The Stretton Street Affair. Le Queux William
coming from London. I’m afraid, Mr. Garfield, that I cannot help you any further.”
“You mean you won’t!”
“Not at all. If I knew anything of this young lady who, you said, died in my wife’s bedroom in Stretton Street, and at whose bedside you and I stood together, I would tell you. But I really don’t.”
He tossed his cigarette hastily out of the open window.
“No,” he added. “I won’t hear any more. I haven’t the time or the inclination to listen to the wanderings of any insane person. I’ve had enough!”
“And so have I!” I retorted. “You are trying to mislead me by affecting ignorance of my very existence, but I don’t intend that you shall escape!” I added, again raising my voice.
“Hush, please,” he said in a calmer tone. “My wife may overhear.”
“I don’t care!” I cried in desperation. “You never dreamed that I should arise against you, as I have. You are not fair towards me! If you revealed to me in confidence the reason you gave me that bribe of five thousand pounds, then I, on my part, would have played the straight game.”
“My dear sir, play whatever game you like. It is immaterial to me whether straight or crooked. I don’t know anything about what you have been talking, and you have only wasted your breath and got out of temper for nothing.”
Again I looked him straight in the face. There was no doubt that the strain of his clever denials was telling upon him. His dark complexion had paled; in his eyes there was a fierce, haunted look as that of a man who was straining every effort to remain calm under the gravest circumstances.
“I have no game to play,” I declared. “I only demand the truth. Why was I invited into your house in Stretton Street to be present as witness at the poor girl’s death?”
“I don’t know. Find out for yourself, my dear Mr. Garfield,” laughed the rich man. “I have no time to discuss this silly affair further. I’m sorry you have troubled to come out from London to see me. But really yours has been a fool’s errand,” and he turned towards the door.
“A fool’s errand!” I echoed. “I am no fool and my errand is in deep earnestness. You may try to befool me, but I tell you that I will leave no stone unturned to solve the problem which you alone can explain.”
“Well, get along with your work,” he laughed in open defiance. “I have no further time to waste,” and glancing at his watch he opened the door and abruptly left me.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
THE CITY OF THE LILY
Full of indignation I remained for a few further moments in that wonderful old room, the room of faded tapestries with the marvellous painted ceiling.
From the window was afforded a glorious view over the gardens where, even in winter, tangled masses of flowers ran riot, while beyond lay the picturesque old red-roofed Tuscan city. Fiesole is distinctly a village of the wealthy, for the several colossal villas, built in the days of the Medici and even before, are now owned by rich foreigners, many of them English.
Oswald De Gex was one of them.
He had certainly foiled me. I gritted my teeth and vowed that, come what might, I would compel him to accept the inevitable and reveal to me the truth. I left the room and found my way alone across the great marble entrance hall, and out to where my taxi awaited me.
I drove back to Florence, where, at the station, I obtained my bag, and then went to the Savoy Hotel in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where I engaged a room.
For a long time I sat at my window gazing down upon the busy square below, one of the centres of Florentine life. The bell of the Duomo was ringing, the shops were mostly closed, and all Florence was out in the streets, it being the Festa of the Befana, one of the greatest of all the ever-recurring festas of Florence. Street urchins were parading the thoroughfares with horns and wildly shouting, and there was an exchange of presents on every hand. At the Befana everyone in Firenze goes mad with good intentions.
The artistic side of the ancient Lily City did not interest me. I knew it of old. I had strolled on the Lung Arno, I had long ago with my father on a winter tour looked into the little shops of the coral and pearl merchants on the Ponte Vecchio, and I had taken my apératif at Doney’s or at Giacosa’s. I was no stranger in Florence. My mind was fully occupied by the deep mystery of Gabrielle Engledue’s death, and of the millionaire’s flat denial that we had ever met before.
As I sat gazing across the square my anger and indignation increased. That De Gex should have dared to affect such entire ignorance surpassed belief.
I tried to form a scheme for further action, but could think of no way by which to force him to acknowledge our previous meeting. That the beautiful girl had died, and that her body had been cremated upon the false certificate I had given, was beyond all doubt. But what had been the rich man’s motive?
How very perturbed and anxious he was I had noticed, though he put such a very brave face upon it and appeared so imperturbable. That he could treat such a serious matter as a joke utterly amazed me. Nevertheless, I recollected that he had long earned the reputation of being highly eccentric.
That afternoon I spent in wandering about the sunny streets of Florence. In the evening I dined at Bonciani’s, in the Via Panzani, an unpretentious place at which I well remembered having eaten famously when on my last visit to Florence. Afterwards, having nothing to do, I went to a variety show at the Alhambra.
Florence was full of French and English visitors, as it always is in winter, so next day I formed a plan, and in pretence of desiring to rent a furnished flat, I called at the office of a well-known English house-agent in the Via Tornabuoni. My real object was to ascertain some facts concerning Oswald De Gex.
The English clerk became quite enthusiastic when I mentioned him.
“Mr. De Gex is greatly respected here,” he hastened to tell me. “Since he bought the Villa Clementini outside Fiesole he has lived here for about eight months out of the twelve. Italians love rich people, and because of his wealth he is most popular. I see a good deal of him, for we act as agents for his property in Italy. He has quite a large estate – mostly wine-growing.”
I mentioned that I had met him in London, and then asked in curiosity:
“Do you happen to know anything of his niece, a tall, very handsome, dark-haired girl, Miss Engledue?”
For a moment he reflected. Then he said:
“I recollect when up at the villa just before he went to London – that was about three months ago – seeing a tall, dark-haired young lady. She came into the library while I was chatting with him. But I don’t know her name.”
“Was she about twenty-one?” I asked eagerly.
“Yes – about that age,” was his reply. “But, of course, I have no idea whether it is the young lady you mean.”
“Had you seen her before?”
“I think so – once before. She was in the car in the Cascine with Mrs. De Gex.”
“I wonder how I could discover more about her?” I asked. “Who would know?”
“Robertson, the butler, or Mr. Henderson, the secretary.”
“The butler would be best,” I said. “How could I approach him, do you think? I don’t want to go up to the villa.”
“It would be easy. He’s often down at the Gambrinus in the afternoon. I frequently meet him there, and we have a drink and a chat.”
“Would he be there this afternoon? I do wish you would introduce me,” I urged. “The matter is an important personal one concerning myself.”
“He might be down this afternoon – about four o’clock,” replied the alert young Englishman who spoke Italian so well. “I’ll look in there at four, if you will be about.”
“I certainly will be there,” I said, and