The Weapons of Mystery by Joseph Hocking (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

not speak. He walked down the stairs without a word, and then out into the street.

I stood and watched him until he was out of sight, and then tried to collect my scattered thoughts. On the whole, I was not pleased with the interview. I had shown my hand. It would have been far better if I could have allowed him still to think I was in his power, but the temptation to show him my freedom was too strong. It would now be a trial of skill between us. If he could have believed that I was unable to do anything to free myself, I should have, perhaps, caught him unawares. Now he would be prepared for everything I could do; he would check my every move. If Kaffar were alive, he would have a thousand means of keeping him out of my way; if dead—well, then, I did not care much what happened. If the latter, however, I determined to give up my life for Miss Forrest, to put myself in the hands of the police authorities, and tell of the influence Voltaire had exerted over me.

Meanwhile I must act, and that quickly; so I went straight to a private detective, a man I slightly knew. I refrained from going to Scotland Yard, as I thought Voltaire would be watching me. I gave this detective a description of Voltaire, told him his address, which I had ascertained through his letters to Temple Hall, and explained my wishes to him. He took up my points very quickly, saw what I wanted without any lengthened explanations, and expressed a willingness to serve me. So much pleased was I with this interview, that I had no fear that my enemy would not be well looked after.

After that I took train for Dover, and prepared to track Kaffar, if possible, wherever he had gone, not realizing at the time the task I had proposed for myself.

I thought I made a forward step at Dover, for, on inquiring at an hotel there, I found that a man answering to Kaffar's description had engaged a bedroom for one night, and had gone on to Calais by the midday boat, in time to catch the express for Paris.

"Did this gentleman have any luggage?" I asked.

The hotel proprietor did not think the gentleman carried any luggage, but he would inquire.

On inquiry of the hotel porter, I found that he carried a Gladstone bag, rather small and new. This was particularly remembered—first, because the foreign gentleman seemed very particular about it, and, second, because there seemed to be nothing in it.

So far so good.

I determined to go on to Paris; it could do no harm, it might do good. I could speak the French language fairly, and might, by some means, find out the steps he had taken.

Arrived at Paris, I was completely blocked. He was not remembered in the Custom House; he was not remembered at some twenty hotels at which I called.

Again I began to think what he was likely to do. I did not think he would possess very much money, and a man of his temperament would devise some means of getting some. How? Work would be a slow process, and not suited to his nature. Kaffar would get money by gambling. But that did not help me forward. To search out all the gambling-houses in Paris would be a hopeless task; besides, would he gamble in Paris, a city of which he knew nothing? I did not think so. Where, then?

Monte Carlo!

No doubt the reader will smile at my attempts as a private detective, but, realizing the circumstances by which I was surrounded, there may be some excuse for my unbusinesslike way of going to work. Besides, I was not sure that Kaffar was alive; I only had some vague grounds for thinking he was.

I went to Monte Carlo. I inquired at the hotels; I inquired at the Casino—without success. I learnt one great lesson there, however, and that was the evil of gambling. In spite of tinsel and gilt, in spite of gay attire and loud laughter, in spite of high-sounding titles and ancient names, never did I see so much real misery as I saw in the far-renowned gaming palace.

For days I tried to think what to do, without avail. Kaffar had not been at the Casino; he had not stayed at any of the hotels. Where was he, then?

I began to entertain the idea that he had gone to Egypt as he had said. I would do my best to find out. Accordingly, I went to all the seaports along the coast of France and Italy from which he would be likely to set sail for Egypt. I was unsuccessful until I came to Brindisi.

Here I found that inquiries could easily be made. There were only two hotels in the place, one of which was very small. At the smaller of the two, I found on inquiry that a man answering to my description had stayed there a day and a night, waiting for the boat for Alexandria. The hotel proprietor said he should not have remembered him, but that he had talked Arabic with him. This traveller had also told him he had come from England, the land of luxury and gold, and was going to Cairo.

He did not remember his name. Egyptians often came to Brindisi, and to him one name was pretty much like another. He called them all "Howajja," and remembered nothing more. He did not keep an hotel register.

Little and poor as this evidence was, I determined to go to Egypt. It was now June, and terribly hot, even at Brindisi; I knew the heat must be worse in Cairo, but that was nothing. If I could find this man, I should be rewarded a thousandfold.

Accordingly the next night, when an Austrian Lloyd steamer stopped at this little old-fashioned seaport on its way to Alexandria, I secured a berth and went on board. The voyage was not long, neither was it very tedious; at night, especially, it was glorious. To sit on deck and gaze at the smooth sea, which reflected in its deep waters the bright starry heavens, while the splash of the waters made music on the vessel's side, was to experience something not easily forgotten.

Arrived in Alexandria, I again set inquiries on foot, but with far less chance of success. Kaffar was not a marked man here. In this town, where almost every nationality was to be seen, no notice would be taken of him. A thousand men answering to Kaffar's description might be seen every day. Still I did all I could, and then hurried on to Cairo.

I have not tried to give any detailed account of my journeys, nor of the alternate feelings of hope and despair that possessed me. This must be left to the imagination of my readers. Let them remember the circumstances of the story as I have related them, let them think of how much depended on my discovery of Kaffar, let them also try to fancy something of my feelings, and then they will be able to guess at my weary nights and anxious days, they will know how feverishly I hurried from port to port and from town to town. Anyhow, I will not try to describe them, for I should miserably fail.

Cairo was comparatively empty. The heat had driven the tourists away to colder climes. The waiters in the hotels lolled around, with little or nothing to do. Only a few guests required their attendance. Everything was very quiet. The burning sun fairly scorched the leaves of the acacia trees, which grew everywhere. The Nile was exceedingly low, and water was comparatively scarce. The older part of Cairo was simply unbearable; the little Koptic community dwelling in the low huts, which reeked with dirt and vermin, would, one would have thought, have been glad to have died.

I had no success in Cairo. A dozen times I was buoyed up with hopes, a dozen times my hopes were destroyed, leaving me more despairing than ever. In spite of the terrible heat, all that could be done I did. Recommended by an hotel proprietor, I engaged two of the shrewdest men in this wonderful city to try and find Kaffar, but they could discover no trace of him. I went to mosques, to temples, to bazaars—in vain. If he were in Cairo, he was hiding.

Oh, the weary work, the dreadful uncertainty! Hoping, despairing, ever toiling, ever searching, yet never achieving! The months were slipping by. It was now August, and I was no nearer finding him than when I started. Must I give up, then? Should I renounce my life's love? Should I yield my darling to Voltaire? Never!

I formed a new resolution. I would go back to England. Doubtless I had gone clumsily to work, and thus my failure would be explained. When once back in London, I would engage the cleverest detectives the city could boast of, and I would state the whole case to them. Perchance they could do what I had failed to accomplish. This determination I at once carried into practice, and in a little more than a week I again saw the white cliffs of Dover. I did not rest. Arriving at Victoria, I drove straight to Scotland Yard, and in an hour later two of the most highly recommended officers of the London detective police force were in possession of all the facts that I could give them that would lead to the discovery of the Egyptian, providing he lived.

Then I drove back to my rooms in Gower Street, weary and sad, yet not hopeless. There were four months in which to act. Two clever men were at work, while, thank God, I was free to act and to think.

Yet the future looked terribly doubtful. Would the inquiries be successful? would Gertrude be freed from Voltaire? and should I be happy?

CHAPTER XVII USING THE ENEMY'S WEAPONS

Two months passed, and no tidings of Kaffar—at least, none that were worthy of consideration. The detectives had done all that men could do; they had made every inquiry possible, they had set on foot dozens of schemes; but all in vain. Voltaire, who had been closely watched, was apparently living a quiet, harmless life, and was not, so far as could be seen, in communication with him. I had done all that I could do myself. I had followed in England every possible clue, all of which had ended in failure.

Three months passed. Still no reliable news. One detective fancied he had detected him in Constantinople; another was equally certain he had, at the same time, seen him in Berlin. I became almost mad with despair. The first of December had come, and I was not a step nearer finding the man whose presence would free me from Voltaire's villainous charge.

That which troubled me most was the fact that I did not know whether he were alive. Even if I did not kill him, perhaps Voltaire had got him out of the way so that he might fasten the guilt on me. "What, after all," was the thought that maddened me, "if he should be lying at the bottom of Drearwater Pond?"

There were only twenty-four days now. Three weeks and three days, and I knew not what to do. If I failed, my love would marry the man who was worse than a fiend, while I, for whom she was to suffer this torture, was unable to help her.

And yet I had tried, God alone knows how; but only to fail. Still, there were twenty-four days; but what were they? Kaffar, if he were alive, might be in Africa, Australia—no one knew where. I saw no hope.

A week more slipped by. There were only seventeen days left now. I was sitting in my room, anxiously waiting for the Continental mail, and any telegrams which might arrive. I heard the postman's knock, and in a minute more letters were brought in. Eagerly I opened those which came from the detectives, and feverishly read them. "Still in the dark; nothing discovered"—that summed up the long reports they sent me. I read the other letters; there was nothing in them to help me.

Still another week went by. Only ten days were wanting to Christmas Eve, and I knew no more of Kaffar's whereabouts than I did on the day when I defied Voltaire and started on my search. Again reports from the detectives came, and still no news. No doubt, by this, Voltaire was gloating over his victory, while