The Stretton Street Affair

Around me there dined as smart a set of people as those who frequented the Carlton in London, and perhaps the toilettes were even more elaborate. In certain feminine details the West End can be eclipsed both by modern Madrid and Bucharest, while Paris remains where she has ever been, the inventor of feminine fashion and the alluring City of Light.

In Madrid to-day one has all the pre-war prosperity combined with post-war extravagance. The latest mode of the Rue de la Paix is seen at the Ritz in Madrid almost before it is seen at Armenonville, and it becomes only second-hand when it has filtered through Dover Street – or “Petticoat Lane,” as that thoroughfare is termed by truculent London bachelors.

After dinner I spent an hour at the gay Café Iberia, in the Carrera de San Jeronimo, and returned early to the hotel.

As I entered the concierge met me with a note. It was from Harry Hambledon, written an hour before, urging me to meet him at the Gato Negro Café (The Black Cat), in the Calle del Principe.

I lost no time in keeping the appointment, and on meeting my friend, he whispered excitedly:

“Suzor has a visitor. He arrived at the Ritz at six o’clock, and they have dined together. He is a well-dressed man of between forty and fifty, rather sallow-faced, and has given his name at the hotel as Henri Thibon, rentier, of Bordeaux.”

“Aged nearly fifty – sallow?” I echoed. “Are his features of a rather Oriental cast – a dark, handsome man with deep-set eyes and a dimple in the centre of his chin?” I asked eagerly.

“Yes. That just describes him.”

“De Gex!” I gasped. “Then he is here!”

“After dinner they went out to the Trianon. They are there now.”

“Then we will watch them return to the Ritz,” I said.

We spent an hour together in the café, after which we rose and walked through the well-lit streets and along beneath the trees of the Prado until we came to the great plaza where, opposite the Neptune fountain, the fine hotel stands back behind its gardens.

We both halted against the colossal fountain, the waters of which were plashing into the great basin, and found that from where we were standing we had a good view of the entrance to the hotel. That the theatres were over was proved by the number of cars and taxis that were depositing people in evening-dress who had come to the Ritz to supper. Hence we had not long to wait before we distinguished Suzor and his companion, both in dinner-jackets, strolling on foot across the Plaza from the Calle de Cervantes in the direction of the hotel.

In an instant I recognized the form of the mysterious owner of the house in Stretton Street.

“Yes!” I cried. “I’m not mistaken! But why is he here under the name of Thibon? Without a doubt he is known in Madrid. Why should he seek to conceal his identity?”

“We are here to discover the motive of his journey from Italy. According to his passport he arrived from Irun. But if he had come direct from Italy he would have come from the south – from Barcelona, most probably.”

“He has a house in Paris. No doubt he has followed his friend Suzor from there. It will be interesting to watch.”

As I spoke the pair passed up the steps of the hotel and were lost to sight, therefore we turned and retraced our steps along the wide Carrera de San Jeronimo to my hotel where, for an hour, Hambledon sat in my room discussing the situation.

He suggested that he should move from the Palace Hotel to the Ritz, which was only just opposite. At first it seemed a good idea, but on reflection I did not agree, because I feared lest he might be recognized by Suzor. De Gex, of course, would not know him, but with Suzor the danger of recognition was always great. If either realized that they were being watched, all chances of solving the problem would instantly disappear. Only by secret and patient watchfulness could we discover the motive of that amazing affair near Park Lane, and again the truth of what actually occurred on that fateful November night.

“There is no doubt some further devil’s game is in progress here,” I declared, as Harry sat upon my bed smoking a cigarette, while I was stretched in an easy-chair. “And it is up to us to discover what it is, and whether it has any bearing upon the plot against poor Gabrielle Tennison.”

“Yes,” agreed Hambledon. “We must watch all their actions, for it is now evident that this fellow Suzor is deeply implicated in the conspiracy, whatever its nature.”

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH

THE INTRUDER

During the next few days I remained idle in the hotel, not daring to go out while it was light, and leaving the surveillance upon De Gex and his friend to my old friend Hambledon.

Each night we met at one café or another as we appointed, when he would report to me what he had witnessed during the day. It seemed that De Gex – or Monsieur Thibon, as he preferred to call himself – shared Suzor’s private sitting-room and, curiously enough, he also did not go out in the daytime!

After all, that was not surprising, for such a great figure in international finance was probably well-known in the Spanish capital. I had learnt that he had had a hand in the finances of Spain, and had made some huge profits thereby. This man of mystery and intrigue was, I felt, there in Madrid with some malice aforethought. The very fact that he feared to be recognized was in itself sufficient proof! On the other hand, Suzor now went out in the daytime, going hither and thither as though transacting business for his friend. Hambledon had reported to me how he had sent three cipher telegrams by wireless from the Correo Central in the Calle Carretas, the first was to London, the second on the following noon to an address in Paris, and the third at one o’clock in the morning to Moroni in Florence. The message to the latter was in figures, groups of five numerals as used by the British Admiralty. Besides, he had also posted several letters in that big box at the chief post-office marked “Extranjero.”

The message to Moroni was highly suspicious. Harry Hambledon, as a solicitor, was, of course, a very acute person, and in addition he had very fortunately entered into the true spirit of the adventure. Though he longed to be back again at Richmond with his pretty fiancée, Norah Peyton, yet the mystery of the whole affair had bewildered him, and he was as keen as I was myself in elucidating the strange enigma.

Moroni was no doubt a tool in the hands of that quiet, sallow-faced man who, by reason of his colossal wealth and huge financial resources, could even make and unmake dynasties. Oswald De Gex, the man who without nationality or patriotism pulled a hundred financial strings both in Europe and in America, held the sinister Doctor Moroni in his pay. I could discern that fact, just as I could see that the man Suzor, who had so cleverly posed as an official of the Crédit Lyonnais, was one of the many confidential agents of the mysterious De Gex.

One evening I went, by appointment, to the Nuevo Club, to which I had been admitted as a foreign member, and in the smoking-room I awaited Hambledon.

At last he came through the big swing doors, and approaching me, excitedly exclaimed:

“They’ve both gone out to Segovia to see the Countess de Chamartin. De Gex sent a wire early this morning and then, on receipt of a reply, they hired a car and drove out to keep the appointment.”

“Chamartin was a Spanish financier. De Gex is one of international fame – a millionaire,” I remarked. “The wits of De Gex are perhaps pitted against the widow and the executors of the dead man. Don’t you agree?”

“Entirely,” was Hambledon’s reply. “I follow the trend of your thoughts, Hugh. De Gex is the controlling influence of great events, but why should he seek to send you into an asylum for the insane?”

“With the same motive that he endeavoured to send into such an asylum poor Gabrielle Tennison,” I said bitterly.

“In law we have an old adage which says ‘discover the motive and you also discover the miscreant,’” Harry remarked.

I agreed, and, as much bewildered as he, exclaimed:

“Well, as far as we can discern there is something very underhand in this meeting. But the count’s widow is a cheery, easy-going person, despite her mournful black, and perhaps, after all, we may be upon a wrong scent.”

“Exactly. De Gex may be attracted by her handsome niece, the Señorita Carmen Florez – eh?”

“He may. But as the dead count was a great financier, Oswald De Gex may be working in the interests of the widow – or to the contrary.”

“To the contrary,” said my friend without hesitation.

Next morning Hambledon told me that De Gex and Suzor did not return to the Ritz until nearly one o’clock. Apparently they had dined and spent the evening in Segovia. On that same day at noon, my curiosity aroused, I took train to the old-world town with its wonderful cathedral, the Alcazar, and the aqueduct built by Augustus, the largest piece of Roman work extant in Spain, rivalling as it does the walls of Tarragona.

Without difficulty I discovered the fine country house of the Countess de Chamartin situated high up on the broad tree-lined Paseo. She had never seen me, therefore I had no hesitation in idling in the vicinity, in order to catch sight of her or her niece, their descriptions having been given to me by my friend Hambledon. Till it was growing dark I waited in vain, when suddenly I had a very narrow escape. A big dusty grey limousine came rapidly up the hill and halted close to where I was standing. From it there alighted Gaston Suzor, who without hesitation entered the big iron gates and disappeared into the garden.

Fortunately he was in such haste, and so preoccupied that he did not notice me, hence I crossed the road and hid behind a half-ruined wall, where I had a good view of the car.

About twenty minutes later he emerged again, and with him was a young girl wearing a small toque and a rich sable coat. No second glance was needed to realize that it was the Señorita Carmen Florez, niece of the countess. The elegant Frenchman held the door open politely for her, and after she had entered he got in beside her, whereupon the car turned and went down the hill and out of sight.

It occurred to me that Suzor had come from Madrid to fetch her, and that surmise later proved to be correct, for on returning to the capital at ten o’clock Hambledon called at the Hôtel de la Paix, and as we sat upstairs in my bedroom he informed me that the young girl had arrived by car at the Ritz and had dined with De Gex and his companion. The countess, who had apparently been in Madrid since the morning, and who had attended a charity matinée at the Comedia, had arrived at the Ritz a quarter of an hour before her niece. It was evident, therefore, that they were well known to De Gex, who, as I afterwards ascertained, had been a friend of the late count.

The four had dined privately together in Suzor’s sitting-room, and according to the information given to Hambledon by the concierge, a number of papers had been produced and examined immediately after the coffee had been served.

“I understand that the production of the papers had a most disturbing effect upon the countess,” Hambledon told me. “She gave vent to a cry of amazement, and afterwards burst into a fit of tears. At least that is what the waiter told the concierge. The countess is very well known at the Ritz, for she moves in the Court circle, and is often at the smart functions so constantly held there.”

“And the niece?” I asked. “She is certainly both smart and good-looking.”

“I can discover but little concerning her,” Harry replied. “She is not known at all. She has apparently only gone to live with her aunt at Segovia since the count’s death.”

“I wonder what was in the papers which so affected the lady?” I remarked. “De Gex evidently invited them to dinner in order to make some disclosure, and to prove it by the production of documents.”

“Evidently,” replied my companion. “In any case, the countess and her niece have just started to return for home, the widow being very upset at what has been revealed to her to-night.”

“What can it have been, I wonder? Could not the waiter ascertain the nature of the disclosure?”

“No. I saw him myself afterwards, and he explained that the documents in question were produced just after he had left the room. He heard the countess utter a cry of dismay, and when he again entered the room in pretence of clearing away the coffee-cups, he found the lady in tears, while her niece declared hotly in French: ‘I do not believe it! I will never believe it!’ A number of legal documents were spread out upon the table, and De Gex was holding one of them in his hand.”

“Then the object of the visit of the precious pair seems to have been to disclose some hitherto well-guarded secret to the widow of the Spanish financier – eh?”

“Yes,” my friend agreed. “It certainly seems so,” and then he rose and left. Downstairs in the palm court the gay crowd was pouring through to the restaurant for supper after the theatre, for smart Madrid is gay at night, and there is as much dancing and fun there, on a smaller scale of course, as there is in the West End. The pretty dresses, the laughter, the sibilant whispers, and the claw-hammer coat are the same in Madrid and Bucharest as in London or Paris, or any other capital. The hour of midnight is the same hour of relaxation when even judges smile after their day upon the bench, and the blue-stocking will laugh at a risky story.

So after Harry had gone, refusing to have supper with me lest somebody should notice us together, I strolled about, and selecting a table in the corner, ate my solitary meal, having had no dinner that day.

It was past midnight before I ascended in the lift to my room. I undressed and when in bed I read the Heraldo until I suppose I dropped off to sleep.

I knew nothing until later I was awakened by some slight movement. In an instant I was seized by a strange intuition of danger, and my wits became acute. Next second I was on the alert. There had been three lights burning when I retired, now there was but one. I had bolted my door, yet it was now slightly ajar!

I lay and listened. Outside I heard the hum of a car receding across the great square. Afterwards a church bell began to clang discordantly, as they all do in Spain.

The light was over the dressing-table in the corner, and so shaded that the room was quite dim.

Someone had been in my room! I grasped my automatic pistol which I kept under the pillow, and jumping out of bed crossed to the dressing-table where I had put my watch and bank-note-case on taking them from my pocket. As I did so I heard the click of an electric light switch, and next instant the room was in darkness.

For a second I was nonplussed. I knew, however, that I was not alone in the room, so I dashed across to the door, my pistol in my hand, and gaining it before the intruder could escape, turned on the lights.

Before me stood revealed a tall, thin-faced, dark-haired man in his shirt and trousers who, seeing my pistol, at once put up his hands, crying in Spanish:

“Ah! no – no! It is a mistake. Holy Madonna! I have mistaken the room! I thought my friend Pedro was here! A thousand apologies, señor! A thousand apologies.”

“But my door was bolted! How did you get in?” I demanded fiercely.

“No, señor. It was not bolted. I have been taken very unwell. I was seeking my friend Pedro,” he stammered, pale and frightened. “Come to my room, and I will show you my papers to prove that I am no thief, but a well-known advocate of Burgos.”

I told him roughly to turn his face to the wall while I went through my belongings to satisfy myself that nothing had been stolen.

All seemed in order, and the fellow’s explanation seemed to be quite feasible – save for the fact that I distinctly remembered bolting the door. Nevertheless I began to wonder whether I had not misjudged him.

“Come along to my room, señor,” he urged. “I will show you my identity papers. I have to offer you a thousand apologies.”

I followed him to a room near the end of the corridor, where he quickly produced documents and papers showing that his name was Juan Salavera, an advocate, who lived in the Calle de Vittoria, in Burgos. He showed me the portrait of his wife and child which he carried in his wallet and a small painted miniature of his mother, and other proofs of his integrity, including a case well filled with notes.

“I trust, señor, that you will no longer accuse me of being a thief!” he said. “Our encounter would have been distinctly amusing had we not so frightened each other as we have done.”

I laughed, for I felt convinced that he was a respectable person, and I really began to feel uncomfortable.

Indeed, I muttered an apology for my rather rough behaviour, and at the same time I noticed upon the left side of his neck a deep scar probably left by an abscess.

“My dear señor, it was quite forgiveable in the circumstances,” he declared, offering me a cigarette and taking one himself. “I had supper at a restaurant after the theatre to-night and ate something which had disagreed with me. Half an hour ago I felt faint, so I rose and went to find my friend Pedro Espada, who came with me from Burgos, and I entered your room in mistake. He must be in the room next yours.”

“Shall we seek him?” I asked.

“No. I feel much better now, thanks,” was his reply. “The fright has chased away all faintness! Besides, we should have to go down to the office and ascertain in which room he really is. I shall be all right now,” he assured me.

He went on to say that he had come to Madrid in connexion with a large estate in Granada, to which a client of his had laid claim.

“I shall be here for a week at least, therefore I hope you will give me the pleasure of spending an evening with Pedro and myself. We will dine at a restaurant and go to one of the variety theatres afterwards.”

I thanked him, and laughing at our encounter we parted quite good friends.

On returning to my room I examined the bolt, and found that the screws of the brass socket had been forced from the woodwork and it was lying on the floor.

That fact caused suspicion to again arise in my mind. Surely considerable force must have been used to break away the socket from the woodwork. Yet I had heard nothing!

However, I returned to bed, and leaving the lights on I reflected upon the strange episode. The fellow’s excuse was quite a legitimate one, yet I could not put from myself the fact that the door had been forced. By whom, if not by him?

And yet he was so cool it seemed impossible that he was a thief whom I had caught red-handed.

After half an hour I rose again and thoroughly examined the bolt, when my suspicion was increased by a strange discovery. In my absence the socket of the bolt had been removed, the screw holes enlarged and filled up with bread kneaded into a paste; into this the screws had been placed so that although I had bolted the door I could not secure it, for the smallest pressure from outside would break the fastening from the woodwork!

The dodge was one often practised by hotel thieves. But what proof had I that the lawyer from Burgos had prepared that bolt? I had no means of knowing when the screws had been rendered unstable, or by whom. It might have been done even before I had occupied that room, for the paste was hard and crumbling.

Nevertheless the fact remained that my door had been prepared for a midnight theft, and I had found a stranger in my room. So with a resolve to make further inquiry next morning, I threw myself down and slept.

I must have been tired and overwrought, for it was past nine o’clock when I awoke and drew up the blinds.

Then as I crossed to ring the bell for my coffee and hot water I made a very curious discovery.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH

ANOTHER STRANGE DISCLOSURE

On the ground, close to my bed, were three brass-headed carpet pins which had apparently spilt accidentally out of a box.

The sharp point of each was upturned, and it was a marvel that during the night I had not stepped upon them.

How had they come there? Was it by accident or design that they were beside my bed?

At first I wondered whether the hotel upholsterer had been at work on the previous day and had left them behind. He might have used them for pinning down my carpet.

I took one up and examined it. Next second I stood aghast.

The others I also took up, handling them very gingerly, for around the points of each was some colourless transparent substance which looked like vaseline. Such a substance was not ordinarily upon the points of carpet pins.

A horrible thought flashed across my mind. Therefore I carefully placed the three pins upon the small glass tray upon the dressing-table, and dressed as quickly as I could, reflecting the while upon my adventure with the stranger whom I had taken to be a thief.

I shaved, swallowed the coffee which the young waiter brought me, and at once descended to the bureau; when in French I inquired of the clerk for Señor Salavera. He examined the register and replied politely:

“We have no one of that name staying here, señor.”

“What?” I cried. “He was in Room 175 last night!”

“Number 175 was Señor Solier,” replied the smart young clerk. “He paid his bill and left just after seven o’clock this morning.”

“But I saw his identification papers – his passport – letters addressed to him as Señor Salavera!”

“That may be so, señor,” was the suave reply. “But he registered here as Señor Solier.” And then he dropped into English, which he spoke very fairly. “Of course people who stay at hotels do not always give their correct names. They do not wish them published in visitors’ lists in the newspapers. Perhaps it is only natural,” and he smiled.

“Have you any one named Pedro Espada in the hotel?” I inquired.

Again he consulted his register, but shook his head.

“Nobody of that name,” he replied.

I hesitated. Then I asked:

“Did the gentleman who spent the night in Room 175 depart alone?”

The reception-clerk called the uniformed concierge, and asked:

“Did Number 175 leave alone?”

“Yes,” was the reply. “He caught the early express for Zaragoza. He was going on to Barcelona, he told me. He went in the omnibus.”

“No one with him?”

“Nobody.”

“When did he arrive?” I asked.

“The night before last. He was alone – with only a handbag. I charged him with a deposit for his room.”

“Have you ever seen him before?” I asked.

“Never to my recollection.”

“Neither have I,” remarked the concierge. “He seemed very afraid of being seen. I noticed him in the lounge last night. He left this morning quite suddenly, and without taking anything – even a cup of coffee.”

“He left in a violent hurry – eh?” I exclaimed, well knowing the reason. “Well,” I added, “I wish to see the manager.”

“I will inform him,” the clerk replied, and he went to the telephone. A minute later, after exchanging a few words in Spanish, he turned to me, saying:

“You will find the manager’s office on the first floor. If you take the lift the man will direct you, señor.”

A few minutes later I was seated in the office of an elderly bald-headed man, a typical hôtelier, courteous, smiling, and eager to hear any complaint that I might have to make.

At once I told him of my curious adventure of the previous night, and of the sudden flight of the mysterious stranger whom I had discovered in my room.

“That is certainly strange, sir,” he replied in English. “His excuse was a very ingenious one, to say the least. I think we ought to inform the police. Do you not agree?”

I told him of my discovery of the carpet pins, and asked his advice as to whom I might send them for chemical analysis.

At once he suggested Professor Vega, of the Princesa Hospital in the Calle Alberto Aguilera, adding:

“The Professor often dines here. If you wish, I will take you to him.”

So still leaving the three carpet pins upon the little glass tray I wrapped it in paper and together we went round to the hospital, where I was introduced to a tall, narrow-faced, grey-haired man in a long linen coat. To him I explained how I had found the pins on the carpet beside my bed, and asking whether he would submit them to examination.

He looked at them critically, first with the naked eye and afterwards by means of a large reading-glass. Then he grunted in dissatisfaction and promised that next day, or the day after, he would tell me the result of his analysis.