grin, so malignant, and yet so gleeful, as to render the face almost
inhuman.
"It may be of importance later on," he said. "Meanwhile, I should keep
the information to myself. Now go to bed and lock your door. I'm going
to finish my pipe in my dressing-room."
Frobisher snapped out the lights, leaving the house in darkness. For
once in her life Angela did lock her door. She could not sleep; she had
no desire for bed and yet her eyes were heavy and tired. She pulled up
the blind and opened the window; out beyond, the garden was flooded with
moonlight. As Angela stood there she seemed to see a figure creeping
from one bush to another.
"It is my fancy," she told herself. "I could imagine anything to-night.
And yet I could have been certain that I saw the figure of a man."
Angela paused; it was no fancy. A man crept over the grass and looked
up at the window as if he were doing something strictly on the lines of
conventionality. To her amazement Angela saw that the intruder was in
evening dress, and that it was Harold Denvers.
"Harold," she whispered. "Whatever are you doing there?"
"I came on the chance," was the reply. "I have heard strange things
to-night, and there is something that I must know at once. I was going
to try and rouse you with some pebbles. Dare you go down to the
garden-room window and let me in? Darling, it is a matter of life or
death, or I would not ask."
Angela slipped down the stairs noiselessly, and opened the window.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*A BIT OF THE ROPE.*
Sir James Brownsmith thought that on the whole he would walk home from
Piccadilly to Harley Street. The chauffeur touched his hat, and the car
moved on. The eminent surgeon had ample food for reflection; it seemed
to him that he was on the verge of a great discovery. Somebody accosted
him two or three times before he came back to earth again.
"That you, Townsend?" he asked, abruptly. "You want to speak to me?
Certainly. Only as I am rather tired to-night if you will cut it as
short as possible, I shall be glad."
"I am afraid I can't, Sir James," Inspector Townsend replied. "Indeed I
was going to suggest that I walked as far as your house and had a chat
over matters."
Sir James shrugged his shoulders, and Harley Street was reached almost
in silence. In the small consulting-room the surgeon switched on a
brilliant light and handed over cigars and whisky and soda.
"Now go on," he said. "It's all about to-night's business, I suppose?"
"Precisely, sir. You've helped us a good many times with your wonderful
scientific knowledge, and I dare say you will again. This Piccadilly
mystery is a queer business altogether. Do you feel quite sure that the
poor fellow was really murdered, after all?"
Brownsmith looked fixedly at the speaker. He had considerable respect
for Townsend, whose intellect was decidedly above the usual Scotland
Yard level. Townsend was a man of imagination and a master of theory.
He went beyond motive and a cast of a footmark--he was no rule-of-thumb
workman.
"On the face of it I should say there can be no possible doubt," said
Sir James.
"Murdered by strangulation, sir? The same as that man at Streatham. As
you have made a careful examination of both bodies you ought to know?"
"Is there any form of murder unknown to me, Townsend?" Sir James asked.
"Is there any trick of the assassin's trade that I have not mastered?"
"Oh, I admit your special knowledge, sir! But it's a trick of mine to
be always planning new crimes. I could give you three ways of
committing murder that are absolutely original. And I've got a theory
about this business that I don't care to disclose yet. Still, we can
discuss the matter up to a certain point. Both those men were
destroyed--or lost their lives--in the same way."
"Both strangled, in fact. It's the Indian Thug dodge. But you know all
about that, Townsend?"
"We'll admit for the moment that both victims have been destroyed by
Thugee. But isn't it rather strange that both bodies were found in
close juxtaposition to valuable orchids? We know, of course, that Sir
Clement's orchids are almost priceless. The Streatham witness,
Silverthorne, says that a very rare orchid was recently placed in the
Lennox conservatory. Now, isn't it fair to argue that both murdered men
lost their lives in pursuit of those orchids?"
Sir James nodded thoughtfully. He had forgotten the Cardinal Moth for
the moment.
"I see you have pushed your investigations a long way in this
direction," he said. "This being so, have you ascertained for a fact
that the Lennox nursery really contained nothing out of the common in
the way of Orchidacae? You know what I mean."
"Quite so, sir. That I have not been able to ascertain because the
proprietor of the Lennox nursery has no special knowledge of his trade.
His great line is cheap ferns for the London market. But he says a
gentleman whom he could easily recognise left him an orchid to look
after--a poor dried-up stick it seemed to be--with instructions to keep
it in a house not too warm, where it might remain at a small rent till
wanted."
"Oh, indeed! You are interesting me, Townsend. Pray go on."
"Well, Sir James, I wanted to see the flowers after the murder, not that
I expected it to lead to anything at that time. Seeing what has
happened this evening, it becomes more interesting. Would you believe
it, sir, that the flower in question was gone?"
"You mean that it had been stolen? Really, Townsend, we seem to be on
the track of something important."
"Yes, Sir James, the flower had gone. Now, what I want to know is
this--has Sir Clement Frobisher added anything special to his collection
lately?"
Sir James shot an admiring glance at his questioner. Seeing that he was
working almost entirely in the dark, Townsend had developed his theory
with amazing cleverness.
"It's a treat to work with you," the great surgeon said. "As a matter
of fact, Sir Clement had got hold of something that struck me as
absolutely unique. It's a flower called the Cardinal Moth. A flower on
a flower, so to speak; a large cluster of whitey-pink blossoms with
little red blooms hovering over like a cloud of scarlet moths. Sir
Clement is very pleased about it."
"From what you say I gather that he has not had it long, sir?"
"Oh, I should say quite recently! But you are not going to tell me that
you suspect Frobisher?"
"At present, I don't suspect anybody, though Sir Clement is an
unmitigated rascal who would not stop at any crime to serve his own
ends. I don't go so far as to say that he had a hand in the business,
but I do say that he could tell us exactly how the tragedy took place."
Sir James shot an admiring glance in the direction of the speaker.
Frobisher's elfish interest in the crime, and his amazing _sang-froid_
under the circumstances, had struck the surgeon unpleasantly. Townsend
looked reflectively into the mahogany depths of his whisky and soda.
"It's one thing to know that, and quite another to make a man like Sir
Clement speak," he said. "I am more or less with you, sir, over the
Thugee business, but was the crime committed with a rope? I shall not
be surprised to find that it was done with a bramble, something like
honeysuckle or the like. But at the same time as you seemed so certain
about the rope, why----"
Townsend waved his hand significantly. Sir James rose and unlocked a
safe from which he produced an envelope with some fibrous brown strands
in it. These he placed under a powerful microscope.
"Now, these I took from the throat of the poor fellow who was killed at
Streatham," he explained. "I was rather bored by the case when you
called me in first, and even up to the time I gave my evidence at the
inquest. After the inquest was over I examined the body over again, and
I confess that my interest increased as I proceeded. After what you
have just told me I am completely fascinated. I made a most careful
examination of the dead man's neck once, and had discovered that he had
died of strangulation, and bit by bit I collected these. They are
fibres of the rope with which the crime was done."
Townsend nodded so far as Sir James had proved his case.
"Have you done as much with the poor fellow at Sir Clement's residence?"
he asked.
"No, but I shall do so in the morning. This is a curious sort of stuff,
Townsend, and certainly not made in England. It is not rope or cord in
our commercial sense of the word, but a strong Manilla twist of native
fibre. Thus we are going to introduce a foreign element into the
solution."
Townsend smiled as he produced a little packet from his pocket and laid
it on the table.
"You are building up my theory for me, wonderfully, sir," he said. "I
also have something of the same sort here, only I have more than you
seem to have collected. Here is the same sort of fibre from Mr.
Manfred's collar-stud, so that he must have been strangled over his
collar, which means a powerful pressure. I didn't think it possible for
human hands to put a pressure like that, but there it is."
"My word, we've got a powerful assassin to look for!" Sir James
exclaimed. "Like you, I should not have deemed it possible. Did you
find all that on Manfred's collar-stud?"
"Not all of it, sir. The collar-stud was bent up as if it had been a
bit of tinfoil. But I found the bulk of this under the dead man's
finger-nails. They are long nails, and doubtless in the agony of
strangulation they clutched frantically at the cord. I am quite sure
that you will find this fibre to be identical with that which you took
from the neck of the Streatham victim."
"And this caretaker you speak of. Is he a respectable man?
Silverthorne you said his name was, I fancy."
"That's the man, sir. He has been in his present employ for
one-and-twenty years, a hard-working, saving man, with a big family. Oh,
I should take his word for most things that he told me!"
Sir James revolved the problem slowly in his mind, as he inhaled his
cigarette smoke. If the Lennox nursery had been deliberately made the
centre of a puzzling murder mystery, it was quite sure that neither the
nursery proprietor nor his man knew anything whatever about it. And yet
it had been necessary, for some reason, that a glass-house should play
an important part, for both murders had taken place under glass, and
both suggested that the orchid was at the bottom of it. Again, Townsend
was not the kind of man to make reckless statements, and when he boldly
averred that Sir Clement Frobisher could tell all about it if he liked,
he had assuredly some very strong evidence to go upon. A great deal
depended upon the analysis of the red, liquid stain on the fibre taken
by Townsend from the body of Manfred.
"If these little bits of stuff could speak what tales they could tell,"
Sir James said, as he carefully locked up both packets of fibre. I'll
get up an hour earlier in the morning and have a dig at these, Townsend.
And meanwhile as my days are busy ones, and it's past one o clock, I
shall have to get you to finish your drink and give me your room instead
of your company.
Townsend took the hint and his hat and retired. But though Sir James had
expressed his intention of retiring almost immediately, he stretched out
his hand for another cigarette and lighted it thoughtfully. Was it
possible, he wondered, if Sir Clement Frobisher really could solve the
mystery? And had he anything to do with it? Not directly, Sir James
felt sure; Frobisher was not that kind of man. He was much more likely
to get the thing done for him. He was secretive, too, over the Cardinal
Moth; he had behaved so queerly over that business of Count Lefroy and
his insult of Frobisher's guest. Brownsmith pitched his cigarette into
the grate, and switched off the electric light impatiently.
"Why should I worry my head about it?" he muttered. "I'll go to bed."
*CHAPTER VII.*
*A GRIP OF STEEL.*
Sir Clement had not gone to bed yet. He sat over a final pipe in his
dressing-room, the fumes of the acrid tobacco lingered everywhere. The
owner of the house leant back, his eyes half closed, and the smile on
his face suggestive of one who is recalling some exquisite comedy. A
shocking tragedy had been enacted almost under his very eyes, and yet
from Frobisher's attitude the thing had pleased him, he was not in the
least disturbed.
He began to kick off his clothing slowly, the filthy clay pipe between
his lips. He touched a bell, and Hafid slid into the room. There was
terror in his eyes enough and to spare. He might have been a detected
murderer in the presence of his accuser. He trembled, his lips were
twitching piteously, there was something about him of the rabbit trying
to escape.
"Well, mooncalf," Frobisher said with bitter raillery. "Well, my
paralytic pearl of idiots. Why do you stand there as if somebody was
tickling your midriff with a bowie knife?"
"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," Hafid muttered. The man was
silly with terror. "Take it and burn it, and destroy it."
"Oh, Lord, was there ever such a fool since the world began?" Frobisher
cried. "If you make that remark again I'll jamb your head against the
wall till your teeth chatter."
"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," Hafid went on mechanically.
"Master, I can't help it. My tongue does not seem able to say anything
else. Let me go, send me away. I'm not longer to be trusted. I shall
run wild into the night with my story."
"Yes, and I shall run wild with my story in the day-time, and where will
you be then, my blusterer? What's the matter with the man? Has anybody
been murdered?"
"No," Hafid said slowly, as if the words were being dragged out of him.
"At least, the law could not say so. No, master, nobody has been
murdered."
"Then what are you making all this silly fuss about? Nobody has been
murdered but an inquisitive thief who has accidentally met with his
death. Other inquisitive thieves are likely to meet with the same fate.
Past master amongst congenial idiots, go to bed."
Frobisher shouted the command backed up by a sounding smack on the side
of Hafid's head. He went off without sense or feeling; indeed, he was
hardly conscious of the blow. Frobisher sat there smiling, sucking at
the marrow of his pipe, and slowly preparing for bed. His alertness and
attention never relaxed a moment, his quick ears lost nothing.
"Who's moving in the house?" he muttered. "I heard a door open softly.
When people want to get about a house at dead of night it is a mistake
to move softly. The action is suspicious, whereas if the thing were
openly done, one doesn't trouble."
Frobisher snapped out the lights and stood in the doorway, rigid to
attention. Presently the darkness seemed to rustle and breathe, there
was a faint suggestion of air in motion, and then silence again.
Frobisher grinned to himself as he slipped back into his room.
"Angela," he said softly; "I could detect that faint fragrance of her
anywhere. Now what's she creeping about the house at this time for? If
she isn't back again in a quarter of an hour I shall proceed to
investigate. My cold and haughty Angela on assignation bent! Oh, oh!"
Angela slipped silently down the broad stairway, utterly unconscious of
the fact that she had been discovered. She was usually self-contained
enough, but her heart was beating a little faster than usual. In some
vague way she could not disassociate this visit of Harold's from the
tragedy of the earlier evening. And to a certain extent Harold was
compromising her, a thing he would have hesitated to do unless the need
had been very pressing. By instinct Angela found her way to the
garden-room window, the well-oiled catch came back with a click, and
Harold was in the room. They wanted no light, the moon was more than
sufficient. Harold's face was pale and distressed in the softened rays
of light.
"My dearest, I had to come," he whispered in extenuation. "It was my
only chance. I could not possibly enter Sir Frobisher's house by
legitimate means, and yet at the same time it is important that I should
see certain things here. If I could only tell you everything!"
"Tell me all or as little as you like," Angela whispered. "I can trust
you all the same."
"It is good to hear you say that, Angela. It was wrong of me to come,
and yet there was no other way. Did you show Sir Clement those blossoms
that I gave you?"
"My dear, there was no possible chance. I placed the spray in the
conservatory, intending to give my guardian a pleasant surprise
to-morrow, and then the tragedy happened. But of course you know
nothing of that."
"Indeed I do, Angela. I know all about it. Jessop, the judge, who dined
here to-night, came into the club full of it. Manfred, Count Lefroy's
secretary, wasn't it?"
"The same man. I cannot understand it. Harold. There was a man in the
conservatory, or rather there was a man going towards the conservatory,
who had no business there. Anybody could see that from his manner. My
idea was to place the spray there and to ask the intruder what he was
doing. When I reached the conservatory the place was empty. Absolutely
empty, and yet I had seen the man enter! There is no exit either. I
went back to my room not knowing what to think. And shortly afterwards
I heard Hafid cry out. From the top of the stairs I heard all that was
going on. And the man who had been strangled in the conservatory was
the very man I had seen."
Denvers said nothing for the moment. He was breathing hard and his face
was pale with horror. Angela could feel his hand trembling as she laid
her own upon it.
"I think you understand," she whispered. "I fancy that you know.
Harold, tell me what all this strange mystery means."
"Not yet," Denvers replied. "You must wait. Nobody ever heard the like
of it before. And so long as you are under the same roof as--but what
am I talking about? But this much I may say: the whole horrible problem
revolves round the Cardinal Moth."
"Round the flower that you gave me to-night, Harold! And that so
innocent looking and beautiful."
"Well, there it is. I have been on the fringe of it for some time.
Angela, you must give me back that spray of blossom, you must not
mention it to Sir Clement at all. And now I must have a look into the
conservatory, indeed I came on purpose."
"You came expecting to find something, a clue to the mystery there?"
"Well, yes, if you like to put it that way," Denvers murmured, avoiding
Angela's eyes for the first time. "I had a plant of that Cardinal Moth
which I deemed safely hidden in Streatham. Why I had to hide it I will
tell you in due course. It had a great deal to do between myself and
the Shan of Koordstan, with whom I hoped to do important business. I
mentioned it to him and he showed me a paragraph in a paper which for
the moment has scattered all my plans. As soon as I read that paragraph
I felt certain that my Moth had been stolen, though it cost one life to
get it. When I heard of the tragedy here to-night, I was absolutely sure
as to my facts. Angela, my Moth is in the conservatory here, and
Manfred lost his life trying to steal it for somebody else."
Angela listened with a vague feeling that she would wake presently and
find it all a dream. A new horror had been added to the house in the
last few minutes.
"Let us hope you are wrong," she said with a shudder. "Come and see at
once. But what do you propose to do if you find that your suspicions
are correct?"
Denvers hardly knew; he had had no time to think that part out. He
reached out to find a switch for the light, but Angela's gentle hand
detained him.
"The moon must suffice," she said. "Sir Clement has eyes like a hawk.
What's that?"
A thud in the hall followed by an unmistakable cry of pain. It was only
just for an instant, and then there was silence again. Angela drew her
lover back into the shadow of the curtain.
"That was Sir Clement," she whispered. "Whether he has found me out, or
has merely come down for something, I can't say. Probably he kicked
against something in the dark. Harold!"
For Harold had darted out from the curtain and gripped something that
looked like a shadow. As he dragged his burden forward the moon shone
on the dull features of Hafid. Taken suddenly as he had been, he did
not display the slightest traces of fear.
"My beautiful mistress is watched," he said smoothly. "I came to warn
her. Sir Clement has gone up to his dressing-room for his slippers. He
struck his illustrious toe against a marble table and----"
"Then follow him and lock him in," Harold said hurriedly. "Do that and
you shall not be forgotten. Lock the dressing-room door whilst you are
pretending to look for the slippers."
"You could do me no greater service," Angela whispered sweetly.
Hafid hastened off as noiselessly as a cat. There was nothing short of
murder that he would not have done for Angela. There was no light in
Frobisher's dressing-room, by the aid of the moon he was fumbling for
his slippers. He turned as Hafid entered.
"My master was moving and I heard him," Hafid said. "Is there anything
that I can do?"
"Yes," Frobisher said crisply. "You can hunt round and find my
confounded slippers. That fool of a man of mine never puts things in
the same place twice."
Hafid came back presently with the missing articles. The key of the
dressing-room was in his pocket, he slipped through the bedroom and
locked that door also. Frobisher stood listening a minute or two with a
queer, uneasy grin on his face. Evidently this little accident had not
frightened the game away. He turned the handle softly, but with no
effect. He shook the door passionately. Something seemed to have gone
wrong with the lock. That Hafid should have dared to play such a trick
never for one moment entered Frobisher's mind. With his well-trained
philosophy Frobisher sat down and filled his pipe. What a woman had done
safely once, she was certain to attempt again, he argued, perhaps try
and attempt a better move. And there were other light nights before the
moon had passed the full. Denvers stood listening, but no further sound
came. The attempt must be made now or never.
"Show me the conservatory," he whispered. "There are long folding steps,
of course? Then you can stay in the doorway till I have finished, My
darling, I am truly sorry to expose you to all this, but----"
Angela led the way. It was fairly light in the great glass tank with
its tangle of blooms, but as Denvers entered a great gush of steam shot
up from the automatic pipe and filled the dome with vapour. Harold
quickly drew the long steps to the centre and mounted. He disappeared
in the mist and was quickly lost amongst the tangle of ropes and
blossoms. He had to wait for the periodical cloud of vapour to pass
away before he could make a searching examination. So far as Angela
could see, nobody was in the roof at all, it was as if Denvers had
disappeared, leaving no trace behind.
There was another gush of steam followed by a shower of falling
blossoms, and a quick cry of pain from the dome. As Angela darted
forward the cry of pain came again, there was a confused vision of a
struggling figure, and then Denvers came staggering down the steps
holding his right arm to his side, his face bedabbled with a moisture
that was caused by something beyond the heated atmosphere.
"What has happened?" Angela asked hurriedly. "Have you had an accident
with your arm?"
Denvers stood there gasping and reeling for a moment. The steam had all
evaporated now, and there was nothing to be seen in the dome but a
tangle of blossoms on their rigid cords. At Denvers' feet lay a spray
of the Cardinal Moth. Despite his pain he placed it in his pocket.
"Look here," he said hoarsely. "This is witchcraft. Somebody grasped
my arm, some unseen force clutched me. I managed to get away by sheer
strength, but look here."
There was a ring of blood all round Denvers' wrist, the flesh had been
cut almost to the bone. It seemed almost impossible for a human hand to
grasp like that, but there it was. And up in the dome now there was
nothing to be seen but the tangled masses of glorious blooms.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*THE WEAKER VESSEL.*
Like most men of his class, Frobisher had a perfect knowledge of the art
of using others. To study their weakness was always the first stage of
the game, and therefore in an early stage of their acquaintance the
little baronet learnt the fact that Paul Lopez was criminally
extravagant with his money. How Lopez got rid of it Frobisher neither
knew nor cared, the weakness paid him, and there was an end of it.