that they were beside my bed?
At first I wondered whether the hotel upholsterer had been at work on the previous day and had left them behind. He might have used them for pinning down my carpet.
I took one up and examined it. Next second I stood aghast.
The others I also took up, handling them very gingerly, for around the points of each was some colourless transparent substance which looked like vaseline. Such a substance was not ordinarily upon the points of carpet pins.
A horrible thought flashed across my mind. Therefore I carefully placed the three pins upon the small glass tray upon the dressing-table, and dressed as quickly as I could, reflecting the while upon my adventure with the stranger whom I had taken to be a thief.
I shaved, swallowed the coffee which the young waiter brought me, and at once descended to the bureau; when in French I inquired of the clerk for Señor Salavera. He examined the register and replied politely:
“We have no one of that name staying here, señor.”
“What?” I cried. “He was in Room 175 last night!”
“Number 175 was Señor Solier,” replied the smart young clerk. “He paid his bill and left just after seven o’clock this morning.”
“But I saw his identification papers – his passport – letters addressed to him as Señor Salavera!”
“That may be so, señor,” was the suave reply. “But he registered here as Señor Solier.” And then he dropped into English, which he spoke very fairly. “Of course people who stay at hotels do not always give their correct names. They do not wish them published in visitors’ lists in the newspapers. Perhaps it is only natural,” and he smiled.
“Have you any one named Pedro Espada in the hotel?” I inquired.
Again he consulted his register, but shook his head.
“Nobody of that name,” he replied.
I hesitated. Then I asked:
“Did the gentleman who spent the night in Room 175 depart alone?”
The reception-clerk called the uniformed concierge, and asked:
“Did Number 175 leave alone?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “He caught the early express for Zaragoza. He was going on to Barcelona, he told me. He went in the omnibus.”
“No one with him?”
“Nobody.”
“When did he arrive?” I asked.
“The night before last. He was alone – with only a handbag. I charged him with a deposit for his room.”
“Have you ever seen him before?” I asked.
“Never to my recollection.”
“Neither have I,” remarked the concierge. “He seemed very afraid of being seen. I noticed him in the lounge last night. He left this morning quite suddenly, and without taking anything – even a cup of coffee.”
“He left in a violent hurry – eh?” I exclaimed, well knowing the reason. “Well,” I added, “I wish to see the manager.”
“I will inform him,” the clerk replied, and he went to the telephone. A minute later, after exchanging a few words in Spanish, he turned to me, saying:
“You will find the manager’s office on the first floor. If you take the lift the man will direct you, señor.”
A few minutes later I was seated in the office of an elderly bald-headed man, a typical hôtelier, courteous, smiling, and eager to hear any complaint that I might have to make.
At once I told him of my curious adventure of the previous night, and of the sudden flight of the mysterious stranger whom I had discovered in my room.
“That is certainly strange, sir,” he replied in English. “His excuse was a very ingenious one, to say the least. I think we ought to inform the police. Do you not agree?”
I told him of my discovery of the carpet pins, and asked his advice as to whom I might send them for chemical analysis.
At once he suggested Professor Vega, of the Princesa Hospital in the Calle Alberto Aguilera, adding:
“The Professor often dines here. If you wish, I will take you to him.”
So still leaving the three carpet pins upon the little glass tray I wrapped it in paper and together we went round to the hospital, where I was introduced to a tall, narrow-faced, grey-haired man in a long linen coat. To him I explained how I had found the pins on the carpet beside my bed, and asking whether he would submit them to examination.
He looked at them critically, first with the naked eye and afterwards by means of a large reading-glass. Then he grunted in dissatisfaction and promised that next day, or the day after, he would tell me the result of his analysis.
As we drove back to the hotel the manager remarked:
“It is a very curious affair, sir, to say the least. One does not scatter carpet pins about a bedroom, and particularly when the points are smeared with some mysterious substance. If they had been there before you retired to bed the chambermaid must certainly have seen them. She makes a round of the rooms each night at ten o’clock. Besides, the facts that the bolt had been tampered with, and also that the man who occupied 175 left so early and so hurriedly, are additionally suspicious. Yes,” he added, “I think we ought to see the police.”
With that object he took me at once to Señor Andrade, the Chief of Police, a short, stout, alert little man, who heard me with keen interest and seemed very puzzled.
“The intruder’s explanation was certainly a very clever one,” he remarked in French. “It is a pity you did not demand to see his friend, Pedro Espada. If you had, you would have discovered him to be nonexistent.”
“But he was so clever,” I answered. “He told me that at that hour he could not discover in which room his friend was really sleeping.”
“But the night-porter was on duty,” exclaimed the hotel manager. “He had the register and would have been able at once to tell you the number of the room.”
The fellow seemed so frank in revealing to me his money, the portraits of his family, and his private letters, that I had taken his statement as the truth.
Yet, even now, I could not believe that he had any sinister design – not until the Professor had examined those three carpet pins.
In response to close questions put to me by Señor Andrade, with whom was Señor Rivero, the head of the Detective Branch, I gave a description of my midnight visitor as accurately as I could. I told them how I had covered him with my automatic pistol, and how afterwards we had laughed together at our mental fear of each other.
Señor Rivero, the bald-headed, black-bearded chief of the branch of criminal investigation, suddenly stopped me when I mentioned the scar upon the neck of the advocate from Burgos.
“Did you notice that there was any deformity of his hands?” he asked quickly.
In an instant I recollected that the little finger of his right hand had been amputated at the first joint, and I told him so.
“Ah!” exclaimed the shrewd, dark-bearded official. “Perhaps we may here find something of interest. Just a few moments,” and he rose and left us.
We chatted with Señor Andrade for about a quarter of an hour when the detective returned with a bundle of papers and four photographs of a man taken in police style upon one negative, full face, three-quarter, half and profile.
The instant he placed it before me, I exclaimed:
“Why, that is Salavera!”
“I thought as much,” remarked the famous detective with a grim smile. “He is not Salavera, but Rodriquez Despujol, one of the most dangerous criminals in Spain!”
“Despujol!” cried Señor Andrade. “And he was in Madrid last night!” Then he added: “Ah! if we had but known.”
“True. But why was he in the English gentleman’s room?” queried the detective. “He is a dangerous character, and one would have thought that instead of being covered he would, on being cornered, have drawn his knife and attacked his adversary.”
“Despujol is no amateur,” the Chief of Police agreed. “We’ve wanted him for the last five years for the assassination of the banker, Monteros, in the train between Cordova and Malaga, and yet he always evades us, even though he is one of the most audacious thieves in Europe.”
“But his friend Pedro?” I remarked, startled at what I had now learned.
“He does not exist,” replied the detective. “You no doubt had a lucky escape. Had you demanded to see his friend he would no doubt have killed you. He is a man of colossal strength – a veritable tiger, they say.”
“But what was the motive?” I asked. “I have no valuables, save my watch and tie pin, and fifty pounds in English money. Surely it was not worth while to kill me for that!”
“No. That’s just it,” replied the dark-eyed detective, whose chagrin was so apparent that Despujol had slipped through his fingers. “The game was not worth the candle. So he returned after proving to you his bona fides. And these bona fides he always carries in order to extricate himself from any ugly situation.”
“But the carpet pins?” asked the hotel manager.
The director of the Spanish secret police shrugged his shoulders, and said:
“Until Professor Vega can make a report we can do nothing. It is no use basing theories upon mere surmises. So we can only wait for Señor Vega to tell us what he discovers. Meanwhile, we will try and secure Despujol – though I fear he has too long a start of us.”
He crossed the room to the telephone, and a few minutes later spoke in Spanish into the instrument in sharp, authoritative tones.
I understood him to be speaking to the police commissary at Zaragoza, explaining that the much-wanted criminal Despujol had left Madrid for that city, and giving the train by which he was supposed to be travelling. Then, in turn, he spoke to the commissaries of Alcazar, Salamanca, Valladolid and Arroyo, thus informing the police along all the lines of railway leading from the capital.
It was evident that what I had told them caused considerable excitement. Indeed, after the head of the detective department had concluded giving his instructions over the telephone, he turned to me and translated into French the black record of the stranger whom I had discovered in my room.
That he was a bold and audacious criminal was quickly apparent. In the Sud express travelling between Madrid and Paris he had drugged and robbed an Italian jeweller of a wallet containing a quantity of diamonds, which he took to London at once and disposed of to a receiver of stolen property at Kilburn.
Another of his daring exploits was the theft of the famous Murillo from the Castle of Setefillas, near Seville. This he sold to a dealer in Brussels, who afterwards smuggled it to New York, where it was bought by a private collector for a very large sum.
Yet again, a few months later he enticed a bank messenger in Barcelona into a house he had taken for the purpose, and having knocked him down robbed him of his wallet containing a quantity of English bank notes and negotiable securities.
Up to five years before he had been convicted many times, but he now seemed to be able to commit robberies with impunity, and always get off free. It was believed that he lived in secret somewhere abroad and only came to Spain to commit thefts. Probably he passed to and fro to France by one of the obscure mountain tracks through the Pyrenees known only to those who dealt in contraband – and there are many in that chain of mountains.
In any case the police were now hot again upon his track.
Suddenly the head of the Detective Department had another inspiration and rang up both Jaca and Pamplona, which are at the end of each railway line towards the barrier of mountains which form the French frontier.
“If he is on his way to France he will go to either one place or the other,” he said.
“But have they his photograph?” I asked.
“A copy of this photograph taken at the prison of Barcelona, is in every detective office in Spain,” was his reply. “Rodriquez Despujol is the most dangerous and elusive criminal at large,” he went on. “He never leaves anything to chance. No doubt he believed that you were in possession of something valuable, and his intention was to drug you and get it. But you were too quick for him. My chief surprise is why, when he found himself cornered as he was, that he did not draw his knife and attack you.”
“But I had a pistol!” I said.
“Despujol does not fear pistols. Before you could pull the trigger he could have pounced upon you like a cat!” replied the police official.
“Well, he certainly entirely misled me,” I exclaimed. “I even offered him an apology for my attitude towards him.”
The three men laughed heartily.
“An apology to Despujol!” cried the Chief of Police. “How very amusing!”
“I consider that I was very lucky,” I said. “He seems to be a most desperate character.”
“He is,” answered Señor Andrade. “We have had inquiries for him from all over Europe. During the war it seems that he served as a spy of Germany in France, hence the military authorities there are very anxious to get him.”
“But you think he lives in France and crosses the frontier every now and then.”
“Yes. We received information to that effect about a year ago. He probably lives as a poor, but perfectly honest man in one of the remote villages in the Pyrenees, and is perhaps held in high esteem by all around him. It was the case of the notorious Maurice Tricoche who escaped us for years and lived near Luchon until he was betrayed by a woman whose husband he had maltreated. Perhaps Despujol will also be betrayed. We hope so!”
“I cannot understand why the fellow dared to put foot into Madrid when he knows how active we are in search of him,” remarked Señor Rivero, turning to me. “He must have followed you with evil intent. The explanation of mistaking your room was, of course, a good one, but entirely false.”
I longed to tell the police all about the mystery of Stretton Street, and the grave suspicions concerning the great international financier who was at that moment at the Ritz. Yet I hesitated for two reasons, the first being that I feared lest my story should be disbelieved, and secondly, because I had, on behalf of the beautiful girl with whom I had fallen in love, set out to solve the enigma by myself, and bring the culprit to justice.
“If Despujol is arrested I will willingly come forward and give evidence – that is, if I am still in Spain,” I promised.
But both police officials shrugged their shoulders, and the detective remarked:
“Despujol is a will o’ the wisp. There seems little hope of our ever securing him. Nevertheless we shall continue to do our best to allow you to face him again one day. And then, señor, you will realize what a miraculous escape you have had!”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
WHAT THE PROFESSOR FOUND
When I met my friend Hambledon in secret at two o’clock that day under the trees at a spot in the Retiro, not far from the great Plaza de la Independencia, we sat down and I described to him my strange midnight adventure.
He listened in amazement, which was increased when I told him how the police had recognized in the inoffensive lawyer of Burgos the notorious bandit Despujol, who was wanted not only by Scotland Yard, but by the police of Europe.
“But those carpet pins are a curious feature of the affair, Hughie,” he remarked.
“Yes. The police seem to attach no importance to them – but I do.”
“So do I. The opinion of Professor Vega may throw some light upon the affair.”
“I shall call at the Princesa Hospital to-morrow,” I said, and then I inquired the latest information concerning De Gex and his French friend.
There was little to report. De Gex had not been out of the hotel, though Suzor had gone to purchase some cigars at eleven o’clock that morning. While Suzor was absent De Gex had, according to the friendly concierge, received a visitor, a middle-aged Spanish woman of the middle-class. She had asked to see him, and on her name being sent up the great one at once gave orders for her to be admitted.
Again the floor waiter became inquisitive, and heard the financier speaking in English with his visitor.
“Unfortunate! Most unfortunate!” he heard De Gex say. “I am very glad, however, that you have come to me so quickly. You had a telegram from Siguenza – eh?”
“I received it only a quarter of an hour ago, sir,” the woman had replied in broken English.
Then De Gex had apparently given her something for her services, and dismissed her.
“A telegram from Siguenza!” I exclaimed, when my friend Harry had told me this. “Now Siguenza is on the direct line from here to the Pyrenees and the French frontier! That telegram may be from Despujol while in flight. If so, the police have set a trap for him at his journey’s end, either at Jaca beneath Mont Perdu, or at Pamplona. I wonder if he’ll be caught?”
“He might go on to Zaragoza and then turn to Barcelona and Marseilles,” Hambledon remarked.
“All the frontiers are watched, so it seems almost impossible for him to escape. But,” I added, “I wonder if this information conveyed by the Spanish woman really concerned the fugitive?”
“I wonder. A man like De Gex, with so many financial irons in the fire, and with agents in every European capital, is bound to receive visits from all sorts and conditions of people who bring him information for profit. When one deals in colossal sums as he does, one has to cultivate people of all classes,” Hambledon said. “Personally, I don’t think the woman’s information had anything to do with your mysterious friend’s hurried departure,” he added.
“I do. I’m highly suspicious. There was some motive that he did not attack me, as he could so easily have done, for he’s a most desperate character and has committed several murders when cornered. His explanation was really wonderful, and I admit that I was so completely deceived that I actually apologized to him! But,” I went on, “we may perhaps know more when we learn the truth from Professor Vega.”
Hence at noon next day I called at the great hospital in the Calle Alberto Aguilera, and was ushered into the Professor’s room.
“Ah, my dear monsieur!” he exclaimed in French, knowing that I spoke Spanish only with the greatest difficulty. “I am very glad you have called. Those brass-headed pins which upholsterers often use, and which you have submitted to me, are most interesting from a toxicological point of view.”
“What?” I gasped. “Were they poisoned?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied the grave-faced old expert. “And by somebody who is au courant with the very latest and undetectable poison. I searched for alkaloids and glucosids, and used Kippenberger’s process, and then the tests of Marne, Meyer, Scheiblen and Dragendorff. Since you brought the three pins to me I have been active all the time, for the problem much interests me. At last – though I did not think that the substance could possibly contain so subtle, deadly, and as yet unknown poison – I applied Sonnenschein’s reagent – phosphomolybdic acid – and then I obtained a result – only an hour ago indeed!”
“And what was the result, Professor?”
He looked me straight in the face, and replied: “You have had a very narrow escape from death, monsieur – a very narrow one. Had you placed your foot upon one of those upturned points you would have fallen dead within five seconds!”
“Why?”
“Because each of the points of those three pins, left there as though by accident by some upholsterer employed by the hotel, was impregnated by one of the most deadly of all newly-discovered poisons. It is called by men of my profession orosin, after its discoverer Orosi, and is certainly a most dangerous poison in the hands of anyone with criminal intent, because no post-mortem examination known to the medical profession to-day would be able to detect whether the victim had been murdered or died of natural causes.”
“It astounds me!” I gasped.
“No doubt. But to me, of course, it is a most interesting piece of research,” and the professor went on: “I have never met this substance before, though I had heard whispers of it. Professor Orosi, who lived in Cologne a few years ago and is now dead, produced this poison quite accidentally, and among his intimate friends disclosed its existence, though he had no idea how to test for it with certainty. For five years all toxicologists made constant tests until apparently quite by accident Professor Sonnenschein, of Hanover, discovered the reagent which would reveal the actual glucosid, and determine its identity. It gives a yellowish-white precipitate,” he added, holding up for my inspection a small test-tube containing a liquid of the colour he had indicated.
“Marvellous!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea that medical science could carry inquiries so far. I know that in criminal cases in London our pathologists, with their mirror-tests for arsenic, fix the guilt upon poisoners in a manner most amazing. But I have never heard of this secret and most subtle poison which was placed beside my bed, the intention being for me to tread upon the impregnated pin.”
“And if you had done so you would have been taken with a sudden fatal seizure, the cause of which would never have been detected.”
“You mean I should have died of poison?”
“You certainly would. No medical aid would have been of any avail, for orosin is the most deadly substance which has ever been discovered. It is indeed good for humanity that it is known to only a few toxicologists, but that in itself reveals the fact, monsieur, that an exceedingly clever and secret attack has been made upon your life. A single puncture of the skin with one or other of those pins which were placed so conveniently at your bedside when you sprang out to meet the intruder, and you would by this time have been buried as one whose death had been due to natural causes!”
I held my breath. This declaration by one of the greatest professors of toxicology in Europe staggered me. A dastardly attempt had been made upon me by one of the most notorious of modern criminals!
Why? No attempt at assassination is made without some motive, and the game must ever be “worth the candle.”
The whole of the dramatic incidents of the night flashed across my memory; how I had faced the fellow in my room, challenged him at the point of my pistol, and compelled him to give me meekly proofs of his respectability. Truly it was all humorous – but only from Despujol’s point of view.
I recollected those innocent-looking pins which apparently had been left so carelessly in my room. Each held for me a sudden and suspicious death.
“The slightest puncture of the skin would inevitably prove fatal,” the Professor continued. “Feeling yourself pricked you would naturally remove the pin and very quickly afterwards death would supervene. So prior to it you yourself would no doubt have removed all trace of the crime!”
“It is as well that such poison is not generally known, or it would be used by many who wished to get rid of their friends,” I remarked.
The Professor laughed, and agreed, saying:
“There are several poisons of the same type which are known only to toxicologists, and we are very careful not to allow the public sufficient knowledge of them. I must confess that I never dreamed when I commenced my investigations that I was in the presence of orosin. There is sufficient in this little tube” – and he held it to the light – “to kill a hundred persons. It certainly is one of the most dangerous of known compounds.”
“So it is evident that the man Despujol entered my room and placed the pins there intending that I should step upon one or other of them!” I gasped.
“Without doubt. And it seems little short of a marvel that you escaped,” said the Professor.
“It certainly does,” I remarked. “But I must tell the police of the fact you have established. The affair now assumes a new phase. The man was not in my room with the intention of robbery, but in order to encompass my death by secret means.”
“If you had not so fortunately avoided treading upon the pins you certainly would not be alive at the moment,” remarked the Professor, again reflectively examining the yellow fluid in the tube. “What motive could the man have had in gaining access to your room and placing the pins there? I suppose he did not risk putting them there before you went to bed, as you might have picked one up on your boot, and that would have drawn your attention to them. By placing them there after you were in bed he hoped that, on getting out, your bare foot would come into contact with one of the impregnated points.”
“It was certainly a most fiendish plot!” I declared. “And I thank you, Professor, for taking all this trouble with your analysis and so establishing the truth. I will go to the police and inform them.”
“Yes. I wish you to do that, for the fellow is undoubtedly in possession of orosin, and intends to use it. Perhaps he has already killed people by the same subtle and secret means.”
“He must be arrested at all costs,” I said. “Already the police all over Spain are watching for him, and special surveillance is being kept along all the railways and on the frontier.”
“Any person with orosin in his possession should be detained and examined,” the Professor declared. “I wonder where he obtained it?”
“Who knows?” I exclaimed, but I was reflecting whether, after all, my presence in Madrid was not known to De Gex. If so, was it possible that he had hired the notorious Despujol to attack me in secret!
“Of course we know that there is a secret traffic in poisons. Medico-legists, with the police, have established that fact over and over again,” said Professor Vega. “But the vendors are very difficult to trace. One was found only six months ago – a doctor living in a suburb of Copenhagen. But orosin is not known to a dozen people beyond those who study toxicology. Hence this man Despujol must have been supplied with it by someone who knew.”
The suspicion had arisen in my mind that De Gex and his agent Suzor knew that I was in Madrid for the purpose of watching them, and they had resorted to a very clever and secret means of getting rid of me once and for all. If the notorious criminal Despujol was in their pay he would no doubt afterwards blackmail them, now that the desperate plot had failed. Again, could it be possible that Moroni had had any hand in supplying this most effective and dangerous of all secret poisons to the Spanish malefactor who snapped his defiant fingers under the very nose of the police?
As I sat in that quiet room of the Professor’s, a room that smelt strongly of chemicals, though it was filled mostly with books, I could not refrain from shuddering when I reflected upon the narrow escape I had had. Yet if De Gex resorted to such measures, he must certainly hold me in great fear. Besides, if my life was threatened, so also was that of my friend Harry Hambledon, who remained so vigilant in the serene belief that his presence was undetected.
At that time I never dreamed that the great financier who controlled the destinies of certain European States never moved without a police official being in attendance, and that surveillance was kept upon him as though he were royalty travelling incognito. De Gex, it seemed, was ever afraid that one of his enemies, the hundreds whom he had ruined by dint of sharp practice, unscrupulous dealing, and flagrant bribery, might seek revenge.