He looked at me. As I have remarked, he was one of your observant men
who have a trick of seeing what is beneath the surface. I suppose he
saw something on my face which set his own thoughts travelling.
“Is it some one for you?”
“It is some one for you.”
“For me?”
“At last.”
“Is that so? Some one for me--at last.” He stopped; there was silence;
the bell rang again. I was just about to suggest again that he should
go and see who was at the outer door when--he leaped at me. No other
word but “leaped” would so well describe the manner of his assault.
And I was unprepared. He had me by the throat before I had even
realized that danger threatened. I was to blame; I ought to have been
on my guard. As it was, so swift were his movements, so strong his
grip, that I was already finding it hard to breathe before I had a
chance to pull myself together.
I am a woman, but I am no weakling. I have always felt it my duty to
keep my body in proper condition, trying to learn all that physical
culture can teach me. He had the start of me; as I said, he was
already choking the breath out of me before I was able to pull myself
together; when I did, he did not find me so helpless as he perhaps had
hoped. I only recently had been having lessons in jiu-jitsu--the
Japanese art of self-defence. I had been diligently practising a trick
which was intended to be used when a frontal attack was made upon the
throat. His pre-occupation, his insensate rage, his unpreparedness,
which was even greater than mine had been--these things were on my
side. Even as, I dare say, he was thinking that I was already as good
as done for--I tried that trick. His fingers released my throat, and
he was on the floor without, I fancy, understanding how he got there,
I doubt if there ever was a more amazed man. When he began to realize
what had happened, he gasped up at me--he was still on the floor--
“You--you----” While he was still endeavouring to find adjectives
sufficiently strong to fit the occasion, the person came into the room
for whose attendance I had telegraphed to Scotland Yard. In the note I
had left at the hotel I told him to follow me at once, and if he was
not able to obtain instant admission to the house, then he was to use
means of his own to get in quickly; I had had a premonition that I
might have trouble with Mr. Thomas Walker. He had some useful skeleton
keys in his pocket, which had once been part of a skilful burglar’s
outfit; when there came no answer to his ringing, he promptly opened
the front door with them.
Mr. Thomas Walker understood what the new-comer’s presence meant; he
needed no explanation. In the struggle I had dropped the blue phial, a
fact which he realized quicker than I did. Before I knew it had
fallen, he--still on the floor--had snatched it, had the cork out, was
putting the bottle to his lips--
“Stop him!” I cried. “It’s poison!”
I cried too late; before we could reach him he had emptied the
phial--he was dead--as quickly as if he had been struck by lightning.
The phial had contained sufficient cyanide of potassium to kill fifty
men. The death he had meant for his partner was his instead.
Representations were made to the authorities; Michael Hutton’s
confession was placed before them, together with certain facts which
came to light when examination was made of Thomas Walker’s papers.
George Young was pardoned--for what he had never done. Old Mr. Hutton
was arrested--he died before the magistrate’s examination was
concluded; it was found that he had made a will by which all he
possessed was left to the man he had so cruelly injured.
I was only in Torquay one night and part of a day; on the night of
that day I slept in London. The following morning I returned to
Easthampton. I had told myself, more than once, what a foolish person
I was to meddle in such unpleasant matters which were no concern of
mine; but when I explained to Mrs. Young what had happened, and saw
the look which came upon her face as she listened and began to
understand--I was not so sure that I had been foolish after all.
XI.
“8 ELM GROVE--BACK ENTRANCE”
This story is, in many respects, such a strange one, that it is not
easy to know how to set it down; whether to tell it backwards, or to
commence at the beginning. It is on that account that I preface it
with a remark that when, one afternoon, I was at the Arnolds’, and the
parlourmaid came into the room with a tea-tray in her hands, at the
sight of her I was so startled that I nearly dropped the pastel I was
holding.
But the story did not begin there. It began when I was returning from
spending an evening with some friends at Blackheath. I came back by
the Greenwich tram; I had to return or I would have stayed the night
with my friends, who were most reluctant to let me go. I believe it
was the last tram. It was most dreadful weather. I had the vehicle to
myself until it was boarded by two men, whom I should have described
as of distinctly suspicious appearance. They sat in perfect silence
till one of them rose to get off, when the other said to him in tones
which were inaudible to me:
“Now don’t you make any mistake--8 Elm Grove--back entrance. Got it
right?”
“Of course I’ve got it right. What do you take me for? Think that in
my position I’m likely to make a mess of a thing like that?”
The speaker had a large square bag, made of what seemed to me to be a
piece of old red carpet. It seemed to be full of something which was
so heavy that it was all he could do to carry it. The car stopped; he
got off; the other man remained. He was a square-faced, dark-visaged
person; his cloth cap was crammed close down over his head. His cheeks
were blue with the promise of a beard which badly needed a razor. As
was the case with the man who had just departed, there was nothing to
screen his lips, so that to me the words which they had uttered had
been obvious.
Presently the car stopped again; a policeman got on. At sight of him
the man started. If it had been possible, he would undoubtedly have
got off. But it was too late. The policeman shook, as well as he
could, the rain off his cape; left it near the door of the car, then
entered and took his seat. He looked about him. He saw the
black-visaged man, and the man saw him; plainly they knew each other.
The man looked murder; the policeman grinned.
“So it’s you,” he said. “I didn’t know you were out.”
The man replied with a sort of venomous fury.
“Who asked you what you knew? You mind your own affairs, and don’t you
talk to me when you’re not wanted to; that’s not your duty; you do
your duty and leave me alone.”
“All right, Chippy, no harm intended. I hope you’ll keep out longer
this time than you did last.”
The man made no reply; if looks could have killed there would
certainly have been an end of that policeman. I wondered what had been
the meaning of that reference to “8 Elm Grove--back entrance”; and
what had been the contents of that bag. I should rather have liked to
ask a question or two. The car stopped in the Westminster Bridge Road.
The three of us descended. The policeman went his way; I presume the
black-visaged man went his; I know that I went mine. I should probably
have forgotten the incident had it not been for something which
happened not many days afterwards--which brought it all back to my
memory with a rush.
I was standing in Piccadilly, waiting for an omnibus. A shabby,
unpleasant-looking individual was standing not very far from me, an
ancient billycock crammed over his eyes, his hands in his breeches
pockets, a broken clay pipe in the corner of his mouth. Suddenly some
one came hurrying across the road, threading his way among the vehicles
with the dexterity which is the birthright of a certain sort of
cockney. He was an undersized youth, whose attire was in the last stage
of decay. Apparently he wore no shirt; his coat was buttoned up to the
neck, the collar turned up. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets as
if he were unwilling to expose them to the air; I had a feeling that in
one of those pockets there might be something about whose safety he was
anxious. He went straight to the unpleasant-looking gentleman with a
pipe in his mouth. The man’s lips formed themselves into a question.
“Got it?” The youth nodded, casting quick glances behind him and on
either side. The man went on: “Then I told you what to do with it--if
I was you, the sooner the better. Remember what I said? 8 Elm
Grove--back entrance. Don’t you make any mistake.”
The youth passed into an entry which leads into Jermyn Street, and was
gone before I had realized where I had encountered that
unpleasant-looking person’s words before. “8 Elm Grove--back
entrance”--that was what the black-visaged man had said in that
Greenwich tramcar to his companion, who got out carrying the heavy
carpet bag. My bus came up before I had quite grasped the singularity
of this, and it was only after I had taken my place that I was
inclined to think that I had been perhaps a trifle hasty. That
unpleasant-looking person might have been worth a little observation.
I dare say it was a fortnight afterwards that I was at Waterloo
Station. There had been a race-meeting on the line; I doubt if there
are many places where one can see more evil-looking faces than at
Waterloo Station on such an occasion as that. It sometimes seems to me
that the place is full of the sweepings of the prisons. The race-goers
were returning; a cheap train was in. I drew away from the horde of
men who all at once crowded the platform. As I looked about me,
thinking of what a great artist would make of these singular
countenances, I noticed a man in a fawn-coloured overcoat go up to a
short and sturdy person who--with his legs wide apart and his hat
cocked on the back of his head--immediately accosted him. I saw quite
distinctly what he said.
“Hullo, George! I’ve been waiting for you. What luck?”
The other replied--I saw his answer; I wished I had not. His mouth
vomited forth foulness. He had had no luck; he had not been within ten
miles of a winner; he had come back stony broke. The other looked at
him; he had a toothpick between his lips, which he shifted from side
to side.
“Then it’s about time we did something, ain’t it, George? As far as
coin goes I’m about where you are. How about the girl? We’re ready for
her.”
“She comes out of Wandsworth prison to-morrow morning at six sharp,
and I’m going to be there to meet her; that’s what about the girl.
She’ll be ready as soon as we are.”
“I suppose she’ll be all right.”
“You bet she will; I’ll see to that. She does what I tell her
or--she’ll be sorry; she will.”
“Are you going to marry her, George?”
“Marry her?--Me?--Me marry her?--She won’t dare to ask me.”
“Suppose she cuts up rough--girls do sometimes, you know.”
“Yes, and so do men. That girl cares for me. I’ll show you how she
cares for me before we’ve done with her.” The speaker smiled--a thin,
horrible smile. “She’ll do just as I tell her without so much as a
whimper; she’d go through hell for me, and she shall.”
“She comes out to-morrow morning? Perhaps she’d better stay inside.”
“They won’t keep her, not this time they won’t. I shouldn’t wonder if
next time she makes more of a stay. When a woman’s been really useful
to you, it’s just as well to have her for once in a while out of your
way.”
“But this one’s very young, ain’t she?”
“All the better, you can work them easier when they’re young; and when
they’re young they are so fond of you--that makes it easier still.”
The two men grinned, and I could have struck them for it. The man who
had been racing stood closer up to the other, he showed him something
which was in his overcoat pocket. What it was I could not see; but I
saw him say, in tones which were clearly meant to reach the other
only:
“I’ve got a little something here--out of a lady’s bag.”
“Seems to me you’re always fond of the ladies, George. I suppose it’s
another case of 8 Elm Grove--back entrance.” Again the two men
grinned. “I have got a bob left; suppose we have something liquid.”
The pair moved off to the refreshment-room. I had been a spectator of
one of those scenes of which I see more than I like; I had been made,
after a fashion, a confidante of two individuals who I had no doubt
whatever were seasoned criminals. And again there had been that
reference to “8 Elm Grove--back entrance”; I could guess at what was
the nature of the something which the fellow had in his overcoat
pocket, but what stuck in my mind--what hurt me most--for when they
were gone I felt as if I were smarting all over--were their allusions
to the girl who, the next morning, was coming out of Wandsworth
prison. To what a fate she seemed to be coming; as the short man had
hinted, she had much better stay inside. The fellow in the overcoat
was, to a superficial eye, not bad-looking. He was about five foot
nine or ten, slightly built, upright; about him an air of jauntiness.
His features were fairly regular--he had a tiny moustache; but apart
from the fact that he had those whity-blue eyes which I, sometimes
perhaps unjustly, associate with cruelty and treachery, there was in
his whole expression a something mean, underhand, cunning, which would
have made me, had I stood near him in a crowd, look after my
belongings very carefully. He was, in short, the sort of person whom I
would have expected to “find” something in a lady’s bag. The idea that
he was going to get a young girl into his hands at the moment she was
coming out of the jail to which she had been sent for what, probably,
was her first offence; that she should be at his mercy to be fashioned
into whatever thing of evil he might choose; this was an idea which I
found it very hard to digest. The result was that at a very early hour
the next morning I set forth on a quixotic errand. Before six o’clock
I was outside the gates of Wandsworth jail.
Early though it was, I was not the first arrival. Perhaps a dozen
people were there before me--such specimens of humanity. There was
nothing to be seen of the man in the fawn overcoat. It suddenly burst
upon me that I should not be able to recognize the girl to whom he and
his companion had referred unless he addressed her first. While I was
glad enough that he was not there, in his absence what was I to do
when the discharged prisoners began to come out? I decided to await
events.
The prison clock had struck six some minutes when the great gate which
fronted us swung back--and a procession came out. Such a procession!
Whether such a procession is a daily occurrence I cannot say; I
imagine not. Probably chance had it that a number of sentences should
terminate together; I should say that more than twenty persons emerged
through the gates. I presume that they were liberated at such a
matutinal hour in order that they might re-enter the world before
people were up and about to observe from whence they came; yet, early
though it was, nearly without exception, each prisoner was met by some
one at the gate. For those who had no personal friend, there was a
Salvation Army lass and a bearded individual who bore the insignia of
that great organization. A slight, grey-headed man in tweeds who had a
notebook in his hand was, I took it, a representative of some society.
I kept my eye on the gate. No one at all resembling the person I
sought had, so far, appeared. Then, at the tail of the procession, she
came; I knew her in a moment. As she came, there appeared, I could
hardly have said from where, the man in the fawn-coloured overcoat. He
was dressed precisely as he had been on the previous afternoon. He
lifted his hat as she appeared, took her hand, and kissed her before
us all; and all at once she was in his arms crying as if her heart was
breaking.
It was a delicate situation--by me wholly unexpected. I could hardly
interfere in such a tender meeting; on what grounds? Because of
something I had not heard but seen the man say the previous afternoon.
If I proffered such a reason I might be laughed to scorn. I might have
misjudged him; I might have got the thing all wrong. How she cried;
how tenderly he soothed her. So far as intervention went, it struck me
with unpleasant force that I had not a leg to stand upon. I let them
pass me, the man’s arm round the weeping girl’s waist--I making no
attempt to thrust myself upon them. He led her to a taxi-cab, which
was standing by the kerb at a little distance. As they entered and the
cab drove off I recognized what a wild-goose errand I had come upon.
The procession ceased; the gates reclosed; prisoners and their friends
went their several ways. I moved off, with the feeling strong upon me
that I might just as well have stayed away. I went so slowly that the
others who went with brisker steps, before I had gone any distance,
were out of sight. Just as the last of them had vanished round a
corner, round that same corner there came a woman running--a matronly
woman, in a state of what, to me, seemed frenzied agitation. She was
moving quicker than I should say she had done for many a year. When
she got to me she stopped, her breath failing her.
“Have they--have they come out?” she gasped.
“Do you mean the prisoners--from the jail?”
“Of course I do. Who else would I mean?” She spoke like a person from
the country, setting her old-fashioned bonnet straight with trembling
hands. “I meant to have been here before, and I ought to have been,
only my train was late. Do you know if they’ve come out, young woman?”
“Some minutes ago; they’ve all of them gone their different ways.”
“Then--my daughter--has she come out?”
In her voice there was a note of anguish and of terror. Her agitation
increased. An idea occurred to me.
“Was your daughter a slight, dark-haired young woman, with big brown
eyes?”
“That’s my Mary, miss; did you see her, miss? If she’s out, where is
she? She knew I was coming; she might have guessed my train was late;
where has she gone?”
“If she’s the young woman I suppose, she was met by a slightly built
man, with very light blue eyes, who took her away with him in a
taxi-cab.”
The woman shrieked, positively shrieked, out there in the open street.
I have seldom been more startled.
“You don’t mean to say she’s gone with him! She can’t, she can’t! Not
when she knew that her mother was coming to meet her and take her
home! I’m her mother, and I tell you, she’s my girl.”
Before we parted I had heard her story and the story of her daughter’s
downfall. A painful one it was, though I am afraid it is one which is
only too common. The poor old lady was nearly broken-hearted. I saw
her to the railway station, into the train which was to take her back
home--alone. I promised that I would make all the inquiries that could
be made; and though I was occupied with very many matters, I did my
best.
But more than three months passed, and I learned nothing of the
whereabouts of her erring daughter until that afternoon when I was at
the Arnolds’ and that parlourmaid came into the room with the tea on a
tray. She was the young woman whom I had seen that morning emerge from
Wandsworth Prison, whom her mother, because the train which brought
her had been behind the scheduled time, had been too late to meet. It
was not surprising that I nearly dropped the pastel I was holding;
which brings me to the real beginning of my tale.
Mrs. Arnold’s drawing-room is a charming room; in the best sense of
the word, a feminine room--delicate, refined, delightful. Amy Arnold
had had her portrait done by a fashionable pastellist; it had just
come home; I had been looking at it when tea appeared. That
parlourmaid struck such a jarring note; she, as it were, projected me
into another world. Those doubtful characters on the Greenwich tram;
the young thief in Piccadilly; the pair of rascals at Waterloo; the
scene at the Wandsworth Prison gate--that dreadful procession, with
the girl at the tail; the despairing mother who had lost her
child--all these things came back to me in a series of discordant
notes as the parlourmaid put down the tea-tray. The shock was so
sudden that I hardly knew what to do; the pastel did not fall, but I
laid it on my lap lest it should fall next time.
It was undoubtedly the girl; her uniform made a difference, but there
was no mistaking her. I doubted if she had noticed me or what an
effect her entrance had had on me. I had probably gone unobserved by
her in the little crowd outside the prison gate.
When she had left the room I hardly knew what to say. They continued
to speak of the pastel; my thoughts were with the maid. As I thanked
Amy for the cup of tea she gave me I asked if the servant who had
brought it in was not a fresh one.
“Do you mean Jane?” she asked.
“Is her name Jane?” I inquired.
“Jane--or to give her her full style and title--Jane Stamp. I suppose
she has been with us about six weeks.”
“Nearly two months,” chimed in her mother, “and a very nice girl she
is, and a good servant. She is quite refined for a servant, yet not a
bit above her place. Don’t you think she’s pleasant looking?”
“I think she looks pale.”
“She is pale. I fancy she has troubles of her own. I have suspected
her, more than once, of crying.”
“Where did you get her from?”
“Through an advertisement. I got sick of the creatures they sent me
from the registry offices, so I tried an advertisement in the _Post_.
She was the result.”
“Did you have a character with her?”
“Of course I had a character.” Mrs. Arnold opened her eyes as if I had
suggested something utterly monstrous. “Does she look to you like a
girl who hasn’t a character? She was three years in her last place;
she only left it just before she came to me.”
“Where was her last place?”
“She was with some people named Reynolds who had a flat near the
Marble Arch--9A Waterman Mansions.”
“Did you see Mrs. Reynolds?”
“Of course I saw her; do you suppose that I should be satisfied with a
written character? My dear Judith, what are you thinking about? I
called one afternoon. She was rather a florid-looking person, but the
character she gave Jane was excellent. She only parted with her
because they were giving up the flat. I have found that sometimes
servants don’t come up to the characters I have had with them, but I
must say that, up to the present, Jane hasn’t given me any cause for
dissatisfaction. Of course, I’m aware that new brooms sweep clean, but
I am venturing to hope that I’ve found a jewel at last. You seem to be
very interested in Jane.”
I was--though Amy spoke casually. We returned to the subject of the
pastel. Amy thought that the artist had given her a little too much
colour; but while we talked my thoughts were with the parlourmaid. I
was wondering what I ought to do. I knew that her name was not Jane
Stamp--nor Jane anything; I knew that she had not been three years in
her last place, nor, at any time, with people named Reynolds. I knew,
in short, a great many things about her which would have surprised
Mrs. Arnold not a little. The question I had to answer was--was it my
duty to tell her what those things were? That would mean instant
dismissal for Jane Stamp. No mistress would keep her in her house
after such a revelation. And that would mean something of which I did
not care to think for the maid. Placed as she had been, she could only
have obtained such a situation by methods which would not bear the
light of day; but, having obtained it, might she not intend to do her
best, and, profiting by her past painful experience, be resolute not
to sin again?
I went away from Mrs. Arnold’s leaving these questions unanswered. I
admit that I was desirous of avoiding the responsibility of arriving
at a too hasty decision. A few hours should make no difference; I
would employ them in making certain investigations of my own.
Afterwards it would be time enough to speak to Mrs. Arnold--or to
Jane.
The first thing I did when I reached home was to get out a directory.
I looked up the Elm Groves; as I had expected, there were plenty of
them; there seemed to be Elm Groves in all parts of London. One at New
Cross attracted my attention. My knowledge of that locality was not
very exact, but I took it that that tramcar had been somewhere about
New Cross when that man with the carpet bag got out. So far as I could
judge, there might be an Elm Grove within quite a short distance of
where he had alighted; and No. 8, at the time that directory went to
press, was empty. It might have become occupied since then. At any
rate, I thought I would go and see; and I went, by the Greenwich
tramcar.
When we had gone some little distance I asked the conductor if he knew
of any Elm Grove in that district. He did not; tramcar conductors
never do know anything about places which are not immediately on their
line of route. But there were persons who had heard my question--then
the car was as full as it could hold--who were able to supply me with
the information I required. I received the most precise directions
from more than one of my fellow-passengers as to how I was to reach
Elm Grove; but precise as they were, it did not prove an easy place to
find.
Elm Grove was one of those surprises which one often encounters in
suburban London; it was a relic of the past; a street of
old-fashioned, solidly built houses, each standing in its own garden.
There seemed to be about a dozen on either side. I came to No.
8--there was nothing to show that it was to let. A person came out of
what I took to be No. 10, whom I addressed.
“Can you tell me,” I asked, “if this house is to let?”
He was rather a fussy-looking person, with a red face and whiskers to
match.
“That’s more than I can tell you,” he replied; “and, so far as I know,
more than anyone else can tell you either. I have been here going on
for five years, and it was like that when I came, and it’s like it
still. I believe that some of the rooms are furnished, because I have
seen lights in some of the windows, and I have heard that people have
been seen going in and out--but not by me. Between ourselves, round
about here that house is looked on as a bit of a mystery.”
He went his way and left me thinking. The front gate was locked.
Remembering that there had been some mention of a back entrance, I
went to the end of the road and turned to the right, and presently
came upon a sort of narrow lane which I proceeded to explore. These
were evidently the back doors to the houses in Elm Grove. Clearly some
of them were never used; some of them were overgrown with cobwebs and
creepers; one or two were boarded up. Then I came to a door which did
show signs of occasional usage. It was not easy to determine the
number to which it belonged--but I tried the handle. It yielded and
the door was open. Trusting that my boldness might have no serious
result, I passed through--to find myself in a garden which was a mere
wilderness of weeds. I do not think I ever saw one which suggested
more shocking neglect. There were thistles and nettles which came up
to my waist. It was only after momentary inspection that I perceived
that there was a sort of pathway through them; one which I fancied had
been lately used. The vegetation on either side had been quite
recently trodden down by somebody’s feet; I should have said by the
feet of more than one person. Pursuing my way along this apology for a
path, I found that it led to what had probably once been a solidly
constructed outhouse but which was now nothing but a ramshackle shed.
The door, which hung on a single hinge, looked as if, were it moved in
either direction, it might fall off. I looked to see what might be on
the other side of that door; I can only excuse my persistent curiosity
by saying that I felt convinced that there was something very odd
about No. 8 Elm Grove. The shed was littered with all sorts of what
seemed rubbish, mostly so buried under a wealth of dust, and dirt, and
cobwebs that it was not easy to guess what they might once have been.
There was one exception to this state of dust and dirt, and that
instantly caught my eye. In the corner stood what might have been a
huge corn bin; it was painted a dark green; it was covered by a lid
which seemed to be still intact--which was more than could be said for
anything else inside that shed. On the lid was an old packing-case.
That green-painted bin would have been all the better for another coat
of paint, but in other respects it was in such a good state of
preservation that it piqued my curiosity. I removed that packing-case,
and found that in the lid there was an aperture something like the
slit in a post-office letterbox, only on a slightly more generous
scale. It almost looked as if that packing-case had been meant to
conceal its presence. I had shut the garden gate as I had entered. As
I was wondering what that slit might mean, I heard the gate softly
opened and closed. There was a quantity of rubbish at the other end of
the shed. It was in a state of indescribable dirt and confusion.
Bolting towards it, I used it, so far as the thing was possible, as a
cover, crouching down behind it, regardless of the creatures of all
sorts whom I suspected my advent had disturbed.
Steps were approaching; I did not know how much of me was visible, but
I did not dare to risk the noise which would result from an attempt to
alter my position. Some one came quickly into the shed--a decently
dressed boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age; not at all
the sort of person I had expected to see. He had a good-sized leather
bag in his hand. Going straight to the bin in the corner, taking a key
out of his pocket, he slipped it into a lock which I had not noticed,
and part of the front came away in the shape of a door--of sufficient
size to enable him to thrust his entire body into the bin. When he
came out again his hands were filled with a number of different-sized
packages, done up, for the most part, in the rudest fashion--some in
pocket-handkerchiefs, some in grimy rags, some in scraps of
newspapers. One or two were secured in well-corded sheets of brown
paper; but, generally, they were innocent of string, or of anything
which could secure whatever they contained.
The boy made no attempt to examine them. He quickly counted them--I
could see his lips moving as he did so; nine he made the number. He
dropped them into his leather bag, which he shut with a snap, relocked
the door of the bin, and passed out of the shed as quickly as he had
come in--without once glancing in my direction. Apparently it had
never occurred to him as possible that anyone could be in the shed
beside himself.
So soon as I heard the garden gate open and shut again, regardless of
the state I was in, making the best of my way through the nettles and
the thistles, I was after him. When I reached the entry he was already
at the other end; when I gained the end, he was turning another
corner. I quickened my pace, determined, if possible, to see where
that bag was going; but it proved not to be possible, for when I
caught sight of him again he was getting into a taxi, which stood
waiting by the pavement, and whose head was turned the other way. I
believe I would have boarded that cab if I had had a chance, and made
a snatch at that leather bag; but before I had an opportunity to do
anything the vehicle had passed from sight, and I was left lamenting.
Pursuit was out of the question. There seemed to be no cabs at all in
that part of the world; that taxi had been brought from a distance.
The only means of locomotion seemed to be the tramcar, and by that I
returned to Westminster Bridge.
My rooms were at the bottom of Sloane Street; Mrs. Arnold’s house was
in an old-fashioned square within five minutes’ walk. My impulse, when
I arrived home, was to go round to her at once and warn her against
Jane Stamp. But for two or three reasons I did nothing of the kind. In
the first place I was in rather a bad temper, and I have made it a
rule never to do anything of the slightest importance when I am the
least like that. Then I was dirty, tired, and hungry, and it was
dinner-time, and, also, I was in rather a mystified frame of mind. I
felt that when I had washed and changed and had had something to eat I
might be able to look at the position with clearer eyes.
After dinner I decided that I would do nothing, at any rate until the
morning. I had half a mind to get on to the telephone and talk to them
at Scotland Yard about “8 Elm Grove--back entrance”; I had very little
doubt about the meaning of that bin in the corner of the shed, nor
about the contents of the parcels which the boy had taken out of it,
nor the place to which they were being taken. The bin, I fancied,
represented an ingenious system of dealing with stolen goods. I
wondered how many of them were scattered over London; who were the
enterprising persons who had their contents cleared, as if they had
been pillar-boxes, at stated intervals. None the less, I left that
telephone alone, deciding that that also was a matter which might be
left to the morning. At what to me was an early hour I went to bed.
However, going to bed I found was one thing; going to sleep was
another. Ordinarily I sleep well; no sooner do I lay my head upon the
pillow, and close my eyes, than slumber comes--I sleep till it is time
to get up. That night, for what I have since thought must really have
been some occult reason, I could not sleep. I had to think--and when,
in bed, one starts to think, it is nearly always fatal. As the minutes
slipped by I became conscious of what I cannot but call an
extraordinary obsession--it seemed to me that some one was calling to
me at Mrs. Arnold’s. Of course, the feeling was a ridiculous one, but
there it was. Worse--it became stronger and stronger. At last, getting
out of bed, switching on a light, donning a dressing-gown, I went into
the sitting-room to read. But the feeling followed me there--it was
really too absurd. I told myself that it was absurd; yet I began to
have a most uncomfortable doubt as to whether there might not be
something in it after all.
Then something curious happened--I thought so then, I think so now. I
dare say it will read like nonsense, written down in cold blood--but
the actual thing was indescribable. All at once it was borne in on me
that my presence was needed at Mrs. Arnold’s house, that something was
happening which made it necessary that I should be there. I did not
ask if I might not be in one of those super-sensitive states of mind
in which nothing is easier than to delude oneself. I put away the book
which I was reading; I returned to my bedroom, dressed, let myself out
into the street.
I had glanced at the time while dressing and noticed that it was after
two; as I stepped on to the pavement a clock somewhere struck the
quarter. It was not a pleasant night--or rather morning. The air was
filled with a hazy dampness; it did not exactly rain, but everything
was wet. So far as I was able to judge, not a soul was in sight; nor
was there anywhere a sound. It was one of those rare moments between
the night and the day in which the whole great city seems to be either
dead or sleeping. I have known them before, and also since, but I do
not recall one in which I was so struck by the perfect stillness. I
walked round to Mrs. Arnold’s without seeing a creature on the way. So
soon as I had gained the street the poignant feeling that some one
stood in need of my instant help had passed away. Its going was quite
a relief; while it lasted it had seemed to press upon some nerve in my
brain. I stepped out quickly, but when I came to Tedworth Square I
slackened my pace. Mrs. Arnold’s house was at the corner, on the other
side of the garden.
I cannot explain the motives which prompted me that night; I can only
say that directly I reached the square something told me that, if it
were possible, it was of the first importance that I should not allow
my movements to reveal my presence. I stole along the railings, eyes
and ears wide open, with a felonious stealthiness which I am sure
would have inspired a constable with just suspicion.
When I was close to Mrs. Arnold’s I paused; if only because my ears
were so wide open that I became conscious of a sound. Two voices were
speaking--in what was little more than a whisper. Soft though their
utterance was, I knew that they were angry--that one of the speakers
was more angry than the other. I crept a few feet farther--to the
pillar on one side of Mrs. Arnold’s gate. The voices came from her
garden; the gate was open. I wished I could have seen the speakers; it
was impossible to hear. I wondered what they were talking about, after
two o’clock in the morning, in Mrs. Arnold’s garden. Suddenly one of
the voices was raised--not much, but just enough to enable me, with my
wide-open ears, to catch what was said.
“I tell you she says that she won’t open. How the--something--do you
think I’m going to make her? If I could get hold of her it would be
dead easy, but how do you suppose I’m going to get at her when she’s
the other side of the window?”
The second voice was audible--I fancy, expostulating with the other
for speaking so loud. I slipped through the open gate, on to the
grass--Mrs. Arnold’s old-fashioned house is detached and has quite a
garden in front. A sudden idea had come to me--I guessed at the
identity of those two speakers and at what they were doing there. They
were so absorbed in what they were saying, and I was so noiseless,
that I saw them long before they saw me--a tallish man and a shorter
one, carrying on an animated discussion beneath their breath.
The shorter man seemed all at once to lose all control over his
temper; he slightly raised his voice; I strained my ears.
“If she won’t she won’t; there’s an end of it--I’m off. No wild-cat
games for me, that wasn’t in the bargain. Her letting us into the
house and putting everything ready is one thing; what you are after is
quite another--and not for me; it wouldn’t be for you if your monkey
wasn’t up.”
The other man blazed out. “By ----, I’ll kill her!”
“Yes, I dare say you’d like to; and expect me to take a hand in that.
No, thank you, not for me. There’d be trouble if we were found here,
and as we’ve already been here longer than I like, or bargained
for--I’ll say good night. You’d better come along with me.”
“As she won’t let me into the crib, as she swore she would, I’ll get
in without her, and if I once have my hands on her throat----”
He left his sentence unfinished; the other continued to
remonstrate--both were speaking louder than perhaps they knew.
“Now don’t you be a fool; you don’t want to get into trouble, do you?
The idea was to get her into trouble and keep out of it ourselves.
You’ll be able to get hold of her before very long and give her all
the handling she needs. Now you come along with me. What’s that?”
I had been standing under the shadow of a tree; unconsciously I had
touched one of the lower branches. Both men spun round.
“By ----!” exclaimed the shorter man, “there’s some one there.”
He stood not on the order of his going--he went at once, before he had
really finished speaking, and so quickly that in the same instant, as
it seemed, he was through the gate and out of sight. The other
hesitated--then he would have followed--but that I would not have. The
tale which the girl’s mother had told me; the facts with which I was
myself acquainted; the threat which I had just heard him utter against
his miserable dupe; the conviction which I had that it was his set
purpose to use her for his own horrible ends, to ruin her body and
soul, and then to cast her aside, caring nothing if she spent years of
her life in jail to pay for his misdeeds--I say that these things rose
up within me, so that when he tried to follow his shorter friend I
would not let him.
I rushed out of my hiding-place, and I caught him by the coat--he
still wore that fawn overcoat--and I yelled with the full force of a
healthy, vigorous pair of lungs:
“Police! Police! Help! Murder! Thieves!”
It was, perhaps, not the most dignified course I could have taken, but
there was no time to consider; I did the only thing which, on the spur
of the moment, it seemed to me I could do--I yelled and I stuck to
him. And I will undertake to say that the noise I made travelled a
considerable distance. So he seemed to think. For some seconds he let
me hold him without making the slightest effort to break away; whether
it was because he was dazed by the suddenness of my attack or amazed
at the penetrative quality of my voice I cannot say.
“It’s a woman!” he ejaculated, as if that great truth had only just
burst on him. “Stop that noise and let go of my coat, or--you’ll be
sorry.”
I remembered that those were the words he had used on the platform at
Waterloo to illustrate what would happen to his unfortunate victim if
she dared, even in one jot or tittle, to call her soul her own; and
the memory inflamed me.
“Oh no, I shan’t be sorry,” I told him; “I shall be glad; it is you
who will be sorry. Police! Help! Thieves!”
Loudly I yelled again. He tried to shake me off; then finding that it
was not so easy he caught me by the wrist. As he did so, I heard the
window open in the house behind him, and a woman’s voice cried out:
“George!--Don’t hurt her!--Go, George, go! go!”
The last repetition of the word “go!” rose through the air like a
trumpet; or rather like a frenzied shriek. The woman’s whole force was
in the injunction the word conveyed. He released one of my wrists, put
his hand into his overcoat-pocket, swung round--I was for the moment
stunned by the unexpected report of a pistol. Before I had even the
dimmest suspicion of his intention, he had dragged a revolver out of
his pocket, and fired at the shrieking woman at the window. Just one
queer sound came from her, then all was still.
“I said I would give you something for yourself,” he remarked,
speaking to the place where the woman had been as coolly as if he were
making some commonplace observation, “and that’s it. I don’t think
you’ll want any more.”
“You’ve killed her!” I screamed; “you murderous villain, you’ve killed
her!”
I tried to grip him by the throat. Had I been cooler I might have done
it, and held him fast--I might at least have been upon my guard; but I
was in such a storm of rage that I neglected the most simple
precautions. He was not the kind of man with whom, at such a moment,
it was safe to do that. He swung suddenly back towards me and struck
me with the muzzle of his pistol on the forehead. Down I went, and, to
convey a famous phrase, the further proceedings interested me no more.
Nearly all the rest of the story was in most of the papers. What my
screams and shouts had begun the report of his pistol finished--the
whole neighbourhood had been alarmed. So soon as he had felled me,
before he could even attempt to escape, the police were on him. It was
the girl who had called herself Jane Stamp who had appeared at the
window, and, aiming perhaps better than he knew, he shot her dead. She
probably never spoke a word after his bullet struck her. For her it
was perhaps as well. It is easy to be optimistic, and even
sentimental, if you have no actual experience of the hard facts of
life; if you have, it is difficult to see what promise of happiness
life could have held for a woman who had begun as she had done. Beyond
the faintest shadow of a doubt she was more sinned against than
sinning; but in such matters the world has a standard of its own, and,
even if it seems to forgive, when a woman has at the back of her what
she had it never forgets.
They hung him. At the last moment strength had been given the girl to
refuse to play the despicable part he had planned. She was to have let
him into her mistress’s house--it contained many valuables. She was so
to arrange matters that they would be placed within easy reach. She
was even to drug not only Mrs. Arnold and her daughter but also her
fellow-servants; he had supplied her with all that was necessary to do
this in the most up-to-date manner. While they were drugged the house
was to have been ransacked. But the girl was not all bad; the good
rose up within her preventing her from descending to quite such depths
of treachery and crime. She refused, after all, to carry out the
programme he had planned, or even to admit him into the house--and for
that he shot her. The first time I ever appeared in a witness-box was
to give evidence against him. The judge complimented me on what he
called the courage which I had shown; I congratulated myself on having
been the means of bringing such a wretch to justice.
As to “8 Elm Grove--back entrance”--I told that story to certain
officials at Scotland Yard. That same afternoon the messenger was
trapped as he was dropping the contents of the bin into his leather
bag. There was nothing on him to show who he was or whence he came.
Even when they questioned him he told them, with unnecessary
plainness, what would happen to them before they got anything out of
him; so they got something out of the driver of the taxi-cab instead.
The lad tried to give a warning whistle, but even as his lips were
shaped to whistle a hand was clapped across his mouth. The vehicle was
waiting, as before, by the pavement. Instead of the small boy, two
adults went up to the driver, in whom one of them instantly recognized
an old acquaintance.
They induced him to talk. To begin with, they made him drive to
Scotland Yard. There it was made plain to him that unless he supplied
certain information he would find himself in an extremely unpleasant
position; so plain was this made to him that, after what was really
only natural hesitation, he supplied it. He placed the police on the
track of one of the greatest combinations for dealing with stolen
goods which the criminal world has ever seen.
As is so often the case in these cosmopolitan days, the heads of the
business were abroad. To begin with, the police had to content
themselves with the tails. As I had surmised, “8 Elm Grove--back
entrance” was only one of a dozen branches in all the different parts
of town; so that when a man stole, let us say, a watch, he had only to
go to the nearest, attaching to it his name or pseudonym, and within a
very short space of time there would come to him, at an address which
was previously arranged, its value in cash.
Thief and receiver never saw each other. On the face of it there was
nothing to show that the thing was stolen; while the person who had
“found” it never knew who had rewarded him for his ingenuity. The
business had gone on for years; it might have gone on for years longer
had not those two men had the misfortune to have me as a
fellow-passenger in the Greenwich tram.
One need not remind those learned in worldly lore that, sometimes,
great events from little causes spring.
XII.
THE RESTAURANT NAPOLITAIN
One of my most thrilling adventures was the result of my desire to
look out of as many of life’s windows as one may. My friend Dr.
Rodaccini, an Italian physician, practising among his compatriots in
London, being aware of my insatiable curiosity, suggested to me that I
might find something of interest in a function to which he had been
invited. It was a ball given by the restaurant keepers, and waiters,
who had come from a certain district in Italy, and who associated
themselves in a sort of club. Dr. Rodaccini, as the physician to whom
most of them went when attacked by illness, was to be an honoured
guest. He invited me to go with him, and I went.
The ball was held in a street off Leicester Square, in a series of
good-sized rooms, which I understood were, in the ordinary way, used
by theatrical companies for purposes of rehearsal. The rooms were
filled by as cheerful, light-hearted, well-dressed an assembly as one
might wish to see. Every one danced; girls and boys in their early
teens, men and women with snowy hair.
Not long before I had been to Italy on one of those errands which
sometimes did take me abroad; an institute had been established for
the oral instruction of the deaf and dumb, and my services had been
retained to assist the staff in putting the work on a sound footing.
I have, as I may have remarked before, what is called the gift of
tongues, and I had come back to London knowing Italian almost as well
as my mother tongue. The dancers struck me as a whole as being like a
lot of grown-up children, and I saw with amusement the distinctly odd
things which some of them said to each other. Then, all at once, amid
the general gaiety, I came upon what might be the beginning of a
tragedy.
The band was playing a waltz. I had had as partner a very energetic
gentleman, whose name I had not caught. A few turns round the room at
his idea of what was the proper rate of speed to dance a waltz was
enough for me. “Let’s rest,” I said--so we rested. I was rather put to
it for breath, but he, who was by no means as young as he had been,
and was shaped like a barrel, was positively gasping. Chairs were not
so plentiful as they might have been. We stood by an open doorway
through which I hoped some air might come. I glanced about me. I had
noticed all the evening an extremely pretty, fair-haired girl who had
been an object of much attention from the men. When an Italian girl
has fair hair she is nearly always worth looking at--this one was
lovely. So a good many of the men seemed to think. Her partner of the
moment was, in his way, almost as good-looking as she was; one did not
need to have as good eyes as I have to suspect that they would have
liked to be partners in something more than a dance. As I watched
them, a short, broad, stout man, with a round, bald head, and no neck,
took the girl’s partner by the arm and drew him away from her. The
girl’s face had been all smiles and gaiety, but at sight of him she
changed countenance, shrank away from her partner, and slunk off
towards the other end of the room. Her act was eloquent. The big man
drew the younger towards the wall, and going close up to him,
whispered in his ear. No doubt his intention was that his words should
be private and confidential, but as I had my eyes upon his face, and
he had one of the most easily read mouths I ever saw, what he
whispered was plain enough to me.
“It is not enough to warn you?--Good!--You have been warned for the
last time. I do not waste words on such as you.”
The big man gave the youngster a contemptuous push which sent him
cannoning against an advancing couple, and came with the little, rapid
steps of a short-legged, fat man towards where I was standing. Just as
he had nearly reached us the couple with whom the youngster had
collided stopped within a couple of feet of where we were. The big man
instantly addressed the lady, again in what he no doubt meant to be a
confidential whisper.
“Pardon, madam, if I speak to Gaspare--for one moment. It is
important.”
The lady yielded her partner with what struck me as a curious smile.
Indeed, there was a curious smile on Gaspare’s face as he went off
with the big man--and the big man himself was smiling. There was
something about the fashion in which these three people smiled which
gave me quite a shiver. One felt, somehow, that with neither of them
was it natural to smile. When the big man and Gaspare had passed
through the open doorway by which we were standing I said to my
companion:
“Do you happen to know who that gentleman with the bald head may be?”
He replied--as if he knew him well:
“That is Signor Alessandro of the Restaurant Napolitain, in Greek
Street. His restaurant is well known. You find there macaroni,
spaghetti, and all that, in a hundred different ways. He is a rich
man, Signor Alessandro--a man who is well esteemed.”
He might be; but somehow I felt that he never would be esteemed by me.
I have been told that it is because I am a woman that I like and
dislike so hastily--but I do; and the moment I saw Signor Alessandro,
the well-esteemed proprietor of the Restaurant Napolitain in Greek
Street, I disliked him.
I disliked him still more when, a short time afterwards, I saw him
walking off with the fair-haired girl, her arm through his, as if she
were an unwilling captive. She was not looking very gay then. Her
cheeks were white; fear was in her eyes. The good-looking youngster
with whom she had been dancing stood against the wall as she went
past. She never glanced at him--I felt she dare not--but the big man
whispered--I saw his words quite distinctly:
“I will settle with you to-night.”
Although he did his best to meet the other’s gaze, I had a notion that
the muscles of the young man’s face were twitching; Signor Alessandro
smiled. I was sure he squeezed the girl’s arm with unpleasant force--I
saw her start. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, as if both afraid
and ashamed. The young man made as if he would have rushed after the
vanishing pair, but he was stopped by some one who touched him on the
arm; it was the lady with whom Gaspare had been dancing. She whispered
in her turn, and I saw her words. She spoke the broadest Neapolitan.
“Are you, then, in such a hurry for the finish?”
She just whispered her question and went on; and that young man seemed
to cling to the wall as if it were a friend.
I suppose I was the only one present who had been conscious of the
drama which was brewing. My instinct told me there was more to come,
but I did not know that there would be so short an interval between
the first and second acts.
When I had had enough of the dance I left. It was a lovely night--even
in that street off Leicester Square. Dr. Rodaccini suggested that we
should stroll a little before he put me into a cab. I was willing. He
took me along a street whose name I do not know. Presently we came to
a house with an archway which led, it seemed, into some sort of yard.
In this archway some one was lying. I saw him first--I stooped to see
what was wrong. It was the youngster who had danced with the
fair-haired girl. He lay on his face, quite still.
“Doctor,” I cried, “what’s the matter with him?”
But somehow I knew before I was told--a knife had been driven into his
back, and he was dead. The thing made me hot with rage; it seemed so
hideous, so monstrous, so cruel, so out of harmony with all that had
gone before--that he should have been struck down and killed almost on
the threshold of the ballroom by a coward who had not even dared to
attack him from the front. When others came to render what assistance
they might I stole away. I do get into great furies sometimes. It
seems to me that horrible wickedness forces one to be furious. The
sight of that dead young man recalled Signor Alessandro, of the
Restaurant Napolitain; how he had whispered that he would settle with
him that night. He had kept his promise within a few minutes of its
being given--this was the settlement. Now I would settle with him.
I had no evidence to take to the police. I could not say to them--I
know it is this man who did it because of certain words which I saw
him whisper. They would want more evidence than a whisper that I had
not heard, but seen--they would be right in wanting it. I meant to get
that evidence in my own way. I had some idea of the whereabouts of
Greek Street--I would find the Restaurant Napolitain.
I had to be directed twice--by a policeman and the driver of a
taxi-cab; they both stared at me as if they wondered what I would be
at, marching over the pavements, in full evening-dress, in search of
Greek Street. At last I came to it. There was the name on the wall at
the corner.
As I stood there I became conscious that a man was on the pavement on
the other side of the road. A window opened in the house in front of
which he was standing. A woman put her head out. I knew her--she was
the woman who had been dancing with Gaspare. Then I knew that the man
on the pavement was Gaspare. The electric light shone on the woman’s
face so that I saw it as clearly as if it had been the brightest day.
She spoke as before in the Neapolitan of the streets. She began with a
question.
“Well, is it done, the little business with Emilio?”
He said something which I could not see, since his back was towards
me, but I could guess what it was from her rejoinder.
“That is fifty pounds in your pocket--and also mine--eh, Gaspare?”
Again I could not see what he said, but it made her laugh. Then,
diverting her attention for a moment from her friend, she saw me.
“Hush!” she said, “there is some one opposite; I will see you
to-morrow, at the usual time.” She withdrew her head--then instantly
put it out again. “Bring the money--my share!”
Again she laughed--and again withdrew. This time the window shut and
the blind came down--and the man on the pavement turned, and, with his
hands in his pockets, stood and looked at me.
I was not in the least afraid of him--although I knew that only a few
minutes before he had murdered that young man, like a coward, for the
sum of fifty pounds. If any good purpose would have been served I
would have gone across to him and said a word or two which would have
surprised him. He might have tried to put his knife into me--but I
don’t think he would have succeeded.
But what I wished to do could not be done by confronting him; he was
the mere tool, the hireling, whose price, apparently, was fifty
pounds, of which the woman who had so odd a sense of humour would have
her share. I wanted the man who had paid the money, the master, the
man who found everything in his purse--even murder. So I waited to see
what the gentleman on the other side of the road would do.
It seemed that he did not know what to make of me, and presently he
crossed the road to see if he could succeed better if he had a nearer
view. I still waited. He came right up to me and stared me in the
face. I did not move. I fancy he knew still less what to make of me
when he saw me closer.
“You have been to the ball?” he asked. I said nothing. “Are you deaf,
or do you not understand Italian?” When I still said nothing, he tried
again. “You speak English--only?” He himself spoke English rather
well. When I still said nothing, it began to dawn on him that I meant
to say nothing. He shrugged his shoulders. “Very well; I wish you good
night, miss. I hope you will not catch cold.”
With his hands in his coat-pockets he strolled off down Greek Street.
I turned and watched him as he went. This was an impudent
villain--with an assurance which was amazing. Perhaps the blood was
still wet on his hands--the knife secreted somewhere on his
person--yet he bore himself with an air of greater ease than I did.
His was the coolness, within and without, of the man whose conscience
was at peace; while I--I was burning. I watched him as he went--he was
so entirely at his ease that he did not even take the trouble to look
round to see if I was doing so. He paused under a lamp which, attached
to a building, projected over the pavement. At that hour--it was
perhaps two hours after midnight on a summer morning--the lamp was
unlighted; I wondered if, when lighted, it served as an advertisement
of the Restaurant Napolitain. He rapped at the door with his knuckles;
somebody must have been awaiting him--he was almost instantly
admitted.
When he was in I strolled up the other side of the road. It was as I
thought--the lamp was an advertisement. It was by no means a large or
a pretentious establishment. Over a small window, which was divided
into three long panes, was a board--“Restaurant Napolitain.
Alessandro.” Exactly; it was all as I had expected--was Gaspare being
paid for the work he had done? Almost exactly opposite was an entry
which ran by a picture theatre. I drew a little back into it and
waited.
Not very long. Hardly ten minutes. Then the door of the restaurant
opened--two men came out--Signori Gaspare and Alessandro. I could hear
their voices, but I could not see their faces. After a few words they
parted--Gaspare went back down the street, Alessandro came out on to
the pavement, in search, perhaps, of the clean air, which he certainly
must have wanted. He remained there after Gaspare had turned the
corner. As he was about to return indoors, I darted out of my entry
and quickly crossed to him.
“I want to speak to you,” I said.
He turned and looked at me.
“Pardon?” It was a question--he was probably wondering where I had
come from; a second before the street had been empty.
“I want to speak to you,” I repeated. “I’ll come inside.”
I was inside before he guessed my intention and he was still on the
doorstep. Clearly this was a restaurant; in the uncertain light I
could see the marble tables. Presently he followed, coming closer to
me than I liked.
“What do you mean by coming into my place like this? I will have no
nonsense. You make a mistake if you think so.”
Possibly he mistook me for some improper character, whose intentions
were of the worst. I did my best to disabuse him. I had no clear plan
of action, I just felt that I wanted to strike--and I struck.
“That fellow Gaspare, with whom you were talking, has just killed a
young man named Emilio.”
I could not see his face very clearly, but I think it very probable
that he was startled.
“Of what are you talking?” He spoke very quietly. He was one of those
big men with soft voices, whom a wise woman never trusts.
“You know very well of what I’m talking. He killed him at your
instigation; you’ve just paid him fifty pounds for doing it.”
I rather lost my head, or I should have chosen my words more
carefully, or felt my way a little first. I knew the man was
dangerous. He pushed the street door to--the hinges must have been
well oiled; it shut without a sound.
“Don’t you dare to touch me!” I was a little scared; the darkness was
like a shroud; the silence was ominous.
“Come,” he said, “I want to talk to you.”
He gripped me by the wrist and began to pull me along. My wrists are
not made of putty; his must have been made of steel. Besides, he took
me unawares--I was powerless to offer any effectual resistance. I
caught at a marble table as we passed. He snatched me away without
pausing in his stride. He must have had cat’s eyes; he steered through
the various impedimenta without coming into contact with so much as a
chair.
We came to a door, which he opened. We were in a passage with stairs
and a light somewhere above.
“I advise you to release me,” I told him, “and to be careful what you
do. However it may be in Naples, you can’t commit murder with impunity
here.”
He said nothing, but he caught me in some way by the shoulders and
began to run me up those stairs as if it had been level ground. I am
agile, but his agility was amazing. I have heard of men called
“chuckers out,” who spend their lives in ridding public-houses, and
similar places, of unwelcome characters, regardless of their size or
disposition to be violent. Even in the midst of my rage, as he hustled
me up the stairs, I caught myself wondering if he had ever been a
chucker out--he handled me with a skill which must have been the fruit
of experience.
We came to a landing; he swung me round a corner and along a passage;
at the end there was a door through which he thrust me; having done
so, he shut it, and I heard him turn the key. He himself remained
outside. All was still--there was not a sound to show what he might be
doing.
It would be silly to attempt to describe my feelings--they were
chaotic. For some seconds I stood shaking with rage and gasping for
breath. I realized what an idiot I had been in saying nothing to Dr.
Rodaccini, to the police, to anyone, before turning out on this mad
adventure. No one had a notion where I was. If Signor Alessandro chose
to make an end of me in any of the various ways of which he was
doubtless master my fate might remain undiscovered for all
eternity--how was anyone to guess that in such an insane fashion I had
visited the Restaurant Napolitain?
When I again became, in some degree, mistress of myself I tried to
think what was the best thing I could do. My first impulse was to
resort to the feminine device of screaming, to make the night hideous
with my yells and screams. My feelings would have been relieved if I
had done so if no other benefit had ensued. But I caught my tongue
between my teeth just as I was starting, and waited for the impulse to
pass.
If I had been a man I should have had matches about me somewhere, and
I should have been able to see in what sort of place I was. Being a
matchless woman I had to feel. First along the wall. I was in a
good-sized room--I took twelve fairly long steps before I came to a
corner which showed I was at the end of it. It seemed to be a
sitting-room; there were chairs and a couch and a table. When I came
to the table something caused me to put up my hand. I touched
something overhead--it was the bulb of an electric light. It suggested
that the room was lighted by electricity; then in that case somewhere
about it there ought to be a switch. I got back to the wall, moved
slowly along it, feeling up and down for what I sought. I came to a
fire-place, then to something which I knew was the push-piece of an
electric bell. I pressed my thumb upon it and kept it there; if a bell
was ringing it was beyond my hearing, and anyhow, I didn’t want anyone
to come into that room while it was still in pitchy darkness. I
pursued my investigations--and found what I sought. In an instant the
room was lit in a fashion which after the previous darkness was almost
dazzling.
It was a sitting-room. There were two doors; one which I took to be
that through which I had been propelled; and a second, by the
fire-place, which perhaps led to an adjoining apartment. What I took
to be the window was guarded by heavy dark green curtains. When I drew
them I found that behind were iron shutters, painted white; there was
nothing to show if there was a window on the other side, or if they
were ever opened.
I sat down on a chair feeling rather bewildered. Clearly this was a
curious place I was in. It was necessary that I should regain my
presence of mind, and get hold of as much common sense as I could.
Soon my courage, which had gone a little at the knees, stood up
straight again. Probably, if I stayed there, sooner or later Signor
Alessandro would return, and I ought to be prepared to meet him. I
looked round for something which I could use as a weapon. There was a
poker standing up against the fire-place, but I did not fancy that a
poker would be of much service against him.
I examined the doors, first the one through which I had come, striking
the panels, first with my open palm and then with my clenched fist. It
was as solidly constructed a door as I have met; it would need a great
deal of breaking down.
Then I went to the other door. There was a small brass bolt my side. I
drew it back--nothing resulted. I had seen that kind of door
before--there was probably a bolt on either side. I got that poker,
gripped it hard, and brought the point with all my force against the
panel. I did it twice--the third time the point went through. I used
that poker as a lever and broke away enough of the woodwork to enable
me to insert my hand and arm. I felt for the bolt which I believed to
be on the other side--and found it--slipped it back, and the door was
open.
I waited to see what was going to happen next. This might be a
trap--there might be some one in that room waiting for me to enter.
There seemed to be no one. I looked through the open door; it was a
sleeping apartment. There was a bed, the usual equipments of a
bedroom; I entered. The room was certainly empty. By aid of the light
which came from the room I had just left I saw that there was a switch
near to the bed. When I got the room lighted I saw something which
pleased me almost more than anything else could possibly have done.
In that bedroom there was a telephone; there was the receiver on the
mantelpiece. I rushed to it. With what anxiety I waited to learn if my
call had been heard! It might be a telephone for domestic purposes
only; if so I had better be careful what I said, Signor Alessandro
might be at the other end. No, it was the kind of telephone I wanted.
In a second or two there came the operator’s familiar query:
“What number, please?”
I asked for a number which I knew very well. There was another
interval of waiting, during which I do believe I heard my own heart
beating. Then there came the operator’s voice again.
“You’re on.”
And, almost in the same instant, there came another voice.
“Who are you?”