“James Buildings is the next turning on the left,” said Mr. Ellis.
“You had better go on ahead. When you have got the door open we will
follow--my men are all here. But for Heaven’s sake run no more risk
than you can help.”
His words were sounding in my ears as I stole down the narrow street.
All the windows seemed to be in darkness; there was not a creature to
be seen. As I went a thought suddenly occurred to me--I had no key.
The girl had spoken about gaining admission with a key. It seemed that
the only thing to be done was to go back to her in search of it.
As I decided that the only thing to be done was to return and tell Mr.
Ellis of my stupidity I drew the shawl closer around me and--something
struck me quite a smart blow over the breast as I swung the corner
over. There was something concealed in the shawl. I felt for it;
something hard was tied in a knot in the corner. I unloosed it. It was
a key--possibly the key I wanted.
I hurried on with the key in my hand. Odd numbers were on one side of
the street, even on the other. The door of No. 3 was in a shocking
state. I could see how grimy the windows were, and how the blinds
which veiled them were in keeping. There was not a glimmer at one of
them. I was just about to insert the key into the lock when I thought
of the whistle the girl had said she always gave before she did so. I
am rather a good whistler; but it was odd how, on a sudden, I had
become doubtful of my capacity. With difficulty I produced the note. I
had not intended it to be a loud one, yet it seemed to me that it must
have been audible streets away. Then I put the key into the lock and
opened the door.
As I did so some one came up behind me. It was Mr. Ellis. I had seen
him coming, but so noiselessly had he moved that I had heard nothing.
Four other men came after him. We entered the hall--I first, Mr. Ellis
and his four men after me. The moment my foot crossed the threshold I
began to sing the chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.” The girl’s voice had
been soprano; hers had struck me as being very soft and sweet; I felt
that mine was shriller. I tried to pronounce the words as she had
done, so that they seemed to an English ear to be so much gibberish. I
do not know to what extent I succeeded in rendering it as she would
have done; I do know that singing that immortal chorus under such
conditions had on me the most singular effect. I wondered what effect
the performance was producing upstairs.
One of the constables had a dark lantern, by whose light we ascended
the uncarpeted, rickety staircase. Two men remained below to keep an
eye on the street; Mr. Ellis and the two others went up with me. Not a
word was spoken; my singing was the only sound there was. I was
through the chorus before we were up the second flight of stairs, so,
in order to cover a possible stumble on the part of the men behind me,
I started it again.
We reached the third floor. There was a door immediately in front of
us. As I paused my heart was beating so noisily that it seemed to me
it must be audible to whoever might be within.
I gritted my teeth as I knocked at the door--one tap; then knocked
again--two taps; another interval--three taps. Then I grasped the
handle, turned it, opened the door, and went into the room, with my
heart in my mouth.
The programme we had arranged was that I was to enter the room alone,
divert the attention of the man within, then give a tiny whistle, and
Mr. Ellis and his companions were to appear, and ensure his never
reaching the bomb at all.
When I opened the door it was to find that there was darkness in the
room. This was unlooked for. I had expected to find a light of some
sort, if only a candle or a lamp. It was a strange sensation to enter
a room of which I knew nothing and could see nothing, with the
consciousness strong upon me that it was occupied by a desperate,
blood-stained wretch, who had that hideous weapon of destruction
within reach of his fingers. No words of mine could describe my
feelings. I did not know whether to move or to speak, or what to do.
Any instant, in the darkness, before we knew what he was about to do,
the bomb might be thrown--death would be on us.
I longed for a light; yet how was I to get one, ignorant as I was of
the geography of the room and of what it contained? I ventured to
move, and struck against the back of a chair. He must have heard. I
had a sudden feeling that the dreadful silence could not continue. I
summoned up my knowledge of the sort of German the girl had spoken.
“Where are you? Why do you not speak to me? Why are you hiding? Why is
it so dark?”
When I had put my four questions I had a fresh access of fright. Now I
felt the bomb must come, but it did not. The silence continued, and on
the instant I became conscious of a quality in the silence which made
me behave as if I had lost my head. I broke into reiterated
exclamation, throwing open the door.
“Give me a light! Give me a light! Give me a light!”
The constable turned the shutter of his dark lantern, and allowed its
light to travel round the room.
“What’s that,” he asked, “upon the bed?”
The light was resting on what seemed to be a truckle bed, on which
something was lying. It was a man, huddled up anyhow, partially
dressed, amid some filthy scanty bed-clothes. I thought for the moment
he was dead. But as we looked he turned slowly over on to his side,
and stretched a lean, brown hand towards an old deal table within a
foot of his bedside, on which was a quantity of the sort of wool which
they use for stuffing chairs. Resting on this was what looked like one
of the gleaming glass balls which serve as decorations for
Christmas-trees.
It burst on me what it was. Ere his hand got there I snatched it up.
As I did so he rolled off rather than rose from his bed, jerking
towards me his claw-like fingers. I shrieked; I had to. Mr. Ellis and
his men rushed forward. Some one caught the man by the shoulder. The
instant he was touched he collapsed on the floor--dead; so near he had
been to dying when we came in.
Later inspection by experts made it clear that the glass ball I had
caught up was a bomb of a particularly diabolical sort. Had it been
exploded in that small room the whole of James Buildings might have
been destroyed with their inhabitants. Death, however, removed its
owner before he had been able to put his benevolent design into
execution.
The girl whose shawl I had annexed made a statement to the police, by
which it appeared that the man’s name was Stepan Grilovitch. His
chiefly had been the hand which had dealt out death in Great Glenn
Street. There the shooting had taken place in a darkened room. As, in
the circumstances, was not surprising, a shot from one of his friends
had struck him; he had been conveyed to that upper room, where he had
been in charge of the girl ever since. The wound had gangrened. A
doctor might have prevented it; on the other hand, a doctor would
almost certainly have sent him to the gallows. He preferred to die in
another way instead. What became of his brother I do not know; he has
never crossed my orbit since. Nor, thank goodness, have I seen
anything more of the man with the ginger hair.
I shall never forget mounting that rickety staircase, singing “Auld
Lang Syne”; or those awful moments in the pitch-black room.
It was only afterwards I remembered that when I reached the top of the
staircase, before tapping at the door, I had omitted to give what the
girl said Stepan Grilovitch called the password: “Gruss!” What a
shudder went all over me in the first shock of recollection! Sometimes
that shudder comes over me still.
VII.
ISOLDA
Experience has taught me that people discuss the most confidential
matters in public places; chiefly, probably, in establishments in
which persons eat and drink in public. I have often been disconcerted
in a restaurant by the discovery of the amazingly intimate themes of
the conversations which are being carried on around me. It is on such
occasions that the gift I have of learning what people are saying by
merely looking at their faces becomes a very questionable possession.
I have had to keep my eyes fastened on my plate to avoid having
observations forced upon me which were certainly intended for no one
but the individual to whom they were addressed. Once, when I was
lunching with Mr. Carryer at the King’s Restaurant, I actually saw a
girl proposing to a man--she was quite a pretty girl too; I had been
admiring her hat. I saw her say to the man with whom she was sharing a
table:
“Arthur, won’t you marry me? Say you will. I don’t believe you have
any idea how fond I am of you; I’d love to be your wife.”
I did not see what his reply was; I looked away, feeling that this was
certainly a case in which a third person was not company. I had
scarcely got over the embarrassment which my unintentional
eavesdropping had occasioned me when Harry Carryer said:
“You see that fellow over there? That’s Isolda.”
I did not dare to lift my eyes; I might be forced to glance in the
direction of that table, and goodness only knew what the couple might
be saying. I just murmured a question:
“And who may Isolda be?”
“I thought every one knew who Isolda was. He’s the fortune-telling
Johnnie, chiromancer, palmist, or whatever he calls himself, whom
every one is rushing to consult. Women tell me that they think he is
so beautiful, and are quite rude when I tell them that I don’t think
so.”
I knew to whom Harry was referring without looking, though to please
him I looked again. There was a person seated alone at a table on our
right, the moment I saw him I had set him down to be something of the
kind. As I observed him, Mr. Carryer went on talking.
“All sorts of queer tales are told about Isolda. I know a girl who
never does a single thing without consulting him; she made me swear
that I wouldn’t tell her mother how often she goes to him, but I have
often felt that I should like to--silly idiot! Then I know a married
woman who declares that he told her the exact sum an uncle of hers
would leave her, and the precise date on which he would die, three
years before the event came off--she is quite mad with me when I say I
don’t believe it.”
Isolda was a tall, narrow-chested, thin-faced, large-lipped, big-eyed,
long-haired, dandified individual, who, I felt sure, reeked with
perfume. Presently a man crossed the restaurant and took a seat at
Isolda’s table. In appearance he was a contrast to Isolda--short,
thick-set, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, even at that distance I was
convinced that he smelt of the country and the open air. Harry Carryer
proceeded to regale me with a variety of anecdotes in which Isolda was
the chief character; some of them were such odd ones that I glanced at
him again. The red-faced man was speaking with such emphasis that I
had to see what he was saying.
“You understand, I am going to post you up in everything about her,
and you must let it off on her as if you had got it from the stars.
You are to tell her that the consumption of which her sister Elsie
died was brought on by a broken heart, because she was in love with a
dark man with a slight cast in one eye--that’s Tom Harvey; I know she
was spoons on him--she couldn’t marry him because he had got no money.
Then you are to tell her that her fate is mixed up--well, describe a
man like me; lay it on thick. Tell her I have proposed to her five
times--which I have; and that if she don’t take me when I make it the
sixth there’ll be no end of a rumpus. And, look here--this is what I
particularly want you to tell her.”
The speaker, leaning over the table, I have no doubt dropped his voice
to a whisper--he had grace enough to do that.
“Tell her that she once cheated at baccarat, that the secret is known
to two persons, and that the only way she can save herself from a
scandal is by marrying me. Tell her also that she owes money for
bets--so she does, a good bit--and that exposure is bound to come
unless she protects herself by becoming my wife. Make it as hot as you
please--you can invent two or three things for yourself if you like;
she’s expecting such a lot from coming to see you that she’ll swallow
anything. My idea is that you give her a regular fit of the blues; if
you manage things properly, when I propose to her again, to-night or
to-morrow, she’ll accept me right away--and if she does accept me I’ll
give you fifty pounds.”
Isolda made merely one remark.
“Fifty pounds is not a large sum--for a wife.”
I was conscious that Harry Carryer was saying: “You seem to be taking
a great interest in the Isolda chap; do you think he’s so beautiful?”
“I don’t; you know I’m a student of character--I was studying his.”
As a matter of fact I was amused by the expression which had come on
the red-cheeked person’s face; he was staring at the palmist as if he
would have liked to hit him.
“Fifty pounds isn’t bad pay for a few minutes’ talking; you will have
to say something to her, anyhow; I’m giving you a distinct leg-up by
dropping you a hint or two.” Isolda said nothing; he was apparently
engrossed with the contents of his plate. The other plainly resented
his silence. “Well, aren’t you going to tell her what I want you to? I
would never have sent her to you at all if I’d thought you were going
to turn up rusty. You’ve done this sort of thing for me before.”
“At your request I told a friend of yours that a certain horse would
win a race which you knew it would not win, and it didn’t. It is
possible that she lost a considerable sum of money by backing it.”
The other smiled; I did not at all like the look on his face when he
smiled.
“She did--a pot full; she came a regular cropper; served her right--I
owed her one: that made us even. Are you going to do this for me now?”
“I tell you again that fifty pounds is not a large sum--for a wife.”
“How much do you want?”
“At least a hundred.” The palmist ate his luncheon as if the
conversation had no interest for him. The other did not look pleased.
“A hundred?--for ten minutes’ talk?--You’ve a conscience!”
“Can as much be said for you?--Some people have none.”
“If I give you a hundred, will you make it a dead certainty for me?”
“I will follow out your instructions; you are aware that I am an
artist in such matters.” Something which might have been a smile
flitted across the speaker’s curious features; the other seemed to be
screwing himself to the sticking-point.
“Very well, you shall have a hundred; only mind--I trust you.”
“Fifty now and the rest to-morrow.”
“What do you mean by fifty now? You shall have your money when the
job’s done.”
“I’ve told you my terms. You must excuse me, I have an appointment; I
have stayed too long.” The speaker made as if to rise; the other laid
his hand upon his arm.
“Sit still--I’ve a cheque in my pocket; you shall have your fifty.
What difference does it make, to-day or to-morrow?”
The speaker produced a blank cheque and a fountain-pen. As he was
filling up the cheque the palmist asked:
“What is the lady’s name--this time?”
“The lady’s name--this time--is Lucille Godwin. She is coming from
Hyde Park Gate. I impressed on her the necessity of being
punctual--she will be with you at three-thirty sharp. I told her to
wear a sprig of white heather; as I believe it’s not your custom to
ask your clients for their names; it impresses them so much more to
find that you know them without asking; that sprig of white heather
will tell you who she is. Here’s your cheque; you shall have the same
to-morrow if the job is well done.” The slip of paper changed hands.
“And if she doesn’t wear the sprig of white heather?”
“She’ll have cornflowers in her hat; cornflower blue is her favourite
colour; it does become her. She thinks cornflowers bring her
luck--she’s always got one stowed away somewhere about her.”
“That’s the most significant item of information you’ve given me yet;
it’s possible that I may be able to make more of that than of anything
else. I wish you good morning.”
He slipped the cheque into his waistcoat-pocket as he rose from his
chair. I was struck by his, of course, fanciful resemblance to a
bean-stick--he was so tall, so straight, so slender. I do not think I
ever saw a thinner man, nor one more beautifully tailored. His
frock-coat, shaped to his figure, coming to below his knees,
emphasized both his slimness and his height. There was a weird
something about the garment which suggested a cassock; as he moved
between the tables, the observed of all observers, he might have been
a priest rather than a layman.
“Queer looking fish,” commented Mr. Carryer, with a certain acidity.
“You are like all the rest of the women, you’re more interested in him
than in your lunch; what you all see in him I can’t imagine.”
“Nor can I.” I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was just after
two; I wondered if I could communicate with Miss Lucille Godwin before
she started for Isolda. I asked the waiter for the telephone call
book. Harry surveyed me, as I searched its columns, with disapproving
glances.
“If you’ll hand that over to me I shall probably be able to find the
name you’re hunting quicker than you; your coffee is getting cold.”
“I’m looking for a person named Godwin. Ah, here we are--Godwin; there
seems to be lots of them, they are all over London--Hyde Park Gate,
that looks like the one I’m after. If you don’t mind, I rather want to
send a telephone message.”