The Stretton Street Affair/Chapter 21

a detective Rivero was of outstanding shrewdness. He knew that more could be gained by patience than by sharp activity. Hence he did not go near the Rue de Lalande. Indeed, on the Saturday night we both left Montauban together, and travelled by that slow, cross-country route through the Aveyron, by way of Sévérac, down to the ancient city of Nîmes—that quaint, quiet old place which contains more monuments of antiquity than any other town in France.

Early in the morning we alighted at the station, high upon a viaduct, after a sleepless night, and drove to a small commercial hotel, the Cheval Blanc, in the Place des Arènes, nearly opposite the Luxembourg where the mystery-man of Europe had appointed to meet the infamous Despujol. When I inquired for a telegram one was handed to me. It was from Hambledon, saying that De Gex had left for Nîmes and Suzor was returning to Paris, therefore he would follow the latter.

Having installed ourselves in the hotel, Rivero went to the concierge, and taking him into his confidence over a twenty-franc note, told him that he was very anxious to know whether a gentleman named Rabel had arrived at the Luxembourg. Would he ask the concierge there privately on the telephone?

The man in uniform at once rang up the Luxembourg, and addressing the concierge as his “dear Henri,” made the inquiry.

The reply was that Monsieur Rabel was expected at noon.

“Ask if a gentleman is expected who has engaged a private sitting-room,” Rivero said.

The reply came back that a gentleman, believed to be English, had arrived in the night and now occupied the best suite. His name was Monsieur Johnson, of London.

I then described De Gex to the concierge, who repeated the description to the other hotel.

“Yes, m’sieur,” he said, turning again to me. “Henri believes it is the same gentleman whom you describe.”

“Who is he?” asked Rivero, much puzzled.

“Wait—and you will see,” I replied, laughing, for we now seemed to be within an ace of success.

Just before midday we watched the arrival of the train from Montauban, and from it there descended the man we expected—the notorious Despujol. Though his features were unmistakable he was made up to look much older, his hair being made grey above the ears.

At his side there walked a man whom I instantly recognized, and sight of him, I must confess, caused me to hold my breath.

It was the sinister-faced Italian, Doctor Moroni.

We drew back, and hastening to a taxi, returned at once to our hotel, from the door of which we could see the entrance to the Luxembourg, where a few moments later we saw both the travellers enter.

What further devil’s work was now in progress?

We watched the hotel in patience, until just before three o’clock the trio came forth laughing airily.

“Why, look!” gasped Rivero. “Despujol is with your great English financier, Señor De Gex!”

I smiled triumphantly.

“I told you that I had a surprise in store for you,” I exclaimed.

“But if Despujol is with him it must be with some evil intent!”

“That is certain!”

“While Señor De Gex was in Madrid we had orders to afford him police protection,” Rivero said. “Possibly he suspected that some attempt might be made upon him. Certainly he has no idea of that man’s true identity.”

“Yes, he has, for he has come here specially to meet him in secret. But why that Italian should be here I can only surmise. He is a doctor from Florence, named Moroni—a man of very evil repute.”

“But why should Señor De Gex meet such people in secret?” asked Rivero, much astonished.

“I suppose there is some strong motive why they should meet—the more so, now that I have proved to you that the notorious Despujol is a hireling of this wealthy man De Gex.”

“A hireling!” he gasped. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that De Gex hired Despujol to make that attempt upon my life, and I have a suspicion—one not yet entirely verified—that Moroni prepared that deadly orosin by the agency of which it was hoped that I should meet with my death.”

“Do you really suggest that De Gex, one of the best-known and most philanthropic men in Europe, actually hired Despujol to go to your room that night?” my companion asked, his eyes following the trio as they walked together and chatted beneath the trees of the Avenue Feuchères.

“I do. And further, De Gex has every motive in closing my lips.”

“Ah! Then you hold some secret of his, perhaps?” asked Rivero, a new interest being instantly aroused.

“I do—one that I intend to expose when I obtain sufficient corroborative evidence,” I answered with determination. “But is not the fact of the three men meeting here in secret under assumed names sufficient proof to you that some fresh plot is afoot?”

“Certainly it is,” Rivero agreed. “But I wish you would reveal to me the whole facts.”

“It is unnecessary,” was my reply. “You are here only to deal with Despujol. I promised I would bring you to him—and I have done so. Instead of living in obscurity in a high-up frontier village in the Pyrenees, as you in Madrid believed, I have shown you that he lives in Montauban, where he passes as an industrious commercial traveller. If you search that house in the Rue de Lalande you might find a quantity of stolen property.”

“As a matter of fact, it has already been searched by the police of Montauban at my request,” he replied. “The raid was made last night after Charles Rabel had left. I received a telegram from the Commissary of Police only an hour ago to the effect that six heavy cases of ‘travellers’ samples’ had been opened, and in them was found a great quantity of stolen jewellery, negotiable securities, and other objects of value, including two valuable paintings which were missing from the Prado Museum three years ago.”

“Then my information has been of some little use to you—eh?”

“Of enormous use, Señor Garfield! You will no doubt receive an official letter of thanks from the Ministry of the Interior,” he replied. “But we must act very warily. Despujol will not risk remaining here for long. Besides, some friend may telegraph to him that the police have been to the Rue de Lalande!”

Once more it was upon the tip of my tongue to explain the manner in which I had become implicated in the evil deeds of Oswald De Gex and his sycophants, when of a sudden he added:

“You must really forgive me, Señor Garfield, but you are an entire mystery to me. You have never been frank with me—never once!”

“I have been as frank as I dared,” I replied. “I tell you that I am here to watch and to strive to elucidate a great plot—one which concerns myself and the woman I love. We have both been victims of a vile and desperate conspiracy.”

“And whom do you suspect?”

“Oswald De Gex.”

“With what motive?” he asked, for he held the enormously wealthy financial friend of Spain in awe and admiration.

“That, alas! is an enigma to me. I only know that he has made an attempt upon my life, and that at least one woman has been sent to the grave by foul means.”

“Do you really infer that Señor De Gex is an assassin?” he asked incredulously.

“I only tell you what I know, Señor Rivero,” I replied quietly. “I said that I would lead you to the secret abode of Despujol, and I think I have now fulfilled my promise, and shown you that he is on friendly terms with the great financier whom you in Spain all hold in such high esteem.”

“There is certainly no man more welcome in Madrid than Señor De Gex,” replied the police official. “At the Ritz, whether in his own name or incognito, he constantly receives our greatest politicians and most prominent personages. Even the King has more than once commanded him to the palace, in order to confer with him upon acute financial problems in the interests of our country. And yet you infer that Señor De Gex is an assassin!”

“I not only infer it,” I said, “but I openly allege it!” I added hotly, as I thought of Gabrielle.

Rivero glancing at me quickly raised his shoulders with a gesture of disbelief.

“Very well,” I said. “At least I have proved to you that he is a secret friend of the notorious Despujol. Why is he here in Nîmes to consult with De Gex and his friend the Italian, Moroni, if not for purposes of evil? Despujol has made desperate war upon society, and it is De Gex who secretly finances him! Hence he is the servant of the man with money.”

The dark-faced Spaniard reflected.

“Well,” he exclaimed at last. “What you have revealed is certainly most interesting.”

“And if you wish to capture Despujol you must lose no time,” I assured him. “Remember, he and his gang have agents everywhere with eyes and ears open. He will soon know of the raid upon his retreat in Montauban.”

“No doubt he will,” agreed my companion. “They will return presently, and then we will arrest him. In the meantime I will call upon the Commissary of Police. Come with me.”

We at once took a cab to the Prefecture where we were ushered into the presence of Monsieur Coulagne, a rather tall, grey-haired elegant man, with the rosette of the Legion of Honour in his coat.

When Rivero introduced himself the Commissary bowed to us both and bade us be seated.

In a few quick sentences the Spanish detective explained the object of his mission, and producing his authority from the Spanish Ministry, requested the arrest of the infamous bandit Despujol.

“But is Despujol actually in Nîmes?” cried the Commissary astounded.

“He certainly is. I identified him on his arrival here at midday.”

“We have been searching for him for over two years. He is wanted, among other things, for the murder of Madame Lescot, a wealthy widow of Aix-en-Provence.”

“Ah! Then it is not a matter for extradition, eh?” remarked Rivero. “We want him for a dozen crimes of violence in Spain. He attempted the death of my English companion here, Monsieur Garfield—who will give evidence against him.”

The Commissary pressed an electric button, whereupon his secretary appeared.

In a few rapid sentences the tall, elegant French official gave orders, and the secretary retired at once to execute them.

“Despujol is a desperate character. He is always armed, and possesses abnormal strength. He could strangle his strongest opponent,” Rivero remarked.

“I have taken precautions,” replied Monsieur Coulagne, smiling. “I have ordered ten men in plain clothes to go at once unobtrusively to the Hôtel du Luxembourg, and arrest him when he returns.”

“That will frighten De Gex and Moroni,” I said quickly. “And if they are frightened they will escape!”

Rivero laughed. I knew that he entirely disbelieved my statement. In his eyes the wealthy friend of Spain could do no wrong. Did not his King invite him to conference, in ignorance, of course, of his true character?

I was not surprised at Rivero’s attitude, yet I had hoped that Despujol’s arrest would be effected without the knowledge of De Gex and his sinister medical friend.

I pointed this out, whereupon Rivero remarked with sarcasm:

“If what you allege against Señor De Gex and his friend be true, they ought also to be arrested.”

“Yes. They ought, and they will be when I am able to bring forward sufficient evidence to convict them,” I replied warmly. “Why, I ask you, should Oswald De Gex be in secret association with that dangerous bandit?”

The Spaniard merely shrugged his shoulders, while at the Commissary’s request a dossier was brought in, and then they both went through a long catalogue of crimes alleged to have been instigated or actually committed by the man whom I had found in my bedroom, and who had so cleverly deceived me.

The list was a formidable one, and showed how elusive was the man whom the police of Europe had been hunting for so long.

Among the big batch of papers was a report in English from the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard stating that the individual in question had arrived in London on a certain date, and stayed with a respectable family at Ham, near Richmond, representing himself to be a lawyer from Barcelona. Thence he had gone to Glasgow, where he stayed at a certain hotel, and then moved to Oban. Afterwards he had come south again to Luton, in Bedfordshire, where all trace of him had been lost.

“Well,” laughed Rivero triumphantly, “we shall take good care not to lose him now!”

“No,” said the Commissary of Police. “My men will be armed, and will take him, alive or dead!”

“And De Gex and Moroni will then instantly flee!” I said, full of regret that I had taken that step which might so easily result in destroying all my chances of solving that puzzling enigma of Gabrielle Tennison.

Nevertheless, it was a source of satisfaction that at last Despujol had, by my watchfulness, been run to earth.

Suddenly the telephone at Monsieur Coulagne’s elbow rang, and after listening, he exclaimed:

“The men are already posted round the hotel. So all we have to do is to await his return.”

Hence I went forth with Rivero and the Commissary. Led by the latter, we approached the Place de l’Esplanade through a labyrinth of narrow back streets until, on gaining the hotel, we saw idling in the vicinity a number of men who were apparently quite disinterested.

We entered the hotel boldly, and drawing back to the end of the lounge, after a whispered word with the concierge, we waited.

For a full hour we remained there in eager impatience, until suddenly a figure whom I recognized as Doctor Moroni showed in the doorway.

He was alone!

He ascended to his room, where he remained for about ten minutes. Then, descending, he went to the bureau and inquired for the bill of his friend and himself, announcing his intention of departing for Paris by the train which left in half an hour!

Rivero, who had been standing near him unrecognized, crossed quickly to where with the Commissary I sat well back from observation, and gasped:

“They’ve gone! He is also leaving! Evidently they suspected they were under observation!”

“Ah! Despujol is a very wary bird,” replied Monsieur Coulagne, rising and walking out into the Place, where he whispered some hurried words to a stout, well-dressed man who was sauntering by, and who was his chief inspector.

In a few moments more than half the lurking police agents had disappeared to make inquiries at the railway station and in various quarters, and when he rejoined us—Moroni having returned upstairs—he said:

“Despujol cannot yet have gone very far. I have given orders for all railway stations within two hundred kilomètres to be warned. Let us return to my bureau and await reports.”

“And what about Moroni?” I asked.

“He will be followed. I have already seen to that,” was the reply.

Back at the Prefecture Monsieur Coulagne was soon speaking rapidly over the telephone. Then we waited for news of the fugitive. None came until about two hours afterwards the result of inquiries was told to us by an inspector.

It seemed that on the previous day a large open car, driven by a chauffeur, put into Carli’s Garage, a big establishment in the Boulevard des Arènes. The chauffeur asked for a receipt for the car, saying that he had to go by train to Marseilles, and that his master would probably call for the car on the following day, and produce the receipt. He asked that it should be filled up with petrol in readiness for his master. About two hours before the police made inquiry three gentlemen entered the garage, the descriptions of whom tallied with those of De Gex, Despujol and Moroni. De Gex produced the receipt for the car. He paid for the petrol, and he and Despujol drove away bidding farewell to Moroni! Despujol drove the car.

“Ah!” exclaimed Rivero. “Despujol would not risk the train. He always arranges a secret means of escape. In this case he prepared it on the day before. Without a doubt he knew that watch was being kept.”

“Or was it that De Gex knew that I was here?” I suggested.

“Well, in any case,” remarked the Commissary of Police, “the pair have got clear away, and though we will do our best, it will no doubt be extremely difficult to rediscover them. They will change the number-plates on the car, and perhaps repaint it! Who knows? Despujol is one of the most desperate characters in all Europe!”

“And Oswald De Gex is equally dangerous!” I declared, for I was still no nearer the truth.