The Broken Thread

It was late when the doctor had completed his task. The first grey streaks of dawn crept through the long curtained windows, as he stealthily opened the door of his room. Surveying the silent corridor with care, he stole stealthily to Gilda’s room and tapped gently. The frightened girl, accustomed to the strange demands of her uncanny uncle, replied with surprising promptitude.

He hastily thrust Raife’s keys into her hand, muttering: “Give these back to the young fool, and see to it you don’t lose your head. I will meet you in the coffee-room at ten o’clock, and you can introduce him to me.”

At ten o’clock on the morning following these occurrences which appeared of such evil portent, Gilda Tempest, daintily clad in a light gown of soft material in which chiffon seemed to predominate, walked into the coffee-room of the hotel and took her seat at a table, laid for three, next to a window which commanded a view of the Promenade des Anglais. The doctor had planned the arrangement of this table with that prescience which characterised all his movements. She had not been seated many minutes, and was sipping some coffee – the coffee that, in spite of modern facilities, seems to be only obtainable on the continent of Europe, when Sir Raife Remington entered the room. He crossed to the table at which Gilda was seated and greeted her.

To his pleasure and astonishment she said, heartily: “Good morning. Sir Raife. Won’t you take a seat at our table? I expect my uncle, presently, and he will be very pleased to see you. First of all, let me thank you for the loan of your keys. It was so distressing, I could not find my keys anywhere, and, in desperation, I thought of your kind offer to help me if I needed it.”

Raife laughed heartily, and, taking a seat opposite to her, said: “Please don’t thank me for a small thing like that. I meant, more especially, I would like to help you in something big, as the Americans would say – something real large, should the occasion arise.”

Gilda appeared positively radiant on this bright, sunny morning, and her soft, pleasing voice thrilled him as she said: “Did you get the keys back? I sent them to your room by the chambermaid, and, do you know, one of them just fitted the little trunk I wanted to open. It contained this gown I’m wearing, and I’ve put it on in recognition of your kindness to me in my distress.”

Again he laughed, saying: “Oh, yes, I got the keys all right!”

Then, with a strange, strained tone in her voice, she said: “Here comes my uncle.”

Wherever Doctor Danilo Malsano entered people turned to look. His striking personality was of such a nature that it seemed more than ever strange that he could move about so easily, unobserved, when he was carrying out his nefarious schemes.

Raife rose from his chair as the doctor approached the table, and, gracefully, Gilda introduced: “My uncle, Doctor Malsano – Sir Raife Remington.”

With Saxon rigidity Raife bowed, but the older man with a warmth and graciousness extended his hand, compelling acceptance. Raife took the old man’s hand, and the contact caused him to shudder.

They took their seats at the table and the incongruous trio indulged in the vague generalities that are frequently associated with a breakfast-table. This was not a déjeuner à la fourchette. By common consent, coffee and dainty Vienna bread, with perfect butter, constituted the meal.

Raife could not fail to notice that Gilda’s radiance had subsided, and, in the presence of her uncle, a subdued conventionalism had superseded.

Once more, in spite of his brief sense of complete trust in this girl, who had not only entered but monopolised the moments of his life, whether awake or asleep – once more the fateful words of his dying father rang in his ears.

“Beware of the trap – she – that woman.”

He was roused from this reverie by the doctor’s words, uttered with a cordiality and accompanied by a smile that ill accorded with the sinister chuckles of the previous night.

Doctor Malsano, taking wax impressions in the dead of the night of the keys of his niece’s wooer, was a different person from the cheery old gentleman who said: “You are staying with your mother, who is a widow, I understand, Sir Raife?”

“Yes,” responded Raife. “My mother is with me here. She takes breakfast in her room. Since my father’s death she is fragile and delicate.”

“Ah, yes! I heard of your father’s death. Let me see. He was murdered, wasn’t he? Murdered by some blackguard of a burglar?”

Gilda winced. The doctor’s face was earnestly sympathetic.

Raife replied: “Yes, he was murdered by some blackguard of a burglar. Thank God, the burglar died too.”

The doctor crooned rather than spoke. “We won’t talk of sad things on this bright, sunny morning. Nice is charming, isn’t it, and so full of smart people? The Baroness von Sassniltz is staying here – in this hotel, I’m told.”

“Yes,” responded Raife, “she is a friend of my mother’s, and sometimes stays with us at Aldborough Park.”

“Aldborough Park! Dear me, I’ve heard of that some time. It’s a fine old Tudor place near Tunbridge Wells, isn’t it?”

Raife said: “Yes. It’s a fine old place. It belongs to me. There have been happy days at Aldborough, but yet I cannot help thinking that some people seem to thrive on the misery of others.”

“That’s true,” the doctor crooned again, “It’s sad, but it’s true.”

Then, cheerfully, Raife said; “I hope, doctor, that you and Miss Tempest will honour me with a visit there some day soon, and we’ll try and make merry again. If we can, we’ll forget that villainous assassin.”

Again Gilda winced, and, dropping her serviette, stooped to pick it up, thus hiding a scarlet flush that suffused her cheeks.

Without replying to the invitation and, with a suddenness that appeared to be anent nothing, Doctor Malsano said:

“Oh, Sir Raife, I’ve forgotten to express my thanks to you for the charming talisman you have presented to my niece, which I see she is wearing around her neck!”

Raife and Gilda both started at this extraordinary sally. Neither knew that the doctor was aware of the gift. The slight gold chain to which the talisman was attached was barely visible, whilst the figure of Isis was entirely screened from view. It heaved on Gilda’s palpitating breast, behind the bodice of her charming and dainty morning gown. Without apparently heeding the embarrassment of the young couple, he proceeded:

“There is a delightful mysticism about Egyptian mythology that charms me. Let me see, Isis was a goddess, wasn’t she? To be sure she was a goddess, and the record of her does not always make pleasant reading.”

Raife gazed steadfastly at this mysterious man, and marvelled at the meaning of his cryptic utterances, which came from him graciously, and with a smile that was bland, until the swivel eye destroyed the illusion.

Gilda was trained to the startling nature of her uncle’s methods, and collected her senses rapidly, remarking: “Yes, wasn’t it kind of Raife – Sir Raife I mean, to give it to me. I told him you would be pleased.”

Raife was more mystified than ever. She had not said anything of the kind to him. And what was the meaning of that lapse – the omission of the title in speaking before her uncle? Truly, the depths of these personalities were unfathomable. In spite of it all he had sworn to trust Gilda and remain her friend. He was a Reymingtoune and he would keep his word. Apart from that, he loved her, and love remains as blind to-day as when Cupid became fully fledged and wore wings.

The revolutions of an excited mentality are rapid, and a thought flashed through Sir Raife Remington’s mind. Who was that mysterious-looking, slouch-hatted, and cloaked Apache type of person, who bade him wait for Gilda when she was late for her appointment? Was he a secret agent of Doctor Malsano? What would be the outcome of this hotbed of mystery? It mattered not. Only one thing mattered. He loved this frail, beautiful young girl. He had sworn to trust her and to be her friend.

Chapter Nine

Foiled by the Work of a Modern Detective

The sunlit day that followed the breakfast at the little table laid for three, was full of happiness for Raife. He rapidly planned a motor-car ride. There were many details to be arranged. Lady Remington must be propitiated. The conventionalities of the South are less exacting than those of the North, but some of them must be observed. Lady Remington accepted the specious circumstances invented by Raife, and Doctor Malsano and his niece, Gilda Tempest, were duly introduced to her ladyship. The presentation was a characteristic presentment of difficulties overcome by an astuteness that youth can assume when love is the guide to the occasion. Il dottore displayed a suavity that was charming to Lady Remington, and Raife snatched the opportunity for those small attentions that accompany a youthful courtship. All that had savoured of mystery disappeared when the car bounded over the white roads that clamber over the hill and mountain sides of the sunny Mediterranean shore. To those two young hearts it was Elysium. A discreet Italian chauffeur paid those few attentions necessary to the well-ordered mechanism of a modern motor-car, and smiled once or twice when it occurred to him that so much happiness could not exist without a tragedy – somewhere-sometime. A bend in the steep road, a precipitous declivity with a loose stone wall on either side, and a glorious prospect of blue sea, and rich coloured landscape, brought the happy party to one of those meeting grounds, where perfectly trained waiters and caterers for human comfort assort themselves.

Joyously they alighted, and Raife proceeded to plan the arrangements for an al-fresco entertainment. Happiness was the keynote of the pleasure jaunt, and the stately Lady Remington seemed pleased with the companionship of the dignified doctor. The details of an entertainment are rendered easy in a land where men, women, and children are trained through the centuries to the refinements of pleasure.

Raife and Gilda found themselves wandering alone in a grove of trees, those dark-hued olives with leaf and branch in silhouette against a cerulean sky. This was the first occasion when opportunity had served for the display of a pent-up passion. With a fierceness that belongs to the madness of a love that has been controlled, almost discomforted, by circumstances Raife caught Gilda in his arms! Love may be blind, but love is alert. Crumpling leaves and a footstep brought Raife to his more complete sense. Turning, he saw the uncanny form of the Apache person, the forbidding creature who had spoken to him outside the café, on the night when Gilda had sent the little Italian girl to fetch him to her. With a gesture of impatience, that expressed thwarted opportunity, he said: “Who is that fellow, Gilda? Why is he here? How did he get here?”

Gilda trembled, and held her head between her hands. “I don’t know,” she stammered. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know!”

Brief is the life of golden opportunity, and Raife’s happiness had been broken by this phantom person of the forbidding aspect. A Saxon can love, but a Saxon can sulk. All that was Saxon in Sir Raife Remington induced him to sulk at this moment. They returned to where the tables were laid with that tempting display of napery and polished silver which is so well understood by the continental caterers. Lady Remington and Doctor Malsano were conversing agreeably. Gilda was evidently distressed, and Raife remained sulky. As they met again, the doctor was saying: “Your son was telling me, Lady Remington, that the Baroness von Sassniltz is a friend of yours. She is staying, I understand, at the same hotel with us?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor Malsano, I know the baroness. She visits us at Aldborough Park, my son’s place, you know, near Tunbridge Wells.”

“How very interesting. I have often felt I would like to meet the baroness. They tell me she is a very brilliant lady.” This was said with much unction.

The day that had opened so brightly, and with so much pleasure to Raife, was no longer pleasing to him. He was haunted by that Apache-looking fellow, whose hateful appearance in the olive grove had robbed him of the gratification that he felt should have been his. The course of true love is rarely smooth. It is often very rough. The weird happenings, since Raife and Gilda had met and talked, the brief love way into their souls on the front at Southport, had crowded their lives with mixed joy and sorrow. In these charming al-fresco surroundings, where the daintiness of human service blended with nature’s choicest gifts, there should have been peace and quietude of spirit. It was not to be. The haunting thought of his father’s dying words recurred again and again. “The trap – . She – that woman.”

His whole life’s blood should go out to this woman, whom he loved with a passion that belonged to a fierce nature. Yet at every pace or revolution in the progress of their intimacy there was a dark passage, a sinister obstacle.

The dignified uncle repelled him, although he, apparently, was fascinating his stately and severely exclusive mother. The forbidding figure of the Apache had completed, for a while, his sense of depression. The happiest people were, apparently, Lady Remington, the doctor – and the chauffeur – who had found companionship with a soft-eyed, brainless, dark-skinned maid, of the type that serves, and is happy in serving.

When the hired car bowled merrily around on the return journey and pulled up at the hotel, and a smiling group of servants assisted them in their entrance to the hotel, the Baroness von Sassniltz greeted Lady Remington. The opportunity and all the circumstances were of such a nature that it was almost necessary that Lady Remington should make the presentation. Thus Doctor Malsano and Gilda Tempest met the Baroness von Sassniltz.

It is necessary to talk of the Baroness von Sassniltz. She was rich, and of ancient lineage, but not of that old-world type which belonged to middle and eastern Europe, when the most exalted lady was little more than the ordinary frau or housewife. The baroness was brilliant and accomplished, and she was endowed with a commanding presence. She was handsome rather than beautiful, and as for her age – what does it matter so long as she remained attractive, and commanded the admiration of most, and the devotion of many, men.

Modern travel is so easy and it is so frequent that there is a closer intercourse in the society of nations. Switzerland and the Riviera are the acknowledged playgrounds where, by international accord, the crook may jostle the noble, and the conventions of the capitals of the world are allowed a licence and freedom undreamt of a decade ago.

Lady Remington first met the baroness at the Angst Hotel, Bordighera. The frigid bows which are grudgingly given by the highly-born in such circumstances, melted somewhat when, next season, mutual recognition was forced on them by an untimely jostle at the gaming tables of Monte Carlo. Of course those tables were never really fashionable, but they have always been fascinating. They possess the requisite diablerie to amuse the most exclusive and bored aristocracy of the countries of Europe. A further chance meeting at San Moritz completed the essentials necessary to break down the hidebound conventions that surround women’s introductions to one another.

Lady Remington and the Baroness von Sassniltz thus became friends. The baroness, so much younger than Lady Remington, possessed a vivacity and sense of initiative in the matter of social entertainment, which were very pleasing to her ladyship. The arduous nature of the late Sir Henry’s political life had been responsible for much that was almost drab in his wife’s career, which had been beautifully devoted to her husband.

The baroness’s jewels were a frequent topic of conversation in most of the capitals of Europe. The joy of possession is very great to the woman who owns jewellery, and the joy seems to increase with the risk that is attached to travel. The hairbreadth escapes, the thrills, and the states of panic attending the conveyance of the baroness’s jewels from one spa to another, were worth more than the cost of those expensive baubles. Her maid lived in a constant state of dread and apprehension in her efforts to protect the precious trinkets. There was not a crook in Europe who was not striving to outwit that poor woman and rob the baroness at the same time. Every variety of human emotion followed in their train, and the alert little Fräulein Schneider was the custodian of the priceless baubles, and ever on her guard to confuse the common enemy. Humanity is frail, and the most austere have a weak spot. Fräulein Schneider’s vigilance had become so much a part of her character that there were very few who detected the weak point in her armour. Coiled in a shapeless bunch at the back of her head there were long plaited strands of yellow hair. No one ever knew just how much of that hair there was, but the strands seemed interminable. This yellow hair was the one weak spot through which she could be approached. It was combed and pomaded, and plaited with scrupulous care. Everything about Fräulein Schneider was characterised by extreme care, from the guarding of the baroness’s jewels to the setting of the miniature black and white bonnet that surrounded the mighty monument of yellow hair.

“What beautiful hair, Fräulein!” was sufficient to extract a gratified smile, which was the first step towards relaxed vigilance. Doctor Malsano knew this weakness, and he watched and waited for the opportunity to apply the knowledge for his profit. A polished criminal is liable to take long chances when a big haul of booty appears probable. The doctor had shown himself rather indiscreet these last few days. Crossing the foyer of the hotel, after a long chat with the charming Lady Remington, he stumbled and almost fell into the arms of a little Englishman, who protested in such a ludicrous voice that the incident raised a titter among the guests at the hotel. There was no desire for laughter on the doctor’s part. In that brief, short while he had recognised Detective-Inspector Herrion of Scotland Yard. This immaculate little gentleman, with his fair hair parted in the middle, and a waxed moustache, was none other than the famous Herrion. A detective to-day, to be successful on the continent of Europe, must combine the qualities of an Admirable Crichton, with the cunning of a stoat. Detective-Inspector Herrion excelled these attributes, and, under alternating masks that varied from the superficial inanity of a Scarlet Pimpernel to the repellance of a viper, he did society much daring service. The apparent young sprig of aristocracy, with the deliciously insipid drawl and the grotesque monocle, was none other than Herrion, the one man of all others whom Doctor Malsano dreaded. This dainty little gentleman presented a very different appearance a few minutes later as he stripped before the mirror of the hotel washstand he revealed to himself the sinewy and fibrous muscles of the well-trained athlete.

Herrion was an athlete trained in that lithe school that embodies every active form of sport, from football to fencing, from la savate to the modern savage form of fighting and boxing. Equally deadly with a Browning revolver, a rifle at 800 yards, or a right and left among the birds in stubble or turnips.

This was the form and frame hidden behind such a mask of bored manner and faultless attire as could only be assumed by a Scarlet Pimpernel in his leisure moments. He was truly a man to be feared, and Doctor Malsano had learnt by bitter experience to run when his little, astute enemy loomed on the horizon. The recognition had been mutual at the time of the stumble, and Herrion knew the doctor was not staying in the Hôtel Royal for the cause of philanthropy. When the incident that produced the recognition had ceased to attract attention, the detective dodged through a service door used by the staff, and, making his way along corridors, knocked at an office door. Responding to the invitation to enter, he said to the rotund, bald-headed little man, ensconced in a big chair and surrounded by a maze of books and papers, “Forgive me, signor, for my brusque intrusion. Have you the Baroness von Sassniltz staying in your hotel?”

“Ah, inspector! It is you. I thought it was what you call ze greased lightning. I don’t know whether the baroness you speak of is staying in the hotel, but I will inquire,” and, ringing a bell, the jovial little manager continued: “You see at Nice we have so many barons, counts, ze English lords and people with titles, and at the Royal,” – this he said with a whimsical smile – “you see, Mr Inspector, we have the crème de la crème of what you call the haut-ton, the best society.”

In response to a bell a man in livery entered, and, with the deference of an inferior, asked for instructions. The manager, with an austere manner that contrasted with his previous geniality, ordered: “Go to the bureau and ask whether the baroness – what is the name, Mr Herrion?” The man started and looked surreptitiously at the detective. Herrion frowned and said, “The Baroness von Sassniltz, signor.”

As the man closed the door to go on his errand, the inspector said: “I’m sorry you disclosed my identity to that man. Who is he? Has he been long in the service of the hotel?”

“Ah, I’m very sorry, Mr Herrion. I did not think it would matter down here in this old office of mine. Again, Mr Herrion, I see my mistake. I am sorry.”

The messenger returned, and said, “The Baroness von Sassniltz is staying in the hotel, signor, with her maid, the Fräulein Schneider.”

“Thank you,” and, as the man glared at the detective again, the manager repeated, “You can go.”

Herrion followed him to the door and proceeded to talk to the manager. Suddenly wheeling, the officer opened the door and hauled from without the messenger.

“You were listening to our talk outside,” he said to the man, and turning to the manager, asked: “Do you know this man, signor? I don’t think you will find him a very good servant for such an aristocratic hotel as the Royal.”

The little manager rose from his chair and said furiously: “Go! go at once, this hotel is no place for a man like you. Go! I tell you, go, and I will see to it that you do not stay in Nice.”

The man attempted to explain, but the manager of a Riviera hotel is a despot in such matters, and the good name of a hotel must not be smirched by an inferior servant.

When the man had gone, Herrion continued his talk: “The Baroness von Sassniltz is very wealthy, signor, and she carries with her jewellery that is almost priceless. These people who will carry jewellery around with them are a great trouble to us. Before I intruded in your office I saw a man in the foyer, who is one of the most accomplished thieves in Europe. He is not here for a good purpose. That messenger whom I hauled, sans cérémonie, into the room, is, I have reason to believe, in league with this other criminal. I have seen a man skulking around at night in the costume of what might be the Quartier Latin of Paris, but he looks more like an Apache, and I strongly suspect this is the same man.”

“Ma foi! Mr Herrion, but if that is so, I and my proprietors are profoundly grateful to you.”

“Well it is, in some sense, my duty to prevent crime as well as to hunt down criminals and bring them to justice. I am not in Nice for this particular piece of work, but I saw a chance of nipping this man’s plans, and I hope I have done it. The rest of the work I leave to you. Good day, signor!”

When Herrion had left, the rotund little man leant back in his chair and laughed to himself.

“Ma foi! But when I was in London the crooks of Soho, Hatton Garden, and the other quarters used to laugh at the English detectives, with their big boots, pipe, and what they call a skull cap. But, this man Herrion, he’s what they call ‘in another class.’”

Chapter Ten

The Mystery of some Disappearances

The doctor, after his encounter with Herrion, hastily ascended the main staircase and made his way to his room. Gilda was in the foyer talking to Sir Raife Remington. With a surprising agility, the doctor flung his belongings into his valises and then scribbled a note. Ringing the bell he called for his bill, at the same time instructing the waiter to hand the note to Miss Tempest, whom he would find in the foyer. “Call Miss Tempest,” he added, “by saying that I wish to speak to her. Don’t hand her the note in the presence of Sir Raife.”