Corner House — Chapter XXXV, A Powerful Ally; Chapter XXXVI, A Faint Clue; Chapter XXVII, The Talk of the Town
CHAPTER XXXV. A POWERFUL ALLY.
Isaac Isidore was lunching at his chambers in his own simple way.
A
hard trying life like his, to say nothing of half his nights spent in society, called for a careful regime.
Plain food and a total absence from intoxicants enabled the man to get through an enormous amount of work and pleasure.
He was glad to see Lawrence as usual.
Had he not preferred the atmosphere of finance, Isidore would have made a fine novelist of the sensational order.
His fine imagination enabled him to bring off so many of the surprises with which he constantly terrified his brother capitalists.
"Anything to do with the mystery?"
he asked.
"I should say a great deal," Lawrence chuckled.
"In the first place, I should like to hear something of the history of one Maitrank."
"You don't mean to say he's in it!"
Isidore cried, grimly amused.
"The cunningest fox in all Europe.
Truly the Lalage is a wonderful woman!
But I see our friend Dr. Bruce is burning to tell me a story.
Pray go on."
Bruce proceeded to relate all that had happened the previous evening.
Isidore shook with suppressed laughter, though he never spoke a word.
The narrator quite failed himself to see the humorous side of the matter.
"What do you think of it?"
Lawrence asked at length.
"I think that but for the pluck and courage of a girl friend Maitrank would have gone to his account before now," Isidore said more seriously.
"I must confess that I find the mystery of it all exceedingly fascinating.
Maitrank is not the kind of man who forgets and forgives in a moment.
What on earth could have induced him to grow so friendly with that fellow Balmayne all at once?"
"That I leave you to guess," Bruce replied.
"It is beyond me."
"But it is not in the least beyond me," Lawrence remarked coolly, as he reached for a cigarette.
"To a certain extent I hold the key to the situation.
Accident strengthens my hands, as it generally does in dealing with people of this kind.
And I am going to make a powerful new ally in this new business.
I need not ask you if you are personally acquainted with Maitrank, Isidore?"
"Oh, I know the man well enough," Isidore replied.
"I will give you an introduction to him right enough.
But you won't get much from that quarter."
Lawrence begged to differ.
In the first place, he anticipated considerable entertainment.
He was not selfish, he said, and had no desire to keep it to himself.
"You must have your comic relief to every drama," he said.
"We haven't had much humour up to now, but that is coming.
By the way, I hope your Continental friend is not subject to apoplexy?"
Lawrence chuckled to himself with the air of a man who has a joke which is too good for the world in general.
Isidore was puzzled and interested.
"Tell you what," he exclaimed, "I'll try and get Maitrank on the telephone.
He has a sort of office at the Metropole."
It was a little before five when the trio reached the Metropole.
A
suite of rooms had been chartered by the Hungarian capitalist, and there he had already established a secretary and a clerk or two to look after his affairs.
He was seated in his shirtsleeves, with a big black cigar in his mouth, when his visitors entered.
He extended two fingers to Isidore, to the others he merely bowed.
"And what can I do for you?"
he asked.
"You might be disposed to answer a few questions," said Bruce, quietly.
"I was the doctor who was called in to see you last night.
But for the courage of a young girl, I might today have given evidence at the inquest held on the body of a most distinguished capitalist called Maitrank."
Lawrence nodded approvingly.
Bruce had struck the right note.
"I should like to hear more of this," Maitrank cried.
Bruce plunged into his story.
He had a most interested listener.
The small grey eyes of the listener were fixed intently on the narrator's face.
The black cigar died out between his fingers.
He had no questions to ask; there was no doubt on his face.
If ever a man was telling the simple truth it was Bruce at that moment.
There was something like a smile on Maitrank's face when Bruce came to the part that Hetty had played in the stirring drama of the previous night.
"I never forget a favour," said Maitrank, hoarsely.
"The young lady shall have a very practical evidence of my gratitude.
She saved my life, and she ended up by getting my property returned to me."
"I don't want to pry into your affairs," said Lawrence.
"But would you mind telling me one thing?
The Countess owes you money?"
"Well, yesterday she owed me nearly £100,000. I have got part of that back in the way of the jewels, hence my change of attitude last night.
By a clever trick, that woman robbed me of a fortune.
When I found it out I said nothing.
It was no cue of mine to make a fuss about it.
If I had done so I should have lost everything.
So I came to England.
By way of a start I obtained possession of diamonds to the value of some £30,000." "You are quite certain of that?"
Lawrence asked, meaningly.
"My dear sir, they are in my possession.
If you are still cynical on the point I will show them to you."
Lawrence desired nothing better.
In a few minutes the stones lay on the table.
The novelist picked them up, and took from his pocket a small file which he coolly rubbed on the facet of two of the larger stones.
Maitrank smiled.
Any diamond would stand that test.
With a grave look, Lawrence handed the stones back--the tested diamonds were dull and flat.
"Paste!"
Maitrank cried, with a yell that rang through the building.
"Paste, as I am a sinner.
Deluded and fooled again.
Rich as I am I would sacrifice every penny to be even with that woman."
CHAPTER XXXVI. A FAINT CLUE.
It was a day or two later before Lawrence saw Prout again.
In the meantime he had not been idle.
In some vague way or another he felt sure he was on the track of the Corner House mystery.
A dozen theories were formed and abandoned.
If Prout had only possessed Lawrence's imagination!
"But is there anything in the letters?"
the latter asked after Prout had given him a precis of their contents.
"Something we can go by?"
"I'm afraid not, sir," Prout admitted.
"The only thing I have established so far is that my prisoner is the brother of the murdered man.
Oddly enough, he has no idea that the writer of those letters is dead.
And as he declines to disclose his own name, we cannot discover the identity of his murdered brother."
Lawrence read over the letters carefully, there was less here than he expected.
They were all full of vague schemes of making money by various shady ways, and all bewailed the fact that the writer could not obtain the necessary capital to start.
Really the letters were hardly worth reading.
But patience is generally rewarded.
Here was a hiatus after a series of regular dates.
The writer had been drinking heavily, somebody had got hold of him, and was detaining him somewhere against his will.
He was not allowed to say where he was.
His last letter of the series hinted at a possibility of large sums of money.
"I'm afraid it's no good, sir," said Prout when Lawrence had finished.
"I don't quite agree with you," Lawrence said.
"The man was detained again his will.
Where was he detained?
In the Corner House?
Because his gaoler was afraid of his discretion.
Now go a step further and ask who detained him yonder.
You can answer that question for yourself."
"Countess Lalage," Prout muttered.
"But why?"
"Ah, that is the point.
Get to that, and the problem is solved.
Now listen to me, Prout.
The rascal who wrote those letters and the rascal who received them were brothers.
They were fond of each other, which you will admit is possible.
I see that for some reason of your own you have concealed the fact from the prisoner that his brother is no more.
If you tell him the truth he will probably make some startling admission."
Prout nodded admiringly.
Lawrence took a photograph from his pocket.
"Tell him the news abruptly," he said.
"And when the man has digested that, show him the photograph.
It is a recent one of Countess Lalage.
I want to know if he recognises her."
Prout departed on his errand.
It was easy enough for him to obtain a private interview with the prisoner, who received him with polite mockery.
His instinct told him that Prout wished to learn something.
"You are welcome;" he said; "it is so dull here that even the conversation of a mere detective is pleasing."
"The detective was sharp enough to get you here," Prout said.
"Ah, well, even the great Napoleon made a mistake or two."
"Which you are likely to do yourself," said Prout, "if you try to be too smart.
I want you to answer me a few questions, which don't affect your case at all.
Give me the desired information, and I'll make matters as easy as I can for you on your trial.
I can't get you off, but I can lighten the case."
The other man nodded.
Prout was talking sense now.
"Go on, mon brave," he said.
"I will do what I can for you--and myself."
"It's about those letters I found in your possession," Prout said, "the letters to you from your brother.
I know they are from your brother, because I have seen him, and also his handwriting.
You need not be afraid of him, because he is far beyond being injured by any one in the world."
"Say," the other whispered fiercely.
"Poor Leon--is he dead?"
Prout nodded.
It was some little time before the other spoke.
His next question startled the detective.
"Was he murdered?"
came the hoarse whisper.
"He was.
You didn't know he was dead, yet you guessed how he died.
He was the victim of what you call the Corner House----" "Ah, I remember now.
I was too busy to read, but I heard people speaking about it.
My poor brother, my poor Leon."
"Leon--?"
"Leon Lalage."
"Your brother's name was Leon Lalage?"
Prout asked.
"That is so, and my name is René.
To think we were once happy boys together on my mother's flower farm in Corsica!"
René Lalage bowed his head and wept after the manner of his nation.
He had offered Prout a far more valuable clue than he had expected.
All sorts of possibilities were opening out before the eyes of the detective.
"I am interested in getting at the truth about your brother's death," he said.
"That is why I am here today.
Before you knew how he came by his death you asked me if your brother had been murdered.
Why?"
"Because there was one who hated him.
I cannot and will not say any more than that.
He stood in the way of somebody.
So long as he kept away it was all right.
But Leon was not one of that sort.
He was as brave as a lion.
Had he not been so fond of the drink he might have done anything.
But there was something in the blood of both of us that took us into evil ways.
Thank God our mother is dead, the flower farm gone, and the secret of the wonderful perfume that made the name of Lalage famous for two centuries is buried in my mother's grave."
"One more question and I have done," said Prout.
"Your brother had some one to fear.
Now was that some one a man or a woman?"
"A woman.
I can't say more than that."
Prout was fairly satisfied.
He produced a photo that Lawrence had given him.
"Is that the woman by any chance?"
he asked.
René Lalage thought not.
All the same, he seemed puzzled.
But he could not be definite, and Prout was fain to be content.
"This seems to be a great lady," the prisoner said.
"She conveys nothing to me except as to her eyes.
No, it is not possible.
And she would not be in English costume.
Some years ago she was in England playing at one of the theatres or music halls.
There was a fine picture of her in one of the papers--Lalage, the dancer."
Prout felt that he was getting on.
"Can you tell me the name of the paper?"
he asked.
René Lalage confessed himself puzzled.
Compatriots had shown him the paper, but he had forgotten.
There was a headpiece to the paper with a woman on it blowing a trumpet.
It seemed to be all actors and the like.
"It has gone from my mind," he said.
"It is so long ago.
Even then my brother and this woman had drifted apart.
I am not happy in my mind today, for your news has disturbed me more than I can tell.
Even a rascal like myself can be possessed of a heart, eh?"
"If I come again can you refresh your memory?"
"It is possible.
It is not for me to say.
Only poor Leon must be avenged!"
The speaker clutched Prout passionately by the arm.
His whole frame was quivering with passion.
"The vengeance comes closer," said Prout; "it is closer than you imagine.
And I fancy that your evidence will hang the murderer."
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TALK OF THE TOWN.
Lawrence was profoundly interested in what Prout had to say.
The latter had given far more information than he had imagined.
"You have given me some valuable clues," he said.
"In the first place we now know the real name of the murdered man.
Strange that it should be the same as the fascinating Countess!
And stranger still that our brilliant adventuress did not call herself something else when she engineered herself into society.
But probably that is part of the reckless audacity of her nature.
It was very foolish, because it clogs up the brains of a man like myself who has knocked about artistic and theatrical London for so long.
And I distinctly recollect a Lalage, a dancer, who made a hit at the halls some seven or eight years ago."
"And whose portrait appeared in one of the smart papers," said Prout.
"I wonder if you can remember the name of the paper.
It may be alive or it may be dead, but the ornamental heading had a woman playing a trumpet on it.
This is in your line, sir, far more than in mine."
Lawrence cogitated over the matter.
Eight years ago his position had been very different to what it was now.
Then he had to be eager and alert, to study every journal that published fiction.
In those days he had had the whole list at his finger ends.
His face suddenly lightened.
"I've got it," he cried.
"The paper was called the _Talk of the Town_.
It was a sort of pioneer to the _Sketch_, but of a lower type.
For a time it had a great vogue, but a prosecution for libel killed it.
If it is possible to see a file----" "That's easy," Prout put in.
"You'll get a file right enough, and in all probability be in a position to purchase the copy you want.
Frampton's in Holborn make it a business to stock all papers and back numbers, charging a shilling for a penny paper and so on.
They've got millions of moribund journals."
Lawrence remarked that he would make it his business to step round to Frampton's without delay.
It was just possible that he had not squeezed all the information that he wanted out of Prout.
"Did you find out anything about the past of those fellows?"
he asked.
"Well, I didn't, sir," Prout replied.
"The poor fellow seemed so cut up over the death of his brother.
Very sentimental, those foreigners.
He kept talking of the days when they were together on the flower farm in Corsica.
They come of a pretty good stock, for my man spoke of a scent that their family had made for two centuries, the secret of which was buried with----" "What!"
Lawrence shouted.
"What!
Say that again."
"I hope there is nothing wrong, sir," asked Prout.
"Wrong?"
Lawrence cried as he paced the room.
"Not much.
Why, you are giving me the master key to the situation.
Look me up again this evening.
I guess I shall be able to astonish you.
I'm off to Frampton's now.
I must have a copy of that paper if it costs me a hundred pounds."
Frampton's establishment consisted merely of cellars where grimy men seemed to be busy with piles of journals.
After a little trouble and a reference or two to a ponderous ledger a pile of the Talk of the Town was produced.
There were not more than two hundred altogether, but Lawrence had the satisfaction of knowing that they were complete.
Some of them were duplicated many times.
At the end of an hour Lawrence found what he wanted.
Here was the portrait of a striking woman in Spanish costume, her eyes were dark, her hair wonderfully fair.
Lawrence's hands trembled a little as he folded up the paper.
"And what do you want for this?"
he asked.
Frampton incidentally replied that half a crown was the price.
It would have been cheap to the purchaser at a thousand times the money.
It was a little later that Bruce came round to the novelist's rooms in response to an urgent telephone message.
He looked pale and anxious;
he was fighting hard, but he found that the odds were terribly against him.
"Have you made any new discoveries?"
he asked.
"I flatter myself I have," said Lawrence.
"Here is a copy of a paper now extinct called the _Talk of the Town_.
On the front page is a photo of a Spanish dancer.
Behold she is called Lalage, the Spanish premiere.
Look and see if you have ever seen her before."
"Lalage," Bruce cried.
"The Spanish--and the same name!
Why, that is the same woman who received me on that fatal night at the corner house!"
