In response to my request he described Suzor’s lady friend.
Then he added: “She wore only one ornament, a beautiful piece of apple-green jade suspended round her neck by a narrow black ribbon. When they rose and the waiter brought their coats, I heard him call her Dorothy.”
“Dorothy Cullerton!” I gasped. “I recollect that piece of Chinese jade she wore in Florence! What is she doing here, meeting that man clandestinely?”
“The man slipped something into her hand beneath the table and she put it into her handbag,” Hambledon said. “I have a suspicion that it was a small roll of French bank notes.”
“Payment for some information, perhaps,” I said. “I don’t trust that young stockbroker’s wife. Well?” I asked. “And what then?”
“On leaving the Rotonde they drove to the Rue de Rivoli, where the lady alighted and entered the Hôtel Wagram, while he went along to the Hôtel du Louvre,” was his reply.
I was much puzzled at the secret meeting between the affable Frenchman and young Mrs. Cullerton, and next day by watching the entrance to the Hôtel Wagram, which was an easy matter in the bustle of the Rue de Rivoli, I satisfied myself that my surmise was correct, for at eleven o’clock she came forth, entered a taxi, and drove away.
My next inquiry was at the head office of the Crédit Lyonnais, in the Boulevard des Italiens, but, as I suspected, the name of my French fellow-traveller was unknown.
“We have no official of the name of Suzor,” replied the polite assistant director whom I had asked to see. “The gentleman must be pretending to be associated with us, monsieur. It is not the first time we have heard of such a thing.”
So it was apparent that Suzor was not a bank official after all!
In the meantime Hambledon was keeping watch at the Hôtel du Louvre, and it was not until afternoon that he rejoined me to report what had occurred.
It seemed that Suzor had, just before noon, strolled to the Grand Café, where he had met a well-dressed man who was awaiting him. They took coffee together, and then entering a taxi drove out to the Bois, where at the Pré Catelan they were joined by a smartly dressed young woman who was, no doubt, an actress. The three sat talking for a quarter of an hour, after which the two men left her and returned to a small restaurant in the boulevard St. Martin, where they took their déjeuner. Afterwards Suzor had returned to his hotel.
At my suggestion my companion had become on friendly terms with the under concierge, who had promised to inform him if Monsieur Suzor should chance to be leaving.
It was well that he had arranged this, for when at six o’clock Hambledon again went to the hotel the man in uniform told him that Monsieur Suzor was leaving the Quai d’Orsay at eleven o’clock that night by the through express for Madrid.
I saw that for me to travel to Spain by the same train as the man who had posed as a banker would be to court exposure. Hence Hambledon volunteered to travel to the Spanish capital in all secrecy, while I promised to join him as soon as he sent me his address.
That journey was destined to be an adventurous one indeed, as I will duly explain to you, but its results proved more startling and astounding than we ever anticipated.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
THE GATE OF THE SUN
The spring morning was grey and rather threatening as I left the Hôtel de la Paix in Madrid and walked from the Puerta del Sol past the smart shops in the Carrera de San Jeronimo and across the broad handsome Plaza de Canovas, in order to meet Hambledon at a point which he had indicated in the Retiro Park.
Late on the previous night I had arrived in the Spanish capital, and while Hambledon was at the Palace Hotel in the Plaza de Canovas I had gone to the Paix in the Puerta del Sol. I had been in Madrid only once before in my life, and as I walked through the gay thoroughfares I recalled that proud saying of the Madrileños: “De Madrid al cielo y en el cielo un ventanillo para ver á Madrid” (From Madrid to Heaven, and in Heaven a loophole to look at Madrid). The Spanish capital to-day is indeed a very fine city, full of life, of movement, and of post-war prosperity.
Crossing the Prado, where the trees were already in full leaf, I took that straight broad way which led past the Royal Academy, and again crossing the Calle de Alfonso XII came to the Alcahofa fountain, the Fountain of the Artichoke, near which I waited for the coming of my friend.
I stood there upon ground that was historic, and as I gazed around upon that sylvan scene, I wondered what would be the result of our long journey from Rivermead Mansions. That beautiful park which, in the seventeenth century, had been laid out with such taste by the Conde-Duque de Olivares, the favourite of Philip IV, had been the scene of innumerable festivals which swallowed millions of money, and gave rise to many biting “pasquinas” and “coplas.” To-day it is the Hyde Park of Spanish Society. There all the latest Paris fashions are seen at the hour of the promenade, and everybody who is anybody in Spain must be seen walking or riding along its picturesque paths.
I had not long to wait for Hambledon, for after a few moments his familiar sturdy figure came into sight.
“Well, Hughie!” he exclaimed, as we sank upon a seat together. “There’s some deep game being played here, I’m certain!”
“What game?” I asked quickly.
“Ah! I can’t yet make it out,” he replied. “But I’ll tell you what’s occurred. Suzor, on arrival, went to the Ritz, where he has a private suite, and after I had watched him safely there I took up my quarters at the Palace on the other side of the Square, and started to keep a watch upon our friend. I got the concierge at the Ritz to do something for me for which I paid him generously, so as to pave the way for information concerning Suzor, in case we may want it.”
“Good,” I said. “There’s nothing like making friends with a concierge. He knows everything about the visitors to his hotel, and about their friends also.”
“Well, on the first day Suzor did not go out at all. But on the second morning at about eleven o’clock, he came forth very smartly dressed, and strolling along the Calle de Alcalá turned into the Gran Café where an elderly lady dressed in black was awaiting him. She was Spanish, without a doubt. He greeted her with studied courtesy and then sat down opposite her at the little table and ordered apératifs. They conversed together in low, earnest tones. She seemed to be questioning him, while he gave rather hesitating replies. It seemed to me that he had come to Madrid in order to meet her. Therefore when after about half an hour they parted, I followed the lady. She took a cab and drove to the North Station, where she took a ticket for Segovia which I found was about sixty miles from here. I, of course, entered another compartment of the train and in about three hours we reached our destination. At the station she was met by a handsome young girl, who began to ply her with questions to which the elder woman replied in monosyllables as the pair ascended the pretty tree-lined boulevard that led into the picturesque town perched as it is upon a rock between two streams. Half-way up the Passeo, just prior to entering the ancient city so full of antiquities, the two ladies went in the gates of a large white house, evidently the residence of someone of importance. Unseen, I watched the door as it was opened by a man-servant who bowed to them as he admitted them. Afterwards I passed into that most venerable city of Castile where I found a hotel called the Europeo, where I ordered a meal. The waiter spoke broken English, and when I described the big white house in the Passeo Ezequiel González and inquired who lived there he replied that it was the Condesa de Chamartin with her niece Señorita Carmen Florez. The Countess was the widow of an immensely wealthy Spaniard who had died leaving most of his money away from his wife. There were rumours afloat both in Segovia and in Madrid – where he had had a fine house – that the widow was now in quite poor circumstances. Yet the Conde de Chamartin had been one of the richest men in Spain. Then I came back and telegraphed to you in Paris.”
“What has Suzor done since?”
“Practically nothing. He hardly ever goes out in the daytime, which shows me that he is no stranger in Madrid. Yet almost every evening after dinner he goes alone to one or other of the theatres, or to the variety show at the Trianon. Last night he was at Il Trovatore, at the Teatro Real.”
“Alone?”
“Always alone.”
“Then why has he come here, to Madrid?” I queried.
“In order to meet the Condesa de Chamartin.”
“But he has already met her. She came from Segovia to keep that appointment, hence one would think he would have returned to Paris by this time.”
“We can only watch,” Hambledon replied. “I will continue my surveillance, but you had better be seen about as little as possible. He might meet and recognize you. Should I discover anything, or should I want to see you, I will either telephone to you at your hotel, or we will meet again – at this spot.”
Thus it was arranged, and half an hour later we parted.
I walked back to my hotel, my thoughts occupied by the beautiful girl who had suddenly so possessed me. Before me, by day and by night, rose visions of the lovely countenance of that strange, half-bewildered expression which was so pathetic and so mysterious. I recollected her sweet smiles when we had talked in her mother’s drawing-room in Longridge Road, and I knew that my admiration had already ripened into love.
But it was all so mysterious, so incredible indeed, that I hardly dared reflect upon those amazing events of the immediate past.
The name of the great financier, De Gex, was one to conjure with all over Europe. Since my night’s adventure in Stretton Street I had learnt much concerning him. His nationality was obscure. He posed as an Englishman, but at the same time he was a Frenchman, an Italian, and a Greek. His financial tentacles were spread throughout Europe. Fabulously wealthy, he held a controlling interest in a number of banks and great industrial concerns, and it was said that he knew the capitals of the world as a milkman knows the streets of his particular suburb.
Behind the smoke-clouds of great events his intriguing figure followed unseen, unheralded, influencing dynasties through his secretaries and agents – one of whom was Prime Minister of a foreign kingdom – and financing bankrupt states.
Now and then he emerged from the retirement of the Villa Clementini and would go to Paris, Brussels, or Rome, and there entertain most lavishly Ministers and aristocrats of various nations, and frequently give them presents at the dinner-table.
One man declared to me that Oswald De Gex was the friend of mighty persons and the moulder of mighty events. He was a man of mystery who quietly and in secret juggled the destinies of nations in his gilded fingers. Wherever money has the power to speak there Oswald De Gex would be found smiling an inscrutable mysterious smile, but always the centre of intrigue and adventure.
To outwit and expose such a man I was determined.
Back in the hotel I stood at the window of my room, gazing out across the busy plaza upon the fine Ministerio de la Gobernacion, with its great clock upon the façade. The Gateway of the Rising Sun is ever a scene of animation, and the more so on a “fiesta,” which it happened to be that day.
I stood there looking blankly out upon the centre of Madrid life. It was irksome to be compelled to remain in the hotel during the daytime for fear of recognition by the man Suzor. Why had he held that secret meeting with the widow of the wealthy Count Chamartin? Hambledon had certainly acted with discretion and promptitude in following the lady in black to her home in Segovia. Could the Frenchman’s visit to Madrid be in any way connected with the affair at Stretton Street?
A new and highly interesting feature had arisen in the fact which I had only recently discovered, that Suzor had apparently travelled with me from York to London on that well-remembered afternoon with some set and distinct purpose. He had been most affable, and he had told me all about himself – a story which I now knew to be fictitious. In return, I suppose I had told him something about myself, but the exact conversation had long ago escaped my memory.
I had had no suspicion that the man who had posed as an important official of one of the best known of French banking corporations was in any way associated with the mysterious Oswald De Gex, until I had seen him meet in secret the girl with whom I had fallen so violently in love.
I tried to analyse my feelings towards Gabrielle Tennison, but failed utterly. I loved her, and loving her so well, I now set my whole soul upon elucidating the mystery.
Truly, the problem was most puzzling, presenting further complications at every turn.
Through the day I idled about the big hotel, occupying my time in writing letters and reading the papers. The café below in the late afternoon was crowded, for on the day of a fiesta Madrid is always agog with life and movement.
When night fell and I ate my solitary dinner in the big restaurant, where I specially ordered an olla with garbanoz, a dish so dear to the Spanish palate and which cannot be procured beyond the confines of King Alfonso’s kingdom. The waiter aided me, of course, and he smiled contentedly when I gave him his propina.
Around me there dined as smart a set of people as those who frequented the Carlton in London, and perhaps the toilettes were even more elaborate. In certain feminine details the West End can be eclipsed both by modern Madrid and Bucharest, while Paris remains where she has ever been, the inventor of feminine fashion and the alluring City of Light.
In Madrid to-day one has all the pre-war prosperity combined with post-war extravagance. The latest mode of the Rue de la Paix is seen at the Ritz in Madrid almost before it is seen at Armenonville, and it becomes only second-hand when it has filtered through Dover Street – or “Petticoat Lane,” as that thoroughfare is termed by truculent London bachelors.
After dinner I spent an hour at the gay Café Iberia, in the Carrera de San Jeronimo, and returned early to the hotel.
As I entered the concierge met me with a note. It was from Harry Hambledon, written an hour before, urging me to meet him at the Gato Negro Café (The Black Cat), in the Calle del Principe.
I lost no time in keeping the appointment, and on meeting my friend, he whispered excitedly:
“Suzor has a visitor. He arrived at the Ritz at six o’clock, and they have dined together. He is a well-dressed man of between forty and fifty, rather sallow-faced, and has given his name at the hotel as Henri Thibon, rentier, of Bordeaux.”
“Aged nearly fifty – sallow?” I echoed. “Are his features of a rather Oriental cast – a dark, handsome man with deep-set eyes and a dimple in the centre of his chin?” I asked eagerly.
“Yes. That just describes him.”
“De Gex!” I gasped. “Then he is here!”
“After dinner they went out to the Trianon. They are there now.”
“Then we will watch them return to the Ritz,” I said.
We spent an hour together in the café, after which we rose and walked through the well-lit streets and along beneath the trees of the Prado until we came to the great plaza where, opposite the Neptune fountain, the fine hotel stands back behind its gardens.
We both halted against the colossal fountain, the waters of which were plashing into the great basin, and found that from where we were standing we had a good view of the entrance to the hotel. That the theatres were over was proved by the number of cars and taxis that were depositing people in evening-dress who had come to the Ritz to supper. Hence we had not long to wait before we distinguished Suzor and his companion, both in dinner-jackets, strolling on foot across the Plaza from the Calle de Cervantes in the direction of the hotel.
In an instant I recognized the form of the mysterious owner of the house in Stretton Street.
“Yes!” I cried. “I’m not mistaken! But why is he here under the name of Thibon? Without a doubt he is known in Madrid. Why should he seek to conceal his identity?”
“We are here to discover the motive of his journey from Italy. According to his passport he arrived from Irun. But if he had come direct from Italy he would have come from the south – from Barcelona, most probably.”
“He has a house in Paris. No doubt he has followed his friend Suzor from there. It will be interesting to watch.”
As I spoke the pair passed up the steps of the hotel and were lost to sight, therefore we turned and retraced our steps along the wide Carrera de San Jeronimo to my hotel where, for an hour, Hambledon sat in my room discussing the situation.
He suggested that he should move from the Palace Hotel to the Ritz, which was only just opposite. At first it seemed a good idea, but on reflection I did not agree, because I feared lest he might be recognized by Suzor. De Gex, of course, would not know him, but with Suzor the danger of recognition was always great. If either realized that they were being watched, all chances of solving the problem would instantly disappear. Only by secret and patient watchfulness could we discover the motive of that amazing affair near Park Lane, and again the truth of what actually occurred on that fateful November night.
“There is no doubt some further devil’s game is in progress here,” I declared, as Harry sat upon my bed smoking a cigarette, while I was stretched in an easy-chair. “And it is up to us to discover what it is, and whether it has any bearing upon the plot against poor Gabrielle Tennison.”
“Yes,” agreed Hambledon. “We must watch all their actions, for it is now evident that this fellow Suzor is deeply implicated in the conspiracy, whatever its nature.”
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
THE INTRUDER
During the next few days I remained idle in the hotel, not daring to go out while it was light, and leaving the surveillance upon De Gex and his friend to my old friend Hambledon.
Each night we met at one café or another as we appointed, when he would report to me what he had witnessed during the day. It seemed that De Gex – or Monsieur Thibon, as he preferred to call himself – shared Suzor’s private sitting-room and, curiously enough, he also did not go out in the daytime!
After all, that was not surprising, for such a great figure in international finance was probably well-known in the Spanish capital. I had learnt that he had had a hand in the finances of Spain, and had made some huge profits thereby. This man of mystery and intrigue was, I felt, there in Madrid with some malice aforethought. The very fact that he feared to be recognized was in itself sufficient proof! On the other hand, Suzor now went out in the daytime, going hither and thither as though transacting business for his friend. Hambledon had reported to me how he had sent three cipher telegrams by wireless from the Correo Central in the Calle Carretas, the first was to London, the second on the following noon to an address in Paris, and the third at one o’clock in the morning to Moroni in Florence. The message to the latter was in figures, groups of five numerals as used by the British Admiralty. Besides, he had also posted several letters in that big box at the chief post-office marked “Extranjero.”
The message to Moroni was highly suspicious. Harry Hambledon, as a solicitor, was, of course, a very acute person, and in addition he had very fortunately entered into the true spirit of the adventure. Though he longed to be back again at Richmond with his pretty fiancée, Norah Peyton, yet the mystery of the whole affair had bewildered him, and he was as keen as I was myself in elucidating the strange enigma.
Moroni was no doubt a tool in the hands of that quiet, sallow-faced man who, by reason of his colossal wealth and huge financial resources, could even make and unmake dynasties. Oswald De Gex, the man who without nationality or patriotism pulled a hundred financial strings both in Europe and in America, held the sinister Doctor Moroni in his pay. I could discern that fact, just as I could see that the man Suzor, who had so cleverly posed as an official of the Crédit Lyonnais, was one of the many confidential agents of the mysterious De Gex.
One evening I went, by appointment, to the Nuevo Club, to which I had been admitted as a foreign member, and in the smoking-room I awaited Hambledon.
At last he came through the big swing doors, and approaching me, excitedly exclaimed:
“They’ve both gone out to Segovia to see the Countess de Chamartin. De Gex sent a wire early this morning and then, on receipt of a reply, they hired a car and drove out to keep the appointment.”
“Chamartin was a Spanish financier. De Gex is one of international fame – a millionaire,” I remarked. “The wits of De Gex are perhaps pitted against the widow and the executors of the dead man. Don’t you agree?”
“Entirely,” was Hambledon’s reply. “I follow the trend of your thoughts, Hugh. De Gex is the controlling influence of great events, but why should he seek to send you into an asylum for the insane?”
“With the same motive that he endeavoured to send into such an asylum poor Gabrielle Tennison,” I said bitterly.
“In law we have an old adage which says ‘discover the motive and you also discover the miscreant,’” Harry remarked.
I agreed, and, as much bewildered as he, exclaimed:
“Well, as far as we can discern there is something very underhand in this meeting. But the count’s widow is a cheery, easy-going person, despite her mournful black, and perhaps, after all, we may be upon a wrong scent.”
“Exactly. De Gex may be attracted by her handsome niece, the Señorita Carmen Florez – eh?”
“He may. But as the dead count was a great financier, Oswald De Gex may be working in the interests of the widow – or to the contrary.”
“To the contrary,” said my friend without hesitation.
Next morning Hambledon told me that De Gex and Suzor did not return to the Ritz until nearly one o’clock. Apparently they had dined and spent the evening in Segovia. On that same day at noon, my curiosity aroused, I took train to the old-world town with its wonderful cathedral, the Alcazar, and the aqueduct built by Augustus, the largest piece of Roman work extant in Spain, rivalling as it does the walls of Tarragona.
Without difficulty I discovered the fine country house of the Countess de Chamartin situated high up on the broad tree-lined Paseo. She had never seen me, therefore I had no hesitation in idling in the vicinity, in order to catch sight of her or her niece, their descriptions having been given to me by my friend Hambledon. Till it was growing dark I waited in vain, when suddenly I had a very narrow escape. A big dusty grey limousine came rapidly up the hill and halted close to where I was standing. From it there alighted Gaston Suzor, who without hesitation entered the big iron gates and disappeared into the garden.
Fortunately he was in such haste, and so preoccupied that he did not notice me, hence I crossed the road and hid behind a half-ruined wall, where I had a good view of the car.
About twenty minutes later he emerged again, and with him was a young girl wearing a small toque and a rich sable coat. No second glance was needed to realize that it was the Señorita Carmen Florez, niece of the countess. The elegant Frenchman held the door open politely for her, and after she had entered he got in beside her, whereupon the car turned and went down the hill and out of sight.
It occurred to me that Suzor had come from Madrid to fetch her, and that surmise later proved to be correct, for on returning to the capital at ten o’clock Hambledon called at the Hôtel de la Paix, and as we sat upstairs in my bedroom he informed me that the young girl had arrived by car at the Ritz and had dined with De Gex and his companion. The countess, who had apparently been in Madrid since the morning, and who had attended a charity matinée at the Comedia, had arrived at the Ritz a quarter of an hour before her niece. It was evident, therefore, that they were well known to De Gex, who, as I afterwards ascertained, had been a friend of the late count.
The four had dined privately together in Suzor’s sitting-room, and according to the information given to Hambledon by the concierge, a number of papers had been produced and examined immediately after the coffee had been served.
“I understand that the production of the papers had a most disturbing effect upon the countess,” Hambledon told me. “She gave vent to a cry of amazement, and afterwards burst into a fit of tears. At least that is what the waiter told the concierge. The countess is very well known at the Ritz, for she moves in the Court circle, and is often at the smart functions so constantly held there.”
“And the niece?” I asked. “She is certainly both smart and good-looking.”
“I can discover but little concerning her,” Harry replied. “She is not known at all. She has apparently only gone to live with her aunt at Segovia since the count’s death.”
“I wonder what was in the papers which so affected the lady?” I remarked. “De Gex evidently invited them to dinner in order to make some disclosure, and to prove it by the production of documents.”
“Evidently,” replied my companion. “In any case, the countess and her niece have just started to return for home, the widow being very upset at what has been revealed to her to-night.”
“What can it have been, I wonder? Could not the waiter ascertain the nature of the disclosure?”
“No. I saw him myself afterwards, and he explained that the documents in question were produced just after he had left the room. He heard the countess utter a cry of dismay, and when he again entered the room in pretence of clearing away the coffee-cups, he found the lady in tears, while her niece declared hotly in French: ‘I do not believe it! I will never believe it!’ A number of legal documents were spread out upon the table, and De Gex was holding one of them in his hand.”
“Then the object of the visit of the precious pair seems to have been to disclose some hitherto well-guarded secret to the widow of the Spanish financier – eh?”
“Yes,” my friend agreed. “It certainly seems so,” and then he rose and left. Downstairs in the palm court the gay crowd was pouring through to the restaurant for supper after the theatre, for smart Madrid is gay at night, and there is as much dancing and fun there, on a smaller scale of course, as there is in the West End. The pretty dresses, the laughter, the sibilant whispers, and the claw-hammer coat are the same in Madrid and Bucharest as in London or Paris, or any other capital. The hour of midnight is the same hour of relaxation when even judges smile after their day upon the bench, and the blue-stocking will laugh at a risky story.
So after Harry had gone, refusing to have supper with me lest somebody should notice us together, I strolled about, and selecting a table in the corner, ate my solitary meal, having had no dinner that day.
It was past midnight before I ascended in the lift to my room. I undressed and when in bed I read the Heraldo until I suppose I dropped off to sleep.
I knew nothing until later I was awakened by some slight movement. In an instant I was seized by a strange intuition of danger, and my wits became acute. Next second I was on the alert. There had been three lights burning when I retired, now there was but one. I had bolted my door, yet it was now slightly ajar!
I lay and listened. Outside I heard the hum of a car receding across the great square. Afterwards a church bell began to clang discordantly, as they all do in Spain.
The light was over the dressing-table in the corner, and so shaded that the room was quite dim.
Someone had been in my room! I grasped my automatic pistol which I kept under the pillow, and jumping out of bed crossed to the dressing-table where I had put my watch and bank-note-case on taking them from my pocket. As I did so I heard the click of an electric light switch, and next instant the room was in darkness.
For a second I was nonplussed. I knew, however, that I was not alone in the room, so I dashed across to the door, my pistol in my hand, and gaining it before the intruder could escape, turned on the lights.
Before me stood revealed a tall, thin-faced, dark-haired man in his shirt and trousers who, seeing my pistol, at once put up his hands, crying in Spanish:
“Ah! no – no! It is a mistake. Holy Madonna! I have mistaken the room! I thought my friend Pedro was here! A thousand apologies, señor! A thousand apologies.”
“But my door was bolted! How did you get in?” I demanded fiercely.
“No, señor. It was not bolted. I have been taken very unwell. I was seeking my friend Pedro,” he stammered, pale and frightened. “Come to my room, and I will show you my papers to prove that I am no thief, but a well-known advocate of Burgos.”
I told him roughly to turn his face to the wall while I went through my belongings to satisfy myself that nothing had been stolen.
All seemed in order, and the fellow’s explanation seemed to be quite feasible – save for the fact that I distinctly remembered bolting the door. Nevertheless I began to wonder whether I had not misjudged him.
“Come along to my room, señor,” he urged. “I will show you my identity papers. I have to offer you a thousand apologies.”
I followed him to a room near the end of the corridor, where he quickly produced documents and papers showing that his name was Juan Salavera, an advocate, who lived in the Calle de Vittoria, in Burgos. He showed me the portrait of his wife and child which he carried in his wallet and a small painted miniature of his mother, and other proofs of his integrity, including a case well filled with notes.
“I trust, señor, that you will no longer accuse me of being a thief!” he said. “Our encounter would have been distinctly amusing had we not so frightened each other as we have done.”