Book: The Vanished Messenger

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




Mr. Fentolin's tone was gently sympathetic. He changed the subject
a moment or two later, however.

"Nero fiddles to-night," he said, "while Rome burns. There are
hundreds in our position, yet it certainly seems queer that we
should be sitting here so quietly when the whole country is in such
a state of excitement. I see the press this morning is preaching
an immediate declaration of war."

"Against whom?" Mrs, Fentolin asked.

Mr. Fentolin smiled.

"That does seem to be rather the trouble," he admitted. "Russia,
Austria, Germany, Italy, and France are all assisting at a
Conference to which no English representative has been bidden. In
a sense, of course, that is equivalent to an act of hostility from
all these countries towards England. The question is whether we
have or have not a secret understanding with France, and if so, how
far she will be bound by it. There is a rumour that when Monsieur
Deschelles was asked formally whom he represented, that he replied
- 'France and Great Britain.' There may be something in it. It is
hard to see how any English statesman could have left unguarded the
Mediterranean, with all that it means, trusting simply to the faith
of a country with whom we have no binding agreement. On the other
hand, there is the mobilisation of the fleet. If France is really
faithful, one wonders if there was need for such an extreme step."

"I am out of touch with political affairs," Hamel declared. "I have
been away from England for so long."

"I, on the other hand," Mr. Fentolin continued, his eyes glittering
a little, "have made the study of the political situation in Europe
my hobby for years. I have sent to me the leading newspapers of
Berlin, Rome, Paris, St. Petersburg, and Vienna. For two hours
every day I read them, side by side. It is curious sometimes to
note the common understanding which seems to exist between the
Powers not bound by any formal alliance. For years war seemed a
very unlikely thing, and now," he added, leaning forward in his
chair, "I pronounce it almost a certainty."

Hamel looked at his host a little curiously. Mr. Fentolin's
gentleness of expression seemed to have departed. His face was
hard, his eyes agleam. He bad almost the look of a bird of prey.
For some reason, the thought of war seemed to be a joy to him.
Perhaps he read something of Hamel's wonder in his expression, for
with a shrug of the shoulders he dismissed the subject.

"Well," he concluded, "all these things lie on the knees of the gods.
I dare say you wonder, Mr. Hamel, why a poor useless creature like
myself should take the slightest interest in passing events? It is
just the fascination of the looker-on. I want your opinion about
that champagne. Florence dear, you must join us. We will drink to
Mr. Hamel's health. We will perhaps couple that toast in our minds
with the sentiment which I am sure is not very far from your
thoughts, Florence."

Hamel raised his glass and bowed to his host and hostess. He was
not wholly at his ease. It seemed to him that he was being watched
with a queer persistence by both of them. Mrs, Fentolin continued
to talk and laugh with a gaiety which was too obviously forced. Mr.
Fentolin posed for a while as the benevolent listener. He mildly
applauded his sister-in-law's stories, and encouraged Hamel in the
recital of some of his reminiscences. Suddenly the door was opened.
Miss Price appeared. She walked smoothly across the room and stood
by Mr. Fentolin's side. Stooping down, she whispered in his ear. He
pushed his chair back a little from the table. His face was dark
with anger.

"I said not before ten to-night," he muttered.

Again she spoke in his ear, so softly that the sound of her voice
itself scarcely travelled even as far as where Hamel was sitting.
Mr. Fentolin looked steadfastly for a moment at his sister-in-law
and from her to Hamel. Then he backed his chair away front the
table.

"I shall have to ask to be excused for three minutes," he said.
"I must speak upon the telephone. It is a call from some one who
declares that they have important news."

He turned the steering-wheel of his chair, and with Miss Price
by his side passed across the dining-room, out of the Oasis of
rose-shaded lights into the shadows, and through the open door.
>From there he turned his head before he disappeared, as though to
watch his guest. Mrs, Fentolin was busy fondling one of her dogs,
which she had raised to her lap, and Hamel was watching her with a
tolerant smile.

"Koto, you little idiot, why can't you sit up like your sister?
Was its tail in the way, then! Mr. Hamel," she whispered under her
breath, so softly that he barely caught the words, although he was
only a few feet away, "don't look at me. I feel as though we were
being watched all the time. You can destroy that piece of paper in
your pocket. All that it says is 'Leave here immediately after
dinner>'"

Hamel sipped his wine in a nonchalant fashion. His fingers had
strayed over the silky coat of the little dog, which she had held
out as though for his inspection.

"How can I?" he asked. "What excuse can I make?"

"Invent one," she insisted swiftly. "Leave here before ten o'clock.
Don't let anything keep you. And destroy that piece of paper in
your pocket, if you can - now."

"But, Mrs, Fentolin -" he began.

She caught up one of her absurd little pets and held it to her mouth.

"Meekins is in the doorway," she whispered

Don't argue with me, please. You are in danger you know nothing
about. Pass me the cigarettes."

She leaned back in her chair, smoking quickly. She held one of the
dogs on her knee and talked rubbish to it. Hamel watched her,
leaning back in his carved oak chair, and he found it hard to keep
the pity from his eyes. The woman was playing a part, playing it
with desperate and pitiful earnestness, a part which seemed the more
tragical because of the soft splendour of their surroundings. From
the shadowy walls, huge, dimly-seen pictures hung about them, a
strange and yet impressive background. Their small round
dining-table, with its rare cut glass, its perfect appointments, its
bowls of pink roses, was like a spot of wonderful colour in the great
room. Two men servants stood at the sideboard a few yards away, a
triumph of negativeness. The butler, who had been absent for a
moment, stood now silently waiting behind his master's place. Hamel
was oppressed, during those few minutes of waiting, by a curious
sense of unreality, as though he were taking part in some strange
tableau. There was something unreal about his surroundings and his
own presence there; something unreal in the atmosphere, charged as
it seemed to be with some omen of impending happenings; something
unreal in that whispered warning, those few hoarsely uttered words
which had stolen to his hearing across the clusters of drooping
roses; the absurd babble of the woman, who sat there with tragic
things under the powder with which her face was daubed.

"Koto must learn to sit upon his tail - like that. No, not another
grape till he sits up. There, then!"

She was leaning forward with a grape between her teeth, towards the
tiny animal who was trying in vain to balance his absurdly shaped
little body upon the tablecloth. Hamel, without looking around,
knew quite well what was happening. Soon he heard the click of the
chair. Mr. Fentolin was back in his place. His skin seemed paler
and more parchment-like than ever. His eyes glittered.

"It seems," he announced quietly, as he raised his wine-glass to his
lips with the air of one needing support, "that we entertained an
angel unawares here. This Mr. Dunster is lost for the second time.
A very important personage he turns out to be."

"You mean the American whom Gerald brought home after the accident?"
Mrs, Fentolin asked carelessly.

Mr. Fentolin replied. "He insisted upon continuing his journey
before he was strong enough. I warned him of what might happen.
He has evidently been take ill somewhere. It seems that he was
on his way to The Hague."

"Do you mean that he has disappeared altogether this time?" Hamel
asked.

Mr. Fentolin shook his head.

"No, he has found his way to The Hague safely enough. He is lying
there at a hotel in the city, but he is unconscious. There is some
talk about his having been robbed on the way. At any rate, they
are tracing his movements backwards. We are to be honoured with a
visit from one of Scotland Yard's detect,ives, to reconstruct his
journey from here. Our quiet little corner of the world is becoming
quite notorious. Florence dear, you are tired. I can see it in
your eyes. Your headache continues, I am sure. We will not be
selfish. Mr. Hamel and I are going to have a long evening in the
library. Let me recommend a phenacetin and bed."

She rose at once to her feet, with a dog under either arm.

"I'll take the phenacetin," she promised, "but I hate going to bed
early. Shall I see you again, I wonder, Mr. Hamel?"

"Not this evening, I fear," he answered. "I am going to ask Mr.
Fentolin to excuse me early."

She passed out of the room. Hamel escorted her as far as the door
and then returned. Mr. Fentolin was sitting quite still in his
chair. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. He looked up
quickly as Hamel resumed his seat.

"You are not in earnest, I hope, Mr. Hamel," he said, "when you tell
me that you must leave early? I have been anticipating a long
evening. My library is filled with books on South America which I
want to discuss with you."

"Another evening, if you don't mind," Hamel begged. "To-night I
must ask you to excuse my hurrying away."

Mr. Fentolin looked up from underneath his eyelids. His glance was
quick and penetrating.

"Why this haste?"

Hamel shrugged his shoulders.

"To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I had an idea while I was
reading an article on cantilever bridges this morning. I want to
work it out."

Mr. Fentolin glanced behind him. The door of the dining-room was
closed. The servants had disappeared. Meekins alone, looking more
like a prize fighter than ever in his somber evening clothes, had
taken the place of the butler behind his master's chair.

"We shall see," Mr. Fentolin said quietly.




CHAPTER XXX

Mr. Fentolin pointed to the little pile of books upon the table,
the deep easy-chair, the green-shaded lamps, the decanter of wine.
He had insisted upon a visit, however brief, to the library.

"It is a student's appeal which I make to you, Mr. Hamel," he said,
with a whimsical smile. "Here we are in my study, with the door
closed, secure against interruption, a bright fire in the grate, a
bowling and ever-increasing wind outside. Let us go together over
the ground of your last wonderful expedition over the Andes. You
will find that I am not altogether ignorant of your profession, or
of those very interesting geological problems which you spoke of in
connection with that marvellous railway scheme. We will discuss
them side by side as sybarites, hang ourselves around with cigarette
smoke, drink wine, and presently coffee. It is necessary, is it
not, for many reasons, that we become better acquainted? You realise
that, I am sure, and you will not persist in returning to your
selfish solitude."

Hamel's eyes were fixed a little longingly upon some of the volumes
with which the table was covered.

"You must not think me ungrateful or churlish, Mr. Fentolin," he
begged. "I have a habit of keeping promises which I make to myself,
and to-night I have made myself a promise that I will be back at
the Tower by ten o'clock."

"You are obdurate?" Mr. Fentolin asked softly.

"I am afraid I am."

Mr. Fentolin busied himself with the handle of his chair.

"Tell me," he insisted, "is there any other person save yourself
to whom you have given this mysterious promise?"

"No one," Hamel replied promptly.

"I am a person very sensitive to atmosphere," Mr. Fentolin continued
slowly. "Since the unfortunate visit of this man Dunster, I seem to
have been conscious of a certain suspicion, a little cloud of
suspicion under which I seem to live and move, even among the members
of my own household. My sister-in-law is nervous and hysterical;
Gerald has been sullen and disobedient; Esther has avoided me. And
now - well, I find even your attitude a little difficult to
understand. What does it mean, Mr. Hamel?"

Hamel shook his head.

"I am not in the confidence of the different members of your family,"
he answered. "So far as I, personally, am concerned -"

"It pleases me sometimes," Mr. Fentolin interrupted, "to interfere
to some extent in the affairs of the outside world. If I do so,
that is my business. I do it for my own amusement. It is at no
time a serious position which I take up. Have I by any chance, Mr.
Hamel, become an object of suspicion to you?"

"There are matters in which you are concerned," Hamel admitted,
"which I do not understand, but I see no purpose in discussing them."

Mr. Fentolin wheeled his chair round in a semicircle. He was now
between the door and Hamel.

"Weaker mortals than I, Mr. Hamel," he said calmly, "have wielded
before now the powers of life and death. From my chair I can make
the lightnings bite. Science has done away with the triumph of
muscularity. Even as we are here together at this moment, Mr. Hamel,
if we should disagree, it is I who am the preordained victor."

Hamel saw the glitter in his hand. This was so end, then, of all
doubt! He remained silent.

"Suspicions which are, in a sense, absurd," Mr. Fentolin continued,
"have grown until I find them obtrusive and obnoxious. What have I
to do with Mr. John P. Dunster? I sent him out from my house. If
he is lost or ill, the affair is not mine. Yet one by one those
around me are falling away. I told you an hour ago that Gerald was
at Brancaster. It is a lie. He has left this house, but no soul
in it knows his destination."

Hamel started.

"You mean that he has run away?"

Mr. Fentolin nodded.

"All that I can surmise is that he has followed Dunster," he
proceeded. "He has an idea that in some way I robbed or injured
the man. He has broken the bond of relationship between us. He
has broken his solemn vow. He has run a grave and terrible risk."

"What of Miss Esther?" Hamel asked quickly.

"I have sent her away," Mr. Fentolin replied, "until we come to a
clear understanding, you and I. You seem to be a harmless enough
person, Mr. Hamel but appearances are sometimes deceptive. It has
been suggested to me that you are a spy."

"By whom?" Hamel demanded.

"By those in whom I trust," Mr. Fentolin told him sternly. "You
are a friend of Reginald Kinsley. You met him in Norwich the other
day - secretly. Kinsley's chief is a member of the Government. He
is one of those who will find eternal obloquy if The Hague
Conference comes to a successful termination. For some strange
reason, I am supposed to have robbed or harmed the one man in the
world whose message might bring to nought that Conference. Are you
here to watch me, Mr. Hamel? Are you one of those who believe that
I am either in the pay of a foreign country, or that my harmless
efforts to interest myself in great things are efforts inimical to
this country; that I am, in short, a traitor?"

"You must admit that many of your actions are incomprehensible,"
Hamel replied slowly. "There are things here which I do not
understand - which certainly require explanation."

"Still, why do you make them your business? "Mr. Fentolin
persisted. "If indeed the course which I steer is a harmless one,"
he continued, with a strange new glitter in his eyes, "then you are
an impertinent stranger to whom my doors cannot any longer be open.
If you have taken advantage of my hospitality to spy upon me and my
actions, if indeed you have a mission here, then you can carry it
with you down into hell!"

"I understand that you are threatening me?" Hamel murmured.

Mr. Fentolin smiled.

"Scarcely that, my young friend. I am not quite the obvious sort
of villain who flourishes revolvers and lures his victims into
secret chambers. These words to you are simply words of warning.
I am not like other men, neither am I used to being crossed. When
I am crossed, I am dangerous. Leave here, if you will, in safety,
and mind your own affairs; but if you show one particle of
curiosity as to mine, if you interfere in matters which concern me
and me only, remember that you are encircled by powers which are
entirely ruthless, absolutely omnipotent. You can walk back to the
Tower to-night and remember that there isn't a step you take which
might not be your last if I willed it, and never a soul the wiser.
There's a very hungry little mother here who takes her victims and
holds them tight. You can hear her calling to you now. Listen!"

He held up his finger. The tide had turned, and through the
half-open window came the low thunder of the waves.

"You decline to share my evening," Mr. Fentolin concluded. "Let
it be so. Go your own way, Hamel, only take care that your way does
not cross mine."

He backed his chair slowly and pressed the bell. Hamel felt himself
dismissed. He passed out into the hall. The door of the
drawing-room stood open, and he heard the sound of Mrs, Fentolin's
thin voice singing some little French song. He hesitated and then
stepped in. With one hand she beckoned him to her, continuing to
play all the time. He stepped over to her side.

"I come to make my adieux," he whispered, with a glance towards the
door.

"You are leaving, then?" she asked quickly.

He nodded.

"Mr. Fentolin is in a strange humour," she went on, a moment later,
after she had struck the final chords of her song. "There are
things going on around us which no one can understand. I think
that one of his schemes has miscarried; he has gone too far. He
suspects you; I cannot tell you why or how. If only you would go
away!"

"What about Esther?" he asked quietly.

"You must leave her," she cried, with a little catch in her throat.
"Gerald has broken away. Esther and I must carry still the burden."

She motioned him to go. He touched her fingers for a moment.

"Mrs, Fentolin," he said, "I have been a good many years making up
my mind. Now that I have done so, I do not think that any one will
keep Esther from me."

She looked at him a little pitifully, a little wistfully. Then,
with a shrug of the shoulders, she turned round to the piano and
recommenced to play. Hamel took his coat and hat from a servant
who was waiting in the hail and passed out into the night.

He walked briskly until he reached the Tower. The wind had risen,
but there was still enough light to help him on his way. The
little building was in complete darkness. He opened the door and
stepped into the sitting-room, lit the lamp, and, holding it over
his head, went down the passage and into the kitchen. Then he gave
a start. The lamp nearly slipped from his fingers. Kneeling on
the stone floor, in very much the same attitude as he had found her
earlier in the day, Hannah Cox was crouching patiently by the door
which led into the boathouse, her face expressionless, her ear
turned towards the crack. She was still listening.




CHAPTER XXXI

Hamel set down the lamp upon the table. He glanced at the little
clock upon the dresser; it was a quarter past ten. The woman had
observed his entrance, although it seemed in no way to have
discomposed her.

"Do you know the time, Mrs. Cox?" he asked. "You ought to have been
home hours ago. What are you doing there?"

She rose to her feet. Her expression was one of dogged but patient
humility.

"I started for home before nine o'clock, sir," she told him, "but
it was worse than ever to-night. All the way along by the sea I
seemed to hear their voices, so I came back. I came back to listen.
I have been listening for an hour."

Hamel looked at her with a frown upon his forehead.

"Mrs. Cox," he said, "I wish I could understand what it is that you
have in your mind. Those are not real voices that you hear; you
cannot believe that?"

"Not real voices," she repeated, without the slightest expression in
her tone.

"Of course not! And tell me what connection you find between these
fancies of yours and that room? Why do you come and listen here?

"I do not know," she answered patiently.

"You must have some reason," he persisted.

"I have no reason," she assured him, "only some day I shall see
behind these doors. Afterwards, I shall hear the voices no more."

She was busy tying a shawl around her head. Hamel watched her,
still puzzled. He could not get rid of the idea that there was
some method behind her madness.

"Tell me - I have found you listening here before. Have you ever
heard anything suspicious?"

"I have heard nothing yet," she admitted, "nothing that counts."

"Come," he continued, "couldn't we clear this matter up sensibly?
Do you believe that there is anybody in there? Do you believe the
place is being used in any way for a wrong purpose? If so, we will
insist upon having the keys from Mr. Fentolin. He cannet refuse.
The place is mine.

"Mr. Fentolin would not give you the keys, sir," she replied. "If
he did, it would be useless."

"Would you like me to break the door in?" Hamel asked.

"You could not do it, sir," she told him, "not you nor anybody else.
The door is thicker than my fist, of solid oak. It was a mechanic
from New York who fitted the locks. I have heard it said in the
village - Bill Hamas, the carpenter, declares that there are double
doors. The workmen who were employed here were housed in a tent
upon the beach and sent home the day they finished their job. They
were never allowed in the village. They were foreigners, most of
them. They came from nobody knows where, and when they had finished
they disappeared. Why was that, sir? What is there inside which
Mr. Fentolin needs to guard so carefully?"

"Mr. Fentolin has invented something," Hamel explained. "He keeps
the model in there. Inventors are very jealous of their work."

She looked down upon the floor for a moment.

"I shall be here at seven o'clock in the morning, sir. I will give
you your breakfast at the usual time."

Hamel opened the door for her.

"Good night, Mrs. Cox," he said. "Would you like me to walk a
little way with you? It's a lonely path to the village, and the
dikes are full."

"Thank you, no, sir," she replied. "It's a lonely way, right enough,
but it isn't loneliness that frightens me. I am less afraid out
with the winds and the darkness than under this roof. If I lose my
way and wander all night upon the marsh, I'll be safer out there
than you, sir.

She passed away, and Hamel watched her disappear into the darkness.
Then he dragged out a bowl of tobacco and filled a pipe. Although
he was half ashamed of himself, he strolled back once more into the
kitchen, and, drawing up a stool, he sat down just where he had
discovered Hannah Cox, sat still and listened. No sound of any sort
reached him. He sat there for ten minutes. Then he scrambled to
his feet.

"She is mad, of course!" he muttered.

He mixed himself a whisky and soda, relit his pipe, which had gone
out, and drew up an easy-chair to the fire which she had left him
in the sitting-room. The wind had increased in violence, and the
panes of his window rattled continually. He yawned and tried to
fancy that he was sleepy. It was useless. He was compelled to
admit the truth - that his nerves were all on edge. In a sense he
was afraid. The thought of bed repelled him. He had not a single
impulse towards repose. Outside, the wind all the time was
gathering force. More than once his window was splashed with the
spray carried on by the wind which followed the tide. He sat quite
still and tried to think calmly, tried to piece together in his mind
the sequence of events which had brought him to this part of the
world and which had led to his remaining where he was, an undesired
hanger-on at the threshold of Miles Fentolin. He had the feeling
that to-night he had burned his boats. There was no longer any
pretence of friendliness possible between him and this strange
creature. Mr. Fentolin suspected him, realised that he himself was
suspected. But of what? Hamel moved in his chair restlessly.
Sometimes that gathering cloud of suspicion seemed to him grotesque.
Of what real harm could he be capable, this little autocrat who from
his chair seemed to exercise such a malign influence upon every one
with whom he was brought into contact? Hamel sighed. The riddle
was insoluble. With a sudden rush of warmer and more joyous
feelings, he let the subject slip away from him. He closed his eyes
and dreamed for a while. There was a new world before him, joys
which only so short a time ago he had fancied had passed him by.

He sat up in his chair with a start. The fire had become merely
a handful of grey ashes, his limbs were numb and stiff. The lamp
was flickering out. He had been dozing, how long he had no idea.
Something had awakened him abruptly. There was a cold draught
blowing through the room. He turned his head, his hands still
gripping the sides of his chair. His heart gave a leap. The
outer door was a few inches open, was being held open by some
invisible force. There was some one there, some one on the point
of entering stealthily. Even as he watched, the crack became a
little wider. He sat with his eyes riveted upon that opening
space. The unseen hand was still at work. Every instant he
expected to see a face thrust forward. The sensation of absolute
physical fear by which he was oppressed was a revelation to him.
He found himself wishing almost feverishly that he was armed. The
physical strength in which he had trusted seemed to him at that
instant a valueless and impotent thing. There was a splash of
spray or raindrops against the window and through the crack in
the door. The lamp chimney hissed and spluttered and finally the
light went out. The room was in sudden darkness. Hamel sprang
then to his feet. Silence had become an intolerable thing. He
felt the close presence of another human being creeping in upon
him.

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