The Avenger, E. Phillips Oppenheim [uplifting book club books txt] 📗

first," the Baron declared. "Afterwards he was brutally frank. You see your death was gazetted, a fact of which he was no doubt aware. He admitted that they had been given to him to destroy."

Duncan leaned across the table.

"Baron," he said, "who killed that man? He cheated me of my task, but I should like to know who it was."

"So would a great many more of us," the Baron answered. "The fact is, we are in the curious position of having an unknown friend."

"An unknown friend?" Duncan repeated.

The Baron nodded.

"We paid that man two thousand a year," he said, "but he was not satisfied. He communicated secretly with the other side, and they agreed to buy the letters for ten thousand pounds. We knew the very night when he had arranged to hand them over to a man named Bentham in London. But we were powerless. We could not have found the half of ten thousand pounds. One thing only was tried, and that very nearly ended in disaster. An attempt was made to steal the letters. Mr. Wrayson will tell you about that—presently."

A maître d'hôtel paused at their table to hope that messieurs were well served. In a season so busy it was not possible to give the attention to every one they would like! Was there anything he could do? Messieurs were drinking, he noticed, the best wine in the cellars! He trusted that they approved of it. The young lady there with the diamond collar and the wonderful eyes? He bent a little lower over the table. That was Mademoiselle Diane, of the Folies Bergères! And the gentleman? He had registered under another name, but he was well known as the Baron X——, a great capitalist in Paris!

The maître d'hôtel passed on, well satisfied that he had interested the three distinguished looking gentlemen who dined alone. Wrayson, as soon as he was out of hearing, leaned over the table.

"It is on that night," he said to Duncan, "that I come into touch with the affairs of which our friend has spoken. The man Barnes had a flat corresponding to mine on the floor above. I returned home about midnight and found a young lady, who was a complete stranger to me, engaged in searching my desk. I turned up the lights and demanded an explanation. She was apparently quite as much surprised to see me as I was to see her. It appeared that she had imagined herself in Barnes' flat. Whilst I was talking to her, the telephone bell rang. Some unknown person asked me to convey a message to Barnes. When I had finished she was gone. I sat down and tried to make head or tail of the affair. I couldn't. Barnes was a disreputable little bounder! This girl was a lady. What connexion could there be between the two? I fancied what might happen if she were surprised by Barnes, and I determined not to go to bed until I heard her come down. I fell asleep over my fire, and I woke with a start to find her once more upon the threshold of my room. She was fainting—almost on the point of collapse! I gave her some brandy and helped her downstairs. At the door of the flat was a cab, and in it was the man Barnes, dead—murdered!"

The breath came through Duncan's teeth with a little hiss. One could fancy that he was wishing that his had been the hand to strike the blow. The Baron glanced round casually. He called a waiter and complained of the slow service, sent for another bottle of wine, and lit a cigarette.

"I think," he said, "that we will pause for a moment or so. Mr. Wrayson's narrative is a little dramatic! Ah! Mademoiselle la danseuse goes! What a toilet!"

Mademoiselle favoured their table with her particular regard as she passed out, and accepted with a delightful smile the fan which she dropped in passing, and which the Baron as speedily restored. He resumed his seat, stroking his grey moustache.

"A very handsome young lady," he remarked. "I think that now we may continue."

"The girl?" Duncan asked quickly.

"Was your sister," Wrayson answered.

There was a moment's intense silence. Duncan was doing his best to look unconcerned, but the hand which played with his wineglass shook.

"How—was he murdered?"

"Strangled with a fine cord," Wrayson answered.

"In the cab?"

"There or inside the building! It is impossible to say."

"And no one was ever tried for the murder?"

"No one," Wrayson answered.

Duncan swallowed a glassful of wine.

"But my sister," he said, "was in his rooms—she might have seen him!"

"Your sister's name was never mentioned in the matter," Wrayson said. "I was the only witness who knew anything about her—and—I said nothing."

Duncan drew a little breath.

"Why?" he asked.

"An impulse," Wrayson answered. "I felt that she could not have been concerned in such a deed, and I felt that if I told all that I knew, she would have been suspected. So I said nothing. I saved her a good deal of trouble and anxiety I dare say, and I do not believe that I interfered in any way with the course of justice."

Duncan looked across the table and raised his glass.

"I should like to shake hands with you, Mr. Wrayson," he said, "only the Baron would have fits. You acted like a brick. I only hope that Louise is as grateful as she ought to be."

"My silence," Wrayson said, "was really an impulse. There have been times since when I have wondered whether I was wise. There are people now at work in London trying to solve the mystery of this murder. I acted upon the supposition that no one had seen your sister leave the flat except myself. I found afterwards that I was mistaken!"

The Baron leaned forward.

"One moment, Mr. Wrayson," he interrupted. "You have said that there are people in London who are trying to solve the mystery of Barnes' death. Who are they?"

"One is the man's brother," Wrayson answered, "if possible, a more contemptible little cur than the man himself was. His only interest is to discover the source of his brother's income. He wants money! Nothing but money. The other is a much more dangerous person. His name is Heneage, and he is an acquaintance of my own, a barrister, and a man of education."

"Why does he interest himself in such an affair?" Duncan asked.

"Because the solution of such matters is a hobby of his," Wrayson answered. "It was he who saw your sister and I come out from the flat that morning. It was he who warned us both to leave England."

The Baron leaned forward in his chair.

"Forgive me, Mr. Wrayson," he said, "but there is a—lady at your right who seems anxious to attract your attention. We are none of us anxious to advertise our presence here. Is she, by any chance, a friend of yours?"

Wrayson looked quickly round. He understood at once the Baron's slight pause. The ladies of the French half-world are skilled enough, when necessary, in concealing their profession: their English sister, if she attempts it at all, attempts a hopeless task. Over-powdered, over-rouged, with hair at least two shades nearer copper coloured than last time he had seen her, badly but showily dressed, it was his friend from the Alhambra whose welcoming smile Wrayson received with a thrill of interest. She was seated at a small table with a slightly less repulsive edition of herself, and her smile changed at once into a gesture of invitation. Wrayson rose to his feet almost eagerly.

"This is a coincidence," he said under his breath. "She, too, holds a hand in the game!"

CHAPTER XXXIII

A HAND IN THE GAME

The diners at the Hotel Splendide were a little surprised to see the tall, distinguished-looking Englishman leave his seat and accost with quiet deference the elder of the two women, whose entrance a few minutes before had occasioned a good many not very flattering comments. The lady who called herself Blanche meant to make the most of her opportunity.

"Fancy meeting you here," she remarked. "Flo, this is a friend of mine. Mrs. Harrigod! Gentleman's name doesn't matter, does it?" she added, laughing.

Wrayson bowed, and murmured something inaudible. Blanche's friend regarded him with unconcealed and flattering approval.

"Over here for a little flutter, I suppose?" she remarked. "It is so hot in town we had to get away somewhere. Are you alone with your friends?"

"Quite alone," Wrayson answered. "We are only staying for a day or two."

The lady nodded.

"We shall stay for a week if we like it," she said. "If not, we shall go on to Dieppe. Did you get my letter?"

"Letter!" Wrayson repeated. "No! Have you written to me?"

She nodded.

"I wrote to you a week ago."

"I have been staying near here," Wrayson said, "and my letters have not been forwarded."

He bent a little lower over the table. The perfume of violet scent was almost unbearable, but he did not flinch.

"You had some news for me?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes!" she answered. "I'm not going to tell you now. We are going to sit outside after dinner. You must come to us there. No good having smart friends unless you make use of them," she added, with a shrill little laugh.

"I shall take some chairs and order coffee," Wrayson said. "In the meantime—?"

"If you like to order us a bottle of champagne and tell the waiter to put it on your bill, we shan't be offended," Blanche declared. "We were just wondering whether we could run to it."

"You must do me the honour of being my guests for dinner also," Wrayson declared, calling a waiter. "It was very good of you to remember to write."

The friend murmured something about it being very kind of the gentleman. Blanche shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh! I remember right enough," she said. "It wasn't that. But there, wait until I've told you about it. It's an odd story, and sometimes I wish I'd never had anything to do with it. I get a cold shiver every time I think of that old man who took me to dine at Luigi's. Outside in three-quarters of an hour, then!"

"I will keep some chairs and order coffee," Wrayson said, turning away.

"And bring one of your friends," Blanche added. "It won't do him any harm. We shan't bite him!"

"I will bring them both," Wrayson promised.

He went back to his own table and people watched him curiously.

"I believe," he said quietly, as he sat down, "that if there is a person in the world who can put us on the track of those letters, it is the lady with whom I have just been talking."

The Baron looked across at the two women with new interest.

"What on earth have they got to do with it, Wrayson?" he asked.

"The fair one was a friend of Barnes'," Wrayson answered. "It was at her flat that he called the night he was murdered."

"You are sure," Duncan asked, "that the letters have not been found yet by the other side?"

"Quite sure," the Baron answered. "We have agents in Mexonia, even about the King's person, and we should hear in an hour if they had the letters."

"Presuming, then," Duncan said thoughtfully, "that Barnes was murdered for the sake of these letters—and as he was murdered on the very night he was going to hand them over to the other side, I don't see what else we can suppose,—the crime would appear to have been committed by some one on our side."

"It certainly does seem so," the Baron admitted.

"And this man Bentham! He was the agent for—the King's people. He too was murdered! Baron!"

"Well?"

"Who killed Barnes? He robbed me of my right, but I want to know."

The Baron shook his head.

"I have no idea," he said gravely. "We have agents in London, of course, but no one who would go to such lengths. I do not know who killed Barnes, nor do I know who killed Bentham."

There was a short silence. The Baron's words were impressively spoken. It was impossible