THE POWER OF THE UNKNOWN
DERRICK walked quickly back, slackening speed as he approached the
Lodge, and reëntering the grounds from the direction in which he had
started. There was a light in the cottage kitchen, but neither man came
to the window as he passed. In the study he found Edith beside the
tea-tray. She handed him his cup, and with it sent an inquiring glance.
“How’s your friend the peddler behaving himself, and what did Jean say?”
He flushed a little. “She didn’t say very much, but”—he smiled
reminiscently—“she took the bangle.”
“I’m glad of that, my dear,” she said softly. “Had she ever heard
anything of the peddler?”
“Not a word, nor has Sergeant Burke.”
“You’ve been there, too?”
He nodded. “I thought it best to have a chat with him. He’ll be here in
a few minutes.”
“Why, has anything happened?”
“No, but something may, and I want to be ready, in case.”
“I don’t understand, Jack. What do you anticipate?”
“Well, our friend has an odd idea that he may be able to suggest
something that would help in the Millicent matter in the way of a clue
if he could see the place where it happened. So I’m having him in here
shortly with Martin, who doesn’t seem to fancy the visit at all. The
sergeant won’t be in evidence, and they know nothing about him.”
“Oh!” she said slowly, “can I do anything except keep out of the way?
I’ve an idea that’s what you want me to do.”
Derrick laughed. “It is, exactly. There’s one other thing. I’d like to
see Perkins for a minute before the others come.”
Edith got up. “Then finish your tea, and I’ll send her in for the tray.
She’s been even more queer than usual to-day, so I fancy she knows that
man is here. Good luck to you, brother, and I’m so glad I know what
you’re working for.” She bent over, kissed him impulsively, and went
out.
He sat motionless for a moment, vibrant with the knowledge that he was
playing for great stakes. Martin—the peddler—Perkins—the jade
god—all intervened between him and the goal of his desire. At that his
nerves seemed slowly to be turned to steel.
The door opened. Perkins came in and busied herself with the tray, and
for the first time he noted that her fingers were trembling. Something
of the transitory pity he had felt for Martin came over him, and he made
a gesture toward a chair.
“Please sit down a minute, Perkins. I want to ask you something.”
She seated herself silently and sent him a blank glance.
“What I want to inquire is something more about Martin. Can you tell me
nothing of his history before he came to Mr. Millicent?”
“Why should you ask me, sir?”
“Who else is there to inquire from? You occupy just the same trusted
position that you have for years past. You’ve let me into your feelings
enough to know that you perceive things that are not usually seen, and
you’re aware that I’m doing what I can to clear up the mystery of your
master’s death. Shall I say to you that I’m convinced you are trying to
shield some one in this affair?”
“Don’t say that, sir,” she whispered shakily.
“What other conclusion can I come to?”
She stared at him as though he was an intruder on some strictly private
domain and had come to rifle her very soul.
“Do you think there’s any connection between the murder and the arrival
of this peddler?”
Perkins shook her head. She made no attempt to disguise her knowledge of
the stranger’s advent and now seemed touched with the same helplessness
that had so lately swept over Martin. Her hands were slack in her lap,
and he noted their smoothness and strength.
“I’m afraid I cannot help,” she muttered.
He looked straight into the passionless eyes. “And yet you must know so
much more than I do. Here, in this room, the voice of a dead man is
sounding now, asking for vengeance. There are other voices, we have both
heard them, but this is the clearest. Here your master died, and the
evil thing triumphed, and you told me that fear came before he died, the
fear that is worse than death. Can’t you hear that voice?”
The blank-faced woman shivered as he spoke, and Derrick knew that the
truth had crept a little, a very little nearer than ever before. There
was mystery in the study, but the greatest mystery of all was locked
within this unresponsive breast. There was some chord which, if he could
only touch it, would vibrate in unison with her guarded secret and
unloose its bonds. Perkins trembled again and waited.
“He was good to you, as everyone has told me,” went on the steady voice,
“and it seems that you were devoted to him. For six years you had his
confidence and lived under this roof. I do not know what may have taken
place before that, if anything, but is six years forgotten so soon?”
“Don’t!” she said brokenly. “Don’t!”
“Two men are coming here in a few moments,” he persisted. “Of one of
them I know little, and nothing of the other. But I am assured that in
the peddler’s heart are things at which I have not guessed. He, too, has
his secret, or he would not be here. He poses as a stranger, but
something tells me that he is no stranger to Martin, and perhaps not to
you.”
“Why do you say that?” she flashed.
“It matters not why, but I have my reasons. It may be that there are now
assembled all those who were here two years ago, and the Millicents are
not far away. One of these men was in the grounds of Beech Lodge when
its master met his death, Perkins; was the other here, too?”
He shot out these last words in a tone so sharp and commanding that the
woman quailed visibly. Her fascinated eyes were fixed on him in a stare
that began to be strangely hypnotic, till it seemed that she was
receding visibly from his reach, dwindling to a distance, and leaving
behind her only a baffling intelligence that mocked and dared him to
follow if he could. She had recoiled, but with her secret locked tighter
than ever. He became aware that fear, though fear was in her every
motion, could not conquer her. She relied apparently on powers that from
long use had become stronger than fear. When at last she spoke, it was
as though a safe distance had been established and her spirit had caught
its breath again. She seemed now safe from further probing.
“I have told you already what happened that night, how I found the
master”—here she hesitated a little—“and then went for Martin. There
was no one at the cottage but him. There is nothing else to be said.”
“And Blunt,” he said again. “The man who will be here in a few minutes,
the man who is so anxious to enter this room, has he never been here
before?”
“I am not Blunt’s keeper,” she parried. “I do not know, but”—and at
this point an extraordinary light flickered through her dull eyes—“he
may have been. I cannot see in the dark.”
“He made an offer for something this afternoon,” said Derrick quietly,
“something that seemed of little worth to me.”
She looked at him silently, as though in contempt of his childishness.
He felt in his pocket and leaned forward. “The offer was for the
original of this,” he replied, and put the wax image on the desk
immediately in front of him.
In the next moment he snatched it away. Perkins, springing with
convulsive strength, had laid her nervous grip on the model, her eyes
suddenly ablaze with mad cupidity. In a fraction of time she was
transfigured into a wild thing dominated by one uncontrollable desire,
and her movement had the swiftness of light. Her hands closed like
claws, but even as she touched the thing her grip relaxed, for in that
instant she knew it was not real. She sent Derrick the same strange look
of baffled incredulity he had received from the peddler, then sank back
in her chair, trembling and unnerved. Her gaze rested on what lay safe
in his grasp, wandered to the picture of her master, and round the
paneled walls, searching for what she knew must be somewhere close at
hand. The hunger in her eyes slackened, becoming reborn again as though
fanned into life by this knowledge, till again she was almost a demon,
urged by some driving force, terrible in its power.
Once more the light faded, the tense figure slowly relaxed, the face
resumed the sphinx-like character to which he was so well accustomed,
and there was before him the former Perkins, silent, mysterious, and
remote. She quivered as though from the storm that had passed over her
and, with her body limp, waited for what might come.
“Does Martin want the real image, too, like yourself and Blunt?” he
asked deliberately.
She remained silent, her lips pressed tight.
“Then what is this thing?”
Even while he spoke there came to him the certain knowledge that in the
emerald depths of the hidden figure lay that which passed man’s
understanding. Nor could any man tell how this should be. The fact was
potent enough, and, as to the rest, it mattered not when or why. The
tiny god exemplified something for which there was no explanation. It
was absurd to expect Perkins to make one. It rested in the abyss that
yawns at the feet of all, whether they see it or not. Sometimes one
might touch it in the darkness, only to lose it. The thought of it
imposed sudden silence in careless hours and made the lips dry and the
blood tingle as it does when we feel on our brows the touch of vanished
fingers, and out of nothingness comes the echo of a remembered voice.
No, there was no explanation. Perkins spoke after a stinging pause.
“Where did you find it? I mean the other?”
“It found me. Can you understand that?”
She nodded, her eyes still wide. “All the time I knew it was here. I
could hear it talking, talking in the dark.”
“It has been there for two years, and I do not know how much longer. Did
it send the fear that was worse than death?”
“What else could have sent it? But it was not on his desk when I found
him.”
“Then if the man who killed your master had captured this as he hoped,
there would have been no death here that night?”
“No,” she whispered, “no death, and perhaps no fear.”
“So that the man who wanted it then may after all be the same as the one
who wants it now, and, having washed his hands, he returns for what he
then sought?”
Again the sudden light in the baffling eyes, as of torches lit in the
gloom. Derrick saw it and racked his brain. It was not an old thought
that moved behind the mask now, but some conception new to that
mysterious mentality. Were Blunt indeed the criminal, and assuming his
return to recapture his prize, why should the suggestion of this produce
so vivid a reaction? If this were the truth, why conceal it? What could
this woman lose by coming into the open? She would write herself down a
liar, and an innocent man be avenged. No, there was something else, and
it beckoned a mystical finger to Derrick’s imagination and invited him
on. The grim reality of the moment fell on him like a cloak. In a few
more clock-ticks there would be others with whom to deal.
“Perkins,” he said evenly, “for better or worse this matter must soon
take another form. Two men will shortly be in this room, and one of them
in all probability is guilty of murder. You know this, and I know it.
The hand of fate may descend suddenly and point clearly, or it may be
that the innocent may suffer for the guilty. God forbid that this should
happen, but it has happened before, and sometimes because those who knew
the truth were not there to tell it or, knowing it, kept an infamous
silence. I ask you again, has Blunt to your knowledge ever been at Beech
Lodge before, and, if so, was he here at the time your master died?”
“I am not Blunt’s keeper,” repeated the woman.
Derrick slid the wax image into a drawer. “Thank you, Perkins. You’ve
told me what I wanted to know.”
The door closed behind her. Derrick did not stir but waited till the
last sound died away. The hour of decision had come, and there was but
one thing to do. He took a glance at Millicent’s calm face, read in it a
mute approval, and, opening the invisible panel, took the jade god from
its dark recess.
Setting it a little on one side of the lamp, he stared hard into its
pygmy countenance. There still sounded in his ears Blunt’s voice telling
of strange gods in strange countries, and there came now the
unforgettable whisper of the East, with its mystery, its scarlet
passions, its swift terrors, its throbbing invitations, and the jungle
call of its fevered life. There was more than that. On these miniature
lips was set the smile of sardonic knowledge and the curve of utter
evil. The lids that lay over the slant and lazy eyes were heavy with
slumber, but it was a repose that carried with it no oblivion.
Unnameable knowledge rested on the face, a knowledge that sneered at
good and gathered to itself the wickedness of misty centuries. Here was
the touch of supreme art, the superb assurance of a master hand, but the
issue was to charge the mind with a blinding comprehension of all that
decent men most strive to forget.
Still staring, he yielded unconsciously to the spell. Beech Lodge grew
oddly indefinite. The landmarks of his mind seemed unsubstantial. He was
free as the wind, with neither kith nor kin. He found himself wondering
why for months he should have been possessed by the desire to avenge a
man he never saw. The tiny green eyes suggested that Millicent, and even
Millicent’s daughter, did not matter so much after all. “Come East,”
they signaled, “where man can taste all the wild joys of life, and women
know how to love as do no others. Books, what are books? Dead things and
dusty against the curve of a breast and the languorous hours of tropic
nights. Good is ever the same, and it is only evil that changes,
assuming a thousand lovely shapes, inviting, alluring, the wine that,
having tasted, no man may forget. Come and drink deep while your blood
is hot. There are those who wait to show you the way, and soon it will
be too late.”
Thus spoke the jade lips; thus cajoled the jade eyes. Even the milky
fingers with their narrow, transparent nails seemed to lose their
stiffness and beckon, while the blood deserted Derrick’s heart and the
hair prickled on his head. He was listening to the soul of the man who
had carved this thing, and what manner of man or devil could he be? But,
whoever he was, he knew, Derrick felt that, and knew it utterly. Yes,
life was short, too short. Perhaps the jade god was right!
His brain began to swim, and the image now to recede, now to approach,
dwindling to a pin-point, and swiftly enlarging till it towered over
him, when something drifted in from the outer world. He blinked like one
wakened from sleep. It was a tapping at the French window. He got up and
crossed the room unsteadily. There was visible through the glass a
peaked hat, a broad, red face, and a pair of bright, inquiring eyes. He
breathed deeply and with a sudden sense of relief. Here was something
sane and strong and wholesome. It seemed to dear away the miasma that
surrounded him.
He stepped out and found the sergeant flattened against the wall in a
vain endeavor to minimize his own bulk.
“Got here as soon as I could, sir, and had a squint at the cottage;
they’re both there. Peters is behind the hedge at the back. Anything new
since I saw you?”
“There may be a good deal. I think it’s likely that the peddler is the
man we want after all, and not Martin. The woman Perkins declines to say
whether she has seen him before or not, also whether he was in this
neighborhood the night of the murder.”
“Good enough, sir. That ought to help. Anything else?”
Derrick glanced at his watch. “Yes, the sight of the image produced on
her the same effect precisely as it did on the others. She, too, tried
to get it. That’s all there’s time to say now, sergeant. The men ought
to be here in five minutes.”
“Are you armed, sir?”
“Yes, but I hardly think it’s necessary. You’ll be able to attend to
that end of it. Mind you, I’m not at all sure that anything is going to
happen. This is only a shot in the dark. Can you see the image on the
desk quite clearly from where you are?”
“Yes. Is that the real one? It looks somehow more alive than the other.”
Derrick smiled. “Just what Blunt told me. The dummy wouldn’t serve the
purpose with him, so we must take this chance. Don’t stir unless one of
them tries to get away with it. If no such attempt is made, it’s for us
to make the next move. I take it, sergeant, you’re willing to work with
an amateur a little while longer?”
Burke nodded grimly. “I’ll follow any one who can lead me to the man who
killed Mr. Millicent.”
He moved back and out of sight. It was nearly dark now, and Beech Lodge
was encircled with ghostly shadows. Edith had obliterated herself in her
bedroom, and was pretending to read. All she asked was that this too
serious play-acting be concluded as soon as possible. It deranged the
house and made her restless and uncomfortable. Derrick manipulated the
curtains so that they hung partly open, revealing the French window,
then seated himself at the desk and shot an oblique glance at the jade
god. He was not afraid of it but experienced no desire to stare straight
into those emerald eyes. He glanced at Millicent’s portrait, asking
mutely whether so far all was well done, but Millicent seemed
uninterested. What could he mean by that? Then steps in the hall, and
low voices, and a tap at the door.
Came Perkins’s flat tones saying that Martin and Blunt were outside. She
looked not at all at the image but seemed to know it was the original.
Whatever emotion it may have aroused, she gave no sign, and he marveled
at her self-repression.
“All right, they may come in, and I think you’d better stay in the room
while they are here.”
A flicker of surprise flitted across the blank face. Then she nodded
with only the ghost of a smile. It seemed that she was not unwilling to
stay, and the smile was a little satirical and rather cruel, he thought.
But he remembered that she was not Blunt’s keeper. In the next moment
the men entered, their caps in their hands. Derrick leaned back in the
big chair. The curtain was up now.
“Blunt,” he said with slow distinctness, “it may be that we are both
wide of the mark in this attempt, and, frankly, I don’t see how you can
be of any real assistance. It is only because you told me that sometimes
you had been able to get under the skin of things that I’m making it.
You understand that?”
The peddler nodded, and for an instant their eyes met. The man’s gaze
swung back to the thing he had been staring at since he crossed the
door-step. Irrepressible hunger and desire was in the stare. Derrick
seemed oblivious to this.
“The murder took place in this room two years ago. Martin has told you
that, I assume?”
“Yes, sir, he has.”
“It occurred between nine and ten at night. Over the mantel you will see
a picture of Mr. Millicent, who was found dead in this chair where I am
sitting. Apparently he had not time to make any defense. This jade thing
used sometimes to stand in front of him, but it seems that it cannot
have been there that night. It is not known, as yet”—here Derrick
paused for a second—“how the murderer entered the house.”
He hesitated an instant, then looked suddenly at Perkins. “That’s right,
isn’t it? It’s not known?”
“Not as yet, sir,” she answered slowly.
Martin made an involuntary gesture, but the peddler wheeled and sent the
woman a swift and penetrating glance that had in it something of
contempt, as though he had caught the drift of her words and they
actually amused him.
“Can you tell me anything more, sir?”
“Yes, though it may be you know it already from Martin. The weapon that
is believed to have been used has disappeared, a Malay creese that was
always on this desk. No motive was then ascribed to the crime, but it
now seems that this might have been robbery, which was unsuccessful. No
strangers are shown to have been at the house that day, and not as far
as Perkins is aware have any been here till very recently. No clues—and
I take it that it is possible clues in which you are interested—were
left. Now you can tell me if anything suggests itself to you. If you
want to ask any questions, ask them.”
The bright eyes were fixed on the speaker’s face. Martin was rooted to
the ground but cast furtive looks at the peddler, swerving from these to
stare with a dumfounded expression at the image. He had nearly mastered
his feelings, but there was a twitch in his fingers he could not manage
to control. Perkins, her lean hands folded, regarded Blunt with a fixed
and provocative gaze, as though inviting him to escape if he could from
the net she was weaving. But Blunt seemed unmoved. His keen eyes slowly
examined every angle of the room, scrutinized Millicent’s portrait with
temporary interest, then traveled to desk and chair, mentally
photographing their minutest detail. Finally he looked at the French
window, and Derrick wondered if by chance he knew what waited outside.
“Was that door locked at the time?” he asked after a long pause.
Derrick turned to Perkins. “Was it?”
“Yes,” she said curtly.
“And the front door?”
“I am not sure of that. Mr. Millicent usually saw to it before he came
up-stairs.”
Martin started. “What are you trying to get at?” His voice was rough and
threatening, his eyes vicious.
For answer the peddler fixed on him a glittering stare, whereat the
gardener blinked and was silent. Derrick caught his breath. The very air
was now ominous.
“Anything changed here since the murder happened?” asked Blunt with a
curious lift in his voice.
“Just what do you mean?”
“Things are talking to me now. They’re a bit confused, and all I can get
is that this room may not be the same as it was then.”
Perkins put her hand to her throat. “How do you know?” she whispered.
Derrick leaned tensely forward. This was evidence, new evidence.
“Go on, Blunt. Tell me just what you’re after.”
“I mean, are things in the same place as when that man was killed?”
A slight sound escaped from Perkins, and her nostrils dilated, while
Derrick caught a swift but meaning glance that passed between herself
and the gardener.
“I don’t know; I never thought of that. Are they, Perkins?”
“No.” She spoke with a sort of satisfaction, not unmingled with
surprise. “And,” she added meaningly, “no one else has asked that
question for two years.”
“Why do you ask, Blunt?”
The peddler seemed untroubled. “In a way, I was told to,” he broke off,
and regarded Perkins with absolute composure. “What change is there
now?”
“The desk was in the other corner,” she said faintly, “and facing the
window, and this screen was on the other side of the fireplace opposite
the sofa.” She got this out with a quick look at Martin in which she
seemed to expect his approval and almost thanks.
“Then any one sitting at the desk would naturally see out of the window
but would not notice the door without turning?” put in Derrick sharply.
“Yes, sir, it was like that.”
“Well, Blunt, does all this take you anywhere?”
The peddler came a shade nearer the desk. His eyes were now half closed,
and his dark features had smoothed out till they were strangely
inexpressive. He might have been under the influence of a dream. The
silence began to throb, and over Beech Lodge crept the touch of the
mysterious East. None moved, for in that moment the jade god asserted
his domination. The air seemed to palpitate, tremulous with unseen
vibrations, and a whisper of wind drifted from the puttering fire. Then
Blunt began to speak in a sort of half-chant without color or
inflection, his voice sounding thin and clear and distant and carrying
with it a nameless note of authority.
“I see far away a picture of a place, large and poorly lighted. Strange
people are there, moving without sound, and strange smells are in the
air. Around it there are many trees, and when one comes that way a
whisper runs ahead through the forest, telling of his coming. I see a
man not unlike this one”—here the peddler made a gesture at the
portrait—“but dressed otherwise and with his skin dark like that of the
quiet people. He has journeyed from across the sea, drawn there he knows
not why, and saying nothing of the purpose of his journey, because he
himself did not know it. Traveling slowly, and taking at times many
false trails, he comes at last to this place, and, staying not long,
goes away by night, but not empty-handed. Behind him he leaves sorrow
and a great anger and fear.”
The voice trailed out uncertainly, and a shudder ran through the
peddler’s body. His whole figure was now swaying, and his head moved
with a slow rhythmic motion.
“Go on,” said Derrick tensely.
“Not far from this place there is another man, and to him many call as
with one voice, and a burden is laid upon him, and after a little while
he is not seen there any more. Meantime the first man has returned to
his own land and the faces he knew best, and tried to shake off the
memories of what he had done and that distant place. But he could not do
this. Time went on, and always in his dreams he returned there and could
not forget. The thing he had taken was his master. At first when he
wanted it, he thought he loved it, and then learned it was not love but
fear. It was a thing of power, and stronger than himself. Mystery was in
it, and thereby it was able to give tongues to that which could not
otherwise speak. It was a tongue for the dumb.”
Derrick nodded without knowing it. The world was full of clearing mists
through which he began to perceive that which heretofore was hidden. His
eyes wandered to Perkins. She stood rigid, as under a spell, her soul
carried away by some invisible stream. Martin’s furtive gaze had
changed, and his face was graven with despair, behind which moved
desperate possibilities. Derrick saw these and thankfully remembered the
man crouching against the wall outside.
“Go on,” he repeated.
“Others had heard that voice, thousands and thousands of them, and they
too loved and hated and desired and feared this thing. It was always
like this from the very first, because its hate had conquered love, and
the fear in it was at war with desire. It had sucked in all that the
hearts of men can feel, and because of its wisdom, and because it was at
war with the spirit of Buddha, it had been kept close till that day. But
only those on whom the spirit of Buddha rested might know the greatness
and danger of this thing. And it was written that should it go from that
place death would follow wherever it went.”
Something in the unbroken monotone captured the brain of Derrick, and
the room swam. A mesmeric influence was at work. Everything around him
began to slide, smoothly, imperceptibly. Was Millicent’s death so
important after all? Soon it would be forgotten—with all else. What did
he owe Millicent in any case? Why trouble to waste his time on another
man’s affairs? Perkins, Martin, and even Blunt himself became blurred in
this general indistinction, merging peacefully with other unrealities.
“So death came into this room, brother to fear, following the steps of
the doomed. It was in no hurry but waited till fear had established
itself firmly. There was not any escape, and there could be none, and
the man who was to die walked between them for years, seeing their faces
whichever way he turned.” The peddler waited an instant and leaned
slightly toward Martin. “So it will be with the next appointed to die.”
Perkins was as though turned to stone, and Derrick’s breath came faster.
There fell a stinging silence, while the atmosphere seemed to hum and
quiver. Then from Martin proceeded a strange choking sound, and in that
second Blunt leaped forward. With the swiftness of light he traversed
the ten feet between him and the desk and grasped the image. At the mere
touch of this, an amazing virility shot through his body, and he darted
like a stone from a catapult across the room toward the French window.
Derrick tried to shout, but his tongue had lost its power. Following a
violent splintering of glass and wood, a bull-like roar from Burke, and
the lithe figure was half-way over the lawn. Behind it lumbered the big
frame of the sergeant, losing ground at every stride.
Oblivious of the others, Derrick dashed out and took up the chase. The
jade god was in flight now. He had drawn level with Burke when there
sounded directly ahead the noise of a struggle, a sharp whistle, the
curse of a man who is strained to the utmost, and finally a strange,
shrill cry. At that the sergeant slackened his pace.
“That’s Peters,” he panted, laboring for breath. “I gave him orders to
station himself there behind the hedge, and a good job, too. He’s got
our friend.”
Derrick sped on. “Come along,” he shouted over his shoulder. “He may
need help.”
Burke grunted. “Not him, with a chap that size, but the little devil
pushed his finger into my throat, and I saw stars. Make your own pace,
sir, but it’s all right now.”
On the other side of the hedge the peddler lay flat, the constable
bending over him. The face of the latter was flushed and the collar of
his tunic torn. He saluted mechanically when Derrick ran up but said
nothing till Burke arrived, breathing like a leaky bellows.
“I don’t know what to make of this, sergeant. The fellow ran practically
into my arms before he knew where he was and put up no end of a fight.
He got his finger into my throat and would have done me in if I hadn’t
thrown him. Then he got up and went for me again like a wild animal. I
got this thing away from him, and he spun round on his toes, put
something in his mouth, and crumpled up. Now he looks as though he were
dead, but I haven’t used any unnecessary force.”
“All right, Peters; he’s not dead. It’s only bluff. You can make your
charge now, Mr. Derrick, and we’ll run him in.”
“Charge? I’ve nothing to charge him with.”
Burke grinned. “Do I take it that he attempted burglary and smashed that
door by your request?”
Derrick laughed outright. “I’d clean forgotten that already.” What he
did not tell the sergeant was that somehow he felt immeasurably younger
and happier.
“Well, it’s plenty to hold him for a while till we get at the real
thing. This will be theft and damage to property. Pick him up, Peters!”
“One minute,” interrupted Derrick. “Did he say anything to you?”
“Not a word, sir.”
The young man did not answer but knelt quickly beside the prone figure.
A sickly color, half gray, half blue, was stealing slowly over the
peddler’s features. His eyes, partly open, were glazed and sightless.
His body, so lately animated by amazing vigor, had crumpled like a wet
leaf. Derrick, feeling himself queerly numb, slid a hand under the torn
shirt. No pulse of life was discernible. Close by lay the jade god, its
tiny malignant face sneering up from the wet grass. The master of Beech
Lodge saw it and shuddered. Was this the next man appointed to die, and
had he been the prophet of his own passing? Then Burke knelt beside him,
stared hard in his turn, and gave the white beard a strong and sudden
jerk.
It came away in his hand, revealing a thin, oval face, a firm mouth and
chin, the face of a man not over forty. The jerk had parted the lips,
and these sent out a mocking grin, suggesting that it was nothing to
Blunt what they did now. Derrick’s breath nearly stopped. A new shadow
fell across the body. He looked up and saw Martin. There was a grim
satisfaction in the gardener’s dark eyes. It shot through Derrick’s mind
that this would free Martin from further suspicion. Burke stared at him,
too, then at Derrick. He did not speak, but the same thought was in his
mind. He turned again to the limp figure in the grass.
“It looks as though your friend were done for this time, Martin. I’ll
not ask you anything now. Your opportunity will come later. Better give
Peters a hand and take this chap to the cottage.”
The peddler was carried away, his slight frame sagging limply between
gardener and constable. Derrick, watching this, yielded to a vivid
realization of the immutability of fate. Ten minutes ago this man was
charged with life, throbbing with a desire that he hugged to his soul,
and for which he had journeyed from a mysterious country, forgetting all
else in one supreme ambition. Now the thing that had driven him thus far
had struck its own ambassador, the next appointed to die, and the thing
itself leered up from the ground at his feet, malevolent, devilish, and
seemingly yet unsatiated. Derrick picked up a stone and was about to
splinter the sneering jade when something flickered in the green eyes,
mocking and immune, warning him that the time was not yet. Presently he
felt that Burke was regarding him with broad amusement.
“If I may say so, sir, I wouldn’t smash it yet. We’ll need it for
evidence, and if possible I’d like to hear what Perkins and your
gardener have to say about the thing. Shall I take it to the station?”
Derrick stiffened. “No, thanks,” he said abruptly. “I’ll look after it
till it’s needed. I think perhaps it feels more at home at the Lodge.”
He picked up the jade god from the ground, dropped it in his pocket as
though the touch burned him, and went slowly across the lawn beside
Burke. Passing the house, he saw Edith at a bedroom window and waved her
a cheery greeting. She signaled back, and he noticed that she smiled
with relief. What a standby she had been, he reflected. In a flash his
thoughts sped to Jean. He had not seen Perkins, but the woman was at the
study window, her hands at her thin breast, a sort of ecstatic joy in
her sallow face. So on to the cottage, where the peddler’s body had been
deposited on the kitchen floor. Derrick regarded it silently, and again
that recurrent sense of unreality came over him.
“What next?” He turned to the sergeant.
“Nothing at the moment, sir, till we get hold of Dr. Henry. It will be
queer to have him here once more in the same matter. Had this man any
possessions, Martin?”
The gardener gave an odd smile and picked out of the corner a tightly
knotted pack.
“This was all I saw. It’s trinkets and such like, but he didn’t show
them to me.”
“Has this not been opened since Blunt gave Mr. Derrick that sight of his
wares?”
“Not so far as I know. He slept in his clothes.”
Burke fingered the bundle but did not slacken its knots. He sent Derrick
a thoughtful glance.
“It’s not likely there’s anything else of importance, and from what
we’ve seen to-day we’re pretty near the end of the Millicent case. Would
you step outside a minute, sir?”
Derrick followed him, wondering a little. Burke halted out of earshot.
“I don’t want to say anything unnecessary in front of Martin,” he
explained, “but all we’ll need now is what I’m convinced they are ready
to tell us about Blunt’s last visit. We’re in a position to use pressure
to bring out that evidence, and with it will come the reason, which so
far beats me, for their ever trying to conceal the fact that he was the
murderer. One thing I can imagine is that he had them hypnotized in some
way, and as a matter of fact I began to feel hypnotized myself when I
was listening to that chant of his outside the French window. Did you
get any of it? If it had not been for that I would have nabbed the chap
when he came out. As it was I felt half asleep.”
Derrick nodded reminiscently. “Yes, I did get it. Anything else with
regard to either Martin or Perkins?”
“Nothing to-night, except that I would not say another word. Let this
thing soak in, and it will do the work for us. In a day or so they will
both be anxious to tell all they know. Now, just as a matter of
precaution, I’m going to search the cottage, with your permission.”
“All right. It’s practically empty. Martin only brought a bundle, and I
sent him a few odds and ends from the house to make the place livable.
Shall I tell him?”
“Yes, sir, if you please.”
They went in together. Peters had lit his pipe and was smoking placidly
with no concern for the thing on the floor, but Martin stood, still
staring down. There was a kind of wonder in his face, and with it a
strange thankfulness. He was like a man who straightens his shoulders
after they have been crushed by some killing load.
“Martin,” said Derrick crisply, “Sergeant Burke is going to make a
search of the cottage.”
“That’s all right so far as I’m concerned, sir, but there isn’t anything
here except what any one can see.”
There was that in his apparent readiness which gave his master a feeling
of solid relief. The latter found himself glad to admit that for months
he had been on the wrong trail. There were matters still to be
explained, deliberate lies to be accounted for, that secret search of
the study to be acknowledged and justified; but all this, thought
Derrick, was mysteriously involved with the potent thing that now
dragged at his pocket, and when the light did come no corner would be
left obscure. He remembered, too, that at times Martin had looked like
an honest man. And did villains ever love roses like this gardener of
his?
“Martin,” he said, “you’d better leave the sergeant alone while he’s
making this search; he won’t need you.”
The man nodded with the air of one who has nothing to fear, cast another
contented glance at the peddler’s body, and went out. They watched him
cross the drive, hesitate a moment as though deliberating which way to
turn, then stand, his hands deep in his pockets, staring down the road.
Again Derrick felt reassured.
“Sergeant, I’m greatly relieved about that chap, even though I did bark
up the wrong tree.”
Burke rubbed his big palms together. “Well, sir, it was a fortunate kind
of bark just the same.”
“So it’s turned out. Now while you’re making this search could the
constable go up and stay in front of the house? Also, he might just
assure Miss Derrick that everything is quite all right. She’ll be more
convinced if it doesn’t come from me.”
Peters got his orders, and the two were alone. Burke gave a broad grin.
The idea of promotion had flashed into his mind. Then he, too, indulged
in a long stare at what had been Blunt.
“Well, sir, I expect we’ve both got the same conclusion in our heads
now. Curious, too, how it’s come about.”
“What’s that, sergeant?”
“That we needn’t dig any deeper to find the man who killed Mr.
Millicent. That theory of a criminal returning to the scene of his crime
certainly worked in this case.”
“Yes,” said Derrick thoughtfully, “but what brought Martin back?”
“I’ve an idea we’ll get that out of him in a day or two. Have you
studied this chap’s face, sir?”
Derrick scrutinized the rigid features. They were gray now, the lips
still set in a strange cynical smile. It was not the face of a peddler
but had unmistakable signs of birth and breeding. The head was well
shaped, the ears small and set close to a finely molded skull, the
forehead high and rather broad, the eyes far apart. Nothing of the
murderer was suggested here, but much of the dreamer, the visionary, the
adventurer of sudden purpose. Over him was the touch of the East,
visible in the olive tinge of his skin, the slenderness of hands and
wrists, and the faint blueness at the base of his narrow finger-nails.
Derrick pondered over the possible history of this man with the build of
an aristocrat and the insignia of the Orient. What strange tales those
fixed lips might have told. But they were all his secret now.
“He’s not a peddler,” he said, turning to Burke, “and probably never
was. We’ll have to depend on Martin and perhaps Perkins for the rest of
it. Are you going to have a look at that pack of his?”
It was unrolled on the floor beside its late owner but revealed nothing
more than the trinkets Derrick had already seen. The man’s pockets were
empty save for a knife and a few coins, and the clothing itself bore no
marks that yielded the slightest clue to his identity. Burke made a
grimace.
“We’ve drawn a blank this time; now I’ll have a look through the
cottage. How long did you say Martin had been with you?”
“Something more than three months now, and he brought all he had on his
back. I don’t fancy you’ll find much of interest here.”
The sergeant rooted about with a certain methodical deliberation,
finally coming to a small bureau, the drawers of which he pulled open
with the manner of one who expects nothing. Martin’s personal property
was in truth scanty. He paused at the bottom drawer and looked up.
“Matter of fact, Mr. Derrick, while we know our dead friend is the
fellow who held the knife, we’ve got to admit that we can’t prove it
unless we drag the truth out of the others. Martin must know perfectly
well that he’s up against a sort of third degree examination, and what
convinces me that he’s ready to give us the inside of this thing is that
already he’s looking almost cheerful. And if he weakens, that woman
Perkins will weaken, too. I’m about finished here now.”
He jerked open the last drawer as he spoke, jerked so strongly that it
came out on the floor. Like the others it was empty. But between the
bottom of it and the floor itself lay a small bundle of dirty shirts.
“Your man isn’t what you’d call exactly a careful housekeeper. He needs
a wife.” He picked up the bundle between thumb and forefinger. “Look at
this.”
Came a dull knock, a clatter on the floor, and a knife with a broad,
curved blade a foot long and a strangely carved handle slid across the
floor and rested almost touching the lifeless palm of the peddler. The
big man drew in his breath with a great gust and stood glowering. His
eyes met Derrick’s.
“Call in your gardener!” he said huskily.
Derrick’s brain was in a whirl. He stared back and, not trusting himself
to speak, tapped at the window. He could see Peters pacing slowly up and
down in front of the Lodge, and Martin, who was still standing in the
same place, apparently plunged in thought. The latter turned at the
sound, mechanically touched his cap, and came slowly back. The sergeant
nodded, put his hand in his pocket, and stepped a little on one side of
the door. A shadow darkened the threshold, and as the gardener crossed
it a grasp of iron fastened on his shoulder.
“John Martin, I arrest you for complicity in the murder of Henry
Millicent. Anything you now say may be used against you.”
A few minutes later Derrick walked slowly and rather wearily toward the
house, and Edith met him at the door. For her the past hour had been
full of a drama almost too tense for her practical soul, and she
realized what it must have meant to her brother. One look at his face
was enough. She hooked her arm into his and led him into the
dining-room, where dinner was ready. At the door she pressed his hand
for an understanding instant.
“I’m not going to say a thing about it, nor are you, till afterward.
Perkins saw the whole thing, and the poor woman is happier than I’ve
ever seen her. Congratulations, brother; and now forget it for an hour.”
He sat down with a vast relief. It seemed strange that in the midst of
this deadly game such matters as food and cooking should proceed
uninterrupted. It was Perkins’s work, Perkins, who, outwardly
undisturbed by that which must have shaken her very spirit, was still
the perfect servant, the ageless domestic automaton. He knew that Edith
did not want him to look at the woman, but could not refrain from quick
cursory glances at moments when she could not detect them. There was
really no difference, except that the sallow cheeks had a faint color,
and the lips were a shade less grim than usual. For the rest of it her
face was still a mask, her figure just as unbending, her movements just
as measured and deliberate. But what secret thoughts must be traversing
that unlocked mind, what emotions stirring in her breast! And through it
all she seemed not to know that he was there.
Later, in the study, he filled his pipe, shot a contented glance at
Millicent’s portrait, took the jade god from his pocket, and set it on
the desk where so often it had glimmered before. Edith scanned it with
an interest she had never displayed till this evening, and sank
comfortably into a big chair.
“Well,” she said curiously, “aren’t you going to tell me anything about
it?”
“Yes, dear, everything.” He paused for a moment. “First of all, the
thing is practically over, except another inquest and what will
naturally follow that.”
“The last thing I saw was that poor man being carried to the cottage.
Then that nice constable came up and talked to me as though I were six
years old. I did like that. But there was no real information in it.”
Derrick laughed. “I’m afraid I did that.”
“I thought you had. Did you notice any difference in Perkins at dinner?
Isn’t her control amazing?”
“Not much, except that she seemed in a way less grim.”
“Of course she is. She must have suspected the peddler all along, and
when she saw him carried off like that one can imagine what she felt—at
least one could if it weren’t Perkins.” She hesitated. “Is he dead?” she
asked gravely.
He nodded. “The life seemed to go out of him when he was struggling with
the constable. Peters said he put something in his mouth—which was no
doubt poison.”
Edith shuddered. “How dreadful! It was the fear of the other kind of
death, wasn’t it? What did Martin say or do then?”
“Nothing, but stare and stare and look satisfied in a grim sort of way.”
“He must have been something more than satisfied; so is Perkins. This is
probably the first evening for two years when they have known peace. You
remember, Jack, I told you I didn’t think Martin was really guilty.”
“Martin,” said Derrick slowly, “is now in jail, charged with complicity
in Millicent’s murder.”
At the door came a sudden and violent crash. It had opened without
sound, and there stood Perkins with the ruins of coffee-cups at her
feet. Her hands were gripped together, her lips parted, and the
suffering of the damned was written on her colorless cheeks. Her eyes,
now large and staring, seemed to be fixed immovably on space. Then,
imperceptibly, she regained a sort of shuddering consciousness.
“I’m extremely sorry, madam, but I tripped over the door-mat.”
The voice was lifeless, devoid of inflection, so flat as to be almost
unhuman. She stooped, gathered up the shattered china, and disappeared.
Edith, too shaken for a moment to speak, regarded her brother with
frightened astonishment.
“What do you mean?” she stammered presently.
“Exactly that. Neither you nor Perkins could see what happened after
Blunt was taken to the cottage.”
He went on with a sort of labored carefulness and told her all, shooting
meanwhile quick glances at the door, where shortly Perkins would
reappear. Neither of them doubted that she would be master enough of
herself for this. In the middle of it she came in, looking straight
ahead. The tremor had left her body, her hands were again steady, her
face impassive as ever. She put the tray beside her mistress and went
out. At the click of the latch Edith gave a gasp.
“I didn’t know such a woman existed,” she whispered. “Till a minute ago
she thought that Martin was a free man and innocent.”
He shook his head. “Free, perhaps, but not innocent. It was obvious from
what little I got out of her this afternoon that she was doing all she
could to divert suspicion to Blunt, without actually accusing him. She
was afraid of Blunt and wanted to get rid of him.”
“But why save Martin at the expense of Blunt?”
“That I can’t say.”
“But the only evidence you have against Martin is that the creese was
found hidden in his cottage wrapped up in his clothing?”
“Yes.”
“Could that be called final and sufficient? Could he be convicted on
that?”
“It’s enough to start with and puts it up to him to disprove his guilt,
and he can’t do that without telling the whole story.”
Edith was unconverted. “He actually left that thing, which may be enough
to condemn him, hidden in an old shirt where any one could have found
it. That doesn’t seem likely, does it?”
“Perhaps not, but there it was.”
“Jack,” she said suddenly, “that’s not the action of a guilty man. How
long had the peddler been there?”
“Only a few hours, as you know.”
“And why did he ask if this room was the same as it was the night of the
murder?”
“I’ve been puzzling over that. It could not have been a shot in the
dark, and it laid him open to the suspicion that he had seen the place
before.”
“Then, listen, Jack,” she said excitedly. “I’m sure he did see the place
before. Everything points to that, and you’ve got the wrong man, and it
was Blunt who killed Mr. Millicent on account of that thing.” She
pointed to the jade god. “Can’t you see how clear it is? He had some
sort of hold over Martin and Perkins, probably through that same horrid
influence, and they were afraid to incriminate him. Two years afterward
he turns up again, and Martin was amazed and terrified to see him,
thinking the matter was done with. While he is with Martin, and that was
very cleverly arranged, they have arguments which you overheard, and
somehow he manages to conceal in Martin’s clothes the knife, or one just
like it, before making another attempt at the image. You’ll have to be
frightfully careful now what is done, or an innocent man may be
punished.”
Derrick looked at her, genuinely puzzled.
“There may be something in that. Anything else to suggest?”
“No, I’m not a detective, but it’s the way any sensible person would
look at it, if I may say so. And, yes, there is one thing.”
“What is that?”
“I’d go straight to Jean to-morrow morning and tell her the whole story.
She might be able to help, as it will probably suggest other things to
her you haven’t discussed yet.”
Derrick took a long breath. “I will,” he said.