CHAPTER IX
CONCERNS TWO VISITORS
September 2nd
About a week after my visit to Scotland Yard a strange incident occurred. I was seated one afternoon in my modest lodgings off the King’s Road, Chelsea, when a card bearing the name “Karl Flugel” was brought to me by my landlady.
My visitor, on being shown in, proved to be a queer-looking old gentleman, with longish fair hair and fair beard, and a pair of grey eyes which beamed forth from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He was curiously dressed, for though it was a warm day he wore a thick blue reefer jacket, almost like an overcoat, but cut very short and adorned by flat, wide braid. It was an amazing coat, of a cut that I had never seen before, either in England or out of it. His trousers were of light grey flannel, and he wore white spats over his patent-leather boots, which gave him an appearance très drôle.
Behind him stood a pretty, fair-haired girl, well-dressed en deuil, and wearing a big black hat—a girl whose face struck me as particularly sweet and charming. I judged her to be about twenty, extremely dainty, graceful and refined.
Flugel, speaking French with a German accent, was profuse in his apologies for disturbing me, and at first I could not quite make out the reason he had called. But soon afterwards, when both had seated themselves, he suddenly looked straight at me through his pince-nez and said—
“The object of my visit, I fear, mademoiselle, you may regard as somewhat strange. The fact is, mademoiselle, I have heard that you were acquainted with a very dear friend of mine, recently dead—Monsieur Cornforth.”
Dieu! At mention of that name my heart beat quickly. Here was actually one who had been the friend of the mysterious deceased!
I fear I did not control my surprise, for I noticed a faint smile overspreading his fresh-coloured features. The girl raised her eyes to mine for a second, and then dropped them.
“It is true that I know Monsieur Cornforth,” I said, much interested. “I only returned from Florence ten days ago.”
“I understand,” he remarked, “that you live in Florence with Madame Kennedy-Foster, eh? A very delightful old city. So full of ancient charm. And, of course, you have been to the Villa Borelli?”
“Mais oui,” I replied. “In fact, I was present with the police when the body of your unfortunate friend was found.”
“Ah, yes!” sighed my visitor. “It was very sad—very sad. I was amazed when I received the telegram announcing his death.”
I wondered who had sent the queer old gentleman the news. As far as I was aware the police telegram was the only intimation of the strange affair that had gone to England.
“Then news was conveyed to m’sieur?” I remarked. “Who sent you word?”
“A person who was in Mr. Cornforth’s confidence,” was his guarded reply. He was not to be caught napping, evidently. The girl’s eyes were wandering round the room.
“And how were you aware that I knew Monsieur Cornforth—or that I was staying here?”
“Cornforth himself told me that he knew you. But,” he added evasively, “the real object of my call is to learn some actual details regarding my dear friend’s mysterious end. I can discover nothing tangible. But you, who were present with the police, evidently know the truth. If you do, may I ask you to explain it to me—his friend?”
“Certainement,” I said. “I think the Italian police are most anxious to meet somebody who was the dead man’s friend. They have been advertising for his relatives—but without success.”
“Yes, yes,” he laughed, as though enjoying the discomfiture of the police. “I saw the advertisements, and they much amused me. They show how utterly ignorant the police are concerning the deceased or his antecedents. Fancy advertising for the heirs of William Cornforth! Oh, it is really too amusing!” he laughed.
“Pourquoi?” I asked, in some surprise. “A quantity of valuable property was found in the house and taken possession of by the British Consul. They belong to somebody.”
“They belong to this young lady here—Miss Cornforth—the dead man’s only child,” Flugel replied, introducing his companion.
I expressed my sympathy with her in her bereavement, whereupon I saw that tears were welling in her big blue eyes, as she said in a faltering voice—
“Mademoiselle, my father was, unfortunately, a rather erratic man. I had not seen him for two years. I did not even know that he was living in Florence. I believed he was leading a secluded life, buried somewhere in a London suburb. He was not fond of the society of his fellow-men.”
“Extraordinaire! And yet in Florence he went out a great deal. In the short time he lived there he became most popular in a rather exclusive set.”
“Miss Agnes has been living in Yorkshire with an aunt,” the old man explained. “Poor Cornforth was—well, just a trifle eccentric. Yet he was one of the most remarkable men in Europe.”
I nodded. Inspector Stephens had also told me how remarkable he was as a daring and dangerous criminal.
I looked at the pretty, modest fillette before me, surprised that she could be the daughter of a man who had been described as a veritable fiend.
In response to the German’s appeal, I gave a minute description of the curious circumstances in which the mysterious Cornforth had been discovered, and how all the searching police inquiries had proved abortive. I could see it was painful to Mademoiselle Agnes, yet it struck me that the old man was secretly exulting in causing the girl unhappiness. Why, I could not exactly tell.
A son tour I noticed a queer, wistful look in her gaze when her eyes met mine—an expression of terror combined with weariness. She seemed to hold her companion in mistrust, and I wondered whether she were not there against her will, compelled to hear from me the tragic details of her lost father’s death.
“He was wanted by the police,” remarked Flugel, heedless of the girl’s feelings. “And it was surely not surprising.”
“I don’t quite follow m’sieur,” I said. “Of what crime was he accused?”
But the old fellow only laughed, beaming at me through his spectacles. And, like Inspector Stephens, he refused to reply directly to my question.
Curieux! There really seemed a conspiracy of silence on every hand.
“You referred to the fact that certain jewels were discovered in the house,” Monsieur Flugel said presently.
“Mais oui, gems worth several thousands.”
“Where did they find them?”
“Secreted in a cavity of the concrete wall of the strong-room,” I replied. “It puzzled the police why he should have caused his study to be converted into an impregnable chamber,” I added.
“That surely does not puzzle Scotland Yard,” he remarked quietly. “The Italian police are, of course, ignorant of the true facts. The strong-room was constructed with a distinct purpose.”
“Par exemple the domestics say that it was only closed at certain times. At others, the door stood open, and the servants passed freely in and out.”
“Exactly. He would not always keep it locked, for he did not wish to unduly excite suspicion.”
“Of what?”
“Of the extraordinary truth.”
I described the dramatic sequel to the affair—the shooting of the police agent Bruno in the same room, whereat the jeune fille sat staring at me, as though in terror.
“Was the poor man actually found shot—just as my dear father had been?” she gasped quickly.
“Mais oui, mademoiselle, in a very similar manner,” I replied. “It has greatly puzzled the police, for the affair is quite unaccountable, except perhaps that somebody knew of the hiding-place of those gems and desired to get possession of them.”
“But you say that the body of the police agent lay there six or seven hours undiscovered. Surely the assassin had sufficient time to search the place?”
“Ah, non! The jewels had already been removed to the bank,” I answered.
The old man was silent, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“The jewels were Cornforth’s,” he said at last; “therefore they rightly belong to Miss Agnes. If sold, they would realise for her a comfortable fortune—is that not so?”
“Parfaitement.”
“And yet the most unfortunate point is that this young lady cannot come forward and claim relationship.”
“Pourquoi non?”
“For several reasons.”
“No,” cried the girl. “I—I could not acknowledge my poor father, because—because they would compel me to yield up his secret.”
“His secret,” I cried. “Parbleu! What secret did he possess?”
“One that, if it were known that I was still alive, they would compel me to disclose.”
“Still alive,” I echoed. “Then are you believed to be dead, mademoiselle?”
She nodded in the affirmative, overcome by emotion.
“So now you understand the situation?” said the man Flugel to me. “Miss Agnes cannot claim her dead father’s property herself, and she is, of course, anxious to obtain it in some roundabout way, without the authorities knowing that she is Mr. Cornforth’s daughter.”
“I don’t quite see how that is to be accomplished, m’sieur. Mademoiselle will have to prove relationship.”
“Which she can do quite easily. There are persons who can, and who would, no doubt, be only too willing to identify her.”
“Bien sûr, but I cannot see why she does not risk it,” I remarked.
“My dear mademoiselle,” he cried, “is it likely that she would boldly go forward and place herself at the mercy of the police. You don’t know the true seriousness of the affair, or you would never suggest that.”
“Tiens! I’ve been trying to learn the truth,” I laughed. “But you reveal nothing.”
“Is it likely that I would reveal the secret of my dead friend?” he asked reproachfully.
“Mais non; but if the jewels are to be inherited by Mademoiselle Agnes, then most certainly the truth must be told.”
“It is a truth entirely unsuspected,” he said. “The Italian police, with the Chevalier Ansaldi at their head, are extremely shrewd and clever, but I tell you they will never discover the true story of the murders in the strong-room at the Villa Borelli.”
“Zut! They evidently know at Scotland Yard,” I remarked.
“No. They are in complete ignorance. They know that Cornforth and Bruno were both assassinated, but by whom they are quite as much in the dark as you are,” he declared.
“Bien, and who, pray, is aware of the truth—the murderer, and——”
The old man’s eyes became filled with a peculiar light as he sat near the window. I saw a curious change in his features. His eyebrows contracted and his mouth hardened.
“Well,” he said hesitatingly at last, “the only man who can solve the mystery is myself. The fact is—I know the truth!”
“Diable! Then why don’t you make a statement to the police?” I cried eagerly. “Surely the assassin should be arrested and punished.”
“I have no incentive to assist the police. Scotland Yard hounded down my friend, therefore why should I help them?”
“In order to avenge the death of your friend,” I said quietly.
“Yes—do,” cried the girl, appealing to her companion. “Go to Scotland Yard and tell them what you know.”
But the crafty old German only shook his head, saying—
“If the police desire information, they must pay for it. I am acting in your interests, my dear Miss Agnes. If the authorities, in order to learn the truth, care to hand over half the jewels to you, and half to myself, then I could reveal to them the actual facts. But that is impossible—because you must still remain dead. The secret in your possession is worth even more than all the jewels found in your father’s house.”
Mystère. What great secret could it be that she should prefer to lose a fortune rather than reveal her identity to the authorities?
The situation was extraordinary.
I had already discerned that Monsieur Flugel was a keen and cunning old man, whose intention was to profit by his knowledge, whatever it might be. In reply to my questions, I learnt that the girl lived at a small village three miles from York, and had for a couple of years been earning her living as a school-teacher. During her father’s residence in England they had lived at Brighton, where Flugel had been her father’s constant companion.
I tried to persuade the old man to go with me to see Inspector Stephens, but he ridiculed the suggestion.
“No,” he replied. “To make any statement would probably reveal the fact of Miss Agnes being still alive—a risk which she cannot afford to run.”
“Ecoutez. Why is she believed to be dead?” I demanded. “In what manner was she supposed to die?”
“By drowning—eighteen months ago,” was his response. “She went out for a swim while staying at the house of an old schoolfellow at Sheringham, but never returned. It was all arranged, and completely deceived the press and the police. Search was made for the body, but it was not recovered till a month afterwards, when that of a young woman was actually washed up near Hunstanton, and was buried as that of Agnes Cornforth.”
“Et pourquoi?”
“Because, mademoiselle, we knew that, sooner or later, she would be arrested—just as they tried to arrest her father. So we conceived the idea of thus escaping further inquiry,” my visitor answered.
“Then they do not suspect you of possessing any secret knowledge of Monsieur Cornforth or his doings?”
“No,” laughed the old man. “That’s just the amusing point. They suspect other people who know nothing, but have never suspected me.”
“Alors, if the police knew that Mademoiselle Agnes were still alive, would the result be so very serious?” I inquired, looking the girl straight in the face as I spoke.
“Yes—very. They must never know that. I—I intend to preserve my father’s secret at all hazards,” she cried. “I would commit suicide rather than betray it into their hands,” she added vehemently, in a tone which showed that she meant what she said. “Therefore,” she added, “I trust to you to preserve my secret—to tell the police nothing of my visit to you.”
“Moi, I shall certainly respect your wishes, mademoiselle,” I replied. “But somehow I cannot help thinking that your father’s assassin ought to be brought to justice.”
“Alas!” she said, shaking her head in sorrow. “That can never be—never without disclosing the fact that I am still alive. If that were known I should find myself under arrest in two hours. Ah!” she added, “you do not know the remarkable nature of my father’s secret.”
“Whatever it is, mademoiselle, I confess I am in favour of avenging his death.”
But she shook her head, declaring in a hoarse, strained voice—
“Ah! that can never be done—never!”