The Stretton Street Affair
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In the darkness De Gex could not distinguish me. Therefore I drew back and watched the world-famous financier enter the car and drive away.
So Oswald De Gex was back in London – and in August! I had passed the house on the previous afternoon and seen that as usual the faded Holland blinds were drawn, just as they had been for months, an indication to callers that the owner was away. I looked again. The blinds were still down!
Next day being Sunday I watched, and though at four o’clock in the afternoon De Gex came forth and strolled round to his club in St. James’s Street, the blinds were still drawn, it being evident that the unscrupulous man who juggled with European dynasties was living there in obscurity – and in pretence of absence.
Why?
My watchfulness was increased; my thoughts being ever upon the avenging of the injury done to the sweet girl I so dearly loved – that poor unfortunate creature whose brain had been destroyed by the dastardly administration of that poison only known to students of toxicology. In my waking hours I conjured up scenes of how mother and daughter, living in that obscure pension in busy Lyons, went each day to the Professor’s house, and how the kindly old savant did his best to restore her brain to its normal activity.
One hot day I had been to Reading on business for the firm, and on arrival at Paddington I bought an evening paper and took it home to Rivermead Mansions. As usual Harry and I had dinner together, and after he had gone out to Richmond, I sat by the open window which looked upon the towing-path beside the Thames, and with my pipe in my mouth, scanned the day’s news.
Of a sudden I came across a heading which attracted me, and read as follows:
“The sudden death is announced, at his house outside Amsterdam, of Baron Harte van Veltrup, the well-known Dutch financier, who for some years was in active association with the Spanish banker, the late Count de Chamartin. The Count died recently in San Sebastian just after he, with van Veltrup, had promoted a great railway scheme in Central Spain. The circumstances of the Baron’s death appear to be somewhat mysterious, says our Amsterdam correspondent. Three days ago the banker, who is a widower, went to The Hague, where in a private room in an obscure hotel, he met a man on business. The meeting was apparently in secret, for he told his valet that he did not wish anyone to know of the mysterious visitor for a certain financial reason. The man remained with the Baron for nearly an hour, after which the financier went home in his car to Amsterdam, his valet driving. On the way the servant noticed that his master seemed very perturbed, once or twice muttering threats beneath his breath.
“On arrival at his house facing Vondel Park, he dressed, ate his dinner alone, and was about to re-enter his car to drive to the Park Schouwburg, where opera was being given that night, when he staggered and fell just outside the gate, and expired in a few moments.
“Though a medical examination proved that death was due to heart failure, some comment has been caused by the valet’s story of his master’s mysterious visitor at The Hague. The latter he describes as middle-aged, with a small dark moustache, a ruddy complexion, wearing round horn-rimmed spectacles. He thinks the latter were worn for purposes of disguise.
“Three doctors have, however, declared that death ensued from natural causes, hence the police discredit the valet’s story. Baron van Veltrup, who was well known in international finance, was a frequent visitor to London, where he had permanent chambers in Jermyn Street. He was in the habit of receiving strange callers – persons who probably gave him secret information regarding Government concessions and other such matters. Therefore it is not believed that the man whom he met in secret has any connexion with his sudden and lamented death. The Baron contributed most generously to Dutch charities, especially to the Blinden Institution, of which he was one of the governors.
“Some of his financial deals were of outstanding magnitude. The last loan to Peru was made through his house, in combination with that of Chamartin, in Madrid, while he negotiated a big loan to Serbia immediately before the war, as well as obtaining the concessions for two new railways in Northern Italy and in Portugal. The reputation of the house of Veltrup was one of the highest standing, and the Baron’s untimely death has cast a gloom over financial circles in all the European capitals.”
I raised my eyes from the paper and gazed across the Thames now growing grey in the evening light. Outside, the soft wind whispered in the trees and across the long suspension bridge ran an endless stream of motor traffic into and out of London.
The affair in Amsterdam was certainly curious, but what attracted me most was the fact that the dead Baron had been a partner with the late Count Chamartin, whose widow I knew by sight. The Count had also died very suddenly. So within a short time of each other two men whose names were ones to conjure with in international finance had both died!
The valet’s story I did not doubt. I knew that such men as the late Baron were often compelled, in their own interests, to receive visits from mysterious and often undesirable persons, most of whom were paid for their information. Every giant of finance employs his secret agents, whose duty it is to keep his principal informed of the various political and other secrets in Europe. Indeed, the great financiers know more of the underground currents of foreign politics than they do at any Embassy or Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It is their duty to know the secrets of nations – and they profit upon their knowledge.
I sat ruminating. The sudden deaths of the two pillars of finance was, to say the least, a curious coincidence. I recollected that Chamartin had been associated with De Gex, and the object of the latter’s journey to Madrid had apparently been to interview his dead friend’s widow. I also remembered Professor Vega’s description of the deadly effect of that secret poison orosin – that it might cause almost instant death, and that all doctors would attribute the cause to heart failure.
This caused me to ponder for a long time. I read and re-read the report of the Baron’s death, and when I retired to bed – Harry not having yet returned – I could not sleep, so haunted was I by vague suspicions.
Next day I found that I could not apply myself to work at the office, so gave it up and once more wandered towards Hyde Park Corner and up Park Lane where again I passed through Stretton Street. The blinds of the big dark mansion were all lowered, indicating that its owner was still out of town. Yet I knew that he was living in the half darkness of that closed house.
Why?
Several days passed when, unable to rest, I at last asked leave of absence from old Mr. Francis, and crossed by the night-boat from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. On the following day I found myself in quaint old Amsterdam, that city built upon the sand in defiance of a certain text in St. Matthew, the city with its great network of canals, and its many gaudily-painted barges. As I left my hotel and walked to the Dam, the central square of the city, my nostrils were saluted upon one side by the perfume of the flowers adorning the windows and the odour of cook-shops, while on the other was the smell of tar and the fumes of the humble kitchens of sailing vessels.
I happened to know an Englishman employed as clerk to a firm of Dutch forwarding agents whose offices were in the Dam, and this man, whose name was Graham, I at once sought.
We went out to a café together, and I explained the object of my visit, namely, the investigation of the death of Baron van Veltrup. Graham at once regarded me with considerable astonishment, for very naturally he could not make out why I should take such a keen interest in the death of one of the richest men in Holland.
“The Baron died of heart failure,” my friend said. “The doctors are agreed upon that. His valet told some extraordinary story, but no credence has been placed in it. There has been a good deal in the papers concerning the unfortunate affair, but the excitement has now all died down. The Baron was, I believe, buried yesterday.”
“I know that there is no suspicion that death was due to foul play, Graham,” I said. “But I confess that in face of certain knowledge I possess I am not altogether satisfied with the doctor’s conclusion.”
My friend smiled incredulously.
“At first, the police were, I heard, inclined to suspect foul play. But after full investigation they are now quite satisfied as to the cause of death.”
“Be that as it may, I intend to make a few discreet inquiries,” I replied resolutely. “I want you, if you will, to assist me.”
He smiled again in undisguised disbelief.
“Of course you are at liberty to express your own opinion,” he said with some reluctance. “And if you wish, I will assist you. But I really think, Garfield, that you will be only wasting your time – and mine.”
“I hope not,” I assured him. “Were I not in possession of certain exclusive information I should not venture to come here from London and trouble you, as I am doing.”
Graham, whom I had known for a number of years, looked very straight at me.
“What is the nature of this exclusive information?” he inquired. “You are concealing something, Hugh.”
“Yes. I know I am,” was my reply as I smiled at him. “I am here to discover the truth regarding the death of Baron van Veltrup.”
“Then you suspect foul play – eh?” asked my friend.
“Yes, I do,” I replied in a low voice, “and I want you, Graham, to put me in touch with the Baron’s valet.”
“He is a man named Folcker, a Swede, according to the newspapers. I dare say I could find him.”
“If you can, you will assist me very much. I must have a chat with him,” I said. “I feel somehow that in face of the strange facts within my knowledge that he can give me the clue to the cause of his master’s death.”
Graham smiled. He seemed to regard me as a person whose mind was not quite sound. But I will give him his due. He propitiated me, and promised to get into touch with Oscar Folcker. By virtue of the wide ramifications of the firm by which Graham was employed, I knew that it would be an easy matter, hence I was not surprised when next day he rang me up on the telephone to my hotel and told me that he had been able to find the valet Folcker who would call upon me at six o’clock that evening.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
WHAT THE VALET KNEW
At the time appointed, as I stood in the hall, a tall, clean-shaven, rather spruce young man entered and spoke to the concierge, who at once brought him over to me.
I took him into a corner of the lounge, and when we were seated I told him of my suspicions and my quest.
Like many Swedes he spoke English, and in reply said:
“Well, sir, I was in the Baron’s service for five years, and I knew his habits very well. He was an excellent master – most kind and generous, and with him I have travelled Europe up and down. We were very often in London, where the Baron had bachelor chambers in Jermyn Street.”
“I know that,” I said. “But tell me what you know, and what you suspect concerning his untimely end.”
“There was foul play, sir!” he said unhesitatingly. “The Baron was a strong healthy man who lived frugally, and though he dealt in millions of francs, yet he was most quiet in his habits, and his boast was that he was never out of bed after half-past ten. Though very rich he devoted nearly half his income yearly to charitable institutions. I know the extent of his contributions to the needy, for I have often seen him draw the cheques.”
“Well – tell me exactly what happened,” I asked.
“The affair presents some very puzzling features, sir,” he replied. “One morning, while dressing, my master told me that he had to motor to The Hague as he wished to meet in strict secrecy a man who would call to see him at a little hotel called the Rhijn, in the Oranje Straat. He asked me to drive him there so that Mullard, the chauffeur, should have no knowledge of the visit. This I promised to do, for I can drive a car. We arrived early in the afternoon, and the Baron, who was unknown at the obscure little place, ordered lunch for us both. He ate his in the private room he had engaged, and at about three o’clock the visitor arrived. He inquired of the proprietor and was shown into the Baron’s private room. I judged him to be about forty, of middle height, well-dressed, and wearing big round tortoiseshell glasses, like those Americans so often wear. He was red-faced and walked with a slight limp.”
“And what happened while your master was with the stranger?”
“The Baron came out and told me to go to the garage with the car, and I was telephoned for an hour later. When I met him again he seemed to be in an ill and petulant mood, for he told me to drive back to Amsterdam with all speed. He also again made me promise to tell nobody of the secret meeting.”
“And then?” I asked anxiously.
“On arrival home he washed, dressed, and dined alone. Afterwards he put on his gloves, grey suède ones, ready to go, but exchanged them for a pair of white ones, as he recollected that he was going to the opera. Then he walked out to the car, but suddenly cried, ’Oh! My head! My head!’ and fell on to the pavement. I was just behind him when he did so, and hurried to get him up. But he was already unconscious, and scarcely before we could get him into the house he expired.”
“And why do you suspect foul play?” I asked.
“I feel certain that my master did not die from natural causes,” declared the thin-faced man-servant.
“You suspect that the individual in round spectacles had a hand in it – eh?”
“I do. But how, I have no idea. The police pooh-pooh my suspicions. But if my suspicions are unfounded, why has not the stranger come forward? There has been a lot about the affair in the papers.”
“Yes,” I said. “It certainly appears strange, for there can be no cause for secrecy now that the Baron is dead, even if some great financial transaction had been involved.”
“My master often received very queer visitors,” said Folcker. “Once he entertained two very strange-looking shabby individuals when he was at Aix-les-Bains with Mr. De Gex.”
“With Mr. De Gex!” I echoed. “Was the Baron a friend of his?”
“Yes, an intimate friend. They often had big deals together in which Count Chamartin, who lived in Madrid, participated.”
“Ah! That is distinctly interesting,” I said. “Did the Baron, when in London, visit Mr. De Gex at Stretton Street?”
“Frequently. They were mutually interested in the great Netherlands Shipping Combine about a year ago,” replied the valet.
“And you usually travelled with your master, I suppose?”
“Nearly always. We were frequently in Paris, Berlin, Rome, or Madrid, and naturally I learnt a good deal about his business. His most intimate friend was Mr. De Gex. Do you happen to know him?”
I gritted my teeth, and replied in the affirmative.
“A very charming man,” the valet declared. “He was always very good to the servants. I used to look after him when he visited us here in Amsterdam.”
“Did you ever meet a friend of his – a Frenchman named Suzor?” I asked.
“Yes, once. When we stayed with Mr. De Gex at Florence. He was a fellow guest with my master.”
“And an Italian doctor named Moroni?”
Folcker shook his head, as he replied:
“I have no recollection of an Italian doctor. We were in Florence only two weeks.”
“Of course you know Mr. De Gex’s butler, a man named Horton?” I asked.
“No, the man I know is named Farmer. I haven’t been to Stretton Street for over a year.”
It would therefore appear that Horton was a new servant.
“But have you any idea how your master died?” was my next query.
“None – only something tells me that he fell victim to a plot for his assassination.”
“Why?”
“Because he more than once told me that if he died certain persons would derive great benefits.”
“Who? His friends?”
“I suppose so.”
“Including De Gex?”
The thin-faced man shook his head, saying:
“Ah! That I cannot tell, sir. But I know that Mr. De Gex owed the Baron a very considerable sum over a financial deal regarding some oil wells in Roumania. Only a few months ago he mentioned to Mr. Grant, one of his friends, in my presence, that he hoped De Gex would very soon settle with him. In fact he seemed annoyed at the delay in the payment.”
This statement caused me to reflect deeply.
Was it really possible that the Dutch Baron’s death had been due to the machinations of this mystery-man of Europe? The fact that he owed the dead man money would serve as sufficient motive! I did not overlook the deeply-laid plot against myself, one that must have sent me swiftly into my grave had it not been for my providential escape.
The whole amazing facts, my meeting with Suzor in the express between York and King’s Cross, the trap set for me at Stretton Street, and my astounding adventures afterwards, all flashed through my mind. Oswald De Gex was a most unscrupulous person who had climbed to fame and fortune over the ruined homes and bodies of his victims. I was now out to obtain direct and undeniable evidence of his crimes.
Yet up to the present I could not go much further than mere surmise. Two of his business friends, Count Chamartin and Baron van Veltrup, had died quite suddenly. In the case of the latter, the valet expressed a positive belief that his master had not died of natural causes. This was supported by the fact that the Baron received a mysterious visitor at an obscure hotel at The Hague, a man who was apparently disguised by big horn spectacles, and was certainly not a Dutchman.
And above all that, I held most conclusive evidence that both De Gex himself and the dead bandit, Despujol, had used that deadly drug orosin to secure their nefarious ends.
But the most irritating feature of the affair was that I was as far off as ever from solving the mystery of what happened on that memorable night in Stretton Street, or with what motive I had been induced to give a death certificate that had enabled the body of an unknown girl to be cremated.
I questioned the valet, Folcker, still further, telling him that I had come especially from London to endeavour to elucidate the truth concerning his master’s death. He was devoted to the Baron, and was highly incensed at the attitude taken by the Dutch police.
“I will give you every assistance, sir,” he replied.
“Excellent,” I said. “I would very much like to go to the Baron’s house. Could you take me there?”
“Most certainly, sir,” was his response, and with willingness he accompanied me in a horse cab up the cobbled Leidwche Straat with its many canals to the pleasant Vondel Park, just outside the city. We stopped before a great white house, square and rather inartistic, standing back behind very high iron railings, to which we were admitted by an elderly man-servant who was in charge of the place now that its owner was dead.
Folcker showed me his master’s handsome dressing-room which had been left practically as it was on the night of his tragic end. He showed me how the Baron had put on his evening clothes and descended to dine.
He took me into the fine, handsomely-furnished dining-room, with big long carved table in the centre, and showed me the small round table set in the big bow window looking out upon the garden, at which the Baron always ate his meals when alone.
“After finishing his dinner the Baron smoked one of his Petroff cigarettes which were especially made for him in Odessa, and then calling me, he asked for his coat and told me to ring up for the car,” Folcker said. “He finished his cigarette and a glass of kümmel, at the same time scanning the evening newspaper. All the time he had been eating, however, he seemed in a very angry mood. The interview with the stranger at The Hague had somehow upset him, for once or twice he muttered angrily to himself.”
“Now tell me, Folcker,” I asked seriously, “when he entered that little hotel at The Hague he waited for his mysterious visitor – did he not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The visitor arrived and you saw him. I understand that your master came out and saw you during the interview?”
“Yes. About ten minutes after the stranger’s arrival the Baron came into the little hall of the hotel and told me that he would not require me for an hour, or perhaps more. Apparently he did not wish the car to stand outside the place for so long, lest it should be recognized. So he sent me to a garage.”
I hesitated.
“Then the stranger was left inside the hotel alone?”
“Yes, sir, for two or three minutes. Why?”
We were standing out in the well-furnished hall and I glanced around.
“Your master was in quite good health as he ate his dinner and smoked his cigarette?” I remarked.
“Quite. He came out of the room and standing here I gave him his hat, coat, gloves and stick. After he had put on his coat he drew on his left-hand glove. Suddenly he tore it off again, and rubbing his fingers together impatiently, said: ‘I forgot, Folcker! I’m going to the opera, give me some white gloves.’ They were in the drawer yonder,” the valet said, pointing to a great old carved Flemish cupboard. “So I got them out and handed them to him. He drew one of them on and walked down to the gate to enter the car, when he suddenly fell upon the pavement outside. You see, just yonder,” and he pointed through the open door.
“Why did he rub his fingers together, I wonder?” I remarked. “Was it a habit of his?”
“Not at all, sir. He seemed to have a sudden pain in his fingers.”
“A pain. Why?”
“I don’t know, sir. It has only this moment occurred to me. He flung off the glove and tossed it upon the table. It’s still there – as you see. Then he put on the white gloves and went down the steps and collapsed.”
“His head was affected?”
“Yes, he cried out twice that his head hurt him. The doctors attribute his death to heart failure. But, personally, I doubt it, sir! I’m certain that there was foul play somewhere.”
I crossed to the great carved table which stood on the opposite side of the wide hall, tiled as it was with ancient blue and white Dutch tiles, and from the table took up a pair of well-worn grey suède gloves. They interested me, because after putting one on the Baron had torn it off and rubbed his fingers.
“Is this the glove your master wore when he went to The Hague?” I asked, selecting the left-hand one.
“Yes, sir.”
I examined it closely and very gingerly. The exterior presented nothing out of the ordinary, but on turning it inside out, I found in the index finger a tiny piece of steel which tumbled out upon the table.
It was apparently a piece clipped from the blade of a safety razor, and keenly sharp. Anyone inserting a finger into the glove would certainly be cut by the razor edge of that sharp scrap of steel. As it lay upon the polished oak I bent to look at it, the valet also standing near and bending down in curiosity.
Upon it something had apparently been smeared – some colourless jelly, it seemed.
Had Baron van Veltrup fallen victim to orosin, wilfully administered?
That was my instant suspicion, one that was afterwards verified by the great Dutch pathologist Doctor Obelt, who lived in the Amstel Straat, and to whom I carried the mysterious but incriminating scrap of steel.
“Without a doubt this piece of razor-blade has been impregnated with a new and most deadly poison, orosin,” he declared to me on the following evening as I sat in his consulting room. “The police have seen no mysterious circumstances in the unfortunate death of the Baron, who, by the way, was a very dear friend of mine. But now you have brought me this piece of steel which you took from his glove, and which no doubt must have caused a slight cut to his finger and, in consequence, almost instant death, I feel it my duty to take up the matter with the authorities.”
“I shall be much gratified, doctor, if you will,” I urged, speaking in French. “The valet’s suspicions of foul play are entirely proved.”
“Yes, foul play, committed by somebody who possesses expert toxicological knowledge. I confess that this is the first time I have discovered orosin. The hint you gave me caused me to search for it, and that I have found it is undoubted.”