The Four Faces
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William le Queux >> The Four Faces
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It was horribly hard to resist such an appeal, and yet I felt I should
be a cur if Jack really needed me--and obviously he did--and I failed to
go to him. And what would Dulcie think of me later if, through my giving
way to her entreaty, some serious harm should befall my friend? Much as
I loved her, I could not let her influence me in such a case; even if I
did, it might in the end make her despise me.
"I would do anything in the world for you, sweetheart," I said, kissing
her fondly. "You know that, as well as I do. I would grant you any
favour provided--"
"Provided what?" she asked quickly as I paused.
"Provided that my doing so could have no harmful result. Prevent my
going to Jack in such a crisis, and--"
I stopped abruptly. My tongue had, alas, outrun my discretion.
"Crisis? What crisis?" Dulcie burst forth, startled at my tone. "Oh,
Mike, you are keeping something from me, you are deceiving me--don't say
that you aren't, for I know you are!"
"Darling," I exclaimed, taking her in my arms, "I am not deceiving
you--indeed, indeed I am not. I may have been wrong in using the word
'crisis.' What I meant was that, knowing that Jack and a friend of his
are striving tooth and nail to track down the thieves who robbed this
house, and seeing that I have promised to help Jack to the best of my
ability, I feel that this urgent telegram of his means that something
has come to light, that he has heard something or discovered some clue
which makes it imperative that I should go to him at once. And I am
going--now."
Quickly I released her. Then, fearing that further delay--added,
possibly, to further persuasion on her part--might end by weakening my
determination, I gave her a final kiss, and hurried out of the room.
Again I glanced at the telegram--
"_Come at once. Urgent.--Jack._"
Then I crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire.
Having arrived at Paddington I went straight to Jack Osborne's hotel.
He had left word that, upon my arrival, I should be told to go to a
house in Warwick Street, Regent Street, and there inquire for him.
It was George Preston's address. I hastened there in a taxi, and, as I
rang the bell, I heard a clock strike six. Preston himself admitted me.
"Mr. Osborne has not yet arrived," he said as, after a word of
explanation, we shook hands, "but I expect him any minute, and he is
expecting you. Will you come in and wait?"
As I had not previously been to Preston's house its appearance surprised
me. One does not associate a police detective, even an ex-detective,
with a taste in things artistic, but here on all sides was evidence of
refinement and a cultured mind--shelves loaded with carefully selected
books, volumes by classic authors; treatises on art; standard works by
deep thinkers of world-wide repute, while on the walls hung mezzotints I
knew to be extremely rare. In addition there were several beautiful
statues, cloisonne vases from Tokio and Osaka, antique furniture from
Naples and from Florence, also treasures from Burma, the West Indies,
and New Guinea.
The door opened, and the maid announced: "Baron Poppenheimer."
"Ah, my dear Baron," Preston exclaimed as he advanced to meet him, "this
is a real pleasure; I didn't expect you so soon, but, as you are here,
come and sit down," and he drew forward a chair. "But first let me
present to you Mr. Michael Berrington, a friend of our mutual friend
Jack Osborne's."
"Delighted to meet you--delighted, I am sure," Baron Poppenheimer said,
with a slight accent, extending two fingers--a form of handshake which I
particularly dislike. "Dreadfully cold again, is it not?--hein?
Dreadfully cold, I am sure."
His appearance rather amused me. His was a queer figure. He wore a
thick, dark blue box-cloth overcoat, double-breasted, with large pearl
buttons, and a wide collar of yellow fur, which came well down on the
shoulders; the fur cuffs matched it. His gloves were woolly ones,
lavender-coloured, and the black silk hat which he carried in his right
hand was burnished until it rivalled the shine of his patent boots--the
"uppers" being hidden by spats. He had curly, black hair; black, rather
bushy eyebrows; and a small imperial. While he carried a stout malacca
cane with a large gold head to it, and in his left eye was a gold-rimmed
monocle secured round his neck by a broad black ribbon.
We conversed for a little time, and from his talk I could see that he
was something of a character. He knew many of my friends, and, upon my
repeating my name to him, he seemed to know a good deal about me. I
expressed surprise at this, whereupon he looked up at Preston, who stood
immediately behind me, and observed drily:
"I believe I could tell Mr. Berrington almost as much about himself as I
was able to tell you, Preston; what do you think?"
"Baron Poppenheimer is an extraordinarily clever clairvoyant and
palmist, Mr. Berrington," Preston said. "I place such implicit
confidence in his forecasts that I persuade him, whenever I can, to help
me in my work. Yesterday he took it into his head to read my palms, and
he told me things about myself that staggered-me--I almost begin to
believe in black magic!"
I became greatly interested.
"I wish I could some day persuade the Baron to read my palms," I
exclaimed, "Palmistry has always rather appealed to me."
"So?" Baron Poppenheimer answered. "I will read your palms for you now,
if you will, I am sure."
He took my right hand, flattened it, palm upward, on his knee, studied
it closely for a moment or two, then, after a few moments' silence,
began to talk fluently and rapidly. The things he told me about myself,
things I had done, even things I had only thought, made me almost gape
with amazement. Then he took my left hand, examined both sides of it
closely through his monocle, and continued his disclosures. He told me
to within a day or two how long I had been engaged to be married, and
described Dulcie's appearance to the life; he even went so far as to
tell me exactly how she talked. For some moments I wondered if Preston
could have coached the Baron in my movements; then I remembered that the
Baron had told me things about myself of which Preston knew nothing.
"And that is all I have to tell you, my dear Mike," the "Baron" suddenly
exclaimed in quite a different voice. I sprang back in my chair as I
looked up sharply. Jack Osborne had pulled off his black, curly wig, and
sat laughing loudly. Preston too was considerably amused.
"Yes, George," Jack said at last, "that disguise will do; you certainly
are a marvel in the art of 'make-up.' If I can deceive Mike Berrington,
who is one of my oldest friends, I shall be able to hoodwink anybody.
Now you had better try your hand on Mike. What sort of person do you
propose to turn him into? I have told you that he is an excellent actor,
and can mimic voices to perfection."
Osborne then explained why he had telegraphed to me. Preston had made a
discovery--a rather important discovery. Exactly what it was they would
not tell me then, but Preston had suggested that on that very night the
three of us should visit Easterton's house in Cumberland Place, where
Gastrell's reception had taken place, wearing effectual disguises which
he would attend to, and see for ourselves what there was to be seen. It
was Osborne, I now learned for the first time, who had effected the
introduction between Hugesson Gastrell and "Lord Cranmere"--the actual
Lord Cranmere had been consulted by Jack on the subject of his being
impersonated, and when Jack had outlined to him his plan and told him
why the detective, Preston, wished to impersonate him, Lord Cranmere had
entered into the spirit of the thing and given his consent. He had,
indeed, expressed no little alarm when Jack had told him how the
mysterious, unseen individual at the house in Grafton Street had
cross-questioned him with regard to Eldon Hall, Cranmere's place in
Northumberland, the whereabout of the safe that Cranmere had bought ten
months previously, the likelihood of there being a priests' hiding-hole
at Eldon, and so on.
"The whole idea regarding to-night, and our plan of action, originates
with Preston," Jack said to me. "He believes--in fact, he is almost
sure--that Gastrell and his associates know nothing of him by repute as
a detective, also that they don't know him by sight, or by name either.
He says, however, that they believe they are now personally acquainted
with Lord Cranmere, upon whose property we think they have evil designs.
'Lord Cranmere' is now, in turn, going to introduce to Gastrell and his
associates two particular friends of his. Those friends will be 'Baron
Poppenheimer' and--who is Cranmere's other friend to be, George?" he
inquired, looking up at Preston.
"'Sir Aubrey Belston,'" Preston answered at once. "Mr. Berrington is not
at all unlike Sir Aubrey, in build as well as in feature."
"'Baron Poppenheimer' and 'Sir Aubrey Belston,'" Jack said, "who in
private life are Jack Osborne and Michael Berrington. And if George
disguises you and coaches you as well as he did me, I undertake to say
that nobody will suspect that you are not actually Sir Aubrey Belston."
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE MISTS
At a quarter to one in the morning Cranmere's big, grey, low-built car
slid noiselessly along Wigmore Street and drew up at the entrance to one
of the most imposing-looking houses in Cumberland Place.
The imposing footman got down and rang the bell--he pressed the button
four times in succession, as "Lord Cranmere" had told him to do. Almost
at once the door was opened, and from the car window we saw a tall man
in knee-breeches silhouetted, while a little way behind him stood
another man. "Lord Cranmere" stepped out of the car, and we followed
him--"Baron Poppenheimer" and "Sir Aubrey Belston." In point of fact,
the real Sir Aubrey Belston was at that moment somewhere in the Malay
States, making a tour of the world.
"Lord Cranmere" had told the chauffeur that he would not require him
again that night, and I had noticed the man touch his hat in the belief
that this actually was his employer who addressed him, for the real Earl
of Cranmere had lent us his car. I heard the car purr away in the
darkness, and an instant later the door of number 300 Cumberland Place
shut noiselessly behind us.
The footman in knee-breeches and powdered head, who had admitted us, led
us without a word across the large hall, turned into a long corridor
dimly-lit by tinted electric lamps, turned to the left, then to the
right, then showed us into a small, comfortably-furnished room in which
a fire burned cheerily, while in a corner a column printing machine
ticked out its eternal news from the ends of the earth. We waited
several minutes. Then the door opened and Hugesson Gastrell entered.
Like ourselves, he was in evening clothes. He advanced, shook hands
cordially with "Lord Cranmere," saying that he had received his
telephone message.
"These are my friends of whom I spoke," Cranmere said, "Baron
Poppenheimer and Sir Aubrey Belston."
"Delighted to meet you," Gastrell exclaimed. "Any friend of Cranmere's
is welcome here; one has, of course, to be careful whom one admits on
these occasions--isn't that so, Cranmere? Come upstairs and have
some supper."
We followed him, ascending to the first floor. In a large,
high-ceilinged, well-lit room an elaborate supper was spread. There were
seats for thirty or forty, but only ten or a dozen were occupied. A
strange atmosphere pervaded the place, an atmosphere of secrecy, of
mystery. As we entered, the people at supper, men and women, had glanced
up at us furtively, then continued their conversation. They talked more
or less under their breath.
Gastrell called for a bottle of "bubbly," and about half an hour later
we rose. The room was by this time deserted. Following Gastrell along a
narrow passage, we presently found ourselves in a room larger than the
one we had just left. Here between forty and fifty men and women sat at
several tables. At one _chemin-de-fer_ was in progress; at another
_petits chevaux_; at a third the game which of late years has become so
popular in certain circles--"Sandown Park." On all the tables money was
heaped up, and on all sides one heard the musical chink of gold and the
crackle of bank-notes. Nobody spoke much. Apparently all present were
too deeply engrossed to waste time in conversation.
As I glanced about me I noticed several people I knew intimately, and
four or five I knew only by sight, people well known in Society. I was
on the point of bowing to one woman I knew, who, looking up, had caught
my eye; just in time I remembered that she would not recognize me in my
disguise. Then a man nodded to me, and I nodded back. He looked rather
surprised at seeing me, I thought, and at once it flashed across me that
of course he was under the impression that I was Sir Aubrey Belston, and
probably he had heard that Sir Aubrey was travelling round the world.
Gastrell, after a few minutes' conversation, found us places at a table
where "Sandown Park" was being played. As I seated myself I found,
facing me, Jasmine Gastrell, and for some moments I felt uncomfortable.
I could feel her gaze upon my face as she scrutinized me closely, but
even she did not penetrate my disguise.
"Lord Cranmere" sat upon the opposite side of the table, "Baron
Poppenheimer" on my side, two seats from me. On my right was one of the
unintelligent-looking women I had met at Connie Stapleton's dinner party
at the Rook Hotel in Newbury; on my immediate left a man I did not know.
Connie Stapleton I had looked about for, but she was nowhere visible.
So this was one of the ways Gastrell amassed money--he ran a
gaming-house! I now began to see his object in cultivating the
acquaintance of people of rank and wealth; for I had long ago noticed
that Jasmine and Hugesson Gastrell never missed an opportunity of
becoming acquainted with men and women of position. Also I began to
grasp Preston's line of action. Disguised as the Earl of Cranmere, who
was known to be extremely rich, he had cleverly ingratiated himself with
the Gastrells and led them on to think him rather a fool who could
easily be gulled. Jack had more than once told me how artfully Preston
played his cards when on the track of people he suspected and wished to
entrap, so that I could well imagine Preston's leading the Gastrells on
to ensnare him--as they no doubt supposed they were doing. For that he
would not have been admitted to this gambling den--it evidently became
one at night--unless the Gastrells had believed they could trust him
and his friends implicitly, I felt certain.
My friends tell me that I am a rather good actor, and Preston's coaching
in Sir Aubrey Belston's mannerisms and ways of talking had given me a
measure of self-confidence. When, therefore--I had played for a quarter
of an hour and won a good deal--Jasmine Gastrell suddenly addressed me,
I did not feel disconcerted.
"I mean to follow your lead," she said. "You are so extraordinarily
lucky. How is it you manage to win every time?"
"Not every time," I corrected. "It's quite easy if you set about it in
the right way."
"I wish I knew the right way," she answered, fixing her eyes on me in
the way I knew so well. "Won't you tell me how you do it?"
"Different people must 'do it,' as you put it, in different ways," I
said. "Forgive my asking, but are you superstitious?"
She broke into rippling laughter.
"Superstitious? I?" she exclaimed. "Oh, that's the last thing my enemies
would accuse me of being!"
I paused, looking hard at her.
"And yet," I said seriously, "judging by your eyes, I should say that
you are remarkably psychic, and most people who are psychic are
superstitious up to a point."
I went on looking at her, staring right into her eyes, which she kept
set on mine. She did not in the least suspect my identity--I was now
positive of that. I had spoken all the time in an assumed voice.
"Yes," I said at last, impressively.
"Yes what?" she asked quickly; she was not smiling now. "Why do you say
'yes' like that? What does it mean?"
Apparently our conversation disturbed some of the players, so I said to
her seriously, indicating an alcove at the end of the room:
"Let us go over there. I should like to talk to you."
She made no demur, and presently we sat together in the alcove, partly
concealed by palms and other plants, a small table between us.
"Now tell me how you win, and how I am to win," she exclaimed, as soon
as we were seated. "I should dearly love to know."
I reflected, as I sat looking at her, that she was a consummate actress.
I could not doubt that she ran this establishment in connection with
Gastrell, yet here she was feigning deep anxiety to discover how she
could win.
"I don't know your name," I said at last, ignoring her inquiry, "but you
are one of the most amazing women, I would say one of the most amazing
human beings, I have ever met."
"How do you know that--I mean what makes you say it?" she asked quickly,
evidently disconcerted at my solemnity and at the impressive way
I spoke.
"Your aura betrays it," I answered in the same tone. "Every man and
woman is surrounded by an aura, but to less than one in ten thousand is
the human aura visible. It is visible to me. The human aura betrays, in
too many cases, what I would call its 'victim.' Your aura betrays you."
I leaned forward across the table until my face was close to hers. Then,
still looking straight into her eyes, I said, almost in a whisper:
"Shall I tell you what I see? Shall I tell you what your life has been?"
She turned suddenly pale. Then, struggling to regain her composure, she
said after a brief pause, but in a tone that lacked conviction:
"I don't believe a word you say. Who are you? Whom have I the pleasure
of speaking to?"
"Sir Aubrey Belston," I answered at once. "You may have heard of me.
Good God--the things I see!"
I pretended to give a little shudder. My acting must have been good, for
on the instant she turned almost livid. Again she made a terrific effort
to overcome the terror that I could see now possessed her.
"I _will_ tell you what I see!" I exclaimed, suddenly snatching the
wrist of her hand which lay upon the table, and holding it tightly.
Though almost completely concealed by the palms and plants, she strove
to shrink still further out of sight, as though the players, engrossed
in their games, would have spared time to notice her.
My eyes met hers yet again, but the expression in her eyes had now
completely changed. In place of the bold, impelling look I had always
seen there, was a fearful, hunted expression, as though she dreaded
what I was going to say.
"I see a room," I said in a low, intense tone, holding her wrist very
tightly still. "It is not a large room. It is a first-floor room, for I
see the exterior of the house and the two windows of the room. I see the
interior again. Several people are there--I cannot see them all clearly,
but two stand out distinctly. One is Gastrell, to whom I have this
evening been introduced; the other is you; ah, yes, I see you now more
clearly than before, and I see now another man--handsome, fair, about
twenty-eight or thirty--I can see his aura too--his aura within your
aura--he loves you desperately--and--ah, I see something lying on the
floor--a woman--she is dead--you--"
Her thin wrist suddenly turned cold; her eyes were slowly closing. Just
in time I sprang to my feet to save her from falling off her chair, for
she had fainted.
None of the players were aware of what had happened; all were too deeply
engrossed. Without attempting to restore my companion to
consciousness--for, in the face of what I had now learned practically
beyond doubt to be a fact, I had no wish to revive her--I left her lying
in her chair, stepped noiselessly along behind the mass of plants which
occupied one side of the room, emerged further away, and presently took
a vacant seat at a _chemin-de-fer_ table.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly two o'clock. Thinking over what had
just happened, and wondering what my next move had better be, and what
Jack and Preston intended doing, I stared carelessly about the room.
At all the tables play was still in progress. At some complete silence
prevailed. From others there arose at intervals a buzz of conversation.
Behind some of the lucky players stood groups of interested watchers.
About the sideboard were clustered men and women refreshing themselves,
the majority smoking and laughing, though a few looked strangely solemn.
Among the latter I suddenly noticed a face I had seen before. It was the
demure, dark little woman who at Connie Stapleton's dinner party had all
the evening seemed so subdued. She was dressed quietly now, just as she
had been then, and she looked even more out of place in this crowd of
men and women gamblers, all of whom were exceedingly well-dressed, than
she had looked at that dinner party. "There is only one person I should
be more surprised at seeing here," I said mentally, "and that
is Dulcie."
The thought of her made me wonder what she would think if she could see
me at this moment, when suddenly my heart seemed to stop beating.
Seated at the table nearest me but one, a table partly surrounded by a
group of excited onlookers, was Connie Stapleton. And close beside her,
engrossed in the game, Dulcie Challoner herself!
CHAPTER XV
THE MODERN VICE
So staggered was I that for the moment I almost forgot my disguise, and
the _role_ I was playing, and was on the point of hurrying over to
Dulcie and asking her how she came to be there. That Mrs. Stapleton must
have brought her, of course I guessed.
Fortunately I restrained myself just in time. Dulcie, I saw to my
dismay, was not merely playing, but was deeply engrossed in the game.
"Sandown Park" was the game in progress at that table, a game which to
all intents is a series of horse-races, but whereas at a race-meeting
only half a dozen or so races are run in an afternoon, the players at
"Sandown Park" can back horses in half a dozen races in as many minutes.
Judging by the interest she evidently took in the game, Dulcie must, I
conjectured, have been playing for some time, for she appeared to be
quite _au fait_. Never had she mentioned this game to me, and never had
I known her to take interest in backing horses or in any form of
reckless speculation. Consequently I had reason to suppose that this was
the first time she had played, if not the first time she had seen or
heard of the game.
Did I dare approach her? Would my feelings get the better of me and lead
to my betraying who I was? Though I had not been identified by people
who knew me, would Dulcie's perception be keener and lead to her seeing
through my disguise? These and similar doubts and questions crowded my
brain as I stood there watching her from a distance, but in the end
indiscretion got the better of prudence, and I decided to join the men
and women grouped about the table at which she and her friend sat.
For fully ten minutes I stood there, and during that time I saw her win
seven times in succession. She seemed to play without judgment or
calculation, in fact, with absolute recklessness, and after winning
three "races" in succession she had increased her stake each time. In
the fourth "race" she had backed a horse for ten pounds at four to one,
and won. In the next race she had planked twenty sovereigns on an
outsider, and raked in over a hundred pounds. The next two races had
increased her pile by between three and four hundred pounds. I could see
her panting with excitement. Her lips were slightly parted. Her eyes
shone. Her whole soul seemed centred upon the game.
And then she began to lose.
At first slowly, then rapidly, her pile of gold and notes dwindled. Time
after time she backed the wrong "animal." Now only a few five- and
ten-pound notes and a little heap of sovereigns--twenty at
most--remained. Her face had turned gradually pale. Connie Stapleton
leant towards her and whispered in her ear. I saw Dulcie nod; then,
taking up all the money in front of her, she handed it to the man who
held the bank, and received a ticket in return.
The board with the graduated divisions and the names of the horses
marked upon them spun round once more. Dulcie's brows were contracted,
her face was drawn, her expression tense. Slowly the board now
revolved, slower still. It stopped. I saw her give a little start, and
distinctly heard the gasp which escaped her.
She had lost everything.
Connie Stapleton's hand closed over hers, as though to reassure her.
Again the widow spoke into her ear. A moment later I saw a roll of notes
pushed towards Dulcie. Eagerly she grabbed them.
This was terrible. I realized at once what was happening. The widow was
lending her money. I wondered if the money she had already lost had been
lent to her by her friend. Instantly it dawned upon me that it must have
been, unless, indeed, Dulcie had, before I arrived, been extraordinarily
lucky, for I knew that she had not money enough of her own to gamble
with for such high stakes. She was playing again now--and losing. Once
or twice she won, but after each winner came several losers. I was
gradually getting fascinated. Again the widow lent her money, and again
she lost it all.
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