CHAPTER XX
CLOSED DOORS
"Why can't they open the doors? I can see there are people inside!"
A muffled roar, like that of a nearing storm at sea, drowned thequerulous voice.
"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"
The monotonous orders of the police rose above the loud drone of theangry crowd.
Motor-buses made perilous navigation through the narrow street. Thehooting of horns on taxi-cabs played a brisk accompaniment to themournful chant. Almost from the Courts to the trebly guarded entrance ofthe Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank stretched that deeprank of victims. For, at the corner of Chancery Lane, the contents-billof a daily paper thus displayed, in suitable order of precedence, thevital topics of the moment:
MISS PAULETTE DELOTUS _NOT_ MARRIED
Australians' Plucky Fight
IS SEVERAC BABLON IN VIENNA?
BIG CITY BANK SMASH
SLUMP IN NICARAGUAN RAILS
To some, those closed doors meant the sacrifice of jewellery, of somepart of the luxury of life; to others, they meant--the drop-curtain thatblacked out the future, the end of the act, the end of the play.
"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"
"All right, constable," said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling unmirthfully;"I'll move on--and move out!"
He extricated himself from the swaying, groaning, cursing multitude, andstepped across to the opposite side of the street. Lost in unpleasantmeditation, he stood, a spruce, military figure, bearing upon hisexterior nothing indicative of the ruined man. He was quite unaware ofthe approach of a graceful, fair girl, whose fresh English beautyalready had enslaved the imaginations of some fifty lawyers' clerksreturning from lunch. As ignorant of her train of conquests as Haredalewas ignorant of her presence, she came up to him--and tears gleamed uponher lashes. She stood beside him, and he did not see her.
"Dick!"
The voice aroused him, and a flush came upon his tanned, healthy-lookingface. A beam of gladness and admiration lost itself in a cloud, asmechanically he raised his hat, and, holding the girl's hand, glanceduneasily aside, fearing to meet the anxious tenderness in the blue eyeswhich, now, were deepened to something nearer violet.
"It is true, then?" she asked softly.
He nodded, his lips grimly compressed.
"Who told you," he questioned in turn, "that I had my poor scrapings init?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said wearily. "And it doesn't matter much, doesit?"
"Come away somewhere," Haredale suggested. "We can't stand here."
In silence they walked away from the clamouring crowd of depositors.
"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"
"Where can we go?" asked the girl.
"Anywhere," said Haredale, "where we can sit down. This will do."
They turned into a cheap cafe, and, finding a secluded table, took theirseats there, Haredale drearily ordering tea, without asking hiscompanion whether she wanted it or not. It was improbable that Lady MaryEvershed had patronised such a tea-shop before, but the novelty of thething did not interest her in the least. It was only her pride, thepriceless legacy of British womanhood, which enabled her to preserve hercomposure--which checked the hot tears that burned in her eyes. For themute misery in Haredale's face was more than he could hide. With all hissang-froid, and all his training to back it, he was hard put to it tokeep up even an appearance of unconcern.
Presently she managed to speak again, biting her lips between every fewwords.
"Had you--everything--there, Dick?"
He nodded.
"I was a fool, of course," he said. "I never did have the faintest ideaof business. There are dozens of sound investments--but what's the goodof whining? I have acted as unofficial secretary to Mr. JuliusRohscheimer for two years, and eaten my pride at every meal. But--I_cannot_ begin all over again, Mary. I shall have to let him breakme--and clear out."
He dropped his clenched fists upon his knees, and under the little tablea hand crept to his. He grasped it hard and released it.
Mary, with a strained look in her eyes, was drumming gloved fingers onthe table.
"I detest Julius Rohscheimer!" she flashed. "He is a perfect octopus.Even father fears him--I don't know why."
Haredale smiled grimly.
"But there is _someone_ who could prevent him from ruining your life,Dick," she continued, glancing down at the table.
She did not look up for a few moments. Then, as Haredale kept silent,she was forced to do so. His grey eyes were fixed upon her face.
"Severac Bablon? What do you know of him, Mary?"
She grew suddenly pale.
"I only know"--hesitating--"that is, I _think_, he is a man who, howevermisguided, has a love of justice."
Haredale watched her.
"He is an up-to-date Claude Duval," he said harshly. "It hurts me,rather, Mary, to hear you approve of him. Why do you do so? I havenoticed something of this before. Do you forget that this man, for allthe romance and mystery that surround him, still is no more than acommon thief--a criminal?"
Mary's lips tightened.
"He is not," she said, meeting his eyes bravely. "That is a very narrowview, Dick-"
Then, seeing the pain in the grey eyes, and remembering that this manwith whom she disputed had just lost his hopes in life--his hopes of_her_--she reached out impulsively and grasped his arm.
"Oh, Dick!" she said; "forgive me! But I am so utterly miserable, dear,that any poor little straw seems worth grasping at."
So we must leave them; it was a situation full of poor human pathos. Theemotions surging within these two hearts would have afforded aninteresting study for the magical pen of Charles Dickens.
But we cannot pause to essay it; the tide of our narrative bears uselsewhere.
Mr. J. J. Oppner, the pride of Wall Street, when, his fascinatingdaughter, Zoe, beside him, he rose to address his guests at the HotelAstoria that evening, would have provided a study equally interesting toCharles Dickens or to the late Professor Darwin. It would have puzzledeven the distinguished biologist to reconcile the two species,represented by Mr. Oppner and Zoe, with any common origin. Themillionaire's seamed and yellow face looked like nothing so much as amagnified section of a walnut. Whilst the girl, with her cloud ofcopper-dusted brown hair trapped within an Oriental head-dress, herpiquant beauty enhanced, if that were possible, by the softly shadedlights, and the bewitching curves revealed by her evening gown borrowinga more subtle witchery from their sombre environment of black-coatedplutocrats, justified the most inspired panegyric that ever had pouredfrom the fountain-pen of a New York reporter. Mr. Oppner said:
"Gentlemen,--We have met this evening for _a_ special purpose. Witheveryone's _per_mission, we will _ad_journ to another room and see howwe can fix things up for Mr. Severac Bablon."
He led the way without loss of time, his small, dried figure lostbetween that of John Macready ("the King of Coolgardie"), a stalwart,iron-grey Irishman, and the unshapely bulk of Baron Hague, once moreperilously adventured upon English soil.
Sir Leopold Jesson, trim, perfectly groomed, his high, bald craniumgleaming like the dome of Solomon's temple, followed, deep inconversation with a red, raw-boned Scotsman, whose features seemed badlyout of drawing, and whose eyebrows suggested shrimps. This was HectorMurray, the millionaire who had built and endowed more public baths andinstitutions than any man since the Emperor Vespasian. Last of all, wentJulius Rohscheimer, that gross figurehead of British finance, saying,with a satirish smile, to Haredale, who had made an eighth at dinner:
"You won't mind amusing Miss Oppner, Haredale, till we're through withthis little job? It's out of your line; you'll be more at home here, I'msure."
The room chosen for this important conference was a small one, havingbut a single door, which opened on a tiny antechamber; this, in turn,gave upon the corridor. When the six millionaires had entered, and Mr.Oppner had satisfied
himself that suitable refreshments were placed inreadiness, he returned to the corridor. Immediately outside the doorstood Mr. Aloys. X. Alden.
"You'll sit right there," instructed Oppner. "The man's bringing a chairand smokes and liquor, and you'll let nobody in--_nobody_. We can't beheard out here, with the anteroom between and both doors shut; there'sonly one window, and this is the sixth storey. So I guess our Bablonpalaver will be private, some."
Alden nodded, bit off the end of a cheroot, and settled himself againstthe wall. Mr. Oppner returned to his guests. In another room Zoe and SirRichard Haredale struggled with a conversation upon sundry matterswherein neither was interested in the least. Suddenly Zoe said, in herimpulsive, earnest way:
"Sir Richard, I know you won't be angry, but Mary is my very dearestfriend; we were at school together, too; and--she told me all about itthis afternoon. I understand what this loss means to you, and that it'squite impossible for you to remain with Mr. Rohscheimer any longer; thatyou mean to resign your commission and go abroad. It isn't necessary forme to say I am sorry."
He thanked her mutely, but it was with a certain expectancy that heawaited her next words. Rumour had linked Zoe Oppner's name with that ofSeverac Bablon, extravagantly, as it seemed to Haredale; but everythingconnected with that extraordinary man _was_ extravagant. He recalled howMary, on more than one occasion, had exhibited traces of embarrassmentwhen the topic was mooted, and how she had hinted that Severac Bablonmight be induced to interest himself in his, Haredale's, financial loss.Could it be that Mary--perhaps through her notoriously eccentricAmerican friend--had met the elusive wonder-worker? Haredale, be itremembered, was hard hit, and completely down. This insane suspicion hadfound no harbourage in his mind at any other time; but now, he hugged itdejectedly, watching Zoe Oppner's pretty, expressive face forconfirmatory evidence.
"Of course, the bank has failed for more than three millions," said thegirl earnestly; "but, in your own case, can nothing be done?"
Haredale lighted a cigarette, slightly shaking his head.
"I shall have to clear out. That's all"
"Oh!--but--it's real hard to say what I want to say. But--my father hasbusiness relations with Mr. Rohscheimer. May I try to do something?"
Haredale's true, generous instincts got the upper hand at that. He toldhimself that he was behaving, mentally, like a cad.
"Miss Oppner," he said warmly, "you are all that Mary has assured me.You are a real chum. I can say no more. But it is quite impossible,believe me."
There was such finality in the words that she was silenced. Haredaleabruptly changed the subject.
An hour passed.
Two hours passed.
Zoe began to grow concerned on her father's behalf. He was in poorhealth, and his physician's orders were imperative upon the point ofavoiding business.
Half-way through the third hour she made up her mind.
"He has wasted his time long enough," she pronounced firmly--and theexpression struck Haredale as oddly chosen. "I am going to inform himthat his 'conference' is closed."
She passed out into the corridor to where Mr. Alden, his chair tilted ata comfortable angle, and his brogue-shod feet upon a coffee-table whichbore also a decanter, a siphon, and a box of cigars, contentedly waspursuing his instructions. He stood up as she appeared.
"Mr. Alden," she said, "I wish to speak to Mr. Oppner."
The detective spread his hands significantly.
"I respect your scruples, Mr. Alden," Zoe continued, "but my father'sorders did not apply to me. Will you please go in and request him to seeme for a moment?"
Perceiving no alternative, Alden opened the door, crossed the littleanteroom, and knocked softly at the inner door.
He received no reply to his knocking, and knocked again. He knocked athird, a fourth time. With a puzzled glance at Miss Oppner he opened thedoor and entered.
An unemotional man, he usually was guilty of nothing demonstrative. Butthe appearance of the room wrenched a hoarse exclamation from his stoiclips.
In the first place, it was in darkness; in the second, when, with theaid of the electric lantern which he was never without, he had dispersedthis darkness--he saw that _it was empty_!
The scene of confusion that ensued upon this incredible discovery defiesdescription.
All the telephones in the Astoria could not accommodate the franticpeople who sought them. Messenger boys in troops appeared. Hundreds ofguests ran upstairs and hundreds of guests ran downstairs. Everygroaning lift, ere long, was bearing its freight of police and pressmento the scene of the most astounding mystery that ever had set Londonagape.
Soon it was ascertained that the current had been disconnected in someway from the room where the six magnates had met. But how, otherwisethan through the door, they had been spirited away from a sixth floorapartment, was a problem that no one appeared competent to tackle; thatthey had not made their exit via the door was sufficiently proven by theexpression of stark perplexity which dwelt upon the face of Mr. Aloys.X. Alden.
Whilst others came and went, scribbling hasty notes in dog-earednotebooks, he, a human statue of Amaze, gazed at the open window,continuously and vacantly. Jostled by the crowds of curious andinterested visitors, he stood, the most surprised man in the twohemispheres.
Short of an airship, he could conceive no device whereby the missing sixcould have made their silent departure. He was shaken out of his stuporby Haredale.
"Pull yourself together, Mr. Alden," cried the latter. "Can't we _do_something? Here's half Scotland Yard in the place and nobody with anintelligent proposal to offer."
Mr. Alden shook himself, like a heavy sleeper awakened.
"Where's Miss Oppner?" he jerked.
Haredale started.
"I don't know," was his reply; "but I can go and see."
He forced his way past the knot of people at the door, ignoringInspector Sheffield, who sought to detain him. Rapidly he ran throughthe rooms composing the suite. In one he met Zoe's maid, wringing herhands with extravagant emotion.
"Where is your mistress?"
"She has gone out, m'sieur. I cannot tell where. I do not know."
Haredale's heart gave a leap--and seemed to pause.
He ran to the stairs, not waiting for the overworked lift, and down intothe hall.
"Has Miss Oppner gone out?" he demanded of the porter.
"Two minutes ago, sir."
"In her car?"
"No, sir. It was not ready. In a cab."
"Did you hear her directions?"
"No, sir. But the boy will know."
The boy was found.
"Where was Miss Oppner going, boy?" rapped Haredale.
"Eccleston Square, sir," was the prompt reply.
The Marquess of Evershed's. Then his suspicions had not been unfounded.He saw, in a flash of inspiration, the truth. Zoe Oppner had seen inthis disappearance the hand of Severac Bablon--if, indeed, if she didnot _know_ it for his work. She was anxious about her father. She wishedto appeal to Severac Bablon upon his behalf. And she had gone--notdirect to the man--but to Eccleston Square. Why? Clearly because it wasLady Mary, and not herself, who had influence with him.
Hatless, Haredale ran out into the courtyard. Rohscheimer's car waswaiting, and he leapt in, his grey eyes feverish. "Lord Evershed's," hecalled to the man; "Eccleston Square."