Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo
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“He may have been. He was, no doubt, somewhere on the Riviera, and he sent Paolo in one of the cars to rescue you from the police.”
“In that case, he at least knows that I am innocent.”
“Yes. And he probably knows the guilty person. That would account for the interest he takes in you, though you do not know him,” said Lisette. “I have known Il Passero perform many kindly acts to persons in distress who have never dreamed that they have received money from a notorious international thief.”
“Well, in my case he has, no doubt, done me signal service,” young Henfrey replied. “But,” he added, “why cannot you tell me something more concerning Mademoiselle? What did you mean by saying that she was a marque de ce? I know it is your slang, but won’t you explain what it means? You have explained most of your other expressions.”
But the girl thief was obdurate. She was certainly a chic and engaging little person, apparently well educated and refined, but she was as sly as her notorious employer, whom she served so faithfully. She was, she had already told Hugh, the daughter of a man who had made jewel thefts his speciality and after many convictions was now serving ten years at the convict prison at Toulon. She had been bred in the Montmartre, and trained and educated to a criminal life. Il Passero had found her, and, after several times successfully “indicating” where coups could be made, she had been taken into his employment as a decoy, frequently travelling on the international wagon-lits and restaurants, where she succeeded in attracting the attention of men and holding them in conversation with a mild flirtation while other members of the gang investigated the contents of their valises. From one well-known diamond dealer travelling between Paris and Amsterdam, she and the man working with her had stolen a packet containing diamonds of the value of two hundred thousand francs, while from an English business man travelling from Boulogne to Paris, two days later, she had herself taken a wallet containing nearly four thousand pounds in English bank-notes. It was her share of the recent robbery that Il Passero had paid her three days before at the Concordia Restaurant in the Via Garibaldi, in Genoa.
Hugh pressed her many times to tell him something concerning the mysterious Mademoiselle, but he failed to elicit any further information of interest.
“Her fortune at the Rooms is wonderful, they say,” Lisette said. “She must be very rich.”
“But she is one of Il Passero’s assistants—eh?”
The girl laughed lightly.
“Perhaps,” was her enigmatical reply. “Who knows? It is, however, evident that Il Passero is seriously concerned at the tragic affair at the Villa Amette.”
“Have you ever been there?”
She hesitated a few moments, then said: “Yes, once.”
“And you know the old Italian servant Cataldi?”
She replied in the affirmative. Then she added:
“I know him, but I do not like him. She trusts him, but–”
“But what?”
“I would not. I should be afraid, for to my knowledge he is a saigneur a musique.”
“And what is that?”
“An assassin.”
“What?” cried Henfrey. “Is he guilty of murder—and Mademoiselle knows it?”
“Mademoiselle may not know about it. She is probably in ignorance, or she would not employ him.”
Her remark was of considerable interest, inasmuch as old Cataldi had seemed to be most devoted to his mistress, and entirely trusted by her.
“Do you know the circumstances?” asked Hugh.
“Yes. But it is not our habit to speak of another’s—well, shortcomings,” was her reply.
“Surely, Mademoiselle should have been told the truth! Does not Il Passero know?” he asked.
There flitted across his mind at that moment the recollection of Dorise. What could she think of his disappearance? He longed to write to her, but The Sparrow’s chauffeur had impressed upon him the serious danger he would be running if he wrote to her while she was at Monte Carlo.
“I question whether he does know. But if he does he would say nothing.”
“Ah!” sighed Hugh. “Yours is indeed a queer world, mademoiselle. And not without interest.”
“It is full of adventure and excitement, of ups and downs, of constant travel and change, and of eternal apprehension of arrest,” replied the girl, with a laugh.
“I wish you would tell me something about Yvonne Ferad,” he repeated.
“Alas! m’sieur, I am not permitted,” was her obdurate reply. “I am truly sorry to hear of the dastardly attack upon her. She once did me a very kind and friendly action at a moment when I was in sore need of a friend.”
“Who could have fired the shot, do you think?” Henfrey asked. “You know her friends. Perhaps you know her enemies?”
Mademoiselle Lisette was silent for some moments.
“Yes,” she replied reflectively. “She has enemies, I know. But who has not?”
“Is there any person who, to your knowledge, would have any motive to kill her?”
Again she was silent.
“There are several people who hate her. One of them might have done it out of revenge. You say you saw nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“Why did you go and see her at that hour?” asked the girl.
“Because I wanted her to tell me something—something of greatest importance to me.”
“And she refused, of course? She keeps her own secrets.”
“No. On the other hand, she was about to disclose to me the information I sought when someone fired through the open window.”
“The shot might have been intended for you—eh?”
Hugh paused.
“It certainly might,” he admitted. “But with what motive?”
“To prevent you from learning the truth.”
“She was on the point of telling me what I wanted to know.”
“Exactly. And what more likely than someone outside, realizing that Mademoiselle was about to make a disclosure, fired at you.”
“But you said that Mademoiselle had enemies.”
“So she has. But I think my theory is the correct one,” replied the girl. “What was it that you asked her to reveal to you?”
“Well,” he replied, after a brief hesitation, “my father died mysteriously in London some time ago, and I have reason to believe that she knows the truth concerning the sad affair.”
“Where did it happen?”
“My father was found in the early morning lying in a doorway in Albemarle Street, close to Piccadilly. The only wound found was a slight scratch in the palm of the hand. The police constable at first thought he was intoxicated, but the doctor, on being called, declared that my father was suffering from poison. He was at once taken to St. George’s Hospital, but an hour later he died without recovering consciousness.”
“And what was your father’s name?” asked Lisette in a strangely altered voice.
“Henfrey.”
“Henfrey!” gasped the girl, starting up at mention of the name. “Henfrey! And—and are—you—his son?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh. “Why? You know about the affair, mademoiselle! Tell me all you know,” he cried. “I—the son of the dead man—have a right to demand the truth.”
“Henfrey!” repeated the girl hoarsely in a state of intense agitation. “Monsieur Henfrey! And—and to think that I am here—with you—his son! Ah! forgive me!” she gasped. “I—I–Let us return.”
“But you shall tell me the truth!” cried Hugh excitedly. “You know it! You cannot deny that you know it!”
All, however, he could get from her were the words:
“You—Monsieur Henfrey’s son! Surely Il Passero does not know this!”
ELEVENTH CHAPTER
MORE ABOUT THE SPARROW
A month of weary anxiety and nervous tension had gone by.
Yvonne Ferad had slowly struggled back to health, but the injury to the brain had, alas! seriously upset the balance of her mind. Three of the greatest French specialists upon mental diseases had seen her and expressed little hope of her ever regaining her reason.
It was a sad affair which the police of Monaco had, by dint of much bribery and the telling of many untruths, successfully kept out of the newspapers.
The evening after Hugh’s disappearance, Monsieur Ogier had called upon Dorise Ranscomb—her mother happily being away at the Rooms at the time. In one of the sitting-rooms of the hotel the official of police closely questioned the girl, but she, of course made pretense of complete ignorance. Naturally Ogier was annoyed at being unable to obtain the slightest information, and after being very rude, he told the girl the charge against her lover and then left the hotel in undisguised anger.
Lady Ranscomb was very much mystified at Hugh’s disappearance, though secretly she was very glad. She questioned Brock, but he, on his part, expressed himself very much puzzled. A week later, however, Walter returned to London, and on the following night Lady Ranscomb and her daughter took the train-de-luxe for Boulogne, and duly arrived home.
As day followed day, Dorise grew more mystified and still more anxious concerning Hugh. What was the truth? She had written to Brussels three times, but her letters had elicited no response. He might be already under arrest, for aught she knew. Besides, she could not rid herself of the recollection of the white cavalier, that mysterious masker who had told her of her lover’s escape.
In this state of keen anxiety and overstrung nerves she was compelled to meet almost daily, and be civil to, her mother’s friend, the odious George Sherrard.
Lady Ranscomb was for ever singing the man’s praises, and never weary of expressing her surprise at Hugh’s unforgivable behaviour.
“He simply disappeared, and nobody has heard a word of him since!” she remarked one day as they sat at breakfast. “I’m quite certain he’s done something wrong. I’ve never liked him, Dorise.”
“You don’t like him, mother, because he hasn’t money,” remarked the girl bitterly. “If he were rich and entertained you, you would call him a delightful man!”
“Dorise! What are you saying? What’s the good of life without money?” queried the widow of the great contractor.
“Everyone can’t be rich,” the girl averred simply. “I think it’s positively hateful to judge people by their pockets.”
“Well, has Hugh written to you?” snapped her mother.
Dorise replied in the negative, stifling a sigh.
“And he isn’t likely to. He’s probably hiding somewhere. I wonder what he’s done?”
“Nothing. I’m sure of that!”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” was her mother’s response. “I was chatting about it to Mr. Sherrard last night, and he’s promised to make inquiry.”
“Let Mr. Sherrard inquire as much as he likes,” cried the girl angrily. “He’ll find nothing against Hugh, except that he’s poor.”
“H’m! And he’s been far too much in your company of late, Dorise. People were beginning to talk at Monte Carlo.”
“Oh! Let them talk, mother! I don’t care a scrap. I’m my own mistress!”
“Yes, but I tell you frankly that I’m very glad that we’ve seen the last of the fellow.”
“Mother! You are really horrid!” cried the girl, rising abruptly and leaving the table. When out of the room she burst into tears.
Poor girl, her heart was indeed full.
Now it happened that early on that same morning Hugh Henfrey stepped from a train which had brought him from Aix-la-Chapelle to the Gare du Nord, in Brussels. He had spent three weeks with the Raveccas, in Genoa, whence he had travelled to Milan and Bale, and on into Belgium by way of Germany.
From Lisette he had failed to elicit any further facts concerning his father’s death, though it was apparent that she knew something about it—something she dared not tell.
On the day following their midnight stroll, he had done all in his power to induce her to reveal something at least of the affair, but, alas! to no avail. Then, two days later, she had suddenly left—at orders of The Sparrow, she said.
Before Hugh left Ravecca had given him eighty pounds in English notes, saying that he acted at Il Passero’s orders, for Hugh would no doubt need the money, and it would be most dangerous for him to write to his bankers.
At first Henfrey protested, but, as his funds were nearly exhausted, he had accepted the money.
As he left the station in Brussels on that bright spring morning and crossed the busy Place, he was wondering to what hotel he should go. He had left his scanty luggage in the consigne, intending to go out on foot and search for some cheap and obscure hotel, there being many such in the vicinity of the station. After half an hour he chose a small and apparently clean little place in a narrow street off the Place de Brouckere, and there, later on, he carried his handbag. Then, after a wash, he set out for the Central Post Office in the Place de la Monnaie.
He had not gone far along the busy boulevard when he was startled to hear his name uttered from behind, and, turning, encountered a short, thick-set little man wearing a brown overcoat.
The man, noticing the effect his words had upon him, smiled reassuringly, and said in broken English: “It is all right! I am not a police officer, Monsieur Henfrey. Cross the road and walk down that street yonder. I will follow in a few moments.”
And then the man walked on, leaving Hugh alone.
Much surprised, Hugh did as he was bid, and a few minutes later the Belgian met him again.
“It is very dangerous for us to be seen together,” he said quickly, scarcely pausing as he walked. “Do not go near the Post Office, but go straight to 14 Rue Beyaert, first floor. I shall be there awaiting you. I have a message for you from a friend. You will find the street close to the Porte de Hal.”
And the man continued on his way, leaving Hugh in wonder. He had been on the point of turning from the boulevard into the Place de la Monnaie to obtain Dorise’s long looked for letter. Indeed, he had been hastening his footsteps full of keen apprehension when the stranger had accosted him.
But in accordance with the man’s suggestion, he turned back towards the station, where he entered a taxi and drove across the city to the corner of Rue Beyaert, a highly respectable thoroughfare. He experienced no difficulty in finding the house indicated, and on ascending the stairs, found the stranger awaiting him.
“Ah!” he cried. “Come in! I am glad that I discovered you! I have been awaiting your arrival from Italy for the past fortnight. It is indeed fortunate that I found you in time to warn you not to go to the Poste Restante.” He spoke in French, and had shown his visitor into a small but well furnished room.
“Why?” asked Hugh. “Is there danger in that quarter?”
“Yes, Monsieur Henfrey. The French police have, by some unknown means, discovered that you were coming here, and a strict watch is being kept for anyone calling for letters addressed to Godfrey Brown.”
“But how could they know?” asked Hugh.
“Ah! That is the mystery! Perhaps your lady friend has been indiscreet. She was told in strict confidence, and was warned that your safety was in her hands.”
“Surely, Dorise would be most careful not to betray me!” cried the young Englishman.
“Well, somebody undoubtedly has.”
“I presume you are one of Il Passero’s friends?” Hugh said with a smile.
“Yes. Hence I am your friend,” was the reply.
“Have you heard of late how Mademoiselle Yvonne is progressing?”
The man, who told his visitor his name was Jules Vervoort, shook his head.
“She is no better. I heard last week that the doctors have said that she will never recover her mental balance.”
“What! Is she demented?”
“Yes. The report I had was that she recognized nobody, except at intervals she knows her Italian manservant and calls him by name. I was ordered to tell you this.”
“Ordered by Il Passero—eh?”
The man Vervoort nodded in the affirmative. Then he went on to warn his visitor that the Brussels police were on the eager watch for his arrival. “It is fortunate that you were not recognized when you came this morning,” he said. “I had secret warning and was at the station, but I dared not approach you. You passed under the very nose of two detectives, but luckily for you, their attention had been diverted to a woman who is a well-known pickpocket. I followed you to your hotel and then waited for you to go to the Poste Restante.”
“But I want my letters,” said Hugh.
“Naturally, but it is far too dangerous to go near there. You, of course, want news of your lady friend. That you will have by special messenger very soon. Therefore remain patient.”
“Why are all these precautions being taken to prevent my arrest?” Hugh asked. “I confess I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I. But when Il Passero commands we all obey.”
“You are, I presume, his agent in Brussels?”
“His friend—not his agent,” Vervoort replied with a smile.
“Do you know Mademoiselle Lisette?” Hugh asked. “She was with me in Genoa.”
“Yes. We have met. A very clever little person. Il Passero thinks very highly of her. She has been educated in the higher schools, and is perhaps one of our cleverest decoys.”
Hugh Henfrey paused.
“Now look here, Monsieur Vervoort,” he exclaimed at last, “I’m very much in the dark about all this curious business. Lisette knows a lot concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”
“Admitted. She acted once as her maid, I believe, in some big affair. But I don’t know much about it.”
“Well, you know what happened at the Villa Amette that night? Have you any idea of the identity of the person who shot poor Mademoiselle—the lady they call Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo?”
“Not in the least,” was the reply. “All I know is that Il Passero has some very keen and personal interest in the affair. He has sent further orders to you. It is imperative, he says, that you should get away from Brussels. The police are too keen here.”
“Where shall I go?”
“I suggest that you go at once to Malines. Go to Madame Maupoil, 208 Rue de Stassart, opposite the Military Hospital. It is far too dangerous for you to remain here in Brussels. I have already written that you are coming. Her house is one of the sanctuaries of the friends of Il Passero. Remember the name and address.”
“The Sparrow seems to be ubiquitous,” Hugh remarked.
“He is. No really great robbery can be accomplished unless he plans and finances it.”
“I cannot think why he takes so keen an interest in me.”
“He often does in persons who are quite ignorant of his existence.”
“That is my own case. I never heard of him until I was in Genoa, a fugitive,” said Hugh. “But you told me I shall receive a message from Miss Ranscomb by special messenger. When?”
“When you are in Malines.”
“But all this is very strange. Will the mysterious messenger call upon Miss Ranscomb in London?”
“Of course. Il Passero has several messengers who travel to and fro in secret. Mademoiselle Lisette was once one of them. She has travelled many times the length and breadth of Europe. But nowadays she is an indicator—and a very clever one indeed,” he added with a laugh.
“I suppose I had better get away to Malines without delay?” Hugh remarked.
“Yes. Go to your hotel, pay them for your room and get your valise. I shall be waiting for you at noon in a car in the Rue Gretry, close to the Palais d’Ete. Then we can slip away to Malines. Have you sufficient money? If not, I can give you some. Il Passero has ordered me to do so.”
“Thanks,” replied Hugh. “I have enough for the present. My only desire is to be back again in London.”
“Ah! I am afraid that is not possible for some time to come.”
“But I shall hear from Miss Ranscomb?”
“Oh, yes. The messenger will come to you in Malines.”
“Who is the messenger?”
“Of that I have no knowledge,” was Vervoort’s reply. He seemed a very refined man, and was no doubt an extremely clever crook. He said little of himself, but sufficient to cause Hugh to realize that his was one of the master minds of underground Europe.
The young Englishman was naturally eager to further penetrate the veil of mystery surrounding Mademoiselle Yvonne, but he learned little or nothing. Vervoort either knew nothing, or else refused to disclose what he knew. Which, Hugh could not exactly decide.
Therefore, in accordance with the Belgian’s instructions, he left the house and at noon carried his valise to the Rue Gretry, where he found his friend awaiting him in a closed car, which quickly moved off out of the city by the Laeken road. Travelling by way of Vilvorde they were within an hour in old-world Malines, famous for its magnificent cathedral and its musical carillon. Crossing the Louvain Canal and entering by the Porte de Bruxelles, they were soon in an inartistic cobbled street under the shadow of St. Rombold, and a few minutes later Hugh was introduced to a short, stout Belgian woman, Madame Maupoil. The place was meagrely furnished, but scrupulously clean. The floor of the room to which Hugh was shown shone with beeswax, and the walls were whitewashed.
“I hope monsieur will make himself quite comfortable,” madame said, a broad smile of welcome upon her round face.
“You will be comfortable enough under madame’s care,” Vervoort assured him. “She has had some well-known guests before now.”
“True, monsieur. More than one of them have been world-famous and—well—believed to be perfectly honest and upright.”
“Yes,” laughed Vervoort. “Do you remember the English ex-member of Parliament?”
“Ah! He was with me nearly four months when supposed to be in South America. There was a warrant out for him on account of some great financial frauds—all of which was, of course, hushed up. But he stayed here in strict concealment and his friends managed to get the warrant withdrawn. He was known to Il Passero, and the latter aided him—in return for certain facilities regarding the English police.”
“What do you think of the English police, madame?” Hugh asked. The fat woman grinned expressively and shrugged her broad shoulders.
“Since the war they have been effete as regards serious crime. At least, that is what Il Passero told me when he was here a month ago.”
“Someone is coming here to meet Monsieur Henfrey,” Vervoort said. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know. I only received word of it the day before yesterday. A messenger from London, I believe.”
“Well, each day I become more and more mystified,” Hugh declared. “Why Il Passero, whom I do not know, should take all this interest in me, I cannot imagine.”
“Il Passero very often assists those against whom a false charge is laid,” the woman remarked. “There is no better friend when one is in trouble, for so clever and ubiquitous is he, and so many friends in high quarters does he possess, that he can usually work his will. His is the master-mind, and we obey without question.”
TWELFTH CHAPTER
THE STRANGER IN BOND STREET
As Dorise walked up Bond Street, smartly dressed, next afternoon, on her way to her dressmaker’s, she was followed by a well-dressed young girl in black, dark-eyed, with well-cut, refined features, and apparently a lady.
From Piccadilly the stranger had followed Dorise unseen, until at the corner of Maddox Street she overtook her, and smiling, uttered her name.
“Yes,” responded Doris in surprise. “But I regret—you have the advantage of me?”
“Probably,” replied the stranger. “Do you recollect the bal blanc at Nice and a certain white cavalier? I have a message from him to give you in secret.”
“Why in secret?” Dorise asked rather defiantly.
“Well—for certain reasons which I think you can guess,” answered the girl in black, as she strolled at Dorise’s side.
“Why did not you call on me at home?”
“Because of your mother. She would probably have been a little inquisitive. Let us go into some place—a tea-room—where we can talk,” she suggested. “I have come to see you concerning Mr. Henfrey.”
“Where is he?” asked Dorise, in an instant anxious.
“Quite safe. He arrived in Malines yesterday—and is with friends.”
“Has he had my letters?”
“Unfortunately, no. But do not let us talk here. Let’s go in yonder,” and she indicated the Laurel Tea Rooms, which, the hour being early, they found, to their satisfaction, practically deserted.
At a table in the far corner they resumed their conversation.
“Why has he not received my letters?” asked Dorise. “It is nearly a month ago since I first wrote.”
“By some mysterious means the police got to know of your friend’s intended visit to Brussels to obtain his letters. Therefore, it was too dangerous for him to go to the Poste Restante, or even to send anyone there. The Brussels police were watching constantly. How they have gained their knowledge is a complete mystery.”