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INTRODUCES A GENTLEMAN. Then it's an entire mystery? Yes, Phrida. But it's astounding! It really seems so utterly impossible, declared my well-beloved, amazed at what I had just related. I've simply stated hard facts. But there's been nothing about this affair in the papers. For certain reasons the authorities are not exactly anxious for any publicity. It is a very puzzling problem, and they do not care to own themselves baffled, I replied. Really, it's the most extraordinary story of London life that I've ever heard, Phrida Shand declared, leaning forward in her chair, clasping her small white hands as, with her elbows upon the table-a-deux, she looked at me with her wondrous dark eyes across the bowl of red tulips between us.
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Letteratura poliziesca e gialliCHAPTER I.
Ā Ā INTRODUCES A
GENTLEMAN. "Then it's an entire mystery?" "Yes, Phrida." "But it's
astounding! It really seems so utterly impossible," declared my
well-beloved, amazed at what I had just related. "I've simply
stated hard facts." "But there's been nothing about this affair in
the papers." "For certain reasons the authorities are not exactly
anxious for any publicity. It is a very puzzling problem, and they
do not care to own themselves baffled," I replied. "Really, it's
the most extraordinary story of London life that I've ever heard,"
Phrida Shand declared, leaning forward in her chair, clasping her
small white hands as, with her elbows upon the table-Ć -deux,
she looked at me with her wondrous dark eyes across the bowl of red
tulips between us.
Ā Ā We were lunching together at the Berkeley, in
Piccadilly, one January day last year, and had just arrived at the
dessert. "The whole thing is quite bewildering, Teddy ā an utter
enigma," she exclaimed in a low, rather strained voice, her pretty,
pointed chin resting upon the back of her hand as she gazed upon me
from beneath those long, curved lashes. "I quite agree," was my
answer. "The police are mystified, and so am I. Sir Digby Kemsley
is my friend, you know." "I remember," she said. "You once
introduced me ā at the opening of the Motor Show at Olympia, I
believe. A very brilliant and famous man, isn't he?" "Rather! A
famous engineer. He made the new railway across the Andes, and
possesses huge rubber interests in Peru. His name, both in Seina
and Valparaiso, is one to conjure with," was my reply; "but ā ā "
"But what?" queried my well-beloved. "Well, there's one fact which
greatly increases the mystery ā a fact which is yet to be told."
"What's that?" she asked eagerly.
Ā Ā I hesitated. "Well, I've been making inquiries this
morning," I replied with some reluctance, "and I learn to my blank
amazement that there is no such person as my friend." "No such
person!" she echoed, staring at me, her lips parted. Being seated
in a corner, no one could overhear our conversation. "I don't
follow you!" "Well, Sir Digby died somewhere in South America about
a year ago," was my quiet response. "What? Was your friend a fraud,
eh?" "Apparently so. And yet, if he was, he must have been a man of
marvellous cunning and subterfuge," I said. "He was most popular at
the club, known at the Ritz and the Savoy, and other places about
town." "He struck me as a man of great refinement ā a gentleman, in
fact," Phrida said. "I recollect him perfectly: tall, rather thin,
with a pointed, grey beard, a long, oval face, and thinnish, grey
hair. A very lithe, erect man, whose polite, elegant manner was
that of a diplomat, and in whose dark eyes was an expression of
constant merriment and good humour. He spoke with a slight accent ā
Scotch, isn't it?" "Exactly. You remember him perfectly, dear. A
most excellent description," I said; "and that same description has
been circulated this morning to every police office throughout the
United Kingdom, as well as to the prefectures of police in all the
European capitals. All the ports are being watched, as it is
expected he may make his way abroad." "But what do the authorities
suspect?" asked Phrida, with a serious look. "Ah, that's just it!
They haven't yet decided what to suspect."
Ā Ā I looked across at her and thought, though slightly
more pale than usual, she had never appeared more charming.
Ā Ā Sweet-faced, slim, with a soft, sibilant voice, and
dainty to her finger-tips, she did not look more than nineteen,
though her age was twenty-four. How shall I describe her save to
say that her oval, well-defined features were perfect, her dark,
arched brows gave piquancy to a countenance that was remarked
wherever she went, a merry face, with a touch of impudence in her
smile ā the face of an essentially London girl.
Ā Ā Only daughter of my father's late partner, James
Shand, we had been friends from childhood, and our friendship had,
three years ago, blossomed into a deep and mutual affection. Born
and bred in Kensington, she cared little for country life. She
loved her London, its throbbing streets, its life and movement, its
concerts, its bright restaurants, and, most of all, its theatres ā
for she was an ardent playgoer.
Ā Ā My father, Edward Royle, was head of the firm of
well-known chemical manufacturers, Messrs. Royle and Shand, whose
works were a feature of the river landscape close to Greenwich, and
whose offices were in St. Mary Axe. He had died two years before,
pre-deceasing his partner by a year. The business ā a big one, for
we were the largest chemical manufacturers in England ā had been
left solely in my hands. Shand's widow still lived with Phrida in
Cromwell Road, drawing from it an income of seven thousand pounds
yearly.
Ā Ā As for myself, I was a bachelor, aged thirty-two,
and if golf be a vice I was greatly addicted to it. I occupied a
cosy set of chambers, half-way up Albemarle Street, and am thankful
to say that in consequence of my father's business acumen, my
balance at my bankers was increasing annually. At the works at
Greenwich nearly two thousand hands were employed, and it had
always been the firm's proud boast that they laboured under the
most healthy conditions possible to secure in the manufacture of
chemicals.
Ā Ā My father, upon his deathbed, had held my hand and
expressed to me his profoundest satisfaction at my engagement with
the daughter of his partner, and almost with his last breath had
pronounced a blessing upon our union.
Ā Ā Yes, I loved Phrida ā loved her with all my heart
and all my soul. She was mine ā mine for ever.
Ā Ā Yet, as I sat at that little table in the
white-enamelled restaurant gazing at her across the bowl of tulips,
I felt a strange, a very curious misgiving, an extraordinary misty
suspicion, for which I could not in the least account.
Ā Ā I experienced a strange intuition of doubt and vague
uncertainty.
Ā Ā The facts we had just been discussing were, to say
the least, amazing.
Ā Ā Only the Metropolitan Police and myself were aware
of the astounding discovery which had been made that morning ā a
discovery of which the ever-vigilant London evening newspapers had
as yet no inkling.
Ā Ā The affair was being carefully hushed up. In certain
quarters ā high official quarters, I believe ā a flutter of
excitement had been caused at noon, when it had become known that a
mystery had occurred, one which at the outset New Scotland Yard had
acknowledged itself utterly without a clue.
Ā Ā About the affair there was nothing usual, nothing
commonplace. The murder mysteries of London always form exciting
reading, for it is surely the easiest work of the practised
journalist to put forward from day to day fresh clues and exciting
propositions.
Ā Ā The present case, however, was an entirely fresh and
unheard-of mystery, one such as London had never before known.
Ā Ā In the whole annals of Scotland Yard no case
presenting such unusual features had previously been reported.
"Have you no theory as to what really occurred?" Phrida asked
slowly, after a very long and pensive silence. "None whatever,
dear," I replied.
Ā Ā What theory could I form? Aye, what indeed?
Ā Ā In order that the exact truth should be made
entirely plain to the reader and the mystery viewed in all its
phases, it will be best for me to briefly record the main facts
prior to entering upon any detail.
Ā Ā The following were the circumstances exactly as I
knew them.
Ā Ā At twenty-five minutes to ten on the previous night
ā the night of January the sixth ā I was at home in Albemarle
Street, writing letters. Haines, my man, had gone out, and I was
alone, when the telephone bell rang. Taking up the receiver I heard
the cheery voice of Sir Digby Kemsley asking what I was doing. My
prompt reply was that I was staying at home that night, whereupon
his voice changed and he asked me in great earnestness to come over
to his flat in Harrington Gardens, South Kensington, at eleven
o'clock. "And look here," he added in a confidential tone, "the
outside door will be closed at half-past ten and the porter off
duty. I'll go down just before eleven and leave the door ajar.
Don't let anyone see you come in. Be extremely careful. I have
reasons I'll explain afterwards." "Right," I replied, and shut
off.
Ā Ā His request seemed just a little curious. It struck
me that he perhaps wished to consult with me over some private
matter, as he had done once before. Therefore, just before eleven I
hailed a taxi in Piccadilly and drove westward past Gloucester Road
Station, and into the quiet, eminently select neighbourhood where
my friend lived.
Ā Ā At eleven o'clock Harrington Gardens ā that long
thoroughfare of big rather gloomy houses, most of them residences
of City merchants, or town houses or flats of people who have seats
in the country ā was as silent as the grave, and my taxi awoke its
echoes until, about half way up, I stopped the man, alighted, and
paid him off.
Ā Ā Then, after walking a couple of hundred yards, I
found the door ajar and slipped into the hall unobserved.
Ā Ā Ascending the wide carpeted steps to the second
floor, the door of the flat was opened noiselessly by the owner
himself, and a few seconds later I found myself seated before a big
fire in his snug sitting-room.
Ā Ā My friend's face was grey and entirely changed, yet
his manner was still as polished, cheery, and buoyant as ever.
Ā Ā The flat ā quite a small one, though very expensive
as he had once remarked to me ā was furnished throughout with
elegance and taste. Upon its walls everywhere hung curios and
savage arms, which he had brought from various parts of the world.
The drawing-room was furnished entirely in Arab style, with
cedar-wood screens, semi-circular arches, low, soft divans and
silken rugs, which he had bought in Egypt, while, in contrast, the
little den in which we were sitting at that moment was panelled in
white with an old-rose carpet, rendering it essentially bright and
modern.
Ā Ā The tall, grey-bearded, elegant man handed me a box
of Perfectos Finos, from which we selected, and then, throwing
myself into a chair, I slowly lit up.
Ā Ā His back was turned from me at the moment, as he
leaned over the writing-table apparently gathering up some papers
which he did not desire that I should see. He was facing a circular
mirror on the wall, and in it I could see his countenance
reflected. The expression upon his face ā cold, cynical, sinister ā
startled me. He placed the papers in a drawer and locked it with a
key upon his chain. "Well?" I asked. "Why all this confounded
mystery, Digby?"
Ā Ā He turned upon me quickly, his long face usually so
full of merriment, grey and drawn. I saw instantly that something
very serious was amiss. "I ā I want to ask your advice, Royle," he
replied in a hard voice scarce above a whisper. Walking to the
pretty rug of old-rose and pale green silk spread before the fire
he stood upon it, facing me. "And ā well, truth to tell, I don't
want it to be known that you've been here to-night, old fellow."
"Why?" "For certain private reasons ā very strong reasons." "As you
wish, my dear chap," was my response, as I drew at his perfect
cigar.
Ā Ā Then he looked me straight in the face and said: "My
motive in asking you here to-night, Royle, is to beg of you to
extend your valued friendship to me at a moment which is the
greatest crisis of my career. The fact is, I've played the game of
life falsely, and the truth must out, unless ā unless you will
consent to save me." "I don't follow you," I said, staring at him.
"What in heaven's name do you mean?" "My dear boy, I'll put my
cards down on the table at once," he said in a slow, deep tone.
"Let's see ā we've known each other for nearly a year. You have
been my best friend, entirely devoted to my interests ā a staunch
friend, better than whom no man could ever desire. In return I've
lied to you, led you to believe that I am what I am not. Why?
Because ā well, I suppose I'm no different to any other man ā or
woman for the matter of that ā I have a skeleton in my cupboard ā a
grim skeleton, my dear Royle. One which I've always striven to hide
ā until to-night," he added with emotion. "But that hardly
interferes with our friendship, does it? We all of us have our
private affairs, both of business and of heart," I said. "The
heart," he echoed bitterly. "Ah! yes ā the heart. You, my dear boy,
are a man of the world. You understand life. You are never
narrow-minded ā eh?" he asked, advancing a step nearer to me. "I
hope not," I said. "At any rate, I've always been your friend, ever
since our first meeting on the steamer on the Lake of Garda, last
February."
Ā Ā The eminent engineer rolled his cigar between his
fingers, and calmly contemplated it in silence.
Ā Ā Then, quite abruptly, he exclaimed: "Royle, my
present misfortune is due to a woman." "Ah!" I sighed. "A woman!
Always a woman in such cases! Well?" "Mind you, I don't blame her
in the least," he went on quickly, "I ā I was hot-tempered, and I
miscalculated her power. We quarrelled, and ā and she, though so
young, refined and pretty, has arisen to crush me." "Anyone I
know?" "No. I think not," was his slow reply, his dark eyes gazing
full into mine as he still stood astride upon the hearthrug.
Ā Ā Then he fidgeted uneasily, stroked his well-clipped
grey beard with his strong, bronzed hand, and strode across the
room and back again. "Look here, Royle," he exclaimed at last.
"You're my friend, so I may as well speak straight out. Will you
help me?" "Certainly ā if I can." "I'm in a hole ā a confounded
hole. I've been worried ever since I got back from Egypt just
before Christmas. Only you can save me." "Me! Why?" "I want you to
remain my friend; to still believe in me, when ā well ā when I've
gone under," he answered brokenly, his brows contracting as he
spoke. "I don't understand you." "Then I'll speak more plainly.
To-night is the last time we shall meet. I've played the game, I
tell you ā and I've lost!" "You seem horribly hipped about
something to-night, my dear fellow!" I exclaimed in wonder at his
strange words. In all my circle of friends no man was more
level-headed than Sir Digby Kemsley. "Yes, I'm not quite myself.
Perhaps you wouldn't be, Royle, in the same circumstances."
Halting, he stood erect with his hands clasped behind his back.
Even then, at that moment of despair, he presented the fine figure
of a man in his well-cut dinner clothes and the single ruby in his
piquĆ© shirt-front. "I want to entrust a secret to you ā a great
secret," he went on a few seconds later. "I tell you that to-night
is the last occasion we shall ever meet, but I beg ā may I implore
you to judge me with leniency, to form no unjust conclusions, and
when you remember me to regard my memory as that of a man who was
not a rogue, but a victim of untoward circumstances." "Really, my
dear fellow," I said, "you speak in enigmas. What do you mean ā you
intend what?" "That matters nothing to you, Royle," was his hoarse
reply. "I merely ask for your continued friendship. I ask that you
will treat my successor here in the exact manner in which you have
treated me ā that you will become his firm friend ā and that you
will perform for me one great and most important service." "Your
successor! Who will succeed you? You have no son!" "No, I have no
male relation whatever," he replied. "But we were speaking of the
favour I am begging of you to perform for me. On the fourteenth of
January I shall not be here, but it is highly necessary that on
that evening, at eight o'clock, a secret message should be
delivered into the hands of a certain lady ā a message from myself.
Will you do it?" "Certainly. Are you going abroad again?" "I ā
well, I can hardly tell. I may be dead by then ā who knows?" And he
smiled grimly.
Ā Ā He returned to his writing-table, unlocked a drawer,
and took therefrom a letter which was carefully sealed with black
wax. "Now, listen," he said, holding the letter in his fingers; "on
the night of the fourteenth, just at eight o'clock precisely, go to
the Piccadilly tube station, stand at the telephone box numbered
four on the Haymarket side, when a lady in black will approach you
and ask news of me. In response you will give her this note. But
there is a further condition: you may be watched and recognised,
therefore be extremely careful that you are not followed on that
day, and, above all, adopt some effective disguise. Go there
dressed as a working-man, I would suggest." "That request, Kemsley,
is certainly a very queer one," I remarked. "Is she the
lady?"
Ā Ā He smiled, and I took that as an affirmative. "You
say she'll be dressed in black. Lots of ladies dress in black. I
might mistake her." "Not very likely. I forgot to tell you that she
will wear a small spray of mimosa." "Ah, that shows originality," I
remarked. "Mimosa is not often worn on the person." "It will serve
as a distinguishing mark." Then, after a pause, he added, handing
me the letter: "There is one further request I want to make ā or,
at least, I want you to give me your promise, Royle. I ask you to
make a solemn vow to me that if any suspicion arises within your
mind, that you will believe nothing without absolute and decisive
proof. I mean that you will not misjudge her." "I certainly will
not." "Your hand upon it?"
Ā Ā I put forth my hand and, gripping his warmly, gave
him my word of honour. "I hope you will never regret this, Royle,"
he said in an earnest tone. "We are friends," I remarked simply.
"And I trust, Royle, you will never regret the responsibility which
you have accepted on my behalf," he said in a deep, hard voice ā
the voice of a desperate man. "Remember to treat my successor
exactly as you have treated me. Be his best friend, as he will be
yours. You will be astonished, amazed, mystified, no doubt, at the
events which must, alas! inevitably occur. But it is not my fault,
Royle, believe me," he declared with solemn emphasis. "It is, alas!
my misfortune!"
CHAPTER II.
THE SCENT.
After giving me the letter, and receiving my assurance that it would be safely delivered, Sir Digby's spirits seemed somewhat to revive.
He chatted in his old, good-humoured style, drank a whisky and soda, and, just before one o'clock, let me out, urging me to descend the stairs noiselessly lest the hall-porter should know that he had had a visitor.
Time after time I had questioned him regarding his strange reference to his successor, but to all my queries he was entirely dumb. He had, I recollected, never been the same since his return from a flying visit to Egypt. "The future will, no doubt, astound you, but I know, Royle, that you are a man of honour and of your word, and that you will keep your promise at all hazards," was all he would reply.
The secrecy with which I had entered and left caused me considerable curiosity. Kemsley was one of those free, bluff, open-hearted, open-handed, men. He was never secretive, never elusive. I could only account for his curious, mystifying actions by the fact that the reputation of a woman was at stake ā that he was acting for her protection.
And I was to meet that woman face to face in eight days' ti...
Table of contents
- CHAPTER I.
- CHAPTER II.
- CHAPTER III.
- CHAPTER IV.
- CHAPTER V.
- CHAPTER VI.
- CHAPTER VII.
- CHAPTER VIII.
- CHAPTER IX.
- CHAPTER X.
- CHAPTER XI.
- CHAPTER XII.
- CHAPTER XIII.
- CHAPTER XIV.
- CHAPTER XV.
- CHAPTER XVI.
- CHAPTER XVII.
- CHAPTER XVIII.
- CHAPTER XIX.
- CHAPTER XX.
- CHAPTER XXI.
- CHAPTER XXII.
- CHAPTER XXIII.
- CHAPTER XXIV.
- CHAPTER XXV.
- CHAPTER XXVI.
- CHAPTER XXVII.
- CHAPTER XXVIII.
- CHAPTER XXIX.
- CHAPTER XXX.
- CHAPTER XXXI.
- CHAPTER XXXII.
- Copyright