The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 49

"Spell vengeance."

"V-e-n-g-e-a-n-c-e."

"My friends," said Lemage, reaching for the wide-brimmed hat of Dr.

Lepardo, "I all but have spoiled this, my greatest case, by a stupid blunder. I have an early call to make. Advance your packing in my absence. I shall shortly return."

And so it happened that Mr. Julius Rohscheimer, in Park Lane, was just arising when his man brought him a card:

_Detective-Inspector Sheffield_ _C.I.D.,_ _New Scotland Yard._

Rohscheimer, who looked as though he had spent a poor night, ordered that Inspector Sheffield be shown up without delay. Immediately afterwards there came in a tall, black-bearded man, wearing blue spectacles, an old rain-coat, and a dilapidated silk hat. The drive, though short, had been long enough to enable Victor Lemage, secure from observation behind the drawn blinds of Severac Bablon's big car, to merge his personality into that of another man, distinct from Dr.

Lepardo--unlike M. Levi.

"Who are you?" bl.u.s.tered Rohscheimer, changing colour, and drawing a brilliant dressing-gown more closely about him. "Who the blazes are you?"

"_Ssh!_ I am Inspector Sheffield--disguised. You will excuse me if, even here, I continue to impersonate an eccentric French character. You place yourself within the reach of the law, my friend. You lay yourself open to the suspicion of murder."

Julius Rohscheimer swallowed noisily. His flabby face a.s.sumed a dingy hue; his eyes protruded to an unpleasant degree.

"Here, upon this, my card, write the words, 'Vengeance is mine.'"

Rohscheimer rose unsteadily; his puffy hands groped as if, feeling himself slipping, he sought for something to lay hold upon.

"I swear----"

"Write!"

Rohscheimer shakily wrote the words, "_Vengence is mine._"

"No 'a,'" cried Lemage triumphantly, "no 'a'! Of all the stupid pigs I am he. But I had not given you the credit of such nerve, M. Rohscheimer.

I had forgotten how once you lived the rough life in South Africa. It is so? I did not think you had the courage to write--though wobbly--those lying words in presence of the dead Gottschalk. Why did you do it, you bad, foolish fellow? The yataghan already was stuck in the desk, eh?

That Legun is a fury when the blood thirst is upon him, when the big vein throb. And you saw the blank paper? Yes? Or you feared that you--you--the mighty Julius might be suspect? Yes, a little? Princ.i.p.ally you hope that this will spur the police and that _he_ will hang. You prefer that the real one--who slays your partner--shall go free, if _he_ can be blackened. You throw sand in the eye of Justice, eh? Well--you have influence; you shall use it to get yourself made Scotch-free. Very good. You will now write in a few words how all this is. That or--I have men outside. It is a public removal to--Good, you will write."

At about that hour when, at thousands of breakfast tables, horrified readers learned that Severac Bablon's Arabs had committed a ghastly crime in Moorgate Street, a cart drove up to New Scotland Yard, and two green-ap.r.o.ned individuals both of whom would have been improved artistically by a clean shave, dragged a heavy packing-case into the office, said it contained curiosities from Bedford Court Mansions and was for Inspector Sheffield.

When, half an hour later, the unwieldy box had been opened, out glared a bound and gagged man, upon whose left temple there pulsed and throbbed a dark blue vein!

Detailed evidence proving that this was the murderer of Gottschalk, his record, his measurements, his thumb-prints, his boots, a number of tubes containing sc.r.a.ps of stained leather, a number containing ashes, and all neatly labelled together with a written confession, signed "Julius Rohscheimer," to the authorship of the words "Vengeance is mine" were also in this box. Finally, there was the following note:

"DEAR INSPECTOR SHEFFIELD,

"I enclose herewith Andre Legun, the man who murdered Paul Gottschalk, together with sufficient evidence to ensure a conviction, and completely to exculpate myself. I claim no credit.

We both are indebted to M. Victor Lemage, who not only has surpa.s.sed his own brilliant records in the conduct of this case, but who kindly a.s.sisted me to carry the result of his labours into the office at New Scotland Yard. We both regretted our inability to see you personally.

"SeVERAC BABLON."

CHAPTER XXV

AN OFFICIAL CALL

The Home Secretary sat before the red-leathern expanse of his writing-table. Papers of unique political importance were strewn carelessly about that diplomatic battlefield, for at this famous table the Right Honourable Walter Belford played political chess. To the right honourable gentleman the game of politics was a pursuit only second in its fascinations to the culture of rare orchids. It ranked in that fine, if eccentric, mind about equal with the acc.u.mulating of rare editions, early printed works, illuminated missals, palimpsests, and other MSS., or with the delights of the higher photography--a hobby to which Mr.

Belford devoted much attention.

Visitors to a well-known Suss.e.x coast resort will need no introduction to Womsley Old Place, the charming seat of that charming man, the Right Hon. Walter Belford. With a frowning glance at a number of letters pinned neatly together, Mr. Belford leant back in his heavily padded chair, and, through his gold-rimmed pince-nez, allowed himself the momentary luxury of surveying the loaded shelves of the noted Circular Study wherein he now was seated. The great writing-table, with its priceless bronze head of Cicero and its luxurious appointments; the morocco, parchment, the vellum backs of the rare works about; the busts above the belles-lettres, afforded him visible, if aesthetic enjoyment.

In a gap between two tall bookcases a Persian curtain partially concealed the gla.s.s doors of a huge conservatory. Mr. Belford liked his orchids near him when at work and not, as lesser men, when at play.

Sighing gently, he took up the bundle of letters, laid it down again, and pressed a b.u.t.ton.

"I will see Inspector Sheffield," he said to the footman who came.

Almost immediately entered a big man, fresh complexioned and of modest bearing--a man, Mr. Belford determined after one shrewd glance, who, once he saw his duty clearly, would pursue it through fire and flood, but who frequently experienced some difficulty in this initial particular.

"Sit down, inspector," said the politician genially, and with the appearance of wishing to hasten a distasteful business. "You would like to see the three communications which I have received from this man Bablon?"

Sheffield, seated on the extreme edge of a big morocco-covered lounge-chair, nodded deferentially. Mr. Belford took up the bundle of letters.

"This," he said, pa.s.sing one to the man from Scotland Yard, "is that which I received upon the 28th ultimo."

Chief-Inspector Sheffield bent forward to the shaded light and ran his eyes over the following, written in a neat hand upon a plain correspondence card:

"Severac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's Princ.i.p.al Secretary of State for the Home Department and to request the honour of a private interview, which, he begs to a.s.sure the right honourable gentleman, would be mutually advantageous. The words, 'Safe conduct.--W. B.,' together with time and place proposed, in the agony column of _The Times_, he will accept as a sufficient guarantee of the right honourable gentleman's intentions."

"And this," continued Mr. Belford, selecting a second, "reached me upon the 7th instant":

"Severac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's Princ.i.p.al Secretary of State for the Home Department and to urge upon him the absolute necessity of an immediate interview. He would respectfully a.s.sure the right honourable gentleman that high issues are at stake."

"Finally," continued the politician, as Sheffield laid the second card upon the table, "I received this upon the 13th instant--yesterday":

"Severac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's Princ.i.p.al Secretary of State for the Home Department and to inform the right honourable gentleman that he having failed to appoint a time of meeting, Severac Bablon is forced by circ.u.mstances to make his own appointment, and will venture to present himself at Womsley Old Place on the evening of the 14th instant, between the hours of 8 and 9."

Mr. Belford leant back in his chair, turning it slightly that he might face the detective.

"My information is," he said, in his finely modulated voice, "that you are personally familiar with the appearance of this Severac Bablon"--Sheffield nodded--"but that no one else, or--ah--no one whom we may call upon--is in a position to identify him. Now, apart from the fact that I have reason to fear his taking some improper measures to see me here, this singular case is rapidly a.s.suming a political significance!" He made the impressive pause of the cultured elocutionist. "Unofficially, I am advised that there is some wave of afflated opinion pa.s.sing through the Semitic races of the Near East--if, indeed, it has not touched the Moslems. The Secretary for Foreign Affairs antic.i.p.ates--I speak as a member of the public--antic.i.p.ates a letter from a certain quarter respecting the advisablity of seizing the person of this man without delay. Had such a letter actually reached my friend, I had had no alternative but to place the matter in the hands of the Secret Service."

Inspector Sheffield fidgeted.

"Excuse me, sir," he said; "but the S.S. could do no more than we are doing."

"That I grant you," replied the Home Secretary, with his genial smile; "but, in the event referred to, no choice would remain to me. Far from desiring the intervention of another agent, I should regret it, for--family reasons."

"Ah!" said the inspector; "I was about to--to--approach that side of the matter, sir."

Mr. Belford's emotions were under perfect control, but at those words he regarded the detective with a new interest.