Chapter FIFTEEN: A Scrap of Music

The mystery increased hourly. Though Scotland Yard had to its credit the arrest of the fugitive foreign waiter, there was practically no evidence to show that he was even acquainted with the dead young criminal, Tuggy Wilson.

That the latter had dealings with Owen was known by Teddy, who had watched them go in company to Fulham. Further, the fact that Owen had fled was sufficient proof of his guilty connection with the affair.

The enigma was rendered the more insoluble by a circumstance which happened on the following day. I had been out to lunch and spent the afternoon at my club, when on my return Bruce said:

“The blind man called on you an hour ago! He says he must see you.”

“You were friendly towards him this time, I hope,” I said, annoyed that I should have been absent.

“Yes, sir. I watched him go out, slipped on another coat, put on my glasses, and went down after him,” replied my man. “He tapped his way into Piccadilly and right along to the Circus, where he was met by another man, an elderly, rather well-dressed, person with a grey beard. They spoke together for about five minutes, and then the old man hailed a taxi, and they drove away. I dared not follow them, sir, as I didn’t know if you had your latch-key.”

“I wish you had watched them,” I said. “Next time don’t worry about me, as long as you run the blind man to his home. You are sure he was blind? I mean, he used his stick all the time?”

“Yes, sir. And he kept on his glasses. I noticed how his friend led him to the taxi.”

I was wondering whether it was not Owen who had appeared in the guise of the blind man against whom I had been warned.

It was a day of irritating surprises, for not the least occurred just after ten o’clock that night. I was sitting reading, Bruce being out for the evening, when my telephone rang, and, on answering it, I heard a man’s voice, with which I was not familiar, asking if I were speaking.

I replied in the affirmative, when the stranger said in rather refined tones:

“I have to apologize to you, Mr. Hipwell. I am unknown to you, but I have just arrived at Victoria from the Continent, and have an urgent message to you from a lady--your wife. I am sorry that I cannot deliver it personally, as I am only passing through London to Liverpool to catch a steamer.”

“From my wife!” I gasped. “Yes.”

“There were reasons, she says, that she has neither written nor telegraphed to you; but she did not know whether you were in London. She asks you to meet her next Friday afternoon at four o’clock in Kensington Gardens, at the third seat on the right up the Broad Walk from Palace Gate.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied, my heart giving a great bound. Then I repeated the appointment: “At the third seat on the right up the Broad Walk in Kensington Gardens, on Friday at four o’clock.”

“Yes. That is the message. I am glad I have been able to deliver it safely, Mr. Hipwell. You are, please, to remember that your meeting is a secret one. _Au revoir._”

“But would you do me one great favor?” I asked. “Will you tell me my wife’s address?”

I listened for a reply. But there was none! He had rung off hurriedly, in all probability to catch his train.

In frantic appeal I spoke to the clerk at the exchange, who instantly set to work to discover the source of the call. At last I heard her say:

“I’m afraid I can’t get them for you. The call was from the public booth on Victoria Station.”

Thus again were my efforts, to discover the whereabouts of Illona, thwarted.

The day was Wednesday. Hence I must wait till Friday. If Illona was still in Lausanne, she was evidently following closely on the footsteps of the mysterious bearer of that message to me.

I told no one. I could not confide in either Mr. Gell or Teddy; for I had revealed nothing about my mysterious wife. I could only wait until Friday.

Ah, how those interminable hours dragged by! I thought much of Joan, wondering where she was and into what pitfall she had fallen, for I loved her with my whole soul, and I was distracted with anxiety and grief. Yet, when I met Illona, no doubt, she would explain to me the deep conspiracy against me, and put me on my guard against my enemies.

That she feared lest her meeting with me should result in some fatal reprisal seemed palpable, because of the precautions she was taking to meet me in secret. She evidently dared not call at Sackville Street, but preferred to meet me as though casually, by an appointment made verbally, so that none should know.

All was romantic, all so strange, that I sometimes felt myself doubting whether I was not still in that state of mental unreality in which I had existed for two whole years.

All the amazing circumstances were, alas! solid facts. Joan, my Joan, whom I loved with every fibre of my soul, had been decoyed away, and was in the hands of my enemies.

Yet why had unknown persons formed a plot against me? To my knowledge I had neither harmed nor wronged anyone, neither man nor woman. That misadventure in Camberwell, surely, was not of my own seeking, if, indeed, that criminal gang were still bent on reprisals because I had inadvertently entered into their midst.

How can I adequately describe the long, weary, never-ending night before Friday dawned? Sleep would not come to my eyes. I tossed upon my bed, hot and weary, my brain muddled by the thousand and one inexplicable facts that had arisen since my sudden awakening in Rome.

At last I arose and dressed but found it to be a grey, sunless day, with threatening rain. Indeed, the atmosphere was heavy and there was every indication of a coming storm.

I lunched at the club with Teddy, spent an hour in the smoking-room chatting with several friends, whiling away the intervening time until, soon after half-past three, I hailed a taxi in St. James’s Street--after getting rid of Teddy by the way--and drove to Palace Gate. A slight shower had just fallen sufficiently to freshen up the pretty gardens, and had sent in the usual crowds of nursemaids with children. Hardly a soul was astir in the Broad Walk, but I found the seat, dried it well with my raincoat, and, sitting down, lit a cigarette, waiting on tenterhooks for the arrival of my unknown wife.

Those moments, I think, were the most tense in my whole life. Imagine yourself waiting for the woman you had unconsciously married and had never seen!

I pictured her in all sorts of guises, from a young and beautiful foreign woman, with all the _chic_, charm, and daintiness of the true Parisienne, to the flat-footed, thick-ankled, and ponderous _frau_ of Teutonic breed, a type I particularly detested. Of her age I knew nothing, of her voice or features I knew as little, and as I waited there in patience, the grim humor of the situation struck me as ridiculous.

The hour of four chimed solemnly from the tower of St. Mary Abbot, followed almost instantly by the low booming of Big Ben. But, glancing each way up the broad, graveled promenade, I saw only two elderly men approaching.

Five more minutes passed, and I grew restless. Was I being fooled?

I was always suspicious of telephone messages. And that had been a swift and anonymous one. Was there still another trap set for me?

Surrounded as I seemed to be with enemies, I viewed every circumstance with suspicion, and perhaps scented danger where none existed.

Here I venture to beg pardon of the reader. This narrative is only a plain and straightforward one of what actually occurred to me--adventures which might easily happen to any man of my age and temperament in London, New York, Paris, or in any other great city, for that matter. I seek to repress no ill deed of my own. I am no better than other men. Yet, unlike others, I discovered myself, in astounding circumstances, married--or alleged to be married--to somebody whose name was Illona, and on whom my eyes had never consciously gazed. If you can realize this, you can well imagine my feelings as I sat there upon a public seat, in a public park, expecting my wife to claim me.

But what if her allegations were untrue? Suppose she were only my self-styled wife? If I had been legally married to her under British law, wherever the ceremony had been performed, a record of it would be found at Somerset House.

I had once or twice intended to go there in order to make search. But it was quite possible that my marriage might be in a false name; so I decided to wait. The whole affair was utterly amazing.

For some reason I was full of suspicion; and, whatever Illona might be like, I had formed the firm intention of challenging her right to call me husband. Surely such an attitude would be only natural.

On the other hand, why was she so solicitous of my welfare if I were nothing more to her than a friend?

Several persons passed and repassed, now that the shower was over; but, though I could scan the wide pathway for some distance, I could discern no one who might possibly be the mysterious Illona.

Suddenly a rather pretty, fair-haired girl of about sixteen, wearing a small, black felt hat and a serviceable dark blue raincoat, came and seated herself near me, a fact which greatly annoyed me, as I wanted to be there alone for my romantic meeting with my wife.

She glanced once or twice into my face, and then exclaimed:

“I beg your pardon, but are you Mr. Lionel Hipwell?”

“I am,” I replied in surprise.

“I have been sent by madame to tell you that she is unfortunately prevented from meeting you to-day. She----”

“Not coming!” I gasped in despair.

“No. There are reasons, she says, why she is obliged to remain away,” she added in a low voice.

“You know her!” I cried. “Where is she? Where can I find her?”

“I really don’t know,” was her tantalizing response.

“But you must tell me. Much depends on my finding her--perhaps the life of one I hold dearest. Do tell me something, miss. Every hour’s delay is dangerous now.”

“I am aware that there is danger--danger to yourself, Mr. Hipwell,” the girl said in a strange voice. “But perhaps this will explain.” And she took a large, thin envelope from her handbag and handed it to me.

In eagerness I tore it open, and found within nothing but a sheet of manuscript music, boldly written and folded in four; but without a single message, without a single word.

“What does this mean?” I asked, staring at the girl.

“I really don’t know,” she said, looking at the music. “I am just as much in ignorance as you are.”

I looked at the notes; but, knowing nothing of music, and unable to read a bar, I felt that some ill-considered trick was being played on me.

“Where did you see madame?” I demanded of the girl.

“At the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool last night,” she replied. “I am a manicurist there and she sent me with this message and envelope.”

“Is she staying in the hotel?” I demanded.

“I think so.”

Liverpool! The mysterious man who had rung me up from Victoria had been on his way to Liverpool. I would go there by the next train, and by making my name known in the hotel, if still there, she might venture to approach me.

“Can you tell me nothing else, miss?” I asked persuasively.

“Unfortunately I cannot. The lady simply asked me to come to London and deliver the message to you. My parents live at Wandsworth. Therefore, I was glad of an opportunity to see them.”

“What kind of lady gave you the message? Describe her to me.”

She reflected a moment.

“She was under thirty, rather pretty, with auburn hair, and extremely well dressed. She spoke with an accent, and no doubt, was a foreigner. She said that I was to mention the word Illona to you. I remember she wore on her finger one of the finest diamond rings I have ever seen.”

“Had she anyone with her?”

“Not when she spoke to me. Previously I had seen her sitting in the lounge talking to a rather tall, fair young man, whom I had seen about the hotel for several days. But,” the girl added, “the lady asked me particularly to give you no information whence I had come. I ought not to have told you, only you--well, you seem so distressed.”

“I have only to thank you, miss,” I said. “And if I decide to follow you back to Liverpool it is no affair of yours, and you cannot help it, can you?”

The girl smiled, and, noticing her friendliness towards me, I ventured to slip three one-pound Treasury notes into her gloved hand.

“I am in great trouble,” I told her, “and I want you, if you can, to assist me.”

“I don’t see how I can, sir,” was her reply. “I have only acted as messenger for a woman who is a perfect stranger.”

“When are you returning to Liverpool?”

“To-morrow morning.”

“Then I shall go up to-night and remain at the Adelphi. You see, I do not know this lady Illona, and I want you to point her out to me.”

“Certainly I will, if she is still there.”

“Under what name has she registered?” I asked eagerly.

“Ah, that I do not know!” she replied. “She simply came into our manicure room, and while I attended her she asked me to go to London, and, after having obtained leave from my boss, I consented. That is as much as I know about her,” she concluded.

“I haven’t the pleasure of your name.”

“Moss--Ruby Moss,” she replied.

“Very well, Miss Moss,” I said, rising, “I shall see you at the Adelphi to-morrow evening, eh?”

“Yes,” she agreed as we walked together to Palace Gate. “About half-past six I’ll be back. As you say, if you like to follow me to Liverpool, I can’t prevent it.” And she laughed as she boarded a passing bus, leaving me to continue my walk alone.

How tantalizing it all was. Instead of meeting the elusive Illona, I had only received from her a verbal message of regret and a sheet of music.

As I, unfortunately, knew nothing of music, I hailed a passing taxi, and took the manuscript to Teddy Day, whom I found at home.

He was a fairly good pianist, so I showed it to him without telling him how it came into my possession.

I reproduce part of it here:

He opened it, glanced at it for a few moments, and then, looking up to me, said:

“Who’s playing the fool with you, Lionel? This is only rubbish! There isn’t any music in it!”

“It looks like music,” I said in surprise.

“Yes. But if you knew anything about music you would see that there is neither time nor rhythm in it.”