Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

“Then they were on their way to meet somebody or other – eh?”

“Ah! that I don’t know, sir. I drew up in the yard of the hotel, and they both got out. The lady hurried in, while the gentleman paid me, and gave me something for myself. It was then nearly four o’clock in the morning. I should have been back earlier, only I had a puncture the other side of Hatfield, and had to put on the ‘Stepney.’”

“I must go to Stamford,” I said decisively. Then I put something into his palm, as well as into that of the page-boy, and, entering a taxi, drove back home.

An hour later I sat beside my own chauffeur, as we drove through the steadily falling rain across Hampstead Heath, on our hundred-mile journey into Lincolnshire.

We both knew every inch of the road, having been over it many times. As it was wet, police-traps were unlikely, so, having negotiated the narrow road as far as Hatfield, we began to “let her out” past Hitchin, and we buzzed on over the broad open road through Stilton village. We were hung up at the level-crossing at Wansford, but about half-past three in the afternoon we swept over the brow of the hill beneath the high wall of Burghley Park, and saw beneath us the roofs and many spires of quiet old Stamford.

Ten minutes later we swung into the yard of the ancient George, and, alighting, entered the broad hall, with its splendid old oak staircase, in search of the manageress.

She related a rather curious story.

On the previous night, about eleven o’clock, there arrived by car two well-dressed gentlemen who, though English, conversed together in French. They took rooms, but did not retire to bed, saying that they expected two friends who were motoring, and who would arrive in the night. They sat over the fire in the lounge, while the staff of the hotel all retired, save the night-boots, an old retainer. The latter stated that during the night, as he passed the door of the lounge, he saw through the crack of the door the younger of the two men examining something which shone and sparkled in the light, and he thought to be diamonds. This struck him as somewhat curious; therefore he kept a watchful eye upon the pair.

One he described as rather stout, dark, and bald-headed – the exact description of Pennington – and the other description the man afterwards gave to me caused me to feel confident that the second man was none other than the scoundrel Reckitt. What further piece of chicanery had they been guilty of, I wondered?

“About four in the morning a grey car drove up, sir,” went on the boots, “and a lady with a dark cloak over her evening dress dashed in, and they both rose quickly and welcomed her. Then, in order that I should not understand, they again started talking in some foreign language – French I expect it was. A few moments later the gentleman came in. They welcomed him warmly, addressing him by the name of Lewis. I saw the bald-headed man wring his hand heartily, and heard him exclaim: ‘By Jove! old man, you can’t think how glad we are to see you back again! You must have had a narrow squeak! Not another single living man would have acted with the determination and bravery with which you’ve acted. Only you must be careful, Lewis, old man – deuced careful. There are enemies about, you know.’ Then the gentleman said: ‘I know! I’m quite aware of my peril, Arnold. You, too, had a narrow shave in Paris a short time ago – I hear from Sonia.’ ‘Yes,’ laughed the other, ‘she acted splendidly. But, as you say, it was a very close thing. Have you seen Shuttleworth yet?’ he asked. The other said: ‘He met me, in the Ditches at Southampton, two nights ago, and told me all that’s happened.’ ‘Ah! And Sonia has told you the rest, I suppose?’ he asked; to which the other man replied in the affirmative, adding: ‘It’s a bad job, I fear, for Owen Biddulph – a very bad job for the fellow!’ That was all the conversation that I overheard at that time, for they then rang the bell and ordered whisky and sodas.”

“And what else did you see or hear?” I asked eagerly, much puzzled by his statement.

“They struck me as rather a suspicious lot, sir,” the man said. “After I had taken them in their drinks they closed the door, and seemed to hold some sort of a consultation. While this was going on, two men drove up in another car, and asked if a Mr. Winton was here. I told him he was – for the bald-headed gentleman had given the name of Douglas Winton. They were at once welcomed, and admitted to the conference.”

“Rather curious – to hold a conference in such a manner and at such an hour!” I remarked.

“Yes, sir. It was a secret meeting, evidently. They all spoke in another language. The two men who last arrived were no doubt foreigners.”

“Was one of them stout and wore gold-rimmed glasses?” I inquired quickly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AN UNFORTUNATE SLIP

“No, sir,” the boots replied, “both were youngish men, with dark moustaches. They wore heavy coats, and were in an open car. They came from York way, and had evidently driven some distance.”

“You saw nothing of what went on at their mysterious meeting?”

“Well, sir, the fact is, when I had had my suspicions aroused, I crept out into the yard, and found that I could see into the lounge through the chink between the blind and the window. They were all seated round the table, the head of which had been taken by the gentleman who had arrived from London with the lady. He seemed to be chairman, and he talked in a low, deliberate, and very earnest tone, being listened to with greatest interest. He evidently related something which amazed them. Then a map, or plan, was placed upon the table, and each examined it in turn. Afterwards two photographs were produced by Mr. Winton and handed around the assembly. Each man looked long and steadily at the pictures – both were of women. The young lady present refused to take any part in the discussion, and I noticed that she passed on the photographs without comment – without even glancing at them.”

“Did she appear to be present there against her will?” I asked breathlessly.

“No, not exactly. She seemed very friendly with all the gentlemen. The two foreigners were strangers to her – for she was introduced to them.”

“By name?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Sonia Poland.”

I bit my lip. Had she already dropped my name, and was now passing under an alias?

“Sonia Poland!” I echoed. “Was it for the purpose of concealing her identity from the foreigners, do you think?” I asked.

“No, sir. Because Winton and his companion addressed her as Sonia Poland when she arrived.”

“And you believed it to be her real name?”

“I suppose it is, sir,” was the man’s reply, for I fear my manner somewhat mystified him.

“Well, and what further did you see at this early morning consultation?” I asked, mindful that his curiosity had no doubt been aroused by sight of something sparkling in the strange visitor’s hand.

“The gentleman called Mr. Lewis wrote out a paper very carefully and handed it round. Every one signed it – except the lady. They asked her to do so, but she protested vigorously, and the matter was not pressed. Then the photograph of a man was shown to the two foreigners, and the lady tried to prevent it. Curiously enough, sir, I caught a good sight of it – just a head and shoulders – and the picture very much resembled you yourself, sir!”

“Me!” I cried. “And they showed it to the two young foreigners – eh?”

“Yes, sir. One of them took it and put it into his pocket. Then the mysterious Mr. Lewis, as chairman of the meeting, seemed to raise a protest. The two foreigners gesticulated, jabbered away, and raised their shoulders a lot. I dearly wish I could have made out a word they said. Unfortunately I couldn’t. Only I saw that in Mr. Lewis’s face was a look of fierce determination. They at first defied him. But at last, with great reluctance, they handed back the photograph, which Mr. Lewis himself burned on the fire.”

“He burned my photograph!”

“Yes, sir. I think it was yours, sir – but of course I can’t be quite positive.”

“And what else?”

“Mr. Winton said something, whereupon all of them glanced at the door and then at the window. One of the foreigners came to the window, but did not notice that there was a slight crack through which I could see. Then he turned the key in the door. After he had returned to his chair, the man who had arrived with Mr. Winton took from his pocket something that shone. My heart beat quickly. It was a diamond necklet – the object I had seen in his hand earlier. He passed it round for the admiration of the others, who each took it and closely examined it beneath the light – all but the young lady. She was standing aside, near the fireplace, watching. Now and then she placed her hand to her forehead, as though her brain were weary.”

“And after that?”

“After the necklet had been passed round the elder of the two foreigners wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and placed it in his pocket. Then Mr. Lewis gave them a long address, emphasizing his words with his hand, and they listened to him without uttering a word. Suddenly Mr. Winton sprang up and wrung his hand, afterwards making what appeared to be some highly complimentary remarks, for Mr. Lewis smiled and bowed to the assembly, who afterwards rose. Then the young lady rushed up to Mr. Lewis and implored him to do something, but he refused. She stood before him, pale-faced and determined. Her eyes seemed starting from her head. She seemed like one horrified. But he placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, and uttered some quick low words which instantly calmed her. Very shortly after that the party broke up, and the door was re-opened. The two foreigners hurriedly swallowed a liqueur-glass of brandy each, and then, passing into the yard, wished their companions adieu and drove away in their car – in the direction of London.”

“Carrying with them the diamond necklet which the other man had brought there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what became of the young lady?” I inquired very anxiously.

“She first had a long and private conversation with the gentleman named Winton – the bald-headed man.”

This, it will be remembered, was the person whose description tallied exactly with that of her father.

“They went outside together,” said the boots, “out into the yard, and there conversed alone in half-whispers. Afterwards they rejoined the others. Mr. Lewis seemed very annoyed with her; nevertheless, after a cup of tea each, about half-past five the four of them got into the car in which Winton had arrived and drove away in the direction of Grantham. Winton gave me a sovereign for myself – an unusually generous gift, I can assure you, sir,” he laughed.

“And now what is your own opinion concerning them?” I asked.

“Why, there can only be one opinion, sir – that they are wrong ’uns. I felt half a mind to tell Mr. Pearson, the police-constable who lives across in Water Lane, but I didn’t like to without consulting somebody. And I didn’t want to wake up the manageress.”

“Ah! and it may now be too late, Cross,” said the lady in question, who had been standing by all the time. Then, addressing me, she said —

“The whole affair seemed most mysterious, sir, therefore I went round and saw the inspector of police this morning, and told him briefly of our strange visitors. I’m rather glad they’re gone, for one never likes unpleasantness in a hotel. Yet, of course, the fault cannot be that of the hotel-keeper if he takes in an undesirable.”

“Of course not. But what view did the inspector hold?”

“Inspector Deane merely expressed the opinion that they were suspicious persons – that’s all.”

“So they seem to have been,” I remarked, without satisfying her as to who I really was. My story there was that I had business relations with Mr. Lewis, and had followed him there in the hope of catching him up.

We were in the manageress’s room, a cosy apartment in the back of the quaint old hostelry, when a waitress came and announced Inspector Deane. The official was at once shown in, whereupon he said abruptly —

“The truth is out, Miss Hammond, regarding your strange visitors of last night.” And he glanced inquiringly at myself.

“You can speak openly before this gentleman,” she said, noticing his hesitation.

“The fact is, a circular-telegram has just been sent out from Scotland Yard, saying that by the express from Edinburgh due at King’s Cross at 10.45 last night the Archduchess Marie Louise, niece of the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria, was a passenger. She had been staying at Balmoral, and travelled south in a special saloon. When the luggage came to be collected a dressing-case was missing – it evidently having been stolen in transit by somebody who had obtained access to the saloon while on the journey. The corridor was open between York and London, so that the restaurant could be reached, and it is believed that the thief, or thieves, managed to pass in unobserved and throw the bag out upon the line to some confederate awaiting it. The bag contained a magnificent diamond necklet – a historic heirloom of the Imperial family of the Hapsburgs – and is valued at fifty thousand pounds!”

“And those people who met here were the thieves!” gasped the manageress, turning instantly pale.

“Without a doubt. You see, the Great Northern main line runs close by us – at Essendine. It may be that the thieves were waiting for it near there – waiting for it to be dropped out in the darkness. All the platelayers along the line are now searching for the bag, but we here are certain that the thieves spent the night in Stamford.”

“Not the thieves,” I said. “The receivers.”

“Exactly.”

“But the young foreigner has it!” cried the boots. “He and his friend set off for London with it.”

“Yes. They would reach London in time to catch one of the boat-trains from Victoria or Charing Cross this morning, and by this time they’re safely out of the country – carrying the necklet with them. Ah! Scotland Yard is terribly slow. But the delay seems to have been caused by the uncertainty of Her Highness as to whether she had actually brought the dressing-case with her, and she had to telegraph to Balmoral before she could really state that it had been stolen.”

“The two men, Douglas Winton and his friend, came here in a motor-car,” I remarked. “They had evidently been waiting somewhere near the line, in order to pick up the stolen bag.”

“Without a doubt, sir,” exclaimed the inspector. “Their actions here, according to what Miss Hammond told me this morning, were most suspicious. It’s a pity that the boots did not communicate with us.”

“Yes, Mr. Deane,” said the man referred to, “I’m very sorry now that I didn’t. But I felt loath to disturb people at that hour of the morning.”

“You took no note of the number of either of the three cars which came, I suppose?”

“No. We have so many cars here that I hardly noticed even what colour they were.”

“Ah! That’s unfortunate. Still, we shall probably pick up some clue to them along the road. Somebody is certain to have seen them, or know something about them.”

“This gentleman here knows something about them,” remarked the manageress, indicating myself.

The inspector turned to me in quick surprise, and no doubt saw the surprise in my face.

“I – I know nothing,” I managed to exclaim blankly, at once realizing the terrible pitfall into which I had fallen.

“But you said you knew Mr. Lewis – the gentleman who acted as president of that mysterious conference!” Miss Hammond declared, in all innocence.

“I think, sir,” added the inspector, “that the matter is such a grave one that you should at once reveal all you do know. You probably overlook the fact that if you persist in silence you may be arrested as an accessory.”

“But I know nothing,” I protested; “nothing whatever concerning the robbery!”

“But you know one of the men,” said Cross the boots.

“And the lady also, without a doubt!” added the inspector.

“I refuse to be cross-examined in this manner by you!” I retorted in anger, yet full of apprehension now that I saw myself suspected of friendship with the gang.

“Well, sir, then I regret that I must ask you to walk over the bridge with me to the police-station. I must take you before the superintendent,” he said firmly.

“But I know nothing,” I again protested.

“Come with me,” he said, with a grim smile of disbelief. “That you’ll be compelled to prove.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

MORE STRANGE FACTS

Compelled against my will to accompany the inspector to the police head-quarters in the High Street, I made a statement – a rather lame one, I fear.

I concealed the fact that the lady of the previous night’s conference was my wife, and explained my visit to Stamford, and my inquiries at the George, by the fact that I had met the man Lewis abroad, and had had some financial dealings with him, which, I now suspected, were not altogether square. So, hearing that he had motored to the north, I had followed, and had inquired at several of the well-known motoring hotels for news of him, being unsuccessful until I had arrived at Stamford.

This story would, of course, not have held water had Miss Hammond, the manageress, been present. Happily, however, she had not accompanied me, hence I was able to concoct a somewhat plausible excuse to the local superintendent.

“Then you actually know nothing concerning these people?” he asked, regarding me shrewdly.

“Nothing beyond the fact of meeting Lewis abroad, and very foolishly trusting in his honesty.”

The superintendent smiled. I think he regarded me as a bit of a fool. Probably I had been.

“They are a clever gang, no doubt,” he declared. “The Archduchess’s necklace must have been stolen by some one travelling in the train. I’ve been on to Scotland Yard by telephone, and there seems a suspicion because at Grantham – the last stopping-place before London – a ticket-collector boarded the train. He was a stranger to the others, but they believed that he had been transferred from one or other of the branches to the main line, and being in the company’s uniform they, of course, accepted him. He collected the tickets en route, as is sometimes done, and at Finsbury Park descended, and was lost sight of. Here again the busy collectors came and demanded tickets, much to the surprise of the passengers, and the curious incident was much commented upon.”

“Then the bogus collector was the thief, I suppose?”

“No doubt. He somehow secured the dressing-bag and dropped it out at a point between Grantham and Essendine – a spot where he knew his accomplices would be waiting – a very neatly-planned robbery.”

“And by persons who are evidently experts,” I said.

“Of course,” replied the grey-haired superintendent. “The manner in which the diamonds have been quickly transferred from hand to hand and carried out of the country is sufficient evidence of that. The gang have now scattered, and, for aught we know, have all crossed the Channel by this time.”

“Well,” I assured him; “I know nothing more of the affair than what I have told you. If I were an accomplice I should hardly be here – making inquiries concerning them.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” he replied, rather incredulously. “Such an action has been known before, in order to place the police upon a wrong scent. I fear I must ask you to remain here, in Stamford, until this evening, while I make some inquiry into your bona fides, sir.”

“What!” I cried. “You intend to detain me!”

“There is no indignity,” he declared. “You may go about the town where you will – providing you do not attempt to leave it. I regret, but it is my duty to ascertain who and what you are, Mr. Biddulph.”

I had given him my card, and he, seeing the look of annoyance upon my face, added —

“I can only express apologies, sir. But you will see it is my duty. You have admitted knowledge of at least one of the mysterious gang.”

“Very well,” I replied reluctantly; “make what inquiries you will.” And I gave him the address of my solicitors and my bankers.

Then, walking out of the office, I strolled down the quiet old High Street into the market place, full of evil forebodings.

Who was this man Lewis – or Louis – with whom my wife had escaped?

He was a blackguardly adventurer, anyhow. He had addressed her as “dear,” and had been solicitous of her welfare throughout! To him she had signalled from her box in the theatre, well knowing that he was making secret preparations for her elopement. Indeed, she had written that note and placed it upon my blotting-pad before we had gone forth together, she well knowing that she would never again re-cross my threshold.

Ah! The poignant bitterness of it all had gripped my heart. My cup of unhappiness was now assuredly full.

How brief had been my joy; how quickly my worst fears had been realized.

About the quiet, old-world decaying town I wandered, hardly knowing whither I went. When, every now and then, in the fading light, I found myself going into the country I turned back, mindful of my promise not to leave the place without permission.

About six I returned to the George and sat beside the fire in the lounge – in that selfsame chair where my fugitive wife had sat. I was eager to renew the chase, yet until I received word from the police I was compelled to remain helpless.

Old Cross, the boots, became inquisitive, but I evaded his questions, and ate my dinner alone in the small cosy coffee-room, awaiting the reappearance of Inspector Deane. I had given my chauffeur liberty till eight o’clock, but I was all anxiety to drive back to London.

Still, if I returned, what could I do? Sylvia and her companions had driven away – whither was a mystery.

The Criminal Investigation Department had already issued an official description of the persons wanted, for while I had been at the police-office the inspector had been closely questioning the man Cross and Miss Hammond.

Already the police drag-net was out, and the combined police forces of Europe would, in an hour or two, be on the watch for Sylvia and her mysterious companions.

So far as the United Kingdom was concerned sixty thousand officers, detectives and constables would be furnished with a complete description of those who had held that secret consultation. The tightest of tight cordons would be drawn. Every passenger who embarked at English ports for abroad would be carefully scrutinized by plain-clothes men. Every hotel-keeper, not only in London, but in the remote villages and hamlets would be closely questioned as to the identity and recent movements of his guests. Full descriptions of Sylvia and her friends would be cabled to America, and the American police would be asked to keep a sharp look-out on passengers arriving on all boats from Europe. Descriptions would also be sent to the police head-quarters in every European capital.

In face of that, what more could I do?

The situation had become unbearable. Sylvia’s unaccountable action had plunged me into a veritable sea of despair. The future seemed blank and hopeless.

Just before eight o’clock I strolled back to the police-office and reported myself, as it were. The superintendent expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the replies he had received from London, and, with apologies, gave me leave to depart.

“Inquiry is being made along the roads in every direction from here,” he said. “We hear that the three men and the woman called at the Bell, at Barnby Moor, and had some breakfast. Afterwards they continued northward.”

“Barnby Moor!” I echoed. “Why, that’s near Doncaster.”

“Yes, sir. Motorists patronize the place a good deal.”

“And is that all that is known?” I inquired eagerly.

“All at present,” he said. Therefore I left and, returning to the garage, mounted the car and, with head-lamps alight, drove out into the pitch darkness in the direction of Grantham. We sped along the broad old coach-road for nearly three hours, until at last we pulled up before an ancient wayside inn which had been modernized and adapted to twentieth-century requirements.

The manager, in reply to my eager questions, said it was true that the Doncaster police had been there making inquiries regarding four motorists – three gentlemen and a lady – who had called there that morning and had had breakfast in the coffee-room.

The head-waiter who had attended them was called, and I questioned him. I think the manager believed me to be a detective, for he was most courteous, and ready to give me all information.