PROFESSOR BOCAROS
Mrs. Baldwin always called herself an unlucky woman, and lamented that
she had to undergo misfortunes heavier than those of other people. But
in truth she was better off than her laziness and grumbling deserved.
Her income was small but sure, and if she lived unhappily, with her
second husband the fault was hers. The man grew weary of her
inattention to domestic comfort, and to her constant lamentations. It
said a great deal for the absent Mr. Baldwin that he had lived with
this slattern for so many years. The most sensible thing he ever did
in his life was when he left her.
On losing him Mrs. Baldwin had taken up her abode in Cloverhead Manor
House, and obtained it at a low rent. She would not have got it so
cheap, but that in those days Troy was only beginning to gather round
the ancient village. Mrs. Baldwin, in spite of her laziness, was
clever enough to foresee that land would increase in value, and bought
the acres upon which the manor stood. The former owner, the last
member of a decayed family, had sold the land gladly enough, as he
obtained from Mrs. Baldwin a larger price than was offered by the
classic jerry-builder, who was responsible for the modern suburb.
Since then the value of the land--as was anticipated by Mrs.
Baldwin--had increased, and many speculators offered large sums to buy
it. But Mrs. Baldwin was too lazy to make another move. She enjoyed
pigging it in the large roomy house, and quite resolved not to move
until the children were settled in life. She then proposed to sell the
land, and use the money "to take her proper station in society,"
whatever that meant. And she was cunning enough to know that the land
would increase still more in value. There were the makings of a
business woman in Mrs. Baldwin had she not been so incorrigibly lazy.
"But I really can't move," sighed Mrs. Baldwin when approached on the
subject by Gerty, who was businesslike and speculative. "Heaven knows
I can hardly get through the day's work with my bad health. Besides,
there is the professor to be considered. Such a nice man. If I were
only sure that Rufus was dead I might consent to take him."
This was sheer vanity on the part of the lazy fat woman, as the
professor had no intention of asking her to become Mrs. Bocaros. He
was a bachelor by nature, and passed his life in study. Holding a
small post in a suburban college where he taught foreign languages, he
just managed to keep his head above water. For the sake of peace, and
because he hated a boarding-house, the professor wanted a home to
himself. When Mrs. Baldwin came to Cloverhead she had a tiny cottage
on her estate at the foot of the meadow at the back of the
manor-house. It was surrounded by pines, and lying near a small stream
which overflowed whenever there was rain, being therefore extremely
damp. She had no idea of letting it, but on meeting Bocaros at a
scholastic "At Home" she learned of his desire, and offered him the
place. He accepted it eagerly, and for some years had been Mrs.
Baldwin's tenant.
The professor was a quiet neighbour. He kept no servant, and did the
work himself. The cottage possessed but two rooms, one of which was
used as a kitchen, and the other as a dining-room, a bedroom, a study,
and a reception-room. This last was large and airy and damp, but the
professor loved it because of the solitude. He cherished a tranquil
life above all things, and certainly found it in "The Refuge," as he
called his tiny domicile. Through the pines he could see the country
dotted with red brick villas, the outposts of London, for Troy was one
of the last additions to the great city, and its surroundings were
almost rural. Beside the stream grew stunted alders and tall poplars.
There was no fence round the place. It was clapped down on the verge
of the meadow, and girdled with the pines. A more isolated hermitage
it is impossible to conceive. Tracey, who sometimes came to see
Bocaros, for whose learning he had a great respect, advised draining
the place, but Bocaros was obstinate. "It will last my time," he said
in his rather precise way; "and I may not live here for many years."
"Do you intend to leave then?" asked Tracey.
"I might. There is a chance I may inherit money, and then I would live
in Switzerland."
"That's where the anarchists dwell," said Tracey, wondering if this
queer-looking foreigner was a member of some secret society.
Professor Bocaros--he obtained his title from a Greek College, as he
stated--was certainly odd in his appearance. He was tall and lean and
lank, apparently made of nothing but bones. Rheumatism in this damp
spot would have had a fine field to rack Bocaros, but he never seemed
to be ill. Always dressed in black broadcloth, rather worn, he looked
like an undertaker, and moved with quite a funereal step. His face was
of the fine Greek type, but so emaciated that it looked like a
death's-head. With his hollow cheeks, his thin red lips, his high bald
forehead, and the absence of beard and moustache, Bocaros was most
unattractive. The most remarkable feature of his face was his eyes.
These, under shaggy black brows, seemed to blaze like lamps. However
weak and ill the man looked, his blazing eyes showed that he was full
of vitality. Also, his lean hands could grip firmly, and his long legs
took him over the ground at a surprising rate. Yet he ate little, and
appeared to be badly nourished. Tracey, to whom Bocaros was always a
source of wonder and constant speculation, confided to Gerty that he
believed the professor was possessed of some restorative which served
instead of food. On the whole, there was an air of mystery about the
man which provoked the curiosity of the lively, inquisitive American.
It would have inspired curiosity with many people also, had not
Bocaros lived so retired a life. The Baldwin children called his house
"Ogre Castle," and invented weird tales of the professor eating little
children.
"I shouldn't wonder if he was a vampire of sorts," said Tracey. "He
don't live on air, and the food in that Mother Hubbard's cupboard of
his wouldn't keep a flea in condition."
"I don't believe in much eating myself," Mrs. Baldwin responded,
although she never gave her inside a rest, and was always-chewing like
a cow. "Abstinence keeps the brain clear."
"And over-abstinence kills the body," retorted Tracey.
Whatever Bocaros may have thought of the murder, he said very little
about it. He never took in a paper himself, but was accustomed to
borrow the _Daily Budget_ from Mrs. Baldwin when that lady had
finished the court news, the only part of the paper she took any
interest in. Usually after his return from the school where he taught,
Bocaros came across the meadows by a well-defined path, and asked for
the journal. This was usually between four and five o'clock, and then
he would have a chat with Mrs. Baldwin. But two or three weeks after
the Ajax Villa tragedy, when the professor tore along the path--he
always walked as though he were hurrying for a doctor--he met Tracey
half-way. The American had the newspaper in his hand.
"Coming for this, I guess," said Tracey, handing over the journal. "I
was just bringing it to you. There's a question or two I wish to ask.
You don't mind, do you?"
Bocaros fixed his brilliant eyes on the other. "What is the question,
my friend?" he demanded in English, which hardly bore a trace of
foreign accent.
The American did not reply directly. "You're a clever sort of smart
all-round go-ahead colleger," said Tracey, taking the thin arm of the
man, an attention which Bocaros did not appreciate, "and I want to ask
your opinion about this murder."
"I know nothing about murders, my friend. Why not go to the police?"
"The police!" Tracey made a gesture of disgust. "They ain't worth a
cent. Why, about three weeks have gone by since that poor girl was
stabbed, and they don't seem any nearer the truth than they were."
"We discussed this before," said Bocaros, as they approached the belt
of pines, "and I told you that I could form no theory. My work lies
amidst languages. I am a philologist, my friend, and no detective."
"I guess you'd pan out better than the rest of them if you were."
"You flatter me." Bocaros removed his arm, and inserted a large key
into the lock of his door. "Will you come in?"
"You don't seem very set on chin-music, but I'll come," said Tracey,
who, when bent on obtaining anything, never rested till he achieved
his purpose.
Bocaros gave a gentle sigh, which a more sensitive man might have
taken as a sign that his company was not wanted at that precise
moment. But Tracey would not go, so he had to be admitted. He entered
the room, which was lined with books, and furnished otherwise in a
poor manner, and threw himself into the one armchair. Then he took out
a cigarette-case. "Have one," he said, extending this.
"A pipe, my friend, will please me better," replied Bocaros, and
filled a large china pipe, which he must have obtained when he was a
German student. He then took a seat with his back towards the window,
and intimated that he was ready.
"See here!" said Tracey, opening the newspaper and pointing to a
paragraph; "read that!"
"Is it about the murder?" asked Bocaros, puffing gently at his pipe.
"Yes. That fool of a Derrick has made a discovery of some value."
"In that case he cannot be a fool, my friend," replied Bocaros,
leaning back his head and inhaling the smoke luxuriously. "Tell me
what the paper says. I can't read while you talk, and I am sure you
will not be silent for five minutes."
"That's a fact," said Tracey coolly. "I've got a long tongue and an
inquiring mind. I shan't read the paragraph. But it seems that
he--Derrick, I mean--has found out the woman's name."
"How interesting!" said Bocaros, unmoved and in rather a bored tone.
"How did he find it out?"
"Well, some one wrote from Hampstead," said Tracey, throwing the paper
aside, and giving the gist of his information, "and let out there was
a woman who lived in Coleridge Lane who had a white room, same as that
she was murdered in."
"Coleridge Lane!" repeated Bocaros, opening his eyes. "I know some one
living there. What is this woman's name?"
"The inspector," continued Tracey, taking no notice of this direct
question, "went to see this room. He found the house shut up. The
landlord had the key, and with the landlord he entered. He found, as
was stated, a room similar in all respects to the one in Ajax Villa,
though the furniture was poor. More than that, there was a portrait on
the mantel-piece of the woman who was murdered."
"You can give me the details afterwards," said Bocaros hastily. "At
present I want to know the woman's name."
"Keep your hair on, professor. Her name is Brand."
Bocaros rose from his chair and, dropping his pipe, threw up his hands
with a foreign ejaculation. "Brand! Flora Brand?"
"Yes. How do you come to know her front name?"
"She is my cousin," said the professor, and sat down to cover his face
with his hands.
Tracey whistled, and stared. In making the communication to the man,
he was far from expecting that this announcement would be made. "I
guess you know who killed her then?" he observed coolly. Bocaros
leaped to his feet. "Man," he cried fiercely, "what is that you say?
How should I know who killed her?"
"You're her cousin, and Derrick says in the woman's past life will be
found the motive for the crime."
"I know very little of my cousin's past life," said Bocaros, walking
rapidly to and fro, and apparently much moved. "What I do know I shall
tell to the police."
"Tell it to me now," suggested the American.
The professor looked at him mistrustfully. "I don't know if you are a
good person to make a confidant of."
"Bless you, there's no confidence about this, professor. You'll have
to tell the police what you know, and they'll put it all in print."
"True! True!" Bocaros took a turn up and down the room, then passed
his lean hand through his long hair. "Mr. Tracey, you are a clever
man. I can rely on you to help me."
"Help you!" Tracey looked sharply at the professor. "What's that?"
"I mean help me with the police. I am not accustomed to deal with
these matters. They will ask me questions."
"Well, what if they do? You can answer them, I reckon."
"Yes, yes. But you know how suspicious the police are."
"They may be in foreign lands where you hail from. But I guess they're
too pig-headed here to think much."
"This woman--Flora--was murdered in Ajax Villa. It is only a short
distance from my house. They may think----"
"That you killed her? That's rubbish. It's queer, certainly, that she
should have come to end her life in that way so near to your shanty,
but there's not much chance of the police accusing you. Did you know
Fane in any way?"
"I never even heard of him."
"Not from Miss Mason? You know her?"
"I have only spoken half a dozen words to her," said Bocaros, twisting
his hands together. "You know how shy I am. Your lady----"
"Gerty B.," put in Tracey.
"Yes, Miss Baldwin. She introduced me to Miss Mason. But we had little
speech together. Your young lady might have mentioned the name of
Fane, but I forget--I forget." And Bocaros passed his hand over his
brow again. "You know how absent I am."
"Yes, yes," said Luther Tracey soothingly, for he saw that the man was
growing excited. "You lie down and go slow. Tell me about this cousin
of yours."
"She is my first cousin," explained Bocaros, sitting down, and keeping
himself down by the strongest of efforts. "My father's sister married
a man called Calvert, and----"
"Calvert! Why, that's the name of the man Miss Mason's going to be
married to!"
"Is it?" The professor stared. "I never knew. Flora told me that her
father's brother had a son called Arnold."
"That's the name. He's an actor at one of the big shows. Arnold
Calvert. You must have heard of him."
"Never as an actor."
"Well, I guess he's not got much of a reputation. Just now he's acting
in a piece at the Frivolity Theatre. _The Third Man_ is the name of
the piece. I don't think much of it myself, or of him as----"
Bocaros threw up a protesting hand. "We have more important things to
talk about than this young man."
"Well, I don't know. It's queer that he should be the cousin of the
woman who was killed in the house of the brother-in-law of the girl
he's engaged to. Do you know Calvert?"
"No; I never met him. Listen, Mr. Tracey. I came to England some five
or six years ago very poor, as I am now. Here Bocaros looked round his
study with a dreary air. I have heard my father talk of his sister who
married a man called Calvert, and I had the address. I found my aunt
dead, and her daughter Flora just preparing to move from the house
where they had lived for a long time. She had very little money, and
told me she was going to be married."
"To a man called Brand?"
"Yes. I never saw her husband. Flora told me of our other relatives.
She gave me a little money, and then dismissed me. I did not see her
again. But she wrote to me from Coleridge Lane asking me to give my
name as a reference for her respectability. She wanted to take a house
there----'Fairy Lodge' I think it is called."
"That's the house," said Tracey, with a glance at the paper. "Well?"
"Well, I sent the reference, and she never wrote again. Then over a
month ago I received a letter from some lawyers. They stated that Mrs.
Brand had come in for a large fortune, and that she intended next year
to allow me an income."
"So you've lost by her death?"
Bocaros sprang to his feet with a wild look. "That's just where it
is," he exclaimed. "I don't know that I haven't gained."
"As how?" asked Tracey, looking puzzled.
"When I got the lawyers' letter," proceeded Bocaros,--"the name of the
firm is Laing and Merry--I wrote to Flora, thanking her. She asked me
to call. I did so----"
"Hallo!" interrupted Tracey; "you said just now you never saw her
again after your interview years ago."
"I meant at that time. Four or five years elapsed between the time I
saw her. I am not good at dates, but I never saw her for years. All my
life I have only had two interviews. One was when I came to this
country; the other when, shortly before her death, I called to see her
at Coleridge Lane. She received me very kindly, and stated that she
intended to leave me the money. In fact that she had made a will in my
favour."
Tracey stared. Here was a motive for the murder, seeing that Bocaros
was desperately poor. Yet he could not see how the professor came to
be mixed up with the actual crime. "How much is the property?" he
asked, after an awkward pause.
"Ten thousand a year."
"Great Scott! How lucky for you, professor--her death, I mean."
"I would rather she had not died," burst out the man passionately.
"It's horrible to think that she should have been murdered in so
barbarous a fashion. You see my position. I live near the house where
the crime was committed. I inherit ten thousand a year, and I am much
in need of money. How do I know but what your police may accuse me of
killing Flora?"
"They'll have to prove how you got into the house first," said the
American, rather ashamed of his momentary suspicions, since the man
looked at the matter in this fashion. "You lie low, professor. You're
all right, I guess. There's a long difference between inheriting a
large fortune and killing the person to get it."
"I would not have touched Flora for the universe," cried the
professor. "I saw little of her, but what I saw I liked very much. She
was a gentle, kind little lady, and though so poor she always dressed
well. A most charming lady."
"Where did she get the ten thousand a year?"
"From a relative who died in Australia. At our first interview she
stated that she had such a relative, and that it was probable she
would inherit the money. Then she promised to assist me. She
remembered her promise when she came in for the money a month or two
ago. Not only did she promise me an income, but made the will in my
favour. I asked her not to, saying I would be content with a small
annuity. But she said she had already made the will."
"Why didn't she leave it to her husband?"
"I can't say. She spoke very little about her husband. He is a
commercial traveller, and was often away. From what I saw in her
manner and looks she was not happy; but she did not complain."
"Well," said Tracey, rising, "if the husband turns up he'll fight you
for the property, though I don't think he'll show."
"Why not? He won't give up ten thousand a year."
"No. But Derrick thinks, as you will see in the paper, that Mrs. Brand
was killed by her husband."
Bocaros started back. "Horrible! Horrible!" Then piteously, "My
friend, what am I to do?"
"Take my advice, and go right along to see Laing and Merry. They'll
help you through." And this Bocaros agreed to do.
"And I will spend the money in hunting for the assassin," said he.