NOSTALGO AGAIN.
There was silence for some time between the friends. They had
speculated as far as possible on the chances of the future, and now
there was no more to be said. At the same time, the situation was not
devoid of elements of interest, seeing that the man with the cigar had
not as yet departed. Evidently he was waiting for somebody, for he
lighted a fresh cigar from the stump of his old one, and sat down on
the edge of the fountain with the air of a man who knows how to
possess his soul in patience. He sat thus for some time; then he stood
up at length with an air of strained attention and gave a grunt of
relief. Out of the shadows there emerged another man, muffled to the
eyes and wearing a big slouch hat upon his head.
"So you have come at last," the man with the cigar muttered. "I
thought you were going to keep me here all night."
"It is all very well for you," the newcomer said. "You can walk about
the world with your head held up; you have no occasion to hide
yourself from the light of day. If only this business was done and
over, you would never find me in one of Anstruther's schemes again."
There was something exceedingly striking in the voice of the speaker;
it was by no means an unmusical voice; the enunciation was clear and
defined. But there was a peculiar rasping ring in it, a jarring,
metallic discord as if some one had struck two plates of steel
together. It was a commanding voice, too, and the man with the cigar
seemed to feel it.
"I suppose you know your own business best," he muttered in a tone
which was plainly intended to be that of an apology. "Funny thing,
isn't it, that you and I should be conspiring here, within a pistol
shot of Shannon Street police station? Those chaps yonder are still
scratching their heads over the disappearance of the man they call
Nostalgo."
The other man laughed; his voice rang as an echo rings in a cave. He
laughed again a little more gently.
"Yes," he said, "we could throw a very blinding light on that mystery.
Have they offered any reward for the discovery of the body?"
"Oh, dear, yes," the other man chuckled. "Two hundred pounds and a
free pardon to any accomplice not actually connected with the outrage.
Wouldn't it be a fine thing to earn that reward?"
"I'll think it over and see if we can't manage it." said the newcomer.
"Fancy hoodwinking the police in that way! All the same, I don't quite
like this reward business; it's just the thing to appeal to that
scoundrel Redgrave. Anstruther never made a greater mistake than when
he took Redgrave into his confidence. That fellow would do anything
for a few hundred pounds."
"Well, you will have an opportunity of sounding him presently. He is
coming to see you about those West African bonds. As for myself, I
have business of greatest importance in the East-End. I only stayed
here till you came because Anstruther said that it was absolutely
imperative for you to have these papers to-night."
So saying, the speaker took a small packet from his pocket and handed
it over to his companion. He turned away, and a moment later had
vanished into the night. The sole remaining man appeared to be
restless and ill at ease. As he paced up and down the ragged and
deserted forecourt, the two friends, cautiously peeping through the
up-stairs window, could see that he was lame and that one shoulder was
higher than the other. He was muttering to himself, too, in some
foreign language that conveyed nothing to the listeners.
He came to a pause presently, and, fumbling in his long coat, produced
a cigarette case and a box of matches.
"I wonder if I really dare," he muttered, this time speaking in
English slightly flavored with a foreign accent. "Surely no one can
see me; surely I shall be safe in this well of a place. If only I
could manage without matches."
But there has been no way yet invented of lighting tobacco without
matches. As the match flared out the stranger's face was picked out
clean and clear against the velvet background of the night. As if in
full enjoyment of his tobacco, the man threw his head back and filled
his lungs with the fragrant smoke. He had not yet dropped the match,
so that its rays caught full the upturned face. So clearly did the
face stand out that the whole action might have been conceived with
the idea of giving the watchers a perfect view of it.
"What do you make of that?" Jack whispered excitedly. "Don't ask me to
say, because I know the man as well as I know my own father. The point
is, do you know him?"
"I should say that everybody in London does," Rigby responded, "seeing
that the face has been glaring down on London for the past two months.
Yonder man is Nostalgo and none other."
"No mistake about that," Jack said. "In that strange, weird light,
what an awful face it is! And yet there is something about it, too,
some half-pathetic suggestion that almost removes one's feelings of
repulsion."
"I have noticed that, too," Rigby said. "But why did you not tell me
that our mysterious friend was practically a hunchback?"
"But he wasn't," Jack protested. "I am absolutely certain that the man
I found apparently dead close to Panton Square three nights ago was as
straight and well set up as you or I. Why, I helped to put him in the
ambulance; I saw his body laid out in the mortuary at Shannon Street
police station. I am prepared to swear that that man was without a
physical blemish, and I am quite sure that Inspector Bates will bear
me out in this. And yet that man down there smoking his cigarette is
as misshapen as Richard III."
As to this point there was no question. The man below was pacing
quietly up and down the forecourt in the full enjoyment of his
cigarette, and little heeding the curious watchers overhead. It was
easy to see that, so far as physical development was concerned, he had
been but ill-favored by fortune. One leg was considerably longer than
the other, causing the fellow to shuffle along with a sideways motion
not unlike that of a crab.
"Unless that fellow is a bold contortionist, we have evidently two
Nostalgos to deal with," Rigby said thoughtfully. "And yet it seems
impossible there can be two faces like that in the world. One thing is
pretty certain--the supposed dead body you conveyed to Shannon Street
police station the other night must have been very much alive. If we
could only get away from here to follow him."
"Not much occasion to trouble about that, I am thinking," Jack said.
"This man is evidently a tool or accomplice of Anstruther's. I am
certain we shall see him in Panton Square sooner or later. As to the
man Redgrave they were speaking about just now, I happen to know all
about him. He used to be in Anstruther's employ as a kind of
secretary--a clever, well-educated fellow, whose weakness was drink.
Ha, here comes another one."
Surely enough, another figure crept into the forecourt. Nostalgo, if
he it was, paid no heed to the stranger for a moment or two. In a
half-timid fashion the man who had just entered the forecourt bowed to
his misshapen companion and intimated that he awaited his pleasure.
Nostalgo turned upon him with a snarl.
"So they have sent you, after all," he said. His clear, ringing voice
vibrated with contempt. "Is this the best thing Anstruther can do at a
critical moment like this? I want a man, not a miserable coward like
you. Besides, I don't trust you; I never shall trust you again. And,
unless I am greatly mistaken, you have been drinking."
"We are in luck again," Jack whispered. "This is the very man I spoke
about, Redgrave in the flesh. Are we going to learn anything, I
wonder?"
The newcomer protested whiningly that not one drop of ardent liquor
had passed his lips that day.
"You miserable, prevaricating hound!" Nostalgo cried. "Go back to
Anstruther, and say that I will have none of you. Tell your master
that my time is short, and that an hour from now will make all the
difference. He knows that I dare not stay; he knows what hideous
disaster even the slightest delay may produce, and yet he sends you of
all men to help me in this crisis."
"But Anstruther cannot possibly do anything else," Redgrave whined.
"It is absolutely imperative that he should be at Carrington's by
midnight. Carrington is not to be trusted; he wants watching as
carefully as a cat watches a mouse. You will have to put up with me,
sir."
Nostalgo paced up and down the dreary forecourt with the air of a man
who is deep in thought. His limp and straggling gait was by no means
lost upon the watchers overhead. He came to a halt at length and sat
on the edge of the broken fountain, his head upon his hands, deeply
immersed in thought. He might have been a graven statue, so rigid and
still was his figure.
The effect of this upon the cowering, watching Redgrave was peculiar.
There was something of the cat in his own movements as he came inch by
inch nearer to Nostalgo. It was as if a child was timidly making
overtures to a dog of uncertain temper. Near and nearer Redgrave came,
till he was standing directly over the bent figure of his companion.
He might have been miles away for all the heed that Nostalgo gave him.
Then quick as thought, and with a snarling, savage cry that echoed
strangely between the four walls of the forecourt, Redgrave fell
furiously and with headlong impetuosity upon the doubled-up figure of
his prey.
"I have got you now, you misshapen devil!" he screamed. "You are going
to be worth at least two hundred pounds to me to-night."
Utterly taken by surprise, Nostalgo collapsed under the sudden and
furious assault. Something gleamed and flashed in the uncertain light,
and the horrified onlookers from the window above saw that Redgrave
had a knife in his hand.
"You poisonous scoundrel!" Rigby yelled. "Drop it, I say--drop it, or
it will be the worse for you."
But Rigby might have been speaking to the wind. He yelled again and
again, yet the two men below, locked in a deadly embrace, did not
appear to heed; indeed, it was more than probable that they could hear
nothing at all. More by great good fortune than anything else,
Nostalgo had managed to grip the hand that held the knife and was
holding it in a tenacious clutch. Over and over the pair rolled,
like two hungry dogs fighting for a bone, their clothes torn and
mud-stained, their features grimed almost beyond recognition. It was
a grim and gruesome sight to the two eager watchers. A sense of
helplessness, a wild desire to do something was upon them; but they
might just as well have been fettered prisoners for all the use they
were.
"If only we could open this door," Rigby sighed passionately. "If only
that mysterious lady could come to our assistance."
It was like a prayer that was answered. There was a click, a sudden
wide swinging open of the door, and the lady in evening dress came
headlong into the room.
"Quickly, quickly!" she panted. "Oh, it does not matter who I am or
where I came from! If you would not have the destruction of a man's
soul on your conscience, come with me at once."