SEVENTH CHAPTER
FROM DARK TO DAWN
In the darkness the car went swiftly through Mentone and along the steepwinding road which leads around the rugged coast close to the sea--theroad over the yellow rocks which Napoleon made into Italy.
Presently they began to ascend a hill, a lonely, wind-swept highway withthe sea plashing deep below, when, after a sudden bend, some lights cameinto view. It was the wayside Italian Customs House.
They had arrived at the frontier.
Hugh, by the aid of a flash-lamp, had put on a grey moustache andchanged his clothes, putting his own into the suit case wherein he hadfound the suit already prepared for him. He had wrapped himself up ina heavy travelling-rug, and by his side reposed a pair of crutches, sothat when they drew up before the little roadside office of the Italian_dogana_ he was reclining upon a cushion presenting quite a patheticfigure.
But who had made all these preparations for his flight?
He held his breath as the chauffeur sounded his horn to announce hisarrival. Then the door opened, shedding a long ray of light across thewhite dusty road.
"_Buona sera, signore_!" cried the chauffeur merrily, as a Customsofficer in uniform came forward. "Here's my driving licence and papersfor the car. And our two passports."
The man took them, examined them by the light of his electric torch, andtold the chauffeur to go into the office for the visas.
"Have you anything to declare?" he added in Italian.
"Half a dozen very bad cigarettes," replied the other, laughing."They're French! And also I've got a very bad cold! No duty on that, Isuppose?"
The officer laughed, and then turned his attention to the petrol tank,into which he put his measuring iron to see how much it contained, whilethe facetious chauffeur stood by.
During this operation two other men came out of the building, one anItalian carabineer in epaulettes and cocked hat, while the other, talland shrewd-faced, was in mufti. The latter was the agent of Frenchpolice who inspects all travellers leaving France by road.
The chauffeur realized that the moment was a critical one.
He was rolling a cigarette unconcernedly, but bending to the Customsofficer, he said in a low voice:
"My _padrone_ is an _Americano_. An invalid, and a bit eccentric. Lotsof money. A long time ago he injured his spine and can hardly move.He fell down a few days ago, and now I've got to take him to ProfessorLandrini, in Turin. He's pretty bad. We've come from Hyeres. His doctorordered me to take him to Turin at once. We don't want any delay. Hetold me to give you this," and he slipped a note for a hundred lire intothe man's hand.
The officer expressed surprise, but the merry chauffeur of the richAmerican exclaimed:
"Don't worry. The _Americano_ is very rich; I only wish there were moreof his sort about. He's the great Headon, the meat-canner of Chicago.You see his name on the tins."
The man recognized the name, and at once desisted in his examination.
Then to the two police officers who came to his side, he explained:
"The American gentleman inside is an invalid, going to Turin toProfessor Landrini. He wants to get off at once, for he has a longjourney over the Alps."
The French agent of police grunted suspiciously. Both the French andItalian police are very astute, but money always talks. It is the sameat a far-remote frontier station as in any circle of society.
Here was a well-known American--the Customs officer had mentioned thename of Headon, which both police officers recognized--an invalid sentwith all haste to the famous surgeon in Turin. It was not likely that hewould be carrying contraband, or be an escaping criminal.
Besides, the chauffeur, in full view of the two police agents, slipped asecond note into the hand of the Customs officer, and said:
"So all is well, isn't it, signori? Just visa my papers, and we'll getalong. It looks as though we're to have a bad thunderstorm, and, if so,we shall catch it up on the Col di Tenda!"
Thus impelled, the quartette went back to the well-lit little building,where the beetle-browed driver again chaffed the police-agents, whilethe Customs officer placed his rubber stamp upon the paper, scribbledhis initials and charged three-lire-twenty as fee.
All this was being watched with breathless anxiety by the supposedinvalid reclining against the cushion with his crutches at his side.
Again the mysterious chauffeur reappeared, and with him the Frenchpolice officer in plain clothes.
"We are keeping watch for a young Englishman from Monte Carlo who hasshot a woman," remarked the latter.
"Oh! But they arrested him to-night in Mentone," replied the driver. "Iheard it half an hour ago as I came through."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, they told me so at the Garage Grimaldi. He shot a woman known asMademoiselle of Monte Carlo--didn't he?"
"Yes, that's the man! But they have not informed us yet. I'll telephoneto Mentone." Then he added: "As a formality I'll just have a peep atyour master."
The chauffeur held his breath.
"He's pretty bad, I think. I hope we shall be in Turin early in themorning."
Advancing to the car, the police officer opened the door and flashed historch upon the occupant.
He saw a pale, elderly man, with a grey moustache, wearing a golf capeand reclining uneasily upon the pillow, with his leg propped up andwrapped with a heavy travelling-rug. Upon the white countenance was anexpression of pain as he turned wearily, his eyes dazzled by the suddenlight.
"Where are we?" he asked faintly in English.
"At the Italian _douane_, m'sieur," was the police officer's reply, asfor a few seconds he gazed upon the invalid's face, seconds that seemedhours to Hugh. He was, of course, unaware of the cock-and-bull storywhich his strange chauffeur had told, and feared that at any moment hemight find himself under arrest.
While the door remained open there was danger. At last, however, the manreclosed it.
Hugh's heart gave a great bound. The chauffeur had restarted the engine,and mounting to the wheel shouted a merry:
"_Buona notte, signori_!"
Then the car moved away along the winding road and Hugh knew that he wason Italian soil--that he had happily escaped from France.
But why had he escaped, he reflected? He was innocent. Would not hisflight lend colour to the theory that Yvonne Ferad had been shot by hishand?
Again, who was his unknown friend who had warned him of his peril andmade those elaborate arrangements for his escape? Besides, where wasWalter?
His brain was awhirl. As they tore along in the darkness ever besidethe sea over that steep and dangerous road along the rock coast, HughHenfrey fell to wondering what the motive of it all could be. Why hadYvonne been shot just at that critical moment? It was evident that shehad been closely watched by someone to whom her silence meant a verygreat deal.
She had told him that his father had been a good man, and she was onthe point of disclosing to him the great secret when she had been struckdown.
What was the mystery of it all? Ay, what indeed?
He recalled every incident of that fateful night, her indignation at hispresence in her house, and her curious softening of manner towards him,as though repentant and ready to make amends.
Then he wondered what Dorise would think when he failed to put in anappearance to go with her to the ball at Nice. He pictured the carwaiting outside the hotel, Lady Ranscomb fidgeting and annoyed, thecount elegant and all smiles and graces, and Dorise, anxious and eager,going to the telephone and speaking to the concierge at the Palmiers.Then inquiry for Monsieur Henfrey, and the discovery that he had leftthe hotel unseen.
So far Dorise knew nothing of Hugh's part in the drama of the VillaAmette, but suddenly he was horrified by the thought that the police,finding he had escaped, would question her. They had been seen togethermany times in Monte Carlo, and the eyes of the police of Monaco arealways very wide open. They know much, but are usually inactive. Whenone recollects that all the _escrocs_ of Europ
e gather at the _tapisvert_ in winter and spring, it is not surprising that they close theireyes to such minor crimes as theft, blackmail and false pretences.
In his excited and unnerved state, he pictured Ogier calling upon LadyRanscomb and questioning her closely concerning her young English friendwho was so frequently seen with her daughter. That would, surely,end their friendship! Lady Ranscomb would never allow her daughter toassociate further with a man accused of attempting to murder a notoriouswoman after midnight!
The car presently descended the steep rocky road which wound up over thepromontory and back again down to the sea, until they passed through thelittle frontier town of Ventimiglia.
It was late, and few people were about in the narrow, ill-lit streets.
Suddenly, a couple of Italian carabineers stopped the car.
Hugh's heart beat quickly. Had they at the _dogana_ discovered the trickand telephoned from the frontier?
Instantly the fugitive reassumed his role of invalid, and no sooner hadhe settled himself than the second man in a cocked hat and heavy blackcloak opened the door and peered within.
Another lamp was flashed upon his face.
The carabineer asked in Italian:
"What is your name, signore?"
But Hugh, pretending that he did not understand the language, asked:
"Eh? What?"
"Here are our papers, signore," interrupted the ever-ready chauffeur,and he produced the papers for the officer's inspection.
He looked at them, bending to read them by the light of the torch whichhis companion held.
Then, after an officious gesture, he handed them back, saying:
"_Benissimo_! You may pass!"
Again Hugh was free! Yet he wondered if that examination had beenconsequent upon the hue and cry set up now that he had escaped fromMonaco.
They passed out of the straggling town of Ventimiglia, but instead ofturning up the valley by that long road which winds up over the Alpsuntil it reaches the snow and then passes through the tunnel on the Coldi Tenda and on to Cuneo and Turin, the mysterious driver kept on by thesea-road towards Bordighera.
Hugh realised that his guide's intention was to go in the direction ofGenoa.
About two miles out of Ospedaletti, on the road to San Remo, Henfreyrapped at the window, and the chauffeur, who was travelling at highspeed, pulled up.
Hugh got out and said in French:
"Well, so far we've been successful. I admire your ingenuity and yourpluck."
The man laughed and thanked him.
"I have done what I was told to do," he replied simply. "Monsieur is, Iunderstand, in a bit of a scrape, and it is for all of us to assist eachother--is it not?"
"Of course. But who told you to do all this?" Hugh inquired, standing inthe dark road beside the car. The pair could not see each other's faces,though the big head-lamps glared far ahead over the white road.
"Well--a friend of yours, m'sieur."
"What is his name?"
"Pardon, I am not allowed to say."
"But all this is so very strange--so utterly mysterious!" cried Hugh."I have not committed any crime, and yet I am hunted by the police!They are anxious to arrest me for an offence of which I am entirelyinnocent."
"I know that, m'sieur," was the fellow's reply. "At the _dogana_,however, we had a narrow escape. The man who looked at you was Morain,the chief inspector of the Surete of the Alpes-Maritimes, and he was atthe outpost especially to stop you!"
"Again I admire your perfect nonchalance and ingenuity," Hugh said. "Iowe my liberty entirely to you."
"Not liberty, m'sieur. We are not yet what you say in English 'out ofthe wood.'"
"Where are we going now?"
"To Genoa. We ought to be there by early morning," was the reply."Morain has, no doubt, telephoned to Mentone and discovered that mystory is false. So if later, on, they suspect the American invalidthey will be looking out for him on the Col di Tenda, in Cuneo, and inTurin."
"And what shall we do in Genoa?"
"Let us get there first--and see."
"But I wish you would tell me who you are--and why you take such a keeninterest in my welfare," Hugh said.
The man gave vent to an irritating laugh.
"I am not permitted to disclose the identity of your friend," heanswered. "All I know is that you are innocent."
"Then perhaps you know the guilty person?" Hugh suggested.
"Ah! Let us talk of something else, signore," was the mysteriouschauffeur's reply.
"But I confess to you that I am bent upon solving the mystery ofMademoiselle's assailant. It means a very great deal to me."
"How?" asked the man.
Hugh hesitated.
"Well," he replied. "If the culprit is found, then there would no longerbe any suspicion against myself."
"Probably he never will be found," the man said.
"But tell me, how did you know about the affair, and why are you riskingarrest by driving me to-night?"
"I have reasons," was all he would say. "I obey the demands of those whoare your friends."
"Who are they?"
"They desire to conceal their identity. There is a strong reason whythis should be done."
"Why?"
"Are they not protecting one who is suspected of a serious crime? Ifdiscovered they would be punished," was the quiet response.
"Ah! There is some hidden motive behind all this!" declared the youngEnglishman. "I rather regret that I did not remain and face the music."
"It would have been far too dangerous, signore. Your enemies would havecontrived to convict you of the crime."
"My enemies--but who are they?"
"Of that, signore, I am ignorant. Only I have been told that you haveenemies, and very bitter ones."
"But I have committed no crime, and yet I am a fugitive from justice!"Hugh cried.
"You escaped in the very nick of time," the man replied. "But had we notbetter be moving again? We must be in Genoa by daybreak."
"But do, I beg of you, tell me more," the young man implored. "To whomdo I owe my liberty?"
"As I have already told you, signore, you owe it to those who intend toprotect you from a false charge."
"Yes. But there is a lady in the case," Hugh said. "I fear that if shehears that I am a fugitive she will misjudge me and believe me to beguilty."
"Probably so. That is, I admit, unfortunate--but, alas! it cannot beavoided. It was, however, better for you to get out of France."
"But the French police, when they know that I have escaped, willprobably ask the Italian police to arrest me, and then apply for myextradition."
"If they did, I doubt whether you would be surrendered. The police of mycountry are not too fond of assisting those of other countries. Thus ifan Italian commits murder in a foreign country and gets back to Italy,our Government will refuse to give him up. There have been many suchcases, and the murderer goes scot free."
"Then you think I am safe in Italy?"
"Oh, no, not by any means. You are not an Italian subject. No, you mustnot be very long in Italy."
"But what am I to do when we get to Genoa?" Hugh asked.
"The signore had better wait until we arrive there," was the driver'senigmatical reply.
Then the supposed invalid re-entered the car and they continued ontheir way along the bleak, storm-swept road beside the sea towards thatfavourite resort of the English, San Remo.
The night had grown pitch dark, and rain had commenced to fall. Beforethe car the great head-lamps threw long beams of white light againstwhich Hugh saw the silhouette of the muffled-up mysterious driver, withhis keen eyes fixed straight before him, and driving at such a pace thatit was apparent that he knew every inch of the dangerous road.
What could it all mean? What, indeed?