Wallace Edgar
The Angel of Terror
Chapter XXXVII
Probably Jean Briggerland never gave a more perfect representation of shocked surprise than when old Jaggs announced that he was Jack Glover.
"Mr. Glover," she said incredulously.
"If you'll be kind enough to release my hands," said Jack savagely, "I will convince you."
Jean, all meekness, obeyed, and presently he stood up with a groan.
"You've nearly blinded me," he said, turning to the glass.
"If I'd known it was you–"
"Don't make me laugh!" he snapped. "Of course you knew who it was!" He took off the wig and peeled the beard from his face.
"Was that very painful?" she asked, sympathetically, and Jack snorted.
"How was I to know that it was you?" she demanded, virtuously indignant, "I thought you were a wicked old man–"
"You thought nothing of the sort, Miss Briggerland," said Jack. "You knew who I was, and you guessed why I had taken on this disguise. I was not many yards from you when it suddenly dawned upon you that I could not sleep at Lydia Meredith's flat unless I went there in the guise of an old man."
"Why should you want to sleep at her flat at all?" she asked innocently. "It doesn't seem to me to be a very proper ambition."
"That is an unnecessary question, and I'm wasting my time when I answer you," said Jack sternly. "I went there to save her life, to protect her against your murderous plots!"
"My murderous plots?" she repeated aghast. "You surely don't know what you're saying."
"I know this," and his face was not pleasant to see. "I have sufficient evidence to secure the arrest of your father, and possibly yourself. For months I have been working on that first providential accident of yours—the rich Australian who died with such remarkable suddenness. I may not get you in the Meredith case, and I may not be able to jail you for your attacks on Mrs. Meredith, but I have enough evidence to hang your father for the earlier crime."
Her face was blank—expressionless. Never before had she been brought up short with such a threat as the man was uttering, nor had she ever been in danger of detection. And all the time she was eyeing him so steadily, not a muscle of her face moving, her mind was groping back into the past, examining every detail of the crime he had mentioned, seeking for some flaw in the carefully prepared plan which had brought a good man to a violent and untimely end.
"That kind of bluff doesn't impress me," she said at last. "You're in a poor way when you have to invent crimes to attach to me."
"We'll go into that later. Where is Lydia?" he said shortly.
"I tell you I don't know, except that she has gone out for a drive. I expect her back very soon."
"Is your father with her?"
She shook her head.
"No, father went out early. I don't know who gave you authority to cross-examine me. Why, Jack Glover, you have all the importance of a French examining magistrate," she smiled.
"You may learn how important they are soon," he said significantly. "Where is your chauffeur, Mordon?"
"He is gone, too—in fact, he is driving Lydia. Why?" she asked with a little tightening of heart. She had only just been in time, she thought. So they had associated Mordon with the forgery!
His first words confirmed this suspicion.
"There is a warrant for Mordon which will be executed as soon as he returns," said Jack. "We have been able to trace him in London and also the woman who presented the cheque. We know his movements from the time he left Nice by aeroplane for Paris to the time he returned to Nice. The people who changed the money for him will swear to his identity."
If he expected to startle her he was disappointed. She raised her eyebrows.
"I can't believe it is possible. Mordon was such an honest man," she said. "We trusted him implicitly, and never once did he betray our trust. Now, Mr. Glover," she said coolly, "might I suggest that an interview with a gentleman in my bedroom is not calculated to increase my servants' respect for me? Will you go downstairs and wait until I come?"
"You'll not attempt to leave this house?" he said, and she laughed.
"Really, you're going on like one of those infallible detectives one reads about in the popular magazines," she said a little contemptuously. "You have no authority whatever to keep me from leaving this house and nobody knows that better than you. But you needn't be afraid. Sit on the stairs if you like until I come down."
When he had gone she rang the bell for her maid and handed her an envelope.
"I shall be in the saloon, talking to Mr. Glover," she said in a low voice. "I want you to bring this in and say that you found it in the hall."
"Yes, miss," said the woman.
Jean proceeded leisurely to her toilet. In the struggle her dress had been torn, and she changed it for a pale green silk gown, and Jack, pacing in the hall below, was on the point of coming up to discover if she had made her escape, when she sailed serenely down the stairs.
"I should like to know one thing, Mr. Glover," she said as she went into the saloon. "What do you intend doing? What is your immediate plan? Are you going to spirit Lydia away from us? Of course, I know you're in love with her and all that sort of thing."
His face went pink.
"I am not in love with Mrs. Meredith," he lied.
"Don't be silly," she said practically, "of course you're in love with her."
"My first job is to get that money back, and you're going to help me," he said.
"Of course I'm going to help you," she agreed. "If Mordon has been such a scoundrel, he must suffer the consequence. I'm sure that you are too clever to have made any mistake. Poor Mordon. I wonder what made him do it, because he is such a good friend of Lydia's, and seriously, Mr. Glover, I do think Lydia is being indiscreet."
"You made that remark before," he said quietly. "Now perhaps you'll explain what you mean."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"They are always about together. I saw them strolling on the lawn last night till quite a late hour, and I was so scared lest Mrs. Cole-Mortimer noticed it too–"
"Which means that Mrs. Cole-Mortimer did not notice it. You're clever, Jean! Even as you invent you make preparations to refute any evidence that the other side can produce. I don't believe a word you say."
There was a knock at the door and the maid entered bearing a letter on a salver.
"This was addressed to you, miss," she said. "It was on the hall table—didn't you see it?"
"No," said Jean in surprise. She took the letter, looked down at the address and opened it.
He saw a look of amazement and horror come to her face.
"Good God!" gasped Jean.
"What is it?" he said, springing up.
She stared at the letter again and from the letter to him.
"Read it," she said in a hollow voice.
"Dear Mademoiselle,
"I have returned from London and have confessed to Madame Meredith that I have forged her name and have drawn £100,000 from her bank. And now I have learnt that Madame Meredith loves me. There is only one end to this—that which you see–"
Jack read the letter twice.
"It is in his writing, too," he muttered. "It's impossible, incredible! I tell you I've had Mrs. Meredith under my eyes all the time she has been here. Is there a letter from her?" he asked suddenly. "But no, it is impossible, impossible!"
"I haven't been into her room. Will you come up with me?"
He followed her up the stairs and into Lydia's big bedroom, and the first thing that caught his eye was a sealed letter on a table near the bed. He picked it up. It was addressed to him, in Lydia's handwriting, and feverishly he tore it open.
His face, when he had finished reading, was as white as hers had been.
"Where have they gone?" he asked.
"They went to San Remo."
"By car?"
"Of course."
Without a word he turned and ran down the stairs out of the house.
The taxi that had brought him in the role of Jaggs had gone, but down the road, a dozen yards away, was the car he had hired on the day he came to Monte Carlo. He gave instructions to the driver and jumped in. The car sped through Mentone, stopped only the briefest while at the Customs barrier whilst Jack pursued his inquiries.
Yes, a lady had passed, but she had not returned.
How long ago?
Perhaps an hour; perhaps less.
At top speed the big car thundered along the sea road, twisting and turning, diving into valleys and climbing steep headlands, and then rounding a corner, Jack saw the car and a little crowd about it. His heart turned to stone as he leapt to the road.
He saw the backs of two Italian gendarmes, and pushing aside the little knot of idlers, he came into the centre of the group and stopped. Mordon lay on his face in a pool of blood, and one of the policemen was holding an ivory-handled revolver.
"It was with this that the crime was committed," he said in florid Italian. "Three of the chambers are empty. Now, at whom were the other two discharged?"
Jack reeled and gripped the mud-guard of the car for support, then his eyes strayed to the opening in the wall which ran on the seaward side of the road.
He walked to the parapet and looked over, and the first thing he saw was a torn hat and veil, and he knew it was Lydia's.
Chapter XXXVIII
Mr. Briggerland, killing time on the quay at Monaco, saw the Jungle Queen come into harbour and watched Marcus land, carrying his lines in his hand.
As Marcus came abreast of him he called and Mr. Stepney looked round with a start.
"Hello, Briggerland," he said, swallowing something.
"Well, have you been fishing?" asked Mr. Briggerland in his most paternal manner.
"Yes," admitted Marcus.
"Did you catch anything?"
Stepney nodded.
"Only one," he said.
"Hard luck," said Mr. Briggerland, with a smile, "but where is Mrs. Meredith—I understood she was going out with you to-day?"
"She went to San Remo," said Stepney shortly, and the other nodded.
"To be sure," he said. "I had forgotten that."
Later he bought a copy of the Nicoise and learnt of the tragedy on the San Remo road. It brought him back to the house, a visibly agitated man.
"This is shocking news, my dear," he panted into the saloon and stood stock still at the sight of Mr. Jack Glover.
"Come in, Briggerland," said Jack, without ceremony. There was a man with him, a tall, keen Frenchman whom Briggerland recognised as the chief detective of the Préfecture. "We want you to give an account of your actions."
"My actions?" said Mr. Briggerland indignantly. "Do you associate me with this dreadful tragedy? A tragedy," he said, "which has stricken me almost dumb with horror and remorse. Why did I ever allow that villain even to speak to poor Lydia?"
"Nevertheless, m'sieur," said the tall man quietly, "you must tell us where you have been."
"That is easily explained. I went to San Remo."
"By road?"
"Yes, by road," said Mr. Briggerland, "on my motor-bicycle."
"What time did you arrive in San Remo?"
"At midday, or it may have been a quarter of an hour before."
"You know that the murder must have been committed at half-past eleven?" said Jack.
"So the newspapers tell me."
"Where did you go in San Remo?" asked the detective.
"I went to a café and had a glass of wine, then I strolled about the town and lunched at the Victoria. I caught the one o'clock train to Monte Carlo."
"Did you hear nothing of the murder?"
"Not a word," said Mr. Briggerland, "not a word."
"Did you see the car?"
Mr. Briggerland shook his head.
"I left some time before poor Lydia," he said softly.
"Did you know of any attachment between the chauffeur and your guest?"
"I had no idea such a thing existed. If I had," said Mr. Briggerland virtuously, "I should have taken immediate steps to have brought poor Lydia to her senses."
"Your daughter says that they were frequently together. Did you notice this?"
"Yes, I did notice it, but my daughter and I are very democratic. We have made a friend of Mordon and I suppose what would have seemed familiar to you, would pass unnoticed with us. Yes, I certainly do remember my poor friend and Mordon walking together in the garden."
"Is this yours?" The detective took from behind a curtain an old British rifle.
"Yes, that is mine," admitted Briggerland without a moment's hesitation. "It is one I bought in Amiens, a souvenir of our gallant soldiers–"
"I know, I quite understand your patriotic motive in purchasing it," said the detective dryly, "but will you tell us how this passed from your possession."
"I haven't the slightest notion," said Mr. Briggerland in surprise. "I had no idea it was lost—I'd lost sight of it for some weeks. Can it be that Mordon—but no, I must not think so evilly of him."
"What were you going to suggest?" asked Jack. "That Mordon fired at Mrs. Meredith when she was on the swimming raft? If you are, I can save you the trouble of telling that lie. It was you who fired, and it was I who knocked you out."
Mr. Briggerland's face was a study.
"I can't understand why you make such a wild and unfounded charge," he said gently. "Perhaps, my dear, you could elucidate this mystery."
Jean had not spoken since he entered. She sat bolt upright on a chair, her hands folded in her lap, her sad eyes fixed now upon Jack, now upon the detective. She shook her head.
"I know nothing about the rifle, and did not even know you possessed one," she said. "But please answer all their questions, father. I am as anxious as you are to get to the bottom of this dreadful tragedy. Have you told my father about the letters which were discovered?"
The detective shook his head.
"I have not seen your father until he arrived this moment," he said.
"Letters?" Mr. Briggerland looked at his daughter. "Did poor Lydia leave a letter?"
She nodded.
"I think Mr. Glover will tell you, father," she said. "Poor Lydia had an attachment for Mordon. It is very clear what happened. They went out to-day, never intending to return–"
"Mrs. Meredith had no intention of going to the Lovers' Chair until you suggested the trip to her," said Jack quietly. "Mrs. Cole-Mortimer is very emphatic on that point."
"Has the body been found?" asked Mr. Briggerland.
"Nothing has been found but the chauffeur," said the detective.
After a few more questions he took Jack outside.
"It looks very much to me as though it were one of those crimes of passion which are so frequent in this country," he said. "Mordon was a Frenchman and I have been able to identify him by tattoo marks on his arm, as a man who has been in the hands of the police many times."
"You think there is no hope?"
The detective shrugged his shoulders.
"We are dragging the pool. There is very deep water under the rock, but the chances are that the body has been washed out to sea. There is clearly no evidence against these people, except yours. The letters might, of course, have been forged, but you say you are certain that the writing is Mrs. Meredith's."
Jack nodded.
They were walking down the road towards the officers' waiting car, when Jack asked:
"May I see that letter again?"
The detective took it from his pocket book and Jack stopped and scanned it.
"Yes, it is her writing," he said and then uttered an exclamation.
"Do you see that?"
He pointed eagerly to two little marks before the words "Dear friend."
"Quotation marks," said the detective, puzzled. "Why did she write that?"
"I've got it," said Jack. "The story! Mademoiselle Briggerland told me she was writing a story, and I remember she said she had writer's cramp. Suppose she dictated a portion of the story to Mrs. Meredith, and suppose in that story there occurred this letter: Lydia would have put the quotation marks mechanically."
The detective took the letter from his hand.
"It is possible," he said. "The writing is very even—it shows no sign of agitation, and of course the character's initials might be 'L.M.' It is an ingenious hypothesis, and not wholly improbable, but if this were a part of the story, there would be other sheets. Would you like me to search the house?"
Jack shook his head.
"She's much too clever to have them in the house," he said. "More likely she's put them in the fire."
"What fire?" asked the detective dryly. "These houses have no fires, they're central heated—unless she went to the kitchen."
"Which she wouldn't do," said Jack thoughtfully. "No, she'd burn them in the garden."
The detective nodded, and they returned to the house.
Jean, deep in conversation with her father, saw them reappear, and watched them as they walked slowly across the lawn toward the trees, their eyes fixed on the ground.
"What are they looking for?" she asked with a frown.
"I'll go and see," said Briggerland, but she caught his arm.
"Do you think they'll tell you?" she asked sarcastically.
She ran up to her own room and watched them from behind a curtain. Presently they passed out of sight to the other side of the house, and she went into Lydia's room and overlooked them from there. Suddenly she saw the detective stoop and pick up something from the ground, and her teeth set.
"The burnt story," she said. "I never dreamt they'd look for that."
It was only a scrap they found, but it was in Lydia's writing, and the pencil mark was clearly visible on the charred ashes.
"'Laura Martin,'" read the detective. "'L. M.,' and there are the words 'tragic' and 'remorse'."
From the remainder of the charred fragments they collected nothing of importance. Jean watched them disappear along the avenue, and went down to her father.
"I had a fright," she said.
"You look as if you've still got it," he said. He eyed her keenly.
She shook her head.
"Father, you must understand that this adventure may end disastrously. There are ninety-nine chances against the truth being known, but it is the extra chance that is worrying me. We ought to have settled Lydia more quietly, more naturally. There was too much melodrama and shooting, but I don't see how we could have done anything else—Mordon was very tiresome."
"Where did Glover come from?" asked Mr. Briggerland.
"He's been here all the time," said the girl.
"What?"
She nodded.
"He was old Jaggs. I had an idea he was, but I was certain when I remembered that he had stayed at Lydia's flat."
He put down his tea cup and wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief.
"I wish this business was over," he said fretfully. "It looks as if we shall have trouble."
"Of course we shall," she said coldly. "You didn't expect to get a fortune of six hundred thousand pounds without trouble, did you? I dare say we shall be suspected. But it takes a lot of suspicion to worry me. We'll be in calm water soon, for the rest of our lives."
"I hope so," he said without any great conviction.
Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was prostrate and in bed, and Jean had no patience to see her.
She herself ordered the dinner, and they had finished when a visitor in the shape of Mr. Marcus Stepney came in.
It was unusual of Marcus to appear at the dinner hour, except in evening dress, and she remarked the fact wonderingly.
"Can I have a word with you, Jean?" he asked.
"What is it, what is it?" asked Mr. Briggerland testily. "Haven't we had enough mysteries?"
Marcus eyed him without favour.
"We'll have another one, if you don't mind," he said unpleasantly, and the girl, whose every sense was alert, picked up a wrap and walked into the garden, with Marcus following on her heels.
Ten minutes passed and they did not return, a quarter of an hour went by, and Mr. Briggerland grew uneasy. He got up from his chair, put down his book, and was half-way across the room when the door opened and Jack Glover came in, followed by the detective.
It was the Frenchman who spoke.
"M'sieur Briggerland, I have a warrant from the Préfect of the Alpes Maritimes for your arrest."
"My arrest?" spluttered the dark man, his teeth chattering. "What—what is the charge?"
"The wilful murder of François Mordon," said the officer.
"You lie—you lie," screamed Briggerland. "I have no knowledge of any–" his words sank into a throaty gurgle, and he stared past the detective. Lydia Meredith was standing in the doorway.
Chapter XXXIX
The morning for Mr. Stepney had been doubly disappointing; again and again he drew up an empty line, and at last he flung the tackle into the well of the launch.
"Even the damn fish won't bite," he said, and the humour of his remark cheered him. He was ten miles from the shore, and the blue coast was a dim, ragged line on the horizon. He pulled out a big luncheon basket from the cabin and eyed it with disfavour. It had cost him two hundred francs. He opened the basket, and at the sight of its contents, was inclined to reconsider his earlier view that he had wasted his money, the more so since the maître d'hôtel had thoughtfully included two quart bottles of champagne.
Mr. Marcus Stepney made a hearty meal, and by the time he had dropped an empty bottle into the sea, he was inclined to take a more cheerful view of life. He threw over the debris of the lunch, pushed the basket under one of the seats of the cabin, pulled up his anchor and started the engines running.
The sky was a brighter blue and the sea held a finer sparkle, and he was inclined to take a view of even Jean Briggerland, more generous than any he had held.
"Little devil," he smiled reminiscently, as he murmured the words.
He opened the second bottle of champagne in her honour—Mr. Marcus Stepney was usually an abstemious man—and drank solemnly, if not soberly, her health and happiness. As the sun grew warmer he began to feel an unaccountable sleepiness. He was sober enough to know that to fall asleep in the middle of the ocean was to ask for trouble, and he set the bow of the Jungle Queen for the nearest beach, hoping to find a landing place.
He found something better as he skirted the shore. The sea and the weather had scooped out a big hollow under a high cliff, a hollow just big enough to take the Jungle Queen and deep and still enough to ensure her a safe anchorage. A rock barrier interposed between the breakers and this deep pool which the waves had hollowed in the stony floor of the ocean. As he dropped his anchor he disturbed a school of fish, and his angling instincts re-awoke. He let down his line over the side, seated himself comfortable in one of the two big basket chairs, and was dozing comfortably....
It was the sound of a shot that woke him. It was followed by another, and a third. Almost immediately something dropped from the cliff, and fell with a mighty splash into the water.
Marcus was wide awake now, and almost sobered. He peered down into the clear depths, and saw a figure of a woman turning over and over. Then as it floated upwards it came on its back, and he saw the face. Without a moment's hesitation he dived into the water.
He would have been wiser if he had waited until she floated to the surface, for now he found a difficulty in regaining the boat. After a great deal of trouble, he managed to reach into the launch and pull out a rope, which he fastened round the girl's waist and drew tight to a small stanchion. Then he climbed into the boat himself, and pulled her after him.
He thought at first she was dead, but listening intently he heard the beating of her heart, and searched the luncheon basket for a small flask of liqueurs, which Alphonse, the head waiter, had packed. He put the bottle to her lips and poured a small quantity into her mouth. She choked convulsively, and presently opened her eyes.
"You're amongst friends," said Marcus unnecessarily.
She sat up and covered her face with her hands. It all came back to her in a flash, and the horror of it froze her blood.
"What has happened to you?" asked Marcus.
"I don't know exactly," she said faintly. And then: "Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!"
Marcus Stepney offered her the flask of liqueurs, and when she shook her head, he helped himself liberally.
Lydia was conscious of a pain in her left shoulder. The sleeve was torn, and across the thick of the arm there was an ugly raw weal.
"It looks like a bullet mark to me," said Marcus Stepney, suddenly grave. "I heard a shot. Did somebody shoot at you?"
She nodded.
"Who?"
She tried to frame the word, but no sound came, and then she burst into a fit of weeping.
"Not Jean?" he asked hoarsely.
She shook her head.
"Briggerland?"
She nodded.
"Briggerland!" Mr. Stepney whistled, and as he whistled he shivered. "Let's get out of here," he said. "We shall catch our death of cold. The sun will warm us up."
He started the engines going, and safely navigated the narrow passage to the open sea. He had to get a long way out before he could catch a glimpse of the road, then he saw the car, and a cycling policeman dismounting and bending over something. He put away his telescope and turned to the girl.
"This is bad, Mrs. Meredith," he said. "Thank God I wasn't in it."
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"I'm taking you out to sea," said Marcus with a little smile. "Don't get scared, Mrs. Meredith. I want to hear that story of yours, and if it is anything like what I fear, then it would be better for you that Briggerland thinks you are dead."
She told the story as far as she knew it and he listened, not interrupting, until she had finished.
"Mordon dead, eh? That's bad. But how on earth are they going to explain it? I suppose," he said with a smile, "you didn't write a letter saying that you were going to run away with the chauffeur?"
She sat up at this.
"I did write a letter," she said slowly. "It wasn't a real letter, it was in a story which Jean was dictating."
She closed her eyes.
"How awful," she said. "I can't believe it even now."
"Tell me about the story," said the man quickly.
"It was a story she was writing for a London magazine, and her wrist hurt, and I wrote it down as she dictated. Only about three pages, but one of the pages was a letter supposed to have been written by the heroine saying that she was going away, as she loved somebody who was beneath her socially."
"Good God!" said Marcus, genuinely shocked. "Did Jean do that?"
He seemed absolutely crushed by the realisation of Jean Briggerland's deed, and he did not speak again for a long time.
"I'm glad I know," he said at last.
"Do you really think that all this time she has been trying to kill me?"
He nodded.
"She has used everybody, even me," he said bitterly. "I don't want you to think badly of me, Mrs. Meredith, but I'm going to tell you the truth. I'd provisioned this little yacht to-day for a twelve hundred mile trip, and you were to be my companion."
"I?" she said incredulously.
"It was Jean's idea, really, though I think she must have altered her view, or thought I had forgotten all she suggested. I intended taking you out to sea and keeping you out there until you agreed–" he shook his head. "I don't think I could have done it really," he said, speaking half to himself. "I'm not really built for a conspirator. None of that rough stuff ever appealed to me. Well, I didn't try, anyway."
"No, Mr. Stepney," she said quietly, "and I don't think, if you had, you would have succeeded."
He was in his frankest mood, and startled her later when he told her of his profession, without attempting to excuse or minimise the method by which he earned his livelihood.
"I was in a pretty bad way, and I thought there was easy money coming, and that rather tempted me," he said. "I know you will think I am a despicable cad, but you can't think too badly of me, really."
He surveyed the shore. Ahead of them the green tongue of Cap Martin jutted out into the sea.
"I think I'll take you to Nice," he said. "We'll attract less attention there, and probably I'll be able to get into touch with your old Mr. Jaggs. You've no idea where I can find him? At any rate, I can go to the Villa Casa and discover what sort of a yarn is being told."
"And probably I can get my clothes dry," she said with a little grimace. "I wonder if you know how uncomfortable I am?"
"Pretty well," he said calmly. "Every time I move a new stream of water runs down my back."
It was half-past three in the afternoon when they reached Nice, and Marcus saw the girl safely to an hotel, changed himself and brought the yacht back to Monaco, where Briggerland had seen him.
For two hours Marcus Stepney wrestled with his love for a girl who was plainly a murderess, and in the end love won. When darkness fell he provisioned the Jungle Queen, loaded her with petrol, and heading her out to sea made the swimming cove of Cap Martin. It was to the boat that Jean flew.
"What about my father?" she asked as she stepped aboard.
"I think they've caught him," said Marcus.
"He'll hate prison," said the girl complacently. "Hurry, Marcus, I'd hate it, too!"
