The Stretton Street Affair Part 21

What could be the motive, I wondered?

I returned to the Carlton at midnight and inquired for Monsieur Suzor.

The night-clerk told me that he had not yet returned.

So I went back to the cold cheerlessness of Rivermead Mansions, and slept until the following morning.

At each turn I seemed to be confronted by mystery which piled upon mystery. Ever before my eyes I saw that handsome girl lying cold and lifeless, and I had forged a certificate in the name of a well-known medical man, upon which her body had been reduced to ashes! That I had acted as accomplice to some cunning and deliberate crime I could not disguise from myself. It was now up to me to make amends before G.o.d and man, to strive to solve the enigma and to bring the guilty persons to justice.

This was what I was endeavouring, with all my soul, to accomplish.

Yet the point was whether Gabrielle Engledue was really dead, or whether she still existed in the person of Gabrielle Tennison. That was the first fact for me to establish.

Next morning I rose early and gazed across the cold misty Thames to the great factories and wharves upon the opposite bank. The outlook was indeed dull and dispiriting, I stood recalling how Moroni had walked with the beautiful girl in the streets of Florence, unwillingly it seemed, for he certainly feared lest his companion be recognized. I also recollected the strange conversation I had heard with my own ears, and the curious att.i.tude which little Mrs. Cullerton had adopted towards me, even though she had revealed to me the whereabouts of Gabrielle Tennison.

My breakfast was ready soon after eight o'clock, and afterwards I went to Earl's Court to watch the house in Longridge Road. By dint of careful inquiries in the neighbourhood I was told that Mrs. Tennison had gone away a few days before--to Paris, they believed.

"The young lady, Miss Tennison, appears to be rather peculiar," I remarked casually to a woman at a baker's shop near by, after she had told me that she served them with bread.

"Yes, poor young lady!" replied the woman. "She's never been the same since she was taken ill last November. They say she sustained some great shock which so upset her that her mind is now a little affected.

Old Mrs. Alford, the servant there, tells me that the poor girl will go a whole day and never open her mouth. She's like one dumb!"

"How very curious!" I remarked. "I wonder what kind of shock it was that caused such a change in her? Was she quite all right before November?"

"Perfectly. She was a bright clever girl, and used often to come in here to me for chocolate and cakes. She was full of life and merriment. It is really pathetic to see her as she is nowadays. She seems to be brooding over something, but what it is n.o.body can make out."

"Very remarkable," I said. "I've noticed her about, and have wondered at her att.i.tude--like many others, I suppose."

"Yes. Her mother has taken her to a number of mental specialists, I hear, but n.o.body seems to be able to do her any good. They say she's suffered from some shock, but they can't tell exactly what it is, because the young lady seems to have entirely lost her memory over a certain period."

"Is Mrs. Tennison well off?" I asked.

"No--the reverse, I should think," the baker's wife replied. "I've heard that Mr. Tennison was a very rich man, but when he died it was found that he was on the verge of bankruptcy, and the widow was left very poorly off."

It is curious what intimate knowledge the little tradespeople glean about their neighbours, even in London. From the woman I gathered one or two facts of interest.

I inquired if Mrs. Tennison had many visitors, whereupon she replied in the negative, and added:

"There used to be an Italian gentleman who called very often a few weeks ago. He often walked out with the young lady. Somebody said he was a doctor, but I don't know if he was."

I asked the woman to tell me what he was like, when she gave me an accurate description of the mysterious doctor of the Via Cavezzo!

So Moroni had visited her there--in Longridge Road!

I tried to ascertain if Gaston Suzor had been there also, but my informant had no knowledge of him. She had never seen him walking with Gabrielle Tennison, as she had so often seen the Italian.

I remained for nearly half an hour chatting, retiring, of course, when she was compelled to serve customers, and then I left her and walked round to the house in Longridge Road, where I watched a little while, and then returned to the Carlton.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

THE ABSOLUTE FACTS

"Monsieur Suzor has not yet returned," was the reply of the smart reception-clerk when I inquired for the French banker. "But he is often away for two or three days."

I left the hotel, and taking a taxi to the Euston Road made a thorough examination of the high shabby house with its smoke-grimed lace curtains, a place which bore over the fan-light the words "Private Hotel." In the broad light of day it looked a most dull, uninviting place; more so even than its neighbours. There are many such hotels in the vicinity of Euston Station, and this seemed the most wretched of them all, for the windows had not been cleaned for many months, while the steps badly wanted scrubbing.

After I had thoroughly examined the place in front, I went round to the back, where I discovered, to my surprise, that the house had an exit at the rear through a mews into a drab, dull street which ran parallel. Then, for the first time, the thought occurred to me that on the previous day the Frenchman might have entered by the front door and pa.s.sed out by the back into the next street!

I waited an hour idling about, and then I went boldly to the door, and knocked.

A black-haired, slatternly woman in a torn and soiled ap.r.o.n opened the door slightly.

"We're full up," she snapped before I could speak. "We haven't any room to let."

"I don't require a room," I replied politely. "I've called to see the French gentleman you have staying here--Monsieur Suzor."

I thought she started at mention of the name, for she still held the door ajar as though to prevent me from peering inside.

"We've got no French gent a-staying 'ere," she replied. "You've made a mistake."

"But I saw him enter here last night."

"You must 'ave been mistaken," the woman said. "'E might 'ave gone next door. They 'ave a lot of visitors."

"But you are full up--eh?"

"Yes--with our reg'lar residents," she answered promptly. But from her nervousness of manner I knew she was not telling the truth. I was positive that Suzor had entered there, but she denied all knowledge of him. Why?

Without a doubt, while I had waited for him to emerge, he had pa.s.sed out by the back way. If so, was it possible that he had seen and recognized me, and wished to escape unseen?

The house was certainly one of mystery. The woman was palpably perturbed by my inquiry, and she seemed relieved when I turned away with feigned disappointment.

"Try next door," she suggested, and disappeared.

As I walked along Euston Road in the direction of Tottenham Court Road, I fell to wondering whether that frowsy house was one of those which exist in various quarters of London where thieves and persons hiding from the police can find sanctuary, and whether Suzor, knowing that I had seen him, had escaped me by pa.s.sing through to the back and thus getting away!

I longed to know the character of the serious conversation he had had with Gabrielle Tennison. That indeed was my object to discover, hence that afternoon I still pursued my bold tactics and at about three o'clock I rang the bell in Longridge Road.

That act, the true consequences of which I never dreamed, eventually brought upon me a strange and sensational series of complications and adventures so remarkable that I sometimes think that it is only by a miracle I am alive to set down the facts in black and white.

The old woman-servant, Mrs. Alford, opened the door, whereupon I said:

"I trust you will excuse me, but as a matter of fact I am desirous of a few minutes' private conversation with you."

She looked askance at me, and naturally. I was a perfect stranger, and servants do not care to admit strangers to the house when their mistress is absent.