Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Whitefield was one of those dominating men who instinctively push themselves forward at critical moments. He did so now, addressing the leader of the group clustered round the body of the dead man.

“I am an American; my name is Whitefield--Cyrus J. Whitefield; you may have heard of me. I have been on terms of intimacy with this person both here and some time ago at Ostend. He was just an hotel acquaintance, you understand; I know nothing of him except that he was an agreeable companion. What does it mean?”

The good-looking Frenchman, an agent of police in plain-clothes, bowed courteously, and spoke in excellent English.

“Everybody, I think, must have heard of Mr. Cyrus J. Whitefield. Under what name did you know him at Ostend, monsieur?”

“The same as here, the name of Quentin.”

“Quite so, monsieur. He has gone by that name more frequently than any other; he has always used it when staying in big hotels and towns. But his real name is Sanderson, he was a man of good education, and, I believe, of decent family. At one time he was a doctor in Singapore, but left there on account of some financial trouble. We, with others of the continental police, have had our eye on him for some years; but he was very cunning, and it is only lately that we have been able to get sufficient evidence to justify an arrest.”

“And what was the offence for which you were able to arrest him?” queried the American.

Monsieur Paillot, such was the police agent’s name, embarked on a brief narrative. “Quentin, or Sanderson, to give him his proper appellation, was what is known on the Continent as a _rat d’hôtel_, one of the chiefs of a big gang who carried on their depredations in the various capitals of Europe. His rôle was to stay at different large hotels in the guise of a man of means and leisure, to ingratiate himself with his fellow-visitors, find out all about them, and indicate to the working members of the gang the most likely victims. He had never been known to engage in actual robberies himself, he left that particular branch to his subordinates; but there was no doubt he was one of the controlling brains of the organization. They had got on his track through the confession of one of the gang who had turned traitor for the sake of a substantial reward.

“Of course, we have had suspicions of him for some time,” said Paillot in conclusion. “For it was very seldom he stayed at an hotel but there was a robbery, either while he was there or soon after he left, engineered in consequence of the information he was able to give to his confederates. But he kept himself so cleverly in the background that, until just now, we could never manage to bring anything home to him.”

Whitefield looked at Aylmer, and the young man nodded to show that he knew the thought that had occurred to the American.

“There has so far been no robbery during his sojourn here,” Whitefield explained to the police agent. “But there certainly was one at the hotel in Ostend where we were last staying together.”

“No doubt he has put one in train here, monsieur; but, of course, it may not come off in consequence of what has just happened. I expect the gang will be a bit scared when they hear the news,” said the good-looking, courteous official.

“Perhaps you would give me a short description of what happened between you,” suggested the American.

“Willingly, monsieur. When I entered the hall with my men, he was standing at the door of the dining room, his back was towards me and he was looking into the apartment. Then, very swiftly, he turned round and came in my direction. He seemed very agitated before he caught sight of me, but when we met face to face, his countenance had a dreadful look. You see, we had met a few times in the course of the last few years, on occasions when I had charge of the investigations relating to certain robberies, and he knew me perfectly well. I am sure he had long guessed that I suspected him, although I was not able to put my suspicions into words. As I say, he recognized me, and besides, he saw my men, that was enough to tell him the game was up. He came to a dead halt, and cried out, as I thought, in a voice of fear--‘Ah, you here, Monsieur Paillot! What do you want in this hotel?’ I told him it was him I wanted, and here, Monsieur Whitefield, I blame myself that I was not quick enough. I ought not to have answered him but closed with him at once. That half minute of hesitation was enough for him. Quick as lightning he whipped out the pistol, put the muzzle to his head, and fired with instantaneous and fatal effect.”

“I suppose he always carried a weapon about with him as a precaution in the event of being taken.”

“I presume so,” said the police agent. “From what little I know of him, I should never have taken him for one of those robust criminals who would rather kill themselves than face a prison. He was so quiet and smooth-spoken--just a bit effeminate, I thought. I should never have credited him with the courage to take his own life. There was another bird we were after named Martyn, a man who generally hunted with him in couples. But we are too late for him; he slipped through our hands yesterday. But I hope we shall have him before long, unless he cheats us as his friend has done.”

Having learned all that mattered from the polite agent of police, Whitefield drew Aylmer aside. “Let us get out of this,” he said; “a breath of fresh air will do us good after such a nauseous experience.”

Together they went out, and walked along in silence for some little time. Presently Whitefield voiced his thoughts.

“A cunning devil if ever there was one. I was thinking of that robbery at Ostend, which we may be sure he engineered. That was a clever touch of his, having some of his wife’s jewellery stolen at the same time, not the best of her collection, you remember. It was done, of course, to avert suspicion from himself.” Then his thoughts reverted to Mrs. Quentin. “I can’t help feeling sorry for that poor little woman, if, as you seem so confident, she has simply been the dupe of a callous criminal.”

They walked on again in silence, and presently Aylmer remarked: “I suppose you will go to the police later on. There seems a good chance of getting back your ten thousand pounds, unless he put it in some place of safety as soon as he received it. But one would hardly think he had time for that, you gave it him so recently.”

Whitefield answered in a rather confused manner. “Yes, I have been thinking over that, Aylmer, and I have come to the conclusion it will be wiser to let sleeping dogs lie. I should say an old hand like that would put it away without a moment’s unnecessary delay. But supposing he has not done so, and it is found amongst his effects, think of the delay that would ensue before I could get hold of it. Thanks to you, he didn’t steal the receipt, although I expect he had a try for it in the dead of night. No, Aylmer, I shall let that ten thousand pounds go to the deuce.” He laughed harshly. “I shall try my best to forget it; but when I do remember it, it will be a bracing reminder of an old man’s folly.”

Aylmer could easily read between the lines of these words, of this rather magnificent disregard of money. The millionaire was looking at it from a point of view the young man could quite appreciate. The suicide of a _rat d’hôtel_ at the moment of his arrest was not an event that would excite much attention. The news might never filter through to England or America.

But if a prominent man like the American millionaire were brought into the affair, every newspaper in Europe, as well as the American journals, would scent delightful “copy.” The story of an eminent financier, well known for his ’cuteness in all the world markets, being swindled by a commonplace adventurer, would furnish delicious reading. And Eileen’s name would come into it sooner or later, and people would draw their own conclusions, that the elderly gentleman’s generosity was prompted by his admiration of the adventurer’s supposed wife. Whitefield had powerful business friends who had the greatest respect for him. In New York he also had a wife and family whom he did not always take on these little jaunts.

On the whole, Aylmer came to the conclusion the old man was acting wisely, and told him so. In his position, it was worth more than the loss of ten thousand pounds, a mere bagatelle to a man of his wealth, to avoid the risk of a very serious scandal.

“I shall be off this afternoon and get on to Rome earlier than I intended,” said the American presently. “I suppose you won’t be very long before you make tracks.”

“No,” was Aylmer’s answer. “I shall wire my man to-night that I am returning, and start to-morrow morning. Don’t you think we had better lunch out somewhere? I don’t seem to want to sit in that hotel for a little while. It’s a morbid feeling, I know, and it will pass soon; but at the moment, I can’t get that staring dead face out of my mind.”

They lunched at one of the best restaurants in the town, and in the afternoon Aylmer saw the American off at the station. Whitefield again expressed his warm gratitude, and repeated his assurance that if Aylmer ever wanted a friend he knew where to look for one.

The millionaire’s last words were of Mrs. Quentin, who had made such a deep impression on him.

“I wonder if you will ever come across the little woman again,” he said. “I can’t help thinking of her. You seem so positive she knew next to nothing of her husband’s evil courses that I find myself sharing your belief. An awful shock for her, poor thing, when she learns what has happened. I wonder if any provision was made for her. Of course, he may have been telling the truth, or, at any rate, a portion of it. He may really have wanted to get hold of that ten thousand pounds as a nest-egg for her. Well, if that is the case, I don’t know that I shall begrudge it. I suppose she had to look to him for everything, hadn’t a penny of her own.”

“Very little, so far as I understood,” answered Aylmer. “She told me once she had been left a very small income by her mother, a matter of something like fifty pounds a year. Unless he has put that ten thousand pounds of yours safely away for her, I doubt if Quentin ever made any provision. My inquiries pointed to the fact that he was a man of no substance, living, as it were, from hand to mouth. I expect he spent his ill-gotten money as fast as he raked it in.”

The train was moving off as Aylmer said these last words. Whitefield waved him a final adieu, and called out a last injunction. “You will go and see your friend before you leave, you know whom I mean.”

The friend alluded to was Monsieur Dumont, the eminent scientist. He was the only man besides Whitefield and Aylmer who knew of the attempted murder. It had been arranged at lunch, after the American had reiterated his intention of hushing the matter up, that his young friend should call on Dumont and get from him a promise to keep the secret.

Dumont was not only a scientist, he was also a keen man of the world, and Aylmer had no difficulty in making him see the American’s point of view.

He readily gave the required promise. “Rely upon it, my friend, that, so far as I am concerned, the incident will be forgotten. Considering how things have turned out, I think this wealthy person, who seems to part with his money so liberally under certain influences, has taken a very wise course. If the scoundrel had lived, I suppose he could have hardly repressed his natural desire to procure him the punishment he merited. But now that he is out of the reach of justice, _ma foi_, it is much the best thing to hush the matter up. It will, I should think, be a lesson to your Mr. Whitefield in the future; he will think twice before he mixes himself up with plausible people of whom he knows nothing.”

When Aylmer arrived in London, the first visit he paid was to Duberry. He had been thinking things over on his journey, and had come to the conclusion that it would be the wisest policy to tell him and also Peyton some portion of what had happened at Nice, that part relating to one side of Quentin’s criminal career. The other part, relating to the murder of Sir Charles Reeks and the attempted murder of Whitefield, he intended to keep to himself for the sake of Eileen, who, he was resolved, should never know through his instrumentality that the man who had befriended her was a criminal of the deepest dye.

There was just the chance that the English papers would not get hold of the news of Quentin’s tragic end, more especially as he appeared to be better known to the continental police under his real name of Sanderson. But, if they did, it would be very difficult for him to justify his silence. Peyton knew he had gone to Nice for the express purpose of meeting the Quentins, and he would be sure to make some inquiries about them when they next saw each other.

Duberry was, of course, deeply interested in the story of the sudden arrest and suicide. “My old friend Webber could find out nothing about Quentin here,” he remarked. “He evidently confined his malpractices to foreign countries. But, of course, the mere fact of his association with Ramon suggested that he was of the criminal type. Every day I live I confirm the truth of the old saying that a man is known by the company he keeps. That very respectable butler, Dicks, was, no doubt, another member of the gang, at any rate acted for Quentin in some useful capacity.” He added presently: “And what has become of the lady who passed as Mrs. Quentin? She was on the scene when the tragedy occurred, I suppose?”

“No, she left a day or two before.”

Duberry looked at him sharply. “Do you know where she went?”

Aylmer answered truthfully that he had not the slightest idea.

“Do you want to trace her?” was the detective’s next question. “I might be more fortunate this time.”

Aylmer shook his head. “I think not, as my feelings are at present,” he answered, and the reply gave Duberry the greatest pleasure.

As a matter of fact, the dearest wish of Aylmer’s heart was to find Eileen, and for that purpose he might shortly avail himself of the services of a detective. But he resolved to go warily until he had thought over things very carefully. And he had fully made up his mind that, in any case, he would not employ Duberry on such a mission. He would go to some stranger.

With Peyton he had a fairly easy time. That energetic young man was very busy, his head full of his various business affairs, and he did not seem to take more than a somewhat languid interest in the story which Aylmer unfolded to him. His comments were very brief.

“Well, I pretty soon tumbled to the suspicion that he was a wrong ’un, after that little incident of his trying to fleece you. It was so obvious he had cultivated you with that end in view. But I had no idea he was such a high-class artist as he appears to have been. What a nerve the chap must have had, one can hardly help admiring him for it. Swanking about in swagger hotels, living on the fat of the land, and marking down the likely victims for his pals to operate on. And that fine house at Hampstead, too. I’m glad he didn’t take it into his head to invite me. I suppose he chose his customers. He knew a poor devil of a junior partner wasn’t worth wasting his time on. If he could have got hold of the governor, wouldn’t he have been all over him? Not that he would have caught him, he’s too wary a bird.”

In spite of his very serious thoughts, Aylmer smiled at Peyton’s rather flippant reference to his hard-headed parent.

“I think either you or your father would be a match for a dozen Quentins, my dear Claude.”

“Thanks for the compliment, old man; but without boasting, I think either of us would be a tough proposition. By the way, talking of crooks, do you remember a fellow you met one day in our place, named Ramon? You asked me about him, had a notion you had met him before in some place or another.”

“I remember him perfectly,” answered Aylmer shortly.

“Well, I don’t know if you saw it in the papers. He was a crook, of the financial sort, swindling companies, worthless shares, that kind of thing. The police went to arrest him in some common lodging-house, found him dead on the floor, and another man, gasping out his last breath, another crook like himself, of course. They had had a dust up over some division of the spoil most likely and did each other in, ridding the world of a couple of pretty rogues.”

“Yes, I think I did see it,” was Aylmer’s cautious answer; he was resolved not to let Peyton know too much. “But it passed from my mind till you mentioned it.”

“A client of ours, you know. Not a very big one, perhaps, but from first to last he invested a pretty tidy sum. They never found the wife, I expect she had got the ‘oof’ in safe custody. The governor was awfully annoyed about it. He’s very sensitive in business matters; he seemed to take it as a slur on himself that he had a swindler for a client. I comforted him by prophesying that we might have a good many more before we had finished, although they might not have the bad luck to be found out. Well, good-by, old man. So the curtain is rung down on the Quentins. How did the little woman take it?”

Aylmer returned the same answer he had made to Duberry, that Mrs. Quentin had left before the tragedy took place and had not revealed where she was going.

And, as Claude Peyton now disappears from this story, it may be narrated that, in due course, he married his pretty sweetheart, and proved a most exemplary husband to an equally exemplary wife.

Aylmer now had been back in England a week, and was making up his mind to take steps for the discovery of Eileen. But he was forestalled in his intention by the receipt of a brief telegram from her.

“Please come to me at Rosebank, Sherehaven.--Eileen.”