The Avenger by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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THE AVENGER

BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of

"The Master Mummer," "A Maker of History," "The Malefactor," "The Lost
Leader," "The Great Secret," Etc.

1908

CONTENTS

I. A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

II. THE HORROR OF THE HANSOM

III. DISCUSSING THE CRIME

IV. UNDER A CLOUD

V. ON THE TELEPHONE

VI. ONE THOUSAND POUNDS' REWARD

VII. THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER

VIII. THE BARONESS INTERVENES

IX. A BOX AT THE ALHAMBRA

X. OUTCAST

XI. FALSE SENTIMENT

XII. TIDINGS FROM THE CAPE

XIII. SEARCHING THE CHAMBERS

XIV. THE DEAD MAN'S BROTHER

XV. THE LAWYER'S SUGGESTION

XVI. A DINNER IN THE STRAND

XVII. A CONFESSION OF LOVE

XVIII. AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE

XIX. DESPERATE WOOING

XX. STABBED THROUGH THE HEART

XXI. THE FLIGHT OF LOUISE

XXII. THE CHATEAU OF ETARPE

XXIII. A PASSIONATE PILGRIM

XXIV. AN INVITATION TO DINNER

XXV. THE MAN IN THE YELLOW BOOTS

XXVI. MADAME DE MELBAIN

XXVII. THE SPY

XXVIII. THE SCENE IN THE AVENUE

XXIX. A SUBSTANTIAL GHOST

XXX. THE QUEEN OF MEXONIA

XXXI. RETURNED FROM THE TOMB

XXXII. AT THE HOTEL SPLENDIDE

XXXIII. A HAND IN THE GAME

XXXIV. AN ILL-ASSORTED COUPLE

XXXV. HIS WIFE

XXXVI. THE MURDERED MAN'S EFFECTS

XXXVII. THE WIDOW'S ULTIMATUM

XXXVIII. INEFFECTUAL WOOING

XXXIX. THE COLONEL'S MISSION

XL. BLACKMAIL

XLI. THE COLONEL SPEAKS

XLII. LOVE REMAINS

ILLUSTRATIONS

"THERE PLASHED ACROSS HER FACE A QUIVER, AS THOUGH OF PAIN"

"AT THE SIGHT OF THE TWO MEN, THE BARONESS STOPPED SHORT"

"HE WAS THERE ON HIS KNEES, WITH HIS ARMS AROUND THE TERRIFIED WOMAN"

"'TO THE NEAREST POLICE STATION! THAT'S WHERE I'M OFF.'"

CHAPTER I

A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

The man and the woman stood facing one another, although in the uncertain
firelight which alone illuminated the room neither could see much save
the outline of the other's form. The woman stood at the further end of
the apartment by the side of the desk--his desk. The slim trembling
fingers of one hand rested lightly upon it, the other was hanging by her
side, nervously crumpling up the glove which she had only taken off a few
minutes before. The man stood with his back to the door through which he
had just entered. He was in evening dress; he carried an overcoat over
his arm, and his hat was slightly on the back of his head. A cigarette
was still burning between his lips, the key by means of which he had
entered was swinging from his little finger. So far no words had passed
between them. Both were apparently stupefied for the moment by the
other's unexpected presence.

It was the man who recovered his self-possession first. He threw his
overcoat into a chair, and touched the brass knobs behind the door.
Instantly the room was flooded with the soft radiance of the electric
lights. They could see one another now distinctly. The woman leaned a
little forward, and there was amazement as well as fear flashing in her
soft, dark eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded to herself unnatural.
To him it came as a surprise, for the world of men and women was his
study, and he recognized at once its quality.

"Who are you?" she exclaimed. "What do you want?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It seems to me," he answered, "that I might more fittingly assume the
role of questioner. However, I have no objection to introduce myself. My
name is Herbert Wrayson. May I ask," he continued with quiet sarcasm, "to
what I am indebted for this unexpected visit?"

She was silent for a moment, and as he watched her his surprise grew.
Equivocal though her position was, he knew very well that this was no
ordinary thief whom he had surprised in his rooms, engaged to all
appearance in rifling his desk. The fact that she was a beautiful woman
was one which he scarcely took into account. There were other things more
surprising which he could not ignore. Her evening dress of black net was
faultlessly made, and he knew enough of such things to be well aware that
it came from the hands of no ordinary dressmaker. A string of pearls, her
only ornament, hung from her neck, and her black hat with its drooping
feathers was the fellow of one which he had admired a few evenings ago at
the Ritz in Paris. It flashed upon him that this was a woman of
distinction, one who belonged naturally, if not in effect, to the world
of which even he could not claim to be a habitant. What was she doing in
his rooms?--of what interest to her were he and his few possessions?

"Herbert Wrayson," she repeated, leaning a little towards him. "If your
name is Herbert Wrayson, what are you doing in these rooms?"

"They happen to be mine," he answered calmly.

"Yours!"

She picked up a small latch-key from the desk.

"This is number 11, isn't it?" she asked quickly.

"No! Number 11 is the flat immediately overhead," he told her.

She appeared unconvinced.

"But I opened the door with this key," she declared.

"Mr. Barnes and I have similar locks," he said. "The fact remains that
this is number 9, and number 11 is one story overhead."

She drew a long breath, presumably of relief, and moved a step forward.

"I am very sorry!" she declared. "I have made a mistake. You must please
accept my apologies."

He stood motionless in front of the door. He was pale, clean-shaven, and
slim, and in his correct evening clothes he seemed a somewhat ordinary
type of the well-bred young Englishman. But his eyes were grey, and his
mouth straight and firm.

She came to a standstill. Her eyes seemed to be questioning him. She
scarcely understood his attitude.

"Kindly allow me to pass!" she said coldly.

"Presently!" he answered.

Her veil was still raised, and the flash of her eyes would surely have
made a weaker man quail. But Wrayson never flinched.

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded. "I have explained my presence
in your room. It was an accident which I regret. Let me pass at once."

"You have explained your presence here," he answered, "after a fashion!
But you have not explained what your object may be in making use of that
key to enter Mr. Barnes' flat. Are you proposing to subject his
belongings to the same inspection as mine?" he asked, pointing to his
disordered desk.

"My business with Mr. Barnes is no concern of yours!" she exclaimed
haughtily.

"Under ordinary circumstances, no!" he admitted. "But these are not
ordinary circumstances. Forgive me if I speak plainly. I found you
engaged in searching my desk. The presumption is that you wish to do the
same thing to Mr. Barnes'."

"And if I do, sir!" she demanded, "what concern is it of yours? How do
you know that I have not permission to visit his rooms--that he did not
himself give me this key?"

She held it out before him. He glanced at it and back into her face.

"The supposition," he said, "does not commend itself to me."

"Why not?"

He looked at the clock.

"You see," he declared, "that it is within a few minutes of midnight. To
be frank with you, you do not seem to me the sort of person likely to
visit a bachelor such as Mr. Barnes, in a bachelor flat, at this hour,
without some serious object."

She kept silence for several moments. Her bosom was rising and falling
quickly, and a brilliant spot of colour was burning in her cheeks. Her
head was thrown a little back, she was regarding him with an intentness
which he found almost disconcerting. He had an uncomfortable sense that
he was in the presence of a human being who, if it had lain in her
power, would have killed him where he stood. Further, he was realizing
that the woman whom at first glance he had pronounced beautiful, was
absolutely the first of her sex whom he had ever seen who satisfied
completely the demands of a somewhat critical and highly cultivated
taste. The silence between them seemed extended over a time crowded and
rich with sensations. He found time to marvel at the delicate whiteness
of her bosom, gleaming like polished ivory under the network of her black
gown, to appreciate with a quick throb of delight the slim roundness of
her perfect figure, the wonderful poise of her head, the soft richness of
her braided hair. Every detail of feature and of toilet seemed to satisfy
to the last degree each critical faculty of which he was possessed. He
felt a little shiver of apprehension when he recalled the cold brutality
of the words which had just left his lips! Yet how could he deal with her
differently?

"Is this man--Morris Barnes--your friend?" she asked, breaking a silence
which had done more than anything else to unnerve him.

"No!" he answered. "I scarcely know the man. I have never seen him except
in the lift, or on the stairs."

"Then you have no excuse for keeping me here," she declared. "I may be
his friend, or I may be his enemy. At least I possess the key of his
flat, presumably with his permission. My presence here I have explained.
I can assure you that it is entirely accidental! You have no right to
detain me for a moment."

The clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight. A sudden passion surged in
his veins, a passion which, although at the time he could not have
classified it, was assuredly a passion of jealousy! He remembered the man
Barnes, whom he hated.

"You shall not go to his rooms--at this hour!" he exclaimed. "You don't
know the man! If you were seen--"

She laughed mockingly.

"Let me pass!" she insisted.

He hesitated. She saw very clearly that she was conquering. A moment
before she had respected this man. After all, though, he was like
the others.

"I will go with you and wait outside," he said doggedly. "Barnes, at this
hour--is not always sober!"

Her lips curled.

"Be wise," she said, "and let me go. I do not need your protection or--"

She broke off suddenly. The interruption was certainly startling
enough. From a table only a few feet off came the shrill tinkle of a
telephone bell. Wrayson mechanically stepped backwards and took the
receiver into his hand.

"Who is it?" he asked.

The voice which answered him was faint but clear. It seemed to Wrayson to
come from a long way off.

"Is that Mr. Wrayson's flat in Cavendish Mansions?" it asked.

"Yes!" Wrayson answered. "Who are you?"

"I am a friend of Mr. Morris Barnes," the voice answered. "May I
apologize for calling you up, but the matter is urgent. Can you tell me
if Mr. Barnes is in?"

"I am not sure, but I believe he is never in before one or two o'clock,"
Wrayson answered.

"Will you write down a message and leave it in his letter-box?" the
voice asked anxiously. "It is very important or I would not trouble you."

"Very well," Wrayson answered. "What is it?"

"Tell him instantly he returns to leave his flat and go to the Hotel
Francis. A friend is waiting there for him, the friend whom he has been
expecting!"

"A lady?" Wrayson remarked a little sarcastically.

"No!" the voice answered. "A friend. Will you do this? Will you promise
to do it?"

"Very well," Wrayson said. "Who are you, and where are you ringing up
from?"

"Remember you have promised!" was the only reply.

"All right! Tell me your name," Wrayson demanded.

No answer. Wrayson turned the handle of the instrument viciously.

"Exchange," he asked, "who was that talking to me just now?"

"Don't know," was the prompt answer. "We can't remember all the calls we
get. Ring off, please!"

Wrayson laid down the receiver and turned round with a sudden sense of
apprehension. There was a feeling of emptiness in the room. He had not
heard a sound, but he knew very well what had happened. The door was
slightly open and the room was empty. She had taken advantage of his
momentary absorption to slip away.

He stepped outside and stood by the lift, listening. The landing was
deserted, and there was no sound of any one moving anywhere. The lift
itself was on the ground floor. It had not ascended recently or he must
have heard it. He returned to his room and softly closed the door. Again
the sense of emptiness oppressed him. A faint perfume around the place
where she had stood came to him like a whiff of some delicious memory. He
set his teeth, lit a cigarette, and sitting down at his desk wrote a few
lines to his neighbour, embodying the message which had been given him.
With the note in his hand he ascended to the next floor.

There was apparently no light in flat number 11, but he rang the bell and
listened. There was no answer, no sound of any one moving within. For
nearly ten minutes he waited--listening. He was strongly tempted to open
the door with his own key and see for himself if she was there. Then he
remembered that Barnes was a man whom he barely knew, and cordially
disliked, and that if he should return unexpectedly, the situation would
be a little difficult to explain. Reluctantly he descended to his own
flat, and mixing himself a whisky and soda, lit a pipe and sat down,
determined to wait until he heard Barnes return. In less than a quarter
of an hour he was asleep!

CHAPTER II

THE HORROR OF THE HANSOM

Wrayson sat up with a sudden and violent start. His pipe had fallen on to
the floor, leaving a long trail of grey ash upon his waistcoat and
trousers. The electric lights were still burning, but of the fire nothing
remained but a pile of ashes. As soon as he could be said to be conscious
of anything, he was conscious of two things. One was that he was
shivering with cold, the other that he was afraid.

Wrayson was by no means a coward. He had come once or twice in his life
into close touch with dangerous happenings, and conducted himself with
average pluck. He never attempted to conceal from himself, however, that
these few minutes were minutes of breathless, unreasoning fear. His heart
was thumping against his side, and the muscles at the back of his neck
were almost numb as he slowly looked round the room. His eyes paused at
the door. It was slightly open, to his nervous fancy it seemed to be
shaking. His teeth chattered, he felt his forehead, and it was wet.

He rose to his feet and listened. There was no sound anywhere, from above
or below. He tried to remember what it was that had awakened him so
suddenly. He could remember nothing except that awful start. Something
must have disturbed him! He listened again. Still no sound. He drew a
little breath, and, with his eyes glued upon the half-closed door,
recollected that he himself had left it open that he might hear Barnes go
upstairs. With a little laugh, still not altogether natural, he moved to
the spirit decanter and drank off half a wineglassful of neat whisky!

"Nerves," he said softly to himself. "This won't do! What an idiot I was
to go to sleep there!"

He glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to three. Then he moved
towards the door, and stood for several moments with the handle in his
hand. Gradually his confidence was returning. He listened attentively.
There was not a sound to be heard in the entire building. He turned back
into the room with a little sigh of relief.

"Time I turned in," he muttered. "Wonder if that's rain."

He lifted the blind and looked out. A few stars were shining still in a
misty sky, but a bank of clouds was rolling up and rain was beginning to
fall. The pavements were already wet, and the lamp-posts obscured. He was
about to turn away when a familiar, but unexpected, sound from the street
immediately below attracted his notice. The window was open at the top,
and he had distinctly heard the jingling of a hansom bell.

He threw open the bottom sash and leaned out. A hansom cab was waiting at
the entrance to the flats. Wrayson glanced once more instinctively
towards the clock. Who on earth of his neighbours could be keeping a cab
waiting outside at that hour in the morning? With the exception of Barnes
and himself, they were most of them early people. Once more he looked out
of the window. The cabman was leaning forward in his seat with his head
resting upon his folded arms. He was either tired out or asleep. The
attitude of the horse was one of extreme and wearied dejection. Wrayson
was on the point of closing the window when he became aware for the first
time that the cab had an occupant. He could see the figure of a man
leaning back in one corner, he could even distinguish a white-gloved hand
resting upon the apron. The figure was not unlike the figure of Barnes,
and Barnes, as he happened to remember, always wore white gloves in the
evening. Barnes it probably was, waiting--for what? Wrayson closed the
window a little impatiently, and turned back into the room.

"Barnes and his friends can go to the devil," he muttered. "I am
off to bed."

He took a couple of steps across the room, and then stopped short. The
fear was upon him again. He felt his heart almost stop beating, a cold
shiver shook his whole frame. He was standing facing his half-open door,
and outside on the stone steps he heard the soft, even footfall of
slippered feet, and the gentle rustling of a woman's gown.

He was not conscious of any movement, but when she reached the landing he
was standing there on the threshold, with the soft halo of light from
behind shining on to his white, fiercely questioning face. She came
towards him without speech, and her veil was lowered so that he could
only imperfectly see her face, but she walked as one newly recovered from
illness, with trembling footsteps, and with one hand always upon the
banisters. When she reached the corner she stopped, and seemed about to
collapse. She spoke to him, and her voice had lost all its quality. It
sounded harsh and unreal.

"Why are you--spying on me?" she asked.

"I am not spying," he answered. "I have been asleep--and woke up
suddenly."

"Give me--some brandy!" she begged.

She stood upon the threshold and drank from the wineglass which he
had filled. When she gave it back to him, he noticed that her fingers
were steady.

"Will you come downstairs and let me out?" she asked. "I have looked
down and it is all dark on the ground floor. I am not sure that I
know my way."

He hesitated, but only for a moment. Side by side they walked down four
flights of steps in unbroken silence. He asked no question, she attempted
no explanation. Only when he opened the door and she saw the waiting
hansom she very nearly collapsed. For a moment she clung to him.

"He is there--in the cab," she moaned. "Where can I hide?"

"Whoever it is," Wrayson answered, with his eyes fixed upon the hansom,
"he is either drunk or asleep."

"Or dead!" she whispered in his ear. "Go and see!"

Then, before Wrayson could recover from the shock of her words, she was
gone, flitting down the unlit side of the street with swift silent
footsteps. His eyes followed her mechanically. Then, when she had turned
the corner, he crossed the pavement towards the cab. Even now he could
see little of the figure in the corner, for his silk hat was drawn down
over his eyes.

"Is that you, Barnes?" he asked.

There came not the slightest response. Then for the first time the
hideous meaning of those farewell words of hers broke in upon his brain.
Had she meant it? Had she known or guessed? He leaned forward and
touched the white-gloved hand. He raised it and let go. It fell like a
dead, inert thing. He stepped back and confronted the cabman, who was
rubbing his eyes.

"There's something wrong with your fare, cabby," he said.

The cabby raised the trap door, looked down, and descended heavily on to
the pavement.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he said. "Here, wake up, guv'nor!"

There was no response. The cabby threw open the apron of the cab and
gently shook the recumbent figure.

"I can't wait 'ere all night for my fare!" he exclaimed. "Wake up, God
luv us!" he broke off.

He stepped hastily back on to the pavement, and began tugging at one of
his lamps.

"Push his hat back, sir," he said. "Let's 'ave a look at 'im."

Wrayson stood upon the step of the cab and lifted the silk hat from the
head of the recumbent figure. Then he sprang back quickly with a little
exclamation of horror. The lamp was shining full now upon the man's face,
livid and white, upon his staring but sightless eyes, upon something
around his neck, a fragment of silken cord, drawn so tightly that the
flesh seemed to hang over and almost conceal it.

"Throttled, by God!" the cabman exclaimed. "I'm off to the police
station."

He clambered up to his seat, and without another word struck his horse
with the whip. The cab drove off and disappeared. Wrayson turned slowly
round, and, closing the door of the flats, mounted with leaden feet to
the fourth story.

He entered his own rooms, and walked without hesitation to the window,
which was still open. The fresh air was almost a necessity, for he felt
himself being slowly stifled. His knees were shaking, a cold icy horror
was numbing his heart and senses. A feeling of nightmare was upon him, as
though he had risen unexpectedly from a bed of delirium. There in front
of him, a little to the left, was the broad empty street amongst whose
shadows she had disappeared. On one side was the Park, and there was
obscurity indefinable, mysterious; on the other a long row of tall
mansions, a rain-soaked pavement, and a curving line of gas lamps.
Beyond, the river, marked with a glittering arc of yellow dots; further
away the glow of the sleeping city. Shelter enough there for any
one--even for her. A soft, damp breeze was blowing in his face; from
amongst the dripping trees of the Park the birds were beginning to make
their morning music. Already the blackness of night was passing away, the
clouds were lightening, the stars were growing fainter. Wrayson leaned a
little forward. His eyes were fixed upon the exact spot where she had
crossed the road and disappeared. All the horror of the coming day and
the days to come loomed out from the background of his thoughts.

CHAPTER III

DISCUSSING THE CRIME

The murder of Morris Barnes, considered merely as an event, came as a
Godsend to the halfpenny press, which has an unwritten but immutable
contract with the public to provide it with so much sensation during the
week, in season or out of season. Nothing else was talked about anywhere.
Under the influence of the general example, Wrayson found himself within
a few days discussing its details with perfect coolness, and with an
interest which never flagged. He seemed continually to forget his own
personal and actual connection with the affair.

It was discussed, amongst other places, at the Sheridan Club, of which
Wrayson was a member, and where he spent most of his spare time. At one
particular luncheon party the day after the inquest, nothing else was
spoken of. For the first time, in Wrayson's hearing, a new and somewhat
ominous light was thrown upon the affair.

There were four men at the luncheon party, which was really not a
luncheon party at all, but a promiscuous coming together of four of the
men who usually sat at what was called the Colonel's table. First of all
there was the Colonel himself,--Colonel Edgar Fitzmaurice, C.B.,
D.S.O.,--easily the most popular member of the club, a distinguished
retired officer, white-haired, kindly and genial, a man of whom no one
had ever heard another say an unkind word, whose hand was always in his
none too well-filled pockets, and whose sympathies were always ready to
be enlisted in any forlorn cause, deserving or otherwise. At his right
hand sat Wrayson; on his left Sydney Mason, a rising young sculptor, and
also a popular member of this somewhat Bohemian circle. Opposite was
Stephen Heneage, a man of a different and more secretive type. He called
himself a barrister, but he never practised; a journalist at times, but
he seldom put his name to anything he wrote. His interests, if he had
any, he kept to himself. In a club where a man's standing was reckoned by
what he was and what he produced, he owed such consideration as he
received to a certain air of reserved strength, the more noteworthy
amongst a little coterie of men, who amongst themselves were accustomed
to speak their minds freely, and at all times. If he was never brilliant,
he had never been heard to say a foolish thing or make a pointless
remark. He moved on his way through life, and held his place there more
by reason of certain negative qualities which, amongst a community of
optimists, were universally ascribed to him, than through any more
personal or likable gifts. He had a dark, strong face, but a slim, weakly
body. He was never unduly silent, but he was a better listener than
talker. If he had no close friends, he certainly had no enemies. Whether
he was rich or poor no man knew, but next to the Colonel himself, no one
was more ready to subscribe to any of those charities which the
Sheridanites were continually inaugurating on behalf of their less
fortunate members. The man who succeeds in keeping the "ego" out of sight
as a rule neither irritates nor greatly attracts. Stephen Heneage was
one of those who stood in this position.

They were talking about the murder, or rather the Colonel was talking and
they were listening.

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