Chapter TWENTY-ONE: I Meet Illona

The enigma was increasingly bewildering. Ever since the moment when that woman of the night, Hilda Bennett, had declared that I was not her lover’s assailant, and in consequence of which I had been punished as a police-spy, I had existed in an atmosphere of excitement, doubt, and mystery.

Daily, mystery piled upon mystery, as a natural sequence. And through it all I experienced an intense agony of mind because of Joan’s disappearance.

The fact that Joan’s father had represented the Treasury at the prosecution of the woman Bennett, whose accusation had led me into that maelstrom of adversity, certainly pointed to a motive of vindictiveness on the part of the woman’s criminal friends. But I felt myself up against a blank wall. With all the energy and spirit I possessed I had chased the phantom of hope. Each time, however, it had eluded me.

Illona was but a will o’ the wisp. Was she a fraud? Did she really exist? Was she some unknown woman whom I had married during that long period of my other self, when I lived in another world, created by that baneful drug injected into my veins by the girl typist who had been my fellow-lodger?

The discovery that this same young and good-looking, soft-eyed criminal, whom I had known as Lisely Hatten, was masquerading as the Contessina Angela Ugostini, a popular figure in diplomatic circles in Rome, had staggered me. And whenever I had searched for the truth, I had only drawn blank. Yet, I remained patient with one fixed object; to discover the whereabouts of my beloved Joan, and to punish those who had harmed her.

And if she were dead? Then I would have a life for a life.

That night I suffered from insomnia, as I had done frequently, through the most silent hours. From three to five in the morning I wandered the streets of London.

No one has really seen our wonderful metropolis who has not stood upon Westminster Bridge by the long façade of the Houses of Parliament, when Big Ben has boomed forth half-past three on a summer’s morning. At that hour the dawn is pale, the great highway with its thundering traffic is silent and deserted, save for an occasional constable who looks askance at any loiterer upon the bridge. There is a solitary taxi upon the stand, and the fine statue of Boadicea and her horses stands out against the eastern sky by the faint flush of the rising sun. That has long been my favorite spot when I cannot sleep. From my point of vantage I can look down to the dome and steeples of the gray mysterious City, and up stream along the Terrace to St. Stephen’s Tower, and the bend of the Thames at Battersea, with its trees and Park. A silent, sleeping, quaint London--our marvelous capital around which civilization revolves--lies unconscious of the slowly awakening world. The air is fresh; man and machine are resting from their labors. For an hour one can enjoy rest, and reflect on many things, the things which, united, we call life. In two hours more London will awaken to its activity. Hordes of men and women will be scurrying to business; cars, motor-buses and trams will be roaring increasingly across the bridge which Boadicea is guarding. And Babylon will once more be plunged into its greed for gain, its sins, and its incessant iniquities. And, peer and politician, magnate and mechanic, lawyer and laborer, patrician and prostitute, criminal and charlatan will vie with each other to make money, which is the heart’s blood of London’s life.

Yet where was Joan?

I returned to Sackville Street about seven, and Bruce served my breakfast. Then, I washed and read the newspaper, each moment impatient for the return of my elusive “wife” Illona.

Just before eleven I was startled by the electric bell, and, a few moments later, my man ushered in a strange, stunted female figure, who rushed forward to welcome me with the breathless words:

“Lionel dear! At last!” Then, turning to see if Bruce had closed the door, she gripped my hand and in a low intense whisper asked, “Have you heard anything further?”

“About what?” I asked, looking into her narrow, drawn face, utterly staggered.

“About the Avignon affair?”

“The Avignon affair? I don’t understand you,” I replied.

“What?” she cried. “Come, Lionel, you are joking. You know the great risk I have run in coming to you to-day. I called last night and you were out.”

She paused in the manner of expecting an explanation.

“You had my note?”

“Yes--and the evidence of treachery,” she said. “We will talk of that later. But, Lionel,” she added, gazing into my face with a puzzled expression, “you are not yourself, dear. Why? What has happened?”

I stood before the queer, undersized little woman, utterly bewildered. Not more than five feet in height, her head and hands seemed abnormally large. She was well and fashionably dressed in a beige-colored gown, with hat to match. And she carried in her hand an expensive bag of pale-green lizard skin. Her features once had been attractive, perhaps, but the bloom of youth had long passed, and vain endeavors had been made to efface the havoc of time by the application of toilet requisites, and especially of lip-stick.

And this ugly, ill-formed woman with the rouged face was Illona--my secret wife whom I imagined to be young, sweet, enticing!

“No,” I managed to reply, “I am not myself.”

“I don’t wonder, after your recent narrow escape.”

“Where?”

“In Kensington Gardens. They evidently knew that I intended to meet you, and sent you that message so that you should not wait for me.”

“And the piece of music,” I added. “What did that signify?”

“Why, you know,” she said in an intensely earnest and refined voice.

“But was there any motive in preventing our meeting?” I demanded quickly.

“Of course, they have done all in their power to prevent us coming together again,” said Illona. “That is why I risk so much in coming here to see you.”

“Risk!” I echoed. “I don’t follow you.”

“Ah! don’t you think, knowing what I do, and the relentlessness of our mutual enemies, I am not ready to take any risk to save you, Lionel--you--my husband?” she said in a voice full of emotion.

Words failed me. That she had a right to call me husband I certainly would challenge. It required all my self-restraint to refrain from doing so at that moment. Yet I saw that by my resentment I might easily lose my chance of learning the truth.

Truly, I was in an amazing predicament, for of what follies I had been culpable during my period of unconsciousness I knew not. Hence I saw that the best course was to hold my tongue, and allow my supposed wife to explain.

“I know that you have warned me against my enemies, and especially against a blind man,” I said.

“Has he been here?” she asked breathlessly.

“On several occasions.”

“Ah! Then they contemplate carrying out their threat!” she cried. “Lionel, dear, you are in great danger! You must fly--anywhere.”

“But why?” I asked, standing aghast. “I’ve done nothing!”

“Not in our eyes. But in the eyes of the police,” she declared. “Ever since you became one of us they have always suspected you. You surely know that!”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How did I become ‘one of us,’ as you put it? I don’t understand.”

The middle-aged dwarf with the made-up countenance smiled and said:

“Ah! I see you are not yourself, poor dear!” And she placed her well-gloved hand tenderly upon my shoulder. “So much traveling upsets your nerves, no doubt. I expected you to come and see me at Lausanne, for you often passed to and fro on the Simplon route to Italy and the Balkans. Yet you never broke your journey. Again, I expected you to meet me one night at Pretty’s Club in Wardour Street, where we are all members.”

“You told me to make an appointment, but as a matter of fact I’d forgotten the name of your club,” I declared, very lamely, I fear.

“Ah, my dear! Your memory was always faulty. I’ve noticed it ever since you married me at the Kensington Registry Office. Do you remember that morning--the morning after poor Hilda was sentenced? Poor girl! I wonder how she is.”

Hilda! She meant Hilda Bennett, the woman who was the cause of all my present troubles and incertitude, the woman who had been prosecuted by Joan’s father.

“Hilda was one of us, eh?” I hazarded.

“Of course. But she was game and fortunately gave nobody away.”

“And Lisely Hatten?” I asked, for it seemed by her remarks that I was in some way still allied with the gang who had captured me on that foggy night in Camberwell.

“She is my worst enemy, Lionel. She ascertained your family connections, as you know, and intended to marry you. To her, you no doubt owe your eyesight, for I know that she only pretended to blind you, because you and she had been friends. His Excellency never suspected it, or you would not be alive now.”

“His Excellency?” I queried.

“Oh dear, Lionel! How dense you are!” she said, throwing her bag upon the table, and sinking into a chair beside the fireplace. “You remember Felix Zuroff, the little black-haired Russian, who presided at the meeting into which you so unfortunately tumbled. We call him His Excellency, as he is the representative of others.”

I remembered distinctly the beetle-browed foreigner, apparently head of that criminal gang, who at the moment of my innocent intrusion were dividing their spoils.

“Yes, I know,” I ejaculated. “But is His Excellency still in power?”

“Most certainly. And his right hand is Lisely Hatten--or the Contessina, as she is just now known. It is almost time the great coup was brought off. Everything is arranged for it.”

“The woman who prevented our meeting in Kensington Gardens.”

“Ah! I suspected as much,” said my undersized visitor--the woman who called me husband.

According to her story, I had married her at the Kensington Registry Office. I intended to confirm that, for it would not be in the least difficult.

“Tuggy Wilson, who was recently shot, was one of us--was he not?” I asked her.

“Of course. Dufour killed him, we know. There was, however, a good reason. It’s most fortunate that he has got clear.”

“What was the reason?” I inquired eagerly.

“Oh, a quarrel over a woman, I hear.”

“A woman? Who?” I asked.

“Some girl with whom young Owen fell in love.”

“What was her name?”

“I don’t know. You see, I’ve been out of England for months--ever since I came to you after the Avignon affair and we made our compact. The police have searched Europe for the packet, but they’ve never found it. And they are not likely to, eh?” she asked, with a knowing look.

“It’s not my affair,” I declared.

“Well, who knows where it is if you don’t?” laughed the mysterious Illona.

“I really don’t follow you,” I answered her.

She rose, and, standing determinedly before me, said:

“Now look here, Lionel. I’ll be really angry with you in a minute, if you pretend all this silly ignorance.”

“It’s not pretence. I don’t know,” I protested.

“What?” she cried angrily. “When I risk everything to come here to see and talk to you, you mean to stand there and tell me you are in ignorance of the great coup we effected on the road outside Avignon just after midnight? We had two cars traveling towards Aix-en-Provence. The first, in which you were, overtook the car with two men, and deliberately ran into it, completely wrecking it. His Excellency, Owen, Lisely, and myself were in the second car, and, on coming up, offered assistance. It was accepted. But while the damage was being examined Owen managed to get hold of two big cases filled with fine jewels belonging to Bonnard Frères, of the Rue de la Paix, in Paris--some of their most expensive stock--which were being taken for the winter season to their branch shop at Monte Carlo. The firm’s manager, Monsieur Perrin, realizing his loss, shouted, but was shot dead for his pains by His Excellency; the chauffeur was drugged, while the clerk accompanying Monsieur Perrin was attended by Lisely, who used a hypodermic needle upon him. In five minutes all was finished. The two cars locked together in the smash, with the dead man and the other unconscious, we left blocking the road, while the chauffeur of the first car, who was really Tuggy Wilson, joined us, and we turned and were swiftly on our way to Geneva.”

Without uttering a word, I listened to the description of their daring exploit. She had alleged that I, as a member of that gang of motor-car bandits, was party to that deliberate theft and murder. It was impossible, and I told her so. The calm way in which she had related the attack, and the part she herself had played in it, horrified me.

“My dear Lionel!” she laughed. “You are certainly not yourself to-day. What utter rot you are talking.”

“I am speaking the truth!” I protested.

“Do you mean that you deny all knowledge of the fine haul we made that night?”

“My dear lady,” I said, “I certainly do. I have never even heard of the affair.”

“Really, Lionel, I think you have taken leave of your senses,” she exclaimed familiarly. “What is the use of trying to bamboozle me--of all women?” And she stood staring at me for a few moments. Then she said, “If you are really in such innocent ignorance as you declare, how about the check you received from His Excellency last Thursday, the first of the month, for over eight thousand pounds as your share of a certain other little bit of crooked business? Examine your pass-book now, and see if I tell the truth!”