Chapter TWENTY-FIVE: I Meet His Excellency

A steep, tree-lined boulevard of hotels and private residences, upon the hill-side overlooking Ouchy and the lake, the Avenue de la Gare is one of the principal streets of the clean, cosmopolitan town of Lausanne.

The yellow trams pass by incessantly, and there is a never-ending stream of motor traffic. With my precious little packet of pearls in my pocket, I went up the thoroughfare of plane-trees in the morning sunshine, past the Eden, the Jura, and the Mirabeau Hotels, in search of the house of the notorious but mysterious criminal beneath whose hateful thraldom I had fallen.

The numbers of the houses became difficult, and the one I sought was _bis_. I presently found myself in a small _cul-de-sac_ on the right, with high blocks of modern flats standing in spacious gardens full of lilacs, magnolias, roses, and geraniums. Flowers grow profusely in that mild climate, and in the remote, refined corner, I noticed the brass-plates of many famous doctors.

Entering a pretty garden, I came to the door of a handsome building, from a window of which floated the strains of a piano, played by someone with exquisite touch. Examining the row of letter-boxes in the hall, I found one marked: “Sarasti, 2me Étage.”

Full of excitement and curiosity I ascended to the second floor, and at the door, which bore a neat bronze tablet, I rang the bell. A smart, shrewd-eyed young foreigner answered.

I noticed that before I spoke, he surveyed me swiftly.

“I wish to see Monsieur Sarasti,” I said in French.

“Monsieur Sarasti is not at home,” was the young man’s prompt, but polite, reply.

“I wish to see him on very pressing business,” I urged. “I have traveled from London to see him,” I went on, and handed him my card.

He glanced at it, regarded me inquiringly for a second, and then, excusing himself for closing the door in my face, said he would go and consult his master’s secretary.

In a few moments he returned, saying briefly, “Monsieur will see you,” and conducted me down a long passage into a spacious, rather barely-furnished room, which had the appearance of a doctor’s waiting-room. There were a number of chairs and a quantity of magazines upon the centre table.

Then I was left alone. The big windows gave a picturesque view over the gardens, the lake, and the Alps beyond. As I stood gazing out, I heard someone behind me; and turning, I faced a tall, thin, lantern-jawed man, immaculately dressed, and smiling benignly.

“Will you please walk this way?” he said, and I followed his footsteps into a large, luxuriously-furnished salon where, in a deep arm-chair of crimson silk damask, sat the dark-faced little man whom I so well remembered on that night in Camberwell.

He nodded coldly and invited me to a chair opposite him. Upon the tables were great bowls of yellow roses, the perfume of which was overpowering. I loved roses. But, in that room their scent was, to me at the moment, quite nauseous.

“Well, and to what do I owe the honor of this visit, Monsieur Hipwell?” he asked coldly, speaking with a strong foreign accent. His appearance might have been that of an under-servant at an hotel. He was uncouth and unwashed. His finger-nails were uncared for and dirty, and his black beard ragged and untrimmed. And yet, this man, with his active and ingenious brain, controlled one of the most daring and successful gangs of motor-bandits in Europe.

And I was one of the few who knew his true identity, a secret that the police of Europe would give much to learn. I recollect that the drama of the situation caused me to hesitate.

“I have called to see you on several urgent matters,” I said. “I wish to be quite frank and open with you, without any unfriendliness, but rather as one of your friends and assistants.”

“_Bien!_ That is well,” he grunted approvingly, stirring quickly in his great crimson chair, in which he sat as though he were a judge. “We are friends--_bien! trés bien!_ And now further. Continue.”

“First, I wish to hand you these,” I said bluntly, drawing out the string of fine pearls.

He took them in his hands, ran them slowly through his fingers, and again grunted approbation.

“Afraid to keep them any longer, eh?” he laughed, with a sarcastic curl of his lips. “Well, I’m really not surprised. In your position it would be a bit awkward for your family, and for your Foreign Office at Downing Street, wouldn’t it--_hein?_”

“That is just my point, monsieur,” I said quickly. “As you well know, I quite inadvertently stumbled into your private affairs on that foggy night, and you very naturally believed that girl Hatten’s allegation that I was a police-spy. By now, however, you surely have established my innocence--that just by a freak of circumstance I blundered in on you. Have you yet forgiven me?” I asked very seriously.

“Most certainly I have. I am always just, Monsieur Hipwell. None of those who were under me have ever accused me of either parsimony or injustice. We are united to make war upon society, and as comrades we all share each other’s perils and profits,” he replied quite openly, in very fair English which had just a trace of Russian accent in it.

His countenance had altered but little since I had seen him in that small stuffy room in Camberwell, with that great heap of wonderful jewels piled upon the table before him.

As he spoke, he still held Lady Rathgormly’s graduated pearls caressingly in his fingers, while now and then his expert eye fell on the larger ones. To me it was amazing that Felix Zuroff, the notorious criminal, whom his followers called “His Excellency,” was living in genteel and luxurious surroundings, unsuspected in a foreign city. Many stories have been afloat of master-criminals living at their ease, while others in their pay took the risks consequent upon malpractices. But in my case, I was the actual cat’s-paw of the most daring and cunning motor-bandit in Europe.

“I have come here, Monsieur Sarasti, to make an appeal to you, to release me in return for my oath of silence,” I blurted forth at last.

“Release you, monsieur!” he cried, raising himself, and staring straight at me. “And pray, why should I? You are a very excellent asset to us. And, besides, you are an expert where women’s necklaces are concerned. You move in good society in England; hence you are a very valuable indicator.”

“Indicator!” I echoed, not knowing what he meant.

“You can always indicate where fine jewels are to be found, and at the same time you can pinch a little yourself off your lady friends you take out to dances--as you have done so often. Why, I ask, in such circumstances should I release you?”

For some moments I remained silent. His reply nonplussed me. Then I found tongue boldly.

“Well--as a matter of fact, Monsieur Sarasti, the drug given to me by that girl Hatten has lost its potency. I am my true self again!”

“Ah! That is most unfortunate for you,” he remarked, with a light laugh. “The influence of the injection usually lasts about four years. Possibly she gave you an underdose. If so, it was unwise of her.” Then after a second’s pause, he added: “At least the girl proved herself your good friend. She did not blind you, as we all believed she had done.”

“No. I have to thank her for leaving my sight unimpaired,” I said with a sigh of relief. “But I confess to you that the mystery and uncertainty of my present position is now driving me mad.”

“I can’t see how there can be any mystery, except what you make of it yourself.”

“I will tell the truth from the very beginning,” I declared. “On that night Dicky Rodwell attacked me in Bloomsbury, and in the struggle he shot himself. Yet that woman Hilda Bennett vowed that I was not the man. She lied to you, for I swear that--I was! For that very reason I was hiding from the police in Avenue Road, Camberwell, as I told you that night, in the same house where Lisely Hatten lived. She believed me to be a police-spy, never dreaming that I was fleeing from the police.”

The desperate motor-bandit looked into my eyes with his.

“Is this really true, Monsieur Hipwell?” asked the man, rising from his chair, evidently suddenly intrigued.

“I declare on my oath that every word I have said is the absolute truth!” I cried.

“Then you shot Rodwell?”

“No. He tried to kill me, and in doing so shot himself,” I asserted. “I am no murderer! He was ill-treating the woman, and because I interfered, as any man would, he attacked me. That’s all!”

The low-browed man passed his big sallow hand down his dark beard, and held it for a few seconds in thought.

“Rodwell was a damned cur!” he blurted forth at last. “I have since discovered that on the night in question he was on his way to Vine Street Police Station to give me away. We had had, that afternoon, a little difference about a set of fine stones we got from outside the Ritz in Paris. He struck me in the face and I swore that I would never forgive him. Hilda knew his intentions, and, as they walked together, she was trying to dissuade him from defying me and giving me away to the police. Then you suddenly appeared upon the scene, and through you, he, fortunately for me, closed his own lips!”

The bandit hesitated for a second, and then in sudden enthusiasm he put out his hand, exclaiming warmly:

“Monsieur Hipwell, in that case it is to you I owe my narrowest escape! Now let us talk further. Please explain exactly what occurred on that night.”

I did so, relating the whole tragic occurrence, just as I have already related it in the opening of this narrative of fact.

With his hairy chin upon his hand, he listened without uttering a word. I recalled how that thin, claw-like hand would instantly draw an automatic and shoot any adversary without compunction. Indeed, I knew only too well what a desperate malefactor he was, and how, in the many brushes he had had with the French police five years before, he had always managed to escape after showing desperate fight. In one affair near Tours, he had killed a _gendarme_ and wounded two others, afterwards getting safely away. So elusive was he, such an adept at disguises, and so loyal were his accomplices, that he had always escaped arrest.

I spoke of the atmosphere of mystery in which I was compelled to live, as I glanced round his pleasant, sunlit room. “I am sorely puzzled to discriminate between my enemies and my friends. Can you help me?” I asked him.

“Surely it is not difficult, Monsieur Hipwell. I fear that your worst enemy is your wife,” he said, calmly looking into my face.

“Illona! Is she actually my enemy?” I gasped, astounded at his words.

“I should safeguard myself against her if I were you,” was his quiet reply. “I happen to know that she has evil intentions towards you. As you have served me well, I tell you in strict confidence the plain truth.”

“But with what object?” I demanded. “As far as I know I have done nothing against her. Indeed, it is only two days ago I realized that she was actually my wife.”

“If you are not careful she will give you away to the police,” said the master-criminal. “It is therefore very fortunate for you that you decided to bring the pearls here, or they might have been found in your possession, or at your bank.”

“But why is it that this woman hates me?”

“She is jealous of a girl named Joan Gell, whom they say you promised to marry before you married her.”

“Joan has disappeared, so I take it that she has had a sinister hand in it?”

“I know nothing of the details, but I certainly should suppose so,” was the great crook’s reply.

“I am here to beg for your assistance, Monsieur Sarasti. How can I find her?” I implored of the low-browed, dark-faced scoundrel.

He shook his head gravely. Though a criminal and an assassin, he was, however, in no way antagonistic towards me. Perhaps it was on account of Rodwell’s death.

“I fear I can give you no help. The matter is private vengeance on your wife’s part. In such circumstances I cannot interfere.”

“Joan’s father, a barrister, prosecuted Hilda Bennett,” I remarked. “Is it because of that the girl has been spirited away from her home?”

“I think not, for I have knowledge that Illona uttered threats against you both six months ago. She has apparently carried out her threat against your girl friend, and now she intends to betray you.”

“And I am helpless!” I cried in despair. “What reply can I make to the charges she may bring against me?”

Felix Zuroff was silent for a few moments.

“Perhaps it is the woman’s intended revenge that your friend Mr. Gell shall appear in court, and actually prosecute his daughter’s fiancé!” he remarked at last.

“But do give me advice,” I begged of him. “What can I do in order to save myself?”

The desperate bandit again reflected for a few moments.

“If she carried her threat into execution, then your arrest would, in all probability, place us all in peril,” he remarked slowly, as though speaking to himself. “No, she must remain silent. Lisely Hatten is your good friend, and has always been. You may trust her.”

“But how can I defy Illona?” I demanded eagerly.

The man’s dark face changed. I saw a hard, stern look on his countenance.

“I will see to it,” he muttered, and, crossing to the writing-table, he unlocked a drawer, and took out a well-worn little wallet, withdrawing from it a piece of folded cartridge paper upon which I saw was drawn a circle of musical notes, the three double noughts similar to my own.

Taking out a scrap of music paper, he rapidly wrote several bars of music, after referring carefully to the key. At the end, he drew a peculiar sign, evidently a mark well known to his accomplices, and then, folding it, told me to deliver it to her in London at the earliest moment.

“Alas, I have no knowledge of her address,” I said in dismay.

He referred to the wallet into which he had replaced the circular musical design, and a moment later said:

“She stays with a man named Owen when in London. At present he is lodging with Bob Whittaker at Beverley Villa, Sheen Lane, close to Mortlake Station, and she is no doubt there also.”

I scribbled the address upon my shirt-cuff, and taking the precious piece of music, which I knew to be an order which the woman dare not disobey, folded it and placed it securely in my pocket-book.

“If the man Owen is Roddy Owen, then he was the last man seen with Joan,” I remarked.

“Yes. He is Roddy Owen and is lying low on account of an unfortunate affair at Fulham, in which our comrade Tuggy Wilson was shot dead by some unknown person, who had a secret grudge against him. Dufour was suspected, but he was innocent, as he was a great friend of Tuggy’s.”

“Can Owen have had any hand in Joan’s disappearance, do you think?”

“Ah! How can we tell?” he replied, with a mysterious grin. “In my position I can have no interest in the private quarrels of any of my friends. I order, while they obey. That is all!” and in his dark eyes shone a strange, evil glint.

Before I took my leave I again begged of him to release me, but his only reply was:

“I have given you an order for your release from your most dangerous enemy, Monsieur Hipwell. For the present that must suffice!”