Book: The Yellow Crayon

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Yellow Crayon



The Yellow Crayon by E. Phillips Oppenheim



CHAPTER I

It was late summer-time, and the perfume of flowers stole into the
darkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced
its way through a chink in the blind, and stretched across the floor
in strange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur
of bees and many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower
beds, resting for a while on the clematis which had made the piazza
a blaze of purple splendour. And inside, in a high-backed chair,
there sat a man, his arms folded, his eyes fixed steadily upon
vacancy. As he sat then, so had he sat for a whole day and a whole
night. The faint sweet chorus of glad living things, which alone
broke the deep silence of the house, seemed neither to disturb nor
interest him. He sat there like a man turned to stone, his
forehead riven by one deep line, his straight firm mouth set close
and hard. His servant, the only living being who had approached
him, had set food by his side, which now and then he had
mechanically taken. Changeless as a sphinx, he had sat there in
darkness and in light, whilst sunlight had changed to moonlight,
and the songs of the birds had given place to the low murmuring
of frogs from a lake below the lawns.

At last it seemed that his unnatural fit had passed away. He
stretched out his hand and struck a silver gong which had been left
within his reach. Almost immediately a man, pale-faced, with full
dark eyes and olive complexion, dressed in the sombre garb of an
indoor servant, stood at his elbow.

"Duson."

"Your Grace!"

"Bring wine--Burgundy."

It was before him, served with almost incredible despatch--a small
cobwebbed bottle and a glass of quaint shape, on which were
beautifully emblazoned a coronet and fleur-de-lis. He drank slowly
and deliberately. When he set the glass down it was empty.

"Duson!"

"Your Grace!"

"You will pack my things and your own. We shall leave for New York
this evening. Telegraph to the Holland House for rooms."

"For how many days, your Grace?"

"We shall not return here. Pay off all the servants save two of
the most trustworthy, who will remain as caretakers."

The man's face was as immovable as his master's.

"And Madame?"

"Madame will not be returning. She will have no further use for
her maid. See, however, that her clothes and all her personal
belongings remain absolutely undisturbed."

"Has your Grace any further orders?"

"Take pencil and paper. Send this cablegram. Are you ready?"

The man's head moved in respectful assent.

"To Felix,
"No 27, Rue de St. Pierre,
"Avenue de L'Opera, Paris.
"Meet me at Sherry's Restaurant, New York, one month to-day, eleven
p.m.--V. S."

"It shall be sent immediately, your Grace. The train for New York
leaves at seven-ten. A carriage will be here in one hour and five
minutes."

The man moved towards the door. His master looked up.

"Duson!"

"Your Grace!"

"The Duc de Souspennier remains here--or at the bottom of the
lake--what matters! It is Mr. Sabin who travels to New York,
and for whom you engage rooms at the Holland House. Mr. Sabin is
a cosmopolitan of English proclivities."

"Very good, sir!"

"Lock this door. Bring my coat and hat five minutes before the
carriage starts. Let the servants be well paid. Let none of them
attempt to see me."

The man bowed and disappeared. Left to himself, Mr. Sabin rose from
his chair, and pushing open the windows, stood upon the verandah.
He leaned heavily upon his stick with both hands, holding it before
him. Slowly his eyes traveled over the landscape.

It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him
stretched the gardens--Italian in design, brilliant with flowers,
with here and there a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn.
A yew hedge bordered the rose-garden, a fountain was playing in
the middle of a lake. A wooden fence encircled the grounds, and
beyond was a smooth rolling park, with little belts of pine
plantations and a few larger trees here and there. In the far
distance the red flag was waving on one of the putting greens.
Archie Green was strolling up the hillside,--his pipe in his mouth,
and his driver under his arm. Mr. Sabin watched, and the lines in
his face grew deeper and deeper.

"I am an old man," he said softly, "but I will live to see them
suffer who have done this evil thing."

He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than
was usual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a
charmingly furnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung
dead in their vases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty.
Slowly he threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze
furniture, examining as though for the first time the beautiful old
tapestry, the Sevres china, the Chippendale table, which was
priceless, the exquisite portraits painted by Greuze, and the
mysterious green twilights and grey dawns of Corot. Everywhere
treasures of art, yet everywhere the restraining hand of the artist.
The faint smell of dead rose leaves hung about the room. Already
one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness as though the genius of
the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon his stick, and
his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectful voice came
to him from the other room.

"In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have
your coat and hat here."

Mr. Sabin looked up.

"I am quite ready, Duson!" he said.

* * * * *

The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass.
On the way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him.
In the car he sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking
steadfastly out of the window at the dying day. There were
mountains away westwards, touched with golden light; sometimes for
long minutes together the train was rushing through forests whose
darkness was like that of a tunnel. Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent
to these changes. The coming of night did not disturb him. His
brain was at work, and the things which he saw were hidden from
other men.

Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.

"You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served.
The restaurant car will be detached at the next stop."

"What of it?" Mr. Sabin asked calmly.

"I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is
thirty hours since you ate anything save biscuits."

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

"You are quite right, Duson," he said. "I will dine."

In half-an-hour he was back again. Duson placed before him silently
a box of cigarettes and matches. Mr. Sabin smoked.

Soon the lights of the great city flared in the sky, the train
stopped more frequently, the express men and newspaper boys came
into evidence. Mr. Sabin awoke from his long spell of thought. He
bought a newspaper, and glanced through the list of steamers which
had sailed during the week. When the train glided into the depot
he was on his feet and ready to leave it.

"You will reserve our rooms, Duson, for one month," he said on the
way to the hotel. "We shall probably leave for Europe a month
to-morrow."

"Very good, sir."

"You were Mrs. Peterson's servant, Duson, before you were mine!"

"Yes, sir."

"You have been with her, I believe, for many years. You are
doubtless much attached to her!"

"Indeed I am, sir!"

"You may have surmised, Duson, that she has left me. I desire to
ensure your absolute fidelity, so I take you into my confidence to
this extent. Your mistress is in the hands of those who have some
power over her. Her absence is involuntary so far as she is
concerned. It has been a great blow to me. I am prepared to
run all risks to discover her whereabouts. It is late in my life
for adventures, but it is very certain that adventures and dangers
are before us. In accompanying me you will associate yourself with
many risks. Therefore--"

Duson held up his hand.

"I beg, sir," he exclaimed, "that you will not suggest for a moment
my leaving your service on that account. I beg most humbly, sir,
that you will not do me that injustice."

Mr. Sabin paused. His eyes, like lightning, read the other's face.

"It is settled then, Duson," he said. "Kindly pay this cabman, and
follow me as quickly as possible."

Mr. Sabin passed across the marble hall, leaning heavily upon his
stick. Yet for all his slow movements there was a new alertness
in his eyes and bearing. He was once more taking keen note of
everybody and everything about him. Only a few days ago she had
been here.

He claimed his rooms at the office, and handed the keys to Duson,
who by this time had rejoined him. At the moment of turning away
he addressed an inquiry to the clerk behind the counter.

"Can you tell me if the Duchess of Souspennier is staying here?"
he inquired.

The young man glanced up.

"Been here, I guess. Left on Tuesday."

Mr. Sabin turned away. He did not speak again until Duson and he
were alone in the sitting-room. Then he drew out a five dollar bill.

"Duson," he said, "take this to the head luggage porter. Tell him
to bring his departure book up here at once, and there is another
waiting for him. You understand?"

"Certainly, sir!"

Mr. Sabin turned to enter his bed-chamber. His attention was
attracted, however, by a letter lying flat upon the table. He took
it up. It was addressed to Mr. Sabin.

"This is very clever," he mused, hesitating for a moment before
opening it. "I wired for rooms only a few hours ago--and I find
a letter. It is the commencement."

He tore open the envelope, and drew out a single half-sheet of
note-paper. Across it was scrawled a single sentence only.

"Go back to Lenox."

There was no signature, nor any date. The only noticeable thing
about this brief communication was that it was written in yellow
pencil of a peculiar shade. Mr. Sabin's eyes glittered as he read.

"The yellow crayon!" he muttered.

Duson knocked softly at the door. Mr. Sabin thrust the letter and
envelope into his breast coat pocket.



CHAPTER II

"This is the luggage porter, sir," Duson announced. "He is prepared
to answer any questions."

The man took out his book. Mr. Sabin, who was sitting in an
easy-chair, turned sideways towards him.

"The Duchess of Souspennier was staying here last week," he said.
"She left, I believe, on Thursday or Friday. Can you tell me
whether her baggage went through your hands?"

The man set down his hat upon a vacant chair, and turned over the
leaves of his book.

"Guess I can fix that for you," he remarked, running his forefinger
down one of the pages. "Here we are. The Duchess left on Friday,
and we checked her baggage through to Lenox by the New York, New
Haven & Hartford."

Mr. Sabin nodded.

"Thank you," he said. "She would probably take a carriage to the
station. It will be worth another ten dollars to you if you can
find me the man who drove her."

"Well, we ought to manage that for you," the man remarked
encouragingly. "It was one of Steve Hassell's carriages, I guess,
unless the lady took a hansom."

"Very good," Mr. Sabin said. "See if you can find him. Keep my
inquiries entirely to yourself. It will pay you."

"That's all right," the man remarked. "Don't you go to bed for
half-an-hour, and I guess you'll hear from me again."

Duson busied himself in the bed-chamber, Mr. Sabin sat motionless
in his easy chair. Soon there came a tap at the door. The porter
reappeared ushering in a smart-looking young man, who carried a
shiny coachman's hat in his hand.

"Struck it right fust time," the porter remarked cheerfully. "This
is the man, sir."

Mr. Sabin turned his head.

"You drove a lady from here to the New York, New Haven & Hartford
Depot last Friday?" he asked.

"Well, not exactly, sir," the man answered. "The Duchess took my
cab, and the first address she gave was the New York, New Haven
& Hartford Depot, but before we'd driven a hundred yards she pulled
the check-string and ordered me to go to the Waldorf. She paid me
there, and went into the hotel."

"You have not seen her since?"

"No, sir!"

"You knew her by sight, you say. Was there anything special about
her appearance?"

The man hesitated.

"She'd a pretty thick veil on, sir, but she raised it to pay me,
and I should say she'd been crying. She was much paler, too, than
last time I drove her."

"When was that?" Mr. Sabin asked.

"In the spring, sir,--with you, begging your pardon. You were at
the Netherlands, and I drove you out several times."

"You seem," Mr. Sabin said, "to be a person with some powers of
observation. It would pay you very well indeed if you would
ascertain from any of your mates at the Waldorf when and with whom
the lady in question left that hotel."

"I'll have a try, sir," the man answered. "The Duchess was better
known here, but some of them may have recognised her."

"She had no luggage, I presume?" Mr. Sabin asked.

"Her dressing-case and jewel-case only, sir."

"So you see," Mr. Sabin continued, "it is probable that she did not
remain at the Waldorf for the night. Base your inquiries on that
supposition."

"Very good, sir."

"From your manners and speech," Mr. Sabin said, raising his head,
"I should take you to be an Englishman."

"Quite correct, sir," the man answered. "I drove a hansom in
London for eight years."

"You will understand me then," Mr. Sabin continued, "when I say
that I have no great confidence in the police of this country. I
do not wish to be blackmailed or bullied. I would ask you,
therefore, to make your inquiries with discretion."

"I'll be careful, sir," the man answered.

Mr. Sabin handed to each of them a roll of notes. The cabdriver
lingered upon the threshold. Mr. Sabin looked up.

"Well?"

"Could I speak a word to you--in private, sir?"

Mr. Sabin motioned Duson to leave the room. The baggage porter
had already departed.

"When I cleaned out my cab at night, sir, I found this. I didn't
reckon it was of any consequence at first, but from the questions
you have been asking it may be useful to you."

Mr. Sabin took the half-sheet of note-paper in silence. It was the
ordinary stationery of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, and the following
words were written upon it in a faint delicate handwriting, but in
yellow pencil:--

"Sept. 10th.
"To LUCILLE, Duchesse de SOUSPENNIER.-

"You will be at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in the main corridor
at four o'clock this afternoon."

The thin paper shook in Mr. Sabin's fingers. There was no signature,
but he fancied that the handwriting was not wholly unfamiliar to him.
He looked slowly up towards the cabman.

"I am much obliged to you," he said. "This is of interest to me."

He stretched out his hand to the little wad of notes which Duson had
left upon the table, but the cabdriver backed away.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "You've given me plenty. The letter's
of no value to me. I came very near tearing it up, but for the
peculiar colour pencil it's written with. Kinder took my fancy,
sir."

"The letter is of value," Mr. Sabin said. "It tells me much more
than I hoped to discover. It is our good fortune."

The man accepted the little roll of bills and departed. Mr. Sabin
touched the bell.

"Duson, what time is it?"

"Nearly midnight, sir!"

"I will go to bed!"

"Very good, sir!"

"Mix me a sleeping draught, Duson. I need rest. See that I am not
disturbed until ten o'clock to-morrow morning.


CHAPTER III

At precisely ten o'clock on the following morning Duson brought
chocolate, which he had prepared himself, and some dry toast to his
master's bedside. Upon the tray was a single letter. Mr. Sabin
sat up in bed and tore open the envelope. The following words were
written upon a sheet of the Holland House notepaper in the same
peculiar coloured crayon.

"The first warning addressed to you yesterday was a friendly one.
Profit by it. Go back to Lenox. You are only exposing yourself to
danger and the person you seek to discomfort. Wait there, and some
one shall come to you shortly who will explain what has happened,
and the necessity for it."

Mr. Sabin smiled, a slow contemplative smile. He sipped his
chocolate and lit a cigarette.

"Our friends, then," he said softly, "do not care about pursuit and
inquiries. It is ridiculous to suppose that their warning is given
out of any consideration to me. Duson!"

"Yes, sir!"

"My bath. I shall rise now."

Mr. Sabin made his toilet with something of the same deliberation
which characterised all his movements. Then he descended into the
hall, bought a newspaper, and from a convenient easy-chair kept a
close observation upon every one who passed to and fro for about
an hour. Later on he ordered a carriage, and made several calls
down town.

At a few minutes past twelve he entered the bar of the Fifth Avenue
Hotel, and ordering a drink sat down at one of the small tables.
The room was full, but Mr. Sabin's attention was directed solely to
one group of men who stood a short distance away before the counter
drinking champagne. The central person of the group was a big man,
with an unusually large neck, a fat pale face, a brown moustache
tinged with grey, and a voice and laugh like a fog-horn. It was he
apparently who was paying for the champagne, and he was clearly on
intimate terms with all the party. Mr. Sabin watched for his
opportunity, and then rising from his seat touched him on the
shoulder.

"Mr. Skinner, I believe?" he said quietly.

The big man looked down upon Mr. Sabin with the sullen offensiveness
of the professional bully.

"You've hit it first time," he admitted. "Who are you, anyway?"

Mr. Sabin produced a card.

"I called this morning," he said, "upon the gentleman whose name you
will see there. He directed me to you, and told me to come here."

The man tore the card into small pieces.

"So long, boys," he said, addressing his late companions. "See you
to-night."

They accepted his departure in silence, and one and all favoured
Mr. Sabin with a stare of blatant curiosity.

"I should be glad to speak with you," Mr. Sabin said, "in a place
where we are likely to be neither disturbed nor overheard."

"You come right across to my office," was the prompt reply. "I
guess we can fix it up there."

Mr. Sabin motioned to his coachman, and they crossed Broadway. His
companion led him into a tall building, talking noisily all the
time about the pals whom he had just left. An elevator transported
them to the twelfth floor in little more than as many seconds, and
Mr. Skinner ushered his visitor into a somewhat bare-looking office,
smelling strongly of stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Skinner at once lit
a cigar, and seating himself before his desk, folded his arms and
leaned over towards Mr. Sabin.

"Smoke one?" he asked, pointing to the open box.

Mr. Sabin declined.

"Get right ahead then."

"I am an Englishman," Mr. Sabin said slowly, "and consequently am
not altogether at home with your ways over here. I have always
understood, however, that if you are in need of any special
information such as we should in England apply to the police for,
over here there is a quicker and more satisfactory method of
procedure."

"You've come a long way round," Mr. Skinner remarked, spitting
upon the floor, "but you're dead right."

"I am in need of some information," Mr. Sabin continued, "and
accordingly I called this morning on Mr.--"

Mr. Skinner held up his hand.

"All right," he said. "We don't mention names more than we can
help. Call him the boss."

"He assured me that the information I was in need of was easily to
be obtained, and gave me a card to you."

"Go right on," Mr. Skinner said. "What is it?"

"On Friday last," Mr. Sabin said, "at four o'clock, the Duchess of
Souspennier, whose picture I will presently show you, left the
Holland House Hotel for the New York, New Haven & Hartford Depot,
presumably for her home at Lenox, to which place her baggage had
already been checked. On the way she ordered the cabman to set her
down at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, which he did at a few minutes
past four. The Duchess has not returned home or been directly
heard from since. I wish to ascertain her movements since she
arrived at the Waldorf."

"Sounds dead easy," Mr. Skinner remarked reassuringly. "Got the
picture?"

Mr. Sabin touched the spring of a small gold locket which he drew
from an inside waistcoat pocket, and disclosed a beautifully painted
miniature. Mr. Skinner's thick lips were pursed into a whistle.
He was on the point of making a remark when he chanced to glance
into Mr. Sabin's face. The remark remained unspoken.

He drew a sheet of note-paper towards him and made a few notes upon
it.

"The Duchess many friends in New York?"

"At present none. The few people whom she knows here are at Newport
or in Europe just now."

"Any idea whom she went to the Waldorf to see? More we know the
better."

Mr. Sabin handed him the letter which had been picked up in the cab.
Mr. Skinner read it through, and spat once more upon the floor.

"What the h---'s this funny coloured pencil mean?"

"I do not know," Mr. Sabin answered. "You will see that the two
anonymous communications which I have received since arriving in
New York yesterday are written in the same manner."

Mr. Sabin handed him the other two letters, which Mr. Skinner
carefully perused.

"I guess you'd better tell me who you are," he suggested.

"I am the husband of the Duchess of Souspennier," Mr. Sabin answered.

"The Duchess send any word home at all?" Mr. Skinner asked.

Mr. Sabin produced a worn telegraph form. It was handed in at Fifth
Avenue, New York, at six o'clock on Friday. It contained the single
word 'Good-bye.'

"H'm," Mr. Skinner remarked. "We'll find all you want to know by
to-morrow sure."

"What do you make of the two letters which I received?" Mr. Sabin
asked.

"Bunkum!" Mr. Skinner replied confidently.

Mr. Sabin nodded his head.

"You have no secret societies over here, I suppose?" he said.

Mr. Skinner laughed loudly and derisively.

"I guess not," he answered. "They keep that sort of rubbish on the
other side of the pond."

"Ah!"

Mr. Sabin was thoughtful for a moment. "You expect to find, then,"
he remarked, "some other cause for my wife's disappearance?"

"There don't seem much room for doubt concerning that, sir," Mr.
Skinner said; "but I never speculate. I will bring you the facts
to-night between eight and eleven. Now as to the business side of
it."

Mr. Sabin was for a moment puzzled.

"What's the job worth to you?" Mr. Skinner asked. "I am willing to
pay," Mr. Sabin answered, "according to your demands."

"It's a simple case," Mr. Skinner admitted, "but our man at the
Waldorf is expensive. If you get all your facts, I guess five
hundred dollars will about see you through."

"I will pay that," Mr. Sabin answered.

"I will bring you the letters back to-night," Mr. Skinner said.
"I guess I'll borrow that locket of yours, too."

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

"That," he said firmly, "I do not part with." Mr. Skinner scratched
his ear with his penholder. "It's the only scrap of identifying
matter we've got," he remarked. "Of course it's a dead simple case,
and we can probably manage without it. But I guess it's as well to
fix the thing right down."

"If you will give me a piece of paper," Mr. Sabin said, "I will make
you a sketch of the Duchess. The larger the better. I can give you
an idea of the sort of clothes she would probably be wearing."

Mr. Skinner furnished him with a double sheet of paper, and Mr.
Sabin, with set face and unflinching figures, reproduced in a few
simple strokes a wonderful likeness of the woman he loved. He
pushed it away from him when he had finished without remark. Mr.
Skinner was loud in its praises.

"I guess you're an artist, sir, for sure," he remarked. "This'll
fix the thing. Shall I come to your hotel?"

"If you please," Mr. Sabin answered. "I shall be there for the rest
of the day."

Mr. Skinner took up his hat.

"Guess I'll take my dinner and get right to work," he remarked.
"Say, you come along, Mr. Sabin. I'll take you where they'll fix
you such a beefsteak as you never tasted in your life."

"I thank you very much," Mr. Sabin said, "but I must beg to be
excused. I am expecting some despatches at my hotel. If you are
successful this afternoon you will perhaps do me the honour of
dining with me to-night. I will wait until eight-thirty."

The two men parted upon the pavement. Mr. Skinner, with his small
bowler hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of
his mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled
along Broadway with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and
showing his yellow teeth.

"Darned old fool," he muttered. "To marry a slap-up handsome woman
like that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts.
Guess I'll spoil his supper to-night."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.