The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 29

ERCULES POPEAU and Captain Stuart were walking up and down in front of the Hôtel de Paris. Stuart held a letter in his hand. It had been left for him late that afternoon, but it had only just been given to him.

He held the letter out to the other man, and M. Popeau read it, slowly and carefully. It was written on the Hôtel de Paris paper:




 * “I had hoped to find you in, and so convey my invitation in person. We hope that you will come and share our simple meal to-night at La Solitude. Miss Fairfield is not at all well, but she tells me that she will be able to come down this evening. I do not include Monsieur Popeau in my invitation, as I understand he leaves Monte Carlo to-day.

“Yours sincerely, “.”

“It's very decent of the Countess to ask me. I don't see why I shouldn't accept the invitation,” he said hesitatingly. “You don't mind my leaving you, old chap?”

“I wish I could divine why the Countess Polda has asked you to dinner to-night, Stuart,” M. Popeau uttered these commonplace words in a hesitating, anxious tone.

“Perhaps Miss Fairfield suggested it,” said Stuart a little awkwardly.

“She may have done so.”

Then came a long pause between the two quaintly contrasted friends.

There was a soft spot in Hercules Popeau's heart. Some thirty-five years before he also had had his innocent, beautiful romance. He had been engaged to a girl he loved, and just before their marriage she had developed consumption.

His most precious possession was a bundle of her simple, formal, and yet how infinitely pathetic, little letters, each of them beginning, “Mon cher fiancé,” and telling him of the everyday, dull, quiet life she was leading in the Mentone of the late 'eighties.

He had never spoken of that piteous episode in his past life to any living being since his own mother's death, but now, all at once, he made up his mind that he would speak of it to his companion—to this young Scot, who, though he liked and trusted him, had never confided in him.

“Stuart,” he said, “T want to tell you something. You think me a cynical old fellow, but I, too, have loved—I, too, loved a beautiful, pure, sweet-natured girl. She died within a very few miles of where we are standing now. I did not feel, after her death, that I could build up my life again in the good, solid, sensible way which is the only right way for a man to do. That is why I am a bachelor. I know in my heart that you love Lily Fairfield as I loved my little Aimée, and that has much increased my affection for, and interest in, you. I will tell you frankly that I am somewhat uneasy. You trust Miss Fairfield entirely—I do not doubt that she is trustworthy. But still she has now been for many days given to the influence of that Italian lady-killer whom that sinister couple wish her to marry. Why has the Countess Polda asked you there to-night? Especially if Miss Lily is not well? Is it to make to you some disagreeable announcement? I fear so.”

“I shall soon know,” said Angus Stuart, “for I mean to go.”

He was touched by the Frenchman's confidence, but too shy to say so.

“Well!” exclaimed M. Popeau, “I will say no more! Accept the invitation, and good luck attend you. I may be a suspicious old fool after all!”

Again there was silence between them, and then M. Popeau observed: “I wish I were staying on, for this Vissering affair interests me intensely. It is so strange that there should have been another mysterious disappearance, and the discovery of a second body, so soon after that of poor Ponting! I had a very queer suspicion some time ago, but now I confess that I am at fault.”

“What did you suspect? asked Angus Stuart. He had been too absorbed in his own affairs to give much thought to the mystery which seemed to interest Hercules Popeau so deeply.

“It would not be fair to tell you what I suspected. But I will tell you this much. Yesterday Bouton and I had a talk with Count Beppo Polda about the affair. I had a half-suspicion that he knew Mr. Vissering, but it became perfectly clear to me that he had never even heard the Dutchman's name. By the way, he will not be at La Solitude to-night, for he left Monte Carlo to-day.”

“I am glad of that,” said Stuart shortly. “I do not care for the fellow.”

“There are worse people than Beppo Polda in the world,” said M. Popeau mildly. And Angus Stuart felt rather disgusted. Why, it was Popeau who had first set him against the young Count!

“So long!” he said quickly. “I think I'll buzz along now. It isn't good-bye for long.”

And Hercules Popeau answered quietly, “No, my friend, for I may still be here when you come back; they keep early hours at La Solitude.”

This conversation had taken place nearly three hours ago, and now Hercules Popeau was sitting in the hall of the Hôtel de Paris. He had had a delicious little dinner, ad was smoking a good cigar. In about half an hour he would be starting for the station.

He kept looking at the door, for he hoped that Stuart would be back before he left the hotel. For the tenth time he asked himself why the Countess Polda had gone out of her way to do the young Scotsman a civility? It would have been more natural to ask him, Popeau, to dinner, for, after all, he had entertained the Count and Countess to luncheon at the Golf Club. They were curious people, but since he and Beppo Polda had had that talk about old Vissering he had liked the young man better.

And then while these thought were flitting through his mind he suddenly uttered an exclamation of astonishment and of dismay, for coming quickly towards him was Lily Fairfield.

Among the brilliant, gay-looking groups of men and women scattered about the hall, some going to, some coming from the Club, she looked a strange, pathetic little figure.

Was it the fact that she was dressed in mourning that made her look so unnaturally pale? And what could have happened at La Solitude? A thrill of sharp apprehension went through him.

“Yes it is I, Monsieur Popeau. I want to see you in private for a few minutes. I have something to tell you—to ask you to do for me. I want your advice.”

She was looking round her nervously, like a hunted creature.

“If possible, I don't want Captain Stuart to know that I have come to see you to-night. Can we go somewhere. just for a few minutes, where he is not likely to see us?”

“But—he is up to La Solitude, Mademoiselle?”

“At La Solitude? Oh no! Surely not?”

There was surprise and terror in the tone in which the girl repeated the name of the lonely house.

“Let's come out of doors,” she exclaimed. “I—I hardly know what I am doing, Monsieur Popeau!”

He followed her, full of unease and acute curiosity; what could have happened up at La Solitude, to make Lily Fairfield look as she was looking now? And where was Angus Stuart?

“Surely you left Captain Stuart up at La Solitude?” he exclaimed, when they at last found themselves standing alone in the open air, gazing at one another in the half-darkness.

”I have not come from La Solitude. But even so, why should you think Captain Stuart is there, Monsieur Popeau?”

She asked the question in a voice she tried in vain to make natural and calm.

“The Countess called here this afternoon and left a note asking him to come to dinner either to-night or to-morrow night. She said you were not well, but that you would be down for the meal.”

“But she knew that I was at the Convalescent Home and that I am not coming back to La Salitude [sic] till next week!”

“That makes what she did appear very strange,” said M. Popeau slowly, and he began to feel very much alarmed and puzzled.

There was a curious pause. He took the girl's hand.

“What is it?” he asked. “You frighten me! Though I am a man of mystery, I hate mysteries!”

“We must go up to La Solitude, now, at once!” she whispered, and he saw, he felt, that she was shaking all over.

“They are murderers, Monsieur Popeau! They killed Mr. Vissering—and I think they killed Mr. Ponting. They may be doing—something—to Angus now”

“No, no! He is probably quite safe. But we will go and see now, this moment!”

He called out to a passing taxi on its way back to Nice.

“We shall be there very soon,” he said, and patted her hand. Somehow, his matter-of-fact manner comforted and steadied her as he said to the driver rapidly in French: “This is a hundred-francs' job for you, my friend, and less than half an hour's drive!”

He helped Lily to get into the cab, and then briefly ordered the driver to go to the Condamine.

“You know the house of the Commissioner of Police?”

The man nodded. He did not look at all surprised. Monte Carlo is a place of unexpected happenings, of great and small tragedies.

M. Popeau put his fat right arm round his companion's shoulder.

“Come, come,” he said. “Do not be frightened, mv dear child.”

“Must you go to Monsieur Bouton?” she exclaimed. “Can't we go straight to La Solitude?”

“I am not going to tell Monsieur Bouton anything. I am simply going to ask him to lend me two good stout fellows in case we should require help.”

They arrived in the quiet, solitary street she remembered so vividly in a very few seconds, but after M. Popeau had gone into the house she waited, quivering with impatience, in the darkness, for what seemed a long time; but at last he came back alone. “It's all right,” he said briskly.

He did not add that he had told M. Bouton that he believed he was on a new track connected with the Vissering affair.

“I've arranged for two intelligent, strong young fellows to follow us in two or three minutes in a police motor, but they won't come into the gorunds [sic] of La Solitude unless I whistle for them. And now,” he said, “would it trouble you very much if you were to tell me why you came to see me to-night, and also why you made that—that very serious allegation against the Count and Countess Polda?”

And Lily did tell him a broken, confused way what she feared, nay, what by now she felt sure, was the dread truth.

“Perhaps I'm being very foolish about Angus,” she said in a low voice. “After all, he has no money, thank God!”

“No, but he has you,” said M. Popeau very gravely. “Have I not guessed right, my dear child?”

As only answer Lily pressed the hand which held hers in so protective and kind a grasp.

Through both their minds there flashed simultaneously the same thought—that Angus Stuart was indeed a formidable obstacle to the Countess Polda's wishes.

But how could she have found this out? She had hardly ever seen the two young people together. Besides, even he, Hercules Popeau, had not felt sure till just now, when the girl sitting by his side had squeezed his hand in answer to his question.

The Frenchman began to feel far more uneasy than he allowed Lily to know. For one thing, it was so strange that Angus Stuart had not come back long ere now to the Hôtel de Paris! On the other hand, they might have just missed him. Another possibility was that Stuart might even now be on his way down to Monte Carlo. Once they got clear of the streets M. Popeau instructed the driver to look out for a gentleman. But as they rushed up the steep, winding road it remained absolutely solitary till at last they heard the police motor coming up behind them.

“I suggest that we stop the taxi some way below the grounds. Our object is to take them by surprise. Remember, Mademoiselle, that if our suspicions are justified we shall have to deal with desperate people.”

A few moments later they were creeping softly, swiftly, up through the orange grove. It was very dark, for the moon was now but a slender crescent, and their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud.

Lily and M. Popeau were leading, with the two police agents three or four yards behind them.

All at once M. Popeau stopped walking, and listened intently. Yes, there was a curious sound coming from where they knew the house to be. But it was an outdoor sound, caused by something moving over to the right, where a clump of bushes hid the front door of La Solitude from that end of the terrace.

It was as if a big broom were being lightly brushed along the ground, and now and again there came the rustling of branches. The Frenchman told himself that it was probably some animal which had padded in from the mountain-side.

They all walked slowly on, still in the same order. It was very dark, very unlike the brilliant moonlit night when the strange old Dutchman had dined at La Solitude. Still, even so, as they emerged on to the edge of the wood they could dimly see the lawn before them, and the long, low outline of the house.

All at once there came over those watching there, in the shadow of the dense grove of low trees, a feeling that there was something moving, processionally, on the terrace.

Taking Lily's hand, M. Popeau walked forward on to the rough grass of the lawn.

Yes, there could be no doubt about it now, a group of people, propelling something along, were moving noiselessly across the front of the house.

The dim grey group passing so slowly, silently by, reminded M. Popeau, most incongruously, of a wonderful series of shadow pictures he had seen as a young man at a famous café in Montmartre, in which a vivid drama was enacted by silent, noiseless figures in action being thrown upon a screen. What did that sinister procession mean?

He hesitated as to what he should do—whether to give the signal to the two men to rush up and throw their searchlights on that group who were now advancing across the terrace right in front of where he and Lily stood breathlessly watching them, or to wait yet a little longer.

And then, all at once, something small and white leapt off the terrace and came running across the grass straight at the unseen watchers!

M. Popeau stopped and put out his hand. What on earth was this? Had the Poldas a dog? But his hand sank into thick, soft fur.

It was Mimi, the huge cat, pressing herself against Lily's black skirt, purring loudly the while, glad at having found a friend who perhaps would take some notice of her, unlike her other, more familiar friends, who were too much absorbed in their strange business to notice her.

And still M. Popeau delayed to give the signal to the men who were behind him. For one thing he was afraid of what he was about to discover—afraid as he had never been in his life before, for he had come to care for Angus Stuart.

Slowly the moving shadows disappeared to the left. They were evidently now engaged in the broad path which led from the left of the house to the edge of the little property, with naught beyond but a wild bit of mountain-side.

The Frenchman, still holding Lily by the hand, moved up after the sinister group, and then, all at once, he blew his whistle.

At that signal all four rushed forward at right angles across the lawn on to the end of the terrace. M. Popeau uttered loudly the one word “Maintenant!” and two powerful torches were turned full on the strangest sight which even the famous secret agent had ever gazed upon.

On a long, low trolly with high bicycle wheels lay Angus Stuart, looking as if asleep—M. Popeau thought him dead.

The trolly was being propelled by Count Polda, and at the foot of the trolley walked the Countess, backwards. Cristina stepped lightly, phantom-like, by the further side.

For the space of what seemed a long time, though it was only for three or four seconds, the group remained, brilliantly lighted up, in stark and terrified immobility.

Then two shot rang out. The Count had turned the weapon with which he had meant to kill Angus Stuart against himself.

At once there followed a scene of awful confusion. The Countess began fighting as if for her life with one of the strong, agile men provided by M. Bouton. His companion was bending over Count Polda, and Lily, with trembling fingers, was following M. Popeau's directions and trying to undo the insensible Angus Stuart's collar and shirt. But since he had exclaimed, in a tone of infinite relief, “Be of good courage! He is not dead,” she no longer troubled as to what was happening about her.

And then, while all this was going on, Cristina vanished like a wraith, in the night. But no one saw her go, or indeed noticed that she had gone, till long afterwards—as length of time was counted on that strange and awful night.

“Do you think you could go into the house and find me a candle?” muttered M. Popeau.

“Oh yes, of course I can!”

Lily set off running towards the house.

“Not so fast!” panted M. Popeau close behind her. “Stuart is only drugged,” he exclaimed. “He will be quite himself by to-morrow morning. But we only came just in time. You saved his life!”

Lily stopped, and looked at the closed shutters of La Solitude.

“I wonder how I can get in?” she murmured.

“Are you afraid to go into the house alone?” he asked.

“No, no,” she cried, “not a bit afraid! Never afraid any more!”

She ran along the terrace aid so round to the back of the house—yes, the gate which gave access to the yard was wide open!

She opened the kitchen door. Cristina's little oil lamp was burning, and she felt a vague sensation of surprise that everything looked just as usual.

Taking up a candle and a box of matches she rushed back again through the yard and round to the terrace.

She found M. Popeau alone by the trolly. After Lily had lit the candle, “Yes, it is as I thought—they could not make him drunk, but they gave him some form of strong narcotic, probably in water. We will take him down to the taxi, and so back to the hotel. He will be all right by the morning.”

The man whom Lily had last seen struggling with the Countess Polda came forward. “I have got her tied up,” he said apologetically. “There was nothing else to do, Monsieur!”

“You had better take her into the house, and stay there with her till M. Bouton sends up instructions.”

“We fear Count Polda is dying”

“And where is the old servant?” asked M. Popeau suddenly.

The man looked taken aback. “She can't have gone far,” he exclaimed; “we'll soon find her, Monsieur!”

Beppo Polda sat in his bachelor rooms in Rome finishing the frugal supper his excellent day-servant had left out for him. He had only arrived about an hour before, and he felt pleasantly tired after the long journey.

He was in a very cheerful state of mind, for he had found awaiting him a cordial letter from the great financial authority he had come to meet. And also he had had time to forget the at once solemn and rather painful impression Lily's farewell had made on him. Nay, more, he had half persuaded himself by now that that strange good-bye kiss had been a sign that she was softening towards him. His mother was not only a clever woman, she also had a shrewd knowledge of human nature. She was probably right in thinking that if he were only patient he would win Lily in the end.

He was hesitating as to whether he should go to bed, or saunter along to his club, when he heard a low knock at the door which opened on one of the landings of the huge old house where he had his rooms. Feeling rather surprised, for no one yet knew of his return, he went and opened the door—and then a thrill of irritation shot through him, for a slim, deeply-veiled woman stood out there, in the dim light cast by the stircase [sic] lantern.

He knew, only too well, who his visitor was.

“This is really wrong, and most imprudent, Livia,” he said sharply. “I should not have told you the hour of my arrival had I known that you would do this mad thing!”

She threw back her veil, and he was startled at the look of strain and anguish on her pale face.

“What is it?” he exclaimed. “Has anything happened to—to?”

“No, nothing has happened to my husband; and he knows, Beppo, that I am here.”

“He knows that you are here?”

He was thoroughly startled and alarmed now. What was it she had come to say?

He drew her gently through into his ante-chamber. Then he shut the door.

“Now tell me, Livia,” he said, “what brings you here to-night?”

She answered in an almost inaudible voice, “During the evening four different reporters came at different times to ask if we knew where you were.”

“Four reporters?” Beppo looked astounded.

“Then you have heard nothing? No one has been here?”

“The notice telling of my absence is still on the door downstairs. But why am I sought for?” he asked, bewildered.

The Marchesa Pescobaldi was trembling violently now; it was if she had the ague. He took her cold hand in his.

“Come, Livia, calm yourself! I have done nothing—I swear it!”

“Of course I know that you have done nothing,” she whispered, and then she held out with shaking fingers a strip of thin paper.

Beppo Polda did not know that it was what all the world over is familiar to newspaper men as “flimsy.”

He took it in his hand, and turning away from her held it close up under a lamp which hung from the high ceiling.

On the piece of paper was written in pale characters and in a plain, round hand:

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