Hushed Up! A Mystery of London
William Le Queux
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HUSHED UP!
_A MYSTERY OF LONDON_
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
LONDONEVELEIGH NASH1911
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE PAGE
I IS MAINLY SCANDALOUS 7 II CONCERNS TWO STRANGERS 18
THE STORY OF OWEN BIDDULPH
CHAP.
I BESIDE STILL WATERS 35 II TOLD IN THE NIGHT 46 III THE CLERGYMAN FROM HAMPSHIRE 58 IV THE PERIL BEYOND 68 V THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER 79 VI A GHASTLY TRUTH 89 VII THE FLAME OF THE CANDLE 99 VIII PRESENTS ANOTHER PROBLEM 107 IX FACE TO FACE 117 X CONTAINS A FURTHER SURPRISE 125 XI WHAT THE POLICE KNEW 136 XII THE WORD OF A WOMAN 145 XIII THE DEATH KISS 156 XIV OF THINGS UNMENTIONABLE 165 XV FORBIDDEN LOVE 175 XVI THE MAN IN GOLD PINCE-NEZ 185 XVII THE MAN IN THE STREET 196 XVIII PROOF POSITIVE 206 XIX THROUGH THE MISTS 215 XX THE STRANGER IN THE RUE DE RIVOLI 225 XXI DESCRIBES AN UNWELCOME VISIT 234 XXII MORE MYSTERY 242 XXIII IN FULL CRY 253 XXIV AN UNFORTUNATE SLIP 263 XXV MORE STRANGE FACTS 272 XXVI "SOME SENSATIONAL REVELATIONS" 281 XXVII A CONTRETEMPS 291 XXVIII THE FRENCHMAN MAKES A STATEMENT 298 XXIX FURTHER REVELATIONS 307 XXX CONCLUSION 313
HUSHED UP!
PROLOGUE
I
IS MAINLY SCANDALOUS
"And he died mysteriously?"
"The doctors certified that he died from natural causes--heartfailure."
"That is what the world believes, of course. His death was a nation'sloss, and the truth was hushed up. But you, Phil Poland, know it. Uponthe floor was found something--a cigar--eh?"
"Nothing very extraordinary in that, surely? He died while smoking."
"Yes," said the bald-headed man, bending towards the other andlowering his voice into a harsh whisper. "He died while smoking acigar--a cigar that had been poisoned! You know it well enough. What'sthe use of trying to affect ignorance--_with me_!"
"Well?" asked Philip Poland after a brief pause, his brows knit darklyand his face drawn and pale.
"Well, I merely wish to recall that somewhat unpleasant fact, and totell you that I know the truth," said the other with slowdeliberation, his eyes fixed upon the man seated opposite him.
"Why recall unpleasant facts?" asked Poland, with a faint attempt tosmile. "I never do."
"A brief memory is always an advantage," remarked Arnold Du Cane, witha sinister grin.
"Ah! I quite follow you," Poland said, with a hardness of the mouth."But I tell you, Arnold, I refuse to lend any hand in this crooked bitof business you've just put before me. Let's talk of something else."
"Crooked business, indeed! Fancy you, Phil Poland, denouncing it ascrooked!" he laughed. "And I'm a crook, I suppose," and hethoughtfully caressed his small moustache, which bore traces of havingbeen artificially darkened.
"I didn't say so."
"But you implied it. Bah! You'll be teaching the Sunday School of thisdelightful English village of yours before long, I expect. No doubtthe villagers believe the gentleman at the Elms to be a model of everyvirtue, especially when he wears a frock-coat and trots around withthe plate in church on Sundays!" he sneered. "My hat! Fancy you, Phil,turning honest in your old age!"
"I admit that I'm trying to be honest, Arnold--for the girl's sake."
"And, by Jove! if the good people here, in Middleton, knew the truth,eh--the truth that you----"
"Hush! Somebody may overhear!" cried the other, starting and glancingapprehensively at the closed door of his cosy study. "What's the useof discussing the business further? I've told you, once and for all,Arnold, that I refuse to be a party to any such dastardlytransaction."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Du Cane. "Why, wasn't the Burke affair an equallyblackguardly bit of business--the more so, indeed, when one recollectsthat young Ronald Burke had fallen in love with Sonia."
"Leave my girl's name out of our conversation, Arnold, or, by Gad! youshall pay for it!" cried the tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven man, ashe sprang from his chair and faced his visitor threateningly. "Tauntme as much as ever it pleases you. Allege what you like against me. Iknow I'm an infernal blackguard, posing here as a smug and respectablechurchgoer. I admit any charge you like to lay at my door, but I'llnot have my girl's name associated with my misdeeds. Understand that!She's pure and honest, and she knows nothing of her father's life."
"Don't you believe that, my dear fellow. She's eighteen now, remember,and I fancy she had her eyes opened last February down at the VillaVespa, when that unfortunate little trouble arose."
Arnold Du Cane, the round-faced man who spoke, was rather short andstout, with ruddy cheeks, a small moustache and a prematurely baldhead--a man whose countenance showed him to be a _bon vivant_, butwhose quick, shifty eyes would have betrayed to a close observer areadiness of subterfuge which would have probably aroused suspicion.His exterior was that of a highly refined and polished man. His greytweed suit bore evidence of having been cut by a smart tailor, and ashe lolled back in his big saddle-bag chair he contemplated the finediamond upon his white, well-manicured hand, and seemed entirely athis ease.
That August afternoon was stiflingly hot, and through the open Frenchwindows leading into the old-world garden, so typically English withits level lawns, neatly trimmed box-hedges and blazing flowerbeds,came the drowsy hum of the insects and the sweet scent of a wealth ofroses everywhere.
The pretty house in which his host, Philip Poland, alias Louis Lessar,lived, stood back a little distance from the London road, two miles orso out of the quiet market-town of Andover, a small picturesque oldplace surrounded by high old elms wherein the rooks cawed incessantly,and commanding extensive views over Harewood Forest and the undulatingmeadow-lands around, while close by, at the foot of the hill, nestleda cluster of homely thatched cottages, with a square church-tower, theobscure village of Middleton.
In that rural retreat lived the Honourable Philip Poland beneath acloak of highest respectability. The Elms was, indeed, delightfulafter the glare and glitter of that fevered life he so often led, andhere, with his only child, Sonia, to whom he was so entirely devoted,he lived as a gentleman of leisure.
Seldom he went to London, and hardly ever called upon his neighbours.With Sonia he led a most retired existence, reading much, fishing alittle, and taking long walks or cycling with his daughter and herfox-terrier, "Spot," over all the country-side.
To the village he had been somewhat of a mystery ever since he hadtaken the house, three years before. Yet, being apparently comfortablyoff, subscribing to every charity, and a regular attendant atMiddleton church, the simple country-fol
k had grown to tolerate him,even though he was somewhat of a recluse. Country-folk are very slowto accept the stranger at his own valuation.
Little did they dream that when he went away each winter he went witha mysterious purpose--that the source of his income was a mystery.
As he stood there, leaning against the roll-top writing-table of hisprettily furnished little study and facing the man who had travelledhalf across Europe to see him, Phil Poland, with clean-shaven face andclosely-cropped hair tinged with grey, presented the smart and dapperappearance of a typical British naval officer, as, indeed, he hadbeen, for, prior to his downfall, he had been first lieutenant onboard one of his Majesty's first-class cruisers. His had been astrangely adventurous career, his past being one that would not bearinvestigation.
In the smart, go-ahead set wherein he had moved when he was still inthe Navy opinion regarding him had been divided. There were some whorefused to believe the truth of the scandals circulated concerninghim, while others believed and quickly embellished the reports whichran through the service clubs and ward-rooms.
Once he had been one of the most popular officers afloat, yetto-day--well, he found it convenient to thus efface himself in ruralHampshire, and live alone with the sweet young girl who was all in allto him, and who was happy in her belief that her devoted father was agentleman.
This girl with the blue eyes and hair of sunshine was the only linkbetween Phil Poland and his past--that past when he held a brilliantrecord as a sailor and had been honoured and respected. He held heraloof from every one, being ever in deadly fear lest, by some chanceword, she should learn the bitter truth--the truth concerning thatdespicable part which he had been compelled to play. Ah, yes, his wasa bitter story indeed.
Before Sonia should know the truth he would take his own life. She wasthe only person remaining dear to him, the only one for whom he had asingle thought or care, the only person left to him to respect and tolove. Her influence upon him was always for good. For the past year hehad been striving to cut himself adrift from evil, to reform, to holdback from participating in any dishonest action--for her dear sake.Her soft-spoken words so often caused him to hate himself and to bitehis lip in regret, for surely she was as entirely ignorant of thehideous truth as Mr. Shuttleworth, the white-headed parson, or therustic villagers themselves.
Yes, Phil Poland's position was indeed a strange one.
What Du Cane had just suggested to him would, he saw, put at leasttwenty thousand pounds into the pockets of their ingeniouscombination, yet he had refused--refused because of the fair-headedgirl he loved so well.
Within himself he had made a solemn vow to reform. Reformation wouldprobably mean a six-roomed cottage with a maid-of-all-work, yet eventhat would be preferable to a continuance of the present mode of life.
Bitter memories had, of late, constantly arisen within him.Certain scenes of violence, even of tragedy, in that beautifulflower-embowered villa beside the Mediterranean at Beaulieu, half-waybetween Nice and Monte Carlo, had recurred vividly to him. He wasunable to wipe those horrible visions from the tablets of his memory.He had realized, at last, what a pitiless blackguard he had been, sohe had resolved to end it all.
And now, just as he had made up his mind, Arnold Du Cane had arrivedunexpectedly from Milan with an entirely new and original scheme--onein which the risk of detection was infinitesimal, while the stakeswere high enough to merit serious consideration.
He had refused to be a party to the transaction, whereupon Du Cane hadrevived a subject which he had fondly believed to be buried forever--that terrible affair which had startled and mystified the wholeworld, and which had had such an important political bearing that, byit, the destinies of a great nation had actually been changed.
A certain man--a great man--had died, but until that hour PhilPoland's connection with the tragedy had never been suspected.
Yet, from what Arnold Du Cane had just said, he saw that the truth wasactually known, and he realized that his own position was now one ofdistinct insecurity.
He was silent, full of wonder. How could Arnold have gained hisknowledge? What did he know? How much did he know? The strength of hisdefiance must be gauged upon the extent of Arnold's knowledge.
He set his teeth hard. The scandal was one which must never see thelight of day, he told himself. Upon the suppression of the true factsdepended the honour and welfare of a nation.
Arnold Du Cane knew the truth. Of that, there could be no doubt. Didhe intend to use this knowledge in order to secure his assistance inthis latest dastardly scheme?
At last, after a long silence, Poland asked in as cool a voice as hecould--
"What causes you to suspect that Sonia knows anything?"
"Well," replied this crafty, round-faced visitor, "considering howthat young Russian let out at you when you were walking with her thatmoonlight night out in the garden, I don't think there can be muchdoubt that she is fully aware of the mysterious source of her father'sincome."
"Sonia doesn't know Russian. The fellow spoke in that language, Iremember," was his reply. "Yet I was a fool, I know, to have taken herover that accursed place--that hell in paradise. She is alwaysperfectly happy at the Hotel de Luxembourg at Nice, where each seasonshe makes some pleasant friends, and never suspects the reason of myabsences."
"All of us are fools at times, Phil," was his visitor's response, ashe selected a fresh cigar from the silver box upon the table andslowly lit it. "But," he went on, "I do really think you are going toofar in expecting that you can conceal the truth from the girl muchlonger. She isn't a child, you must recollect."
"She must never know!" cried the unhappy man in a hoarse voice. "ByGad! she must never know of my shame, Arnold."
"Then go in with us in this new affair. It'll pay you well."
"No," he cried. "I--I feel that I can't! I couldn't face her, if sheknew. Her mother was one of the best and purest women who ever lived,and----"
"Of course, of course. I know all that, my dear fellow," cried theother hastily. "I know all the tragedy of your marriage--but that'syears ago. Let the past bury itself, and have an eye to the mainchance and the future. Just take my advice, Phil. Drop all thishumbug about your girl and her feelings if she learnt her father'sreal profession. She'll know it one day, that's certain. You surelyaren't going to allow her to stand in your way and prevent you fromparticipating in what is real good solid business--eh? You want money,you know."
"I've given my answer," was the man's brief response.
Then a silence fell between the pair of well-dressed cosmopolitans--adead, painful silence, broken only by the low hum of the insects, thebuzzing of a fly upon the window-pane, and the ticking of the oldgrandfather clock in the corner.
"Reflect," urged Du Cane at last, as he rose to his feet. Then,lowering his voice, he said in a hoarse whisper, "You may findyourself in a corner over that affair of young Burke. If so, it's onlyI and my friends who could prove an alibi. Remember that."
"And you offer that, in return for my assistance?" Poland saidreflectively, hesitating for a moment and turning to the window.
His visitor nodded in the affirmative.
Next second the man to whom those terms had been offered quickly facedhis friend. His countenance was haggard, blanched to the lips, for hehad been quick to realize the full meaning of that covert threat.
"Arnold!" he said in a hoarse, strained voice, full of bitterreproach, "you may turn upon me, give me away to the police--tell themthe truth--but my decision remains the same. I will lend no hand inthat affair."
"You are prepared to face arrest--eh?"
"If it is your will--yes."
"And your daughter?"
"That is my own affair."
"Very well, then. As you will," was the bald-headed man's response, ashe put on his grey felt hat and, taking his stick, strode through theopen French windows and disappeared.
Phil Poland stood rigid as a statue. The blow had fallen. His secretwas out.
He spran
g forward towards the garden, in order to recall his visitor.But next instant he drew himself back.
No. Now that the friend whom he had trusted had turned upon him, hewould face the music rather than add another crime to his discreditand dishonour.
Philip Poland, alias Louis Lessar and half-a-score of other names,halted, and raised his pale, repentant face to Heaven for help andguidance.
