by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER XVIII
A WHITE ORCHID
Whoever could have taken a peep into a certain bare-looking room atScotland Yard some three hours after Sheard had left Finchley Road musthave been drawn to the conclusion that the net was closing more tightlyabout Severac Bablon than he supposed.
Behind a large, bare table, upon which were some sheets of foolscap, ametal inkpot, and pens, sat Chief Inspector Sheffield. On threeuncomfortable-looking chairs were disposed Detective Sergeant Harborne,he of the Stetson and brogues, and M. Duquesne, of Paris. Stetson andbrogues, as became a non-official, observed much outward deferencetowards the Chief Inspector in whose room he found himself.
"We may take it, then," said Sheffield, with a keen glance of hisshrewd, kindly eyes towards the American and the celebrated littleFrenchman, "that Bablon, when he isn't made up, is a man so extremelyhandsome and of such marked personality that he'd be spotted anywhere.We have some reason to believe that he's a Jew. The head of the greatestJewish house in Europe has declined to deny, according to M. Duquesne,that he knows who he is, and"--consulting a sheet of foolscap--"Mr.Alden, here, from New York, volunteers the information that H. T.Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, went to see Bablon this morning. We are aware,from information by Sir Leopold Jesson, that this newspaper man isacquainted with B. But we can't act on it. We understand that Bablon hasa house in or near to London. None of us"--looking hard at Alden--"haveany idea of the locality. There are two rewards privately offered,totalling L3,000--which is of more interest to Mr. Alden than to therest of us--and M. Duquesne is advised this morning that his Chief iscoming over at once. Now, we're all as wise as one another"--with asecond hard look at his French confrere and Alden--"so we can all setabout the job again in our own ways."
After this interesting conference, whereof each member had but sought topump the others, M. Duquesne, entering Whitehall, almost ran into a tallman, wearing a most unusual and conspicuous caped overcoat, silk lined;whose haughty, downward glance revealed his possession of very large,dark eyes; whose face was so handsome that the little Frenchman caughthis breath; whose carriage was that of a monarch or of one of themusketeers of Louis XIII.
With the ease of long practice, M. Duquesne formed an unseen escort forthis distinguished stranger.
Arriving at Charing Cross, the latter, without hesitation, entered thetelegraph office. M. Duquesne also recollected an important matter thatcalled for a telegram. In quest of a better pen he leaned over to thecompartment occupied by the handsome man, but was unable to get so muchas a glimpse of what he was writing. Having handed in his message insuch a manner that the ingenious Frenchman was foiled again, he strodeout, the observed of everyone in the place, but particularly of M.Duquesne.
To the latter's unbounded astonishment, at the door he turned and raisedhis hat to him ironically.
Familiar with the characteristic bravado of French criminals, thatdecided the detective's next move. He stepped quickly back to thecounter as the polite stranger disappeared.
"I am Duquesne of Paris," he said in his fluent English to the clerk whohad taken the message, and showed his card. "On official business I wishto inspect the last telegram which you received."
The clerk shook his head.
"Can't be done. Only for Scotland Yard."
Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment infeckless argument. It was hard that he should have to share thistreasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard,and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, withInspector Sheffield.
The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne andSheffield the following was written:
"Sheard, _Gleaner_, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eightto-night."
Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening'sexpedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-bonedman, with a great, sparsely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. Hesat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slowglance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder.
M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand.
It was the great Lemage.
There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, Englandand the United States were combining against Severac Bablon. It seemedthat at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo.
At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothesconstable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room.
"Well, Dawson?" said the inspector, looking up from his writing.
"Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir,to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago."
"What is he like, this Mr. Sanrack?"
"A tall, dark gentleman. Very handsome. Looks like an actor."
"Sanrack--Severac," mused Sheffield. "Daring! All right, Dawson, you cango. You know where to wait."
Fifteen minutes later arrived M. Duquesne. He had been carpeted by hischief for invoking the aid of the London police in the matter of thetelegram.
"Five methods occur to me instantly, stupid pig," the great Lemage hadsaid, "whereby you might have learnt its contents alone!"
Heavy with a sense of his own dull powers of invention--for he foundhimself unable to conceive one, much less five such schemes--M. Duquesnecame into the inspector's room.
"Does your chief join us to-night?" inquired Sheffield, on learning thatthe famous investigator was in London.
"He may do so, m'sieur; but his plans are uncertain."
Almost immediately afterwards they were joined by Harborne, and allthree, entering one of the taxi-cabs that always are in waiting in theYard, set out for Dulwich Village.
The night was very dark, with ample promise of early rain, and as thecab ran past Westminster Abbey a car ahead swung sharply aroundSanctuary Corner. Harborne, whose business it was to know all aboutsmart society, reported:
"Old Oppner's big Panhard in front. Going our way--Embankment is 'up.' Iwonder what his Agency men are driving at? Alden's got something up hissleeve, I'll swear."
"I'd like a peep inside that car," said Sheffield.
Harborne took up the speaking-tube as the cab, in turn, rounded intoGreat Smith Street.
"Switch off this inside light," he called to the driver, "and get up asclose alongside that Panhard ahead as you dare. She's not moving fast.Stick there till I tell you to drop back."
The man nodded, and immediately the gear snatched the cab ahead with aviolent jerk. At a high speed they leapt forward upon the narrow road,swung out to the off-side to avoid a bus, and closed up to thebrilliantly-lighted car.
It was occupied by two women in picturesque evening toilettes. One ofthem was a frizzy haired soubrette and the other a blonde. Both wereconspicuously pretty. The fair girl wore a snow white orchid, splashedwith deepest crimson, pinned at her breast. Her companion, who loungedin the near corner, her cloak negligently cast about her and one roundedshoulder against the window, was reading a letter; and Harborne, whofound himself not a foot removed from her, was trying vainly to focushis gaze upon the writing when the fair girl looked up and started tofind the cab so close. The light of a sudden suspicion leapt into hereyes as, obedient to the detective's order, the taxi-driver slowed downand permitted the car to pass. Almost immediately the big Panhard leaptto renewed speed, and quickly disappeared ahead.
Harborne turned to Inspector Sheffield.
"That was Miss Zoe Oppner, the old man's daughter."
"I know," said Sheffield sharply. "Read any of the letter?"
"No," admitted Harborne; "we were bumping too much. But there's apolitical affair on to-night in Downing Street. I should guess she'sgoing to be there."
"Why? Who was the fair girl?"
"Lady Mary Evershed," answered Harborne. "It's her father's 'do'to-night. We want to keep an eye on Miss Oppner, after the Astoria Hotelbusiness. Wish we had a list of guests."
"If Severac Bablon is down," replied Sheffield; grimly, "I don't thinkshe'll
have the pleasure of seeing him this evening. But where on earthis she off to now?"
"Give it up," said Harborne, philosophically.
"Oh, she of the golden hair and the white _odontoglossum_," sighed thelittle Frenchman, rolling up his eyes. "What a perfection!"
They became silent as the cab rapidly bore them across Vauxhall Bridgeand through south-west to south-east London, finally to Dulwich Village,that tiny and dwindling oasis in the stucco desert of Suburbia.
Talking to an officer on point duty at a corner, distinguished by thepresence of a pillar-box, was P.C. Dawson in mufti. He and the otherconstable saluted as the three detectives left the cab and joined them.
"Been here long, Dawson?" asked Sheffield.
"No, sir. Just arrived."
"You and I will walk along on the far side from this Laurel Cottage,"arranged the inspector, "and M. Duquesne might like a glass of wine,Harborne, until I've looked over the ground. Then we can distributeourselves. We've got a full quarter of an hour."
It was arranged so, and Sheffield, guided by Dawson, proceeded to theend of the Village, turned to the left, past the College buildings, andfound himself in a long, newly-cut road, with only a few unfinishedhouses. Towards the farther end a gloomy little cottage frowned upon theroad. It looked deserted and lonely in its isolation amid marshy fields.In the background, upon a slight acclivity, a larger building mightdimly be discerned. A clump of dismal poplars overhung the cottage onthe west.
"It's been a gate lodge at some time, sir," explained Dawson. "You cansee the old carriage sweep on the right. But the big house is to bepulled down, and they've let the lodge, temporarily, as a separateresidence. There's no upstairs, only one door and very few windows. Wecan absolutely surround it!"
"H'm! Unpleasant looking place," muttered Sheffield, as the two walkedby on the opposite side. "No lights. When we've passed this next tree,slip along and tuck yourself away under that fence on the left. Don'tattempt any arrest until our man's well inside. Then, when you hear thewhistle, close in on the door. I'll get back now."
Ten minutes later, though Laurel Cottage presented its usual sad andlonely aspect, it was efficiently surrounded by three detectives and aconstable.
Sheffield's scientific dispositions were but just completed when acursing taxi-man deposited Sheard half way up the road, having declinedresolutely to bump over the ruts any further. Dismissing the man, thekeenest copy-hunter in Fleet Street walked alone to the Cottage, allunaware that he did so under the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes. Findinga rusty bell-pull he rang three times. But none answered.
It was at the moment when he turned away that Mr. Alden and an Agencycolleague, who--on this occasion successfully--had tracked him since heleft the _Gleaner_ office, turned the corner by the Village. Seeing himretracing his steps, they both darted up a plank into an unfinishedhouse with the agility of true ferrets, and let him pass. As here-entered the Village street one was at his heels. Mr. Alden strolledalong to Laurel Cottage.
With but a moment's consideration, he, taking a rapid glance up and downthe road, vaulted the low fence and disposed himself amongst the unkemptlaurel bushes flanking the cottage on the west. The investing forcesthus acquired a fifth member.
Then came the threatened rain.
Falling in a steady downpour, it sang its mournful song through poplarand shrub. Soon the grey tiled roof of the cottage poured its libationinto spouting gutters, and every rut of the road became a miniatureditch. But, with dogged persistency, the five watchers stuck to theirposts.
When Sheard had gone away again, Inspector Sheffield had found himself,temporarily, in a dilemma. It was something he had not foreseen. But,weighing the chances, he had come to the conclusion to give the othersno signal, but to wait.
At seven minutes past eight, by Mr. Alden's electrically lightedtimepiece, a car or a cab--it was impossible, at that distance, todetermine which--dropped a passenger at the Village end of the road. Atall figure, completely enveloped in a huge, caped coat, and wearing adripping silk hat, walked with a swinging stride towards the ambush--andentered the gate of the cottage.
M. Duquesne, who, from his damp post in a clump of rhododendrons on theleft of the door had watched him approach, rubbed his wet handsdelightedly. Without the peculiar coat that majestic walk wassufficient.
"It is he!" he muttered. "The Severac!"
With a key which he must have held ready in his hand, the new-comeropened the door and entered the cottage. Acting upon a pre-arrangedplan, the watchers closed in upon the four sides of the building, andSheffield told himself triumphantly that he had shown sound generalship.With a grim nod of recognition to Alden, who appeared from the laurelthicket, he walked up to the door and rang smartly.
This had one notable result. A door banged inside.
Again he rang--and again.
Nothing stirred within. Only the steady drone of the falling rain brokethe chilling silence.
Sheffield whistled shrilly.
At that signal M. Duquesne immediately broke the window which he wasguarding, and stripping off his coat, he laid it over the jagged pointsof glass along the sashes and through the thickness of the cloth forcedback the catch. Throwing up the glassless frame, he stepped into thedark room beyond.
To the crash which he had made, an answering crash had told him thatDetective-sergeant Harborne had effected an entrance by the east window.
Cautiously he stepped forward in the darkness, a revolver in one hand;with the other he fumbled for the electric lamp in his breast pocket.
As his fingers closed upon it a slight noise behind him brought himright-about in a flash.
The figure of a man who was climbing in over the low ledge wassilhouetted vaguely in the frame of the broken window.
"_Ah!_" hissed Duquesne. "Quick! speak! Who is that?"
"Ssh! my Duquesne!" came a thick voice. "Do you think, then, I can leaveso beautiful a case to anyone?"
Duquesne turned the beam of the lantern on the speaker.
It was Victor Lemage.
Duquesne bowed, lantern in hand.
"Waste no moment," snapped Lemage. "Try that door!" pointing to the onlyone in the room.
As the other stepped forward to obey, the famous investigator made acomprehensive survey of the little kitchen, for such it was. Save forits few and simple appointments, it was quite empty.
"The door is locked."
"Ah, yes. I thought so."
"Hullo!" came Sheffield's voice through the window, "who's there,Duquesne?"
"It is M. Lemage. M'sieur, allow me to make known the great ScotlandYard Inspector Sheffield."
With a queer parody of politeness, Duquesne turned the light of hislantern alternately upon the face of each, as he mentioned his name.
Sheffield bowed awkwardly. For he knew that he stood in the presence ofthe undisputed head of his profession--the first detective in Europe.
"You have not left the front door unguarded, M'sieur the Inspector?"inquired Lemage sharply.
"No, Mr. Lemage," snapped Sheffield, "I have not. My man Dawson isthere, with an Agency man, too."
"Then we surround completely the room in which he is," declared Lemage.
Such was the case, as a glance at the following plan will show.
"There are, then, three ways," said Lemage. "We may break into the frontroom from here, or from the room where is m'sieur your colleague. Thereis, no doubt, a door corresponding to this one. The other way is to goin by the window of that front room, for I have made the observationthat its other window, that opens on the old drive to the east, isbarred most heavily. Do I accord with the views of m'sieur?"
"Quite," said Sheffield crisply. "We'll work through the front window.Hullo, Harborne!"
"Hullo!" came the latter's voice from the next room.
"Nobody in there?"
"No. Empty room. Door's locked. What's up on your side?"
"Nothing. Mr. Lemage has joined us. Stand by for squalls. I'm goinground to get in at the
front-room window."
He paused and listened. They all listened.
The rain droned monotonously on the roof, but there was no other sound.
Sheffield climbed out and passed around by the poplars and through thelaurel bushes to the front. Dawson and Alden stood by the door. With apair of handcuffs the inspector broke the glass, and, adopting the samemethod as the Frenchman, used his coat to protect his hands from thesplintered pieces in forcing the catch. The rain came down in torrents.He was drenched to the skin.
Seizing the yellow blind, he tore it from the roller, and also pulleddown the curtains. By the light of the bull's-eye lantern which Dawsoncarried he surveyed the little sitting-room. Next, with a mutteredexclamation, he leapt through and searched the one hiding-place--beneatha large sofa--which the room afforded.
On the common oval walnut table lay a caped overcoat and a rain-soakedsilk hat.
The two doors--other than that guarded by Dawson and Alden--gave (1) onthe room occupied by Harborne; (2) on the room occupied by Duquesne andLemage. The keys were missing. The one window, other than that by whichhe had entered, was heavily barred, and in any case, visible from thefront door of the cottage.
All five had seen their man enter; all had heard the banging door whenSheffield knocked. No possible exit had been unwatched for a singleinstant.
But the place was empty.
When the others, having searched painfully every inch of ground, joinedthe inspector in the front room, Harborne, taking up the silk-linedcaped overcoat, observed something lying on the polished walnut beneath.
He uttered a hasty exclamation.
"Damn!" cried Duquesne at his elbow, characteristically saying the rightthing at the wrong time. "A white _odontoglossum crispum_, with crimsonspots!"
Across the table all exchanged glances.
"He is very handsome," sighed the little Frenchman.
"That is an extreme privilege," said his chief, shrugging composedly andlighting a cigarette. "It is so interesting to the women, and they areso useful. It was the women who restored your English Charles II.--butthey were his ruin in the end. It is a clue, this white orchid, thatinspires in me two solutions immediately."
M. Duquesne suffered, temporarily, from a slight catarrh, occasioned, nodoubt, by his wetting. But he lacked the courage to meet the droopingeye of his chief.
They were some distance from Laurel Cottage when Harborne, who carriedthe caped coat on his arm, exclaimed:
"By the way, who _has_ the orchid?"
No one had it.
"M. Duquesne," said Lemage calmly, "of all the stupid pigs you are themore complete."
Sheffield ran back. Dawson had been left on duty outside the cottage.The inspector passed him and climbed back through the broken window. Helooked on the table and searched, on hands and knees, about the floor.
"Dawson!"
"Sir?"
"You have heard or seen nothing suspicious since we left?"
Dawson, through the window, stared uncomprehendingly.
"Nothing, sir."
The white orchid was missing.
