The Place of Dragons: A Mystery

"They were her enemies as well as mine," I replied vaguely, for I had no intention of telling him the whole story, though I thanked him sincerely for his prompt help. Had it not been for him I fear that Lola and myself would never have lived through the night. Jeanjean would have taken good care that the lips of both of us were closed for ever.

"Well, sir, you've had a pretty narrow shave of it," Stevens declared. "There's something very queer about that house, it seems. People say that though the place, as was to be let furnished, had nobody a-living in it, strange lights have been seen a-moving about it, and in the windows now and again and always very late at night."

"Will you do a favour for me, Stevens?" I asked.

"Certainly, sir."

Then I gave him instructions first to go to the hospital where Lola was lying, to inquire how she was. Then he was to go on to my flat in Carlos Place, tell Rayner all that had occurred, and order him to come to me at once.

Just then the nurse kindly, but very firmly intervened, and the taxi-driver rose from the chair at my bedside and left.

For some hours I dozed. Then woke to find the faithful Rayner standing by me, much concerned.

"I've had an awful fright, sir," he said. "When you didn't come home for forty-eight hours, I went to Vine Street Police Station and reported that you were missing. Inspector Palmer, of the C.I. Department, knows you well, sir, and he quickly stirred himself. But I heard nothing till that taxi-driver came and told me you were here. He explained how you'd been shot at a house in Spring Grove, Isleworth. I hope you're all right again, sir?"

"Yes, Rayner, so far," I answered rather feebly. "I've a bit of pain in my throat, but they've bandaged me up all right, and I'll soon be about again. That fellow you knew as Dr. Arendt, in Cromer, plugged me."

"What! The man Jeanjean!"

"The same," I said. "Gregory was there, too. I tracked them into their den, and this is what I got for my trouble," I added grimly.

"Well, sir, I'm no end glad you escaped. They're a desperate crowd and you might very easily have gone under. Can I do anything?"

"Yes. Take a message for me to the Brentford Hospital, to Mademoiselle Sorel."

"The lady the taxi-man told me about?" Rayner asked.

"Yes. An attempt was made upon her life," I replied. "Go there, take some nice flowers, and send up a message from me expressing a hope that she's better, and say that I will see her as soon as ever I'm able."

"Very well, sir. I'll be off at once," he replied.

But for some time longer he sat with me, while I gave him instructions regarding various matters. Then he left, promising me to quickly return and bring me news of Lola.

He was absent about a couple of hours, and on re-entering told me that he had seen the Sister in charge, who had given Lola my flowers and my message and had received one in return from her. This was that she felt much better, and that until we met and consulted it would be best to take no action against the assassins.

That same evening, with the doctor's sanction, a tall, clean-shaven man in grey tweeds approached my bed and, seating himself, announced that his name was Warton, and that he was an Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department.

He brought out a business-like book and pencil and in a rather abrupt manner commenced to interrogate me regarding the events of that night when I so narrowly escaped being murdered.

From his methods I judged that he had risen from a constable. He was bluff and to the point. He told me he was attached to the Brentford Station, and I set him down as a man of similar mental calibre to Frayne.

No good could accrue at that moment from any full explanation, so, after listening to him for some little time, I pretended to be very unwell and only answered his questions with plain "yes" or "no."

It was not likely that I would tell all I knew to this local detective. Had Henri Jonet been present it would have been a different matter, but I saw at a glance that Warton was a very ordinary type of police-officer.

He asked me what took me to the house in Spring Grove on that fateful night. To this I merely replied with the one word —

"Curiosity."

Then he asked —

"Did you know the lady who was found stabbed a few feet from you?"

"Yes. I had met her," was my reply.

"Do you know the circumstances in which she was struck down?"

"I was not present then, therefore I could know nothing," was my evasive response.

"But the men in the house were friends of yours, were they not?" he asked.

"No. They were not," was my prompt reply.

"Then, who were they?" he asked, scribbling down my answers with his stumpy pencil.

"I – I don't feel well enough to be questioned like this," I complained to the Sister, who was standing by. "I've committed no crime, and I object to the police making a cross-examination as though I were a criminal. I appeal to you, Sister."

The middle-aged woman in her cool linen uniform, with a silver medal upon her breast, looked hard at me for a moment. Then, realizing the situation, she turned to the detective, and said —

"You must come to-morrow. The patient still suffers much from shock, and I cannot allow him to be questioned further. He is too weak."

"Very well, Sister," replied Warton, as he closed his pocket-book. "I'll come to-morrow. But a strange mystery envelopes that house in Spring Grove, Mr. Vidal," he added, turning back to me. "You'll be surprised when you go there and see for yourself."

"Perhaps Mr. Vidal may be well enough to do so in a few days," said the Sister. "We shall see."

And with that the police-officer was forced to depart.

CHAPTER XX

ANOTHER DISCOVERY IS MADE

On several occasions during the weary week that followed Inspector Warton called and saw me, but I always managed, by one subterfuge or another, to evade the more pointed of his questions.

The three men who had attacked Lola and myself that night knew from the papers that we both still lived as witnesses against them.

The nurses would not allow me to see the papers, but from Rayner I learnt that the more sensational section of the London Press had published reports headed, "Novelist Found Shot." Indeed, a great many reporters had called at the hospital, but had been promptly sent empty away.

At last, one morning, I was declared convalescent and sufficiently well to be removed to my chambers. Therefore Rayner ordered Stevens to bring his taxi for me, and we left the hospital.

Though still feeling far from well, I was all curiosity to see the house in Spring Grove by daylight, so we called at the police-station and a stout sergeant of the T. Division accompanied us with the key, the place being still in the hands of the police.

As we pulled up in that unfrequented side-road I saw how mysterious and desolate the place was in the warm sunshine – an old red-brick Georgian house, with square, inartistic windows, standing solitary and alone, half covered by its ivy mantle, and surrounded by a spacious garden dotted with high trees, and neglected and overgrown with weeds.

As we walked over the moss-grown flags leading to the steps, I noticed the window I had smashed in making my entry that night.

The constable unlocked the door and we found ourselves in a wide, spacious hall, its stone flags worn hollow and containing some old-fashioned furniture. The atmosphere of the house was musty and close, and long cobwebs hung in festoons in the corners.

The room on the right, the one in which I had been found, I remembered well. It was just the same as when I had stood there in the presence of the Master and the notorious Jules Jeanjean. Upon its brown threadbare carpet were two ugly stains in close proximity to each other – the spots where both Lola and I had lain!