The Affair at the Semiramis Hotel

  II

  Calladine lodged in a corner house and upon the first floor. Hisrooms, large and square and lofty, with Adams mantelpieces and adelicate tracery upon their ceilings, breathed the grace of theeighteenth century. Broad high windows, embrasured in thick walls,overlooked the river and took in all the sunshine and the air whichthe river had to give. And they were furnished fittingly. When thethree men entered the parlour, Mr. Ricardo was astounded. He hadexpected the untidy litter of a man run to seed, the neglect and thedust of the recluse. But the room was as clean as the deck of a yacht;an Aubusson carpet made the floor luxurious underfoot; a few colouredprints of real value decorated the walls; and the mahogany furniturewas polished so that a lady could have used it as a mirror. There waseven by the newspapers upon the round table a china bowl full of freshred roses. If Calladine had turned hermit, he was a hermit of anunusually fastidious type. Indeed, as he stood with his two companionsin his dishevelled dress he seemed quite out of keeping with hisrooms.

  "So you live here, Mr. Calladine?" said Hanaud, taking off his hat andlaying it down.

  "Yes."

  "With your servants, of course?"

  "They come in during the day," said Calladine, and Hanaud looked athim curiously.

  "Do you mean that you sleep here alone?"

  "Yes."

  "But your valet?"

  "I don't keep a valet," said Calladine; and again the curious lookcame into Hanaud's eyes.

  "Yet," he suggested gently, "there are rooms enough in your set ofchambers to house a family."

  Calladine coloured and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to theother.

  "I prefer at night not to be disturbed," he said, stumbling a littleover the words. "I mean, I have a liking for quiet."

  Gabriel Hanaud nodded his head with sympathy.

  "Yes, yes. And it is a difficult thing to get--as difficult asmy holiday," he said ruefully, with a smile for Mr. Ricardo."However"--he turned towards Calladine--"no doubt, now that you are athome, you would like a bath and a change of clothes. And when you aredressed, perhaps you will telephone to the Semiramis and ask MissCarew to come round here. Meanwhile, we will read your newspapers andsmoke your cigarettes."

  Hanaud shut the door upon Calladine, but he turned neither to thepapers nor the cigarettes. He crossed the room to Mr. Ricardo, who,seated at the open window, was plunged deep in reflections.

  "You have an idea, my friend," cried Hanaud. "It demands to expressitself. That sees itself in your face. Let me hear it, I pray."

  Mr. Ricardo started out of an absorption which was altogether assumed.

  "I was thinking," he said, with a faraway smile, "that you mightdisappear in the forests of Africa, and at once everyone would be verybusy about your disappearance. You might leave your village inLeicestershire and live in the fogs of Glasgow, and within a week thewhole village would know your postal address. But London--what a city!How different! How indifferent! Turn out of St. James's into theAdelphi Terrace and not a soul will say to you: 'Dr. Livingstone, Ipresume?'"

  "But why should they," asked Hanaud, "if your name isn't Dr.Livingstone?"

  Mr. Ricardo smiled indulgently.

  "Scoffer!" he said. "You understand me very well," and he sought toturn the tables on his companion. "And you--does this room suggestnothing to you? Have you no ideas?" But he knew very well that Hanaudhad. Ever since Hanaud had crossed the threshold he had been like aman stimulated by a drug. His eyes were bright and active, his bodyalert.

  "Yes," he said, "I have."

  He was standing now by Ricardo's side with his hands in his pockets,looking out at the trees on the Embankment and the barges swingingdown the river.

  "You are thinking of the strange scene which took place in this roomsuch a very few hours ago," said Ricardo. "The girl in her masqueradedress making her confession with the stolen chain about herthroat----"

  Hanaud looked backwards carelessly. "No, I wasn't giving it athought," he said, and in a moment or two he began to walk about theroom with that curiously light step which Ricardo was never able toreconcile with his cumbersome figure. With the heaviness of a bear hestill padded. He went from corner to corner, opened a cupboard here, adrawer of the bureau there, and--stooped suddenly. He stood erectagain with a small box of morocco leather in his hand. His body fromhead to foot seemed to Ricardo to be expressing the question, "Have Ifound it?" He pressed a spring and the lid of the box flew open.Hanaud emptied its contents into the palm of his hand. There were twoor three sticks of sealing-wax and a seal. With a shrug of theshoulders he replaced them and shut the box.

  "You are looking for something," Ricardo announced with sagacity.

  "I am," replied Hanaud; and it seemed that in a second or two he foundit. Yet--yet--he found it with his hands in his pockets, if he hadfound it. Mr. Ricardo saw him stop in that attitude in front of themantelshelf, and heard him utter a long, low whistle. Upon themantelshelf some photographs were arranged, a box of cigars stood atone end, a book or two lay between some delicate ornaments of china,and a small engraving in a thin gilt frame was propped at the backagainst the wall. Ricardo surveyed the shelf from his seat in thewindow, but he could not imagine which it was of these objects that sodrew and held Hanaud's eyes.

  Hanaud, however, stepped forward. He looked into a vase and turned itupside down. Then he removed the lid of a porcelain cup, and from thevery look of his great shoulders Ricardo knew that he had discoveredwhat he sought. He was holding something in his hands, turning itover, examining it. When he was satisfied he moved swiftly to the doorand opened it cautiously. Both men could hear the splashing of waterin a bath. Hanaud closed the door again with a nod of contentment andcrossed once more to the window.

  "Yes, it is all very strange and curious," he said, "and I do notregret that you dragged me into the affair. You were quite right, myfriend, this morning. It is the personality of your young Mr.Calladine which is the interesting thing. For instance, here we are inLondon in the early summer. The trees out, freshly green, lilac andflowers in the gardens, and I don't know what tingle of hope andexpectation in the sunlight and the air. I am middle-aged--yet there'sa riot in my blood, a recapture of youth, a belief that just round thecorner, beyond the reach of my eyes, wonders wait for me. Don't you,too, feel something like that? Well, then--" and he heaved hisshoulders in astonishment.

  "Can you understand a young man with money, with fastidious tastes,good-looking, hiding himself in a corner at such a time--except forsome overpowering reason? No. Nor can I. There is another thing--I puta question or two to Calladine."

  "Yes," said Ricardo.

  "He has no servants here at night. He is quite alone and--here is whatI find interesting--he has no valet. That seems a small thing to you?"Hanaud asked at a movement from Ricardo. "Well, it is no doubt atrifle, but it's a significant trifle in the case of a young rich man.It is generally a sign that there is something strange, perhaps evensomething sinister, in his life. Mr. Calladine, some months ago,turned out of St. James's into the Adelphi. Can you tell me why?"

  "No," replied Mr. Ricardo. "Can you?"

  Hanaud stretched out a hand. In his open palm lay a small round hairybulb about the size of a big button and of a colour between green andbrown.

  "Look!" he said. "What is that?"

  Mr. Ricardo took the bulb wonderingly.

  "It looks to me like the fruit of some kind of cactus."

  Hanaud nodded.

  "It is. You will see some pots of it in the hothouses of any reallygood botanical gardens. Kew has them, I have no doubt. Paris certainlyhas. They are labelled. 'Anhalonium Luinii.' But amongst the Indiansof Yucatan the plant has a simpler name."

  "What name?" asked Ricardo.

  "Mescal."

  Mr. Ricardo repeated the name. It conveyed nothing to him whatever.

  "There are a good many bulbs just like that in the cup upon themantelshelf," said Hanaud.

  Ricardo looked quickly up.

/>   "Why?" he asked.

  "Mescal is a drug."

  Ricardo started.

  "Yes, you are beginning to understand now," Hanaud continued, "whyyour young friend Calladine turned out of St. James's into the AdelphiTerrace."

  Ricardo turned the little bulb over in his fingers.

  "You make a decoction of it, I suppose?" he said.

  "Or you can use it as the Indians do in Yucatan," replied Hanaud."Mescal enters into their religious ceremonies. They sit at night in acircle about a fire built in the forest and chew it, whilst one oftheir number beats perpetually upon a drum."

  Hanaud looked