THE MYSTERY OF THE STRINGS.
It was the most extraordinary thing in the world. Beyond question the
room was absolutely empty. Jack could see to the far side; he noted
the pictures and the flowers and the vases on the mantelpiece. His
view was naturally narrowed by a small spyhole, but there was no
portion of the room hidden from him, though he could not quite see the
whole of it at one time.
The music was proceeding quite smoothly, though with pauses now and
again. It was followed now and then by what sounded like subdued
applause.
Jack stepped back from the window. He wanted to make certain that he
had not mistaken the room. No, the sounds of music came from the study
right enough. At the risk of being discovered he crept back into the
house again and tried the study door. It was locked, and what was
more, the key was in the lock, as the application of an eye testified.
And the music was proceeding quite swiftly again. The mystery was
absolutely maddening. Jack wondered if there was some cabinet in the
study hidden from view where the player had taken up his stand. At any
rate somebody was playing Chopin's music--playing it very well. There
was no magic about the thing.
The hall of the house was very quiet, nobody seemed to be about.
Occasionally there came the sound of mirth from the servants' hall,
but nothing more. Fully determined to get to the bottom of this
mystery, Jack returned to the garden again. Once more his eye was
glued to the slit in the blind. He could make nobody out in the room.
There was little fear of his being detected, because a belt of shrubs
hid the window from the road.
Without the slightest warning a figure appeared in the room. It was
impossible to see where she came from, but of necessity she must have
entered by the door. Jack was a little uncertain on that head, for his
glance was not directed towards the door for the moment.
He saw the figure of a woman, young and exceedingly well dressed. She
was wearing an evening gown of white satin that showed up the creamy
pallor of her skin, for her neck and shoulders were bare. The neck was
rather thin, Jack noted, and the shoulders more inclined to muscle
than beauty. For a young girl it struck Jack that the upper part of
her body looked old. But the face was dark and wholesome, and against
the deep eyes and swarthy complexion the girl's hair was dazzling. It
was beautiful, rippling hair, changing color as the light flashed upon
it.
"Well, this is a bit of an adventure," the watcher told himself. "But
where's the person in the room who let the young lady in? Somebody
must have let her in, because the door was locked and the key on the
inside. I saw it there, so I can swear to that fact. But who is she?"
There were many answers to the problem, for Spencer Anstruther was a
man who had countless strange visitors. His vast knowledge of crime
and the ramifications of human depravity brought him in contact with
large numbers of people. Men and women in distress often came to him,
and they came in increasing numbers since Anstruther had got the
better of a gang of scoundrels in a recent famous blackmailing case.
Sometimes these people came on their own initiative, sometimes they
were sent by the police. But Anstruther never said anything about
them. He looked upon himself as a confidential agent. Claire could
have told of many curious visitors at all hours, though Anstruther
never so much as alluded to them afterwards.
But this girl did not look in the least like anybody in trouble. Her
dark features were almost expressionless; there was no display of
violent emotions there. Her gaze slowly wandered round the room as if
looking for something; she had much the aspect of a pupil whose
attention is called to a blackboard by a master. As Jack watched, it
seemed to him that he had seen this girl before. He could not
recollect anybody in the least like her; that contrast of dark skin
and fair hair was striking enough to impress itself upon the most
careless mind, and yet Jack could not give the face a name. He could
not permit himself to believe that he had made a mistake. He knew
perfectly well that the expressionless features were quite familiar to
him.
The girl stood for some little time, as if waiting for her lesson.
Jack's eyes were glued so closely upon her that he did not notice the
coming of another person--a man this time. He was a young man, with
sleek, well-brushed brown hair, and dark, well-groomed moustache
turned up after the fashion affected by the German Emperor. The man
was perfectly well appointed, his evening dress and white waistcoat
were faultless. His face was strong, but it did not convey anything
intellectual. There were scores of such men to be seen any day during
the London season, all groomed the same, all apparently finished in
the same machine.
The man bowed and smiled to the lady, and she bowed and smiled in
return. It was rather a graceful bow; it seemed to Jack that she
looked at her companion to see if it were quite correct. Then the two
proceeded to talk in dumb show, partly by signs and partly by fingers.
The mystery was getting deeper--one of these two was a deaf mute,
perhaps both of them. Was this one of Anstruther's cases, or did it
possess a far deeper significance?
The solution was beyond Jack Masefield. He might have been on the
track of a mystery, and on the other hand he might merely be doing a
little vulgar eavesdropping. If it was the latter, and Anstruther
found him out, he need not hope to visit Claire at home any more.
Anstruther was most particular about these things, as Jack knew; but
he set his teeth together and decided to take the risk. He felt pretty
sure that there was something here that touched the household deeply.
He turned just for the moment, with an idea that somebody was behind
him. But the strip of lawn was quite clear. Jack could see through the
belt of trees to the street again beyond, with its great arc light
flaring on the yellow face of the mysterious Nostalgo and his
starting, half-laughing eyes. That weird face seemed to form a fitting
background to the room mystery.
But Jack had his eyes to the slit in the blind again. Inside the
pantomime in show was still going on. The girl seemed to be getting a
lesson of some kind, and her tutor appeared to be pleased, for he
smiled and clapped his hands from time to time. Then he took out his
watch and consulted it with a frown. As he glanced up the girl crossed
the room to the mantelpiece and opened the face of the clock. With a
quick movement she put it back half-an-hour.
The man in the faultless evening dress nodded approval. There was a
little pause before he approached the window and stood so that his
shadow was picked out clean against the strong light of the room. Then
he rapidly signaled with his arm. One arm went up, there was a noise
of rings and a flutter of drapery, and then a heavy curtain was jerked
over the window, and Jack could see no more. Try as he would, no ray
of light could he make out. It was as if the lights had been switched
off, leaving the room in utter darkness.
What on earth did it all mean? Beyond doubt the young man in evening
dress had signaled to somebody outside when he stood close against the
window and raised his arm. Jack congratulated himself on the fact that
the slit in the blind was low down, so that he had not to stand
against the light. He slipped into the belt of shrubs and watched for
a moment, but no further sign came.
What were those people inside going to do? The solution flashed upon
Jack instantly. They had not come there so perfectly dressed for the
mere sake of seeing Spencer Anstruther. They had not been spending the
evening anywhere, dining and that kind of thing beforehand, for they
looked too spruce and fresh for that. The woman's toilette in
particular had evidently been just donned, as if fresh from the hands
of her maid. And she had put the clock back half-an-hour.
"They are going somewhere in half-an-hour," Jack decided. "Hang me if
I don't follow them. By the right time it is half-past ten. Anstruther
said he should not come up if he failed to get his business finished
before eleven, at which time he will expect me to go. I'll go up to
the drawing-room and talk to Claire for a little time just to avert
suspicion."
He crept back into the house without being seen, he finished his
claret, and dropped the stump of his cigarette on to his dessert
plate. As he made his way up the stairs the music began again. That
music was not the least maddening part of the mystery.
"What a time you have been," Claire said as she tossed her book aside.
"All by yourself down there! Really, Jack, you modern young men are so
cold-blooded that----"
"I'm not so far as you are concerned, dearest," Jack, said as he
kissed the girl. "I had something to do; I was working out a case that
puzzled me."
"A case in some way connected with the law, I suppose?" Claire asked.
"Well, yes," Jack replied. He quite believed that the case was
connected with the law. "I begin to see my way to its solution. I
suppose there is not the slightest chance of your guardian coming up
to-night?"
Claire replied that it did not look like it. Evidently the solution of
the music problem was not an easy one, for the violin was going again
as if it had only just begun.
"It makes me feel creepy," Claire exclaimed. "Fancy the idea of
tracking a criminal by means of divine melody like that! Jack, don't
you notice something strange about it?"
"I should say that I do," Jack said. "Why, the whole thing--really, I
beg your pardon, darling. I--I was thinking about something else. It
was the case I alluded to just now."
"My dear boy, you are very strange in your manner to-night," Claire
said. "You look pale and distracted. Trust the eyes of love to see
anything like that. You haven't bad news for me, Jack?"
Masefield forced a smile to his lips. It was hard work to maintain his
ordinary manner in the face of the strange scene that he had witnessed
that night.
"I have certainly heard no news since dinner time," he said. "What did
you expect me to say?"
"I thought that perhaps you had mentioned me to my guardian; that you
had changed your mind, and told him that you and I were going to be
married some time."
"No, your name was never mentioned, dearest. Anstruther was full of
his case and gave me no opportunity. He went off directly he had
finished his tobacco. As a matter of fact, Claire, I am more resolved
than ever to say nothing about our engagement to Mr. Anstruther."
"It is very strange that you mistrust him like that, Jack."
"Perhaps it is, little woman. Call it instinct, if you like. I know
that women are supposed to hold the monopoly of that illogical
faculty. They dislike a man or a woman without being able to say why,
and in the course of time that man or woman turns out to be a villain.
There is no denying the fact that I feel the same way towards your
guardian. I am convinced that once he knows the truth you will be in
danger. I said before that he is a poor man, and the enjoyment of your
£2,000 during the time----"
"My dear Jack, you are perfectly horrid," Claire murmured. "If I were
a nervous girl you would frighten me. As it is, I feel certain that
you are utterly wrong. My guardian is one of the most delightful of
men. If he were not, plenty of clever people would have found it out.
And, besides, why do so many unfortunate people come to him to advise
them, which he does with great trouble to himself and no hope of
reward?"
Jack admitted that perhaps he was wrong. And he had no desire either
to frighten Claire. He had not the slightest intention of telling her
what he had discovered that night.
"Let us be less personal," he said. "What was the strange thing that
you noticed about your guardian's playing?"
"That it is so much better than usual," Claire said. "There seemed
more passion and feeling in the music. My guardian is a brilliant
violin player, but I have not hitherto noticed much feeling in his
style. Now, listen to the thing that he is playing at present."
"Chopin's Fantasie in F," Jack muttered. "I know it very well indeed.
It is a favorite of mine."
There was certainly plenty of expression and feeling in the music.
Jack was bound to admit that. The fantasie came to an end with a crash
of two chords, and Claire clapped her hands.
"Beautiful!" she cried. "I must really compliment my guardian on the
improvement in his style. You are not going already, Jack? It's not
quite eleven yet."
"I'm very sorry, dear, but I have that case to look into to-night,"
Jack said, with perfect truth. He saw that the hands of the big clock
on the mantelpiece were creeping on to the hour. "Anstruther won't
come up to-night; he said he should be here by eleven if he were. And
he gave me a hint not to stay later. I shall see you at the Warings'
to-morrow night. Good-night, darling."
Claire put up her red lips to be kissed. She would have seen Jack to
the door, but he pointed out that the night was chilly and Claire's
dress thin. Neither would he have the butler summoned. His coat and
hat were in the hall, and he would get them himself. A moment or two
later and he was standing in the garden behind the strip of shrubs. He
was quite free to act now; he had nobody in the way. As he stood
there, a distant church clock boomed the hour of eleven.
"Now we shall see what we shall see," Jack muttered. "I'm going to
find whether there is a mystery of the house or whether these people
are merely Anstruther's clients. Oh!"
As he spoke the dark curtain over the study window was pulled back,
and the figure of the young man in the evening dress was clean cut
against the light. Then a black arm pulled for the catch of the
window, and the young man, pushing the blind aside, came out. He was
wearing an overcoat now, and a tall hat. He seemed to be waiting for
somebody.
Then the figure of the dark-faced, fair-haired girl came out. She was
cloaked from head to foot in a blue wrap trimmed with feathers; her
fair hair was not covered. No word was spoken, but Jack could see that
they were conversing still by signs.
The watcher wondered if he had time to get inside the room. But that
little idea was dismissed at the outset, for the young man pushed the
window to carefully and the latch clicked. It was quite evident that
the long sash closed with a spring lock, which was a most unusual
thing for French windows to do. As the strange pair went down the side
path Jack stepped into the open. He wanted to assure himself as to the
window being fastened. He pulled at it hard, but it did not yield. At
the same moment from the window of the room came a strange, brilliant
crash of music. Yet that room was absolutely empty, as Jack would have
been prepared to swear in any court of England.
"I'll wake up either from a dream or in a lunatic asylum presently,"
he muttered. "And now for those other people. Good thing they had no
idea of being followed."
Jack was in the road now, and taking his way through the quiet nest of
squares between Bloomsbury and Regent's Park. He could see his quarry
a hundred yards or so before him; there was nobody else, and there was
not the slightest chance of those in front being lost. A horse's hoof
clicked on the wood pavement as a well-appointed hansom passed the
tracker. Then he saw the hansom pull up by the curb and the deaf mutes
in front jump in, as if the whole thing had been arranged, and drive
off.
The thing was so sudden and unexpected that Jack was nonplused for a
moment. There was no chance of following these people, for there
probably was not another hansom within half-a-mile of the spot. Jack
stood hesitating in the silence of the road; he could hear the steady
flick-flack of the horse's hoofs as the rubber-tired hansom hurried
on, and then suddenly the horse's hoofs stopped. They had not died out
in the distance; they had merely stopped.
Jack hurried forward; he had not given up all hope yet. He might
overtake the hansom and by good luck meet an empty one going towards
the Strand. As he turned a corner, he saw to his surprise the figure
of the young man in evening dress come silently towards him on the
other side of the road. Then the stranger crossed the road and turned
down the far side of the square as if he were going to complete the
circuit and join his cab again. As the man vanished Jack heard a
thudding sound, followed by a sound like the tearing of stiff paper,
like the rattle of peas on a drum, a queer stifled cry, and then
silence. On the impulse of the moment, Jack turned and followed.
At the angle stood a row of houses, some of them being repaired. Jack
heard somebody speak to somebody else a little way down the road. He
looked across at the opposite houses to see that they were in
scaffolding and that they were plastered with bills. A little way
above the ground in front of the centre house being repaired was one
of the repulsive, clever Nostalgo posters with the yellow face looking
out.
But there was something else lying there at full length on the
pavement, the body of a man with his face up to the stars. With a
little cry Jack crossed the road. Almost instantly a policeman stood
by his side.
"Drunk," he said. "A gentleman who's just gone down the road told me a
man was lying drunk on the pavement. My word, sir, but he's got the
complaint pretty bad."
"He has," Jack said, with a catch in his voice. "The man isn't drunk;
he's dead. He's been murdered. Shot through the head and breast. Show
your lantern here, officer."
The officer flashed the strong, searching rays on the face of the dead
man. As he did so he gave a cry, and pointed to the hoarding behind
him with a finger that shook a little.
"Dead, sir, and murdered, beyond doubt," he said. "But that's not the
strangest part of it. Look at his face and the expression of his eyes;
look at the yellow face and----"
"Good heaven!" Jack cried. "The yellow face, the face of the
diabolical poster behind you. As I am a living man, we have found
Nostalgo in the flesh."
The dead man grinned up, the poster grinned down. And the face of the
dead and the face in the print were exactly the same!