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CHRISTOPHER QUARLES
College Professor and Master Detective
BY PERCY JAMES BREBNER
AUTHOR OF "PRINCESS MARITZA," "THE LITTLE GREY SHOE," ETC., ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
Press of
J. J. Little & Ives Co.
New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE AFFAIR OF THE IVORY BOXES 1
II. THE IDENTITY OF THE FINAL VICTIM 17
III. THE RIDDLE OF THE CIRCULAR COUNTERS 32
IV. THE STRANGE CASE OF MICHAEL HALL 48
V. THE EVIDENCE OF THE CIGARETTE-END 67
VI. THE MYSTERY OF "OLD MRS. JARDINE" 86
VII. THE DEATH-TRAP IN THE TUDOR ROOM 102
VIII. THE MYSTERY OF CROSS ROADS FARM 120
IX. THE CONUNDRUM OF THE GOLF LINKS 137
X. THE DIAMOND NECKLACE SCANDAL 156
XI. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF DR. SMITH 175
XII. THE AFFAIR OF THE STOLEN GOLD 195
XIII. THE WILL OF THE ECCENTRIC MR. FRISBY 217
XIV. THE CASE OF THE MURDERED FINANCIER 239
XV. THE STRANGE AFFAIR OF THE FLORENTINE CHEST 258
XVI. THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING FORTUNE 280
CHRISTOPHER QUARLES
CHAPTER I
THE AFFAIR OF THE IVORY BOXES
There was a substantial aspect about Blenheim Square, not of that
monotonous type which characterizes so many London squares, but a
certain grace and consciousness of well-being.
The houses, though maintaining some uniformity, possessed
individuality, and in the season were gay with window-boxes and
flowers; the garden in the center was not too stereotyped in its
arrangement, and plenty of sunlight found its way into it. The
inhabitants were people of ample means, and the address was
undoubtedly a good one. There was no slum in close proximity, that
seamy background which so constantly lies behind a fair exterior of
life; it was seldom that any but respectable people were seen in the
square, for hawkers and itinerant musicians were forbidden; and,
beyond a wedding or a funeral at intervals, nothing exciting ever
seemed to happen there.
It looked particularly attractive when I entered it one spring morning
early and made my way to No. 12.
As I approached the house and noted that the square was still asleep,
an old gentleman, clad in a long and rather rusty overcoat, shuffled
toward me from the opposite direction. He wore round goggles behind
which his eyes looked unusually large, and a wide-awake hat was drawn
over his silver locks.
He stopped in front of me and, without a word, brought his hand from
his pocket and gave me a card.
"Christopher Quarles," I said, reading from the bit of pasteboard.
"My name. What is yours?"
"Murray Wigan," I answered, and the next instant was wondering why I
had told him.
"Ah, I do not fancy we have met before, Detective Wigan. Perhaps we
may help each other."
"You knew Mr. Ratcliffe?" I asked.
"No, but I have heard of him."
"I am afraid that----"
He laid two fingers of a lean hand on my arm.
"You had better. It will be wise."
A sharp retort came to my tongue, but remained unspoken. I can hardly
explain why, because in an ordinary way his manner would only have
increased my resentment and obstinacy.
I was young, only just over thirty, but success had brought me some
fame and unlimited self-confidence. I was an enthusiast, and have been
spoken of as a born detective, but the line of life I had chosen had
sadly disappointed my father. He had given me an excellent education,
and had looked forward to his son making a name for himself, but
certainly not as a mere policeman, which was his way of putting it.
Indeed, family relations were strained even at this time, a fact which
may have accounted for that hardness of character which people, even
my friends, seemed to find in me.
My nature and my pride in my profession were therefore assailed by the
old man's manner, yet the sharp answer remained unspoken.
"You will find that I am known to your people," he added while I
hesitated.
I did not believe him for a moment, but there was something so
compelling in the steady gaze from the large eyes behind the goggles
that I grudgingly allowed him to enter the house with me.
Early that morning, before the first milk-cart had rattled through
Blenheim Square, Constable Plowman had been called to No. 12 by the
cook-housekeeper, who had found her master, Mr. Ratcliffe, dead in his
study. Plowman had at once sent for a doctor and communicated with
Scotland Yard. The doctor had arrived before me, but nothing had been
moved by the constable, and the housekeeper declared that the room was
exactly as she had found it.
The study was at the back of the house, a small room lined with books.
In the center was a writing table, an electric lamp on it was still
burning, and, leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on vacancy,
sat Mr. Ratcliffe. The doctor said he had been dead some hours.
On the blotting-pad immediately in front of him was a large blue
stone--a sapphire--and arranged in a rough semicircle round the pad
were the various boxes of one of those Chinese curiosities in which
box is contained within box until the last is quite small.
They were of thin ivory, the largest being some three inches square,
the smallest not an inch, and they were arranged in order of size.
There was no confusion in the room, no sign of violence on the dead
man. Curtains were drawn across the window, which was open a little at
the top.
At first my attention was somewhat divided; the old man interested me
as well as the case.
He looked closely into the face of the dead man, then glanced at the
curtained window, and nodded his head in a sagacious way, as if he had
already fathomed the mystery. He looked at the sapphire and at the
semicircle of boxes, but he did not attempt to touch anything, nor did
he say a word.
Well, it is easy enough to look wise; it is when a man opens his mouth
that the test begins. I came to the conclusion that he was a venerable
fraud, and that I had been a fool to let him come in. I dismissed him
from my mind and commenced my own investigations.
On the window-sill there were marks which made it practically certain
that someone had entered the room that way, but neither then nor later
could I discover any footprints in the small garden which was some
eight feet below the window.
The housekeeper, who had been with Mr. Ratcliffe a dozen years,
explained that, on coming down that morning, she had gone into the
study to draw the curtains as usual. The room was exactly as we saw
it. Her master spent most of his time in his study when he was at
home, and seemed to enjoy his own company. He went little into
society, but a friend sometimes dined with him; indeed, his nephew,
Captain Ratcliffe, had dined with him last night.
She had gone to bed before the captain left, and did not hear him go.
She would not admit that her master was peculiar or eccentric in any
way, but said he had seemed worried and rather depressed lately. The
slightest noise in the house disturbed him, and she fancied he had got
into the habit of listening for noises, for once or twice she had come
upon him in a listening attitude. She knew nothing about the sapphire,
and had never seen the ivory boxes before.
The old man never asked a question; I do not think he said a single
word until we were leaving the house, and then he remarked in a casual
manner:
"A curious case, Detective Wigan."
"Some curious points in it," I said.
I was glad when the old fellow had shuffled off. He was a disturbing
influence. His eyes behind those goggles seemed to have a paralyzing
effect upon me. I could not think clearly.
Certainly there were many curious points in the case, and my inquiries
quickly added to the number.
Mr. Ratcliffe had traveled extensively, was a linguist, and a far
richer man than his neighbors had supposed. Collecting precious stones
had been his hobby, and in a case deposited with his bankers there
were many valuable, and some unique, gems. Probably he had others with
him in the house, but none were found except the sapphire lying on the
blotting-pad. Robbers might have taken them, the marks on the
window-sill were suggestive, but I was doubtful on this point. Even if
robbers had entered the room, how was Mr. Ratcliffe's death to be
accounted for? There was no mark upon the body, there was no trace of
poison. The doctors declared he was in a perfectly healthy condition.
There was no apparent reason for his death. Besides, if he had been
robbed of his jewels, why should the sapphire have been left?
It was only natural, perhaps, that suspicion should fall upon the dead
man's nephew. Might he not have left the house by the window? it was
asked. I had put the same question to myself.
Captain Ratcliffe's behavior, however, was not that of a guilty man,
although there were certain things which told against him.
He answered questions frankly and without hesitation. He was in a
line regiment, and was somewhat heavily in debt. It was close upon
midnight when he left his uncle, he said, and they had not gone into
the study at all. They had sat smoking and talking in the dining room,
and just before he left they had both had a little whisky. The empty
glasses and the cigar ends in the dining room went to confirm this
statement.
He knew about his uncle's hobby for stones, was surprised to find that
he was such a rich man, and declared that he had no idea he was his
heir. Mr. Ratcliffe had never helped him in any way; in fact, that
very night he had refused, not unkindly but quite frankly, to lend him
a sum of money he had asked for.
There had been no quarrel, and they had parted excellent friends.
I am convinced that a large section of the public wondered why Captain
Ratcliffe was not arrested, and possibly some detectives would have
considered there was sufficient evidence against him to take this
course. I did not, although I had him watched.
The fact was that Christopher Quarles lurked at the back of my mind. I
found that he had spoken the truth when he said that he was known at
Scotland Yard. He was a professor of philosophy, and some two years
ago had made what seemed a perfectly preposterous suggestion in a case
which had puzzled the police, with the result that he had been
instrumental in saving an innocent man from the gallows. A chance
success was the comment of the authorities; my own idea was that he
must have had knowledge which he ought not to possess. Now it might
prove useful to cultivate the acquaintance of this mysterious
professor, so I called upon him one morning in his house at West
Street, Chelsea, as keen upon a difficult trail as I had ever been in
my life.
The servant said the professor was at home and requested me to follow
her.
Through open doors I had a glimpse of taste and luxury--softly
carpeted rooms, old furniture, good pictures--and then the servant
opened a door at the extreme end of the hall and announced me.
Astonishment riveted me to the threshold for the moment. Except for a
cheap writing-table in the window, a big arm-chair by the fireplace,
and two or three common chairs against the wall, this room was empty.
There was no carpet on the floor, not a picture on the whitewashed
walls. The window had a blind, but no curtains; there were no books,
and the appointments of the writing-table were of the simplest kind
possible.
"Ah, I have been expecting you," said Quarles, crossing from the
window to welcome me.
A skull-cap covered his silver locks, but he wore no glasses, and
to-day there were few signs of age or deterioration of physical or
mental force about him. His shuffling gait when he had met me in
Blenheim Square that morning had evidently been assumed, and probably
he had worn glasses to conceal some of the expression of his face.
"You had been expecting me?" I said.
"Two days ago I gave the servant instructions to bring you in whenever
you came. Zena, my dear, this is Detective Wigan--my granddaughter who
often assists me in my work."
I bowed to the girl who had risen from the chair at the writing-table,
and for a moment forgot the professor--and, indeed, everything else in
the world. Since no woman had ever yet succeeded in touching any
sympathetic chord in me, it may be assumed that she was remarkable. In
that bare room she looked altogether out of place, and yet her
presence transformed it into a desirable spot.
"You are full of surprises, professor," I said, with a keen desire to
make myself agreeable. "I enter your house and have a glimpse of
luxury through open doors, yet I find you in--in an empty room; you
tell me I am expected, when until a few hours ago I had not determined
to call upon you; and now you further mystify me by saying this lady
is your helper."
"Philosophy is mysterious," he answered, "and I am interested in all
the ramifications of my profession. To understand one science
perfectly means having a considerable knowledge of all other
sciences."
"My grandfather exaggerates my usefulness," said the girl.
"I do not," he returned. "Your questions have constantly shown me the
right road to travel, and to have the right road pointed out is half
the battle. Sit down, Mr. Wigan--in the arm-chair--no, I prefer
sitting here myself. Zena and I were talking of Blenheim Square when
you came in. A coincidence? Perhaps, but it may be something more. In
these days we are loath to admit there are things we do not
understand. This case puzzles you?"
The detective in me was coming slowly uppermost again, and I
remembered the line I had decided to take with this curious old
gentleman.
"It does. From first to last I am puzzled. To begin with, how came you
to hear of the tragedy that you were able to be upon the scene so
promptly?"
"Are you here as a spy or to ask for help? Come, a plain answer,"
said Quarles hotly, as though he were resenting an insult.
"Dear!" said the girl soothingly.
"Zena considers you honest," said the old man, suddenly calm again.
"My helper, as I told you, and not always of my opinion. Let that
pass. You are a young man with much to learn. I am not a detective,
but a philosopher, and sometimes an investigator of human motives. If
a mystery interests me I endeavor to solve it for my own satisfaction,
but there it ends. I never give my opinion unless it is asked for, nor
should I interfere except to prevent a miscarriage of justice. If this
is clear to you, you may proceed and tell me what you have done, how
far you have gone in the unraveling of this case; if you are not
satisfied, I have nothing more to say to you except 'Good morning!'"
For a moment I hesitated, then shortly I told him what I had done, and
he listened attentively.
"I have always worked alone," I went on, "not without success, as you
may know. In this case I am beaten so far, and I come to you."
"Why?"
"For two reasons. First--you will forgive my mentioning it again--your
prompt arrival puzzled me; secondly, I believe in Captain Ratcliffe,
and am anxious to relieve him of the suspicion which undoubtedly rests
upon him."
The old man rubbed his head through his skull-cap.
"You would like to find some reason to be suspicious of me?"
"Mr. Wigan does not mean that, dear," said Zena.
The professor shook his head doubtfully.
"Crime as crime does not interest me. It is only when I am impelled to
study a case, against my will sometimes, that I become keen; and,
whenever this happens, the solution of the mystery is likely to be
unusual. My methods are not those of a detective. You argue from
facts; I am more inclined to form a theory, and then look for facts to
fit it. Not a scientific way, you may say, but a great many scientists
do it, although they would strenuously deny the fact. I can show you
how the facts support my theory, but I cannot always produce the
actual proof. In many cases I should be a hindrance rather than a help
to you."
"It is courteous of you to say so," I returned, wishing to be
pleasant.
"It is quite true, not a compliment," said the girl.
"First, the dead man," Quarles went on. "Quite a healthy man was the
medical opinion--but his eyes. Did you particularly notice his eyes?
You look into the brain through the eyes, see into it with great
penetration if you have accustomed yourself to such scrutiny as I have
done. Mr. Ratcliffe had not been dead long enough for his eyes to lose
that last impression received from the brain. They were still looking
at something, as it were, and they still had terror in them. Now he
was a traveler, one who must have faced danger scores of times; it
would take something very unusual to frighten him."
I acquiesced with a nod.
"We may take it, I think, that such a man would not be terrified by
burglars."
I admitted this assumption.
"He was looking at the curtains which were drawn across the
window--that is a point to remember," said the professor, marking off
this fact by holding up a finger. "Then the little boxes; did you
count them?"
"Yes, there were twenty-five."
"And the last one was unopened; did you open it?"
"Yes; it contained a minute head in ivory, wonderfully carved."
"I did not touch the box," said Quarles, "but if the toy was complete
it would naturally contain such a head. Did you notice the nineteenth
box?"
"Not particularly."
"Had you done so you would have noticed that it was discolored like
the first and largest one, not clean and white like the others--and
more, beginning from the nineteenth box the semi-circular arrangement
was broken, as though it had been completed in a hurry, and possibly
by different hands."
I did not make any comment.
"The largest box had become discolored because it was the outside one,
always exposed; I judged therefore that the nineteenth box was
discolored for the same reason. For some time it had been the outside
box of the last few boxes. In other words, the toy in Mr. Ratcliffe's
possession had not been a complete one. This led me to look at box
eighteen, the last in Mr. Ratcliffe's series; it was just the size to
contain the sapphire. This suggested that the sapphire was the central
point of the mystery."
"You think the thieves were disturbed?"
"No."
"Then why didn't they take the sapphire?"
"Exactly. By the way, is the stone still at Scotland Yard?"
"Yes."
"Has it been tested?"
"No."
"Have it examined by the most expert man you can find. I think you
will find it is paste, a wonderful imitation, capable of standing some
tests--but still paste."
"Then why did Mr. Ratcliffe--an expert in gems, remember--treasure it
so carefully?" I asked.
"He didn't," Quarles answered shortly. "It is obvious that a man who
possessed such stones as were found in that packet at the bank would
certainly not make such a mistake; yet he was apparently playing with
his treasure when he met his death. My theory had three points, you
see. First, the sapphire was the sole object of the robbery; secondly,
the thieves had substituted an exact duplicate for the real stone;
thirdly, the stone must have some special fascination for Mr.
Ratcliffe, or he would have put it in the bank for safety as he had
done with others."
"An interesting theory, I admit, but----"
"Wait, Mr. Wigan. I have said something about my methods. I began to
look for facts to support my theory. You remember the cook-housekeeper?"
"Perfectly."
"She spoke of her uncle's sensitiveness to noises; she had on one or
two occasions surprised him in a listening attitude. That gave me a
clew. What was he listening for? Mr. Ratcliffe had only given way to
this listening attitude recently; in fact, only since his return from
his last voyage. It would seem that since his return his mental
balance had become unstable. There was some constant irritation in his
brain which brought fear, and in his dead eyes there was terror. My
theory was complete; I had only to fit the facts into it. I suppose,
Mr. Wigan, you have found out all about the people living on either
side of Ratcliffe's house?"
"Both are families above suspicion," I answered. "I also tried Ossery
Road, the gardens of which run down to those on that side of Blenheim
Square. The house immediately behind No. 12 is occupied by a doctor."
"I know. I called upon him recently to put some scientific point to
him," said Quarles with a smile. "I came to the conclusion that he
could give me no information about Mr. Ratcliffe. Rather curiously, he
did not like Mr. Ratcliffe."
"So I discovered," I answered, and I was conscious of resenting the
professor's active interference in the case. There is no telling what
damage an amateur may do.
"His dislike was a solid fact," said Quarles. "I congratulate you on
not being put on a false scent by it. Many detectives would have been.
The gardens end on to each other--a doctor, a knowledge of subtle
poisons--oh, there were materials for an excellent case ready to
hand."
"We are getting away from the point, professor," I said, somewhat
tartly.
"No, I am coming to it. I concentrated my attention on the house two
doors further down the road. It would not be difficult to creep along
the garden wall even in the dark. Two Chinese gentlemen boarded there,
I was told. No one had noticed them very particularly in the
neighborhood. There are several boarding-houses in Ossery Road, and
many foreigners over here for study or upon business go to live in
them. I called, but the Chinese gentlemen were visiting in the
country, and were not expected back for another fortnight. As a fact,
they were not Chinamen at all, but Tibetans, and I do not fancy they
will come back."
"Tibetans. How do you know? You did not see them?"
"No, it is a guess; because on his last journey Mr. Ratcliffe wandered
in Tibet. I have correspondents in Northern India, and it was not very
difficult to get this information by cable. You do not know Tibet, Mr.
Wigan?"
"No."
"Nor I, except from travelers' tales and through my correspondents. A
curious people, given to fetish worship in peculiar forms. I can tell
you of one strange place, strange as Lhasa. Were you to go there
presently--it might be too soon yet, I cannot say for certain--but
presently, I am convinced you would witness a scene of rejoicing,
religious processions in the streets, men wearing hideous masks; and
in a temple there you would find an idol with two blue eyes--eyes of
sapphire."
"Two?"
"For some time there has been only one," said Quarles; "the other was
stolen. You would find also in this temple talismans, ivory boxes
fitting into each other, the smallest containing a little carved head
representing the head of the idol. Further, you would be told some
strange tales of this idol, of the psychic influence it possesses, and
how those who offend it remain always under that influence which
brings terror. Were you present at a festival in this temple, you
would hear the idol speak. First you would find the great assembly in
the attitude of listening, and then from the idol you would hear a
sound, half sigh, half groan. I suppose the priests produce it
mechanically--I do not know. It may be that----"
"If this be true the mystery is solved," I said.
"I think so," said Quarles. "The Tibetans followed Mr. Ratcliffe to
recover the lost eye, I have no doubt of that, and to be ready for any
emergency had supplied themselves with a paste duplicate of the stone.
Exactly how Mr. Ratcliffe died I can only conjecture. I remember that
his eyes evidently saw something, and I fancy terror killed him. The
Tibetans had undoubtedly watched him constantly, and had found out
that he had the stone hidden in the boxes. Probably they expected to
find it so hidden, having discovered that Mr. Ratcliffe had discarded
the inner boxes of the talisman at the time of the robbery. Having
made certain of this, I think that on the fatal night they made the
curious sound that the idol makes when speaking, expecting that he
would be listening for it, as their priests declared those who
offended the god always did, and as a curious fact Mr. Ratcliffe
actually was, remember; then possibly they thrust between the curtains
one of those hideous masks which figure in so many religious
ceremonies in Tibet. Mr. Ratcliffe was in a state of mind to give any
sudden terror an enormous power over him, and I think he died without
any violence being offered him. So the gem was recovered, the paste
sapphire and the remaining boxes being left as a sign that the god had
been avenged, a sign which I believe I have been able to read. There
are the theory and some facts; you must make further inquiries
yourself."
The professor rose abruptly from his chair. Evidently he had no
intention of answering questions, and he meant the interview to come
to an end.
"Thank you," I said. "I shall take steps at once to find out if you
are correct."
"For your own satisfaction, not mine," said Quarles; "I am certain.
You asked how it was I came to Blenheim Square that morning. Chance!
It is called that. I do not believe in chance. When I am impelled to
do a thing, I do it because I recognize a directing will I am forced
to obey. We live in a world girt with miracles, in an atmosphere of
mystery which is beyond our comprehension. We find names for what we
do not understand, psychic force, mind waves, telepathy, and the like,
but they are only names and do not help us much. Keep an open mind,
Mr. Wigan; you will be astonished what strange imaginings will enter
it--imaginings which you will discover are real truths. An empty mind
in an empty room, there you have the best receptacle for that great
will which guides and governs all thought and action. I speak as a
philosopher, and as an old man to a young one. Come to me if you like
when you are in a difficulty, and I will help you if I am allowed to.
Do you understand? Good-bye."
* * * * *
Subsequent inquiries made by Scotland Yard through the authorities in
India established the fact that the sapphire eye of the image in Tibet
had been stolen; that Mr. Ratcliffe was in Tibet at the time; and that
not long after the tragedy in Blenheim Square the jewel was restored
to its place with much rejoicing and religious enthusiasm.
I was not disposed to like Professor Quarles nor to believe in him
altogether. I found it easy to see the charlatan in him, yet the fact
remained that he had solved the problem.
Certainly he was interesting, and, besides, there was his
granddaughter, Zena. If only for the sake of seeing her, I felt sure I
should have occasion to consult Christopher Quarles again.