FATAL FINGERS.
Two days passed.
Those finger-prints--impressions left by a woman--upon the glass-topped
specimen table in Sir Digby's room and on the door handle, were puzzling
the police as they puzzled me. They had already been proved not to be
those of the porter's wife, the lines being lighter and more refined.
According to Edwards, after the finger-prints had been photographed,
search had been made in the archives at Scotland Yard, but no record
could be found that they were those of any person previously convicted.
Were they imprints of the hand of my well-beloved?
I held my breath each time that black and terrible suspicion filled my
mind. I tried to put them aside, but, like a nightmare, they would recur
to me hourly until I felt impelled to endeavour to satisfy myself as to
her guilt or her innocence.
I loved her. Yes, passionately and truly. Yet, somehow, I could not
prevent this ever-recurring suspicion to fill my mind. There were so many
small points to be elucidated--the jingle of the golden bangles, and
especially the perfume, which each time I entered her presence recalled
to me all the strange and unaccountable happenings of that fatal night.
Again, who was the poor, unidentified victim--the pale-faced, pretty
young woman who had visited Digby clandestinely, and gone to her death?
Up to the present the police notices circulated throughout the country
had failed to establish who she was. Yet, if she were a foreigner, as
seemed so likely, identification might be extremely difficult; indeed,
she might ever remain a mystery.
It was nearly ten o'clock at night when I called at Cromwell Road, for I
had excused myself for not coming earlier, having an object in view.
I found Phrida in the library, sweet and attractive in a pale blue gown
cut slightly _décolletée_. She and her mother had been out to dinner
somewhere in Holland Park, and had only just returned.
Mrs. Shand drew an armchair for me to the fire, and we all three sat down
to chat in the cosiness of the sombre little book-lined den. Bain, the
old butler, who had known me almost since childhood, placed the tantalus,
a syphon and glasses near my elbow, and at Phrida's invitation I poured
myself out a drink and lit a cigarette.
"Come," I said, "you will have your usual lemonade"; and at my suggestion
her mother ordered Bain to bring a syphon of that harmless beverage.
My love reached forward for one of the glasses, whereupon I took one and,
with a word of apology, declared that it was not quite clean.
"Not clean!" exclaimed Mrs. Shand quickly.
"There are a few smears upon it," I said, and adding "Excuse my
handkerchief. It is quite clean," I took the silk handkerchief I carried
with me purposely, and polished it with the air of a professional waiter.
Both Phrida and her mother laughed.
"Really, Mr. Royle, you are full of eccentricities," declared Mrs. Shand.
"You always remind me of your poor father. He was most particular."
"One cannot be too careful, or guard sufficiently against germs, you
know," I said, handling the clean glass carefully and pouring out the
lemonade from the syphon.
Phrida took the glass from my hand, and laughing happily across its edge,
drank. Her fingers were leaving tell-tale impressions upon its surface.
And yet she was unconscious of my duplicity. Ah! yes, I hated myself for
my double dealing. And yet so filled was I now by dark and breathless
suspicion, that I found myself quite unable to resist an opportunity of
establishing proof.
I watched her as she, in all innocence, leaned back in the big saddle-bag
chair holding her glass in her hand and now and then contemplating it.
The impressions--impressions which could not lie--would be the means of
exonerating her--or of condemning her.
Those golden bangles upon her slim white wrist and that irritating
perfume held me entranced. What did she know concerning that strange
tragedy in Harrington Gardens. What, indeed, was the secret?
My chief difficulty was to remain apparently indifferent. But to do so
was indeed a task. I loved her, aye, with all my strength, and all my
soul. Yet the black cloud which had fallen upon her was one of
impenetrable mystery, and as I sat gazing upon her through the haze of my
cigarette smoke, I fell to wondering, just as I had wondered during all
those hours which had elapsed since I had scented that first whiff of
Parfait d'Amour, with which her chiffons seemed impregnated.
At last she put down her empty glass upon the bookshelf near her. Several
books had been removed, leaving a vacant space.
Mrs. Shand had already risen and bade me good-night; therefore, we were
alone. So I rose from my chair and, bending over her, kissed her fondly
upon the brow.
No. I would believe her innocent. That white hand--the soft little hand I
held in mine could never have taken a woman's life. I refused to believe
it, and yet!
Did she know more of Sir Digby Kemsley than she had admitted? Why had she
gone to his flat at that hour, lurking upon the stairs until he should be
alone, and, no doubt, in ignorance that I was his visitor?
As I bent over her, stroking her soft hair with my hand, I tried to
conjure up the scene which had taken place in Sir Digby's room--the
tragedy which had caused my friend to flee and hide himself. Surely,
something of a very terrible nature must have happened, or my
friend--impostor or not--would have remained, faced the music, and told
the truth.
I knew Digby better than most men. The police had declared him to be an
impostor; nevertheless, I still believed in him, even though he was now a
fugitive. Edwards had laughed at my faith in the man who was my friend,
but I felt within me a strong conviction that he was not so black as
pigheaded officialdom had painted him.
The Council of Seven at Scotland Yard might be a clever combination of
expert brains, but they were not infallible, as had been proved so many
times in the recent annals of London crime.
Phrida had not referred to the tragedy, and I had not therefore mentioned
it.
My sole object at the moment was to obtain possession of the empty glass
and carry it with me from the house.
But how could I effect this without arousing her suspicion?
She had risen and stood with her back to the blazing fire, her pretty
lips parted in a sweet smile. We were discussing a play at which she had
been on the previous evening, a comedy that had taken the town by storm.
Her golden bangles jingled as she moved--that same light metallic sound I
had heard in the darkness of the staircase at Harrington Gardens. My
eager fingers itched to obtain possession of that glass which stood so
tantalisingly within a couple of feet of my hand. By its means I could
establish the truth.
"Well, Teddy," my beloved said at last, as she glanced at the chiming
clock upon the mantelshelf. "It's past eleven, so I suppose I must go to
bed. Mallock is always in a bad temper if I keep her up after eleven."
"I suppose that is only natural," I laughed. "She often waits hours and
hours for you. That I know."
"Yes," she sighed. "But Mallock is really a model maid. So much better
than Rayne."
Personally, I did not like the woman Mallock. She was a thin-nosed,
angular person, who wore pince-nez, and was of a decidedly inquisitive
disposition. But I, of course, had never shown any antagonism towards
her; indeed, I considered it diplomatic to treat her with tact and
consideration. She had been maid to the oldest daughter of a well-known
and popular countess before entering Phrida's service, and I could well
imagine that her principal topic of conversation in the servants' hall
was the superiority of her late mistress, whose service she had left on
her marriage to a wealthy peer.
"I'm glad she is an improvement upon Rayne," I said, for want of
something else to say, and, rising, I took her little hand and pressed it
to my lips in farewell.
When she had kissed me I said:
"I'll just finish my cigarette, and I can let myself out."
"Very well. But look in to-morrow, dear, won't you?" she replied, as I
opened the door for her to pass. "Better still, I'll ring you up about
three o'clock and see what you are doing. Oh! by the way, mother wants to
remind you of your promise to dine with us on Wednesday night. I quite
forgot. Of course you will--eight o'clock as usual."
"Wednesday!" I exclaimed vaguely, recollecting the acceptance of Mrs.
Shand's invitation about a week previously. "What date is that?"
"Why, the fourteenth."
"The fourteenth!" I echoed.
"Yes, why? Really, you look quite scared, Freddy. What's the matter. Is
anything terrible going to happen on that date?" she asked, looking at me
with some concern.
"Going to happen--why?" I asked, striving to calm myself.
"Oh--well, because you look so horribly pale. When I told you the date
you gave quite a jump!"
"A jump? Did I?" I asked, striving to remain calm. "I didn't know, but,
really, I'm filled with great disappointment. I'm so sorry, but it will
be quite impossible for me to dine with you."
"Another engagement?" she said in a rather irritated tone. "Going to some
people whom you like better than us, of course. You might tell the truth,
Teddy."
"The truth is that I have a prior engagement," I said. "One that I cannot
break. I have to fulfill faithfully a promise I gave to a very dear
friend."
"Couldn't you do it some other time?"
"No," I answered. "Only on the evening of the fourteenth."
"Then you can't come to us?" she asked with a pout.
"I'll look in after," I promised. "But to dine is entirely out of the
question."
I saw that she was annoyed, but next moment her lips parted again in a
pretty smile, and she said:
"Very well, then. But remember, you will not be later than ten, will
you?"
"I promise not to be, dearest," I answered, and kissing her, she ascended
to her room.
The fourteenth! It was on that evening I had to carry out the promise
made to Digby and meet the mysterious lady at the Piccadilly Circus Tube
Station--the person whose initials were "E. P. K." and who would wear in
her breast a spray of mimosa.
I returned to the library, and for a second stood thinking deeply. Would
I, by that romantic meeting, be placed in possession of some further fact
which might throw light upon the mystery? Ah! would I, I wondered?
The empty glass caught my eye, and I was about to cross and secure it
when Bain suddenly entered. Seeing me, he drew back quickly, saying: "I
beg pardon, sir. I thought you had gone. Will you take anything more,
sir?"
"No, not to-night, Bain," was my reply.
Whereupon the old servant glanced around for the missing glass, and I saw
with heart-sinking that he placed it upon the tray to carry it back to
the servants' quarters.
The link which I had been so careful in preparing was already vanishing
from my gaze, when of a sudden I said:
"I'll change my mind, Bain. I wonder if you have a lemon in the house?"
"I'll go to the kitchen and see if cook has one, sir," replied the old
man, who, placing down the tray, left to do my bidding.
In an instant I sprang forward and seized the empty tumbler, handling it
carefully. Swiftly, I tore a piece off the evening paper, and wrapping it
around the glass, placed it in the pocket of my dinner jacket.
Then, going into the hall, I put on my overcoat and hat, and awaited
Bain's return.
"I shan't want that lemon!" I cried to him as he came up from the lower
regions. "Good-night, Bain!" and a few moments later I was in a taxi
speeding towards Albemarle Street, with the evidence I wanted safe in my
keeping.
That finger-prints remained on the polished surface of the glass I knew
full well--the prints of my beloved's fingers.
But would they turn out to be the same as the fingers which had rested
upon the glass-topped specimen-table in Digby's room?
Opening the door with my latch-key, I dashed upstairs, eager to put my
evidence to the proof by means of the finely-powdered green chalk I had
already secured--the same as that used by the police.
But on the threshold of my chambers Haines met me with a message--a
message which caused me to halt breathless and staggered.