The Sign of the Stranger Part 35

It seemed quite evident by the fact that five places had been laid at table that the Frenchwoman must have already been in the flat awaiting the arrival of Marigold and her companions, and, further, that Logan and her ladys.h.i.+p had remained behind after the unfortunate woman had been carried to the cab.

These and a thousand other thoughts flashed through my bewildered mind as I stood aghast, my eyes riveted upon the dead white face of the woman whose single word could have saved my love.

She had died, alas! with that secret locked within her heart!

I recollected her quick vivacious manner in those exciting moments when we had met on the Chelsea Embankment, and how I had made a compact with her, one which it was now impossible for her to fulfil. She had hid from the police, first at Hayes's Farm, where a dastardly attempt had been made upon her, and here, in that unoccupied flat, she had fallen the victim of her enemies. Why? What motive could Marigold and her friends have in her a.s.sa.s.sination?

That there was a motive, and a very strong one, was quite plain, but it certainly was in no way apparent to me. The mystery was maddening. I felt, indeed, that my weakened brain could not much longer stand the strain.

"You recognise her, I see!" exclaimed the _delegato_, with satisfaction.

He had been watching me narrowly, and believed that the start I gave when the ghastly face was revealed was proof of my guilt.

"Yes, I recognise her," was my answer. And glancing round the room I saw that it was dirty and neglected, having been unoccupied for some time. The a.s.sa.s.sins, I supposed, had cleaned the dining-room and _salon_ in order that the victim should not suspect that she was in an apartment that had been so long closed. It was certainly bold and ingenious of them to enter a stranger's house and use it for their nefarious purpose.

My captors led me back to the room in which I had been found, where one of them pointed to a dark stain upon the floor--the stain of my own blood. Beside it I saw my handkerchief cast aside. It had, no doubt, been used by my discoverers to staunch the blood. Again I took the heavy axe in my hand, and realised what a deadly weapon it was.

Then when the men had concluded making some other investigations they led me away, driving me back to the hospital in the cab, evidently entirely satisfied with their effort to fix the crime upon myself. The doctors had not yet discharged me, therefore I was put to bed again, and a detective mounted guard as before.

At my suggestion, the British Consul, Mr Martin Johnson, was informed, and visited me. He stood at my bedside, a pompous and superior person to whom I at once took an intense dislike. Happily he is now transferred, and his office is now occupied by a very courteous and pleasant-mannered member of His Majesty's Consular Service. I had, however, the misfortune to call Mr Johnson without knowing the character of the man. He was one of those precious persons of whom there are far too many in the British Consular Service; men who object to be disturbed by the Englishman in distress, whose hours are from one till three, and whose duties in an inland city like Milan are almost _nil_. Mr Martin Johnson, something of a fop, believed himself an ornament of the Service, hence his annoyance when the police called him to my bedside at the hospital. He regarded me with combined pity and contempt, at the same time drawing himself up and speaking in a ha-don't-you-know tone, supposed to be impressive.

I had heard of this superior person long ago, and as I lay in bed was amused at his attempt to impress upon me the importance of his position.

I explained to him how I had been discovered and arrested, and that I was entirely innocent of the crime alleged against me, whereupon he said snappily--

"Well, I can't help you. You'll have to prove your innocence. The police say that you've been confronted with the body of the woman, and that your att.i.tude showed plainly that you were guilty."

"But it's monstrous!" I said. "I was attacked in the street by some ruffian, struck insensible, and carried up to the room."

"You'll have to prove that, What's your name?"

I told him, without, however, mentioning my connexion with the Stanchesters.

"And the woman? You admitted to the police that you know her?"

"She's a Frenchwoman named Lejeune--who was wanted by the police."

He sniffed suspiciously, and rearranged his cravat in the mirror upon the wall.

"Well," he remarked in Italian to the _delegato_ who stood at his side.

"This is a matter in which I really cannot intervene. The prisoner has to prove his innocence. How can I help him?"

"By doing your duty as Consul," I chimed in. "By having an interview with the Questore and obtaining justice for me."

"I know my duty, sir," he snapped. "And it is not to investigate the case of every unknown tourist who gets into difficulty. If you have money, you can engage some lawyer for your defence--and if you haven't, well I'm sorry for you."

"Yours is a rather poor consolation, Mr Johnson," I remarked in anger.

"Am I to understand then that you refuse to help me--that you will not see the Questore on my behalf?"

"I've told you plainly, I am unable to interfere."

"Then I shall complain to the Foreign Office regarding the inutility of their Consul in Milan and his refusal to a.s.sist British subjects in distress," I said.

"Make whatever complaint you like. I have no time to discuss the matter further." And he turned rudely upon his heel and left me, while the police drew their own conclusions from his att.i.tude.

"Very well, my dear sir," I called after him down the hospital ward, "when Sir Charles Renton asks for your explanation of your conduct to-day, you will perhaps regret that you were not a little more civil."

My words fell upon him, causing him to turn back. Mention of the name of the head of his particular department of the Foreign Office stirred the thought within him that he might, after all, be acting contrary to his own interests. He was a toady and place-seeker of the first water.

"And of what do you complain, pray?" he asked.

"Well," I said, "I chance to know Sir Charles very intimately--in fact he is a relative of mine. Therefore when I return I shall not fail to describe to him this interview." It was the truth. Sir Charles was my cousin.

"Then why didn't you tell me that before, my dear sir?" asked the pompous official, in an instant all smiles and graces, for he knew too well that direct complaint to the head of his department meant transference to some abominable and desolate hole in West or East Africa. "Of course, I'm only too ready and anxious to serve any friend of Sir Charles," he a.s.sured me.

"No doubt," I said smiling and inwardly reflecting that, happily, members of our Consular Service were not all cast in that person's mould. Previously he had put on the airs of an Amba.s.sador--the air he a.s.sumed, I suppose, in the drawing-rooms of democratic Milan, but now he was all obsequiousness, declaring himself ready and anxious to carry out my smallest wishes in every respect.

"Well," I said, regarding him contemptuously, "I can only tell you that the tragic affair that has just occurred concerns the honour of one of the greatest houses in England. I cannot be more explicit, otherwise I should betray a confidence. I am accused of murder, but I am, of course, innocent."

"Of course," he said. "Of course! These fools of police are always trying to parade their wonderful intelligence. But," he added, "how are you going to prove yourself innocent?"

Strangely enough that very serious question had never occurred to me. I was in a country where the law regarded me as guilty, and not in England, where I should be looked upon as innocent until convicted.

I was silent, for I saw myself in a very serious predicament.

I would have asked him to telegraph to Keene or to Lolita, but I feared to give him the address lest he should inst.i.tute inquiries, and I had no wish to mix up Lord Stanchester or his sister with the terrible affair.

"The only course I can suggest is the engagement of a good criminal counsel who will, without doubt, secure your acquittal at once when the case comes on for trial," remarked the Consul. "Why the police arrested you appears to be an utter enigma, but in Italy it is not extraordinary.

They had to make an arrest, so they detained you."

"Shall I be detained long do you think?"

"Probably a month," he replied regretfully. "Perhaps even more."

My heart sank within me. I was to remain there a prisoner, inactive and in ignorance of the web of intrigue around my love. Too well I knew Lolita's danger, and now, with the Frenchwoman dead, she would be compelled to face the inevitable.

A month of absence and of seclusion! What might happen in that period, I dreaded to contemplate. If I were free, I might be instrumental in bringing the murderers of Marie Lejeune to justice, but detained there it was impossible.

Of a sudden, like a flash, a brilliant idea occurred to me. There was just a chance that I could secure my release by a very fortuitous circ.u.mstance--the meeting of that _delegato_ of police in Biffi's cafe on the night of the murder!

At once I explained this incident to Mr Martin Johnson, described the appearance of the detective and his friend, and urged him to go to the Questore, place my statement before him, and if possible ascertain who was the _delegato_ in question and confront me with him.

In an hour the Consul returned. He had seen the chief of police, and from my description it was believed that the detective was a brigadier named Gozi, who was that day over at Como. They had telegraphed for him to return, and he would come and see me at once.

This gave me hope, while knowledge of my statement and the interest the Consul was taking in my case aroused the interest of my guards. Even the doctor and nurses seemed to regard me differently.

The hours crept slowly by in that great house of suffering. A priest, a kindly cheery old man, came to my bedside and chatted. He was from Bologna, a city I knew well, and he had once when a young man been in London, attached to the Italian Church in Hatton Garden. The sunset that streamed through the long curtainless windows and fell upon the big crucifix before me, faded at last, the clear sky deepened into night, and the hush of silence fell upon the ward. Yet still beside me there sat the immovable figure of my guard, his arms folded as he dozed.

That night I pa.s.sed in the torture of suspense. My head burned, my eyes seemed sore in the sockets, and I was apprehensive lest my hope of release might be a futile one.