CHAPTER X
SIGNS OF TROUBLE
At ten o'clock the next morning, Hunterleys crossed the sunlit gardenstowards the English bank, to receive what was, perhaps, the greatestshock of his life. A few minutes later he stood before the mahoganycounter, his eyes fixed upon the half sheet of notepaper which themanager had laid before him. The words were few enough and simpleenough, yet they constituted for him a message written in the very inkof tragedy. The notepaper was the notepaper of the Hotel de Paris, thedate the night before, the words few and unmistakable:
To the Manager of the English Bank. Please hand my letters to bearer.
HENRY HUNTERLEYS.
He read it over, letter by letter, word by word. Then at last he lookedup. His voice sounded, even to himself, unnatural.
"You were quite right," he said. "This order is a forgery."
The manager was greatly disturbed. He threw open the door of his privateoffice.
"Come and sit down for a moment, will you, Sir Henry?" he invited. "Thisis a very serious matter, and I should like to discuss it with you."
They passed behind into the comfortable little sitting-room, smelling ofmorocco leather and roses, with its single high window, its broadwriting-table, its carefully placed easy-chairs. Men had pleaded in herewith all the eloquence at their command, men of every rank and walk inlife, thieves, nobles, ruined men and pseudo-millionaires, always withthe same cry--money; money for the great pleasure-mill which day andnight drew in its own. Hunterleys sank heavily into a chair. The managerseated himself in an official attitude before his desk.
"I am sorry to have distressed you with this letter, Sir Henry," hesaid. "However, you must admit that things might have been worse. It isfortunately our invariable custom, when letters are addressed to one ofour clients in our care, to deliver them to no one else under anycircumstances. If you had been ill, for instance, I should have broughtyou your correspondence across to the hotel, but I should not havedelivered it to your own secretary. That, as I say, is our invariablerule, and we find that it has saved many of our clients frominconvenience. In your case," the manager concluded impressively, "yourcommunications being, in a sense, official, any such attempt as has beenmade would not stand the slightest chance of success. We should be evenmore particular than in any ordinary case to see that by no possiblechance could any correspondence addressed to you, fall into otherhands."
Hunterleys began to recover himself a little. He drew towards himselfthe heap of letters which the manager had laid by his side.
"Please make yourself quite comfortable here," the latter begged. "Readyour letters and answer them, if you like, before you go out. I alwayscall this," he added, with a smile, "the one inviolable sanctuary ofMonte Carlo."
"You are very kind," Hunterleys replied. "Are you sure that I am notdetaining you?"
"Not in the least. Personally, I am not at all busy. Three-quarters ofour business, you see, is merely a matter of routine. I was just goingto shut myself up here and read the _Times_. Have a cigarette? Here's anenvelope opener and a waste-paper basket. Make yourself comfortable."
Hunterleys glanced through his correspondence, rapidly reading anddestroying the greater portion of it. He came at last to two parchmentenvelopes marked "On His Majesty's Service." These he opened and readtheir contents slowly and with great care. When he had finished, heproduced a pair of scissors from his waistcoat pocket and cut theletters into minute fragments. He drew a little sigh of relief when atlast their final destruction was assured, and rose shortly afterwards tohis feet.
"I shall have to go on to the telegraph office," he said, "to send thesefew messages. Thank you very much, Mr. Harrison, for your kindness. Ifyou do not mind, I should like to take this forged order away with me."
The manager hesitated.
"I am not sure that I ought to part with it," he observed doubtfully.
"Could you recognise the person who presented it--you or your clerk?"
The manager shook his head.
"Not a chance," he replied. "It was brought in, unfortunately, before Iarrived. Young Parsons, who was the only one in the bank, explained thatletters were never delivered to an order, and turned away to attend tosome one else who was in a hurry. He simply remembers that it was a man,and that is all."
"Then the document is useless to you," Hunterleys pointed out. "Youcould never do anything in the matter without evidence ofidentification, and that being so, if you don't mind I should like tohave it."
Mr. Harrison yielded it up.
"As you wish," he agreed. "It is interesting, if only as a curiosity.The imitation of your signature is almost perfect."
Hunterleys took up his hat. Then for a moment, with his hand upon thedoor, he hesitated.
"Mr. Harrison," he said, "I am engaged just now, as you have doubtlesssurmised, in certain investigations on behalf of the usual third partywhom we need not name. Those investigations have reached a pitch whichmight possibly lead me into a position of some--well, I might almost saydanger. You and I both know that there are weapons in this place whichcan be made use of by persons wholly without scruples, which arescarcely available at home. I want you to keep your eyes open. I havevery few friends here whom I can wholly trust. It is my purpose to callin here every morning at ten o'clock for my letters, and if I fail toarrive within half-an-hour of that time without having given you verbalnotice, something will have happened to me. You understand what I mean?"
"You mean that you are threatened with assassination?" the manager askedgravely.
"Practically it amounts to that," Hunterleys admitted. "I received awarning letter this morning. There is a very important matter on foothere, Mr. Harrison, a matter so important that to bring it to asuccessful conclusion I fancy that those who are engaged in it would nothesitate to face any risk. I have wired to England for help. If anythinghappens that it comes too late, I want you, when you find that I havedisappeared, even if my disappearance is only a temporary matter, to letthem know in London--you know how--at once."
The manager nodded.
"I will do so," he promised. "I trust, however," he went on, "that youare exaggerating the danger. Mr. Billson lived here for many yearswithout any trouble."
Hunterleys smiled slightly.
"I am not a Secret Service man," he explained. "Billson's successorlives here now, of course, and is working with me, under the usual guiseof newspaper correspondent. I don't think that he will come to any harm.But I am here in a somewhat different position, and my negotiations inthe east, during the last few weeks, have made me exceedingly unpopularwith some very powerful people. However, it is only an outside chance,of course, that I wish to guard against. I rely upon you, if I shouldfail to come to the bank any one morning without giving you notice, todo as I have asked."
Hunterleys left the bank and walked out once more into the sunlight. Hefirst of all made his way down to the Post Office, where he rapidlydispatched several cablegrams which he had coded and written out in Mr.Harrison's private office. Afterwards he went on to the Terrace, andfinding a retired seat at the further end, sat down. Then he drew theforged order once more from his pocket. Word by word, line by line, hestudied it, and the more he studied it, the more hopeless the wholething seemed. The handwriting, with the exception of the signature,which was a wonderful imitation of his own, was the handwriting of hiswife. She had done this thing at Draconmeyer's instigation, done thisthing against her husband, taken sides absolutely with the man whom hehad come to look upon as his enemy! What inference was he to draw? Hesat there, looking out over the Mediterranean, soft and blue, glitteringwith sunlight, breaking upon the yellow stretch of sand in littlefoam-flecked waves no higher than his hand. He watched the sunlightglitter on the white houses which fringed the bay. He looked idly up atthe trim little vineyards on the brown hill-side. It was the beauty spotof the world. There was no object upon which his eyes could rest, whichwas not beautiful. The whole place was like a feast of colour and formand sunshi
ne. Yet for him the light seemed suddenly to have faded fromlife. Danger had only stimulated him, had helped him to cope with thedull pain which he had carried about with him during the last fewmonths. He was face to face now with something else. It was worse, this,than anything he had dreamed. Somehow or other, notwithstanding thegrowing estrangement with his wife which had ended in their virtualseparation, he had still believed in her, still had faith in her, stillhad hope of an ultimate reconciliation. And behind it all, he had lovedher. It seemed at that moment that a nightmare was being formed aroundhim. A new horror was creeping into his thoughts. He had felt from thefirst a bitter dislike of Draconmeyer. Now, however, he realised thatthis feeling had developed into an actual and harrowing jealousy. Herealised that the man was no passive agent. It was Draconmeyer who, withsubtle purpose, was drawing his wife away! Hunterleys sprang to his feetand walked angrily backwards and forwards along the few yards ofTerrace, which happened at that moment to be almost deserted. Vagueplans of instant revenge upon Draconmeyer floated into his mind. It wassimple enough to take the law into his own hands, to thrash himpublicly, to make Monte Carlo impossible for him. And then, suddenly, heremembered his duty. They were trusting him in Downing Street. Chancehad put into his hands so many threads of this diabolical plot. It wasfor him to checkmate it. He was the only person who could checkmate it.This was no time for him to think of personal revenge, no time for himto brood over his own broken life. There was work still to be done--hiscountry's work....
He felt the need of change of scene. The sight of the place with itsplacid, enervating beauty, its constant appeal to the senses, wasbeginning to have a curious effect upon his nerves. He turned back uponthe Terrace, and by means of the least frequented streets he passedthrough the town and up towards the hills. He walked steadily, recklessof time or direction. He had lunch at a small inn high above the roadfrom Cannes, and it was past three o'clock when he turned homewards. Hehad found his way into the main road now and he trudged along heedlessof the dust with which the constant procession of automobiles coveredhim all the while. The exercise had done him good. He was able to keephis thoughts focussed upon his mission. So far, at any rate, he had heldhis own. His dispatches to London had been clear and vivid. He had toldthem exactly what he had feared, he had shown them the inside of thisscheme as instinct had revealed it to him, and he had begged for aid.One man alone, surrounded by enemies, and in a country where all thingswere possible, was in a parlous position if once the extent of hisknowledge were surmised. So far, the plot had not yet matured. So far,though the clouds had gathered and the thunder was muttering, the stormhad not broken. The reason for that he knew--the one person needed, theone person for whose coming all these plans had been made, had not yetarrived. There was no telling, however, how long the respite might last.At any moment might commence this conference, whose avowed purpose wasto break at a single blow, a single treacherous but deadly blow, theEmpire whose downfall Selingman had once publicly declared was the onegreat necessity involved by his country's expansion....
Hunterleys quenched his thirst at a roadside cafe, sitting out upon thepavement and drinking coarse red wine and soda-water. Then he bought apacket of black cigarettes and continued his journey. He was withinsight of Monte Carlo when for the twentieth time he had to step to thefar side of the pathway to avoid being smothered in dust by an advancingautomobile. This time, by some chance, he glanced around, attracted bythe piercing character of its long-distance whistle. A high-powered greytouring car came by, travelling at a great pace. Hunterleys stoodperfectly rigid, one hand grasping the wall by the side of which hestood. Notwithstanding his spectacles and the thick coating of dust uponhis clothes, the solitary passenger of the car was familiar enough tohim. It was the man for whom this plot had been prepared. It was PaulDouaille, the great Foreign Minister into whose hands even the mostcautious of Premiers had declared himself willing to place the destiniesof his country!
Hunterleys pursued the road no longer. He took a ticket at the nextstation and hurried back to Monte Carlo. He went first to his room,bathed and changed, and, passing along the private passage, made his wayinto the Sporting Club. The first person whom he saw, seated in heraccustomed place at her favourite table, was his wife. She beckoned himto come over to her. There was a vacant chair by her side to which shepointed.
"Thank you," he said, "I won't sit down. I don't think that I care toplay just now. You are fortunate this afternoon, I trust?"
Something in his face and tone checked that rush of altered feeling ofwhich she had been more than once passionately conscious since the nightbefore.
"I am hideously out of luck," she confessed slowly. "I have been losingall day. I think that I shall give it up."
She rose wearily to her feet and he felt a sudden compassion for her.She was certainly looking tired. Her eyes were weary, she had the air ofan unhappy woman. After all, perhaps she too sometimes knew whatloneliness was.
"I should like some tea so much," she added, a little piteously.
He opened his lips to invite her to pass through into the restaurantwith him. Then the memory of that forged order still in his pocket,flashed into his mind. He hesitated. A cold, familiar voice at his elbowintervened.
"Are you quite ready for tea, Lady Hunterleys? I have been in and takena table near the window."
Hunterleys moved at once on one side. Draconmeyer bowed pleasantly.
"Cheerful time we had last night, hadn't we?" he remarked. "Glad to seeyour knock didn't lay you up."
Hunterleys disregarded his wife's glance. He was suddenly furious.
"All Monte Carlo seems to be gossiping about that little contretemps,"Draconmeyer continued. "It was a crude sort of hold-up for aneighbourhood of criminals, but it very nearly came off. Will you havesome tea with us?"
"Do, Henry," his wife begged.
Once again he hesitated. Somehow or other, he felt that the moment wascritical. Then a hand was laid quietly upon his arm, a man's voicewhispered in his ear.
"Monsieur will be so kind as to step this way for a moment--a littlematter of business."
"Who are you?" Hunterleys demanded.
"The Commissioner of Police, at monsieur's service."