To Mabel, my wife, I said nothing. In the circumstances, I deemed
silence golden.
Kirk's attitude at the telephone had filled me with suspicion.
During the hours I spent in bed before the dawn I lay thinking. The
problem was utterly inexplicable, the more so now that the dead man's
daughter was also dead.
I was convinced, as I lay there in the darkness, that there was
something very suspicious in the fact that Kirk, who seemed to rule the
household, would not allow the police to have any knowledge of what had
occurred. Indeed, my own position was somewhat unenviable, for, being
aware that a murder had been committed, was I not legally bound to give
information? Was I not liable to prosecution if I failed to do so?
The mystery surrounding Kershaw Kirk had increased rather than
diminished in that final quarter of an hour I had spent with him as he
had sat staring straight into the fire, uttering scarce a word.
What had been told him over the telephone had caused an entire change in
his manner. Previously he had been dictatorial and defiant. He was now
cringing, crushed, terror-stricken.
The grim scenes I had witnessed surged through my brain. The mystery of
it all had gripped my senses. Carefully I analysed each event, trying
to discern some light as to its cause and motive. But I was not a
professional detective. This was the first time I had found myself
mixed up in a crime by which human life had been lost.
That the death of Professor Greer was no ordinary crime of violence I
had quickly recognised. There was some subtle motive both in the crime
itself and in the supposed presence of the Professor in Edinburgh,
whereas in reality he was already lying dead in his own laboratory.
Those instructions to his daughter, which seemed to have been written
after his departure from King's Cross, also formed an enigma in
themselves. The dead man had actually sought the assistance of his
worst enemy!
Yet, when I weighed the circumstances as a whole calmly and coolly, I
saw that if the unknown person to whom the Professor had signalled on
that fateful night could be found a very great point would be gained
towards the solution of the problem.
The pulling up and down of the drawing-room blind was, no doubt, in
order to inform some person waiting without of his journey north. Was
that person who received the signal afterwards the assassin?
Yet the fact that the crime was committed behind locked doors, that both
the victim and the assassin had to pass within a few feet of where Miss
Ethelwynn was seated, and that into the unfortunate Professor's face
some terribly corrosive fluid had been dashed, formed a problem which
held me mystified.
There was something uncanny in the whole inexplicable affair. I now
realised for the first time how complete was the mystery of the
Professor's death, even apart from the other facts of his signals and
his journey north.
Kirk, this dealer in secrets, admittedly posed as a friend of the
family. Greer trusted him. To him Ethelwynn had fled for assistance at
the first suspicion of anything being wrong. Therefore would it not
have been easier for him than for anyone else to enter the house in
secret and kill the man who had stolen from him that mysterious secret?
Yet, try how I would, I was unable to rid myself of the grave conviction
that my new acquaintance was cognisant of more than he had told me. He
was naturally a reserved man, it was true; yet there was an air of
cosmopolitanism about him which spoke mutely of the adventurer.
His refusal to allow a doctor to see the Professor's daughter was
nothing short of culpable. Had Antonio, that sly, crafty Italian, to
whom I had taken such instinctive dislike, summoned a doctor at once, it
was quite possible that the poor girl's life might have been saved.
But why had she returned to the house in a manner so secret? Why had
she crept into the dining-room and removed her hat? It would almost
seem as though she had returned for good, for if she had intended to go
back to her aunt's she would not have taken off her hat and laid it
aside.
And why had she done so in the dining-room, of all places? Why had she
not ascended to her own room? And why, most of all, had she not
summoned Antonio?
Was it because of fear of him?
Kirk and Antonio were friends. That I had detected from the very first.
The Italian was polite, urbane, servile, yet I saw that the bow was
only a shallow make-believe. Alone together, the pair would, no doubt,
stand upon an equal footing.
The reason she had returned home was mysterious enough, yet the greater
problem was the reason why she also had been struck down and the same
corrosive liquid flung into her fair countenance.
I could not think that Kirk was responsible for this second
assassination, for, unless Antonio had lied, it had been committed at
the very hour when I had been seated with my mysterious neighbour only a
few doors away from my own house.
So, as you may readily imagine, I was still sorely troubled when at last
the maid brought me my hot water and I rose to dress.
I quite saw now that the reason why Kirk had called to inspect the new
Eckhardt tyre was merely in order to make my acquaintance. Yet it was
certainly curious that he should have predicted the visits of the two
other men for the same purpose. After breakfast I went, as usual, to
the garage, but my mind was still full of the events of the previous
night.
Kirk had arranged to call for me at eleven and return to Sussex Place,
where he intended to search for any finger-marks left by the assassin.
Eleven o'clock struck, but he did not arrive. In patience I waited
until one, and then returned home to luncheon, as was my habit.
His non-arrival confirmed my suspicions. What, I wondered, could have
been the purport of that mysterious message in German that he had
listened to on the telephone just before we had parted?
At two o'clock I called at his house and rang the door-bell. There was
no response. Both Kirk and his sister were out.
So I returned to the garage, and with Dick Drake, my stout, round-faced,
dare-devil driver, who held two records at Brooklands, and was
everlastingly being fined for exceeding the speed limit, I worked hard
upon the refractory engine of a car which had been sent to me for
repair.
All day it was misty, but towards evening the fog increased, until it
became thick even in Chiswick, therefore I knew that it must be a
regular "London particular" in the West End. One driver, indeed, who
had come in from Romford, said he had taken four hours to cross London.
Hence I resolved to possess my soul in patience and spend a quiet
evening at home with my wife and her young sister, who lived with us.
Curiously enough, however, I found myself, towards six o'clock, again
seized by a sudden and uncontrollable desire to return to Sussex Place
in search of my mysterious neighbour. I felt within me a keen,
irrepressible anxiety to fathom the curious problem which that shabby
man, who declared himself immune from trial in a criminal court, had
placed before me. Who could he be, that, like the King himself, he
could not be brought before a judge?
At times I found myself laughing at his absurd statements, and regarding
them as those of a lunatic; but at others I was bound to admit that his
seriousness showed him to be in deadly earnest.
Well, to cut a long story short, at eight o'clock I took Dick Drake and
managed to creep over in the fog to Regent's Park on one of the small
cars.
The door was opened, as before, by Antonio, who perceptibly started when
he recognised me.
Yes, Mr. Kirk was there, he admitted, and a few seconds later he came to
me in the hall.
He was a changed man. His face was thinner, sallower, more haggard, and
the lines about his mouth deeper and more marked; yet he greeted me
affably, with many apologies for not keeping his appointment.
"I was here, very busy," he explained. "I rang you up twice on the
'phone, but each time you were engaged."
"Well," I asked, going straight to the point, "what have you
discovered?"
"Very little," he said. "I've searched all day for finger-prints, but
up to the present have found none, save those of Antonio, Ethelwynn, and
members of the household."
"You do not suspect any of the servants?" I whispered, full of
suspicion of the crafty-looking Italian.
"Of course not, my dear sir. What motive could they have in killing
such an excellent, easygoing master as the Professor?"
"Revenge for some fancied grievance," I suggested.
But he only laughed my theory to scorn.
I followed him upstairs, through the red boudoir to the laboratory, to
which the fog had penetrated, and there watched him making his test for
recent finger-prints. His examination was both careful and methodical.
He drew a pair of old grey suede gloves over his hands, and, taking up
one after another of the bottles and glass apparatus, he lightly coated
them with some finely powdered chalk of a grey-green colour, afterwards
dusting it off.
On one or two of the bottles prints of fingers were revealed, and each
of these he very carefully examined beneath the light, rejecting them
one after the other.
To me, unacquainted as I was with the various lines of the finger-tips,
all looked alike. But this shabby, mysterious neighbour of mine
apparently read them with the utmost ease, as he would a book.
In its corner, in the same position in which we had left it on the
previous night, lay the hideous body of the Professor, crouching just as
he had expired. But Kershaw Kirk worked on, heedless of its presence.
I remarked to him that he was a careful and painstaking detective,
whereupon he straightened his back, and, looking me in the face, said:
"Please don't run away with the idea that I'm a detective, Mr. Holford.
I am not. I have no connection whatever with the police, whom, I may
tell you, I hold in contempt. There's far too much red-tape at Scotland
Yard, which binds the men hand and foot and prevents them doing any real
good work. Look at the serious crimes committed in London during the
past three years to the perpetrators of which the police have no clue!
The whole police system in London is wrong. There's too much
observation upon the speed of motor-cars and too little latitude allowed
the police for inquiry into criminal cases."
"Then you are not a police officer?" I asked, for within the last few
hours I had become suspicious that such was the fact.
"No, I am not. The reason I am inquiring into the death of Professor
Greer is because, for the sake of my own reputation, and in order to
clear myself of any stigma upon me, I must ascertain the truth."
"And only for that reason?" I queried.
He hesitated.
"Well--and for another--another which must remain a confidential matter
with myself," he replied at length. "The Professor was in possession of
a certain secret, and my belief is that this secret was stolen from him
and his mouth afterwards closed by the thief."
"Why?"
"Because, had the unfortunate man spoken, certain complications, very
serious complications, involving huge losses, would have accrued. So
there was only one way--to kill poor Greer! But the manner in which
this was accomplished is still an absolute enigma."
"Has it not struck you that the telegram sent from Edinburgh may have
been despatched by the assassin?" I asked.
But he was uncertain. He had as yet, he said, formed no theory as to
that portion of the problem.
"Where is the unfortunate girl?" I asked, for I had noticed that she
was not in the dining-room.
He looked at me quickly, with a strange expression in his peculiar eyes.
"She's still here, of course," he declared. "That second phase of the
mystery is as complicated as the first--perhaps even more so. Come with
me a moment."
I followed him through the boudoir and into the study, where, opening a
long cupboard in the wall, a small iron safe was revealed, the door of
which opened at his touch.
"Here," he explained, "the Professor kept the valuable notes upon the
results of his experiments. The safe was closed when I first called,
but this morning I found it open, and the contents gone!"
"Then the person who killed Professor Greer was not the thief!" I
remarked.
"Unless he returned here afterwards," was Kirk's reply, with his eyes
fixed upon mine.
Then he glanced at his watch, and without a word turned upon his heel
and passed out of the room.