Complete works of peter.., p.530
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 530
ONE hour later Mr. Alonzo MacTavish left Scotland Yard, and walked rapidly down Parliament Street, humming a haunting revue chorus. In his room, in the red brick building which never sleeps, Detective Inspector Birkett lay back in his office chair and roared with laughter.
As a neighbouring clock struck two, Mr. MacTavish slipped the duplicate key into the front door of 267 Brook Street, and disappeared into the darkness within. He had taken his bearings carefully during his previous visit, and certain information imparted to him by Birkett enabled him to find the library without trouble. Once in the library he carefully inspected the window blinds, then having made certain that his movements could not be observed from the street, he took off his overcoat and evening coat, and slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. Then, drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket, he commenced operations on the safe.
It was three o'clock before the massive steel door swung open, and ten minutes afterwards Alonzo quietly let himself out of the front door, but not before he had observed through the corner of the library window, the dark figure which lurked in the shadows of the narrow turning opposite.
As Alonzo reached the Grosvenor Square end of Brook Street, he turned suddenly in time to see the figure of the man receding towards Bond Street, and with a grin on his face MacTavish crossed the square, and turning off to the left, was about to cut through Deanery Street, when a seedy-looking individual slouched out from the shadows in front of him. MacTavish gave the man a quick glance, and then spoke, looking straight before him, and timing his footsteps so that he passed the slouching figure of the beggar whilst speaking.
'Klaat's man saw me enter and leave the house, and they are certain to try and finish the business tomorrow night. I'm going round to Jermyn Street now.'
The beggar nodded almost imperceptibly and Alonzo passed on.
TWO hours later, seated before a cosy fire in his Earl's Court flat, he smoked a final cigarette before turning in. The glowing coals of the fire made pictures before his eyes. First, the tired, beautiful face of Hermione Margrave, the sinister olive countenance of Theodor Klaat, and finally the round and jovial countenance of Birkett.
Alonzo rose and stretched gracefully. 'Well, Doctor Klaat,' he murmured to himself. 'It's you or me, and somehow I think it's going to be you.'
IT was ten minutes to twelve on the night after Alonzo's interview with Inspector Birkett at Scotland Yard, and an observer with a sense of humour might have obtained a great deal of amusement from a study of the characteristics of the somewhat varied assembly which was seated round the library table in Lord Margrave's house in Brook Street.
The single electric light—for Alonzo had insisted on dim lighting—lit only the centre of the huge table, and reflected dimly on the stern countenance of Lord Margrave, the prosaic, and philosophic faces of Birkett and his two colleagues, and the insouciant nonchalance of Mr. Alonzo MacTavish, whose glistening shirt front was the one bright spot in the dim desert of the library.
Lord Margrave tapped the polished table impatiently with his finger-tips.
'I cannot believe that this is true. There must be some mistake,' he said, speaking half angrily in an endeavour to conceal his real feelings. Inspector Birkett grinned.
'It's true enough, my lord,' he said. 'At least, there doesn't seem much possibility of a mistake.' He turned to where Alonzo's shirt front shone in the half light.
'You're certain about the Nessim Cigarette business, MacTavish,' he whispered.
Alonzo smiled. 'I am—very much so,' he murmured. He stiffened suddenly and held up a warning hand. 'Hush,' he whispered, 'not a word. The slightest sound may spoil the whole thing.'
Every head turned in the direction of the library door, and not a sound broke the silence, save, perhaps the slightly wheezy breathing of Birkett, produced possibly by the excitement of the moment.
The library door opened slowly. Walking with a strangely erect carriage, her eyes half closed, and her face chalk white, Lady Hermione Margrave entered the room. She looked neither to right nor left, but slowly and with seemingly measured pace walked straight to the safe, and taking a key from the pocket of her navy costume opened the massive door of the safe. After a moment she turned and the watchers saw that she held in her lands the fake Margrave coronet. With the same slow step she walked to the table around which the five men sat, almost touching the arm of her father in her progress, then, drawing a sheet of brown paper and some string from beneath her coat, she made a rough parcel of the coronet and, placing it under her arm, left the room. A gasp broke from Lord Margrave's lips.
'Keep still!' commanded Birkett, as with Alonzo, he made for the library window.
Lady Hermione Margrave was walking slowly down Brook Street. Suddenly, from the mews opposite, a big limousine appeared, and drove along the edge of the pavement beside her. The door opened and the watchers saw a black arm assist the girl into the car. Then the door closed with a bang, and the car shot off across Bond Street in the direction of Hanover Square.
'Come on!' shouted Birkett, and they raced for the front door, where a whistle from MacTavish brought a car from the shadows of Grosvenor Square. 'The Nessim Cigarette Company, Jermyn Street, via Bond Street!' commanded Birkett, and the car dashed off at a pace which made the point policeman in Piccadilly open his eyes with wonder and feel for his notebook.
'Pull up outside the Mars Hotel,' said Birkett, as they swung into Jermyn Street, and the driver obeyed, just as the yellow limousine, bearing Lady Hermione, entered Jermyn Street from the other end. The yellow car passed them and stopped at the end of the little turning which led to the Nessim shop. The figure of a man emerged from the car, his arm supporting the girl, and in a moment they had disappeared.
Alonzo quietly led the way over. At the door of the cigarette shop he paused, and drawing the second duplicate key from his pocket, quietly opened the door. They stole noiselessly across the dark shop, lit by the flash lamp which Alonzo carried. Opening the dirty glass door, he crept up the stairs, followed by Birkett and his two colleagues, the astounded Lord Margrave bringing up the rear.
At the top of the stairs was a passage. A streak of light showed brilliantly in the blackness from beneath an ill-fitting door at the end. The sound of a man's laughter came from within. Noiselessly Alonzo stole along the passage. Arrived at the door, he flung it open and stepped into the room, the others crowding behind him.
'My trick, I think,' murmured Mr. Alonzo MacTavish, smiling urbanely across the dirty deal table at the infuriated countenance of Doctor Theodor Klaat.
Birkett stepped forward. 'Well, Mystery Doctor, we've got you this time,' he said with a grin. 'Theodor Klaat,' he continued. 'I arrest you on a charge of stealing the Margrave coronet, and of illicitly being in possession of drugs.' He added the usual warning, and a pair of steel handcuffs snapped about the doctor's wrists.
ALONZO, seated once more in Lord Margrave's library, regarded the end of his Corona with bland satisfaction, and holding his wineglass to his nostrils considered, with satisfaction, the bouquet of the Duke's oldest port.
'The whole thing was fairly easy once the idea came to me,' he said. 'It was obvious to me that ladies do not walk about in the rain without cloaks, and in thin shoes, unless they are either mad or doped. Then it struck me that the second key which I found in the vanity bag was the key to the door of the Nessim Cigarette shop. After I had inspected the coronet which had been so cleverly faked to look like an imitation, I paid a visit to the Nessim shop, and found what I was looking for.'
He felt in his waistcoat pocket and produced a packet of cigarettes.
'These cigarettes are scented,' he said. 'Scented with dope! The name of this particular drug is hypnosforgene. It does not render the subject unconscious, but places them entirely at the mercy of the hypnotist. Klaat had arranged that Lady Hermione should get one of these cigarettes at the party which she attended on the night of the burglary. He was waiting outside, and as she was about to leave he suggested to her brain—for he is a skilled hypnotist—that she should dismiss her car and walk home. He followed her while she was in this hypnotic state and ordered her to open the safe and fake the real coronet to look like an imitation. This is a simple matter and was easily done by filling in the spaces at the back of the gems with soft blue lead which kills the fire in the gems and gives them the appearance of paste. He handed the lead to Lady Hermione at some stage of her journey home, probably just before I saw her, and when I called next day I could see the bluish stain which the lead leaves, still on her fingers. The soft gold-work of the coronet was simply filed down a little with a nail file, with, the result that even an expert would have pronounced the coronet to be a "dud."
'Klaat's idea was a good one. He knew that there would be a hue and cry after the missing coronet, and that the police must fail to find a coronet which had never been stolen. He would then have arranged that, after a few weeks, Lady Hermione should smoke another cigarette and, under the influence of the drug, would obey his mental command to bring the real coronet to him. Unfortunately for him, he saw me following Lady Hermione and tried to rush the job. I suppose he lost his nerve, for you see I have spoiled one or two of his little coups before. Lady Hermione, of course, knows nothing of the business, and when she wakes up in the morning, except for a slight headache, she will be quite fit.'
'I can only say "Thank you," Mr. MacTavish,' the Duke said. 'Inspector Birkett tells me that but for you this plot would have been successful, and my own daughter an unwitting confederate. I am very grateful.'
Alonzo bowed. 'There's just one thing more,' he said. 'The second cigarette must have been given to Lady Hermione by someone in this house. That someone is your butler, Stevens. His whiskers are very good, but I happen to remember the red mole on the left side of his neck. Stevens is Klaat's right hand man—the man who tried to sandbag me in Vienna.'
Birkett smiled.
'We're making quite a haul tonight, MacTavish, thanks to you,' he said. 'By the way,' he continued, 'Yesterday, Lord Margrave offered a reward of £5,000 for the recovery of the Coronet, and he insists that you shall have it. Come and see me in the morning and we will settle that matter.'
Alonzo rose. 'All things come to him who waits,' he said smilingly, shaking hands with the Duke. 'Au revoir, till the morning, Birkett!'
At the door he stopped. 'You'll want to see Stevens, the butler, Inspector,' he said. 'I'll send him up to you.' The humorous smile deepened upon his mouth.
Downstairs in the hall, Stevens was waiting in a dressing gown to show him out. As he opened the door Alonzo slipped a pound note into his hand. Stevens bowed his thanks.
'Oh, Stevens,' said Alonzo with a cheery smile. 'Go up to the library. Lord Margrave wants to see you. Good-night!'
Mr. Alonzo MacTavish walked towards Grosvenor Square, whistling quietly to himself. The night was fine, and, because he loved the moonlight, he was happy. Very much more so, because the pound note which he had presented to Mr. Stevens was one which had been made originally by Doctor Theodor Klaat!
14. — THE LADY IN GREEN
As published in The Sunday Times , Perth, Australia, 7 April 1929
MR. ALONZO MACTAVISH, seated in the resplendent lounge of the Hotel Splendide, screwed his eyeglass a little more tightly into his left eye, adjusted an immaculately cut evening waistcoat and gazed about him with that charming expression which had won him so many friends, and which had driven half the police forces of Europe into a state of desperation.
Things were very quiet, ruminated Alonzo. Three months before he had been instrumental in the removal of certain important documents from the safe of the Moravian Embassy in Paris. These documents he had, with great wisdom, sold to the Rostovian Ambassador on the other side of the street. Two months after this exploit, Mr. MacTavish, with the same urbane smile, had quietly and skilfully removed the same documents from the Rostovian safe, and sold them back again to the Moravian Ambassador, who was glad to get them without asking any questions—at any price.
Mr. MacTavish had then considered that the air of England might be more agreeable to his health for a while and had taken the first boat just in time to miss the visit of three very quiet gentlemen who called at his apartment to inform him that his absence from France would be appreciated.
Since then nothing had turned up, and inaction bored Alonzo. Also, he realised that it was up to him to give his friends, the police, one more chance to get him. They had failed dismally up to date, although they knew very well that the fertile brain of MacTavish was behind a dozen or more mysterious "jobs" which had taken place in Europe during the last two years.
Alonzo selected, with care, a cigarette from a thin case, and was just about to light it, when his eyes fell upon a girl seated on the opposite side of the lounge. She wore a green gown—a wonderful Paris creation Alonzo guessed, and it suited her to perfection. For a moment, as she raised her head, it seemed to him that, as her eyes met his, a tiny smile illuminated them for a moment. Then, she rose suddenly and, still smiling, walked towards the entrance.
So the smile had not been for him. A soft whistle escaped Alonzo's lips as he observed the tall, well-groomed man whom the girl in green was greeting so effusively—Caesar D'Alvarez, international crook and Jewel thief, an arch enemy of Alonzo, who had spoiled his game on more than one occasion. What was D'Alvarez doing here?
Alonzo, very unobtrusively, rose from his seat, and made his way to another seat in the shadow of the pillar. He waited until D'Alvarez had registered at the reception office; then, when he and the girl had disappeared in the direction of the lift, he wandered casually over and examined the register. He read "Count Caesar D'Esterro, Rome." After which Alonzo made his way back to his seat and, lighting the delayed cigarette, gave himself up to quiet thought.
So Caesar D'Alvarez had become "Count Caesar D'Esterro!" Alonzo wondered exactly what the game was. The girl was a stranger to him—he had never encountered her on any of his international adventures, and her beauty appealed to him. He hoped with a half sigh, that she was not intended to be the pawn in some low down game of D'Alvarez.
He picked up the illustrated weekly which lay on the lounge table before him and idly ran his fingers through the pages, his mind still busy with D'Alvarez. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and gazed at the page before him on which appeared a portrait of the girl in green, the girl who, a few minutes before, had greeted D'Alvarez so warmly. Underneath the picture were the words: "Miss Aline Carnford of Philadelphia, whose marriage with Count Caesar D'Esterro is announced to be taking place shortly."
An involuntary exclamation escaped him. What was the D'Alvarez game? Was he planning to marry an heiress, despite the fact that he already possessed about four other "wives" in different parts of the world! Alonzo, keen for immediate action, threw down the magazine and made rapidly for his room.
Ten minutes later, overcoated, and with his immaculate silk hat at its usual angle, Alonso strolled out of the Splendide and walked rapidly across Piccadilly Circus. In Leicester Square he procured a taxi and ordered the man to drive to Grant's Court, Limehouse, and half an hour later Alonzo alighted from the cab in one of the most disreputable quarters of London's underworld. He walked rapidly through Grant's Court and turned into a narrow alley that led in the direction of the river. After a few minutes he stopped beneath the shadow of a tumbledown warehouse and whistled the first few bars of "Annie Laurie." Immediately a small and dirty window in the wall, just above him, opened, and a tousled grey head was thrust out.
"Oo's there?" a hoarse voice demanded.
"It's all right, Inky—its MacTavish," replied Alonzo. "I want a word with you."
The head was withdrawn, and a moment afterwards to the accompaniment of creaking bolts and locks, a door was opened. MacTavish entered and followed the shambling figure of Inky up a rickety flight of stairs to the dirty and ill-kept room which that worthy inhabited. Arrived, he dusted a chair carefully with his handkerchief and sat down. Inky, sensing something important, lit an old clay pipe and puffed vigorously, his eyes on Alonzo's face.
"Listen Inky," said MacTavish. "I did you a good turn two years ago. I want you to do something for me. Are you on?"
"I'm on, Mac," replied Inky promptly. "I'd be doing five years if it wasn't for you. What's the lay?"
"Caesar D'Alvarez is over here and I want to know what he's doing," said MacTavish. "He arrived today at the Splendide and a girl met him. Not his sort of girl either. Just afterwards I read that Count Caesar D'Esterro was marrying her, and D'Alvarez had registered under that name. Is he after the girl's money? Surely he doesn't expect to get away with that? The Italian police want him badly at the moment. Find out what he's at, Inky, and as quickly as you can!"
Inky grinned as he refilled his old clay pipe. "I don't 'ave to find out nothing, Mac," he wheezed with a grin. He leaned across the table. "I knows!"
Alonzo, as excited as he ever allowed himself to get, drew his chair closer. "Well, what is it, Inky?" he demanded.
"I 'eard larst night, round at Blooey Stevens," said Inky. "D'Alvarez 'as got a big idea. 'E's after the Rodney Diadem—you know, the diamond tiara wot belongs to Lord Rodney. Well D'Alvarez lays that he can crack the crib all right—the stuff is in the 'ouse at Pont Street—it's easy for a man like D'Alvarez, but the thing wot he couldn't do was to get the stuff out of England. 'E knows that the perlice is after 'im, an' directly that tiara is pinched every port in England will be watched, and D'Alvarez knows that 'e'd never get through. So 'e 'as a brain wave. 'E meets this American girl in Paris were she's stayin' with 'er people an' tells 'er 'e's a Count, an' she falls for 'im. So 'e gets 'er to come over 'ere to marry 'im. See the game? 'E cracks the crib on the night of the ninth, after the ball at Rodney 'Ouse. 'E marries the girl on the mornin' of the tenth an' then she goes back to Paris to tell 'er people. See the idea? D'Alvarez will stick the bloomin' diamonds in the' girl's jewel case without 'er knowin.' If she gets through all right, 'e'll join 'er in Paris that night, take the stuff and take 'is 'ook. If she don't get through, well, the police'll find the stuff on 'er an' D'Alvarez will be orlright. 'E's a dirty dog is D'Alvarez!"
