Book: The Vanished Messenger

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Vanished Messenger




Gerald rose impatiently to his feet and swung across the terrace.
Mr. Fentolin, however, called him back.

"Gerald," he advised, "better not go away. The inspector may desire
to ask you questions. You will have nothing to conceal. It was a
natural and delightful impulse of yours to bring the man who had
befriended you, and who was your companion in that disaster, straight
to your own home for treatment and care. It was an admirable impulse,
my boy. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Shall I tell him, too -" Gerald began.

"Be careful, Gerald."

Mr. Fentolin's words seemed to be charged with a swift, rapier-like
note. The boy broke off in his speech. He looked at Hamel and was
silent.

"Dear me," Mrs. Fentolin mumured, "I am sure there is no need for
us to talk about this poor man as though anybody had done anything
wrong in having him here. This, I suppose, must be the Inspector
Yardley whom Lord Saxthorpe spoke of."

"A very intelligent-looking officer, I am sure," Mr. Fentolin
remarked. "Gerald, go and meet him, if you please. I should like
to speak to him out here."

The dog-cart had drawn up at the front door, and the inspector had
already alighted. Gerald intervened as he was in the act of
questioning the butler.

"Mr. Fentolin would like to speak to you, inspector," he said, "if
you will come this way."

The inspector followed Gerald and saluted the little group solemnly.
Mr. Fentolin held out his hand.

"You got my telephone message, inspector?" he asked.

"We have not received any message that I know of, sir," the inspector
replied. "I have come over here in accordance with instructions
received from headquarters - in fact from Scotland Yard."

"Quite so," Mr. Fentolin assented. "You've come over, I presume,
to make enquiries concerning Mr. John P. Dunster?"

"That is the name of the gentleman, sir."

"I only understood to-day from my friena Lord Saxthorpe," Mr.
Fentolin continued, "that Mr. Dunster was being enquired about as
though he had disappeared. My nephew brought him here after the
railway accident at Wymondham, since when he has been under the
care of my own physician. I trust that you have nothing serious
against him?"

"My first duty, sir," the inspector pronounced, "is to see the
gentleman in question."

"By all means," Mr. Fentolin agreed. "Gerald, will you take the
inspector up to Mr. Dunster's rooms? Or stop, I will go myself."

Mr. Fentolin started his chair and beckoned the inspector to follow
him. Meekins, who was waiting inside the hall, escorted them by
means of the lift to the second floor. They made their way to Mr.
Dunster's room. Mr. Fentolin knocked softly at the door. It was
opened by the nurse.

"How is the patient?" Mr. Fentolin enquired.

Doctor Sarson appeared from the interior of the room.

"Still unconscious," he reported. "Otherwise, the symptoms are
favourable. He is quite unfit," the doctor added, looking steadily
at the inspector, "to be removed or questioned."

"There is no idea of anything of the sort," Mr. Fentolin explained.
"It is Inspector Yardley's duty to satisfy himself that Mr. Dunster
is here. It is necessary for the inspector to see your patient, so
that he can make his report at headquarters."

Doctor Sarson bowed.

"That is quite simple, sir," he said. "Please step in."

They all entered the room, which was large and handsomely furnished.
Through the open windows came a gentle current of fresh air. Mr.
Dunster lay in the midst of all the luxury of fine linen sheets and
embroidered pillow-cases. The inspector looked at him stolidly.

"Is he asleep?" he asked.

The doctor shook his head.

"It is the third day of his concussion," he whispered. "He is still
unconscious. He will remain in the same condition for another two
days. After that he will begin to recover."

Mr. Fentolin touched the inspector on the arm.

"You see his clothing at the foot of the bed," he pointed out.
"His linen is marked with his name. That is his dressing-case with
his name painted on it."

"I am quite satisfied, sir," the inspector announced. "I will not
intrude any further."

They left the room. Mr. Fentolin himself escorted the inspector
into the library and ordered whisky and cigars.

"I don't know whether I am unreasonably curious," Mr. Fentolin
remarked, "but is it really true that you have had enquiries from
Scotland Yard about the poor fellow up-stairs?"

"We had a very important enquiry indeed, sir," the inspector replied.
"I have instructions to telegraph all I have been able to discover,
immediately."

"Pardon my putting it plainly," Mr. Fentolin asked, "but is our
friend a criminal?"

"I wouldn't go so far as that, sir," the inspector answered. "I
know of no charge against him. I don't know that I have the right
to say so much," he added, sipping his whisky and soda, "but putting
two and two together, I should rather come to the conclusion that he
was a person of some political importance."

"Not a criminal at all?"

"Not as I know of," the inspector assented.
"That isn't the way I read the enquiries at all."

"You relieve me," Mr. Fentolin declared. "Now what about his
possessions?"

"There's a man coming down shortly from Scotland Yard," the
inspector announced, a little gloomily. "My orders were to touch
nothing, but to locate him."

"Well, you've succeeded so far," Mr. Fentolin remarked. "Here he
is, and here I think he will stay until some days after your friend
from Scotland Yard can get here."

"It does seem so, indeed," the inspector agreed. "To me he looks
terrible ill. But there's one thing sure, he's having all the care
and attention that's possible. And now, sir, I'll not intrude
further upon your time. I'll just make my report, and you'll
probably have a visit from the Scotland Yard man sometime within
the next few days."

Mr. Fentolin escorted the inspector to his dog-cart, shook hands
with him, and watched him drive off. Only Mrs. Seymour Fentolin
remained upon the terrace. He glided over to her side.

"My dear florence," he asked, "where are the others?"

"Mr. Hamel and Esther have gone for a walk," she answered. "Gerald
has disappeared somewhere. Has anything - is everything all right?"

"Naturally," Mr. Fentolin replied easily. "All that the inspector
desired was to see Mr. Dunster. He has seen him. The poor fellow
was unfortunately unconscious, but our friend will at least be able
to report that he was in good hands and well cared for."

"Unconscious," Mrs. Fentolin repeated. "I thought that he was
better."

"One is always subject to those slight relapses in an affair of
concussion," Mr. Fentolin explained.

Mrs. Fentolin laid down her work and leaned a little towards her
brother-in-law. Her hand rested upon his. Her voice had fallen
to a whisper.

"Miles," she said, "forgive me, but are you sure that you are not
getting a little out of your depth? Remember that there are some
risks which are not worth while."

"Quite true," he answered. "And there are some risks, my dear
Florence, which are worth every drop of blood in a man's body, and
every breath of life. The peace of Europe turns upon that man
up-stairs. It is worth taking a little risk for, worth a little
danger. I have made my plans, and I mean to carry them through.
Tell me, when I was up-stairs, this fellow Hamel - was he talking
confidentially to Gerald?"

"Not particularly."

"I am not sure that I trust him," Mr. Fentolin continued. "He had
a telegram yesterday from a man in the Foreign Office, a telegram
which I did not see. He took the trouble to walk three miles to
send the reply to it from another office."

"But after all," Mrs. Fentolinprotested, "you know who he is. You
know that he is Peter Hamel's son. He had a definite purpose in
coming here."

Mr. Fentolin nodded.

"Quite true," he admitted. "But for that, Mr. Hamel would have
found a little trouble before now. As it is, he must be watched.
If any one comes between me and the things for which I am scheming
to-day, they will risk death."

Mrs. Fentolin sighed. She was watching the figures of Esther and
Hamel far away in the distance, picking their way across the last
strip of marshland which lay between them and the sea.

"Miles," she said earnestly, " you take advice from no one. You
will go your own way, I know. And yet, it seems to me that life
holds so many compensations for you without your taking these
terrible risks. I am not thinking of any one else. I am not
pleading to you for the sake of any one else. I am thinking
only of yourself. I have had a sort of feeling ever since this
man was brought into the house, that trouble would come of it. To
me the trouble seems to be gathering even now."

Mr. Fentolin laughed softly, a little contemptuously.

"Presentiments," he scoffed, "are the excuses of cowards. Don't be
afraid, Florence. Remember always that I look ahead. Do you think
that I could stay here contented with what you call my compensations
- my art, the study of beautiful things, the calm epicureanism of
the sedate and simple life? You know very well that I could not do
that. The craving for other things is in my heart and blood. The
excitement which I cannot have in one way, I must find in another,
and I think that before many nights have passed, I shall lie on my
pillow and hear the guns roar, hear the footsteps of the great
armies of the world moving into battle. It is for that I live,
Florence."

She took up her knitting again. Her eyes were fixed upon the
sky-line. Twice she opened her lips, but twice no words came.

"You understand?" he whispered. "You begin to understand, don't
you?"

She looked at him only for a moment and back at her work.

"I suppose so," she sighed.




CHAPTER XX

In the middle of that night Hamel sat up in bed, awakened with a
sudden start by some sound, only the faintest echo of which remained
in his consciousness. His nerves were tingling with a sense of
excitement. He sat up in bed and listened. Suddenly it came again
- a long, low moan of pain, stifled at the end as though repressed
by some outside agency. He leaped from his bed, hurried on a few
clothes, and stepped out on to the landing. The cry had seemed
to him to come from the further end of the long corridor - in the
direction, indeed, of the room where Mr. Dunster lay. He made his
way there, walking on tiptoe, although his feet fell noiselessly
upon the thick carpet. A single light was burning from a bracket
in the wall, insufficient to illuminate the empty spaces, but enough
to keep him from stumbling. The corridor towards the south end
gradually widened, terminating in a splendid high window with
stained glass, a broad seat, and a table. On the right, the end
room was Mr. Dunster's apartment, and on the left a flight of
stairs led to the floor above. Hamel stood quite still, listening.
There was a light in the room, as he could see from under the door,
but there was no sound of any one moving. Hamel listened intently,
every sense strained. Then the sound of a stair creaking behind
diverted his attention. He looked quickly around. Gerald was
descending. The boy's face was white, and his eyes were filled
with fear. Hamel stepped softly back from the door and met him at
the foot of the stairs.

"Did you hear that cry?" he whispered.

Gerald nodded.

"It woke me up. What do you suppose it was?" Hamel shook his head.

"Some one in pain," he replied. "I don't understand it. It came
from this room."

"You know who sleeps there?" Gerald asked hoarsely.

Hamel nodded.

"A man with concussion of the brain doesn't cry out like that.
Besides, did you hear the end of it? It sounded as though some one
were choking him. Hush!"

They had spoken only in bated breath, but the door of the room
before which they were standing was suddenly opened. Meekins stood
there, fully dressed, his dark, heavy face full of somber warning.
He started a little as he saw the two whispering together. Gerald
addressed him almost apologetically.

"We both heard the same sound, Meekins. Is any one ill? It sounded
like some one in pain."

The man hesitated. Then from behind his shoulder came Mr.
Fentolin's still, soft voice. There was a little click, and Meekins,
as though obeying an unseen gesture, stepped back. Mr. Fentolin
glided on to the threshold. He was still dressed. He propelled his
chair a few yards down the corridor and beckoned them to approach.

"I am so sorry," he said softly, "that you should have been
disturbed, Mr. Hamel. We have been a little anxious about our
mysterious guest. Doctor Sarson fetched me an hour ago. He
discovered that it was necessary to perform a very slight operation,
merely the extraction of a splinter of wood. It is all over now,
and I think that he will do very well."

Notwithstanding this very plausible explanation, Hamel was conscious
of the remains of an uneasiness which he scarcely knew how to put
into words.

"It was a most distressing cry," he observed doubtfully, "a cry of
fear as well as of pain."

"Poor fellow!" Mr. Fentolin remarked compassionately. "I am afraid
that for a moment or two he must have suffered acutely. Doctor
Sarson is very clever, however, and there is no doubt that what
he did was for the best. His opinion is that by to-morrow morning
there will be a marvellous change. Good night, Mr. Hamel. I am
quite sure that you will not be disturbed again."

Hamel neither felt nor showed any disposition to depart.

"Mr. Fentolin," he said, "I hope that you will not think that I am
officious or in any way abusing your hospitality, but I cannot help
suggesting that as Dr. Sarson is purely your household physician,
the relatives of this man Dunster might be better satisfied if some
second opinion were called in. Might I suggest that you telephone
to Norwich for a surgeon?"

Mr. Fentolin showed no signs of displeasure. He was silent for a
moment, as though considering the matter.

"I am not at all sure, Mr. Hamel, that you are not right," he
admitted frankly. "I believe that the case is quite a simple one,
but on the other hand it would perhaps be more satisfactory to have
an outside opinion. If Mr. Dunster is not conscious in the morning,
we will telephone to the Norwich Infirmary."

"I think it would be advisable," Hamel agreed.

"Good night!" Mr. Fentolin said once more. I am sorry that your
rest has been disturbed."

Hamel, however, still refused to take the hint. His eyes were fixed
upon that closed door.

"Mr. Fentolin," he asked, "have you any objection to my seeing Mr.
Dunster?"

There was a moment's intense silence. A sudden light had burned in
Mr. Fentolin's eyes. His fingers gripped the side of his chair.
Yet when he spoke there were no signs of anger in his tone. It was
a marvellous effort of self-control.

"There is no reason, Mr. Hamel," he said, "why your curiosity should
not be gratified. Knock softly at the door, Gerald."

The boy obeyed. In a moment or two Doctor Sarson appeared on the
threshold.

"Our guest, Mr. Hamel," Mr. Fentolin explained in a whisper, "has
been awakened by this poor fellow's cry. He would like to see him
for a moment."

Doctor Sarson opened the door. They all passed in on tiptoe. The
doctor led the way towards the bed upon which Mr. Dunster was lying,
quite still. His head was bandaged, and his eyes closed. His face
was ghastly. Gerald gave vent to a little muttered exclamation.
Mr. Fentolin turned to him. quickly.

"Gerald!"

The boy stood still, trembling, speechless. Mr. Fentolin's eyes
were riveted upon him. The doctor was standing, still and dark, a
motionless image.

"Is he asleep?" Hamel asked.

"He is under the influence of a mild anaesthetic," Doctor Sarson
explained. "He is doing very well. His case is quite simple. By
to-morrow morning he will be able to sit up and walk about if he
wishes to."

Hamel looked steadily at the figure upon the bed. Mr. Dunster's
breathing was regular, and his eyes were closed, but his colour was
ghastly.

"He doesn't look like getting up for a good many days to come,"
Hamel observed.

The doctor led the way towards the door.

"The man has a fine constitution," he said. "I feel sure that if
you wish you will be able to talk to him to-morrow."

They separated outside in the passage. Mr. Fentolin bade his guest
a somewhat restrained good night, and Gerald mounted the staircase
to his room. Hamel, however, had scarcely reached his door before
Gerald reappeared. He had descended the stair-case at the other
end of the corridor. He stood for a moment looking down the passage.
The doors were all closed. Even the light had been extinguished.

"May I come in for a moment, please?" he whispered.

Hamel nodded.

"With pleasure! Come in and have a cigarette if you will. I shan't
feel like sleep for some time."

They entered the room, and Gerald threw himself into an easy-chair
near the window. Hamel wheeled up another chair and produced a box
of cigarettes.

"Queer thing your dropping across that fellow in the way you did,"
he remarked. "Just shows how one may disappear from the world
altogether, and no one be a bit the wiser."

The boy was sitting with folded arms. His expression was one of
deep gloom.

"I only wish I'd never brought him here," he muttered. "I ought
to have known better."

Hamel raised his eyebrows. "Isn't he as well off here as anywhere
else?"

"Do you think that he is?" Gerald demanded, looking across at Hamel.

There was a brief silence.

"We can scarcely do your uncle the injustice," Hamel remarked, "of
imagining that he can possibly have any reason or any desire to deal
with that man except as a guest."

"Do you really believe that?" Gerald asked.

Hamel rose to his feet.

"Look here, young man," he said, "this is getting serious. You and
I are at cross-purposes. If you like, you shall have the truth
from me."

"Go on."

"I was warned about your uncle before I came down into this part of
the world," Hamel continued quietly. "I was told that he is a
dangerous conspirator, a man who sticks at nothing to gain his ends,
a person altogether out of place in these days. It sounds
melodramatic, but I had it straight from a friend. Since I have
been here, I have had a telegram - you brought it to me yourself
- asking for information about this man Dunster. It was I who wired
to London that he was here. It was through me that Scotland Yard
communicated with the police station at Wells, through me that a
man is to be sent down from London. I didn't come here as a spy
- don't think that; I was coming here, anyhow. On the other hand,
I believe that your uncle is playing a dangerous game. I am going
to have Mr. John P. Dunster put in charge of a Norwich physician
to-morrow."

"Thank God!" the boy murmured.

"Look here," Hamel continued, "what are you doing in this business,
anyway? You are old enough to know your own mind and to go your
own way."

"You say that because you don't know," Gerald declared bitterly.

"In a sense I don't," Hamel admitted, "and yet your sister hinted
to me only this afternoon that you and she -"

"Oh, I know what she told you!" the boy interrupted. "We've worn
the chains for the last eight years. They are breaking her.
They've broken my mother. Sometimes I think they are breaking me.
But, you know, there comes a time - there comes a time when one
can't go on. I've seen some strange things here, some that I've
half understood, some that I haven't understood at all. I've closed
my eyes. I've kept my promise. I've done his bidding, where ever
it has led me. But you know there is a time - there is a limit to
all things. I can't go on. I spied on this man Dunster. I brought
him here. It is I who am responsible for anything that may happen to
him. It's the last time!"

Gerald's face was white with pain. Hamel laid his hand upon his
shoulder.

"My boy," he said, "there are worse things in the world than
breaking a promise. When you gave it, the conditions which were
existing at the time made it, perhaps, a right and reasonable
undertaking, but sometimes the whole of the conditions under which
a promise was given, change. Then one must have courage enough to
be false even to one's word."

"Have you talked to my sister like that?" Gerald asked eagerly.

"I have and I will again," Hamel declared. "To-morrow morning I
leave this house, but before I go I mean to have the affair of this
man Dunster cleared up. Your uncle will be very angry with me,
without a doubt. I don't care. But I do want you to trust me, if
you will, and your sister. I should like to be your friend."

"God knows we need one!" the boy said simply. "Good night!"

Once more the house was quiet. Hamel pushed his window wide open
and looked out into the night. The air was absolutely still, there
was no wind. The only sound was the falling of the low waves upon
the stony beach and the faint scrunching of the pebbles drawn back
by the ebb. He looked along the row of windows, all dark and silent
now. A rush of pleasant fancies suddenly chased away the grim
depression of the last few minutes. Out of all this sordidness and
mystery there remained at least something in life for him to do. A
certain aimlessnessn of purpose which had troubled him during the
last few months had disappeared. He had found an object in life.




CHAPTER XXI

"To-day," Hamel declared, as he stood at the sideboard the following
morning at breakfast-time and helped himself to bacon and eggs, "I
am positively going to begin reading. I have a case full of books
down at the Tower which I haven't unpacked yet."

Esther made a little grimace.

"Look at the sunshine," she said. "There isn't a breath of wind,
either. I think to-day that I could play from the men's tees."

Hamel sighed as he returned to his place.

"My good intentions are already half dissipated," he admitted.

She laughed.

"How can we attack the other half?" she asked.

Gerald, who was also on his way to the sideboard, suddenly stopped.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, looking out of the window. "Who's going
away this morning, I wonder? There's the Rolls-Royce at the door."

Hamel, too, rose once more to his feet. The two exchanged swift
glances. Moved by a common thought, they both started for the door,
only to find it suddenly opened before them. Mr. Fentolin glided
into the room.

"Uncle!" Gerald exclaimed.

Mr. Fentolin glanced keenly around the room.

"Good morning, everybody," he said. "My appearance at this hour of
the morning naturally surprises you. As a matter of fact, I have
been up for quite a long time. Esther dear, give me some coffee,
will you, and be sure that it is hot. If any of you want to say
good-by to Mr. John P. Dunster, you'd better hurry out."

"You mean that he is going?" Hamel asked incredulously.

"He is going," Mr. Fentolin admitted. "I wash my hands of the man.
He has given us an infinite amount of trouble, has monopolised
Doctor Sarson when he ought to have been attending upon me - a
little more hot milk, if you please, Esther - and now, although he
really is not fit to leave his room, he insists upon hurrying off
to keep an appointment somewhere on the Continent. The little
operation we spoke of last night was successful, as Doctor Sarson
prophesied, and Mr. Dunster was quite conscious and able to sit up
early this morning. We telephoned at six o'clock to Norwich for a
surgeon, who is now on his way over here, but he will not wait even
to see him. What can you do with a man so obstinate!"

Neither Hamel nor Gerald had resumed their places. The former,
after a moment's hesitation, turned towards the door.

"I think," he said, "that I should like to see the last of Mr.
Dunster."

"Pray do," Mr. Fentolin begged. "I have said good-by to him myself,
and all that I hope is that next time you offer a wayfarer the
hospitality of St. David's Hall, Gerald, he may be a more tractable
person. This morning I shall give myself a treat. I shall eat an
old-fashioned English breakfast. Close the door after you, if you
please, Gerald."

Hamel, with Gerald by his side, hurried out into the hall. Just
as they crossed the threshold they saw Mr. Dunster, wrapped from
head to foot in his long ulster, a soft hat upon his head and one
of Mr. Fentolin's cigars in his mouth, step from the bottom
stair into the hall and make his way with somewhat uncertain
footsteps towards the front door. Doctor Sarson walked on one
side, and Meekins held him by the arm. He glanced towards Gerald
and his companion and waved the hand which held his cigar.

"So long, my young friend!" he exclaimed. You see, I've got them
to let me make a start. Next time we go about the country in a
saloon car together, I hope we'll have better luck. Say, but I'm
groggy about the knees!"

"You'd better save your breath," Doctor Sarson advised him grimly.
"You haven't any to spare now, and you'll want more than you have
before you get to the end of your journey. Carefully down the
steps, mind."

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