CHAPTER XII
LOLA
Several times I re-read the account of the dastardly outrage.
Too well I knew how dangerous and desperate a man was Jules Jeanjean,the studious, and apparently harmless, Belgian doctor, who had lodged inthe Overstrand Road, and had strolled about the pier and promenade ofCromer. His name, during the last three years or so, had become wellknown from end to end of Europe as an Anarchist who defied all thepowers of law and order; a man who moved from place to place withmarvellous swiftness, and who passed from frontier to frontier under thevery noses of the commissaries of police stationed there.
His narrowest escape of capture had been one day in Charleroi, where,while sitting before the _Cafe des XXV_, he had been recognized by aninspector of the French _Surete_, who was in Belgium upon anothermatter. The inspector called a local agent of police, who suddenlypounced upon him, but in an instant Jeanjean had drawn a revolver, withwhich he shot the unfortunate policeman dead, and, in the confusion,escaped.
He then wrote an impudent letter to the Prefecture of Police in Paris,telling them that his intention was to serve any other police agent thesame who might attempt to arrest him.
I took from my dispatch-box the copy I had made of the letter inItalian, found at Beacon House. In the light of that newspaper report itproved curious and interesting reading.
Who was the writer, Egisto? Evidently one of the conspirators. It was areport to his "Illustrious Master," of what had been done. Who was hisMaster? Surely not Jules Jeanjean, because one sentence read, "J.arrives back in Algiers to-morrow."
Was it possible that the "Illustrious Master"--the man who actuallyplotted and directed those dramatic coups--was none other than oldGregory himself!
The letter was certainly a report to the head of an association ofdangerous malefactors. Who "H." was, who had "left as arranged," I knewnot, but "J." evidently indicated Jules Jeanjean, and the fact that hewould arrive back in Algiers on the morrow, showed first, that hishiding-place was on the other side of the Mediterranean; and, secondly,that after the crime a dash had been made to the south to join themail-boat at Marseilles. The writer, Egisto, had left the other,travelling via Brindisi, to Port Said, so leaving the Paris police toagain search for them in vain.
"Does H. know anything, do you think?" was the question Egisto had askedin his letter.
Did "H." indicate Monsieur Hamard, the Chef de la Surete?
My own theory was that "H." did indicate that well-known official, whomthe gang had so often defied.
The writer, too, declared that "The Nightingale" still sang on blithely.
I knew the singer, the pretty, refined, fair-haired girl, so neat anddainty, with the sweet, clear contralto voice. It was Lola--Lola Sorel!
On the morning of August 24, I was standing with Mr. Day on thewell-kept lawn outside the coast-guard station, watching the life-boatbeing launched for the benefit of the visitors, and in order to collectfunds for the Life-boat Institution. The morning was perfect, withbright sunshine, a clear sky and glassy sea. Below us, the promenade andbeach were thronged with summer visitors in light clothes, and the scenewas one of brightness and merriment.
Amid the cheers of the waiting crowd the life-boat, guided by itsgallant crew of North Sea fishermen, wearing their cork belts, wentslowly down to the water's edge. The instant it was launched, Mr. Day,who held a huge pistol in his hand, fired a green rocket high into theair--the signal to the Haisboro' Lightship that aid was on its way.
Just as he had done so, a telegraph-boy handed me a message.
I tore it open and read the words--
"Can you meet me at the _Maid's Head Hotel_, Norwich, this afternoon atfour? Urgent. Reply, _King's Head Hotel_, Beccles--LOLA."
My heart gave a great bound.
From the messenger I obtained a telegraph-form, and at once replied inthe affirmative.
Just before four o'clock I entered the covered courtyard of the old_Maid's Head Hotel_, in Norwich, one of the most famous and popularhostelries in Norfolk. John Peston mentioned it in 1472, when its signwas _The Murtel_ or _Molde Fish_, and to-day, remodelled with taste, andits ancient features jealously preserved, it is well known to everymotorist who visits the capital of Norfolk, the metropolis of EasternEngland.
I engaged a small private sitting-room on the first-floor, a pretty,old-fashioned apartment with bright chintzes, and a bowl of fresh rosesupon the polished table in the centre. Telling the waiter I expected alady, I stood at the window to await my visitor.
As I stood there, all-impatient, the Cathedral chimes close by told thehour of four, and shortly afterwards I heard the noise of a car turningfrom the street into the courtyard.
Was it Lola?
From the room in which I was I could not see either roadway orcourtyard, therefore I waited, my ears strained to catch the sound offootsteps upon the stairs.
Suddenly I heard some one ascending. The handle of the door was turned,and next second I found myself face to face with the slim, fair-hairedgirl whose coming I had so long awaited.
She came forward smiling, her white-gloved hand outstretched, her prettycountenance slightly flushed, exclaiming in French--
"Ah! M'sieu' Vidal! After all this time!"
"It is not my fault, Mademoiselle, that we are such strangers," Ireplied with a smile, bowing over her hand as the waiter closed thedoor.
She was a charming little person, sweet and dainty from head to foot.Dressed in a black coat and skirt, the former relieved with a collar ofturquoise silk, and the latter cut short, so that her silk-encasedankles and small shoes were revealed. She wore a tiny close-fitting felthat, and a boa of grey ostrich feathers around her neck.
Her countenance was pale with well-moulded features of soft sympatheticbeauty, a finely-poised head with pretty dimpled chin, and a straightnose, well-defined eyebrows, and a pair of eyes of that clear blue thatalways seemed to me unfathomable.
I drew forward a chair, and she sank into it, stretching forth her smallfeet and displaying her neat black silk stockings from beneath the hemof her short skirt, which, adorned with big ball buttons, was discreetlyopened at the side to allow freedom in walking.
"Well, and why did you not call again upon me in Cromer?" I asked inEnglish, for I knew that she spoke our language always perfectly.
"Because--well, because I was unable," was her reply.
"Why did you not write?" I asked. "I've been waiting weeks for you."
"I know. I heard so," she said with a smile. "I am ve-ry sorry, but Iwas prevented," she went on with a pretty, musical accent. "That sameevening I called upon you, I had to leave Cromer ve-ry hurriedly."
A strange thought flashed across my mind. Had her sudden departure beendue to the theft at Beacon House? Had she been present then and lost hershoe?
I glanced at the shoes she wore. They were very smart, of black patentleather, with a strip of white leather along the upper edge. Yes, thesize looked to me just the same as that of the little shoe which soexactly fitted the imprint I had made in the sand.
"Why did you leave so quickly?" I asked, standing before her, andleaning against the table, as I looked into the wonderful eyes of thechic little Parisienne.
"I was compelled," was her brief response.
"You might have written to me."
"What was the use, M'sieu' Vidal? I went straight back to France. Thento Austria, Hungary, and Russia," she answered. "Only the day beforeyesterday I returned to London."
"From where?"
"From Algiers."
Algiers! The mention of that town recalled the fact that it was thehiding-place of the notorious Jules Jeanjean.
"Why have you been in Algiers--and in August, too?"
"Not for pleasure," she replied with a grim smile. "The place is aperfect oven just now--as you may well imagine. But I was forced to go."
"Forced against your will, Lola, eh?" I asked, bending towards her, andlooking her full in the face very seriously.
"Y
es," she admitted, her eyes cast down, "against my will. I had amessage to deliver."
"To whom?"
"To my uncle."
"Not a message," I said, correcting her. "Something more valuable thanmere words. Is not that so?"
The Nightingale nodded in the affirmative, her blue eyes still downcastin shame.
"Where was your starting-point?" I asked.
"In St. Petersburg, a fortnight ago. I was given the little box in the_Hotel de l'Europe_, and that night I concealed its contents in theclothes I wore. Some of them I sewed into the hem of my travelling-coat,and, and----"
"Stones they were, I suppose?" I said, interrupting.
"Yes, from Lobenski's, the jeweller's in the Nevski," she replied."Well, that night I left Petersburg and travelled to Vienna, thence toTrieste, where I found my uncle's yacht awaiting me, and we went downthe Adriatic and along the Mediterranean to Algiers. My uncle wasalready at home. The _coup_ was a large one, I believe. Have you seenreports of it in the English papers?" she asked.
"Certainly," I replied. For a fortnight before I had read in several ofthe newspapers of the daring robbery committed at the shop of Lobenski,the Russian Court Jeweller, and of the theft of a large quantity ofdiamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The safe, believed to be impregnable,had been fused by an oxygen acetylene jet, and the whole of its contentsstolen. From what Lola had revealed, it seemed that Jeanjean had had noactual hand in the theft, for he had been in Algiers awaiting the booty.But he always travelled swiftly after a _coup_.
"Did the papers say much about it?" asked Lola, with interest.
"Oh, just a sensational story," I replied. "But I never dreamt that youwere in Russia, Lola--that you had carried the stones across Europe sewnin your dress!"
"Ah! It is not the first time, as you know, M'sieu' Vidal," she sighed."There is always danger of some customs officer or agent of policerecognizing me. But uncle says I am unsuspected, and hence the work isassigned always to me."
"And you have come to England to see me--eh? Why?" I asked, lookingagain into her clear blue eyes.
"I have come, M'sieu' Vidal, in order to ask a further favour of you--arequest I almost fear to make after your great generosity towards me."
"Oh! Don't let us speak of that," I said. "It is all past and over. Ionly acted as any other man would have done in the circumstances, Lola!"
"You acted as a gentleman would act," she said. "But, alas! How few realgentlemen are met by a wretched girl like myself," she added bitterly."Suppose you had acted as thousands would have done. Where should I benow? Spending my days in one of your female prisons here."
"Instead of which you are still the little Nightingale, who sings soblithely, and who is so inexpressibly dainty and charming," I said witha smile. "At the best hotels up and down Europe, Lola Sorel is awell-known figure, always ready to flirt with the idle youngsters, andto make herself pleasant to those of her own sex. Only they must bewealthy--eh?"
She made a quick movement as though to arrest the flow of my words.
"You are, alas! right, M'sieu' Vidal," she replied. "Ah, if you onlyknew how I hate it all--how day by day, hour by hour--I fear that I mayblunder and consequently find myself in the hands of the police--if----"
"Never, if you follow your uncle, Jules Jeanjean," I interrupted. "And,I suppose, you are still doing so?"
She sighed heavily, and a hard expression crossed her pretty face.
"Alas! I am forced to. You know the bitter truth, M'sieu' Vidal--thetragedy of my life."
For a few moments I remained silent, my eyes upon her.
I knew full well the strange, romantic story of that pretty French girlseated before me--the sweet, refined little person--scarcely more than achild--whose present, and whose future, were so entirely in the hands ofthat notorious criminal.
Why had I not telegraphed to the Paris police on discovering Jeanjean'spresence in Cromer? For one reason alone. Because his arrest would alsomean hers. He had too vowed in my presence that if he were ever takenalive, he would betray his niece, because she had once, in a moment ofdespair and horror, at one of his cold-blooded crimes, threatened togive him away.
As she sat there, her face sweet and soft as a child's, her blue eyes soclear and innocent, one would never dream that she was the cat's-paw ofthe most ingenious and dangerous association of jewel thieves in thewhole of Europe.
Truly her story was a strange one--one of the strangest of any girl inthe world.
She noticed my thoughtfulness, and suddenly put out her little handuntil it touched mine; then, looking into my eyes, she asked, in a low,intense voice--
"What are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking of you, Lola," I replied. "I am wondering what reallyhappened in Cromer, back in the month of June. You are here toexplain--eh? Will you tell me?"
Her brows contracted slightly, and she drew her hand back from mine.
"You know what happened," she said.
"I don't. Explain it all to me in confidence," I urged. "You surely knowme well enough to rely upon my keeping the secret."
"Ah, no!" she cried, starting up suddenly, a strange light of fear inher eyes. "Never, M'sieu' Vidal! I--I can tell you nothing ofthat--nothing more than what you already know. Please don't askme--never ask me again, for I--I can't tell you! It was all toodastardly, too terrible!"
And the girl, with a wild gesture, covered her pale face with her littlehands as though to shut out from memory the grim recollection of a scenethat was full of bitterness and horror.
"But you will tell me the truth, Lola. Do. I beg of you?" I urged,placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.
"No," she cried in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "No. Don't ask me.Please don't ask me."