by Otto Penzler
“None whatever,” I answered. “You puzzle me by alluding to the subject.”
“I want you to pay my shop a visit when you come to London. I have been away for three or four months. I do wonders for my clients, and they pay me largely for my services. I hold some perfectly innocent secrets which I cannot confide to anybody. I have obtained them partly from the Indians and partly from the natives of Brazil. I have lately been in Para to inquire into certain methods by which my trade can be improved.”
“And your trade is—?” I said, looking at her with amusement and some surprise.
“I am a beautifier,” she said, lightly. She looked at me with a smile. “You don’t want me yet, Mr. Druce, but the time may come when even you will wish to keep back the infirmities of years. In the meantime can you guess my age?”
“I will not hazard a guess,” I answered.
“And I will not tell you. Let it remain a secret. Meanwhile, understand that my calling is quite an open one, and I do hold secrets. I should advise you, Mr. Druce, even in your professional capacity, not to interfere with them.”
The childlike expression faded from her face as she uttered the last words. There seemed to ring a sort of challenge in her tone. She turned away after a few moments and I rejoined my friends.
“You have been making acquaintance with Madame Sara, Mr. Druce,” said Mrs. Selby. “Don’t you think she is lovely?”
“She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen,” I answered, “but there seems to be a mystery about her.”
“Oh, indeed there is,” said Edith Dallas, gravely.
“She asked me if I could guess her age,” I continued. “I did not try, but surely she cannot be more than five-and-twenty.”
“No one knows her age,” said Mrs. Selby, “but I will tell you a curious fact, which, perhaps, you will not believe. She was bridesmaid at my mother’s wedding thirty years ago. She declares that she never changes, and has no fear of old age.”
“You mean that seriously?” I cried. “But surely it is impossible?”
“Her name is on the register, and my mother knew her well. She was mysterious then, and I think my mother got into her power, but of that I am not certain. Anyhow, Edith and I adore her, don’t we, Edie?”
She laid her hand affectionately on her sister’s arm. Edith Dallas did not speak, but her face was careworn. After a time she said slowly: “Madame Sara is uncanny and terrible.”
There is, perhaps, no business imaginable—not even a lawyer’s—that engenders suspicions more than mine. I hate all mysteries—both in persons and things. Mysteries are my natural enemies; I felt now that this woman was a distinct mystery. That she was interested in me I did not doubt, perhaps because she was afraid of me.
The rest of the voyage passed pleasantly enough. The more I saw of Mrs. Selby and her sister the more I liked them. They were quiet, simple, and straightforward. I felt sure that they were both as good as gold.
We parted at Waterloo, Jack and his wife and her sister going to Jack’s house in Eaton Square, and I returning to my quarters in St. John’s Wood. I had a house there, with a long garden, at the bottom of which was my laboratory, the laboratory that was the pride of my life, it being, I fondly considered, the best private laboratory in London. There I spent all my spare time making experiments and trying this chemical combination and the other, living in hopes of doing great things some day, for Werner’s Agency was not to be the end of my career. Nevertheless, it interested me thoroughly, and I was not sorry to get back to my commercial conundrums.
The next day, just before I started to go to my place of business, Jack Selby was announced.
“I want you to help me,” he said. “I have been already trying in a sort of general way to get information about my brother-in-law, but all in vain. There is no such person in any of the directories. Can you put me on the road to discovery?”
I said I could and would if he would leave the matter in my hands.
“With pleasure,” he replied. “You see how we are fixed up. Neither Edith nor Bee can get money with any regularity until the man is found. I cannot imagine why he hides himself.”
“I will insert advertisements in the personal columns of the newspapers,” I said, “and request anyone who can give information to communicate with me at my office. I will also give instructions to all the branches of my firm, as well as to my head assistants in London, to keep their eyes open for any news. You may be quite certain that in a week or two we shall know all about him.”
Selby appeared cheered at this proposal, and, having begged of me to call upon his wife and her sister as soon as possible, took his leave.
On that very day advertisements were drawn up and sent to several newspapers and inquiry agents; but week after week passed without the slightest result. Selby got very fidgety at the delay. He was never happy except in my presence, and insisted on my coming, whenever I had time, to his house. I was glad to do so, for I took an interest both in him and his belongings, and as to Madame Sara I could not get her out of my head. One day Mrs. Selby said to me:
“Have you ever been to see Madame? I know she would like to show you her shop and general surroundings.”
“I did promise to call upon her,” I answered, “but have not had time to do so yet.”
“Will you come with me tomorrow morning?” asked Edith Dallas, suddenly.
She turned red as she spoke, and the worried, uneasy expression became more marked on her face. I had noticed for some time that she had been looking both nervous and depressed. I had first observed this peculiarity about her on board the Norham Castle, but, as time went on, instead of lessening it grew worse. Her face for so young a woman was haggard; she started at each sound, and Madame Sara’s name was never spoken in her presence without her evincing almost undue emotion.
“Will you come with me?” she said, with great eagerness.
I immediately promised, and the next day, about eleven o’clock, Edith Dallas and I found ourselves in a hansom driving to Madame Sara’s shop. We reached it in a few minutes, and found an unpretentious little place wedged in between a hosier’s on one side and a cheap print-seller’s on the other. In the windows of the shop were pyramids of perfume bottles, with scintillating facet stoppers tied with coloured ribbons. We stepped out of the hansom and went indoors. Inside the shop were a couple of steps, which led to a door of solid mahogany.
“This is the entrance to her private house,” said Edith, and she pointed to a small brass plate, on which was engraved the name—“Madame Sara, Parfumeuse.” Edith touched an electric bell and the door was immediately opened by a smartly-dressed page-boy. He looked at Miss Dallas as if he knew her very well, and said:
“Madame is within, and is expecting you, miss.”
He ushered us both into a quiet-looking room, soberly but handsomely furnished. He left us, closing the door. Edith turned to me.
“Do you know where we are?” she asked.
“We are standing at present in a small room just behind Madame Sara’s shop,” I answered. “Why are you so excited, Miss Dallas? What is the matter with you?”
“We are on the threshold of a magician’s cave,” she replied. “We shall soon be face to face with the most marvellous woman in the whole of London. There is no one like her.”
“And you—fear her?” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper.
She started, stepped back, and with great difficulty recovered her composure. At that moment the page-boy returned to conduct us through a series of small waiting-rooms, and we soon found ourselves in the presence of Madame herself.
“Ah!” she said, with a smile. “This is delightful. You have kept your word, Edith, and I am greatly obliged to you. I will now show Mr. Druce some of the mysteries of my trade. But understand, sir,” she added, “that I shall not tell you any of my real secrets, only as you would like to know something about me you shall.”
“How can you tell I should like to know about you?
” I asked.
She gave me an earnest glance which somewhat astonished me, and then she said: “Knowledge is power; don’t refuse what I am willing to give. Edith, you will not object to waiting here while I show Mr. Druce through the rooms. First observe this room, Mr. Druce. It is lighted only from the roof. When the door shuts it automatically locks itself, so that any in-trusion from without is impossible. This is my sanctum sanctorum—a faint odour of perfume pervades the room. This is a hot day, but the room itself is cool. What do you think of it all?”
I made no answer. She walked to the other end and motioned to me to accompany her. There stood a polished oak square table, on which lay an array of extraordinary-looking articles and implements—stoppered bottles full of strange medicaments, mirrors, plane and concave, brushes, sprays, sponges, delicate needle-pointed instruments of bright steel, tiny lancets, and forceps. Facing this table was a chair, like those used by dentists. Above the chair hung electric lights in powerful reflectors, and lenses like bull’s-eye lanterns. Another chair, supported on a glass pedestal, was kept there, Madame Sara informed me, for administering static electricity. There were dry-cell batteries for the continuous currents and induction coils for Faradic currents. There were also platinum needles for burning out the roots of hairs.
Madame took me from this room into another, where a still more formidable array of instruments was to be found. Here were a wooden operating table and chloroform and ether apparatus. When I had looked at everything, she turned to me.
“Now you know,” she said. “I am a doctor—perhaps a quack. These are my secrets. By means of these I live and flourish.”
She turned her back on me and walked into the other room with the light, springy step of youth. Edith Dallas, white as a ghost, was waiting for us.
“You have done your duty, my child,” said Madame. “Mr. Druce has seen just what I want him to see. I am very much obliged to you both. We shall meet tonight at Lady Farringdon’s ‘At Home.’ Until then, farewell.”
When we got into the street and were driving back again to Eaton Square, I turned to Edith.
“Many things puzzle me about your friend,” I said, “but perhaps none more than this. By what possible means can a woman who owns to being the possessor of a shop obtain the entrée to some of the best houses in London? Why does Society open her doors to this woman, Miss Dallas?”
“I cannot quite tell you,” was her reply. “I only know the fact that wherever she goes she is welcomed and treated with consideration, and wherever she fails to appear there is a universally expressed feeling of regret.”
I had also been invited to Lady Farringdon’s reception that evening, and I went there in a state of great curiosity. There was no doubt that Madame interested me. I was not sure of her. Beyond doubt there was a mystery attached to her, and also, for some unaccountable reason, she wished both to propitiate and defy me. Why was this?
I arrived early, and was standing in the crush near the head of the staircase when Madame was announced. She wore the richest white satin and quantities of diamonds. I saw her hostess bend towards her and talk eagerly. I noticed Madame’s reply and the pleased expression that crossed Lady Farringdon’s face. A few minutes later a man with a foreign-looking face and long beard sat down before the grand piano. He played a light prelude and Madame Sara began to sing. Her voice was sweet and low, with an extraordinary pathos in it. It was the sort of voice that penetrates to the heart. There was an instant pause in the gay chatter. She sang amidst perfect silence, and when the song had come to an end there followed a furore of applause. I was just turning to say something to my nearest neighbour when I observed Edith Dallas, who was standing close by. Her eyes met mine; she laid her hand on my sleeve.
“The room is hot,” she said, half panting as she spoke. “Take me out on the balcony.”
I did so. The atmosphere of the reception-rooms was almost intolerable, but it was comparatively cool in the open air.
“I must not lose sight of her,” she said, suddenly.
“Of whom?” I asked, somewhat astonished at her words.
“Of Sara.”
“She is there,” I said. “You can see her from where you stand.”
We happened to be alone. I came a little closer.
“Why are you afraid of her?” I asked.
“Are you sure that we shall not be heard?” was her answer.
“She terrifies me,” were her next words.
“I will not betray your confidence, Miss Dallas. Will you not trust me? You ought to give me a reason for your fears.”
“I cannot—I dare not; I have said far too much already. Don’t keep me, Mr. Druce. She must not find us together.” As she spoke she pushed her way through the crowd, and before I could stop her was standing by Madame Sara’s side.
The reception in Portland Place was, I remember, on the 26th of July. Two days later the Selbys were to give their final “At Home” before leaving for the country. I was, of course, invited to be present, and Madame was also there. She had never been dressed more splendidly, nor had she ever before looked younger or more beautiful. Wherever she went all eyes followed her. As a rule her dress was simple, almost like what a girl would wear, but tonight she chose rich Oriental stuffs made of many colours, and absolutely glittering with gems. Her golden hair was studded with diamonds. Round her neck she wore turquoise and diamonds mixed. There were many younger women in the room, but not the youngest nor the fairest had a chance beside Madame. It was not mere beauty of appearance, it was charm—charm which carries all before it.
I saw Miss Dallas, looking slim and tall and pale, standing at a little distance. I made my way to her side. Before I had time to speak she bent towards me.
“Is she not divine?” she whispered. “She bewilders and delights everyone. She is taking London by storm.”
“Then you are not afraid of her tonight?” I said.
“I fear her more than ever. She has cast a spell over me. But listen, she is going to sing again.”
I had not forgotten the song that Madame had given us at the Farringdons’, and stood still to listen. There was a complete hush in the room. Her voice floated over the heads of the assembled guests in a dreamy Spanish song. Edith told me that it was a slumber song, and that Madame boasted of her power of putting almost anyone to sleep who listened to her rendering of it.
“She has many patients who suffer from insomnia,” whispered the girl, “and she generally cures them with that song, and that alone. Ah! we must not talk; she will hear us.”
Before I could reply Selby came hurrying up. He had not noticed Edith. He caught me by the arm.
“Come just for a minute into this window, Dixon,” he said. “I must speak to you. I suppose you have no news with regard to my brother-in-law?”
“Not a word,” I answered.
“To tell you the truth, I am getting terribly put out over the matter. We cannot settle any of our money affairs just because this man chooses to lose himself. My wife’s lawyers wired to Brazil yesterday, but even his bankers do not know anything about him.”
“The whole thing is a question of time,” was my answer. “When are you off to Hampshire?”
“On Saturday.”
As Selby said the last words he looked around him, then he dropped his voice.
“I want to say something else. The more I see”—he nodded towards Madame Sara—“the less I like her. Edith is getting into a very strange state. Have you not noticed it? And the worst of it is my wife is also infected. I suppose it is that dodge of the woman’s for patching people up and making them beautiful. Doubtless the temptation is overpowering in the case of a plain woman, but Beatrice is beautiful herself and young. What can she have to do with cosmetics and complexion pills?”
“You don’t mean to tell me that your wife has consulted Madame Sara as a doctor?”
“Not exactly, but she has gone to her about her teeth. She complained of toothache lately, and Madame’s dentistry
is renowned. Edith is constantly going to her for one thing or another, but then Edith is infatuated.”
As Jack said the last words he went over to speak to someone else, and before I could leave the seclusion of the window I perceived Edith Dallas and Madame Sara in earnest conversation together. I could not help overhearing the following words:
“Don’t come to me tomorrow. Get into the country as soon as you can. It is far and away the best thing to do.”
As Madame spoke she turned swiftly and caught my eye. She bowed, and the peculiar look, the sort of challenge, she had given me before flashed over her face. It made me uncomfortable, and during the night that followed I could not get it out of my head. I remembered what Selby had said with regard to his wife and her money affairs. Beyond doubt he had married into a mystery—a mystery that Madame knew all about. There was a very big money interest, and strange things happen when millions are concerned.
The next morning I had just risen and was sitting at breakfast when a note was handed to me. It came by special messenger, and was marked “Urgent.” I tore it open. These were its contents:
“My dear Druce, A terrible blow has fallen on us. My sister-in-law, Edith, was taken suddenly ill this morning at breakfast. The nearest doctor was sent for, but he could do nothing, as she died half an hour ago. Do come and see me, and if you know any very clever specialist bring him with you. My wife is utterly stunned by the shock. Yours, Jack Selby.”
I read the note twice before I could realize what it meant. Then I rushed out and, hailing the first hansom I met, said to the man: “Drive to No. 192, Victoria Street, as quickly as you can.”
Here lived a certain Mr. Eric Vandeleur, an old friend of mine and the police surgeon for the Westminster district, which included Eaton Square. No shrewder or sharper fellow existed than Vandeleur, and the present case was essentially in his province, both legally and professionally. He was not at his flat when I arrived, having already gone down to the court. Here I accordingly hurried, and was informed that he was in the mortuary.
