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Stretton Street Affair, The

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<h3>CONCLUSION</h3> Just after noon I accompanied Superintendent Fletcher and Señor Rivero with three detectives from Scotland Yard to the little hotel at Notting Hill Gate, where Mateo Sanz was then staying, for he had twice changed his abode within the past week. Rivero saw the proprietor, and giving his name as Sanchez Orozco, a well-known criminal and friend of his, asked to see his visitor who we knew had taken the name of Nardiz, and represented himself as an agent of a firm of Spanish wine exporters. Mention of the name of Orozco at once brought the much-sought-after bandit downstairs, and as he entered the little sitting-room Rivero covered him instantly with his automatic pistol, shouting to him authoritatively in Spanish. The notorious bandit staggered, so completely was he taken aback. “You know me, Sanz!” exclaimed Rivero. “You are under arrest. Now tell me who prepared that cake of soap which you sent to Mr. Garfield?” The question was quite an unorthodox procedure in English justice. But it was the Chief of the Spanish Detective Department who had arrested a Spanish criminal. “Find out,” was the fellow’s defiant retort. “It was Oswald De Gex,” said Rivero. “You won’t deny that! You may as well tell the truth, and things may go better with you. He was Despujol’s friend, as well as yours—was he not?” “Yes,” the dark-faced man admitted sullenly. “We have both done his dirty work—and Moroni assisted him.” “You sent that soap to Mr. Garfield—eh?” The man under arrest with Rivero’s pistol still pointed at him nodded in the affirmative. “And you went to The Hague and there met the Baron van Veltrup. You put that little piece of steel into his glove. I know that you did,” Rivero went on relentlessly. “Yes. De Gex paid me for it,” was his reply. “As he paid Despujol—eh?” “Yes.” “Very well,” replied Rivero. “I will note your replies. De Gex is expecting you to call upon him to-day, is he not?” “Yes. At one o’clock. I was to receive some money,” he laughed grimly. The Spaniard having been taken away in a taxi to Bow Street Police Station, together with his luggage, we went on to Stretton Street. “Mr. De Gex is not in,” replied the man-servant who appeared in answer to my ring. “Never mind,” I said. “My friends and I have some business with him.” And I walked into that big familiar hall, followed by Superintendent Fletcher, Señor Rivero, and two detectives. “We have a meeting here,” I explained casually to the smart man-servant who in surprise at our sudden entry showed us to the library, that same room in which I remembered sitting on that fateful November night. It was nearly a year ago since I had last been in that big, handsomely furnished apartment. I did not remain there, for it was my intention to greet my would-be murderer on his return. Therefore I went to the hall and there awaited him. Just before one o’clock he entered with his latchkey, and he having closed the door I stepped forward in his path. “I think you know me—Mr. De Gex!” I exclaimed very firmly, my eyes fixed on him. He started, and for a second went pale. Then in indignation, he exclaimed: “Who are you? What are you doing here?” “I am here to see you, Mr. De Gex,” I replied quite calmly. “I don’t know you,” he declared angrily. “Perhaps not,” I laughed. “But there are others with me here who wish to speak a few words with you.” As I said this Superintendent Fletcher stepped forward, while behind him came the others. “Mr. Oswald De Gex?” he asked. “Is that your name?” The owner of the big mansion went pale to the lips, and muttered an affirmative. “I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of the wilful murder of Gabrielle Engledue on the seventh of November last,” said the Superintendent. “Your accomplice Sanz is already under arrest, I may tell you, and orders have gone out to Paris and to Florence for the arrest of your friends Suzor and Moroni.” Then turning to his lieutenants, he gave orders for the great financier to be secured. So utterly aghast was the guilty man at our sudden appearance, and the terrible charge levelled against him, that he was quite unable to speak. He tried to articulate, to protest, but his tongue seemed tied. Only a low, gurgling sound escaped his lips, and the next second he had collapsed into the arms of the detectives who half carried him out to the taxi which stood near by in readiness. He was placed in a cell at Bow Street to await his appearance before the stipendiary on the following day, but an hour later when the warder went to him he found him dead. Upon the thumb of his left hand was a slight punctured wound. Rather than face a trial and the penalty for his crimes, he had killed himself by that same most deadly drug by which he had sought to enrich himself. <hr class="medium" /> Next day all the world rang with the sensational news of the arrest and suicide of the mighty millionaire of Europe, but De Gex had many influential friends, hence to the public the actual truth was never disclosed. Mateo Sanz was extradited to Spain, where at the Assize Court at Madrid he was, six months later, sentenced to death and in due course executed, while Moroni, after many delays, as is usual in the Italian Courts, was sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment for being in the possession of orosin, and also attempting to administer it. The charge against him of having had a hand in the heartless murder of poor Gabrielle Engledue was unfortunately not substantiated for lack of evidence. Though the police are still seeking everywhere for Gaston Suzor, he has not up to the present been found. They, however, do not despair of arresting him. At first it was resolved to seek the man-servant Horton and arrest him, but as it seemed that he had had no actual hand in the girl’s assassination, and as, moreover, the murderer had committed suicide, his evidence was not required, the hue-and-cry after him was dropped. And myself? What need I say, except that to-day I am extremely happy. Owing to the sudden great rise of some securities which my father left me I later found myself quite well off. Indeed, upon the death of old Mr. Francis a few months ago, I was able to purchase a partnership in the firm, and I am thankful to say we are doing quite well in face of the strenuous competition in electrical engineering. Gabrielle Tennison, the sweet, open-hearted girl whom I first met under such extraordinary circumstances, is now my wife. We live very happily in a charming, old-world farmhouse embowered in roses and honeysuckle, on the Portsmouth Road at Cobham, in Surrey. Life nowadays is one of idyllic bliss, of perfect love and undisturbed peace, different indeed from that fevered year of struggle, adventure, travel and unrest during which I strove so steadily and with all my might to avenge the crimes of Oswald De Gex, and to unravel that tangled skein of the misdeeds of the international financier—the Stretton Street Affair. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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