IT appeared impossible to Theodore Racksole that so cumbrous an article as a corpse could be removed out of his hotel, with no trace, no hint, no clue as to the time or the manner of the performance of the deed. After the first feeling of surprise, Racksole grew coldly and severely angry. He had a mind to dismiss the entire staff of the hotel. He personally examined the night-watchman, the chambermaids and all other persons who by chance might or ought to know something of the affair; but without avail. The corpse of Reginald Dimmock had vanished utterly—disappeared like a fleshless spirit.
Of course there were the police. But Theodore Racksole held the police in sorry esteem. He acquainted them with the facts, answered their queries with a patient weariness, and expected nothing whatever from that quarter. He also had several interviews with Prince Aribert of Posen, but though the Prince was suavity itself and beyond doubt genuinely concerned about the fate of his dead attendant, yet it seemed to Racksole that he was keeping something back, that he hesitated to say all he knew. Racksole, with characteristic insight, decided that the death of Reginald Dimmock was only a minor event, which had occurred, as it were, on the fringe of some far more profound mystery. And, therefore, he decided to wait, with his eyes very wide open, until something else happened that would throw light on the business. At the moment he took only one measure—he arranged that the theft of Dimmock’s body should not appear in the newspapers. It is astonishing how well a secret can be kept, when the possessors of the secret are handled with the proper mixture of firmness and persuasion. Racksole managed this very neatly. It was a complicated job, and his success in it rather pleased him.
At the same time he was conscious of being temporarily worsted by an unknown group of schemers, in which he felt convinced that Jules was an important item. He could scarcely look Nella in the eyes. The girl had evidently expected him to unmask this conspiracy at once, with a single stroke of the millionaire’s magic wand. She was thoroughly accustomed, in the land of her birth, to seeing him achieve impossible feats. Over there he was a ‘boss’; men trembled before his name; when he wished a thing to happen—well, it happened; if he desired to know a thing, he just knew it. But here, in London, Theodore Racksole was not quite the same Theodore Racksole. He dominated New York; but London, for the most part, seemed not to take much interest in him; and there were certainly various persons in London who were capable of snapping their fingers at him—at Theodore Racksole. Neither he nor his daughter could get used to that fact.
As for Nella, she concerned herself for a little with the ordinary business of the bureau, and watched the incomings and outgoings of Prince Aribert with a kindly interest. She perceived, what her father had failed to perceive, that His Highness had assumed an attitude of reserve merely to hide the secret distraction and dismay which consumed him. She saw that the poor fellow had no settled plan in his head, and that he was troubled by something which, so far, he had confided to nobody. It came to her knowledge that each morning he walked to and fro on the Victoria Embankment, alone, and apparently with no object. On the third morning she decided that driving exercise on the Embankment would be good for her health, and thereupon ordered a carriage and issued forth, arrayed in a miraculous putty-coloured gown. Near Blackfriars Bridge she met the Prince, and the carriage was drawn up by the pavement.
‘Good morning, Prince,’ she greeted him. ‘Are you mistaking this for Hyde Park?’
He bowed and smiled.
‘I usually walk here in the mornings,’ he said.
‘You surprise me,’ she returned. ‘I thought I was the only person in London who preferred the Embankment, with this view of the river, to the dustiness of Hyde Park. I can’t imagine how it is that London will never take exercise anywhere except in that ridiculous Park. Now, if they had Central Park—’
‘I think the Embankment is the finest spot in all London,’ he said.
She leaned a little out of the landau, bringing her face nearer to his.
‘I do believe we are kindred spirits, you and I,’ she murmured; and then, ‘Au revoir, Prince!’
‘One moment, Miss Racksole.’ His quick tones had a note of entreaty.
‘I am in a hurry,’ she fibbed; ‘I am not merely taking exercise this morning. You have no idea how busy we are.’
‘Ah! then I will not trouble you. But I leave the Grand Babylon to-night.’
‘Do you?’ she said. ‘Then will your Highness do me the honour of lunching with me today in Father’s room? Father will be out—he is having a day in the City with some stockbroking persons.’
‘I shall be charmed,’ said the Prince, and his face showed that he meant it.
Nella drove off.
If the lunch was a success that result was due partly to Rocco, and partly to Nella. The Prince said little beyond what the ordinary rules of the conversational game demanded. His hostess talked much and talked well, but she failed to rouse her guest. When they had had coffee he took a rather formal leave of her.
‘Good-bye, Prince,’ she said, ‘but I thought—that is, no I didn’t.
Good-bye.’
‘You thought I wished to discuss something with you. I did; but I have decided that I have no right to burden your mind with my affairs.’
‘But suppose—suppose I wish to be burdened?’
‘That is your good nature.’
‘Sit down,’ she said abruptly, ‘and tell me everything; mind, everything. I adore secrets.’
Almost before he knew it he was talking to her, rapidly, eagerly.
‘Why should I weary you with my confidences?’ he said. ‘I don’t know, I cannot tell; but I feel that I must. I feel that you will understand me better than anyone else in the world. And yet why should you understand me? Again, I don’t know. Miss Racksole, I will disclose to you the whole trouble in a word. Prince Eugen, the hereditary Grand Duke of Posen, has disappeared. Four days ago I was to have met him at Ostend. He had affairs in London. He wished me to come with him. I sent Dimmock on in front, and waited for Eugen. He did not arrive. I telegraphed back to Cologne, his last stopping-place, and I learned that he had left there in accordance with his programme; I learned also that he had passed through Brussels. It must have been between Brussels and the railway station at Ostend Quay that he disappeared. He was travelling with a single equerry, and the equerry, too, has vanished. I need not explain to you, Miss Racksole, that when a person of the importance of my nephew contrives to get lost one must proceed cautiously. One cannot advertise for him in the London Times. Such a disappearance must be kept secret. The people at Posen and at Berlin believe that Eugen is in London, here, at this hotel; or, rather, they did so believe. But this morning I received a cypher telegram from—from His Majesty the Emperor, a very peculiar telegram, asking when Eugen might be expected to return to Posen, and requesting that he should go first to Berlin. That telegram was addressed to myself. Now, if the Emperor thought that Eugen was here, why should he have caused the telegram to be addressed to me? I have hesitated for three days, but I can hesitate no longer. I must myself go to the Emperor and acquaint him with the facts.’
‘I suppose you’ve just got to keep straight with him?’ Nella was on the point of saying, but she checked herself and substituted, ‘The Emperor is your chief, is he not? “First among equals”, you call him.’
‘His Majesty is our over-lord,’ said Aribert quietly.
‘Why do you not take immediate steps to inquire as to the whereabouts of your Royal nephew?’ she asked simply. The affair seemed to her just then so plain and straightforward.
‘Because one of two things may have happened. Either Eugen may have been, in plain language, abducted, or he may have had his own reasons for changing his programme and keeping in the background—out of reach of telegraph and post and railways.’
‘What sort of reasons?’
‘Do not ask me. In the history of every family there are passages—’ He stopped.
‘And what was Prince Eugen’s object in coming to London?’
Aribert hesitated.
‘Money,’ he said at length. ‘As a family we are very poor—poorer than anyone in Berlin suspects.’
‘Prince Aribert,’ Nella said, ‘shall I tell you what I think?’ She leaned back in her chair, and looked at him out of half-closed eyes. His pale, thin, distinguished face held her gaze as if by some fascination. There could be no mistaking this man for anything else but a Prince.
‘If you will,’ he said.
‘Prince Eugen is the victim of a plot.’
‘You think so?’
‘I am perfectly convinced of it.’
‘But why? What can be the object of a plot against him?’
‘That is a point of which you should know more than me,’ she remarked drily.
‘Ah! Perhaps, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But, dear Miss Racksole, why are you so sure?’
‘There are several reasons, and they are connected with Mr Dimmock. Did you ever suspect, your Highness, that that poor young man was not entirely loyal to you?’
‘He was absolutely loyal,’ said the Prince, with all the earnestness of conviction.
‘A thousand pardons, but he was not.’
‘Miss Racksole, if any other than yourself made that assertion, I would—I would—’
‘Consign them to the deepest dungeon in Posen?’ she laughed, lightly.
‘Listen.’ And she told him of the incidents which had occurred in the night preceding his arrival in the hotel.
‘Do you mean, Miss Racksole, that there was an understanding between poor Dimmock and this fellow Jules?’
‘There was an understanding.’
‘Impossible!’
‘Your Highness, the man who wishes to probe a mystery to its root never uses the word “impossible”. But I will say this for young Mr Dimmock. I think he repented, and I think that it was because he repented that he—er—died so suddenly, and that his body was spirited away.’
‘Why has no one told me these things before?’ Aribert exclaimed.
‘Princes seldom hear the truth,’ she said.
He was astonished at her coolness, her firmness of assertion, her air of complete acquaintance with the world.
‘Miss Racksole,’ he said, ‘if you will permit me to say it, I have never in my life met a woman like you. May I rely on your sympathy—your support?’
‘My support, Prince? But how?’
‘I do not know,’ he replied. ‘But you could help me if you would. A woman, when she has brain, always has more brain than a man.’
‘Ah!’ she said ruefully, ‘I have no brains, but I do believe I could help you.’
What prompted her to make that assertion she could not have explained, even to herself. But she made it, and she had a suspicion—a prescience—that it would be justified, though by what means, through what good fortune, was still a mystery to her.
‘Go to Berlin,’ she said. ‘I see that you must do that; you have no alternative. As for the rest, we shall see. Something will occur. I shall be here. My father will be here. You must count us as your friends.’
He kissed her hand when he left, and afterwards, when she was alone, she kissed the spot his lips had touched again and again. Now, thinking the matter out in the calmness of solitude, all seemed strange, unreal, uncertain to her. Were conspiracies actually possible nowadays? Did queer things actually happen in Europe? And did they actually happen in London hotels? She dined with her father that night.
‘I hear Prince Aribert has left,’ said Theodore Racksole.
‘Yes,’ she assented. She said not a word about their interview.
ON the following morning, just before lunch, a lady, accompanied by a maid and a considerable quantity of luggage, came to the Grand Babylon Hôtel. She was a plump, little old lady, with white hair and an old-fashioned bonnet, and she had a quaint, simple smile of surprise at everything in general.
Nevertheless, she gave the impression of belonging to some aristocracy, though not the English aristocracy. Her tone to her maid, whom she addressed in broken English—the girl being apparently English—was distinctly insolent, with the calm, unconscious insolence peculiar to a certain type of Continental nobility. The name on the lady’s card ran thus: ‘Baroness Zerlinski’. She desired rooms on the third floor. It happened that Nella was in the bureau.
‘On the third floor, madam?’ questioned Nella, in her best clerkly manner.
‘I did say on de tird floor,’ said the plump little old lady.
‘We have accommodation on the second floor.’
‘I wish to be high up, out of de dust and in de light,’ explained the Baroness.
‘We have no suites on the third floor, madam.’
‘Never mind, no mattaire! Have you not two rooms that communicate?’
Nella consulted her books, rather awkwardly.
‘Numbers 122 and 123 communicate.’
‘Or is it 121 and 122?’ the little old lady remarked quickly, and then bit her lip.
‘I beg your pardon. I should have said 121 and 122.’
At the moment Nella regarded the Baroness’s correction of her figures as a curious chance, but afterwards, when the Baroness had ascended in the lift, the thing struck her as somewhat strange. Perhaps the Baroness Zerlinski had stayed at the hotel before. For the sake of convenience an index of visitors to the hotel was kept and the index extended back for thirty years. Nella examined it, but it did not contain the name of Zerlinski. Then it was that Nella began to imagine, what had swiftly crossed her mind when first the Baroness presented herself at the bureau, that the features of the Baroness were remotely familiar to her. She thought, not that she had seen the old lady’s face before, but that she had seen somewhere, some time, a face of a similar cast. It occurred to Nella to look at the ‘Almanach de Gotha’—that record of all the mazes of Continental blue blood; but the ‘Almanach de Gotha’ made no reference to any barony of Zerlinski. Nella inquired where the Baroness meant to take lunch, and was informed that a table had been reserved for her in the dining-room, and she at once decided to lunch in the dining-room herself. Seated in a corner, half-hidden by a pillar, she could survey all the guests, and watch each group as it entered or left. Presently the Baroness appeared, dressed in black, with a tiny lace shawl, despite the June warmth; very stately, very quaint, and gently smiling. Nella observed her intently. The lady ate heartily, working without haste and without delay through the elaborate menu of the luncheon. Nella noticed that she had beautiful white teeth. Then a remarkable thing happened. A cream puff was served to the Baroness by way of sweets, and Nella was astonished to see the little lady remove the top, and with a spoon quietly take something from the interior which looked like a piece of folded paper. No one who had not been watching with the eye of a lynx would have noticed anything extraordinary in the action; indeed, the chances were nine hundred and ninety-nine to one that it would pass unheeded. But, unfortunately for the Baroness, it was the thousandth chance that happened. Nella jumped up, and walking over to the Baroness, said to her:
‘I’m afraid that the tart is not quite nice, your ladyship.’
‘Thanks, it is delightful,’ said the Baroness coldly; her smile had vanished. ‘Who are you? I thought you were de bureau clerk.’
‘My father is the owner of this hotel. I thought there was something in the tart which ought not to have been there.’
Nella looked the Baroness full in the face. The piece of folded paper, to which a little cream had attached itself, lay under the edge of a plate.
‘No, thanks.’ The Baroness smiled her simple smile.
Nella departed. She had noticed one trifling thing besides the paper—namely, that the Baroness could pronounce the English ‘th’ sound if she chose.
That afternoon, in her own room, Nella sat meditating at the window for long time, and then she suddenly sprang up, her eyes brightening.
‘I know,’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands. ‘It’s Miss Spencer, disguised!
Why didn’t I think of that before?’ Her thoughts ran instantly to Prince Aribert. ‘Perhaps I can help him,’ she said to herself, and gave a little sigh. She went down to the office and inquired whether the Baroness had given any instructions about dinner. She felt that some plan must be formulated. She wanted to get hold of Rocco, and put him in the rack. She knew now that Rocco, the unequalled, was also concerned in this mysterious affair.
‘The Baroness Zerlinski has left, about a quarter of an hour ago,’ said the attendant.
‘But she only arrived this morning.’
‘The Baroness’s maid said that her mistress had received a telegram and must leave at once. The Baroness paid the bill, and went away in a four-wheeler.’
‘Where to?’
‘The trunks were labelled for Ostend.’
Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was the mere spirit of adventure; but that evening Nella was to be seen of all men on the steamer for Ostend which leaves Dover at 11 p.m. She told no one of her intentions—not even her father, who was not in the hotel when she left. She had scribbled a brief note to him to expect her back in a day or two, and had posted this at Dover. The steamer was the Marie Henriette, a large and luxurious boat, whose state-rooms on deck vie with the glories of the Cunard and White Star liners. One of these state-rooms, the best, was evidently occupied, for every curtain of its windows was carefully drawn. Nella did not hope that the Baroness was on board; it was quite possible for the Baroness to have caught the eight o’clock steamer, and it was also possible for the Baroness not to have gone to Ostend at all, but to some other place in an entirely different direction. Nevertheless, Nella had a faint hope that the lady who called herself Zerlinski might be in that curtained stateroom, and throughout the smooth moonlit voyage she never once relaxed her observation of its doors and its windows.
The Maria Henriette arrived in Ostend Harbour punctually at 2 a.m. in the morning. There was the usual heterogeneous, gesticulating crowd on the quay.
Nella kept her post near the door of the state-room, and at length she was rewarded by seeing it open. Four middle-aged Englishmen issued from it. From a glimpse of the interior Nella saw that they had spent the voyage in card-playing.
It would not be too much to say that she was distinctly annoyed. She pretended to be annoyed with circumstances, but really she was annoyed with Nella Racksole. At two in the morning, without luggage, without any companionship, and without a plan of campaign, she found herself in a strange foreign port—a port of evil repute, possessing some of the worst-managed hotels in Europe. She strolled on the quay for a few minutes, and then she saw the smoke of another steamer in the offing. She inquired from an official what that steamer might be, and was told that it was the eight o’clock from Dover, which had broken down, put into Calais for some slight necessary repairs, and was arriving at its destination nearly four hours late. Her mercurial spirits rose again. A minute ago she was regarding herself as no better than a ninny engaged in a wild-goose chase. Now she felt that after all she had been very sagacious and cunning. She was morally sure that she would find the Zerlinski woman on this second steamer, and she took all the credit to herself in advance. Such is human nature.
The steamer seemed interminably slow in coming into harbour. Nella walked on the Digue for a few minutes to watch it the better. The town was silent and almost deserted. It had a false and sinister aspect. She remembered tales which she had heard of this glittering resort, which in the season holds more scoundrels than any place in Europe, save only Monte Carlo. She remembered that the gilded adventurers of every nation under the sun forgathered there either for business or pleasure, and that some of the most wonderful crimes of the latter half of the century had been schemed and matured in that haunt of cosmopolitan iniquity.
When the second steamer arrived Nella stood at the end of the gangway, close to the ticket-collector. The first person to step on shore was—not the Baroness Zerlinski, but Miss Spencer herself! Nella turned aside instantly, hiding her face, and Miss Spencer, carrying a small bag, hurried with assured footsteps to the Custom House. It seemed as if she knew the port of Ostend fairly well. The moon shone like day, and Nella had full opportunity to observe her quarry. She could see now quite plainly that the Baroness Zerlinski had been only Miss Spencer in disguise. There was the same gait, the same movement of the head and of the hips; the white hair was easily to be accounted for by a wig, and the wrinkles by a paint brush and some grease paints. Miss Spencer, whose hair was now its old accustomed yellow, got through the Custom House without difficulty, and Nella saw her call a closed carriage and say something to the driver. The vehicle drove off. Nella jumped into the next carriage—an open one—that came up.
‘Follow that carriage,’ she said succinctly to the driver in French.
‘Bien, madame!’ The driver whipped up his horse, and the animal shot forward with a terrific clatter over the cobbles. It appeared that this driver was quite accustomed to following other carriages.
‘Now I am fairly in for it!’ said Nella to herself. She laughed unsteadily, but her heart was beating with an extraordinary thump.
For some time the pursued vehicle kept well in front. It crossed the town nearly from end to end, and plunged into a maze of small streets far on the south side of the Kursaal. Then gradually Nella’s equipage began to overtake it. The first carriage stopped with a jerk before a tall dark house, and Miss Spencer emerged. Nella called to her driver to stop, but he, determined to be in at the death, was engaged in whipping his horse, and he completely ignored her commands. He drew up triumphantly at the tall dark house just at the moment when Miss Spencer disappeared into it. The other carriage drove away. Nella, uncertain what to do, stepped down from her carriage and gave the driver some money. At the same moment a man reopened the door of the house, which had closed on Miss Spencer.
‘I want to see Miss Spencer,’ said Nella impulsively. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Miss Spencer?’
‘Yes; she’s just arrived.’
‘It’s O.K., I suppose,’ said the man.
‘I guess so,’ said Nella, and she walked past him into the house. She was astonished at her own audacity.
Miss Spencer was just going into a room off the narrow hall. Nella followed her into the apartment, which was shabbily furnished in the Belgian lodging-house style.
‘Well, Miss Spencer,’ she greeted the former Baroness Zerlinski, ‘I guess you didn’t expect to see me. You left our hotel very suddenly this afternoon, and you left it very suddenly a few days ago; and so I’ve just called to make a few inquiries.’
To do the lady justice, Miss Spencer bore the surprising ordeal very well.
She did not flinch; she betrayed no emotion. The sole sign of perturbation was in her hurried breathing.
‘You have ceased to be the Baroness Zerlinski,’ Nella continued. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Certainly, sit down,’ said Miss Spencer, copying the girl’s tone. ‘You are a fairly smart young woman, that I will say. What do you want? Weren’t my books all straight?’
‘Your books were all straight. I haven’t come about your books. I have come about the murder of Reginald Dimmock, the disappearance of his corpse, and the disappearance of Prince Eugen of Posen. I thought you might be able to help me in some investigations which I am making.’
Miss Spencer’s eyes gleamed, and she stood up and moved swiftly to the mantelpiece.
‘You may be a Yankee, but you’re a fool,’ she said.
She took hold of the bell-rope.
‘Don’t ring that bell if you value your life,’ said Nella.
‘If what?’ Miss Spencer remarked.
‘If you value your life,’ said Nella calmly, and with the words she pulled from her pocket a very neat and dainty little revolver.
‘YOU—you’re only doing that to frighten me,’ stammered Miss Spencer, in a low, quavering voice.
‘Am I?’ Nella replied, as firmly as she could, though her hand shook violently with excitement, could Miss Spencer but have observed it. ‘Am I? You said just now that I might be a Yankee girl, but I was a fool. Well, I am a Yankee girl, as you call it; and in my country, if they don’t teach revolver-shooting in boarding-schools, there are at least a lot of girls who can handle a revolver. I happen to be one of them. I tell you that if you ring that bell you will suffer.’
Most of this was simple bluff on Nella’s part, and she trembled lest Miss Spencer should perceive that it was simple bluff. Happily for her, Miss Spencer belonged to that order of women who have every sort of courage except physical courage. Miss Spencer could have withstood successfully any moral trial, but persuade her that her skin was in danger, and she would succumb. Nella at once divined this useful fact, and proceeded accordingly, hiding the strangeness of her own sensations as well as she could.
‘You had better sit down now,’ said Nella, ‘and I will ask you a few questions.’
And Miss Spencer obediently sat down, rather white, and trying to screw her lips into a formal smile.
‘Why did you leave the Grand Babylon that night?’ Nella began her examination, putting on a stern, barrister-like expression.
‘I had orders to, Miss Racksole.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘Well, I’m—I’m—the fact is, I’m a married woman, and it was my husband’s orders.’
‘Who is your husband?’
‘Tom Jackson—Jules, you know, head waiter at the Grand Babylon.’
‘So Jules’s real name is Tom Jackson? Why did he want you to leave without giving notice?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Racksole. I swear I don’t know. He’s my husband, and, of course, I do what he tells me, as you will some day do what your husband tells you. Please heaven you’ll get a better husband than mine!’
Miss Spencer showed a sign of tears.
Nella fingered the revolver, and put it at full cock. ‘Well,’ she repeated, ‘why did he want you to leave?’ She was tremendously surprised at her own coolness, and somewhat pleased with it, too.
‘I can’t tell you, I can’t tell you.’
‘You’ve just got to,’ Nella said, in a terrible, remorseless tone.
‘He—he wished me to come over here to Ostend. Something had gone wrong.
Oh! he’s a fearful man, is Tom. If I told you, he’d—’
‘Had something gone wrong in the hotel, or over here?’
‘Both.’
‘Was it about Prince Eugen of Posen?’
‘I don’t know—that is, yes, I think so.’
‘What has your husband to do with Prince Eugen?’
‘I believe he has some—some sort of business with him, some money business.’
‘And was Mr Dimmock in this business?’
‘I fancy so, Miss Racksole. I’m telling you all I know, that I swear.’
‘Did your husband and Mr Dimmock have a quarrel that night in Room 111?’
‘They had some difficulty.’
‘And the result of that was that you came to Ostend instantly?’
‘Yes; I suppose so.’
‘And what were you to do in Ostend? What were your instructions from this husband of yours?’
Miss Spencer’s head dropped on her arms on the table which separated her from Nella, and she appeared to sob violently.
‘Have pity on me,’ she murmured, ‘I can’t tell you any more.’
‘Why?’
‘He’d kill me if he knew.’
‘You’re wandering from the subject,’ observed Nella coldly. ‘This is the last time I shall warn you. Let me tell you plainly I’ve got the best reasons for being desperate, and if anything happens to you I shall say I did it in self-defence. Now, what were you to do in Ostend?’
‘I shall die for this anyhow,’ whined Miss Spencer, and then, with a sort of fierce despair, ‘I had to keep watch on Prince Eugen.’
‘Where? In this house?’
Miss Spencer nodded, and, looking up, Nella could see the traces of tears in her face.
‘Then Prince Eugen was a prisoner? Some one had captured him at the instigation of Jules?’
‘Yes, if you must have it.’
‘Why was it necessary for you specially to come to Ostend?’
‘Oh! Tom trusts me. You see, I know Ostend. Before I took that place at the Grand Babylon I had travelled over Europe, and Tom knew that I knew a thing or two.’
‘Why did you take the place at the Grand Babylon?’
‘Because Tom told me to. He said I should be useful to him there.’
‘Is your husband an Anarchist, or something of that kind, Miss Spencer?’
‘I don’t know. I’d tell you in a minute if I knew. But he’s one of those that keep themselves to themselves.’
‘Do you know if he has ever committed a murder?’
‘Never!’ said Miss Spencer, with righteous repudiation of the mere idea.
‘But Mr Dimmock was murdered. He was poisoned. If he had not been poisoned why was his body stolen? It must have been stolen to prevent inquiry, to hide traces. Tell me about that.’
‘I take my dying oath,’ said Miss Spencer, standing up a little way from the table, ‘I take my dying oath I didn’t know Mr Dimmock was dead till I saw it in the newspaper.’
‘You swear you had no suspicion of it?’
‘I swear I hadn’t.’
Nella was inclined to believe the statement. The woman and the girl looked at each other in the tawdry, frowsy, lamp-lit room. Miss Spencer nervously patted her yellow hair into shape, as if gradually recovering her composure and equanimity. The whole affair seemed like a dream to Nella, a disturbing, sinister nightmare. She was a little uncertain what to say. She felt that she had not yet got hold of any very definite information. ‘Where is Prince Eugen now?’ she asked at length.
‘I don’t know, miss.’
‘He isn’t in this house?’
‘No, miss.’
‘Ah! We will see presently.’
‘They took him away, Miss Racksole.’
‘Who took him away? Some of your husband’s friends?’
‘Some of his—acquaintances.’
‘Then there is a gang of you?’
‘A gang of us—a gang! I don’t know what you mean,’ Miss Spencer quavered.
‘Oh, but you must know,’ smiled Nella calmly. ‘You can’t possibly be so innocent as all that, Mrs Tom Jackson. You can’t play games with me. You’ve just got to remember that I’m what you call a Yankee girl. There’s one thing that I mean to find out, within the next five minutes, and that is—how your charming husband kidnapped Prince Eugen, and why he kidnapped him. Let us begin with the second question. You have evaded it once.’
Miss Spencer looked into Nella’s face, and then her eyes dropped, and her fingers worked nervously with the tablecloth.
‘How can I tell you,’ she said, ‘when I don’t know? You’ve got the whip-hand of me, and you’re tormenting me for your own pleasure.’ She wore an expression of persecuted innocence.
‘Did Mr Tom Jackson want to get some money out of Prince Eugen?’
‘Money! Not he! Tom’s never short of money.’
‘But I mean a lot of money—tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands?’
‘Tom never wanted money from anyone,’ said Miss Spencer doggedly.
‘Then had he some reason for wishing to prevent Prince Eugen from coming to London?’
‘Perhaps he had. I don’t know. If you kill me, I don’t know.’ Nella stopped to reflect. Then she raised the revolver. It was a mechanical, unintentional sort of action, and certainly she had no intention of using the weapon, but, strange to say, Miss Spencer again cowered before it. Even at that moment Nella wondered that a woman like Miss Spencer could be so simple as to think the revolver would actually be used. Having absolutely no physical cowardice herself, Nella had the greatest difficulty in imagining that other people could be at the mercy of a bodily fear. Still, she saw her advantage, and used it relentlessly, and with as much theatrical gesture as she could command. She raised the revolver till it was level with Miss Spencer’s face, and suddenly a new, queer feeling took hold of her. She knew that she would indeed use that revolver now, if the miserable woman before her drove her too far. She felt afraid—afraid of herself; she was in the grasp of a savage, primeval instinct. In a flash she saw Miss Spencer dead at her feet—the police—a court of justice—the scaffold. It was horrible.
‘Speak,’ she said hoarsely, and Miss Spencer’s face went whiter.
‘Tom did say,’ the woman whispered rapidly, awesomely, ‘that if Prince Eugen got to London it would upset his scheme.’
‘What scheme? What scheme? Answer me.’
‘Heaven help me, I don’t know.’ Miss Spencer sank into a chair. ‘He said Mr Dimmock had turned tail, and he should have to settle him and then Rocco—’
‘Rocco! What about Rocco?’ Nella could scarcely hear herself. Her grip of the revolver tightened.
Miss Spencer’s eyes opened wider; she gazed at Nella with a glassy stare.
‘Don’t ask me. It’s death!’ Her eyes were fixed as if in horror.
‘It is,’ said Nella, and the sound of her voice seemed to her to issue from the lips of some third person.
‘It’s death,’ repeated Miss Spencer, and gradually her head and shoulders sank back, and hung loosely over the chair. Nella was conscious of a sudden revulsion. The woman had surely fainted. Dropping the revolver she ran round the table. She was herself again—feminine, sympathetic, the old Nella. She felt immensely relieved that this had happened. But at the same instant Miss Spencer sprang up from the chair like a cat, seized the revolver, and with a wild movement of the arm flung it against the window. It crashed through the glass, exploding as it went, and there was a tense silence.
‘I told you that you were a fool,’ remarked Miss Spencer slowly, ‘coming here like a sort of female Jack Sheppard, and trying to get the best of me.
We are on equal terms now. You frightened me, but I knew I was a cleverer woman than you, and that in the end, if I kept on long enough, I should win.
Now it will be my turn.’
Dumbfounded, and overcome with a miserable sense of the truth of Miss Spencer’s words, Nella stood still. The idea of her colossal foolishness swept through her like a flood. She felt almost ashamed. But even at this juncture she had no fear. She faced the woman bravely, her mind leaping about in search of some plan. She could think of nothing but a bribe—an enormous bribe.
‘I admit you’ve won,’ she said, ‘but I’ve not finished yet. Just listen.’
Miss Spencer folded her arms, and glanced at the door, smiling bitterly.
‘You know my father is a millionaire; perhaps you know that he is one of the richest men in the world. If I give you my word of honour not to reveal anything that you’ve told me, what will you take to let me go free?’
‘What sum do you suggest?’ asked Miss Spencer carelessly.
‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ said Nella promptly. She had begun to regard the affair as a business operation.
Miss Spencer’s lip curled.
‘A hundred thousand.’
Again Miss Spencer’s lip curled.
‘Well, say a million. I can rely on my father, and so may you.’
‘You think you are worth a million to him?’
‘I do,’ said Nella.
‘And you think we could trust you to see that it was paid?’
‘Of course you could.’
‘And we should not suffer afterwards in any way?’
‘I would give you my word, and my father’s word.’
‘Bah!’ exclaimed Miss Spencer: ‘how do you know I wouldn’t let you go free for nothing? You are only a rash, silly girl.’
‘I know you wouldn’t. I can read your face too well.’
‘You are right,’ Miss Spencer replied slowly. ‘I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let you go for all the dollars in America.’
Nella felt cold down the spine, and sat down again in her chair. A draught of air from the broken window blew on her cheek. Steps sounded in the passage; the door opened, but Nella did not turn round. She could not move her eyes from Miss Spencer’s. There was a noise of rushing water in her ears. She lost consciousness, and slipped limply to the ground.