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The Yellow Streak

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"There was no letter of this description on the desk, you say, when you
and Miss Trevert looked?" asked Jeekes when Bruce had finished his
story.

"Nothing but circulars and bills," Bruce replied.

Mr. Jeekes leaned forward and drank off his coffee with a swift
movement. Then he said carelessly:

"From what you tell me, Miss Trevert would have been perhaps a minute
alone in the room without your seeing her?"

Bruce agreed with a nod.

Adjusting his _pince-nez_ on his nose the secretary rose to his feet.

"Very glad to have seen you again, Wright," he said, thrusting out a
limp hand; "must run off now--mass of work to get through ..."

Then Bruce risked his leading question.

"If you haven't got this letter," he observed, "what has become of it?
Obviously the police are not likely to have taken it because they know
nothing of its significance ..."

"Quite, quite," answered Mr. Jeekes absently, but without replying to
the young man's question.

"Why," asked Bruce boldly, "did old H.P. make such a mystery about these
letters on the slatey-blue paper, Mr. Jeekes?"

The secretary wrinkled up his thin lips and sharp nose into a cunning
smile.

"When you get to be my age, young Wright," he made answer, "you will
understand that every man has a private side to his life. And, if you
have learnt your job properly, you will also know that a private
secretary's first duty is to mind his own business. About this letter
now--it's the first I've heard of it. Take my advice and don't bother
your head about it. _If_ it exists ..."

"But it _does_ exist," broke in Bruce quickly. "Mr. Greve saw it and
read it himself ..."

Mr. Jeekes laughed drily.

"Don't you forget, young Wright," he said, jerking his chin towards the
youngster in a confidential sort of way, "don't you forget that Mr.
Greve is anxious to find a plausible motive for Mr. Parrish's suicide.
People are talking, you understand! That's all I've got to say! Just you
think it over ..."

Bruce Wright bristled up hotly at this.

"I don't see you have any reason to try and impugn Greve's motive for
wishing to get at the bottom of this mysterious affair ..."

Mr. Jeekes affected to be engrossed in the manicuring of his nails. Very
intently he rubbed the nails of one hand against the palm of the other.

"No mystery!" he said decisively with a shake of the head: "no mystery
whatsoever about it, young Wright, except what the amateur detectives
will try and make it out to be. Or has Mr. Greve discovered a mystery
already?"

The question came out artfully. But in the quick glance which
accompanied it, there was an intent watchfulness which startled Bruce
accustomed as he was to the mild and unemotional ways of the little
secretary.

"Not that I know of," said Bruce. "Greve is only puzzled like all of us
that H.P. should have done a thing like this!"

Mr. Jeekes was perfectly impassive again.

"The nerves, young Wright! The nerves!" he said impressively. "Harley
Street, not Mr. Greve, will supply the motive to this sad affair,
believe me!"

With that he accompanied the young man to the door of the club and from
the vestibule watched him sally forth into the rain of Pall Mall.

Then Mr. Jeekes turned to the hall porter.

"Please get me Stevenish one-three-seven," he said, "it's a trunk call.
Don't let them put you off with 'No reply.' It's Harkings, and they are
expecting me to ring them. I shall be in the writing room."

When, twenty minutes later, Mr. Jeekes emerged from the trunk call
telephone box in the club vestibule, his mouth was drooping at the
corners and his hands trembled curiously. He stood for an instant in
thought tapping his foot on the marble floor of the deserted hall dimly
lit by a single electric bulb burning over the hall porter's box. Then
he went back to the writing-room and returned with a yellow telegram
form.

"Send a boy down to Charing Cross with that at once, please," he said to
the night porter.

Fate which had brought Bruce Wright face to face with Mr. Jeekes gave
the kaleidoscope another jerk that night. As Bruce Wright entered the
Tube Station at Dover Street to go home to South Kensington, it occurred
to him that he would ring up Robin Greve at his chambers in the Temple
and give him an outline of his (Bruce's) talk with Jeekes. Bruce went to
the public callbox in the station, but the rhythmic "Zoom-er! Zoom-er!
Zoom-er!" which announces that a number is engaged was all the
satisfaction he got. The prospect of waiting about the draughty station
exit did not appeal to him, so he decided to go home and telephone
Robin, as originally arranged, in the morning.

Just about the time that he made this resolve, Robin in his rooms in the
Temple was hanging up the receiver of his telephone with a dazed
expression in his eyes. Mr. Manderton had rung him up with a piece of
intelligence which fairly bewildered him. It bewildered Mr. Manderton
also, as the detective was frank enough to acknowledge.

Mary Trevert had gone to Rotterdam for a few days in company with her
cousin, Major Euan MacTavish. Mr. Manderton had received this
astonishing information by telephone from Harkings a few minutes before.

"It bothers me properly, Mr. Greve, sir," the detective had added.

"There's only one thing for it, Manderton," Robin had said; "I'll have
to go after her ..."

"The very thing I was about to suggest myself, Mr. Greve. You're
unofficial-like and can be more helpful than if we detailed one of our
own people from the Yard. And with the investigation in its present
stage I don't reely feel justified in going off on a wild-goose chase
myself. There are several important enquiries going forward now, notably
as to where Mr. Parrish bought his pistol. But we certainly ought to
find out what takes Miss Trevert careering off to Rotterdam in this
way ..."

"It seems almost incredible," Robin had said, "but it looks to me as
though Miss Trevert must have found out something about the letter ..."

"Or found it herself ..."

"By Jove! She was in the library when Bruce Wright was there. This
settles it, Manderton. I must go!"

"Then," said the detective, "I'm going to entrust you with that slotted
sheet of paper again. For I have an idea, Mr. Greve, that you may get a
glimpse of that letter before I do. I'll send a messenger round with it
at once."

Then a difficulty arose. Manderton had not got the girl's address. They
had no address at Harkings. Nor did he know what train Miss Trevert had
taken. She might have gone by the 9 P.M. that night. Had Mr. Greve got a
passport? Yes, Robin had a passport, but it was not viséed for Holland.
That meant he could not leave until the following evening. Then Robin
had a "brain wave."

"There's an air service to Rotterdam!" he exclaimed. "It doesn't leave
till noon. A pal of mine went across by it only last week. That will
leave me time to get my passport stamped at the Dutch Consulate, to
catch the air mail, and be in Rotterdam by tea-time! And, Manderton, I
shall go to the Grand Hotel. That's where my friend stopped. Wire me
there if there's any news ..."

Air travel is so comfortably regulated at the present day that Robin
Greve, looking back at his trip by air from Croydon Aerodrome to the big
landing-ground outside Rotterdam, acknowledged that he had more
excitement in his efforts to stir into action a lethargic Dutch passport
official in London, so as to enable him to catch the air mail, than in
the smooth and uneventful voyage across the Channel. He reached
Rotterdam on a dull and muggy afternoon and lost no time in depositing
his bag at the Grand Hotel. An enquiry at the office there satisfied him
that Mary Trevert had not registered her name in the hotel book. Then he
set out in a taxi upon a dreary round of the principal hotels.

But fate, which loves to make a sport of lovers, played him a scurvy
trick. In the course of his search it brought Robin to that very hotel
towards which, at the selfsame moment, Mary Trevert was driving from
the station. By the time she arrived, Robin was gone and, with despair
in his heart, had started on a tour of the second-class hotels, checking
them by the Baedeker he had bought in the Strand that morning. It was
eight o'clock by the time he had finished. He had drawn a blank.

The sight of a huge, plate-glass-fronted café reminded him that in the
day's rush he had omitted to lunch. So he paid off his taxi and dined
off succulent Dutch beefsteak, pounded as soft as velvet and swimming
with butter and served in a bed of deliciously browned 'earth apples,'
as the Holländers call potatoes. The café was stiflingly hot; there was
a large and noisy orchestra in the front part and a vast billiard-saloon
in the back--a place of shaded lights, clicking balls, and guttural
exclamations. The heat of the place, the noise and the cries combined
with the effect of his long journey in the fresh air to make him very
drowsy. When he had finished dinner he was content to postpone his
investigations until the morrow and go to bed. Emerging from the café he
found to his relief that his hotel was but a few houses away.

As he sat at breakfast the next morning, enjoying the admirable Dutch
coffee, he reviewed the situation very calmly but very thoroughly. He
told himself that he had no indication as to Mary Trevert's business in
Rotterdam save the supposition that she had found the van der Spyck
letter and had come to Rotterdam to investigate the matter for herself.
He realized that the hypothesis was thin, for, in the first place, Mary
could have no inkling as to the hidden significance of the document,
and, in the second place, she was undoubtedly under the impression that
Hartley Parrish was driven to suicide by his (Robin's) threats.

But, in the absence of any other apparent explanation of the girl's
extraordinary decision to come to Rotterdam, Robin decided he would
accept the theory that she had come about the van der Spyck letter. How
like Mary, after all, he mused, self-willed, fearless, independent, to
rush off to Holland on her own on a quest like this! Where would her
investigations lead her? To the offices of Elias van der Spyck & Co., to
be sure! Robin threw his napkin down on the table, thrust back his
chair, and went off to the hotel porter to locate the address of the
firm.

The telephone directory showed that the offices were situated in the
Oranien-Straat, about ten minutes' walk from the hotel, in the business
quarter of the city round the Bourse. Robin glanced at the clock. It
was twenty minutes to ten. The principals, he reflected, were not likely
to be at the office before ten o'clock. It was a fine morning and he
decided to walk. The hotel porter gave him a few simple directions: the
gentleman could not miss the way, he said; so Robin started off, hope
high in his breast of getting a step nearer to the elucidation of the
mystery of the library at Harkings.

A brisk walk of about ten minutes through the roaring streets of the
city brought him to a big open square from which, he had been
instructed, the Oranien-Straat turned off. He was just passing a large
and important-looking post-office--he remarked it because he looked up
at a big clock in the window to see the time--when a man came hastily
through the swing-door and stopped irresolutely on the pavement in
front, glancing to right and left as a man does who is looking for a
cab.

At the sight of him Robin could scarcely suppress an expression of
amazement. It was Mr. Jeekes.




CHAPTER XXII


THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW FACE

In a narrow, drowsy side street at Rotterdam, bisected by a somnolent
canal, stood flush with the red-brick sidewalk a small clean house. Wire
blinds affixed to the windows of its ground and first floors gave it a
curious blinking air as though its eyes were only half open. To the neat
green front door was affixed a large brass plate inscribed with the
single name: "Schulz."

A large woman, in a pink print dress with a white cloth bound about her
head, was vigorously polishing the plate as, on the morning following
her departure from London, Mary Trevert, Dulkinghorn's letter of
introduction in her pocket, arrived in front of the residence of Mr.
William Schulz. Euan MacTavish had, on the previous evening, seen her to
her hotel and had then--very reluctantly, as it seemed to
Mary--departed to continue his journey to The Hague, his taxi piled high
with white-and-green Foreign Office bags, heavily sealed with scarlet
wax.

Mary Trevert approached the woman, her letter of introduction, which
Dulkinghorn, being an unusual person, had fastened down, in her hand.

"Schulz?" she said interrogatively.

"_Nicht da_," replied the woman without looking up from her rubbing.

"Has he gone out?" asked Mary in English.

"_Verstehe nicht_!" mumbled the woman.

But she put down her cleaning-rag and, breathing heavily, mustered the
girl with a leisurely stare.

Mary repeated the question in German whereupon the woman brightened up
considerably.

The _Herr_ was not at home. The _Herr_ had gone out. On business,
_jawohl_. To the bank, perhaps. But the _Herr_ would be back in time for
_Mittagessen_ at noon. There was beer soup followed by _Rindfleisch_ ...

Mary hesitated an instant. She was wondering whether she should leave
her letter of introduction. She decided she would leave it. So she wrote
on her card: "Anxious to see you as soon as possible" and the name of
her hotel, and gave it, with the letter, to the woman.

"Please see that Herr Schulz gets that directly he comes in," she said.
"It is important!"

"_Gut, gut_!" said the woman, wiping her hands on her apron. She took
the card and letter, and Mary, thanking her, set off to go back to her
hotel.

About twenty yards from Mr. Schulz's house a narrow alley ran off. As
Mary turned to regain the little footbridge across the canal to return
to the noisy street which would take her back to the hotel, she caught
sight of a man disappearing down this alley.

She only had a glimpse of him, but it was sufficient to startle her
considerably. He was a small man wearing a tweed cap and a tweed
travelling ulster of a vivid brown. It was not these details, however,
which took her aback. It was the fact that in the glimpse she had had of
the man's face she had seemed to recognize the features of Mr. Albert
Edward Jeekes.

"What an extraordinary thing!" Mary said to herself. "It _can't_ be Mr.
Jeekes. But if it is not, it is some one strikingly like him!"

To get another view of the stranger she hurried to the corner of the
alley. It was a mere thread of a lane, not above six yards wide, running
between the houses a distance of some sixty yards to the next street.
But the alley was empty. The stranger had disappeared.

Mary went a little way down the lane. A wooden fence ran down it on
either side, with doors at intervals apparently giving on the back yards
of the houses in the street. There was no sign of Mr. Jeekes's double,
so she retraced her steps and returned to her hotel without further
incident.

She had not been back more than half an hour when a waiter came in to
the lounge where she was sitting.

"Miss Trevert?" he said. "Zey ask for you at ze delephone!"

He took her to a cabin under the main staircase.

"This is Miss Trevert speaking!" said Mary.

"I am speaking for Mr. Schulz," a man's voice answered--rather a nasal
voice with a shade of foreign inflexion--"he has had your letter. He is
very sorry he has been detained in the country, but would be very glad
if you would lunch with him to-day at his country-house."

"I shall be very pleased," the girl replied. "Is it far?"

"Only just outside Rotterdam," the voice responded. "Mr. Schulz will
send the car to the hotel to pick you up at 11.45. The driver will ask
for you. Is that all right?"

"Certainly," said Mary. "Please thank Mr. Schulz and tell him I will
expect the car at a quarter to twelve!"

Punctually at the appointed hour an open touring-car drove up to the
hotel. Mary was waiting at the entrance. The driver was a young Dutchman
in a blue serge suit. He jumped out and came up to Mary.

"Mees Trevert?" he said.

Mary nodded, whereupon he helped her into the car, then got back into
the driving-seat and they drove away.

A run of about twenty minutes through trim suburbs brought them out on a
long straight road, paved with bricks and lined with poplars. The day
was fine with a little bright sunshine from time to time and a high wind
which kept the sails of the windmills dotting the landscape turning
briskly. They followed the road for a bit, then branched off down a side
turning which led to a black gate. It bore the name "Villa Bergendal" in
white letters. The gate opened into a short drive fringed by thick
laurel bushes which presently brought them in view of an ugly square
red-brick house.

The car drew up at a creeper-hung porch paved in red tiles. The
chauffeur helped Mary to alight and, pushing open a glass door, ushered
the girl into a square, comfortably furnished hall. Some handsome
Oriental rugs were spread about: trophies of native weapons hung on the
walls, and there were some fine specimens of old Dutch chests and blue
Delft ware.

The chauffeur led the way across the hall to a door at the far end. As
Mary followed him, something bright lying on one of the chests caught
her eye. It was a vivid brown travelling ulster and on it lay a brown
tweed cap.

Mary Trevert was no fool. She was, on the contrary, a remarkably
quick-witted young person. The sight of that rather "loud" overcoat
instantly recalled the stranger so strikingly resembling Mr. Jeekes who
had disappeared down the lane as she was coming away from Mr. Schulz's
house. Mr. Jeekes _was_ in Rotterdam then, and had, of course, been sent
by her mother to look after her. What a fool she had been to allow Euan
MacTavish to persuade her to tell her mother of her plans!

Mary suddenly felt very angry. How dare Mr. Jeekes spy on her like this!
She was quite capable, she told herself, of handling her own affairs,
and she intended to tell the secretary so very plainly. And if, as she
was beginning to believe, Mr. Schulz were acting hand in glove with Mr.
Jeekes, she would let him know equally plainly that she had no intention
of troubling him, but would make her own investigations independently.
With a heightened colour she followed the chauffeur and passed through
the door he held open for her.

She found herself in a small, pleasant room with a bright note of colour
in the royal blue carpet and window-curtains. A log-fire burned
cheerfully in the fireplace before which a large red-leather
Chesterfield was drawn up. On the walls hung some good old Dutch prints,
and there were a couple of bookcases containing books which, by their
bindings at least, seemed old and valuable.

At the farther end of the room was another door across which a curtain
of royal blue was drawn. Mary had scarcely entered the room when this
door opened and a man appeared.

He was carefully dressed in a well-cut suit of some dark material and
wore a handsome pearl pin in his black tie. He was a dark, sallow type
of man, his skin yellowed as though from long residence in the tropics.
A small black moustache, carefully trained outwards from the lips,
disclosed, as he smiled a greeting at his visitor, a line of broken
yellow teeth. His hair, which was grizzled at the temples, was black and
oily and brushed right back off the forehead. With his coarse black
hair, his sallow skin, and his small beady eyes, rather like a snake's,
there was something decidedly un-English about him. As Mary Trevert
looked at him, somewhat taken aback by his sudden appearance, she became
conscious of a vague feeling of mistrust welling up within her.

The man closed the door behind him and advanced into the room, his hand
extended. Mary took it. It was dank and cold to the touch.

"A thousand apologies, my dear Miss Trevert," he said in a soft, silky
voice, a trifle nasal, with a touch of Continental inflexion, "for
asking you to come out here to see me. The fact is I had an important
business conference here this morning and I have a second one this
afternoon. It was materially impossible for me to come into Rotterdam ...
But I am forgetting my manners. Let me introduce myself. I am
Mr. Schulz ..."

Mary Trevert looked at him thoughtfully. Was this the friend of Ernest
Dulkinghorn, the man of confidence to whom he had recommended her? A
feeling of great uneasiness came over her. She listened. The house was
absolutely still. From the utter silence enveloping it--for aught she
knew--she and her unsavoury-looking companion might be the only persons
in it. And then she realized that, on the faith of a telephone call, she
had blindly come out to a house, the very address of which was utterly
unknown to her.

She fought down a sudden sensation of panic that made her want to
scream, to bolt from the room into the fresh air, anywhere away from
those snake eyes, that soft voice, that clammy hand. She collected her
thoughts, remembered that Jeekes must be somewhere in the house, as his
outdoor things were in the hall. The recollection reminded her of her
determination to tolerate no interference from Jeekes or her mother.

So she merely answered: "It was no trouble to come," and waited for the
man to speak again.

He pulled forward the Chesterfield and made her sit down beside him.

"I had the letter of introduction," he said, "and I want you to know
that my services are entirely at your disposal. Now, what can I do for
you?"

He looked at the girl intently--rather anxiously, she thought.

"That was explained in the letter," she answered, meeting his gaze
unflinchingly.

"Yes, yes, of course, I know. I meant in what way do you propose to make
use of my ... my local knowledge?"

"I will tell you that, Mr. Schulz," Mary Trevert said in a measured
voice, "when you tell me what you think of the mission which has brought
me here ..."

The snake's eyes narrowed a little.

"For a young lady to have come out alone to Holland on a mission of this
description speaks volumes for your pluck and self-reliance, Miss
Trevert ..."

"I asked you what you thought of my mission to Holland, Mr. Schulz,"
Mary interposed coldly.

It was beginning to dawn on her that Mr. Schulz did not seem to know
anything about the object of her visit, but, on the contrary, was
seeking to elicit this from her by a process of adroit cross-examination.
She was rather puzzled, therefore, but also somewhat relieved
when he said:

"I can give my opinion better after you have shown me the letter ..."

"What letter?" said the girl.

"The letter from Elias van der Spyck and Company, to be sure," retorted
the other quickly.

Mary dipped her hand into her black fox muff. Then she hesitated. She
could not rid herself of the suspicion that this man with the sallow
face and the yellow fangs was not to be trusted. She withdrew her hand.

"This is a very delicate matter, Mr. Schulz," she said. "Our appointment
was made by telephone, and I think therefore I should ask you to show me
Mr. Dulkinghorn's letter of introduction before I go any further, so
that I may feel quite sure in my mind that I am dealing with one in whom
I know Mr. Dulkinghorn to have every confidence ..."

Mr, Schulz's yellow face went a shade yellower. His mouth twisted itself
into a wry smile, his thin lips fleshing his discoloured teeth. He
stood up rather stiffly.

"You are a guest in my house, Miss Trevert," he said with offended
dignity, "I scarcely expected you to impugn my good faith. Surely my
word is sufficient ..."

He turned his back on her and took a couple of paces into the room in
apparent vexation. Then he returned and stood at the back of the
Chesterfield behind her. His feet made no sound on the thick carpet, but
some vague instinct made Mary Trevert turn her head. She saw him
standing there, twisting his hands nervously behind his back.

"Surely my word is sufficient ..." he repeated.

"In business," said Mary boldly, "one cannot be too careful."

"Besides," Mr. Schulz urged, "this was a private letter which Mr. ...
Mr. Dulkinghorn certainly did not expect you to see. That makes
it awkward ..."

"I think in the circumstances," said Mary, "I must insist, Mr. Schulz!"

She was now feeling horribly frightened. She strained her ears in vain
for a sound. The whole house seemed wrapped in a grave-like quiet. The
smile had never left Mr. Schulz's face. But it was a cruel, wolfish grin
without a ray of kindliness in it. The girl felt her heart turn cold
within her every time her eyes fell on the mask-like face.

Mr. Schulz shrugged shoulders.

"Since you insist ..." he remarked. "But I think it is scarcely fair on
our friend Dulkinghorn. The letter is in the safe in my office next
door. If you come along I will get it out and show it to you ..."

He spoke unconcernedly, but stiffly, as though to emphasize the slight
put upon his dignity. One hand thrust jauntily in his jacket pocket, he
stepped across the carpet to the door with the blue curtain. He opened
it, then stood back for the girl to pass in before him.

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