Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE STRANGER IN THE RUE DE RIVOLI

  From Scarborough we had gone up to the Highlands, spending a fortnightat Grantown, a week at Blair Atholl, returning south through Callanderand the Trossachs--one of the most glorious autumns I had ever spent.

  Ours was now a peaceful, uneventful life, careless of the morrow, andfilled with perfect love and concord. I adored my young beautifulwife, and I envied no man.

  I had crushed down all feelings of misgivings that had hitherto sooften arisen within me, for I felt confident in Sylvia's affection.She lived only for me, possessing me body and soul.

  Not a pair in the whole of England loved each other with a truer ormore fervent passion. Our ideas were identical, and certainly I couldnot have chosen a wife more fitted for me--even though she restedbeneath such a dark cloud of suspicion.

  I suppose some who read this plain statement of fact will declare meto have been a fool. But to such I would reply that in your hearts theflame of real love has never yet burned. You may have experienced whatyou have fondly believed to have been love--a faint flame that hasperhaps flickered for a time and, dying out, has long been forgotten.Only if you have really loved a woman--loved her with thatall-consuming passion that arises within a man once in his wholelifetime when he meets his affinity, can you understand why I madeSylvia my wife.

  I had the car brought up to meet us in Perth, and with it Sylvia and Ihad explored all the remotest beauties of the Highlands. We ran up asfar north as Inverness, and around to Oban, delighting in all thebeauties of the heather-clad hills, the wild moors, the autumn-tintedglades, and the broad unruffled lochs. Afterwards we went round theTrossachs and motored back to London through Carlisle, the Lakes,North Wales and the Valley of the Wye, the most charming of allmotor-runs in England.

  Afterwards, Sylvia wanted to do some shopping, and we went over toParis for ten days. There, while at the Meurice, her father, whochanced to be passing through Paris on his way from Brussels to Lyons,came unexpectedly one evening and dined with us in our private salon.

  Pennington was just as elegant and epicurean as ever. He delighted inthe dinner set before him, the hotel, of course, being noted for itscooking.

  That evening we were a merry trio. I had not seen my father-in-lawsince the morning of our marriage, when I had called, and found himconfined to his bed. Therefore we had both a lot to relate to himregarding our travels.

  "I, too, have been moving about incessantly," he remarked, as hepoised his wine-glass in his hand, regarding the colour of itscontents. "I was in Petersburg three weeks ago. I'm interested in sometelegraph construction works there. We've just secured a bigGovernment contract to lay a new line across Siberia."

  "I've written to you half-a-dozen times," remarked his daughter, "butyou never replied."

  "I've never had your letters, child," he said. "Where did you addressthem?"

  "Two I sent to the Travellers' Club, here. Another I sent to the Hotelde France, in Petersburg."

  "Ah! I was at the Europe," he laughed. "I find their cooking better.Their sterlet is even better than the Hermitage at Moscow. Jules, thechef, was at Cubat's, in the Nevski, for years."

  Pennington always gauged a hotel by the excellence of its chef. Hetold us of tiny obscure places in Italy which he knew, where the roomswere carpetless and comfortless, but where the cooking could vie withthe Savoy or Carlton in London. He mentioned the Giaponne in Leghorn,the Tazza d'Oro in Lucca, and the Vapore in Venice, of all three ofwhich I had had experience, and I fully corroborated what he said. Hewas a man who ate his strawberries with a quarter of a liqueur-glassof maraschino thrown over them, and a slight addition of pepper, andhe always mixed his salads himself.

  "Perhaps you think me very whimsical," he laughed across the table,"but really, good cooking makes so much difference to life."

  I told him that, as an Englishman, I preferred plainly-cooked food.

  "Which is usually heavy and indigestible, I fear," he declared. "What,now, could be more indigestible than our English roast beef and plumpudding--eh?"

  My own thoughts were, however, running in an entirely differentchannel, and when presently Sylvia, who looked a delightful picture inivory chiffon, and wearing the diamond necklet I had given her as oneof her wedding presents, rose and left us to our cigars, I saidsuddenly--

  "I say, Pennington, do you happen to know a stout, grey-beardedFrenchman who wears gold-rimmed glasses--a man named Pierre Delanne?"

  "Delanne?" he repeated. "No, I don't recollect the name."

  "I saw him in Manchester," I exclaimed. "He was at the Midland, andsaid he knew you--and also Sylvia."

  "In Manchester! Was he at the Midland while I was there?"

  "Yes. He was dressed in black, with a silk hat and wore on his fingera great amethyst ring--a rather vulgar-looking ornament."

  Pennington's lips were instantly pressed together.

  "Ah!" he exclaimed, almost with a start, "I think I know who youmean. His beard is pointed, and his eyes rather small and shining. Hehas the air of a bon-vivant, and speaks English extremely well. Hewears the amethyst on the little finger of his left hand."

  "Exactly."

  "And, to you, he called himself Pierre Delanne, eh?"

  "Yes. What is his real name, then?"

  "Who knows? I've heard that he uses half-a-dozen different aliases,"replied my father-in-law.

  "Then you know him?"

  "Well--not very well," was Pennington's response in a rather strangevoice, I thought. "Did he say anything regarding myself?"

  "Only that he had seen you in Manchester."

  "When did you see him last?"

  "Well," I said, "as a matter of fact he met me in London the samenight, and I fancy I have caught sight of him twice since. The firstoccasion was a fortnight ago in Princes Street, Edinburgh, when I sawhim coming forth from the North British Hotel with another man, also aforeigner. They turned up Princes Street, and then descended the stepsto the station before I could approach sufficiently close. I waswalking with Sylvia, so could not well hasten after them. The secondoccasion was yesterday, when I believe I saw him in a taxi passing usas we drove out to tea at Armenonville."

  "Did he see you?" asked Pennington quickly.

  "I think so. I fancy he recognized me."

  "Did Sylvia see him?" he asked almost breathlessly.

  "No."

  "Ah!" and he seemed to breathe again more freely.

  "Apparently he is not a very great friend of yours," I ventured toremark.

  "No--he isn't; and if I were you, Biddulph, I would avoid him like theplague. He is not the kind of person desirable as a friend. Youunderstand."

  "I gathered from his conversation that he was something of anadventurer," I said.

  "That's just it. Myself, I always avoid him," he replied. Then heturned the conversation into a different channel. He congratulated meupon our marriage and told me how Sylvia, when they had been alonetogether for a few moments before dinner, had declared herselfsupremely happy.

  "I only hope that nothing may occur to mar your pleasant lives, mydear fellow," he said, slowly knocking the ash from his cigar. "In themarriage state one never knows whether adversity or prosperity liesbefore one."

  "I hope I shall meet with no adversity," I said.

  "I hope not--for Sylvia's sake," he declared.

  "What is for Sylvia's sake?" asked a cheery voice, and, as we bothlooked up in surprise, we found that she had re-entered noiselessly,and was standing laughing mischievously by the open door. "It is sodull being alone that I've ventured to come back. I don't mind thesmoke in the least."

  "Why, of course, darling!" I cried, jumping from my chair and pullingforward an arm-chair for her.

  I saw that it was a bright night outside, and that the autos withtheir sparkling lights like shooting stars were passing and repassingwith honking horns up and down the Rue de Rivoli. For a moment shestood at my side by the window, looking down into the broadthoroughfa
re below.

  Then, a second later, she suddenly cried--

  "Why, look, Owen! Do you see that man with the short dark overcoatstanding under the lamp over there? I've seen him several timesto-day. Do you know, he seems to be watching us!"

  "Watching you!" cried her father, starting to his feet and joining us.The long wooden sun-shutters were closed, so, on opening the windowswhich led to the balcony we could see between the slats without beingobserved from outside.

  I looked at the spot indicated by my wife, and then saw on the otherside of the way a youngish-looking man idly smoking a cigarette andgazing in the direction of the Place de la Concorde, as thoughexpecting some one.

  I could not distinguish his features, yet I saw that he wore brownboots, and that the cut of his clothes and the shape of his hat wereEnglish.

  "Where have you seen him before?" I asked of her.

  "I first met him when I came out of Lentheric's this morning. Then,again, when we lunched at the Volnay he was standing at the corner ofthe Rue de la Paix and the Rue Daunou. He followed us in the RueRoyale later on."

  "And now he seems to have mounted guard outside, eh?" I remarked,somewhat puzzled. "Why did you not tell me this before?"

  "I did not wish to cause you any anxiety, Owen," was her simple reply,while her father asked--

  "Do you know the fellow? Ever seen him before, Sylvia?"

  "Never in my life," she declared. "It's rather curious, isn't it?"

  "Very," I said.

  And as we all three watched we saw him move away a short distance andjoin a taller man who came from the direction he had been looking. Fora few moments they conversed. Then the new-comer crossed the roadtowards us and was lost to sight.

  In a few seconds a ragged old man, a cripple, approached themysterious watcher with difficulty, and said something to him as hepassed.

  "That cripple is in the business!" cried Pennington, who had beennarrowly watching. "He's keeping observation, and has told himsomething. Some deep game is being played here, Biddulph."

  "I wonder why they are watching?" I asked, somewhat apprehensive ofthe coming evil that had been so long predicted.

  Father and daughter exchanged curious glances. It seemed to me asthough a startling truth had dawned upon them both. I stood by insilence.

  "It is certainly distinctly unpleasant to be watched likethis--providing, of course, that Sylvia has not made a mistake,"Pennington said.

  "I have made no mistake," she declared quickly. "I've been muchworried about it all day, but did not like to arouse Owen'ssuspicions;" and I saw by her face that she was in dead earnest.

  At the same moment, however, a light tap was heard upon the door and awaiter opened it, bowing as he announced--

  "Monsieur Pierre Delanne to see Monsieur Biddulph."

  "Great Heavens, Sylvia!" cried Pennington, standing pale-faced andopen-mouthed. "It's Guertin! He must not discover that I am in Paris!"Then, turning to me in fear, he implored: "Save me from this meeting,Biddulph! Save me--if you value your wife's honour, I beg of you. I'llexplain all afterwards. _Only save me!_"