CHAPTER XXVI

AT seven o’clock precisely, Freyberger drove up to the Langham.

Mademoiselle Lefarge had given instructions that anyone who called was to be shown up.

Freyberger followed a waiter up the softly carpeted stairs; at the door of a room on the first landing the man stopped.

“Whom shall I say, sir?”

“Mr Gustave Freyberger.”

The waiter opened the door and the detective found himself in the presence of three people.

An old lady with white hair, a young woman whom he recognized by instinct as Mademoiselle Lefarge, and a man of about thirty or perhaps thirty-five, clean-shaved, English-looking, and with the stamp of a barrister.

The detective’s quick eye and even quicker brain took in the room and its occupants at a glance.

In a moment he comprehended the status of the two women before him, but the man puzzled him.

The women were French to their fingertips, but the man was English.

Needless to say the man was Hellier.

Cécile Lefarge gazed at the newcomer for a moment and then advanced, with hand out-stretched, in such a kindly and frank manner as quite to captivate even the unemotional Freyberger.

“I need not ask you,” she said, “for I am quite sure you are the gentleman mentioned by M. Hamard as having telegraphed to Paris for an interview with me. I am Cécile Lefarge.”

“Mademoiselle,” replied the detective, with a charming modesty that was half false. “The communication to M. Hamard came from the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I am but the humble instrument deputed by him to inquire into a certain case. A crime has been committed in England. In the investigation of the matter, I, by a strange chance, came upon the records of a crime committed in Paris—”

“Eight years ago.”

“Pardon me, mademoiselle, eight years and five months ago.”

“You are exact.”

“I am exact, but before I proceed, I must ask you to excuse me. This is an important matter. In speaking of it I wish to be sure of whom I am addressing. You are Mademoiselle Lefarge, this lady—”

“Is my aunt, Madame de Warens.”

“Thank you, and this gentleman?”

Cécile Lefarge blushed slightly. “He is our very good friend, Mr Hellier.”

Hellier produced his visiting card and handed it to Freyberger.

“That is my name and address,” said he. “I assure you that anything you say before me will not pass beyond me. Mademoiselle Lefarge has entrusted me with the painful details of the case that occurred in Paris eight years ago, and I have made investigations myself in the matter. I have spent some time in Paris studying the reports of the case, and I may be able to assist you in an humble way, if my assistance would not be out of place.”

Freyberger bowed very stiffly. He had a horror of the amateur detective, the Gyde case was his own especial problem, he wished for no help in its solution.

“Thank you,” he said. Then turning to Mademoiselle Lefarge:

“I like to be always perfectly frank, I have brought you a long journey, my message was urgent, yet I can give you no word of hope on the question that has troubled your heart for eight years.”

“Hope!”

“My meaning is this, I can give you no hope that M. Lefarge is alive.”

“Alive! Ah, no! He is dead, my dear father is dead, some instinct has long told me that; all I hope for is revenge.”

“I may give you that,” said Freyberger quite simply.

They were standing opposite to one another. Mademoiselle Lefarge sank down on a fauteuil near by and motioned the detective to take a chair.

“I must tell you first,” said he, taking a seat close to her, “that a terrible crime has been committed in England, a crime almost exactly similar to that which was committed in the Rue de Turbigo eight years ago.”

“Ah!”

“We are investigating that crime, we believe the active agent in it to be the active agent in the crime of the Rue de Turbigo. If we can prove this incontrovertibly by the capture of the active agent for whom we are seeking, your father’s name will be quite cleared of any imputation.”

Cécile Lefarge sighed deeply. She sat with her hands clasped across one knee and her eyes fixed upon the man before her.

She divined, in this plain, clean-shaved, fresh-coloured and youngish-looking man, whose face might have been that of a café waiter, whose manner was yet so calm and authoritative and assured, and whose eye was so full of steadfastness and energy, she divined in this person the man for whom she had been seeking for years—her avenger.

“Go on, please,” she said.

“I must first,” said Freyberger, taking a parcel from his pocket, “ask you to look at this.”

He handed a photograph to the girl.

She looked at it and gave a short, sharp cry, as though some one had struck her.

“Müller!” she said, holding the thing away from her with a gesture of terror.

Freyberger took it and replaced it in his pocket after Hellier had glanced at it.

“You recognize it as the portrait—”

“Of the man who executed the bust of my father. Oh, yes, indeed, I recognize it. His face is burnt upon my brain. Were I to live a thousand years, it would be there still.”

“Now,” said Freyberger, “I do not wish to pain you, yet I must say some unpleasant things. You know that in the eyes of the world at the time of this affair, M. Lefarge appeared guilty.”

“Alas!” said she, “in the eyes of the world my dear father must appear as guilty as he did then.”

“You know the terrible mass of evidence that was produced against him?”

“Yes.”

“You have weighed it logically yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever believed your father to have been guilty of the crime imputed to him?”

“Never.”

“Have you any special reason for this disbelief?”

“No.”

“Yet—”

“Yet I know him to have been innocent. Ah, M. Freyberger! logic is not everything in this world, instinct with some people counts for much more. I know my dear father to have been innocent, and you ask me how I know it. I can only answer, ‘how do I know that the sun shines,’ the thing is plain before me, and we will not speak of it again.”

“We will speak, then, of this man, Müller. He impressed you.”

She looked around as if seeking for a metaphor.

“He impressed me with horror, he filled me with the terror of a nightmare.”

“You saw him several times?”

“Yes, my dear father brought him to our house. My father was so good, so pleasant, so genial, he saw no harm in anyone. If a man were only clever, that was enough for him. Many an artist who is now well-to-do in the world owes everything to the help received from him.”

Freyberger had been studying Mademoiselle Lefarge from the first moment of his entering the room. This was no woman of the ordinary type.

This was an individual of spirit and sense and intellect, who had been studying the Lefarge case for eight years. He determined to put the whole matter of the Gyde case before her and its connexion with the case of Lefarge.

This he did in the space of ten minutes, clearly and concisely and with that precision that never misses a necessary or includes an unnecessary word.

“If what you have told me is correct,” said Mademoiselle Lefarge, when he had finished, “it only confirms my belief that Müller by some horrible alchemy, known only to himself, destroyed my father both in body and reputation, just as he has destroyed Sir Anthony Gyde.”

“That, too, is my belief,” said Hellier, who had been listening, amazed at the tale of Freyberger, and full of admiration at his process of reasoning.

“Now,” said the detective, “have you the bust this man executed of M. Lefarge?”

“Yes,” replied Cécile, “I have it in the next room, I brought it with me to-day, hoping it might be of use.”

Freyberger looked at her with admiration.

“It will be of great use, and I must thank you for bringing it. I would like to see it and to show it to a friend whom I expect here shortly. He is a Greek who has reconstructed the Gyde bust, and his opinion is necessary to me in the case.”

Mademoiselle Lefarge passed into an adjoining room, from which she presently emerged, carrying something in her arms; something wrapped in a white cloth.

She placed this object on a table and, removing the cloth, exposed the bust of M. Lefarge, which we have already seen.

Freyberger examined the thing attentively, murmuring to himself as he did so. Mademoiselle Lefarge, watching him narrowly, imagined that he seemed pleased.

“Well,” she said at last, “do you think it will be of service to you in your investigations? What do you think of it?”

“Ah, mademoiselle,” he replied, “my opinion on a work of art is, perhaps, of no great value and for that reason I have sent for a friend who is a magician where these matters are concerned, but,” looking at his watch, “he is late, this magician.”

Scarcely had he spoken than a knock came to the door and a waiter appeared bearing a salver, on which reposed a filthy-looking visiting card.

Cécile took the thing, on which was scrawled:

“I. Antonides, art dealer, 1006 Old Compton Street.”

“Gentleman is outside, miss,” said the waiter, whose cast-iron face was struggling with a grin and conquering it.

“Show him in,” said Cécile, and I. Antonides entered.

Dressed in a shabby old fur-lined coat, from which half the buttons were gone, and holding a shabby old silk hat in one hand he stood for a moment in the doorway, blinking and then, catching sight of Freyberger, he beckoned.

Freyberger went to him and Antonides, catching him by the lapel, whispered, “A word in your ear, Mr Freyberger.”

“Well, what is it?” asked the detective, following the old man into the corridor.

“Am I dealing in this matter with you, or the young woman?”

“I suppose by the young woman you mean Mademoiselle Lefarge?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you are dealing with me. Why do you ask?”

“Only this,” said Antonides, who, from one brief glimpse, had summed up the financial position of this girl, who was able to afford a private suite of rooms on the first floor of the Langham.

“It’s nothing to you, here or there, a pound or two in my pocket, so long as it doesn’t come out of your pocket, won’t make her pocket any the lighter. Mr Freyberger, consider our bargain off, like a good friend and let me do the skinning.”

“Now look here,” said Freyberger, “you bargained to come here and view the thing for two pounds.”

“Guineas.”

“And the cab fare, that’s what you’ll get and not a penny more. Skinning, indeed! Do you take me for an—art dealer? See here, I have the money for you, here’s two pounds, here’s two shillings, and what’s the cab fare?”

“Five.”

“Three, you mean; anyhow, here’s five. What a funny man you are.”

“I am never funny in business, but in return for your compliment, I will give you a piece of advice—never, never, stir a foot in business without settling your terms in advance. Once I lost eight shillings and a halfpenny, the single fare to Leicester by omitting to carry out that precept. It was seven years ago, Mr Freyberger, seven years, and I have never got that eight and a halfpenny back from the world yet, and never will. Now to our consultation.”

They returned to the sitting-room, Freyberger introduced the old man in a word or two and then pointed to the bust.

The Greek took a spectacle case from his pocket, drew forth a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and adjusted them upon his nose. Then he examined the bust attentively.

“Well?” asked Freyberger.

“Well,” answered the other, quite disregardless of the other people present. “Where are your eyes, could you not see that this bust is, from an artistic point of view, the twin brother of that which I repaired for you?”

“I was sure of it,” said Freyberger.

“Then why did you ask my opinion?”

“Because I wanted to make doubly sure.”

“Well, you have done so,” said Antonides, taking his spectacles off and replacing them in his pocket. “You may take my word for it that the man who executed this bust was also the author of that admirable piece of work which some Philistine smashed with his coal hammer.”

Antonides bowed slightly to the ladies, seized his old hat, which he had placed on a chair, and, escorted by Freyberger, left the room.

When Freyberger returned, Mademoiselle Lefarge was still standing in exactly the same place where she had stood whilst the old man was giving his opinion on the bust.

Hellier was still seated in the background; he had not spoken a word, content to listen and leave the case entirely in the capable hands of the detective.

The girl took a seat and motioned Freyberger to do the same.

He took the chair which she had pointed out, then he sat for a moment in thought. At last he said.

“You have told me everything that you know?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I want you to tell me something more. I want you to tell me, more precisely, what you think.”

She looked puzzled.

“Your knowledge of the facts of this case,” said he, “does not, perhaps, exceed my own. Your memory may not be able to cast new light on the matter, but your imagination may. You have pondered over it, you have dreamt of it, for eight years and more it has been with you. What does your imagination say? what have you fancied about it?”

“I have fancied this,” said she, “or, rather, I have been assured of this. That whoever was murdered in the Rue de Turbigo, it was not Müller. I know all the evidence, and of the tattooed marks upon the body. The two letters ‘W.M.,’ which were his initials. But might they not have been the initials of some other man? No one gave evidence to say that such marks had ever been seen upon Müller. No matter. I believe that Müller was not murdered; I believe that Müller was the assassin of whoever was murdered, and I have felt that he was such a terrible man that he was sure to repeat his crime, murder some one else, and probably get caught. God help me! I have hoped so. For years it has been my hope that this demon might act again as he acted in the Rue de Turbigo, and fall into the hands of justice, just as a tiger who eats men returns to his feeding place and falls into the hands of the hunters.

“Was my belief correct? Look at the case of Sir Anthony Gyde, of which you told us to-night.”

“Your belief was, I am convinced, correct,” answered Freyberger.

“I believe,” went on Mademoiselle Lefarge, speaking as if under the influence of an inspiration, “that this man has not limited his hand to Sir Anthony Gyde, I believe that he has committed many murders. He is a murderer. I can fancy him strangling a fellow creature from pure hatred and the lust of blood or money.”

“Ah! Good heavens!” cried Hellier, striking himself on the forehead.

Every one turned towards him.

“What is it?” asked the girl.

“I have been a fool, forgive me. I remember now; listen to me.”

“Yes, yes.”

“I undertook to investigate this case. I went to Paris, I saw every one who could in the least throw light on it, I went into all the evidence. I said to myself, the case is hopeless; forgive me for having said this even to myself. Well, one day, by chance, in an old file of the Petit Journal, I saw the case of an old man named Mesnier; he had been strangled for no apparent reason, and an important witness said that he had seen a man leaving Mesnier’s room shortly after the time the tragedy must have taken place, and he said that he would have sworn that this man was Müller, only for the fact that Müller was known to be dead.”

“Ah, ah!” said Freyberger, who was listening intently. “How long after the Lefarge affair was this?”

“A few days. Then a few days later a woman was strangled in a field for no apparent motive save murder, and a few days later a child was also killed upon the high road near Paris in a similar manner. I read these things, but though they made an impression upon me, I said to myself, Müller is dead, they can have no relationship to the crime in the Rue de Turbigo. Now I have heard of the Gyde case, it proves that Müller is still alive, and now I feel convinced that these crimes were committed by this demon. Can you forgive me, my friend, for having for a moment doubted the innocence of your father?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said the girl, gazing at the young man with an expression that spoke volumes of her feelings towards him, “and if there were I would forgive you a hundred times, for you have struggled against the disbelief caused by terrible and crushing evidence. What you say proves to me again that this man is alive; but, alas! of what use to us can these other crimes be? He was not caught, they occurred years ago and can give justice no thread.”

Freyberger did not seem to fall in with this opinion. He had risen from his chair and was pacing up and down, a sure sign that he was deeply excited or disturbed.

“You are sure of what you say?” he said, suddenly turning on Hellier.

“Certain.”

“You saw these crimes reported in the Petit Journal?”

“Yes.”

“Have you files of the papers?”

“No. I read it in Paris. I can supply you with the dates.”

“No use; I don’t want to know details. Simply the fact that these crimes were committed suffices me.”

“Do you think the fact will be of use to you?” asked the girl.

Freyberger laughed hoarsely. He had let his excitement get away with him. In a flash he had seen the means and the method of laying his hand upon the man he wanted. This was what he had been waiting for, just this accidental sidelight. “Chance will give him to us,” he had told the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, and now he felt that the chance had come. But he was not going to show his hand, especially before Hellier. He wanted to keep the Gyde case to himself till it was completed, just as a sculptor keeps a statue from view till the moment of unveiling.

“It may and it may not,” he replied. “And now, Mademoiselle, I will take leave of you. There is much work to be done and I am required elsewhere. I will keep you informed of our progress, that is to say, as far as it is in my power. You are staying at the hotel?”

“Yes, for some time.”

“Thank you; good evening.” He bowed to old Madame de Warens, who had been a somewhat unintelligent spectator of all that had passed, he gave a slight, stiff bow to Hellier and left the room.

Hellier rose to his feet. “I must speak to that man,” he said, taking Cécile Lefarge’s hand in both his. “I must catch him before he leaves the hotel. May I see you to-morrow?”

“Yes, come early.”

He left the room with something in his hand. It was a small bunch of violets she had taken from her breast.