The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 36

After this interesting conference, whereof each member had but sought to pump the others, M. Duquesne, entering Whitehall, almost ran into a tall man, wearing a most unusual and conspicuous caped overcoat, silk lined; whose haughty, downward glance revealed his possession of very large, dark eyes; whose face was so handsome that the little Frenchman caught his breath; whose carriage was that of a monarch or of one of the musketeers of Louis XIII.

With the ease of long practice, M. Duquesne formed an unseen escort for this distinguished stranger.

Arriving at Charing Cross, the latter, without hesitation, entered the telegraph office. M. Duquesne also recollected an important matter that called for a telegram. In quest of a better pen he leaned over to the compartment occupied by the handsome man, but was unable to get so much as a glimpse of what he was writing. Having handed in his message in such a manner that the ingenious Frenchman was foiled again, he strode out, the observed of everyone in the place, but particularly of M.

Duquesne.

To the latter's unbounded astonishment, at the door he turned and raised his hat to him ironically.

Familiar with the characteristic bravado of French criminals, that decided the detective's next move. He stepped quickly back to the counter as the polite stranger disappeared.

"I am Duquesne of Paris," he said in his fluent English to the clerk who had taken the message, and showed his card. "On official business I wish to inspect the last telegram which you received."

The clerk shook his head.

"Can't be done. Only for Scotland Yard."

Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment in f.e.c.kless argument. It was hard that he should have to share this treasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard, and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, with Inspector Sheffield.

The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne and Sheffield the following was written:

"Sheard, _Gleaner_, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eight to-night."

Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening's expedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-boned man, with a great, spa.r.s.ely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. He sat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slow glance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder.

M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand.

It was the great Lemage.

There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, England and the United States were combining against Severac Bablon. It seemed that at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo.

At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothes constable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room.

"Well, Dawson?" said the inspector, looking up from his writing.

"Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir, to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago."

"What is he like, this Mr. Sanrack?"

"A tall, dark gentleman. Very handsome. Looks like an actor."

"Sanrack--Severac," mused Sheffield. "Daring! All right, Dawson, you can go. You know where to wait."

Fifteen minutes later arrived M. Duquesne. He had been carpeted by his chief for invoking the aid of the London police in the matter of the telegram.

"Five methods occur to me instantly, stupid pig," the great Lemage had said, "whereby you might have learnt its contents alone!"

Heavy with a sense of his own dull powers of invention--for he found himself unable to conceive one, much less five such schemes--M. Duquesne came into the inspector's room.

"Does your chief join us to-night?" inquired Sheffield, on learning that the famous investigator was in London.

"He may do so, m'sieur; but his plans are uncertain."

Almost immediately afterwards they were joined by Harborne, and all three, entering one of the taxi-cabs that always are in waiting in the Yard, set out for Dulwich Village.

The night was very dark, with ample promise of early rain, and as the cab ran past Westminster Abbey a car ahead swung sharply around Sanctuary Corner. Harborne, whose business it was to know all about smart society, reported:

"Old Oppner's big Panhard in front. Going our way--Embankment is 'up.' I wonder what his Agency men are driving at? Alden's got something up his sleeve, I'll swear."

"I'd like a peep inside that car," said Sheffield.

Harborne took up the speaking-tube as the cab, in turn, rounded into Great Smith Street.

"Switch off this inside light," he called to the driver, "and get up as close alongside that Panhard ahead as you dare. She's not moving fast.

Stick there till I tell you to drop back."

The man nodded, and immediately the gear s.n.a.t.c.hed the cab ahead with a violent jerk. At a high speed they leapt forward upon the narrow road, swung out to the off-side to avoid a bus, and closed up to the brilliantly-lighted car.

It was occupied by two women in picturesque evening toilettes. One of them was a frizzy haired soubrette and the other a blonde. Both were conspicuously pretty. The fair girl wore a snow white orchid, splashed with deepest crimson, pinned at her breast. Her companion, who lounged in the near corner, her cloak negligently cast about her and one rounded shoulder against the window, was reading a letter; and Harborne, who found himself not a foot removed from her, was trying vainly to focus his gaze upon the writing when the fair girl looked up and started to find the cab so close. The light of a sudden suspicion leapt into her eyes as, obedient to the detective's order, the taxi-driver slowed down and permitted the car to pa.s.s. Almost immediately the big Panhard leapt to renewed speed, and quickly disappeared ahead.

Harborne turned to Inspector Sheffield.

"That was Miss Zoe Oppner, the old man's daughter."

"I know," said Sheffield sharply. "Read any of the letter?"

"No," admitted Harborne; "we were b.u.mping too much. But there's a political affair on to-night in Downing Street. I should guess she's going to be there."

"Why? Who was the fair girl?"

"Lady Mary Evershed," answered Harborne. "It's her father's 'do'

to-night. We want to keep an eye on Miss Oppner, after the Astoria Hotel business. Wish we had a list of guests."

"If Severac Bablon is down," replied Sheffield; grimly, "I don't think she'll have the pleasure of seeing him this evening. But where on earth is she off to now?"

"Give it up," said Harborne, philosophically.

"Oh, she of the golden hair and the white _odontoglossum_," sighed the little Frenchman, rolling up his eyes. "What a perfection!"

They became silent as the cab rapidly bore them across Vauxhall Bridge and through south-west to south-east London, finally to Dulwich Village, that tiny and dwindling oasis in the stucco desert of Suburbia.

Talking to an officer on point duty at a corner, distinguished by the presence of a pillar-box, was P.C. Dawson in mufti. He and the other constable saluted as the three detectives left the cab and joined them.

"Been here long, Dawson?" asked Sheffield.

"No, sir. Just arrived."

"You and I will walk along on the far side from this Laurel Cottage,"

arranged the inspector, "and M. Duquesne might like a gla.s.s of wine, Harborne, until I've looked over the ground. Then we can distribute ourselves. We've got a full quarter of an hour."