A SIGNATURE WITH A FLOURISH
He was collected enough, though the blood was rather cool in his veins,
and there was an odd sensitiveness at the roots of his hair. "Who is
there?" he asked in a matter-of-fact voice.
There was no answer, and now he had a feeling that the presence was
drawing nearer.
He was unarmed, of course. The inseparable six-shooter of the West lay
at the bottom of a cabin-trunk in his bed-room. But his faculties were
exerted to an extent hardly possible to men who have not lived close to
wild nature. He conceived that his safety demanded the exercise not only
of pluck, but of artifice. So he stepped softly to the corner by the
entrance to the servants' apartments, and, standing there, sought a
loose match in his waistcoat pocket, and held it against the wall, ready
to light it at an instant's notice. He did not mean to sacrifice to any
chivalric nonsense about sex the opening move in what might prove to be
a game of life or death. The woman, or whatever it was, showed by her
conduct that she was not there by some mischance capable of explanation;
he would determine by her first move, by the first flash of light, how
to deal with her; and, if there were others with her, her body would
be his shield until he gained the outer door and staircase. And so he
waited, with the alert patience of an Indian, poised on the very tip-toe
of action.
But as time passed, and there was no further sign of life in the
corridor, the situation became over trying. He formulated a fresh plan.
Behind him lay the kitchen, with its fire-irons, and thither he ran,
seized a poker, then rushing out again, had the corridor, the
drawing-room, every room, alight. But he saw no one.
He searched each room with eager haste, but there was nothing out of the
common to be discovered. The front door was closed as he had left it. He
ran into the exterior lobby, and, keeping an eye on the exit, summoned
the elevator. Up it came; but the porter, throwing open the doors,
checked his ready salute in his alarm at the sight of "No. 7" facing him
poker in hand.
"Have you seen a lady go out?" demanded David.
The man drew back, one hand on his lever and the other on a sliding
trellis-work of iron.
"N-no, sir," he stammered.
"Don't be frightened," said David, sharply. "I want you to keep your
wits. Some one has been in my flat--"
"Is that so, sir?"
"Where have you been during the last five minutes?"
"Down-stairs, sir."
"At the door?"
"No, sir, in the back, not five yards from the lift, sir." He thought it
unnecessary to mention that he had been talking to the housemaid of No.
2, in the basement on her way to the post.
"So any one could have gone out without your knowledge?"
"If they went by the stairs, sir."
"Come in and help me to search my place again."
The porter hung back. The man's sheepish face was almost comical.
"Come, come," said David, "there isn't much to be afraid of now, but
I tell you that some one put out the light in the corridor, and I am
almost sure that I heard the stir of a woman's dress somewhere."
The lift-attendant's pallor increased.
"That's just it, sir," he murmured. "The others have heard it, too."
"Stuff!" said David, turning on his heel.
Few Britons can stand contempt. The porter followed him.
"That's a man," said David, and they entered the flat. Harcourt shut and
bolted the door.
"Now," he said, "you mount guard in the passage, while I carry on the
hunt."
He would have disturbed a mouse were it in hiding, so complete was his
second scrutiny of every nook. At the end of a fruitless quest he gave
the porter a whisky and soda.
"I'll tell you wot, sir," said the man, "there's more in this than meets
the heye. Miss L'Estrange, she never saw anythink, but she 'eard all
sorts o' rummy noises, an' twiced she found that all 'er things 'ad bin
rummidged. An' it was no thief, neither. The maid, she acshully sawr
the pore lydy. If I may s'y it in confidence, sir, and you wants ter
be comfortable, there's No. 18 in the next block--"
"I have rented the place for six months, and I shall stay in it," said
David. "Have another? No? Well, here is half a crown. Say nothing about
to-night's adventure. I am going to bed."
"Lordy! Goin' ter sleep 'ere alone?" gasped his companion. "I wouldn't
do it for a pension."
"Yet I am paying for the privilege. However, not a word, remember."
"Right you are, sir. 'Ope you'll 'ave a good night's rest, sir. I'll be
in the lift for another 'arf hour, if you should 'appen to want me."
Left to himself, David bolted the outer door again, and returned to
the dining-room. Obeying an impulse, he jotted down some notes of the
occurrence, paying special heed to times and impressions. Then he went
to bed, having locked his bed-room door and placed his revolver under
his pillow. He imagined that he would remain awake many hours, but,
tired and overwrought, he was soon asleep, to be aroused only by the
news-agent's effort to stuff a morning paper into the letter-box. The
charwoman was already in the flat, and the sun was shining through the
drawn-thread pattern of the blinds.
"The air of London must be drugged," thought David, looking at his
watch. "Asleep at half-past eight of a fine morning!"
Such early-morning reproaches mark the first stage of town life.
After breakfast he went to his bank. He had expended a good deal of
money during the past month, but was well equipped in substantials,
owned a comfortable home for six months--barring such experiences as
those of the preceding night--and found at the bank a good balance to
his credit.
"I will hold on until I have left two hundred pounds of my capital and
earnings combined," he decided; "then I shall take the next mail steamer
to some place where they raise stock."
He called at the agent's office.
"Nothing amiss, I hope?" said Mr. Dibbin.
"Nothing, whatever. I just happened in to get a few pointers about Miss
Gwendoline Barnes."
Harcourt found that in London it was helpful to use Americanisms in his
speech. People smiled and became attentive when new idioms tickled their
metropolitan ears. But the mention of the dead tenant of No. 7 Eddystone
Mansions froze Dibbin's smile.
"What about her? Poor lady! she might well be forgotten," he said.
"So soon? I suppose you knew her?"
"Yes. Oh, yes."
"Nice girl?"
The agent bent over some papers. He seemed to be unable to bear
Harcourt's steady glance.
"She was exceedingly good-looking," he answered; "tall, elegant figure,
head well poised, kind of a face you see in a Romney, high forehead,
large eyes, small nose and mouth--sort of artist type."
"Wore a lot of lace about the throat?"
"What? You know that?"
"Oh, don't be startled," said Harcourt. "There is her head in chalks you
know, over the mantelpiece--"
"Ah, true, true."
"I wonder if it was she or some other lady who was in my flat last night
at half-past eleven."
Dibbin again started, stared at Harcourt, and groaned.
"If it distresses you, I will talk of something else," said Harcourt.
"Mr. Harcourt, you don't realize what this means to me. That block of
buildings brings me an income. Any more talk of a ghost at No. 7 will
cause dissatisfaction, and the proprietary company will employ another
agency."
"Now, let us be reasonable. Even if I hold a seance every night, I shall
stick to my contract without troubling a board of directors. I am that
kind of man. But, meantime, you should help me with information."
Dibbin blinked, and dabbed his face with a handkerchief. "Ask me
anything you like," he said.
"When did Miss Barnes die?"
"On July 28 of last year. She lived alone in the flat, employing a
non-resident general servant. This woman left the flat at six o'clock on
the previous evening. At half-past eight A. M. next day, when she tried
to let herself in, the latch appeared to be locked. After some hours'
delay, when nothing could be ascertained of Miss Barnes's movements,
though she was due at a music-master's that morning and at a rehearsal
in the afternoon, the door was forced, and it was discovered that the
latch was not only locked but a lower bolt had been shot home, thus
proving that the unhappy girl herself had taken this means of showing
that her death was self-inflicted."
"Why do you say that, if a coroner's jury brought in a verdict of 'Death
from Misadventure'?"
Mr. Dibbin's eyes shifted again slightly. "That was--er--what one
calls--"
"I see. The verdict was virtually one of suicide?"
"It could not well be otherwise. She had purchased the sleeping-draft
herself, but, unfortunately, fortified it with strychnine. How else
could the precautions about the door be explained? That is the only
means of egress. Each window is sixty feet from the ground."
"Did she rent the flat herself?"
"No. That is the only really mysterious circumstance about the affair.
It was taken on a three years' agreement, and furnished for her, by a
gentleman."
"Who was he?"
"No one knows. He paid cash in advance for everything."
David was surprised. "Say, Mr. Dibbin," he queried, "how about the
'references' upon which the over-landlord insisted in my case?"
"What are references worth, anyhow?" cried the agent, testily. "In this
instance, when inquired into by the police, they were proved to be
bogus. A bundle of bank-notes inspires confidence when you are a buyer,
and propose to part with them forthwith."
"Surely suspicions were aroused?"
The agent coughed discreetly. "This is London, you know. Given a pretty
girl, a singer, a minor actress, who leaves her home and lives alone in
apartments exceedingly well furnished, what do people think? The man
had sufficient reasons to remain unknown, and those reasons were
strengthened ten-fold by the scandal of Miss Barnes's death. She left
not even a scrap of paper to identify him, or herself, for that matter.
All we had was his signature to the agreement. It is, I believe, a false
name. Would you care to see it?"
"Yes," said David.
Dibbin took some papers from a pigeonhole. Among them David recognized
the deed he had signed a few days earlier. A similar document was now
spread before him. It bore the scrawl, "Johann Strauss," with the final
S developed into an elaborate flourish.
"A foreigner," observed David.
"Possibly. The man spoke excellent English."
"Have you ever heard of Lombroso, Mr. Dibbin?"
"Lombroso? I have seen the name, somewhere in Soho, I think."
"Not the same," said David with due gravity. "The man I mean is an
Italian criminologist of great note. He lays it down as a principle
that a signature of that kind is a sign of moral degeneracy. Keep an
eye on those among your clients who use such a flourish, Mr. Dibbin."
"Good gracious!" cried the agent, casting a glance at the well-stuffed
letter-cases of his office. How many moral degenerates had left their
sign manual there!
"Two more questions," went on Harcourt. "Where do Miss Barnes's
relatives reside?"
"Her name was not Barnes," was the instant answer; "but I am pledged to
secrecy in that regard. There is a mother, a most charming woman, and a
sister, both certainly most charming ladies, of a family very highly
respected. They did not discover the unhappy girl's death until she was
long laid to rest--"
"Then, why is the flat still in the condition in which Miss Barnes
inhabited it?"
"Ah, that is simple enough. Isn't the agreement valid for nearly a year
yet? When that term expires, I shall dispose of the furniture and hand
over the proceeds to the young lady's heirs-at-law, subject to
direction, of course, in case the real lessee ever puts in a claim."
David strolled out into the crowded solitude of the streets, with
a vague mind of Gwendoline Barnes and Johann Strauss, two misty
personalities veiled under false names. But they so dwelt in his mind
that he asked himself if he had fled from the pursuit of a living woman
in far Wyoming to be haunted by a dead one in England? Like most
strangers in London, he turned to the police for counsel, and told to an
inspector on duty at a police-station his tale of the whiff of violets,
of the extinguished light in his corridor, and of the real or fancied
brush of a woman's skirt somewhere against wall or carpet. He was
listened to with kindliness, though, of course, without much faith.
However, he learned from the inspector the address of the coroner's
court where the inquest had probably been held; it was near by, and
David's steps led him thither. There he asked some questions at
haphazard, without picking up anything of fresh interest; unless it
was that "Gwendoline Barnes" lay buried in Kensal Green cemetery.
It was now late in the afternoon. He strolled down Tottenham Court Road
into Holborn, ate a deferred luncheon in Oxford-St., and started to
saunter back home, shirking a theater matinee, which was irksome since
it was the fixed thing on his program. But it struck him half-way home
that his charwoman was gone, that the flat was lonely; he got into a
cab, saying to the driver: "Kensal Green cemetery!"
Some electric lamps were a-flicker already in the streets. It was nearly
the hour at which London roars loudest, when the city begins to pour out
its hordes, and vans hurry to their bourne, with blocks in the traffic,
and more haste, less speed. When he reached the cemetery the closing
time was imminent.
A little snow lay among the graves, through which the grass-tufts
showed, making a ground of black-and-white. Some few stars had ventured
to peep from the wintry sky. A custodian supplied David with the formal
information which he sought. The plot of ground had been bought in
perpetuity; it was in a shaded place a good distance from the entrance;
an Iona cross, erected by friends, marked the spot, bearing the one
word, "Gwendoline."
"It is late, sir," said the man. But mighty is the power of the tip,
even in cemeteries.
David walked down an avenue of the dead toward the little mound that
covered the young actress. He was perhaps twenty yards from it when he
heard and almost stopped at the sound of a sob not far away. He looked
on this hand and on that, but could see no one. The place, with its
silent populace, was more lonesome than the prairie; and a new sense had
been steadily growing up in him since half-past eleven of the previous
night--the sense of the "other world," of its possible reality and
nearness. There was an odor here, strong enough to his keen nostrils,
of flowers, especially of violets, and of the last end of mortal man, a
blend of sweet and abhorrent which was to infect his mind for many a
day. However, he did not hesitate, but, with slower steps, that made
hardly a sound, turned a corner of the path, cleared a clump of trees
which had blocked his view, and now saw the grave of Gwendoline, the
cross, the chaplet of fresh violets at the foot of the cross, and over
the cross a woman weeping.
Weeping bitterly, her face in her hands, she was standing, but her body
was bent in grief, and she was all shaken with it, though little sound
escaped that lonely passion of pity and heartbreak. Harcourt at once
felt that he had invaded holy ground. He gave himself time to notice
only that she was tall, cloaked wholly in black--and he turned, or
half-turned, to retire.
But in his haste and embarrassment he let his stick fall from his hand;
whereat the young woman started, and they looked at each other.
In an instant Harcourt understood that she was the sister of her whose
portrait stood on his mantelpiece; and he felt that he had never seen
woman so lovely and gentle.