Number Six and the Borgia/Chapter 6

Tray-Bong Smith was a light sleeper, but he did not hear Cæsar Valentine come into his room at four o'clock next.morning. As he felt a hand grip his shoulder he twisted round and he heard Cæsar's laugh.

“You cannot turn so that you can use the pistol under your pillow, my friend,” he said. “It would be lamentable if I died as a result of that kind of accident.”

Smith sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong,” replied his host. “I've just brought your clothes.” He himself was in his dressing gown. “I think they will fit you.”

He must have been in the room some time, for afterward the visitor found new garments lying neatly folded on two chairs.

“The heavy overcoat I bought in Paris yesterday,” said Cæsar. “You will need that.”

“What is happening?” Smith demanded lazily as he slipped out of bed.

“A friend of mine is going to London—a young aviator who travels between France and England for his own pleasure. He has kindly given you a seat in his machine, and I have arranged the passport, which you will find in your coat pocket.”

“Io London—what am I to do?”

“Wait for me,” said Cæsar, “and apply yourself diligently to”

His keen ear heard a footfall in the passage, and he went out and returned with a tray on which a breakfast was laid. “The Madonna Beatrice,” he explained, and closed the door behind him. “What are you to do in London? I will tell you, my friend. I intended telling you last night, but the unexpected arrival of—my daughter”—he paused before the description—“made it impossible.”

“I did not know you had a daughter, you don't look old enough to have a girl of that age.”

“Possibly wot,” he said, and did not seem inclined to pursue the subject. “In London—by the way, is there any reason why you should not go to London?”

“None whatever,” replied the other. “I have a perfectly clean bill—in England.”

Cæsar dismissed the subject with a courteous gesture. “In London you will stay at the Bilton Hotel,” he said. “You will communicate with me at an address which you will find in a small notebook I have also put in your pocket. But you will avoid meeting me unless there is an absolute necessity. Your task”—he spoke slowly—“is to find Number Six.”

“Number Six?” Smith stared at him.

“Scotland Yard is a great institution,” said Cæsar. “I have every respect for its personnel, but not a tremendous amount for its methods. For some reason”—he had seated himself on the edge of the bed and was watching his guest taking breakfast—“Scotland Yard is suspicious of me. I have spent a lot of time and a lot of money in England, and Scotland Yard does not know exactly where it comes from. In addition, there have been one or two unfortunate incidents.”

Smith did not ask what those unfortunate incidents were, nor did his employer volunteer any information. “I am one of those men,” Cæsar went on, “who like to know the worst quickly. It worries me when I cannot see my opponent's hand. And I spend a great deal of money in discovering just what kind of difficulties I am likely to meet with. I have had a man in the clerks' department at Scotland Yard for a considerable time; and nearly a year ago this man communicated with me, informing me that the commissioner of the criminal intelligence bureau had commissioned an agent to watch me and examine my private life.”

Smith clicked his lips. “H'm,” he said, “and this watching gentleman—is he Number Six?”

Cæsar nodded. “He or she is Number Six,” he repeated gravely. “Whether it is a man or a woman, I have been unable to discover. -The person is described as Number Six in the records—there is some reason for the secrecy. Scotland Yard believes that I am a sinister individual, and it is remarkable that the agent they have chosen is not an ordinary member of the police force, but some enemy of mine—or rather, some person who regards himself or herself as my enemy, for—er—private reasons.

“There are, of course”—he shrugged his shoulders—“people who hate me. There is a man named Welland. You will find his address in the book. I have not met the gentleman recently, but twenty years ago I met his wife.” He paused. “I think she was happier with me than she was with him—for a while,” he added.

Smith yawned. “If this is a love story, spare me,” he said, but the other seemed lost in a reverie.

“Unfortunately she died, and his child, who came with her, also died—it was unfortunate.” Cæsar dropped his chin on his palms and looked at the floor, thinking deeply. “It was unfortunate,” he said, and looked up quickly. “Welland is in some form of government service. He has told an associate that he will kill me, but that, of course, does not worry me. He may or may not be Number Six. You will be astute enough to discover.”

“Is there anybody else?” asked Smith.

“There are the relatives of a certain Mr. Gale,” said Cæsar thoughtfully. “Mr. Gale was associated with me in business, Things went wrong and Mr. Gale—committed suicide. It was unfortunate.”

Smith nodded again. He had heard of Mr. Gale. “I remember the case, though I didn't associate you with it. Gale was a bank manager, and, after his death, it was discovered that some hundred thousand pounds had disappeared from the funds of the bank.”

“It was unfortunate,” repeated Cæsar. “People knew that I had had some dealings with him, and his wife made rather a painful scene. She accused me” he shrugged again. “She died a little time afterward.

“Naturally?” The man from Chi So's flung the question brutally, and Cæsar smiled and dropped his hand on the questioner's shoulder.

“You are a man after my own heart,” he said.

He went away soon after to dress, for he had to conduct his man to the private aviation field where his friend was waiting. It was doubtful whether the pilot had any stronger sense of friendship for Cæsar than the payment of a handsome fee could insure, but he was a good pilot, and Tray-Bong Smith landed at Croydon in time for a second breakfast and on the whole was glad to be back in England.

Excessive sentimentality was not to be expected from a member of Mr. Smith's profession, for all his youth, and for a certain refinement of mind he had displayed, yet he left France with just the faintest hint of an ache in his heart. Perhaps 'ache' is rather a strong word for an unsatisfied desire. He had hoped to see the girl again. He carried with him an impression of her no less vivid because it had been taken in a flash—an impression of gray-blue eyes, of a complexion as clear as milk, of faultless features and of lips so red that he had thought for a second they had been “made up.” Mr. Smith was not of the impressionable kind, but this impression had just stayed with him in his mind and in his heart, though they had not exchanged more than half a dozen words.

The daughter of Cæsar! Tray-Bong laughed. An offspring of the Borgias! More beautiful than her greatly advertised ancestor Lucrezia—that poor, simpering, colorless thing, who had achieved a place in history to which neither her talents nor her spurious iniquities entitled her.

He dismissed Stephanie from his mind with an effort, and concentrated upon the errand which Cæsar had chosen for him. He was completely puzzled by Cæsar's choice of hotel. The Bilton is not only fashionable, but conspicuous.

When he reached the hotel, he found that not only had his room been reserved for him, but that Cæsar had instructed the manager as to what room he should occupy. “I shan't be able to put your things into forty-one until the afternoon, sir,” said the manager—which was the first intimation Mr. Smith had that No. 41 had been reserved at all. “The room is still in the occupation of the gentleman who is leaving by this afternoon's train.”

He took Tray-Bong aside and lowered his voice. “I hope you don't mind my asking you a personal question,” he said. “You are not?” he seemed at a loss.

“Well?” asked Smith, interested.

“You're not a noisy sleeper? Excuse my asking, sir. I mean, you don't snore?” said the manager.

“Not that I am aware of.” Mr. Smith was secretly amused.

“I ask you because Mr. Ross is so particular, and he's been a client of ours now for thirty years, and it happens that he sleeps in the next room to you.”

“Mr. Ross? Who's Mr. Ross?” asked Smith. The manager was surprised apparently that there existed one benighted heathen in the city of London who did not know Mr. Ross. Mr. Ross was an American millionaire—not only a millionaire, but a millionaire several times over. He was a bachelor and eccentric, a difficult man and a not particularly generous man, Smith gathered. He spent most of his day at the Reform Club, and though he had lived in and about England for thirty years, he had no friends. Moreover, he occupied the next room, No. 40.

Cæsar had supplied him well with money, and his first call that day was upon a tailor in Bond Street. After he had been measured and had given his orders for a fairly extensive wardrobe, he strolled down to the Strand. He had not been in London for twelve months, and the sight and the smell of it were lovely to his senses.

It was at the junction of the Strand with Trafalgar Square that he met the one man in London he did not desire to meet. Smith saw him some distance away, but made no attempt to avoid him.

There was no mistaking Hallett, of the criminal investigation bureau; a peak-faced man, with white, unruly hair and heavy, gray mustache, it was not a face one could forget. Tray-Bong was passing him, but Hallett stood still in his path.

“Hello!” he said in that paternal way of his. “Back in London, Mr. Tray-Bong Smith?”

“Back in London, chief,” said Smith.

“I've been hearing queer stories about you,” said Hallett. “Murders and robberies galore.” There was a twinkle in his eye, and a twinkle in Hallett's eye did not necessarily bode well for any man. “Be careful, my friend,” he said. “There may be very serious trouble for you. Don't say I did not warn you.”

“Fine!” said Smith, “But if there is going to be any bad trouble for me, there is going to be some very serious happenings for other people. And if you don't mind, I'd rather not be seen talking to you, chief—it gets a fellow a bad name.”

Hallett chuckled grimly and passed on.