CHAPTER XIII
THE LISTENER
Sheard sat with both elbows resting upon his writing-table. A suburbanquietude reigned about him, for the hour was long past midnight. Beforehim was spread out the final edition of the _Gleaner_ and prominent uponthe front page appeared:--
SIR LEOPOLD JESSON AND MR. HOHSMANN FALL INTO LINE
With a tact which was inspired by private information from a certainsource, the _Gleaner_ had pooh-poohed the story of the mysterious cardsreceived by the guests at Julius Rohscheimer's. The story had leakedout, of course, but Sheard was in no way responsible for the leakage.
Frantically, representatives of the _Gleaner's_ rivals had sought forconfirmation from the lips of the victims; but, as had been foreseen bythe astute Sheard, no confirmation was forthcoming. There had been aninformal council held at the urgent request of Rohscheimer, whereat ithad been decided that for the latter to appear, now, in the light of avictim of Severac Bablon, would be for him to throw away such advantagesas might accrue--to throw a potential peerage after his lost L100,000!
Baron Hague had been coerced into silence, and had left for Berlinwithout seeing a single newspaper man. Mr. Elschild had persisted thathis donation was entirely a voluntary one. Jesson had been most urgentfor placing the true facts before Scotland Yard, but had finally fallenin with Rohscheimer's wishes.
"You see, Jesson," the latter had argued, "I'll never get my money back.It's gone as completely as if I'd burnt it! All I've got to hope for isa peerage; and I'd lose that if I started crying."
"I agree," Antony Elschild had contributed, "Rohscheimer had suddenlybecome a popular hero! So that a title is all the return he is everlikely to get for his money. It is popularly expected that Hohsmann andyourself will also subscribe. You must remember that owing to theattitude of a section of the Press it is not generally believed thatSeverac Bablon has anything to do with this burst of generosity!"
Jesson had muttered something about "the _Gleaner_," and a decision hadbeen arrived at to organise a private campaign against Severac Bablonwhilst professing, publicly, that he was in no way concerned in theswelling of the _Gleaner_ fund.
Now, Jesson and Hohsmann had both sent huge cheques to the paper, andinterviews with the philanthropic and patriotic capitalists appearedupon the front page. Sheard had not done either interview.
Encouraged by their amazing donations, the general public was respondingin an unheard-of manner to the _Gleaner's_ appeal. The Marquess ofEvershed had contributed a long personal letter, which was reproduced inthe centre of the first page of every issue. The Imperialistic spiritran rampant throughout Great Britain.
Meanwhile, Mr. Oppner's detectives were everywhere. Inspector Sheffield,C.I.D., was not idle. And Sheard found his position at times a dangerousone.
He stood up, walked to the grate, and knocked out his pipe. Havingrefilled and lighted it, he tiptoed upstairs, and from a convenientwindow surveyed the empty road. So far as he could judge, its emptinesswas real enough. Yet on looking out a quarter of an hour earlier, he haddetected, or thought he had detected, a lurking form under the treessome hundred yards beyond his gate.
His visit to the Astoria, the morning before, had been in response to aninvitation from Severac Bablon, but divining that he was closelywatched, he had sent the message to Gale--an American friend whom heknew to have just arrived--which had fallen into the hands of Mr. Aloys.X. Alden. Sheard had actually had an appointment with Gale, and had runghim up later in the morning--gaining confirmation of his suspicions, inthe form of Gale's story of the empty envelope.
Then, at night, his American friend had been followed to the house andfollowed back again to the hotel. This had been merely humorous; butto-night there existed more real cause of apprehension. Sheard hadreceived a plain correspondence card, bearing the following, in a smallneat hand:
"Do not bolt your front door. Expect me at about one o'clock A.M."
For a time it had been exciting, absorbingly interesting, to knowhimself behind the scenes of this mystery play which had all the worldfor an audience. But it was a situation of quite unique danger. SeveracBablon was opposed to tremendous interests. Apart from the activity ofthe ordinary authorities, there were those in the field against this manof mystery to whom money, in furtherance of their end, was no object.
Sheard realised, at times--and these were uncomfortable times--that hisstrange acquaintance with Severac Bablon quite conceivably might end inBrixton Prison.
Yet there are some respects wherein the copy-hunter and the scalp-huntertally. The thrill of the New Journalism has enlisted in the ranks of theFleet Street army some who, in a former age, must have sought theirfortune with the less mighty weapon. A love of adventure was some partof the complement of Sheard; and now, suspecting that a Pinkerton manlurked in the neighbourhood, and uncertain if his wife slept, he awaitedhis visitor, with nerves tensely strung. But there was an exquisitedelight tingling through his veins--an appreciation of his peril whollypleasurable.
Faintly, he heard a key grate in the lock of the front door. The doorwas opened, and gently closed.
Sheard stood up.
Into the study walked Severac Bablon.
He was perfectly attired, as usual; wore evening-dress, and a heavyfur-lined coat. His silk hat he held in his hand. As he stood within thedoorway, where the rays from the shaded lamp failed to touch hisfeatures, he seemed, in the semi-light, a man more than humanlyhandsome.
"The house is watched," began Sheard--and broke off.
A shadow had showed, momentarily, upon the cream of the drawncasement-curtains. Someone was crouching on the lawn, under the studywindow.
"Did you see that?" jerked the pressman. "Somebody looked in! Thecurtain isn't quite drawn to at that corner."
"My dear Sheard"--Severac Bablon's musical voice was untroubled by anytrace of apprehension--"there is no occasion to worry! Mr. Aloys. X.Alden looked in!"
"But----"
"Had it been Inspector Sheffield there had been some cause forexcitement. Inspector Sheffield, if I am rightly informed, holds awarrant for my arrest. Mr. Alden is an unofficial investigator."
"But he can call a constable!"
"Reflect, Sheard. If he calls a constable, what happens?"
"You are arrested!"
"Not so; but I will grant you that much for the sake of argument. Towhom would the credit fall?"
"Patently, Mr. Alden."
"Wrong! You know that it is wrong! The official service would reap everygain! Believe me, Sheard, Mr. Alden will not reveal my presence here toa living soul! He may try to trap me when I leave, but there will be noclamouring on the door by members of the Metropolitan Police force, asyou seemingly apprehend!"
Severac Bablon threw himself into the big arm-chair, and lighted acigarette--a yellow cigarette.
"The trick you played upon Alden yesterday was such as no man with asense of humour could well have resisted," he said. "But it wasindiscreet."
"I know."
"Suspicion pointed to you as the perpetrator of the card trick atRohscheimer's. You must not run unnecessary risks."
"It was a thrilling moment for me, when I leant over to Miss Hohsmann,my right hand extended for the salt or something of the kind, and myleft stretched behind her chair!"
"Jesson, of course, was looking in the opposite direction?"
"I selected a moment when he was talking to Lady Vignoles, and thoseshaded table lights helped me very much. I could just reach the table,and I intentionally touched Salome's hand with mine, in laying down thecard."
"She actually saw your hand!"
"I fancy not. She felt my fingers touch hers, I think. She turned soquickly that Jesson turned, too, and just as she was taking the cardup."
"Critical moment."
"Not in the least. My object would have been as well served if the cardhad gone no further. But my infernal sense of humour prompted me to makea bid for complicating the mystery. I dropped my arm, of co
urse, asJesson turned to her, and it never occurred to Salome that the handwhich had placed the card beside her was any other than that of herneighbour on the left, Jesson. Before she could address him, or headdress her, I inquired if I might examine the card. Jesson continuedhis conversation with Lady Vignoles, and the 'second notice' passed allaround the table."
"Excellent! Do you know, Sheard, these childish little conjuring trickshelp me immensely! Can you picture Julius Rohscheimer coweringthroughout a whole night before the rod of a trousers-stretcherprojecting from a wardrobe door!"
"Was that the solution of the 'patriotic' mystery?"
"Certainly. Adeler, who was concealed in the wardrobe, armed with thenecessary written threats, made his escape directly Rohscheimer's chequewas in his hand--leaving the rod to mount guard whilst you got theannouncement into print and induced the Marquess to pay an early morningvisit."
Severac Bablon's handsome face looked almost boyish as he related howthe financier had been forced to play the part of a patriot. Sheard,watching him, found new matter for wonderment.
This was the man who claimed to command the destinies of eight millionpeople--the man who claimed to wield the power of a Solomon. This wasSeverac Bablon, the most inscrutably mysterious being who had ever sownwonderment throughout the continents, the man who juggled with vastfortunes as Cinquevalli juggles with billiard-balls! This was the manwhose great velvety eyes could gleam with uncanny force, whose willcould enthrall hypnotically, for whom the police of the world searched,for whose apprehension huge rewards were offered, whose abode wasunknown, whose accomplices were unnumbered, to whom no door was locked,from whose all-seeing gaze no secret was secret!
It was difficult, all but impossible, to realise.
"Yet I am he," said the melodious voice.
Sheard started as though a viper had touched him. He stared at hisvisitor in wide-eyed amazement.
"Heavens! Was I thinking aloud?"
"Practically. Your mind was so intensely concentrated upon certainincidents in my career--see, your pipe is out--that, in a broad sense, Icould hear you thinking!"
Sheard laughed dryly, and relighted his pipe. Severac Bablon's trick ofreplying to unspoken questions was too singular to be forgotten lightly.
"Mr. Hohsmann is now of my friends," continued the strange visitor. "Youreceived the paragraph? Ah! I see it appears in your later edition."
"But Jesson?"
"Sir Leopold can never be my friend, nor do I desire it. There is anincident in his career----You understand? I do not reproach him with it.It should never have been recalled to him had he held his purse-stringsless tightly. But it served as a lever. It was a poor one, for, thoughhe does not know it, I would cast stones at no man. But it served. Hehas made his contribution. I begin to achieve something, Sheard. The_Times_ has a leader in the press showing how the Jews are the backboneof British prosperity, and truer patriots than any whose fathers crossedwith Norman William."
He ceased speaking, abruptly, and with his eyes, drew Sheard's attentionagain to the window. Since Severac Bablon's arrival, indeed, thejournalist had glanced thither often enough. But, now, he perceivedsomething which made him wonder.
There was a street lamp at the corner of the road, and, his owntable-lamp leaving the further window in shade, it was possible todetect the presence of anything immediately outside by its faint shadow.
Something round was pressed upon a corner of the lower pane.
Severac Bablon stepped to the table and scribbled upon a sheet ofpaper:--
"He has some kind of portable telephonic arrangement designed for thepurpose, attached to the glass. No doubt he can follow our conversation.He may attempt to hold me up as I leave the house. He cannot enter, ofcourse, or we could arrest him on a charge of housebreaking! You have aback gate. If you will permit me to pass through your domestic officesand your garden, I will leave by that exit. Continue to talk for someminutes after I am gone. Do not fear that there is any evidence of myhaving been here. Alden can prove nothing."
Replacing the pencil on the tray:
"I want you to join me at a little supper on Wednesday evening," saidSeverac Bablon. "Practically all our influential friends will bepresent----"
He ignored Sheard's head-shakes and expressive nods directed towards thewindow.
"There is an old house which I have rented for a time at Richmond. It isknown as 'The Cedars,' and overlooks the Thames. The grounds are fairlyextensive, and bordered by two very quiet roads. In fact, it is an idealspot for my purpose. I will send you further particulars"--he glancedtowards the window--"in writing. We meet there on Wednesday atnine-thirty. Can I rely upon you?"
"Yes," said Sheard, wondering at the other's indiscretion, "unless Iwire you to the contrary. I might be unable to turn up at the lastmoment, of course."
"You are nervous!" Severac Bablon smiled, and slipped from the room.
"On the contrary," said Sheard, addressing the window. "There is nothingI enjoy better than an evening in a haunted house!"
(Perhaps, he argued, Alden was not absolutely certain of his visitor'sidentity. He did not know at what point in the conversation thetelephone device had come into action. It was a pity to waste words; hemight as well endeavour to throw the eavesdropper off the scent, inaddition to covering Severac Bablon's retreat.)
"Let us hope, Professor," he resumed, with this laudable intention,"that the Society for Psychical Research will be the richer in knowledgefor our experiment on Wednesday evening!"
Mr. Aloys. X. Alden, with his ear to the ingenious little "electriceavesdropper," experienced an unpleasant chill upon hearing the visitorwithin addressed as "Professor."
He had conceived the idea that Sheard--whom he strongly suspected, mighthold interviews with the mysterious and elusive Severac Bablon in thesmall hours of the morning, at his own house, when the rest of thehousehold were retired.
Mr. Alden had watched for five nights when he knew the pressman to be athome. On four of them Sheard's light had been extinguished beforemidnight. To-night, the fifth, it had remained burning, and longvigilance had been rewarded.
A car had drawn up at some distance from the house, and its occupant hadproceeded forward on foot. He had been admitted so rapidly that Aldenhad been unable to ascertain by whom. The car, too, had been driven offimmediately. He had had no chance of taking the number; but was astuteenough to know that in any event it would have availed him little,since, if the car were Bablon's the number would almost certainly be afalse one.
For once in a way, Mr. Alden became excited. Whom could so late avisitor be, save one who wished to keep secret his visit? In attachinghis eavesdropper he had clumsily raised his head above the level of thewindow-ledge, but he had hoped that this gross error of strategy hadpassed unnoticed. For a time he had failed to pick up the conversationuntil his ear became attuned to the subdued tone in which it wasconducted. Thus, he had lost the key to its purport and had had toimprovise one.
But, even so, words had passed which had amply confirmed his suspicions;so much so that, whilst he listened, all but breathlessly, he wasdevising a scheme for capturing Sheard's visitor, single-handed, as heleft the house. Furthermore, he was devising a way out of the difficultyin the event of the captive proving to be another than Severac Bablon.
The latter part of the duologue had puzzled him badly. The visitorseemed to have ceased talking altogether, and Sheard's remarks had insome inexplicable way drifted into quite a different channel. Theyappeared to appertain to what had preceded them but remotely. Therelation seemed forced.
Still the visitor said nothing. Sheard continued to talk, and in uponthe mind of the detective shone a light of inspiration.
He detached the cunning little instrument, crawled across the lawn andslunk out at the gate. Then he _ran_ around to the rear of the house. Anarrow lane there was, and into its black mouth he plunged withouthesitation.
The gate of the tradesmen's entrance was unbolted.
Alden was perfectly fa
miliar with the nightly customs of the Sheardestablishment, and knew this to be irregular. He tilted his hat back andscratched his head reflectively.
Then, from somewhere down the road, on the other side of the house, camethe sound of a curious whistle, an eerie minor whistle.
Like an Indian, Alden set off running. He rounded the corner as a carwhirled into view five hundred yards further along, and from the nextturning on the right. It stopped. One of its doors slammed.
It was off again. It had vanished.
Mr. Alden carefully extracted a cheroot from his case and lighted itwith loving care.