Corner House — Chapter XLI, Prout is Indiscreet; Chapter XLII, Fear!; Chapter XLIII, A Slice of Luck
CHAPTER XLI. PROUT IS INDISCREET.
Heavy as were these blows, a few hours' sleep braced Leona Lalage for what she knew to be a trying ordeal.
By the time that breakfast was a thing of the past she had sketched out a new plan of campaign.
The terrible unseen force from behind had driven her from her strong position.
In future she would have to recognize the fact that she was hopelessly beaten, and all that she could expect now was to cover up her tracks and prevent the final solution of the mystery.
On the whole, an appearance of candour would be best.
She would go straight to Prout, who had the Corner House tragedy in hand, and tell him everything, at least everything that Lawrence had found out.
She never guessed for a moment that this was exactly what the novelist expected her to do, in fact, he had apparently told all he knew to gain this end.
Also, at his suggestion, Isidore had blurted out the fact that Prout had succeeded in laying Leon Lalage's brother by the heels.
On the whole, this would be by far the best thing to do.
It was just possible that her fascinations might elicit something further from Prout.
Leona Lalage might not have felt quite so easy in her mind had she known that the little snake-headed detective was fresh from a long interview with Lawrence.
He was profoundly impressed by the graciousness of his visitor.
He even dusted an office chair for her with a clean handkerchief.
He seemed a simple sort of man.
Leona Lalage had not a high opinion of the police.
"I have come to have a chat with you," she said with her most brilliant smile, "on the subject of the Corner House.
They tell me you have made an arrest that by a wonderful chance will have an important bearing on the case."
Prout grew wooden.
His official manner caused Leona to hide a smile.
Really, it would be child's play to get the better of this man.
"I am afraid you are mistaken, madame," he said.
"Indeed, no. Mr. Isidore spoke of it quite freely.
It appears that a brother of the dead man has come into your hands.
Is not that so?"
Prout grudgingly admitted that it was.
He was also severe on the indiscretion of certain people.
Mr. Isidore ought to know better.
The Countess was charmed.
Evidently she was going to do exactly as she pleased with this man.
Every question that she asked him he contrived to answer in some way that betrayed his knowledge.
"Not that I am asking for sheer curiosity," she said gaily.
"You see I am also in a position to throw a little light in a dark place.
Do you know that the rest of the missing notes have been in my possession?"
Prout was surprised.
Not that he ought to have been surprised after the strange things that had come in his way professionally.
The way he conveyed the impression that all this was news to him was artistic.
He asked a score of questions, he made voluminous notes solemnly in a large book.
"You have really been of great service to me, madame," he said.
"It was very good of you to come and tell me straightforwardly.
Now, let us see if we can trace these notes to the possession of the previous holder."
Leona Lalage intimated that was the only thing she desired for the moment.
But at the same time she made it pretty clear to Prout that the thing was impossible.
Her keen desire was to show him the impossibility of the proceeding, and induce him to give up any further investigations in that direction.
"You see, I have the good fortune to be exceedingly rich," she said, with her most fascinating smile.
"I don't value money as much as I should.
To me it is a mere medium for enjoyment.
I gamble, and bet, and all that kind of thing, in fact I generally have a large sum of money in paper in the house.
I might have got those notes from a betting man at Ascot, or at Goodwood, or even the card table.
But at the same time I'll try my best to assist you."
Prout was profuse.
He was very anxious over those notes.
He had certainly had the good fortune to take into custody one René Lalage, the brother to Leon Lalage, who had been murdered in the Corner House.
"Strange they should be the same name as myself," the Countess said.
"Not in the least," Prout hastened to reply.
"I find the name is a very common one at Marseilles, and along the Mediterranean generally."
The Countess smiled.
She had risen prepared to take her departure.
If she had any knowledge of faces she had made a good impression.
"It seems hardly credible," she said.
"I mean the story of the Corner House as told by Dr. Bruce.
That Spanish woman, for instance."
Prout shook his head in a non-committal fashion.
He had heard some amazing statements made by suspects in his time, statements so wild that they carried guilt on the face of them.
And yet he had personally proved many of these statements to be true.
The Countess smiled as she turned to the door.
"I am not very easily impressed," she said, "and as to that Spanish woman--eh, Dr. Bruce must have been taking lessons from Mr. Lawrence."
"The woman did exist all the same," Prout said innocently.
"In fact, I don't mind admitting that I've got a portrait----" He paused and looked down.
The smile faded from Leona's face.
"Who told you that it was a portrait of--I mean where did you----" "René Lalage.
As you are interested, and as you came here to assist me, madame, I don't mind going so far as to show you the picture.
It came from a weekly paper----" "I know--I mean, what do I mean?"
the Countess said hoarsely.
"Really I don't know why I should be so interested."
Prout took a sheet of paper from his desk and held it up.
It was a portrait of a fair Spanish gipsy.
The letterpress and border had been cut away.
"What do you think of that?"
Prout asked.
Leona Lalage said nothing.
She could only look and look in a fascinated way.
"It--it proves nothing," she said with an effort, presently.
"A pleasant face.
Don't you think that she is a little like me?"
CHAPTER XLII. FEAR!
Leona Lalage held herself up talking bravely about the weather, whilst Prout was dumb with admiration of her audacity.
Her very recklessness inspired his respect.
He little knew of the deadly fear and suffering concealed behind that smiling mask.
The last thing he saw as he closed the door of the brougham was an averted face and a small hand.
The blood horses dashed on, whilst Leona Lalage lay back against the cushions and fainted for the third time in her life.
It had been a wonderful effort to put the deadly feeling off so long, but her iron will had conquered.
She came to herself again with a shudder and a feeling of anguish in every limb.
She was not suspected yet, or even a fool of an English detective would not have shown her that picture.
Broken and agitated as she was, her quick brain began to work again.
In the first place she must get those notes back from Isidore.
Even if they had to be obtained by force it must be done.
She took a visiting card from her case, and in as steady a hand as possible penciled a line or two on the back asking Isidore to come round and dine with her that evening.
Once this was done and left at the capitalist's rooms she felt a little easier in her mind.
She was doing something.
Hence she drove on to the Metropole with the hope of seeing Maitrank.
She had to wait there till she was angry and impatient.
Hitherto she had not had to wait.
She was going to get to the bottom of that diamond business if she had to stay all day.
A stolid clerk came out and said Herr Maitrank was disengaged.
Maitrank, in his shirtsleeves, was smoking one of his black cigars.
He made no apology for his attire nor for the rank tobacco between his yellow teeth.
How different the last time when they had met in the millionaire's office.
"Why did you keep me waiting so long?"
the Countess demanded.
Maitrank chuckled.
He admired a fighter, and here was one to his hand.
It was pretty audacious in a woman who had swindled him out of a fortune.
"I was merely deferring the pleasure, my dear," he said.
"What can I do for you?
Any fresh loan on the banks of the clouds or castles in the air or anything of that kind?
Or do you wish to sell me any diamonds?"
"I swear to you," the Countess said, "that I was innocent over those diamonds.
I honestly believed them to be genuine, and worth far more money than the sum for which I parted with them.
I feel now that I have been tricked.
You old wolf, you had the real stones taken away for some purpose of your own."
She bent over the table and shook her clenched hand angrily in the old man's face.
He showed his teeth in a snarl.
"Gently, gently," he growled.
"Let us look at those gems.
I have them here.
See, are those the ones you passed over to me?"
He pitched the glittering gauds contemptuously on the desk.
Leona examined them carefully So far as she could see no change had been made.
And where the stones had been filed she could see the dull scratched edges.
Was this the work of the hidden enemy or another cruel stroke of ill fortune?
"They look like the same," she admitted grudgingly.
"I'm afraid you're right there."
"Take them back to the place where you purloined them," Maitrank grinned.
Leona was silent.
Whence the gems came was no business of her opponent.
He seemed to be pleased about something.
And he made no allusion to his money, which was a very bad sign.
The Countess brought up the subject.
"What are you going to do?"
she asked meaningly.
"I am going to do nothing--for the present."
Maitrank replied.
"I am going to pursue what that admirable diplomatist Beaconsfield called a policy of masterly inactivity.
If I do not get my money in cash I shall in another way."
"But you are going to get it?"
Leona said eagerly.
"I have practically effected a loan with the firm of Bernstein of New York--why do you laugh?"
"Because I am amused, because I am greatly amused.
You are wasting your time and all your pretty schemes there.
The name of a firm means nothing in business nowadays.
I have a different name in every capital in Europe.
Also I have another different name in New York.
For instance, my firm is called Ernstein and Co. , of 149, Broadway.
Ah, ah!"
"So I have been corresponding with you all the time?"
"Yes.
As the English say, that is about the size of it.
Those letters of yours!
Oh, oh!
The fun I have had out of this.
And the magnificent lies!"
But Maitrank was alone.
The Countess had bounced in a fury out of the room.
At every turn fate seemed to be against her now.
That deadly fear was coming on her again.
It was hard to be baffled and beaten at every turn like this, and yet not be able to strike a single blow in return.
There was the haunting terror that her enemies knew too much, and that the sword would fall when they pleased.
Otherwise the cruel, greedy nature of Maitrank would never have held her off like this.
He seemed to be resigned to the loss of the money, but he was evidently going to take it out in another way.
Leona would have given years of her life to know which way.
There was nobody to turn to, nobody to advise her now, but Balmayne.
He had done pretty well on the whole; he had contrived to keep himself out of danger, and at the first sign of the collapse he would fly.
But anybody was better than the sapping away of mind and body brooding alone.
Balmayne listened to everything with a grave face.
"I quite agree with you over those notes," he said.
"They must be recovered at any cost from Isidore."
"Think," Leona whispered, "set your wits to work.
Meanwhile I have asked him to come here tonight to dine.
Between now and then we shall surely find some way.
At present I can only think of drugging and stealing his keys.
But with our experience we can surely find better methods than that."
"Isidore won't come," Balmayne said, curtly.
The prophecy proved to be correct.
Isidore regretted that he had another engagement to dine out this evening.
Perhaps it was only a pleasure deferred to the end of the week.
Leona tore the paper up passionately.
CHAPTER XLIII. A SLICE OF LUCK.
Lytton Avenue was quiet for once, and Leona Lalage was glad of it.
She said truthfully that she had a splitting headache, so that she was thankful to be alone and lie down on a couch in the drawing-room with the lights lowered and eau de Cologne on her temples.
Hetty sat a little way off engaged on some fancywork.
It seemed hard to imagine that all this refinement and enviable luxury covered crime and mystery.
It was a little before eleven that Balmayne came in.
He was very quiet and subdued; he sat and unfolded an evening paper.
He shot a sign across to the Countess from a pair of eyes that gleamed like flames.
"I should like a fresh handkerchief, Hetty," she said.
"Would you mind?"
Hetty was off at once.
Balmayne jumped to his feet.
"You must try and pull yourself together," he said.
"There has been an amazing piece of luck.
Isidore was dining at the Lotus with Lawrence.
We came down the steps together.
There was a fire close by, and a hansom backed on to the pavement.
To make a long story short, Isidore fainted with the pain of a broken collarbone, and they took him to Charing Cross Hospital."
"You took him.
In that case I need not ask----" "You need not.
I didn't take him personally.
I took his keys."
Leona Lalage was off the sofa directly.
She motioned to the door.
As Hetty came back the sufferer crossed the room languidly, saying she was going to lie down on her bed.
She required no attention, she only wanted to be absolutely quiet.
Once upstairs Balmayne followed.
There was nobody on the landing.
"Now is your chance," he said.
"It is a pretty neat turn of fortune for us.
I've got the motor round and will meet you at the corner of the street.
You had better be disguised."
"But I have only one disguise in the house--the old one."
"All the better.
You are used to that, and carry it off naturally.
I
have the key not only of the safe but of the street door as well.
All you have to do is to proceed to the sitting-room where you have been before and help yourself.
Then you can slip into Isidore's bedroom and lay the keys on the dressing-table.
He will imagine that he left them behind when he changed his evening clothes.
Are you up to it or not?
Really, you look fearfully ill tonight."
The dark eyes were gleaming in the white face.
Despite her racking head and her tired limbs, Leona was gradually summoning back her latent forces.
Her hand no longer trembled, the wild beating of her heart was stilled.
"You can rely upon me," she whispered.
"I shall not fail you.
Too much depends upon my success or failure tonight.
Go round and get the motor whilst I slip into my old disguise.
The thing can be done swiftly; I can be back here again before anybody knows that I have gone."
"Lock your door as a precaution," Balmayne whispered.
"I'm going now."
In the shadows Hetty listened to as much of the talk as she could hear.
But nobody was going to leave the house without her knowledge.
Behind the hangings in the hall she waited.
Her patience was not unduly tried.
There was a light footstep presently, a pause as if of precaution, and the Countess came downstairs.
Her hair had become blonde, there was a lace shawl over her head, her skirts were short and trim.
She flashed across the hall without the slightest sound, and had passed into the street before Hetty deemed it prudent to follow.
The girl was taking a terrible risk for the sake of her lover, and she knew it.
But she must follow.
She did presently, keeping the Spanish figure in sight till the corner of the road was reached.
There stood the black motor with its dull sides.
The figure of the Countess sprang into it lightly.
There was a touch of the lever, a click of metal, and then the swift machine was out of sight like a flash.
"Well, I can do no more at present," Hetty told herself.
"I had better go to my room and wait for her return.
What a wonderful woman!
Half-dead a few minutes ago, and now ready for a desperate errand like this!"
The motor sped on until it came at length to the corner of the street where Isidore's chambers were situated.
It was a very quiet road, and few people were about.
Quite calmly and collectedly Leona alighted.
"It's the fifth house," she said.
"I shall trust to chance that the people are in bed.
If not, I dare say I shall have a good tale to tell."
"Go in and win," Balmayne whispered.
"Always back your luck."
Leona Lalage came to the house at length.
So far as she could see no lights were anywhere except in the hall, where there was a faint spot of gas.
Everything was going to turn out favourably.
Evidently the landlady had gone to bed, or the gas would not be so low.
It was easy to pick the latchkey out of the bunch that she held in her hand.
The lock turned easily and smoothly, and she was in the hall.
Silence everywhere.
Evidently the whole household was in bed.
There was another tiny crumb of gas burning on the landing, just outside Isidore's sitting-room door.
The door of the room was closed.
Leona opened it quietly and boldly and entered.
The place was in absolute darkness.
Where was she to find the matches, for she had none of her own?
She fumbled her way to the fireplace, but could find nothing she required.
It seemed to her that she could hear somebody breathing in the room besides herself.
But this she put down to the worn and disordered state of her nerves.
Ah, there were the matches at last.
She could hear them rattling as they fell to the floor.
She struck one, and the sudden flare half blinded her.
Then she turned all the burners on, and the sudden glitter of it made her start.
Really she was a good deal more ill and shaky than she had imagined.
Light at last.
The blinds were up, but that did not matter.
Leona turned and looked round the room.
A man, seated in a chair, a dark and gloomy man with brooding eyes, rose and confronted her.
"A strange place to meet," he said, "but we have met at last."
