CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was not long before Grewgus’ prophecy that they were only at the beginning of the mystery came true. What is now about to be narrated is gleaned from the letters sent to his chief from Brussels by Simmons. Later on he came to England, and amplified the various details of the whole affair.

Monsieur Calliard went to Brussels in due course from Paris and took up his quarters at one of the well-known hotels in that delightful city. Simmons, obeying his chief’s telegraphed instructions, followed him, and was always at his heels.

On this visit the gay old Frenchman was apparently devoting himself whole-heartedly to his business, and not indulging in any little flutters. His habits were exceedingly regular. He devoted his mornings, and frequently his afternoons, to visits to his various customers. The rest of his time he spent at the hotel. No ladies, young or middle-aged, relieved the monotony of his leisure moments.

Needless to say that Simmons kept open a wary eye for the reappearance of Zillah Mayhew and the man Edwards. To his surprise neither turned up. In the meantime Grewgus was keeping a watch on the women at Ashstead Mansions, and convinced himself, with the aid of the friendly hall-porter, that she was in London during the whole of the time that Léon Calliard was in Brussels. Therefore, a certain theory of his was shattered, when he found she was staying on from day to day.

His idea was that, having discovered she was being shadowed in Paris, her plans had been suddenly nipped in the bud by that fact, and she had headed for the shelter of the flat. This did not mean that she had given up her original designs against the wealthy jeweller, only postponed them. After a brief interval, during which she judged the scent would have become cold, she would follow him to Brussels, and there add him to her no doubt very numerous list of victims. It followed from this, then, that blackmail had not been her ultimate object.

But it was obvious that she had some object in sticking so closely to the Frenchman. And so far as it was possible to reason, the instructions given by Stormont to Edwards were concerned with the wealthy jeweller, as neither the man nor the woman had associated with anybody else during their stay in Paris. Edwards had been seen about with nobody except the girl who called herself Miss Glenthorne.

For three days Simmons kept a pretty close watch on Calliard. On the fourth he relaxed his vigilance a little, having made up his mind by now that nothing more was to be feared from the pair of confederates. And on this day something unusual happened. Calliard did not return to the hotel for lunch, and he did not return for dinner. Simmons did not attach very great importance to this; he might have gone somewhere else for the day on business. To-morrow he would see him pursuing his ordinary routine, without a doubt. But when the morrow came, and no Calliard appeared in his usual haunts, Simmons became alarmed.

That evening he went to the director of the _Palace Hotel_, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and who knew the nature of his occupation, and inquired for news. He explained that, unknown to Calliard himself, he was watching his movements in connection with a certain couple who might have evil designs upon him.

The director, a most voluble person, was quite ready to talk to a man whom he knew he could trust.

“I have known Monsieur Calliard for years, ever since I have been connected with the _Palace Hotel_; his connection with us is a long one and dates before the time I came here. I suppose you know that he is a man of considerable wealth, a partner in a very flourishing firm in Marseilles. He came here about every few months to do business with the leading jewellers in Brussels, and he carried in that brown bag his samples, worth some hundreds of thousands of francs. When he had finished his rounds for the day, it was his invariable custom to deposit that very valuable bag in our safe.”

Simmons noticed that the director had been speaking all along in the past tense. He had a very sure premonition of what was coming.

“He went out as usual after breakfast to make his customary morning calls, taking his bag with him. As I take it, you have been watching him, probably you know that as well as I do?”

Simmons had to admit that on this particular morning his vigilance had been relaxed. Having made up his mind that neither of the pair he suspected was in the vicinity, he was prepared to take it easy till Monsieur Calliard left Brussels, when he would follow him to his next stopping place.

The director shrugged his shoulders: “That is most unfortunate, for then we might know more than we do. He said especially that he would return to luncheon--as a matter of fact he has lunched and dined here every day during his visit--but he happened to make particular mention of it. Luncheon time arrived, and he did not turn up. We didn’t attach very great importance to the fact. He might have been detained, or been invited by one of his customers. When dinner-time came and he was again absent, I began to feel a bit uneasy. Remember he was carrying in that bag a small fortune.”

“Monsieur Calliard is just a little bit--what shall we say--frisky for a man of his age, is he not?” queried Simmons.

The director smiled: “A wee bit, perhaps. I fancy he is rather susceptible where the other sex is concerned. On previous occasions he has sometimes brought here to lunch and dinner some fascinating members of it. But this time nothing of the sort happened. Not a soul has been to see him since he first set foot in the hotel.”

Simmons thought there might be a good reason for this. No doubt the volatile Frenchman had received a rude shock when Grewgus told him the real character of the young woman to whom he was so hospitable in Paris. He had resolved to walk more warily for a little time.

“When I came down this morning and found he was still absent, I came to the conclusion it was time to act. I notified the police at once. I despatched a long wire to his firm in Marseilles, acquainting them with the suspicious circumstances. I have had one in reply.”

“And they are, of course, very alarmed?” said Simmons.

“Not so much as you would imagine. It is a very long wire, and in it they suggest he may have gone to Ostend to see a certain client, and will return in due course. But I am very doubtful of this. Monsieur Calliard was a very methodical man, not likely to do anything on the spur of the moment. If he had intended to pay this visit to Ostend, he would have had it in his mind for some little time, and notified us of his intention. Well, the affair is now in the hands of the police.”

It was not till five days later that the dénouement came. It was evening, and Simmons sat on the terrace of the _Café Metropole_, sipping his _apéritif_. While doing so, he opened the _Petit Bleu_ and read a long account of the recovery of the body of an elderly, well-dressed man from the river Meuse, at a bend about a mile behind the little village of Godime. The doctors declared that it had been in the river since about the date corresponding with the disappearance of the wealthy jeweller.

Upon him was found a sum of about three thousand francs, and papers which conclusively proved that he was a Monsieur Léon Calliard, member of a well-known firm, and residing in the Rue Lenon at Marseilles. In his pocket was found a half-obliterated letter written in indelible pencil, stating his intention of committing suicide in consequence of an unfortunate love affair.

Simmons hastened round to his friend the director of the hotel, whom he found acquainted with the news. This gentleman threw scorn upon the suggestion of suicide.

“Bah, my friend,” he cried excitedly, “Calliard was not that sort of man; he was a most devout Catholic. A love affair that would drive him off his head at his age. The idea is preposterous. He was fond of the society of attractive women, granted, but his was not the sort of nature capable of a great passion. I should like to see that letter, Monsieur Simmons. I will wager it is a forgery, put there by the assassin who killed him in order to get hold of that bag with its valuable contents.”

And so, later on, it was proved to be the case. When the letter was shown to some of his intimate friends they unanimously declared it was a clumsy imitation of Calliard’s handwriting.

“So all along it was robbery and murder, not simply blackmail that was intended,” said Grewgus, as he and his client sat discussing the whole facts of the case. “Simmons, of course, committed a blunder in not following Calliard that particular morning. He might have averted a tragedy. On the other hand, he might not. This is the work of a very cunning gang, and so long as Calliard had that bag in his possession, they were determined to have it. They would not have been satisfied with a first rebuff or a second. They would have followed him till they got it. Depend upon it, they had their plans laid with devilish precision. I don’t suppose we shall ever know how they got him into their clutches.”

“It is strange that Edwards and the woman should have so suddenly effaced themselves,” commented Lydon. “If they had a hand in it, you would think they would have been in at the closing act. Is it possible, do you think, that this tragedy is simply a coincidence? That he was done to death by people who had no connection with them?”

Grewgus shook his head. “There is no evidence against them, certainly. Miss Mayhew has been at Ashstead Mansions every day since she came back from Paris, that I have ascertained. In her case she has a perfect alibi. Of Edwards I can speak with no positiveness. Simmons took a snapshot of him in Paris, and I have had two men scouring London for him with no success, as we are unacquainted with his haunts. Of course, for all we know to the contrary, he might have been lurking in the neighbourhood of that little village of Godime. But, all the same, I believe Miss Mayhew played a big part in this affair.”

Lydon looked at the detective inquiringly. “I should like to know in what way you connect her with the case,” he said. “Of course, in a thing of this sort, I feel myself utterly helpless, so far as my reasoning faculties are concerned.”

Grewgus smiled. “One would hardly expect otherwise, Mr. Lydon. Up to the present, you can have had no experience of criminal methods, which I can assure you are very subtle. Robbery was intended from the beginning, supplemented by murder, if that was absolutely necessary. In this case I assume the existence of a cleverly organized gang of international crooks, with spies everywhere. They find out that the unfortunate Calliard, member of a wealthy firm, is accustomed to make periodical visits to the various important capitals, carrying with him in that small bag an immense amount of valuable property.

“They already know a good deal, but they want to know more, be better versed in details. They set Miss Mayhew on him, one of their cleverest decoys. No doubt, the beginnings of the plot were hatched at Trouville, where he first made her acquaintance and, unfortunately for himself, was attracted by her. Their meeting was not accidental. They knew he would be there and dispatched her to the same hotel, to find out all she could, to make herself acquainted with his movements, to insinuate herself into his confidence.

“She found him very easy to deal with. Calliard no doubt was a good business man in many ways, or he would not have been entrusted with such important missions, but for one of his age he struck me as singularly simple. And he was garrulous and communicative in the extreme. He blurted out a lot of things to me which he would have shown wisdom in keeping to himself. He took me on trust, as it were, on my production of a card stating my name and profession. That card might easily have been prepared for the purpose. I give this as an illustration of his simplicity, of his tendency to take things at their face value. A clever woman would twist him round her little finger, easily get out of him what she wanted to know. Neither in Rome nor Trouville did they find things fall out quite in accordance with their plans. It was not till they got him to Paris that they were able to set to work in grim earnest, with the result we know.”

“None of the jewellery has been traced, I suppose?”

“Not that I have heard of,” was the detective’s answer. “They had their plans cut and dried, you may depend. A few hours after they had got hold of the stuff you can be sure the valuable stones were out of their settings and on the way to a safe market.”

After a little while, Lydon spoke. “You have reconstructed the whole thing very cleverly, and in my own mind I feel you are right. But we have really no tangible evidence against Stormont, have we?”

Grewgus shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing that would convince a jury, I fear. It is all intensely circumstantial. Still, that letter of his to Zillah which you intercepted is a very important link. Would you like me to go to Scotland Yard and put them in possession of all we know, so that they could join forces with the Paris police?”

But Leonard could not bring himself to consent to this step. The thought of his beloved Gloria, of her father, a man of the highest probity and honour, forbade it. Much as he would have rejoiced, for his dead friend’s sake, that Elise Makris should be punished, he shrank from bringing disgrace upon Howard Stormont’s innocent relatives.

It was finally arranged between the two men that Grewgus should still keep a watch upon the flat in Ashstead Mansions, and note the further movements of Whitehouse and his supposed niece. It was evident that this taciturn individual had taken no active part in the Calliard affair, was not even so much implicated in it as Stormont appeared to be by that letter to his “clever Zillah.” But Grewgus had a very strong suspicion that the couple worked very closely together.

They did find something out about Whitehouse a little later on which added to the general mystery. Hornby Court did not absorb the whole of his activities. He had a small set of offices near Bedford Row, where he attended three days a week. His staff consisted of a senior and junior clerk, and he practised as a solicitor under the name of Glenthorne. So far they had not been able to discover what sort of a business it was, or what class of clients patronized him. It certainly had not the air of a particularly flourishing concern.

From the _Cecil Hotel_, the Jasper Stormonts, accompanied by Gloria, soon moved further afield. It had been cordially acquiesced in by Howard Stormont that during their stay in England they should have their daughter to themselves. For his own part, Jasper would have liked to make a tour in Scotland, but he was a very unselfish man, and he could not bear the idea of parting the two young people. He felt that he had come too little into the girl’s life to permit him to think only of himself. He therefore chose Brighton; it was so easy for Lydon to run down and return by a fast train.

Although a man rather inclined to frugality than extravagance, Leonard was surprised to find that he had elected to stay at one of the most expensive hotels in the place. And not content with the public apartments, he had taken a private sitting-room. He explained matters to his future son-in-law with his usual kindly smile.

“You must not think, my dear boy, I am trying to rival my spendthrift brother. The simple truth is this. At home I conduct my affairs in a very steady and prudent manner. But when I take a holiday, I like to do things well and have every comfort. A thoroughly economical holiday is worse than none.”

They intended to stay at Brighton till it was time to return to China, and Lydon was very pleased with the arrangement. All that he had learned recently had made Effington exceedingly distasteful to him. As for Howard Stormont, he could hardly bear to shake hands with him, in view of his grave suspicions.

It was about three weeks after the interview between himself and Grewgus that he received an important message from the detective to come round to his office at the earliest moment, as he had the most surprising news to communicate. He did not want to blurt them out over the telephone.

Lydon was round as soon as possible, and found the detective looking quite excited for a man of his usually calm temperament.

“You will be as surprised as I was, I expect,” he said as soon as his client was seated. “Our friend Miss Makris, alias Mayhew, alias Glenthorne, has left Ashstead Mansions. She has taken one of the smaller houses in Curzon Street, has furnished it splendidly in a few days, and is living there under the name of Mrs. Edwards with her husband, the good-looking fellow who was over in Paris when she was playing her game with poor old Calliard. The mother is not with them. I should say they are after something very big this time.”

And as Grewgus spoke, there flashed across the young man’s mind what Jasper Stormont had told him a little while ago. His brother was looking forward to a great _coup_ which might enable him to give up business altogether. Was the owner of Effington at the back of this sudden metamorphosis of the “clever Zillah” into Mrs. Edwards, the tenant of the house in Curzon Street?