Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

The man laughed brutally. His filthy hand was raised to her neck. Even
as he touched her, Lane, with a roar of anger, sent one of his guards
flying on to the floor of the barn, and, snatching the gun from his
hand, sprang forward.

"Come on, you fellows!" he shouted, bringing it down suddenly upon the
hand of the robber. "These things aren't loaded. There's only one of
these blackguards with a revolver."

[Illustration: "Come on, you fellows!" he shouted.]

"And I've got him!" Hunterleys, who had been watching Lane closely,
cried, suddenly swinging his arm around the man's neck and knocking his
revolver up.

There was a yell of pain from the man with the jewels, whose wrist Lane
had broken, a howl of dismay from the others--pandemonium.

"At 'em, Freddy!" Lane shouted, seizing the nearest of his assailants by
the neck and throwing him out into the darkness. "To hell with you!" he
added, just escaping a murderous blow and driving his fist into the face
of the man who had aimed it. "Good for you, Hunterleys! There isn't one
of those old guns of theirs that'll go off. They aren't even loaded."

The barn seemed suddenly to become half empty. Into the darkness the
little band of brigands crept away like rats. In less than half a minute
they had all fled, excepting the one who lay on the ground unconscious
from the effects of Richard's blow, and the leader of the gang, whom
Hunterleys still held by the throat. Richard, with a clasp-knife which
he had drawn from his pocket, cut the cord which they had tied around
Mr. Grex's wrists. His action, however, was altogether mechanical. He
scarcely glanced at what he was doing. Somehow or other, he found the
girl's hands in his.

"That brute--didn't touch you, did he?" he asked.

She looked at him. Whether the clouds were still outside or not, Lane
felt that he had passed into Heaven.

"He did not, thanks to you," she murmured. "But do you mean really that
those guns all the time weren't loaded?"

"I don't believe they were," Richard declared stoutly. "That chap kept
on playing about with the lock of his old musket and I felt sure that it
was of no use, loaded or not. Anyway, when I saw that brute try to
handle you--well--"

He stopped, with an awkward little laugh. Mr. Grex tapped a cigarette
upon his case and lit it.

"I am sure, my young friend, we are all very much indebted to you. The
methods which sometimes are scarcely politic in the ordinary affairs of
life," he continued drily, "are admirable enough in a case like this. We
will just help Hunterleys tie up the leader of the gang. A very plucky
stroke, that of his."

He crossed the barn. One of the women had fainted, others were busy
collecting their jewelry. The chauffeurs had hurried off to relight the
lamps of the cars.

"I must tell you this," Richard said, drawing a a little nearer to the
girl. "Please don't be angry with me. I went to your father this
afternoon. I made an idiot of myself--I couldn't help it. I was staring
at you and he noticed it. I didn't want him to think that I was such an
ill-mannered brute as I seemed. I tried to make him understand but he
wouldn't listen to me. I'd like to tell you now--now that I have the
opportunity--that I think you're just--"

She smiled very faintly.

"What is it that you wish to tell me?" she asked patiently.

"That I love you," he wound up abruptly.

There was a moment's silence, a silence with a background of strange
noises. People were talking, almost shouting to one another with
excitement. Newcomers were being told the news. The man whom Hunterleys
had captured was shrieking and cursing. From beyond came the tooting of
motor-horns as the cars returned. Lane heard nothing. He saw nothing but
the white face of the girl as she stood in the shadows of the barn, with
its walls of roughly threaded pine trunks.

"But I have scarcely ever spoken to you in my life!" she protested,
looking at him in astonishment.

"It doesn't make any difference," he replied. "You know I am speaking
the truth. I think, in your heart, that you, too, know that these things
don't matter, now and then. Of course, you don't--you couldn't feel
anything of what I feel, but with me it's there now and for always, and
I want to have a chance, just a chance to make you understand. I'm not
really mad. I'm just--in love with you."

She smiled at him, still in a friendly manner, but her face had clouded.
There was a look in her eyes almost of trouble, perhaps of regret.

"I am so sorry," she murmured. "It is only a sudden feeling on your
part, isn't it? You have been so splendid to-night that I can do no more
than thank you very, very much. And as for what you have told me, I
think it is an honour, but I wish you to forget it. It is not wise for
you to think of me in that way. I fear that I cannot even offer you my
friendship."

Again there was a brief silence. The clamour of exclamations from the
little groups of people still filled the air outside. They could hear
cars coming and going. The man whom Hunterleys and Mr. Grex were tying
up was still groaning and cursing.

"Are you married?" Richard asked abruptly.

She shook her head.

"Engaged?"

"No!"

"Do you care very much for any one else?"

"No!" she told him softly.

He drew her away.

"Come outside for one moment," he begged. "I hate to see you in the
place where that beast tried to lay hands upon you. Here is your
necklace."

He picked it up from her feet and she followed him obediently outside.
People were standing about, shadowy figures in little groups. Some of
the cars had already left, others were being prepared for a start.
Below, once more the clouds had parted and the lights twinkled like
fireflies through the trees. This time they could even see the lights
from the village of La Turbie, less brilliant but almost at their feet.
Richard glanced upwards. There was a star clearly visible.

"The clouds are lifting," he said. "Listen. If there is no one else,
tell me, why there shouldn't be the slightest chance for me? I am not
clever, I am nobody of any account, but I care for you so wonderfully. I
love you, I always shall love you, more than any one else could. I never
understood before, but I understand now. Just this caring means so
much."

She stood close to his side. Her manner at the same time seemed to
depress him and yet to fill him with hope.

"What is your name?" she enquired.

"Richard Lane," he told her. "I am an American."

"Then, Mr. Richard Lane," she continued softly, "I shall always think of
you and think of to-night and think of what you have said, and perhaps I
shall be a little sorry that what you have asked me cannot be."

"Cannot?" he muttered.

She shook her head almost sadly.

"Some day," she went on, "as soon as our stay in Monte Carlo is
finished, if you like, I will write and tell you the real reason, in
case you do not find it out before."

He was silent, looking downwards to where the gathering wind was driving
the clouds before it, to where the lights grew clearer and clearer at
every moment.

"Does it matter," he asked abruptly, "that I am rich--very rich?"

"It does not matter at all," she answered.

"Doesn't it matter," he demanded, turning suddenly upon her and speaking
with a new passion, almost a passion of resentment, "doesn't it matter
that without you life doesn't exist for me any longer? Doesn't it matter
that a man has given you his whole heart, however slight a thing it may
seem to you? What am I to do if you send me away? There isn't anything
left in life."

"There is what you have always found in it," she reminded him.

"There isn't," he replied fiercely. "That's just what there isn't. I
should go back to a world that was like a dead city."

He suddenly felt her hand upon his.

"Dear Mr. Lane," she begged, "wait for a little time before you nurse
these sad thoughts, and when you know how impossible what you ask is, it
will seem easier. But if you really care to hear something, if it would
really please you sometimes to think of it when you are alone and you
remember this little foolishness of yours, let me tell you, if I may,
that I am sorry--I am very sorry."

His hand was suddenly pressed, and then, before he could stop her, she
had glided away. He moved a step to follow her and almost at once he was
surrounded. Lady Hunterleys patted him on the shoulder.

"Really," she exclaimed, "you and Henry were our salvation. I haven't
felt so thrilled for ages. I only wish," she added, dropping her voice a
little, "that it might bring you the luck you deserve."

He answered vaguely. She turned back to Hunterleys. She was busy tearing
up her handkerchief.

"I am going to tie up your head," she said. "Please stoop down."

He obeyed at once. The side of his forehead was bleeding where a bullet
from the revolver of the man he had captured had grazed his temple.

"Too bad to trouble you," he muttered.

"It's the least we can do," she declared, laughing nervously. "Forgive
me if my fingers tremble. It is the excitement of the last few minutes."

Hunterleys stood quite still. Words seemed difficult to him just then.

"You were very brave, Henry," she said quietly. "Whom--whom are you
going down with?"

"I am with Richard Lane," he answered, "in his two-seated racer."

She bit her lip.

"I did not mean to come alone with Mr. Draconmeyer, really," she
explained. "He thought, up to the last moment, that his wife would be
well enough to come."

"Did he really believe so, do you think?" Hunterleys asked.

A voice intervened. Mr. Draconmeyer was standing by their side.

"Well," he said, "we might as well resume our journey. We all look and
feel, I think, as though we had been taking part in a scene from some
opera bouffe."

Lady Hunterleys shivered. She had drawn a little closer to her husband.
Her coat was unfastened. Hunterleys leaned towards her and buttoned it
with strong fingers up to her throat.

"Thank you," she whispered. "You wouldn't--you couldn't drive down with
us, could you?"

"Have you plenty of room?" he enquired.

"Plenty," she declared eagerly. "Mr. Draconmeyer and I are alone."

For a moment Hunterleys hesitated. Then he caught the smile upon the
face of the man he detested.

"Thank you," he said, "I don't think I can desert Lane."

She stiffened at once. Her good night was almost formal. Hunterleys
stepped into the car which Richard had brought up. There was just a
slight mist around them, but the whole country below, though chaotic,
was visible, and the lights on the hill-side, from La Turbie down to the
sea-board, were in plain sight.

"Our troubles," Hunterleys remarked, as they glided off, "seem to be
over."

"Maybe," Lane replied grimly. "Mine seem to be only just beginning!"

CHAPTER X

SIGNS OF TROUBLE

At ten o'clock the next morning, Hunterleys crossed the sunlit gardens
towards the English bank, to receive what was, perhaps, the greatest
shock of his life. A few minutes later he stood before the mahogany
counter, his eyes fixed upon the half sheet of notepaper which the
manager had laid before him. The words were few enough and simple
enough, yet they constituted for him a message written in the very ink
of tragedy. The notepaper was the notepaper of the Hotel de Paris, the
date the night before, the words few and unmistakable:

To the Manager of the English Bank. Please hand my letters to
bearer.

HENRY HUNTERLEYS.

He read it over, letter by letter, word by word. Then at last he looked
up. His voice sounded, even to himself, unnatural.

"You were quite right," he said. "This order is a forgery."

The manager was greatly disturbed. He threw open the door of his private
office.

"Come and sit down for a moment, will you, Sir Henry?" he invited. "This
is a very serious matter, and I should like to discuss it with you."

They passed behind into the comfortable little sitting-room, smelling of
morocco leather and roses, with its single high window, its broad
writing-table, its carefully placed easy-chairs. Men had pleaded in here
with all the eloquence at their command, men of every rank and walk in
life, thieves, nobles, ruined men and pseudo-millionaires, always with
the same cry--money; money for the great pleasure-mill which day and
night drew in its own. Hunterleys sank heavily into a chair. The manager
seated himself in an official attitude before his desk.

"I am sorry to have distressed you with this letter, Sir Henry," he
said. "However, you must admit that things might have been worse. It is
fortunately our invariable custom, when letters are addressed to one of
our clients in our care, to deliver them to no one else under any
circumstances. If you had been ill, for instance, I should have brought
you your correspondence across to the hotel, but I should not have
delivered it to your own secretary. That, as I say, is our invariable
rule, and we find that it has saved many of our clients from
inconvenience. In your case," the manager concluded impressively, "your
communications being, in a sense, official, any such attempt as has been
made would not stand the slightest chance of success. We should be even
more particular than in any ordinary case to see that by no possible
chance could any correspondence addressed to you, fall into other
hands."

Hunterleys began to recover himself a little. He drew towards himself
the heap of letters which the manager had laid by his side.

"Please make yourself quite comfortable here," the latter begged. "Read
your letters and answer them, if you like, before you go out. I always
call this," he added, with a smile, "the one inviolable sanctuary of
Monte Carlo."

"You are very kind," Hunterleys replied. "Are you sure that I am not
detaining you?"

"Not in the least. Personally, I am not at all busy. Three-quarters of
our business, you see, is merely a matter of routine. I was just going
to shut myself up here and read the _Times_. Have a cigarette? Here's an
envelope opener and a waste-paper basket. Make yourself comfortable."

Hunterleys glanced through his correspondence, rapidly reading and
destroying the greater portion of it. He came at last to two parchment
envelopes marked "On His Majesty's Service." These he opened and read
their contents slowly and with great care. When he had finished, he
produced a pair of scissors from his waistcoat pocket and cut the
letters into minute fragments. He drew a little sigh of relief when at
last their final destruction was assured, and rose shortly afterwards to
his feet.

"I shall have to go on to the telegraph office," he said, "to send these
few messages. Thank you very much, Mr. Harrison, for your kindness. If
you do not mind, I should like to take this forged order away with me."

The manager hesitated.

"I am not sure that I ought to part with it," he observed doubtfully.

"Could you recognise the person who presented it--you or your clerk?"

The manager shook his head.

"Not a chance," he replied. "It was brought in, unfortunately, before I
arrived. Young Parsons, who was the only one in the bank, explained that
letters were never delivered to an order, and turned away to attend to
some one else who was in a hurry. He simply remembers that it was a man,
and that is all."

"Then the document is useless to you," Hunterleys pointed out. "You
could never do anything in the matter without evidence of
identification, and that being so, if you don't mind I should like to
have it."

Mr. Harrison yielded it up.

"As you wish," he agreed. "It is interesting, if only as a curiosity.
The imitation of your signature is almost perfect."

Hunterleys took up his hat. Then for a moment, with his hand upon the
door, he hesitated.

"Mr. Harrison," he said, "I am engaged just now, as you have doubtless
surmised, in certain investigations on behalf of the usual third party
whom we need not name. Those investigations have reached a pitch which
might possibly lead me into a position of some--well, I might almost say
danger. You and I both know that there are weapons in this place which
can be made use of by persons wholly without scruples, which are
scarcely available at home. I want you to keep your eyes open. I have
very few friends here whom I can wholly trust. It is my purpose to call
in here every morning at ten o'clock for my letters, and if I fail to
arrive within half-an-hour of that time without having given you verbal
notice, something will have happened to me. You understand what I mean?"

"You mean that you are threatened with assassination?" the manager asked
gravely.

"Practically it amounts to that," Hunterleys admitted. "I received a
warning letter this morning. There is a very important matter on foot
here, Mr. Harrison, a matter so important that to bring it to a
successful conclusion I fancy that those who are engaged in it would not
hesitate to face any risk. I have wired to England for help. If anything
happens that it comes too late, I want you, when you find that I have
disappeared, even if my disappearance is only a temporary matter, to let
them know in London--you know how--at once."

The manager nodded.

"I will do so," he promised. "I trust, however," he went on, "that you
are exaggerating the danger. Mr. Billson lived here for many years
without any trouble."

Hunterleys smiled slightly.

"I am not a Secret Service man," he explained. "Billson's successor
lives here now, of course, and is working with me, under the usual guise
of newspaper correspondent. I don't think that he will come to any harm.
But I am here in a somewhat different position, and my negotiations in
the east, during the last few weeks, have made me exceedingly unpopular
with some very powerful people. However, it is only an outside chance,
of course, that I wish to guard against. I rely upon you, if I should
fail to come to the bank any one morning without giving you notice, to
do as I have asked."

Hunterleys left the bank and walked out once more into the sunlight. He
first of all made his way down to the Post Office, where he rapidly
dispatched several cablegrams which he had coded and written out in Mr.
Harrison's private office. Afterwards he went on to the Terrace, and
finding a retired seat at the further end, sat down. Then he drew the
forged order once more from his pocket. Word by word, line by line, he
studied it, and the more he studied it, the more hopeless the whole
thing seemed. The handwriting, with the exception of the signature,
which was a wonderful imitation of his own, was the handwriting of his
wife. She had done this thing at Draconmeyer's instigation, done this
thing against her husband, taken sides absolutely with the man whom he
had come to look upon as his enemy! What inference was he to draw? He
sat there, looking out over the Mediterranean, soft and blue, glittering
with sunlight, breaking upon the yellow stretch of sand in little
foam-flecked waves no higher than his hand. He watched the sunlight
glitter on the white houses which fringed the bay. He looked idly up at
the trim little vineyards on the brown hill-side. It was the beauty spot
of the world. There was no object upon which his eyes could rest, which
was not beautiful. The whole place was like a feast of colour and form
and sunshine. Yet for him the light seemed suddenly to have faded from
life. Danger had only stimulated him, had helped him to cope with the
dull pain which he had carried about with him during the last few
months. He was face to face now with something else. It was worse, this,
than anything he had dreamed. Somehow or other, notwithstanding the
growing estrangement with his wife which had ended in their virtual
separation, he had still believed in her, still had faith in her, still
had hope of an ultimate reconciliation. And behind it all, he had loved
her. It seemed at that moment that a nightmare was being formed around
him. A new horror was creeping into his thoughts. He had felt from the
first a bitter dislike of Draconmeyer. Now, however, he realised that
this feeling had developed into an actual and harrowing jealousy. He
realised that the man was no passive agent. It was Draconmeyer who, with
subtle purpose, was drawing his wife away! Hunterleys sprang to his feet
and walked angrily backwards and forwards along the few yards of
Terrace, which happened at that moment to be almost deserted. Vague
plans of instant revenge upon Draconmeyer floated into his mind. It was
simple enough to take the law into his own hands, to thrash him
publicly, to make Monte Carlo impossible for him. And then, suddenly, he
remembered his duty. They were trusting him in Downing Street. Chance
had put into his hands so many threads of this diabolical plot. It was
for him to checkmate it. He was the only person who could checkmate it.
This was no time for him to think of personal revenge, no time for him
to brood over his own broken life. There was work still to be done--his
country's work....

He felt the need of change of scene. The sight of the place with its
placid, enervating beauty, its constant appeal to the senses, was
beginning to have a curious effect upon his nerves. He turned back upon
the Terrace, and by means of the least frequented streets he passed
through the town and up towards the hills. He walked steadily, reckless
of time or direction. He had lunch at a small inn high above the road
from Cannes, and it was past three o'clock when he turned homewards. He
had found his way into the main road now and he trudged along heedless
of the dust with which the constant procession of automobiles covered
him all the while. The exercise had done him good. He was able to keep
his thoughts focussed upon his mission. So far, at any rate, he had held
his own. His dispatches to London had been clear and vivid. He had told
them exactly what he had feared, he had shown them the inside of this
scheme as instinct had revealed it to him, and he had begged for aid.
One man alone, surrounded by enemies, and in a country where all things
were possible, was in a parlous position if once the extent of his
knowledge were surmised. So far, the plot had not yet matured. So far,
though the clouds had gathered and the thunder was muttering, the storm
had not broken. The reason for that he knew--the one person needed, the
one person for whose coming all these plans had been made, had not yet
arrived. There was no telling, however, how long the respite might last.
At any moment might commence this conference, whose avowed purpose was
to break at a single blow, a single treacherous but deadly blow, the
Empire whose downfall Selingman had once publicly declared was the one
great necessity involved by his country's expansion....

Hunterleys quenched his thirst at a roadside cafe, sitting out upon the
pavement and drinking coarse red wine and soda-water. Then he bought a
packet of black cigarettes and continued his journey. He was within
sight of Monte Carlo when for the twentieth time he had to step to the
far side of the pathway to avoid being smothered in dust by an advancing
automobile. This time, by some chance, he glanced around, attracted by
the piercing character of its long-distance whistle. A high-powered grey
touring car came by, travelling at a great pace. Hunterleys stood
perfectly rigid, one hand grasping the wall by the side of which he
stood. Notwithstanding his spectacles and the thick coating of dust upon
his clothes, the solitary passenger of the car was familiar enough to
him. It was the man for whom this plot had been prepared. It was Paul
Douaille, the great Foreign Minister into whose hands even the most
cautious of Premiers had declared himself willing to place the destinies
of his country!

Hunterleys pursued the road no longer. He took a ticket at the next
station and hurried back to Monte Carlo. He went first to his room,
bathed and changed, and, passing along the private passage, made his way
into the Sporting Club. The first person whom he saw, seated in her
accustomed place at her favourite table, was his wife. She beckoned him
to come over to her. There was a vacant chair by her side to which she
pointed.

"Thank you," he said, "I won't sit down. I don't think that I care to
play just now. You are fortunate this afternoon, I trust?"

Something in his face and tone checked that rush of altered feeling of
which she had been more than once passionately conscious since the night
before.

"I am hideously out of luck," she confessed slowly. "I have been losing
all day. I think that I shall give it up."

She rose wearily to her feet and he felt a sudden compassion for her.
She was certainly looking tired. Her eyes were weary, she had the air of
an unhappy woman. After all, perhaps she too sometimes knew what
loneliness was.

"I should like some tea so much," she added, a little piteously.

He opened his lips to invite her to pass through into the restaurant
with him. Then the memory of that forged order still in his pocket,
flashed into his mind. He hesitated. A cold, familiar voice at his elbow
intervened.

"Are you quite ready for tea, Lady Hunterleys? I have been in and taken
a table near the window."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21