Chapter VIII: The Man Bourtzeff

The next morning Owen called at Plevna Gardens, as he had promised, and found his prognostication had proved true, and that the major had had a good night and was practically himself again. Miss Gordon had waited to see him before leaving for Bond Street, but she had little conversation with him, and yet in the few sentences she uttered he thought he noticed a change from the previous evening. She seemed more shy and reserved, and yet at the same time cordial and friendly.

After hearing his report she vanished for a few minutes, and, returning dressed for outdoors, shook hands with him, saying:

“I’m afraid you must excuse my not staying any longer, doctor. I’ve a busy day before me—many appointments; but don’t hurry away if you can spare a few minutes, for I am sure my father will be glad of a chat with you. Good-morning.” And, kissing her father and telling him she would be back as soon as she was free, she left the flat.

Owen stayed talking for a short time, and then, at the major’s request, promising he would look in again one evening shortly, left as he too had a heavy day before him.

It was two or three days after this, when he had finished his entries and was about to go upstairs to supper, that old Margaret entered the surgery saying:

“Mr. Jervoise is in the dining-room, sir.”

Owen pursed his lips. For a moment his brows contracted.

Then he ascended at once to where his friend was awaiting him.

“Halloa, old chap!” exclaimed Dick in his usual cheery manner. “I haven’t seen anything of you for nearly a fortnight, so thought I’d just run over and look you up.”

“Good. Have a bit of supper,” exclaimed the doctor, blinking at his friend through his gold-rimmed pince-nez. “I rang you up on the ’phone several times, but got no reply. Suppose you were out.”

“I’ve been out quite a lot of late,” answered Jervoise, though he did not say that Thyra was in London, or that he had been almost daily in her company.

Jervoise could not conceal from himself the fact that his friend’s manner was unusually strained. True, they sat down to the table together and commenced the cold supper which had already been laid. Yet there was not in the doctor’s greeting that old warmth of some months ago. Why?

Their conversation was mostly upon a topic in which both took a keen interest—motor-racing.

Presently, however, Owen, as he raised his glass of claret to his lips, asked:

“Have you heard any more of Alza?”

“No. I believe, however, she’s still in England.”

“Why?”

Dick shrugged his shoulders, answering:

“Her movements are usually mysterious, I fancy.”

“A rather dangerous woman, I’ve heard.”

“What—as far as good looks go, you mean?” Jervoise laughed.

“In several ways—if what I hear be true.”

“What do you hear?”

“That she’s scarcely a person in whose company one should be seen.”

Dick did not answer for a moment. He was reflecting upon the fact that his friend had taken her out on several occasions, and yet he now denounced her as an undesirable person. Had they quarrelled?

“Well, old chap, didn’t I tell you something of the sort long ago?”

“Yes, but you didn’t tell me all that you might have done concerning her.”

“A man never wishes to say hard things about a woman—especially if she’s pretty,” Dick laughed.

“Yes, but you might at least have told me what you knew.”

“You admired her, my dear fellow, so I left you to find out for yourself.”

“She’s a very mysterious young person. What can have induced her to so closely watch that house in Keppel Street?”

“Nothing, except that I explained that that address was the one given by Grinevitch immediately prior to his death.”

“You know Alza well—eh?”

“I have known her for several years, both here in London and in Paris. I thought that perhaps, with her unique knowledge—and it is no doubt unique—she might assist us in elucidating the reason why Paul Grinevitch intended so suddenly to travel to London. I therefore told her the whole of the strange story, as you are quite well aware. When I had finished, some curious idea apparently occurred to her, though she would explain nothing to me. But an hour later she embarked upon a campaign of vigilant surveillance, which, I presume, she is pursuing at this moment.”

“But why?”

“For her own ends. That’s my firm opinion.”

“Then she’s not acting in your interests?”

“Why should she? She has no motive in assisting me. Yet she may, of course, have a personal motive in entertaining the suspicion which it is now quite certain she does entertain.”

Owen looked at his friend through his glasses with a glance of distinct suspicion, and went on eating.

Truth to tell, he had been charmed by the good-looking young Frenchwoman to whom Dick had introduced him. He had found her bright and vivacious, and it had been to him a distinct pleasure to take her out to theatres on several evenings. But this was before his summons to Plevna Gardens.

Why she had been engaged in so closely watching that dark house in Keppel Street was to him a complete mystery. She had told him that she had acted on behalf of her “old friend M’sieur Jervoise,” yet Dick had now declared that he had no claim upon her whatsoever.

That curious telegram sent by Paul immediately prior to his death had, of course, been the subject of inquiry, at the request of the Christiania police, by Scotland Yard. But the detective-inspector who had called at Keppel Street had admitted that he could make out nothing from the landlord’s reply. It was true that he had received a telegram from Norway, signed Paul Grinevitch, but as the name conveyed nothing to him he had kept it a couple of days, and, hearing nothing further, had destroyed it, and dismissed his expected arrival from his mind.

People who let lodgings in London frequently receive telegrams and letters from people who either change their minds at the last moment or who do not arrive in the metropolis after all.

Thus, when Scotland Yard’s cursory inquiry had failed, this bright-eyed young Frenchwoman had openly declared her intention of ascertaining the truth. Owen had himself visited that quiet street at night on more than one occasion, and, though unnoticed by her, had seen her waiting in the vicinity patiently watching.

This action of hers had surprised him. It seemed as though she was keeping that silent surveillance on Dick’s behalf.

Suddenly Owen raised his eyes from his plate, and, looking straight at his friend, asked:

“Among your many acquaintances have you ever known a man named Nicholas Bourtzeff?”

Dick held his breath. Had Alza told him the truth, he wondered?

“Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t know him very intimately. I met him in Paris once.”

“With Alza, I suppose?”

“Why?”

“Because he is, I hear, a friend of hers.”

“And who is your informant?”

“Alza herself.”

“Well?”

“The man is an undesirable, is he not?” asked Owen.

“Perhaps so,” was his friend’s reply. “You see, I know so very little of him that I can say nothing.”

“Who is he?”

“A Russian, as his name implies—a refugee who lives mostly in Paris, I believe.”

“Refugee is a synonym for revolutionist. Is he one?”

“In his case I think it is an exception,” Dick replied. “As far as I know, his flight from Russia had no connection whatever with politics. He was persecuted by drastic police methods, and simply left the country in order to obtain freedom. Ask any Russian, and he will mention to you dozens of men who have left the country from the same cause. To the public mind every Russian residing abroad must be either a Nihilist or a spy, which is simply absurd. In certain of the Governments of the Empire the police are so utterly unscrupulous in making arrests nowadays that the better-class people prefer to obviate disaster by residence abroad.”

“Then this Bourtzeff is not a revolutionary?” asked the other quickly.

“I know nothing against him,” was the other’s quick response.

“And what is Alza?”

“An artist. I daresay she has shown you some of her water-colours. She often designs covers for some of the illustrated magazines.”

“I asked what she is, not what she’s supposed to be.”

“I repeat—an artist.”

Owen Odd smiled incredulously, in a manner which showed Dick that he was aware of something concerning the girl’s real profession.

“Is it not a fact,” asked the fair-haired man in pince-nez, “that a very curious story is told concerning this Alza Dresler?”

Dick laughed.

“Many stories are told of women which are cruel and untrue,” he declared. “Why, my dear fellow, the penalty paid by a pretty woman is the scandal talked of her. The more beautiful the girl the more bitter the gossip.”

“I know that,” said Owen impatiently. “But, Dick, I am simply asking you a question. You introduced the girl to me, and I believed her to be what you represented her—an artist.”

“And so she is.”

“Admitted. But she is something more,” he said. “I have discovered that a very grave suspicion attaches to her, as being the associate—indeed, the decoy, and at times the spy, of certain very dangerous characters—a gang of swindlers well known to the police both in Paris and London.”

Dick laughed again, even though his amusement was forced.

“My dear fellow,” he cried, “whoever told you that romantic story?”

“I was noticed in her company—as a matter of fact at the Gaiety Theatre—by a sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department who lives in Brook Green Road, and whose wife happens to be a patient of mine. He came here and warned me against her.”

Dick suddenly grew thoughtful.

“What did the detective say? If she’s such a dangerous character, why didn’t he arrest her?”

“He had no warrant, I understood. He explained that she was one of a most dangerous gang of international thieves, who carry on their clever depredations for the most part on the Continent.”

“That’s extremely interesting,” Dick said. “I had no idea hers was such a romantic story. Personally, I’ve never met any of these daring friends of hers whom you mention. What strikes me as curious is that if our little friend is known, as you declare, she has not been arrested ere this.”

“I said, my dear fellow, that grave suspicion attaches to her. Perhaps there is insufficient evidence for the French police to demand her extradition.”

“Didn’t your friend the police officer make any further explanation?”

“Well, he did. He stated that about twelve months ago, when she was in London on the last occasion, she was with a young Frenchman, named Laurillard, at supper at a small restaurant close to Leicester Square, when my friend arrested her companion on a warrant from France, charging him with obtaining a very large sum by blackmail from a wealthy landowner near Toulon. The allegation afterwards was that the girl had been used by the gang as decoy, and that the landowner in question had proposed marriage to her. The Paris police telegraphed for Alza’s arrest, but she had already left London.”

“I don’t believe it!” declared Dick abruptly, pretending utter unconcern. “Her whereabouts in Paris is well known. She lives in the Rue Madame, and could be found almost instantly.”

“The charge against her was afterwards withdrawn, I’m told. Her companion, however, is now serving seven years.”

“He was one of her associates, I suppose,” Dick remarked with perfect calmness as he refilled his claret-glass.

“Of course,” responded Owen. “And a further fact which I have established is that this man Bourtzeff, whom she followed so closely, is not a Russian gentleman, as you suppose, but a very clever criminal who was long wanted by the police. He was once a member of the association to which she belongs, but he denounced them and their doings to Monsieur Hamard, of the Paris police, and came over to England. She followed, and has discovered him. She intends mischief—vengeance for the betrayal of herself and her friends.”

Dick sat silent. It amazed him that Owen should have found out so much. What else did he know, he wondered?

“Now,” added the doctor, “does it not strike you as a most remarkable coincidence that only one hour before Paul Grinevitch met his death he should have sent a mysterious warning to the man Nystrom—who, it has since been discovered, was a well known criminal wanted for a serious crime—and should also have intended to seek refuge at that very same house in Keppel Street where Nicholas Bourtzeff was living in hiding?”

“Yes,” replied Jervoise in a strange, hard voice, twisting his cigar in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. “It is a problem which seems to admit of no solution.”