Our agreement dies I will meet in London of that sum on June 13th Montabello to his rooms on the Boulevard defy detection by
He read and re-read these words, but could glean little from them. The small piece of blackened paper had presumably formed part of a note, but it was clear that the writer was illiterate, or intentionally ignorant, for in two instances the orthography was faulty.
Try how he would, Hugh was unable to disguise the fact that it was a promise to pay a certain sum, and the mention of the word dies seemed as if it had connection with some dark deed. Perhaps it alluded to the secret referred to by Valérie in the former letter! With tantalising contrariety, any names that had been mentioned had been consumed, and nothing but the few words already given remained as indication of what the communication originally contained.
Nevertheless, thought Hugh, it must have been regarded as of considerable importance by his brother, or it would not have been so carefully preserved and concealed. So crisp was it in its half-consumed condition, that he was compelled to handle it tenderly, otherwise it would have crumbled.
Having satisfied himself that nothing further could be gathered from the almost obliterated words, he replaced it carefully inside the sheet of notepaper, and proceeded to make a thorough search of the bureau.
In vain he took out the remaining letters and scanned them eagerly, hoping to find something which would throw a further light upon the extraordinary missives. None, however, contained any reference to Valérie, or to Paris. When he had finished, he summoned old Jacob, and ordered him to make a fire and burn all except about half a dozen, which appeared of a business character.
Placing the photograph and the three letters in his pocket, he stood thoughtfully watching the old man as he piled the bills and the billets-doux upon the wide-open hearth and ignited them.
The mysterious correspondence sorely puzzled him, and he was determined to find out its meaning. Undoubtedly, Douglas and Valérie were intimately acquainted, and from the tone in which she wrote, it appeared as if from some reason she was afraid of him, and, further, that she was leaving Paris by compulsion.
His thoughts were embittered by a vague feeling of jealousy and hatred towards his brother, yet he felt himself on the verge of a discovery which might possibly lead to strange disclosures.
Curiously enough, our sins find us out very rapidly. We cannot tamper with what is right and for the best in order to secure what is temporarily convenient without invoking Nemesis; and sometimes she comes with a rapid tread that is a little disconcerting.
Though he experienced a strange apprehensive feeling, Hugh Trethowen little dreamed of the significance of the communications which, by a strange vagary of Fate, had been placed under his hand.
Chapter Nine
Denizens of Soho
A dirty, frowsy room, with furniture old and rickety, a ceiling blackened, and a faded carpet full of holes.
Its two occupants, dark, sallow-looking foreigners in shabby-genteel attire, sat conversing seriously in French, between frequent whiffs of caporal cigarettes of the most rank description.
Batemans Buildings, Soho where, on the second floor of one of the houses, this apartment was situated is a thoroughfare but little known, even to dwellers in the immediate vicinity. The wandering Londoner, whose peregrinations take him into the foreign quarter, might pass a dozen times between Frith and Greek Streets without discovering its existence. Indeed, his search will not be rewarded until he pauses halfway down Bateman Street and turns up a narrow and exceedingly uninviting passage between a marine-store dealers and the shop of a small vendor of vegetables and coals. He will then find himself at Batemans Buildings, a short, paved court, lined on each side by grimy, squalid-looking houses, the court itself forming the playground of a hundred or so spirited juveniles of the unwashed class.
It is altogether a very undesirable place of abode. The houses, in comparison with those of some neighbouring thoroughfares, certainly put forward a sorry pretence towards respectability; for a century ago some well-to-do people resided there; and the buildings, even in their present state of dilapidation and decay, have still a solid, substantial air about them. Now, however, they are let out in tenements, and the inhabitants are almost wholly foreigners.
Soho has always been the abode of the French immigrant. But Time, combined with a squabbling County Council, has affected even cosmopolitan London; and Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road have now opened up the more inaccessible haunts, rendering them more conventional, if less interesting. Notwithstanding this, it is still the French quarter. French laundresses abound in great variety, with cheap French cafés where one can obtain absinthe, groseille, or grenadine, and where Jacques Bonhomme can dine with potage and three plats for less than a shilling, while French bakers are a feature at every turn.
Within a small radius of Batemans Buildings several thousand strangers struggle for the bare necessaries of life deluded Germans, Belgians, and Frenchmen, who thought the English Metropolis a second El Dorado, and have found it nothing beyond a focus for squalid poverty, hunger, and crime.
The two men who were seated together in this upper room were no exception. Although not immigrants in search of employment, yet they were disappointed that the business which brought them over had not resulted profitably, and, moreover, they were considerably dejected by reason of their funds being almost exhausted.
They sat opposite one another at the table, with an evil-smelling paraffin lamp between them.
The silence was broken by the elder man.
You must admit, Pierre, he exclaimed in French, contracting his dark bushy eyebrows slightly, it is no use sitting down and giving vent to empty lamentations. We must act.
Pierre Rouillier, the young man addressed, was tall and lean, with jet black hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a thin face, the rather melancholy expression of which did not detract from the elements of good looks which his features possessed.
Why cant we remain here quietly in hiding for a time? he suggested. If we wait, something good may turn up.
Remain and do nothing! echoed Victor Bérard. Are you an imbecile? While we rest, the chance may slip from us.
Theres no fear of that, Pierre replied confidently. My opinion is that we can remain here for a month or two longer with much advantage to ourselves.
Bah! ejaculated his companion, a short and rather stout man, about ten years his senior, whose brilliant dark eyes gleamed with anger and disgust.
Well, speaking candidly, continued Pierre, do you really think it advisable to do anything just now?
I see nothing to prevent it; but, of course, it would be impossible to carry out our primary intention just at present. In fact, until the business is more developed any attempt would be mere folly.
Exactly. Thats just my reason for remaining idle.
The fact is, youre afraid, exclaimed Bérard, regarding him contemptuously.
Afraid of what?
Of making a false move, he replied; and then he added: Look here, Pierre, leave everything to me. Hitherto we have transacted our various affairs satisfactorily, and theres no reason why we should not be successful in this. It only requires tact and caution qualities with which both of us are fortunately well endowed. When it is complete we shall leave this wretched country.
As for myself, I shouldnt be sorry if we were going to-morrow, remarked the younger man morosely. Im sick of the whole business.
Oh, are you? exclaimed Bérard fiercely. What in the name of the devil is the matter with you, you impudent coward? We entered upon this affair together; our course is quite plain, and now, just when we are within an ace of success, you want to back out of it. Youre mad!
Perhaps I am, replied Pierre warmly. But you are too enthusiastic, and I have a presentiment that the whole affair will end in disaster.
Disaster! You talk like a woman, Bérard exclaimed. How is it that other delicate matters you and I have negotiated have not ended in a contretemps, eh?
Nom dun chien! And what have we gained by them? Why, simply nothing. You have been clever, its true; but in this, if we dont wait until a more favourable opportunity occurs, we shall bungle. And if we do, you know the consequences.
But while we are waiting we must have money from somewhere.
We must wait, declared Pierre. We ought to out of this wretched rabbit-warren, and dress a bit more respectably. Do you think were likely to (unreadable). Je nai pas un rond, he added in the argot of the criminal circles of Montmartre.
Bérard shrugged his shoulders, and pulled a wry face.
We can but try, he observed, selecting a fresh cigarette and lighting it.
At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was heard upon them.
Hark! exclaimed the younger man. She has arrived! She promised she would come to-night.
The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Valérie Dedieu entered.
Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat, battered and faded.
Her disguise was complete.
Well, you see Im here as requested, she exclaimed, as she burst into the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged old leather sofa.
Ah, ma petite lapin, were glad youve come, Bérard replied, with a smile. If Mahomet cant go to the mountain because he has no decent clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet.
Thats so, she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a chair at the table. I look nice in this get-up, dont I? Pierre, give me a cigarette. Youve apparently forgotten your manners towards a lady, she added reproachfully.
The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.
Now, how have you been getting on? she inquired.
Deuced badly, Bérard replied. Were hard up and must have money.
Money! Cest du réchauffé! Valérie cried in dismay. Mon Dieu! Ive none. Im almost penniless, and must have some from you.
What? cried Rouillier. You cant give us any?
No, not a sou, she replied. An appearance such as Im bound to keep up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are something enormous.
Then how do you expect we can live? asked Bérard, with an injured expression and violent gesticulation.
Im sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor. You know better how to obtain funds than I. Live as youve lived for the past five years. You both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will continue to do so somehow or other.
This handsome salon looks like luxury, doesnt it? remarked Pierre, smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.
Well, certainly theres nothing gorgeous about it, she admitted, laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.
Bérard shook his head impatiently. He did not care to be reminded of days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not at her visit.
Look here, he said, gazing up at her suddenly. Its no use chattering like an insane magpie. Whats to be done?
I dont know, and I care very little, she replied candidly. I want money, and if I dont get it the whole affair will collapse.
And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent unconcern.
But how are we to get it? No one will lend it to us.
Dont talk absurdly. I have no desire to be acquainted with the means by which you obtain it. I want a thousand pounds. And, she added coolly, I tell you I must have it.
The two men were silent. They knew Valérie of old, and were fully convinced that argument was useless.
Leaning her elbows upon the table, she puffed at her rank cigarette with all the gusto of an inveterate smoker, and watched their puzzled, thoughtful faces.
Would that sum suffice until ? Bérard asked mysteriously, giving her a keen glance, and not completing the sentence.
Although her face was naturally pallid, it was easy to discern that the agitation of the last few moments had rendered it even more pale than usual, and her hand was twitching impatiently.
Yes, she answered abruptly.
Couldnt you make shift with five hundred? he suggested hesitatingly.
No, she said decisively; it would be absolutely useless. I must have a thousand to settle my present debts; then I can go on for six, perhaps twelve months, longer.
And after that? inquired Pierre.
She arched her eyebrows, and, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug, replied
Well I suppose I shall have the misfortune to marry some day or another.
All three smiled grimly.
How are matters progressing in that direction? Victor asked, with a curious expression.
As favourably as can be expected, replied Valérie in an indifferent tone. If a woman is chic and decorous at the same time, and manages to get in with a good set, she need not go far for suitors.
Have you seen the Sky Pilot? inquired Victor, with a thoughtful frown.
Yes, I met Hubert Holt a few days ago at Eastbourne. He asked after you.
Shall I find him at the usual place?
Yes; but it would not be safe to go there.
Then Ill write. I must see him to-morrow.
Why?
You want le pognon? he asked snappishly.
I do.
Then, if we are to get it, he must give us his aid, he said ominously.
Ah! she exclaimed, evidently comprehending his meaning. But you are not very hospitable, she added. Have you got anything to drink?
Not a drop.
Malheureux! youve fallen on evil times, my dears, she said, laughing uneasily.
Taking out her small, silver-mounted purse, she emptied its contents upon the table. This consisted of two sovereigns and some silver. The former she handed to Victor, saying,
Thats all I can give you just now.
He put them into his pocket without a word of thanks, while she sat back in her chair whistling a few bars of a popular chansonette eccentrique.
Pierre, Bérard said sullenly, at the same time vigorously apostrophising the diable, were in a difficulty, and the only way we can obtain the money is by another er disappearance.