ON THE TRACK OF A SHADOW
The man’s first impulse was to shout for assistance; his second, to
dash hot foot after the murderer; his last, to keep perfectly still,
while he thought hard, with all his wits sharpened by the crisis of the
moment. For hours, he had been racing across country, and hiding and
dodging, in pursuit of this man; and he came upon him lying dead, the
victim of he knew not what conspiracy. Instinctively he glanced about
him, with the dread of seeing other murderous eyes watching;
instinctively sprang to his feet, the better to face whatever danger
might threaten.
The thing was so awful, and so unexpected, that the man, for a moment,
had no power to face it; indeed, he had started to run from the place,
in an agony of fear, when a sudden thought swept over him—arresting
his flight, and holding him as motionless as though some mortal hand
had gripped him, and brought him to bay.
“Dandy Chater dead!” he gasped. “This puts a new light on things
indeed! Dandy Chater dead—and out of the way! Let me think; let me
hammer something out of this new horror—let me find the best road to
travel!” He sat down among the rotting timbers, and propped his chin in
his palms, and stared at the dead man.
“Who am I? Who—in all this amazing world, will believe my story, if I
tell it? Dandy Chater out of the way!——My God!—that serves my
purpose; that was what I wanted. The game’s in my hands; the
likeness——”
He started to his feet again, and looked round wildly—looked round,
like a hunted man who seeks desperately for some way of escape; ran a
few paces, and stood listening; came slowly back again.
“Great heavens!” he muttered softly—“they’ll think I murdered him!”
That was a sufficiently sobering thought; he stood still, the better to
work out the new problem which faced him.
“Think, Philip Crowdy: you’ve come across the world, to find this
man—to wrest from him that which is your right. His real murderer is
by this time far away; you are alone with his body, in a place to which
you have tracked him. If Dandy Chater has been lured here, and struck
down, as is more than likely in such a neighbourhood, for the mere
purpose of robbery, there is not the slightest chance—or a very faint
one, at best—of finding the man who struck the blow. On the other
hand—how do you stand? Tell your story to the world, and, if they
believe it, what must inevitably be said: that by this man’s death you
benefit—therefore, by logical reasoning, you must have compassed his
death. Philip Crowdy—you’re in a remarkably tight place!”
Looking at the matter from one standpoint and another, he came to a
desperate resolution—even smiled grimly a little to himself, as he
bent again over the dead man. Turning the body over, he found that
Dandy Chater had been struck down from behind, apparently with a heavy
piece of timber which lay near at hand; he must have been wandering at
the very edge of the river at the time, for the rising tide was now
actually lapping the edges of his garments. Philip Crowdy bent above
him and began to search rapidly in the pockets, for whatever they might
contain.
“Papers—watch and chain—keys—a very little money,” he whispered to
himself quickly, as he made his search. “The money I’ll leave; some
river shark will get that; the rest I’ll take. The keys I shall
want—also the papers.”
Carefully stowing away the things in his own pockets, he rose to his
feet, and looked about him. It was very late, and there seemed to be no
sign of life, either on land or water, save for the distant muffled
sound of the steady beat of a tug, working heavily down stream.
“I can’t leave him here; for the body to be discovered would spoil
everything. And it wouldn’t be particularly nice for Philip Crowdy to
be discovered, with Dandy Chater’s private possessions in his pockets.
Now—what’s to be done?”
The perplexing question was answered for him, in an unexpected way. The
beat of the tug sounded nearer and louder, and he saw the gleam of the
light which hung from its funnel. Behind it, towering high in the
darkness, was a great vessel, which it was dragging manfully down the
river. While the man stood there, idly and mechanically watching it,
with his dead likeness lying at his feet, there came a sudden
disturbance in the water; a great wash from the river swamped up all
about him, so that he turned, and ran back hurriedly a few paces, out
of the way of it.
When he looked again at the spot where he had stood, the body was gone.
Some of the timbers, too, among which it had lain, were washing about,
and crashing together, at some little distance from the shore. The man
ran to the very edge of the water, and strained his eyes eagerly, in
search for something else beside timbers; but the darkness was too
profound for him to see anything clearly; and, although he ran along
the muddy bank—first to right, and then to left—he could discover
nothing. He stood alone, in that desolate place, and the dead man was
undoubtedly being hurried, with the timbers among which he had fallen,
down the river towards the sea.
Presently, the man seemed to realise the full significance of what had
happened; touched the papers in his pocket; and stood staring
thoughtfully at the ground for a long time.
“There is some strange fate in this,” he muttered to himself.
“To-night, by accident, I took the place of the real Dandy Chater for a
few hours; now I’ll take his place—not by accident, but by design.
Dandy Chater is dead and gone! Yes—Dandy Chater is dead—but long live
Dandy Chater!”
With these words, the man turned quickly, hurried up the alley way into
the street, and set off as rapidly as possible in the direction of
London.
It was so late, that all public vehicles had ceased running, and the
railway station was closed. He did not care to excite attention, by
chartering a cab to take him to London, and he stood for some time in
one of the main streets—now almost deserted—wondering what he should
do. The appearance of a small coffee-house, on the other side of the
street, with the announcement swinging outside that beds were to be let
there, attracted his attention; the proprietor of it had already closed
one half of the double doors, and was standing outside, leaning against
the side of the window, and contemplating the street, before retiring
from the public eye for the day. Philip Crowdy, after a moment’s
hesitation, crossed the street, and accosted the man.
“Can I have a bed here?” he asked.
The man looked him up and down for a moment in silence; removed the
pipe he was smoking from his lips—blew a long stream of smoke into the
air; and finally ejaculated—“’Ave yer pick of the w’ole bloomin’ lot,
if yer like. It’s my private opinion that there ain’t anybody a
sleepin’ in beds these times, ’cept me, an’ the missis, and the Queen,
an’ a few of sich like nobs; leastways, they don’t come my way. Walk
in, guv’nor.”
Crowdy followed the man into the shop—a small and very dingy-looking
eating-house, fitted up with boxes along each side. The sight of the
boxes reminded him that he had had nothing to eat for many hours;
discussing the matter with the proprietor of the establishment, he
found that he could be supplied with a light meal within a short space
of time. Accordingly, he ordered it, and sat down to await its coming.
He picked up a stained newspaper, and tried to read; but before his
eyes, again and again, came the image of the dead face, which had
stared into his that night. So much had happened—so much that was wild
and strange—within the past few hours, that it all seemed like some
horrible unruly nightmare. Yet he knew that it was something more than
that; for his fingers touched the papers in his pocket, and the watch
that had belonged to the dead man. For a moment, as his hands closed
upon them, a sweat of fear broke out upon his forehead, and he glanced
about him uneasily.
“It’s a desperate game,” he muttered. “If the body should be found, and
recognised—or if the likeness be not so complete as I have
thought—what shall I say—what shall I do? Why—I don’t even know what
manner of man this Dandy Chater was—or what were his habits, his
companions, the places to which he resorted; I know absolutely nothing.
Every step of the way I must grope in the dark. And I may betray myself
at any moment!”
He dropped the paper from before his eyes, and found, to his
astonishment, and somewhat to his discomfiture, that he was being
steadily regarded, by a man who sat at the other side of the table.
More than that, the man, having his back towards the little inner room
where the meal was being prepared, nodded his head quickly, in a
familiar fashion, and bent forward, and whispered the following
astounding remark—
“Wot—give the Count the slip—’ave yer?”
Philip Crowdy’s position, at that moment, was not an enviable one. He
was utterly alone, in the sense that, whatever battles lay before him,
he had to fight them as best he could, and dared not trust any living
soul; worse than all, he must fight them in the dark, not knowing, when
he took one step, where the next might lead. Moreover, the man before
him was one of the most repulsive looking ruffians it is possible to
imagine—a man who, from his appearance, might have been one of those
unfortunates described by the proprietor of the place as never sleeping
in a bed. His clothes, which had once been black, were of a greenish
hue, from long exposure to the weather, and were fastened together, in
the more necessary places, by pins and scraps of string. His face, long
and thin and cadaverous, had upon it, besides its native dirt, a week’s
growth of beard and moustache; his hair—thin almost to baldness on the
top—hung long about his ears, and was rolled inwards at the ends, in
the fashion of some thirty years ago.
Crowdy, after eyeing this man for a few moments in silence, grunted
something inaudible, and took up the paper again.
“No offence, Dandy,” said the man, somewhat more humbly, and in the
same hoarse whisper as before. “Seed yer outside—an’ came in arter
yer. Agin the rules—an’ well I knows it; but there ain’t no one ’ere
to twig us—is there?”
“Well—what of that?” asked the other, taking his cue from the fellow’s
humility. “Can’t you let a man alone, even at this hour? What the devil
do you want now?”
“Don’t be so ’asty, Dandy,” replied the man, in an injured tone. “It
ain’t for me ter say anyfink agin the Count—’cos ’e’s your pal. But
you’re young at this game, Dandy, and the Count is a bit too fly. If
you wants a fren’, as ’ll _be_ a fren’, don’t fergit the Shady
’un—will yer?” This last very insinuatingly.
“Oh—so you’re the Shady ’un—are you?” thought Crowdy. Aloud he
said—“Thanks—I can take care of myself.”
“Ah—you wos always ’igh an’ mighty—you wos,” replied the other, with
a propitiatory smile. “It ain’t fer me ter say anyfink agin the
Count—on’y ’e’s a deep ’un, that’s all. An’ ’e’s got some new move on;
’e was a stickin’ like wax to you to-night—yer know ’e wos.”
Philip Crowdy caught his breath. Here, surely, was some faint clue at
last; for it was possible that the man who had been “sticking like wax”
to the unfortunate Dandy Chater that night, might have stuck to him to
the very last, down by the river’s muddy brink. Crowdy was breathlessly
silent, waiting for more; he left his meal untouched, where it had been
placed, and kept his eyes narrowly on his neighbour.
But that neighbour had evidently made up his mind to say nothing more;
after a pause, he shuffled to his feet, and started to leave the place.
As he neared the door, however, he came back again, and bent his face
down to Crowdy’s ear.
“I say—yer won’t fergit Toosday—will yer?”
“What about it?” asked the other, as carelessly as he could.
“W’y—at the Watermen—o’ course,” whispered the Shady ’un, in a
surprised tone. “Ten thirty, sharp. I suppose you’ll come wiv the
Count—eh?”
“I suppose so,” replied Crowdy. “Good-night!”
Left alone, he thrust his plate aside, and sat staring at the table,
turning the business over in his mind. In the first place, he had
resolved to find Dandy Chater’s murderer; on the other hand, if, as was
possible, the man spoken of as the Count had anything to do with that
murder, it would obviously be impossible for Philip Crowdy to appear
before him; the fraud would be exposed at once. Again, it was evident
that the late Dandy Chater had kept remarkably queer company; and that,
moreover, Philip Crowdy—as the new Dandy Chater—was pledged to meet
some members of that queer company, on the following Tuesday, at
half-past ten, at the house known as The Three Watermen.
“So far—so good—or rather, bad,” he said slowly to himself. “I’m
Dandy Chater—for the present, at least; if the man who struck the blow
happens to meet me, he’ll either die of fright, or denounce me. For the
present, I’ve got to be very careful; I’ve very fortunately discovered
one or two things which may be useful. But how in the world am I to
know what Dandy Chater was doing, or meant to do—or what people he
knew, or didn’t know? At all events, I must put a bold face on the
matter, and trust to luck.”
It was not until he was undressing for the night, in the shabby little
room which had been assigned to him over the coffee-house, that he
remembered the interview he had had with the girl, on the road outside
Bamberton. He stopped, and stood stock still, with a puzzled face.
“The girl—Patience Miller! I’d clean forgotten about her. Why, Dandy
Chater was to have taken her to London, and they were to be married
to-morrow. Now, Dandy Chater—or the real one, at least—is at the
bottom of the river. But where on earth is the girl?”
He puzzled over it for some time, and finally, finding sleep stealing
over him, gave it up, with all the other troublous matters connected
with the past few hours, and slept the sleep which comes only to a man
who is utterly worn out with fatigue and excitement.
He slept late the next morning, and had time, while he dressed, to
consider what his future course of action should be. In part, he had
made up his mind the previous night; had studied carefully the dress
and appearance of the dead man, with that object—indefinite then, but
clear and distinct now—of taking his place. He felt now that the first
move in the game must be for him to get down to Bamberton.
“No one in England knows of my existence; only one man, so far as I am
aware, knows, beside myself, of the death and disappearance of Dandy
Chater. There is no one to suspect; so far as I am concerned, there is
everything to gain, and but little to lose. Therefore, Mr. Dandy Chater
the Second, you will go down into Essex.”
Watchful and alert—ready to take up any faint cue which might be
offered him—suspicious of danger on every hand, Philip Crowdy got back
to London; made some slight purchases, with a view to changing his
dress; and started for Chater Hall. Arriving at the little railway
station, he returned, with grim satisfaction, the salutes and nods of
recognition which one and another bestowed upon him; got into the
fly—the only one the station boasted—and was driven rapidly to his
future home.
It was a fine old house, standing in most picturesque grounds—a place
which bore the stamp of having been in the same family for many
generations. Mr. Philip Crowdy rattled along the drive which led to the
house, with very mixed feelings, and with a heart beating unpleasantly
fast.
“I need all the luck I’ve ever possessed, and all the impudence with
which nature has endowed me,” he thought. “Why—I don’t even know my
way about my own house—shan’t know where to turn, when I get inside,
or what the servants’ names are. And I wish I knew what sort of man
Dandy Chater was—whether he bullied, or was soft-spoken—swore, or
quoted Scripture.”
The fly drew up, with a jerk, at the hall door, which was already open.
A young servant—a pleasant-looking lad, of about twenty years of age,
in a sober brown livery, ran out quickly, with a forefinger raised to
his forehead, and opened the door of the fly.
“Morning, sir,” said this individual, in a voice as pleasant as his
face. “Hoped you’d telegraph, sir, and let me drive over for you.”
Crowdy alighted slowly, looking keenly about him. “I hadn’t time,” he
said, gruffly—being convinced, for some strange reason, that the late
Dandy Chater had been of a somewhat overbearing disposition. He walked
slowly up the steps, and into Chater Hall.
There his troubles began; for, in the first place, he did not even know
his room—did not, as he had already suggested, even know which way to
turn. In desperation, he laid his hand on the knob of the first door he
saw, and walked boldly in.
He found himself in what was evidently the dining-room. He turned, as
he was passing through the doorway, and beckoned to the young servant,
who had taken his hat and coat, and who was lingering in the hall.
“Here, I want you,” he said. His quick eye, roving round the room, had
seen a pipe on the mantelshelf, and a spirit stand on an ancient
Sheraton sideboard. “Get me a whiskey and soda, and bring me those
cigars—the last lot I had.”
The servant placed the spirit stand at his master’s elbow, and hurried
away to complete the order. Philip Crowdy leaned back in his chair, and
laughed softly, when he thought of how well he was carrying the thing
off. “I must be as natural as possible,” he muttered. “That was a good
move about the cigars.”
The servant reëntered the room, bringing the cigars, and a letter which
he handed to Crowdy.
“Brought this morning, sir, quite early,” he said.
Philip Crowdy, after a moment’s hesitation, broke the seal, and read
the following astounding note—
“_Dearest Dandy_,
“_You shall have your answer, sooner even than I promised. I do trust
you; I do believe in your capacity for the better things of which you
have spoken. I will marry you, when you like, and with a glad heart.
Come and see me to-morrow night, and we can talk about it comfortably._
“_Yours loyally_,
“_Margaret Barnshaw_.”
Philip Crowdy dismissed the servant, with a wave of the hand, and sank
into a chair helplessly.