The Stretton Street Affair

I had been back in London a little over a week when I read in the paper one morning a paragraph which possessed for me a peculiar interest. It ran as follows:

“The notorious Spanish bandit Rodriquez Despujol, who has for several years terrorized Murcia and Andalusia and has committed several murders, is dead. The police have been searching for him everywhere, but so elusive was he that he always evaded them. The celebrated Spanish detective Señor Rivero learnt a short time ago that the wanted man had been seen at Nîmes, where he cleverly contrived to escape by car.

“Certain clues came into the hands of the police, and by these Señor Rivero was able to trace the fugitive to Denia, not far from Valencia. He was hiding in a small cottage in an orange-grove just outside the town. The place was surrounded by police, but Despujol, discovering this, opened fire upon them from one of the windows and also threw a hand grenade among them, with result that two carabineers were killed and four others injured, among the latter being Señor Rivero himself. A desperate fight ensued, but in the end the bandit received a bullet in the head which proved fatal.

“A large quantity of stolen property of all sorts has been discovered in rooms which the criminal occupied in Montauban, in France. Despujol’s latest exploit was an attempt to administer in secret a very deadly poison to an Englishman who was visiting Madrid. It was that attempted crime which aroused Señor Rivero’s activities which have had the effect of ridding Spain of one of its most notorious assassins.”

I read the report twice. So the defiant Despujol was dead, and poor Rivero had sustained injuries! Nothing was said of the powerful financier’s friendship with the bandit.

When I showed it to Hambledon, he remarked:

“At least you’ve been the means not only of putting an end to Despujol’s ignoble career, but also of restoring a quantity of very valuable property to its owners.”

“True, but it brings us no nearer a solution of the affair at Stretton Street,” was my reply.

Gabrielle’s mother had returned to London, and that evening I called upon her by appointment. I found her a grey-haired refined woman with a pale anxious face and deep-set eyes.

When I mentioned Gabrielle, who was in the adjoining room, she sighed and exclaimed:

“Ah! Mr. Garfield. It is a great trial to me. Poor child! I cannot think what happened to her. Nobody can tell, she least of all. Doctor Moroni has been very good, for he is greatly interested in her case. They have told me that you called some time ago and evinced an interest in her.”

“Yes, Mrs. Tennison,” I said. “I feel a very deep interest in your daughter because – well, to tell you the truth, I, too, after a strange adventure here in London one night completely lost my sense of identity, and when I came to a knowledge of things about me I was in a hospital in France, having been found unconscious at the roadside many days after my adventure in London.”

“How very curious!” Mrs. Tennison remarked, instantly interested. “Gabrielle was found at the roadside. Do you think, then, that there is any connexion between your case and hers?”

“Yes, Mrs. Tennison,” I replied promptly. “It is for that reason I am in active search of the truth – in the interests of your daughter, as well as of those of my own.”

“What do you suspect, Mr. Garfield?” asked Gabrielle’s mother, as we sat in that cosily-furnished little room where on the table in the centre stood an old punch-bowl filled with sweet-smelling La France roses.

“I suspect many things. In some, my suspicions have proved correct. In others, I am still entirely in the dark. One important point, however, I have established, namely, the means by which this curious, mysterious effect has been produced upon the minds of both your daughter and myself. When one knows the disease then it is not difficult to search for the cure. I know how the effect was produced, and further, I know the name of the medical man who has effected cures in similar cases.”

“You do?” she exclaimed eagerly. “Well, Gabrielle has seen a dozen specialists, all of whom have been puzzled.”

“Professor Gourbeil, of Lyons, has been able to gain complete cures in two cases. Orosin, a newly discovered poison, is the drug that was used, and the Professor has a wider knowledge of the effect of that highly dangerous substance than any person living. You should arrange to take your daughter to him.”

The pale-faced widow shook her head, and in a mournful tone, replied:

“Ah! I am afraid it would be useless. Doctor Moroni took her to several specialists, but they all failed to restore her brain to its normal activity.”

“Professor Gourbeil is the only man who has ever been able to completely cure a person to whom orosin has been administered – and that has been in two cases only.”

“So the chance is very remote, even if she saw him,” exclaimed the widow despairingly.

“I think, Mrs. Tennison, that Gabrielle should see him in any case,” I said.

“I agree. The poor girl’s condition is most pitiable. At times she seems absolutely normal, and talks of things about her in quite a reasonable manner. But she never seems able to concentrate her thoughts. They always wander swiftly from one subject to another. I have noticed, too, that her vision is affected. Sometimes she will declare that a vivid red is blue. When we look into shop windows together she will refer to a yellow dress as mauve, a pink as white. At times she cannot distinguish colours. Yet now and then her vision becomes quite normal.”

“I have had some difficulty, Mrs. Tennison, in that way myself,” I said. “When I first left St. Malo, after recovering consciousness of the present, I one day saw a grass field and it appeared to be bright blue. Again, an omnibus in London which I knew to be blue was a peculiar dull red. So my symptoms were the same as your daughter’s.”

“It seems proved that both of you are fellow-victims of some desperate plot, Mr. Garfield,” said the widow. “But what could have been its motive?”

“That I am striving with all my might to establish,” I answered. “If I can only obtain from your daughter the true facts concerning her adventures on that fatal night last November, then it will materially assist me towards fixing the guilt upon the person I suspect. In this I beg your aid, Mrs. Tennison,” I said. “I have only just returned from several weeks abroad, during which I have gained considerable knowledge which in the end will, I hope, lead me to the solution of the problem.”

I then told her of my journey to Spain and afterwards to Nîmes. But I mentioned nothing concerning either Oswald De Gex or Despujol.

At that moment Gabrielle, unaware of my presence, entered. She was dressed in a simple grey frock with short sleeves and cut discreetly low, and looked very sweet. On seeing me she drew back, but next second she put out her slim white hand in greeting, and with a delightful smile, exclaimed:

“Why – why, Mr. Garfield! I – I remember you! You called upon me some weeks ago – did you not?”

“Yes, Miss Tennison, I did,” I replied as I sprang from my chair and bent over her hand. “So you recollect me – eh?”

“I do. They said that you would call upon me,” she replied, her beautiful face suddenly clouding.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Doctor Moroni. He warned me that you were my enemy.”

I drew a long breath, for I discerned the depth of the plot.

“Not your enemy, Miss Tennison,” I assured her. “But your friend – your friend who is trying his best to solve the problem of your – your illness.”

“Yes, Gabrielle, dear, Mr. Garfield is certainly your friend. I know that,” declared her mother kindly. “Doctor Moroni must have been mistaken. Why should he have warned you against meeting Mr. Garfield?”

I was silent for a moment, then I said:

“Of course, Mrs. Tennison, you have no previous knowledge of me. You are taking me entirely at my own estimation.”

“When I meet a young man who is open and frank as you are, I trust him,” she said quietly. “You know that woman’s intuition seldom errs.”

I laughed.

“Well,” I answered. “I am striving to solve the mystery of what occurred on the night of November the seventh – of what occurred to your daughter, as well as to myself.”

Mrs. Tennison endeavoured to obtain from me a description of my adventure, but I managed to evade her questions.

“I wonder why Doctor Moroni warned Gabrielle against you?” she remarked presently. “It is a mystery.”

“Yes, Mrs. Tennison, it is all a mystery – a complete mystery to me why Doctor Moroni, of all men, should take an interest in your daughter. He is certainly not a man to be trusted, and I, in turn, warn you against him.”

“Why? He has been so good to Gabrielle.”

“The reason of my warning is that he is her enemy as well as mine,” I said, glancing at the beautiful girl, whose countenance had, alas! now grown inanimate again.

“But I do not understand,” Mrs. Tennison exclaimed. “Why should the doctor be Gabrielle’s enemy?”

“Ah! That I cannot tell – except that he fears lest she should recover and reveal the truth – a serious truth which would implicate him.”

“Do you think he had any hand in the mysterious affair?”