The Temptress

“Tell me what suspicions you have against me, and I shall be pleased to accompany you and make all necessary explanations.”

Turning to the clerk the detective said, with a sarcastic smile —

“M’sieur will not require to use the volume now.”

“Will you tell me of what I am accused?” asked Trethowen warmly.

“No; you will hear it read at the Bureau. Come, let us be going. We are attracting attention.”

“I do not see why I should,” argued Hugh angrily. “Take care, young fellow,” said the detective, without getting at all excited; “you are spoiling your affair.” This reply fell like cold water on Trethowen’s anger. “We have a cab outside,” continued the officer, “and we will drive to the Commissary’s. You will calm yourself there. He’ll soon settle the business, for he’s a good-natured man. Come along.”

Hugh made no reply to these exhortations. He saw that a cab was waiting outside, and that escape was impossible, therefore he accompanied the men and entered the vehicle. As they drove through the streets he remained in sullen silence, watching the festive aspect of the thoroughfares as they drove along. It was one of those dry winter mornings when the rich leave their chimney corners and walk towards the Champs Elysées to see if spring is coming, and to gain an appetite, while fashionable women, trip here and there, with their high heels beating an even tattoo on the dry sidewalks, and loiter before the milliners’ windows – when the populace rejoice at breathing a balmy atmosphere and at not having to splash through mud. On such days as these there is joy in the air, and the panorama of the French capital, as seen from the quays, is truly a marvellous one.

Hugh Trethowen was amazed, puzzled to ascertain the meaning of this extraordinary arrest. Scarcely a word had been spoken since they started, but the detective, Chémerault, who sat opposite, very attentively examined the prisoner’s features, as if trying to read the depths of his soul. Hugh noticed this inquisitorial look, and turned his head towards the window in the vehicle in a movement expressive of resentment.

They had covered the long line of quays at a slow, jogging pace, crossed the Pont Neuf, followed the Quai de l’Horloge, and turning off to the right, and passing a large gateway, stopped before a narrow passage.

“Here we are, m’sieur,” said the chief detective, opening the door and springing out.

“You said that you would take me to the Commissary,” exclaimed Trethowen, aroused from his reflections.

“It is all the same,” replied the detective; “we are here, at the Préfecture of Police.”

Hugh looked through the window, saw the two policemen on guard, the gloomy passage, the high frowning walls which enclosed the place, and threw himself back into the cab. He understood the truth. Instinctively he looked round for means of escape, but saw none.

One of the detectives graciously offered to assist him to alight, but, pushing the man aside impatiently, he got out. Bracing himself up against the emotion that at first overwhelmed him, he passed into the passage with his head erect and a gleam of assurance in his eyes. Chémerault and the man who had followed him from the hotel walked beside him. At the end of the corridor, flanked on both sides by the offices of inspectors and other officials, are the steps which lead to the office of the chief of the criminal investigation service.

“Which way shall I go?” asked Trethowen, pausing at the foot of the narrow, crooked flight, the stone of which is worn by the constant tread of detectives and criminals.

“Straight up; the door is before you on the first floor.”

Hugh mounted the steps. He understood why his companions insisted on walking behind – that their politeness was merely prudence.

They entered a large bare room occupied by a couple of clerks, and meagrely furnished with a stool, a table, and a few rush-bottomed chairs. Chémerault offered a seat to his prisoner, who sat down without uttering a word. He was convinced that it was useless to struggle, and thought only of what crime could possibly be brought against him.

The clerks regarded the advent of the party with perfect indifference. They had seen many other well-dressed young men in a similar predicament, and after a casual glance at the prisoner continued their writing.

The detective asked them if the chief was in, and on their answering affirmatively, he went into an anteroom separating the outer one from the private office of the head of the department, and, after tapping at the door, entered.

Ten minutes later he emerged from the private room, and, after giving some instructions to the clerks, ordered the prisoner to accompany him into the presence of the chief.

During the brief interval which elapsed between the detective’s exit and the prisoner’s entry, the director of criminal investigations prepared himself for the interrogation. In the first examination, the advantage always lies with the examiner. The accused is unaware what mode of attack his interrogator is adopting, and cannot guess what points his replies are required to prove. The one is cool and calculating, the other confused, embarrassed, and dreading lest he should make any reply that may tell against him. The combat is by no means equal.

The chief, after reflection, looked steadily at the photograph which Chémerault had handed to him, then taking a bundle of blue papers from a pigeonhole at his elbow, untied the tape which bound them, and spread them out before him.

Just as he had done this the door opened and Hugh Trethowen advanced, conducted by the detectives.

“You may be seated, m’sieur,” said the director of criminal investigations politely.

Hugh bowed stiffly, took the chair, and, striving to appear calm, waited to be questioned.

The chief did not commence at once. He always delayed his questions for a few moments in order to ascertain the sort of man with whom he had to deal. He looked at the prisoner and their eyes met. The doubts he had entertained with regard to the photograph were instantly removed. With that special memory for faces which an expert engaged in the investigation of crime acquires by long practice, he recognised the features of the accused, and in a moment decided how he should examine him and the principal points for confirmation.

Late that afternoon Monsieur Chémerault called at the bureau of the Hôtel Continental, and inquired for Madame Trethowen, saying that he had a note to deliver to her.

“Trethowen,” repeated the clerk, looking through the book before him. “Ah, yes; Number 213. Left morning with her maid.”

“Gone!”

“Yes. Madame’s husband went out about eleven, she being already out. Almost as soon as he had gone, however, madame returned, paid the bill, and left, giving me this note for her husband when he came back.”

“Perhaps it contains her address,” remarked the detective, glancing at the superscription. “I’ll see.” Opening it, he found to his dismay that it contained only a blank sheet of paper.

“Oh,” observed the detective to himself, “it seems she’s playing a deeper game than I thought.”

“Do you know whether she has left Paris?” he asked of the clerk, to whom he was known as a police agent.

“I really don’t. The maid called the cab and I did not notice the number.”

“You didn’t hear the cabman receive any orders?” The clerk shook his head.

“Ah, that is unfortunate,” observed the detective, perplexed. “Would not any one be likely to know where they went?”

“No; I was the only person in the courtyard when the cab drove out.”

The detective, with an expression of disappointment replaced the paper in the envelope, and, announcing his intention of keeping it, placed it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel, and sauntered along to a small café in the Rue Auber, nearly opposite the Eden Theatre. That he had displayed a serious error of judgment in not acting with greater promptitude it was impossible to deny, and he was endeavouring to fix upon some plan whereby he could trace the woman who had left her husband so mysteriously and in such suspicious circumstances. Had he been wise, he told himself, he would have had an interview with Madame Trethowen as soon as her husband had been safely lodged inside the Préfecture. Now, however, he was baffled.

Evidently she feared a visit from the police, he argued, otherwise she would not have decamped, leaving only a piece of plain paper for her husband. Besides, the fact that she had left such a note was sufficient evidence to the detective that she was a clever woman, and, moreover, that she was desirous of hiding herself.

He remained at the café only long enough to swallow a glass of absinthe, then, hailing a cab, drove back to the Préfecture and consulted his chief.

From the central office inquiries were at once instituted, and within an hour it was ascertained that madame and her maid had driven from the hotel to the Gare du Nord, and left by the Brussels express, which started at 12:40. They had not booked to Brussels, but to Masnuy St. Pierre, a small Belgian town midway between Mons and Braine-le-Comte.

Monsieur Chémerault drove at once to the terminus, with the object of stopping them by telegraph before they left France. Almost breathless he alighted from his cab, and rushed upon the platform.

In a few moments he found the time-table of which he was in search. Running his finger down it, he saw that the train was timed to arrive at Quévy at half-past four, and at Mons at 5:02.

He glanced up at the large dock. It was a quarter past five.

“Diable! She’s beaten us!” he cried with chagrin. “She’s crossed the frontier and escaped!” At that moment one of his colleagues joined him. “We’re too late,” said Chémerault disappointedly. “She’s got clear away. Somehow, I have a conviction that there is more in this case than we imagine. We must keep our eyes open, for if we arrest her, and she turns out to be the woman I believe she is, we shall find we have made a very important capture.”

“Who is she?” asked his companion.

“Well, her name is Valérie – not an uncommon one, I admit; but if I was certain the surname she was once known by was Duvauchel, I would apply for her apprehension in Belgium, and extradition.”

“Duvauchel! Why, that was in connection with the affair near St. Lazare, wasn’t it – that celebrated case of yours?”

“Yes; I was unable to find a key to the mystery at the time, and now, after several years, the matter has come again into my hands quite unexpectedly,” replied the detective. “To-morrow I shall recommence my inquiries, for the crime has always been particularly puzzling to me, and I should like nothing better than to be able to clear it up satisfactorily.”

His companion expressed a hope that he would succeed, as both left the station, and directed their steps towards the Quai de l’Horloge.

Chapter Twenty Five

Shekels of Judas

Midnight in Brussels. Six months had passed since Valérie’s hurried exit from Paris had baffled the most expert member of the Paris detective force.

The streets were quiet, almost deserted; the trees in the boulevards were stirred slightly by the soft wind, and the long lines of gas lamps flickered and cast an uncertain light as Pierre Rouillier, in evening dress, and with an Inverness cape about his shoulders, emerged from the Rue de Pépin, crossed the boulevard, and turned into the Chausée de Wavre. Whistling softly to himself, he continued his walk down the long, straight thoroughfare until within a few yards of the Rue Wiertz, where, before a large and rather gloomy-looking house, he halted. He gave two vigorous tugs at the bell, and Nanette opened the door.

“Ah!” the mud exclaimed, with familiarity, “it’s a good thing you’ve come. Mademoiselle has been so anxious about you. Most of them are in a fine state.”

“What! have they had supper, then?”

“Yes; and there are several fresh people – swells.”

“Who are they?”

“You’ll see.”

“Who’s there, Nanette?” asked a shrill, musical voice.

“M’sieur Rouillier, mademoiselle,” replied the girl.

“Ah, Pierre!” said the voice; then it could be heard repeating in another direction: “Our young friend, Pierre, has arrived.”

Immediately there was a chorus of approbation, and some one commenced singing the first verse of the chansonette, “Pierre, my long-lost love,” as that distinguished personage walked into the room. Valérie was standing at the door, and whispered to him —

“There are some rich men here to-night. We can make a big coup if we are careful.”

Then, turning to her guests, she exclaimed —

“Cease your chatter, please, just for one moment. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you – ”

This was greeted with discordant cries —

“Enough! Everybody knows Pierre.”

“Ladies, do please listen to me,” implored Valérie. Continuing, Valérie again endeavoured to make herself heard.

“Gentlemen, I – ”

At that moment somebody commenced to strum a waltz upon the piano, and, as if by magic, the twenty persons in the room rose to their feet and commenced to whirl madly round, while Valérie and Pierre stood at the door whispering and regarding the scene of Bacchanalian revelry with perfect satisfaction.

She liked to see her guests enjoy themselves.

“I want a few moments’ private conversation with you,” Pierre said, after they had been standing silent for a minute or two.

She acquiesced at once, and led the way to a small anteroom behind the drawing-room. It was furnished gaudily and cheaply, but quite in keeping with the rest of the house.

As he closed, the door, Pierre said —

“I’ve some good news.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Victor has fallen into the trap.”

“Arrested?”

“Yes.”

“Hurrah!” she cried, almost dancing for joy; “now we are safely rid of him we shall have nothing to fear. But, tell me, how did you manage to carry out the suggestion?”

“It was quite simple. We met in London three weeks ago, and I told him that he was running a great risk in remaining there, because the girl Vivian had discovered that it was he who gave her the little gash in the throat, and that she had placed the matter in the hands of the police. He asked my advice as to where he should go, and, of course, I suggested Paris. We arranged to go over separately, and meet at the old place a week later. He went, and as he stepped from the train at the St. Lazare he fell into the inviting arms of that vulture Chémerault.”

“You had previously given information, I suppose?”

“Exactly.”

“What was the charge?” she asked in a low tone.

“Complicity in the affair of the Englishman.”

“Is he already sentenced?”

“Yes; to-day the Assize Court sent him to penal servitude for ten years. I had a telegram an hour ago. It will be in the papers to-morrow.”

“Do you think that he’ll peach upon us?” Valérie asked seriously.

“No, never fear that. He does not suspect that we put the police upon him; besides, he will live in the hope of escaping, and returning to you and your newly-acquired wealth.”

“Yes, I suppose he will,” she said, laughing. “But you’ve managed the affair very cleverly, and although it is hard to send such a boon companion to prison merely because you and I love one another, yet, after all, I suppose it’s the best course.”

“Undoubtedly, ma chère,” he said. “Now both are safely in prison, we need fear nothing. Our manoeuvres have been successful in obtaining for us a fortune ample for our needs, and by keeping on this house, as well as yours in the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, we can continue to amuse ourselves profitably by getting our guests to stake their louis on the tapis vert. We have had many obstacles to face, but they are now all removed.”

“Where is your wedding-ring – the one he gave you?” he asked.

She drew it from her purse, and handed it to him, wondering why he required it.

“This reminds you of him, I know,” he said, as he turned and threw up the window. “See, I fling it away, for it’s merely a worthless bond,” and he tossed the ring as far as he could out into the road.

Valérie sighed. A tear stood in her eye. Even at that moment she was thinking of Hugh Trethowen. It was unusual for her to be troubled by recurring pangs of conscience, nevertheless his face had haunted her constantly during the past few months, and she could not get rid of the thought that some day a terrible Nemesis might fall and crush her.

“Why look so serious?”

“I was only thinking. It is one of woman’s privileges,” she said, laughing.

“Come, there is no cause for sadness surely. You have a handsome income. What more could you desire?”

Soon afterwards the unsuspecting guests departed, with aching heads and empty pockets. And Valérie was left alone.

Chapter Twenty Six

And You – A Clergyman

“Where is Mr Holt? I must see him at once.”

“He’s in the vestry, miss, talking to a gentleman. But he’ll be disengaged in a moment,” the verger replied.

“Very well. I’ll wait.”

The girl who had listened with disgust to the Sunday morning sermon preached by the Rev. Hubert Holt, and who had afterwards gone round to the vestry of the church of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, was Dolly Vivian.

A few days previously, while walking along Buckingham Palace Road, she unexpectedly passed the man who called himself Mansell. Attired as he was in the garb of a clergyman, she was not quite certain as to his identity with the man who had assisted in her abduction. Yet, with justifiable curiosity, she turned and set herself to watch him. For hours she dogged his footsteps, always at a respectable distance. First he went up Victoria Street, and along the Embankment to the City, then he crossed London Bridge and continued through the Borough and Walworth Road, ultimately entering one of a terrace of smoke-begrimed houses in Boyson Road, Camberwell. Once or twice while following him she contrived to obtain an uninterrupted view of his features, and each time felt more convinced that he was the man for whom she was in search.

When he had disappeared she returned, and noticed upon the railing outside the house was a small, tarnished brass plate bearing the name, “Rev. Hubert Holt.” Carefully noting the number, she proceeded to make diligent inquiries, and was not long in discovering that Holt and Mansell was one and the same person, and that he was curate of St. Barnabas church, which was situated at the end of the road.

At first she was prompted to call upon him at once and denounce him; but on reflection she saw that such a course might not effect the object she had in view. She regarded him as a scoundrel, and in consequence carefully prepared a tableau by which she could obtain the information she sought, and if possible, compass his ruin. The vindictive nature latent in every woman was aroused in her when she discovered his hypocrisy, and she saw that if she met him face to face in the midst of his holy duties her revenge could be rendered more complete.

As she stood awaiting the interview her cheeks were flushed by excitement, and she nervously toyed with the buttons of her gloves. Her lips were compressed, her fair forehead was furrowed by an unbecoming frown of resolution, for she had resolved to meet him boldly, and show him no mercy.

“What name shall I tell Mr Holt, miss?” the verger asked, re-entering the small, bare anteroom a moment later.

“Never mind,” she replied. “He – he doesn’t know my name.” Then the verger went out.

While she was uttering these words the curate’s visitor – a tall, military-looking old gentleman – emerged from the vestry, leaving the door ajar.

Dolly pushed the door open and walked in, closing the door after her.

Holt was still in his surplice, standing beside the small writing-table.

He looked up as the intruder entered. The colour left his face, and he drew back in dismay when he recognised her.

“You!” he stammered. “I – I did not know you were here!”

“Yes,” replied she sternly. “I’m not a welcome visitor, am I? Nevertheless, now I’ve found you, we have an account to settle.”

He did not reply; but, the subject being distasteful to him, he walked quickly round the table and opened the door, which led into the church. She saw that his intention was to escape.

“Shut that door, if you don’t wish our conversation to be overheard,” she said, pale and determined. “Remember, you are in my hands, my reverend murderer!”

Starting at the word “murderer,” he closed the door slowly, and stood with his back against it, and head bowed before her.

“Now,” she said, advancing towards him, “first of all, I want to know what harm I have ever done you that you should drug me, and then attempt to kill me.” The pointed question was asked in a tone that was the reverse of reassuring.

“I did not.”

“To deny it is useless,” she declared vehemently. “I have ample proof of your villainy; moreover, I intend that you shall be justly punished.”

“Why, what do you mean to do?” he cried in alarm. He had been cleverly entrapped, and saw no means of escape from his irate victim.

“What I do depends entirely upon your attitude towards me,” answered she in a calm tone. “Like a foolish girl, I trusted implicitly to your honour, and you – a clergyman – tried to kill me.”

“I did not do it – indeed I did not.”

“No; I am well aware that you were too cowardly to draw the knife across my throat. But you enticed me to dine with you: you put a narcotic into my wine and conveyed me to that house – for what purpose? Why, so that your cowardly accomplice might kill me.” He was thoroughly alarmed. She evidently knew the whole circumstances, and it was useless, he thought, to conceal the truth.

“If – if I admit all this, may I not ask your pardon – your mercy?”

“Mercy!” she repeated. “What mercy did you show me when I was helpless in your hands? Only by a mere vagary of Fate I am not now in my grave. You thought you were safe – that your holy habiliments would prevent you being recognised as the man with whom I dined. But you made a great mistake, and I have found you.”

“Will you not accept my apology?” he asked in a low voice.

“Upon one condition only.”

“What is that?” he inquired eagerly.

“That you tell me the reasons which caused you to drug me, and the name of the scoundrel who assisted you,” she replied calmly.

Their conversation was interrupted at this juncture by the reappearance of the verger, who inquired whether he would be wanted any more, as he had locked up the church, and was ready to go to his dinner. Holt replied in the negative, and the feeble old man departed, swinging his great bunch of jingling keys as he went.

When they were alone, the artist’s model again referred to her stipulation, and pressed for an answer.

“No,” he replied decisively, “I cannot tell you – I cannot.”

“For what reason, pray?”

“The reason is best known to myself,” he answered, endeavouring to assume an air of unconcern.

“You flatly refuse?”

“I do.”

“In that case, then, I shall call the police, and have you arrested.”

“No, my God! not that!” he cried; “anything but that.”

“Ah, I can quite understand that police inquiries would be distasteful to you.”

She paused, reflecting whether she should hazard a statement which she had overheard among other things in the conversation of her janitors at the lonely house near Twickenham.

At length she resolved to make an assertion, and watch its effect.

“If I’m not mistaken,” she continued, regarding him closely, “the police are very desirous of interviewing you. They might like to hear some of your glib remarks about spiritual welfare, like those you made in the pulpit this morning.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“If I speak plainer possibly you will. Some months ago a man was found dead on the railway. The affair is being investigated by the police, and – ”

“God! You know of that!” he cried hoarsely, as he rushed towards her, and gripped her white throat with his hands in a frenzy of madness. “Speak lower – whisper – or – ”

“No,” urged Dolly, as coolly as she was able. “It would only add another crime to your list. Besides, if you comply with my stipulations, your secret will still be safe.”

Her words had the desired effect. He released his hold, and, grasping her hand, pleaded forgiveness.