GREAT STORIES OF A GREAT DETECTIVE
The Adventures of
DR. THORNDYKE
(The Singing Bone)
By R. AUSTIN FREEMAN
POPULAR LIBRARY • NEW YORK
POPULAR LIBRARY EDITION
COMPLETE AND
UNABRIDGED
Originally published under the title of
THE SINGING BONE
COPYRIGHT MCMXXIII
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
By arrangement with Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.
PREFACE
The peculiar construction of the first four stories in the present
collection will probably strike both reader and critic and seem to
call for some explanation, which I accordingly proceed to supply.
In the conventional “detective story” the interest is made to focus
on the question, “Who did it?” The identity of the criminal is a
secret that is jealously guarded up to the very end of the book, and
its disclosure forms the final climax.
This I have always regarded as somewhat of a mistake. In real life,
the identity of the criminal is a question of supreme importance for
practical reasons; but in fiction, where no such reasons exist, I
conceive the interest of the reader to be engaged chiefly by the
demonstration of unexpected consequences of simple actions, of
unsuspected causal connections, and by the evolution of an ordered
train of evidence from a mass of facts apparently incoherent and
unrelated. The reader’s curiosity is concerned not so much with the
question “Who did it?” as with the question “How was the discovery
achieved?” That is to say, the ingenious reader is interested more in
the intermediate action than in the ultimate result.
The offer by a popular author of a prize to the reader who should
identify the criminal in a certain “detective story,” exhibiting as
it did the opposite view, suggested to me an interesting question.
Would it be possible to write a detective story in which from the
outset the reader was taken entirely into the author’s confidence,
was made an actual witness of the crime and furnished with every fact
that could possibly be used in its detection? Would there be any
story left when the reader had all the facts? I believed that there
would; and as an experiment to test the justice of my belief, I wrote
“The Case of Oscar Brodski.” Here the usual conditions are reversed;
the reader knows everything, the detective knows nothing, and the
interest focuses on the unexpected significance of trivial
circumstances.
By excellent judges on both sides of the Atlantic--including the
editor of _Pearson’s Magazine_--this story was so far approved of
that I was invited to produce others of the same type.
Three more were written and are here included together with one of
the more orthodox character, so that the reader can judge of the
respective merits of the two methods of narration.
Nautical readers will observe that I have taken the liberty (for
obvious reasons connected with the law of libel) of planting a
screw-pile lighthouse on the Girdler Sand in place of the
light-vessel. I mention the matter to forestall criticism and save
readers the trouble of writing to point out the error.
R. A. F.
Gravesend
CONTENTS
I THE CASE OF OSCAR BRODSKI
I The Mechanism of Crime
II The Mechanism of Detection
II A CASE OF PREMEDITATION
I The Elimination of Mr. Pratt
II Rival Sleuth-Hounds
III THE ECHO OF A MUTINY
I Death on the Girdler
II “The Singing Bone”
IV A WASTREL’S ROMANCE
I The Spinsters’ Guest
II Munera Pulveris
V THE OLD LAG
I The Changed Immutable
II The Ship of the Desert
THE CASE OF OSCAR BRODSKI
PART I
THE MECHANISM OF CRIME
A surprising amount of nonsense has been talked about conscience. On
the one hand remorse (or the “again-bite,” as certain scholars of
ultra-Teutonic leanings would prefer to call it); on the other hand
“an easy conscience”: these have been accepted as the determining
factors of happiness or the reverse.
Of course there is an element of truth in the “easy conscience” view,
but it begs the whole question. A particularly hardy conscience may
be quite easy under the most unfavourable conditions--conditions in
which the more feeble conscience might be severely afflicted with the
“again-bite.” And, then, it seems to be the fact that some fortunate
persons have no conscience at all; a negative gift that raises them
above the mental vicissitudes of the common herd of humanity.
Now, Silas Hickler was a case in point. No one, looking into his
cheerful, round face, beaming with benevolence and wreathed in
perpetual smiles, would have imagined him to be a criminal. Least of
all, his worthy, high-church house keeper, who was a witness to his
unvarying amiability, who constantly heard him carolling
light-heartedly about the house and noted his appreciative zest at
meal-times.
Yet it is a fact that Silas earned his modest, though comfortable,
income by the gentle art of burglary. A precarious trade and risky
withal, yet not so very hazardous if pursued with judgment and
moderation. And Silas was eminently a man of judgment. He worked
invariably alone. He kept his own counsel. No confederate had he to
turn King’s Evidence at a pinch; no one he knew would bounce off in a
fit of temper to Scotland Yard. Nor was he greedy and thriftless, as
most criminals are. His “scoops” were few and far between, carefully
planned, secretly executed, and the proceeds judiciously invested in
“weekly property.”
In early life Silas had been connected with the diamond industry, and
he still did a little rather irregular dealing. In the trade he was
suspected of transactions with I.D.B.’s, and one or two indiscreet
dealers had gone so far as to whisper the ominous word “fence.” But
Silas Smiled a benevolent smile and went his way. He knew what he
knew, and his clients in Amsterdam were not inquisitive.
Such was Silas Hickler. As he strolled round his garden in the dusk
of an October evening, he seemed the very type of modest,
middle-class prosperity. He was dressed in the travelling suit that
he wore on his little continental trips; his bag was packed and stood
in readiness on the sitting room sofa. A parcel of diamonds
(purchased honestly, though without impertinent questions, at
Southampton) was in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and another
more valuable parcel was stowed in a cavity in the heel of his right
boot. In an hour and a half it would be time for him to set out to
catch the boat train at the junction; meanwhile there was nothing to
do but to stroll round the fading garden and consider how he should
invest the proceeds of the impending deal. His housekeeper had gone
over to Welham for the week’s shopping, and would probably not be
back until eleven o’clock. He was alone in the premises and just a
trifle dull.
He was about to turn into the house when his ear caught the sound of
footsteps on the unmade road that passed the end of the garden. He
paused and listened. There was no other dwelling near, and the road
led nowhere, fading away into the waste land beyond the house. Could
this be a visitor? It seemed unlikely, for visitors were few at Silas
Hickler’s house. Meanwhile the footsteps continued to approach,
ringing out with increasing loudness on the hard, stony path.
Silas strolled down to the gate, and, leaning on it, looked out with
some curiosity. Presently a glow of light showed him the face of a
man, apparently lighting his pipe; then a dim figure detached itself
from the enveloping gloom, advanced towards him and halted opposite
the garden. The stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth and,
blowing out a cloud of smoke, asked--
“Can you tell me if this road will take me to Badsham Junction?”
“No,” replied Hickler, “but there is a footpath farther on that leads
to the station.”
“Footpath!” growled the stranger. “I’ve had enough of footpaths. I
came down from town to Catley intending to walk across to the
junction. I started along the road, and then some fool directed me to
a short cut, with the result that I have been blundering about in the
dark for the last half-hour. My sight isn’t very good, you know,” he
added.
“What train do you want to catch?” asked Hickler.
“Seven fifty-eight,” was the reply.
“I am going to catch that train myself,” said Silas, “but I shan’t be
starting for another hour. The station is only three-quarters of a
mile from here. If you like to come in and take a rest, we can walk
down together and then you’ll be sure of not missing your way.”
“It’s very good of you,” said the stranger, peering, with spectacled
eyes, at the dark house, “but--I think----”
“Might as well wait here as at the station,” said Silas in his genial
way, holding the gate open, and the stranger, after a momentary
hesitation, entered and, flinging away his cigarette, followed him to
the door of the cottage.
The sitting-room was in darkness, save for the dull glow of the
expiring fire, but, entering before his guest, Silas applied a match
to the lamp that hung from the ceiling. As the flame leaped up,
flooding the little interior with light, the two men regarded one
another with mutual curiosity.
“Brodski, by Jingo!” was Hickler’s silent commentary, as he looked at
his guest. “Doesn’t know me, evidently--wouldn’t, of course, after
all these years and with his bad eyesight. Take a seat, sir,” he
added aloud. “Will you join me in a little refreshment to while away
the time?”
Brodski murmured an indistinct acceptance, and, as his host turned to
open a cupboard, he deposited his hat (a hard, grey felt) on a chair
in a corner, placed his bag on the edge of the table, resting his
umbrella against it, and sat down in a small arm-chair.
“Have a biscuit?” said Hickler, as he placed a whisky-bottle on the
table together with a couple of his best star-pattern tumblers and a
siphon.
“Thanks, I think I will,” said Brodski. “The railway journey and all
this confounded tramping about, you know----”
“Yes,” agreed Silas. “Doesn’t do to start with an empty stomach. Hope
you don’t mind oat-cakes; I see they’re the only biscuits I have.”
Brodski hastened to assure him that oat-cakes were his special and
peculiar fancy; and in confirmation, having mixed himself a stiff
jorum, he fell to upon the biscuits with evident gusto.
Brodski was a deliberate feeder, and at present appeared to be
somewhat sharp set. His measured munching being unfavourable to
conversation, most of the talking fell to Silas; and, for once, that
genial transgressor found the task embarrassing. The natural thing
would have been to discuss his guest’s destination and perhaps the
object of his journey; but this was precisely what Hickler avoided
doing. For he knew both, and instinct told him to keep his knowledge
to himself.
Brodski was a diamond merchant of considerable reputation, and in a
large way of business. He bought stones principally in the rough, and
of these he was a most excellent judge. His fancy was for stones of
somewhat unusual size and value, and it was well known to be his
custom, when he had accumulated a sufficient stock, to carry them
himself to Amsterdam and supervise the cutting of the rough stones.
Of this Hickler was aware, and he had no doubt that Brodski was now
starting on one of his periodical excursions; that somewhere in the
recesses of his rather shabby clothing was concealed a paper packet
possibly worth several thousand pounds.
Brodski sat by the table munching monotonously and talking little.
Hickler sat opposite him, talking nervously and rather wildly at
times, and watching his guest with a growing fascination. Precious
stones, and especially diamonds, were Hickler’s specialty. “Hard
stuff”--silver plate--he avoided entirely; gold, excepting in the
form of specie, he seldom touched; but stones, of which he could
carry off a whole consignment in the heel of his boot and dispose of
with absolute safety, formed the staple of his industry. And here was
a man sitting opposite him with a parcel in his pocket containing the
equivalent of a dozen of his most successful “scoops”; stones worth
perhaps---- Here he pulled himself up short and began to talk
rapidly, though without much coherence. For, even as he talked, other
words, formed subconsciously, seemed to insinuate themselves into the
interstices of the sentences, and to carry on a parallel train of
thought.
“Gets chilly in the evenings now, doesn’t it?” said Hickler.
“It does indeed,” Brodski agreed, and then resumed his slow munching,
breathing audibly through his nose.
“Five thousand at least,” the subconscious train of thought resumed;
“probably six or seven, perhaps ten.” Silas fidgeted in his chair and
endeavoured to concentrate his ideas on some topic of interest. He
was growing disagreeably conscious of a new and unfamiliar state of
mind.
“Do you take any interest in gardening?” he asked. Next to diamonds
and weekly “property,” his besetting weakness was fuchsias.
Brodski chuckled sourly. “Hatton Garden is the nearest approach----”
He broke off suddenly, and then added, “I am a Londoner, you know.”
The abrupt break in the sentence was not unnoticed by Silas, nor had
he any difficulty in interpreting it. A man who carries untold wealth
upon his person must needs be wary in his speech.
“Yes,” he answered absently, “it’s hardly a Londoner’s hobby.” And
then, half consciously, he began a rapid calculation. Put it at five
thousand pounds. What would that represent in weekly property? His
last set of houses had cost two hundred and fifty pounds apiece, and
he had let them at ten shillings and sixpence a week. At that rate,
five thousand pounds represented twenty houses at ten and sixpence a
week--say ten pounds a week--one pound eight shillings a day--five
hundred and twenty pounds a year--for life. It was a competency.
Added to what he already had, it was wealth. With that income he
could fling the tools of his trade into the river and live out the
remainder of his life in comfort and security.
He glanced furtively at his guest across the table, and then looked
away quickly as he felt stirring within him an impulse the nature of
which he could not mistake. This must be put an end to. Crimes
against the person he had always looked upon as sheer insanity. There
was, it is true, that little affair of the Weybridge policeman, but
that was unforeseen and unavoidable, and it was the constable’s doing
after all. And there was the old housekeeper at Epsom, too, but, of
course, if the old idiot would shriek in that insane fashion--well,
it was an accident, very regrettable, to be sure, and no one could be
more sorry for the mishap than himself. But deliberate
homicide!--robbery from the person! It was the act of a stark lunatic.
Of course, if he had happened to be that sort of person, here was the
opportunity of a lifetime. The immense booty, the empty house, the
solitary neighbourhood, away from the main road and from other
habitations; the time, the darkness--but, of course, there was the
body to be thought of; that was always the difficulty. What to do
with the body---- Here he caught the shriek of the up express,
rounding the curve in the line that ran past the waste land at the
back of the house. The sound started a new train of thought, and, as
he followed it out, his eyes fixed themselves on the unconscious and
taciturn Brodski, as he sat thoughtfully sipping his whisky. At
length, averting his gaze with an effort, he rose suddenly from his
chair and turned to look at the clock on the mantelpiece, spreading
out his hands before the dying fire. A tumult of strange sensations
warned him to leave the house. He shivered slightly, though he was
rather hot than chilly, and, turning his head, looked at the door.
“Seems to be a confounded draught,” he said, with another slight
shiver; “did I shut the door properly, I wonder?” He strode across
the room and, opening the door wide, looked out into the dark garden.
A desire, sudden and urgent, had come over him to get out into the
open air, to be on the road and have done with this madness that was
knocking at the door of his brain.
“I wonder if it is worth while to start yet,” he said, with a
yearning glance at the murky, starless sky.
Brodski roused himself and looked round. “Is your clock right?” he
asked.
Silas reluctantly admitted that it was.
“How long will it take us to walk to the station?” inquired Brodski.
“Oh, about twenty-five minutes to half-an-hour,” replied Silas,
unconsciously exaggerating the distance.
“Well,” said Brodski, “we’ve got more than an hour yet, and it’s more
comfortable here than hanging about the station. I don’t see the use
of starting before we need.”
“No; of course not,” Silas agreed. A wave of strange emotion,
half-regretful, half-triumphant, surged through his brain. For some
moments he remained standing on the threshold, looking out dreamily
into the night. Then he softly closed the door; and, seemingly
without the exercise of his volition, the key turned noiselessly in
the lock.
He returned to his chair and tried to open a conversation with the
taciturn Brodski, but the words came faltering and disjointed. He
felt his face growing hot, his brain full and intense, and there was
a faint, high-pitched singing in his ears. He was conscious of
watching his guest with a new and fearful interest, and, by sheer
force of will, turned away his eyes; only to find them a moment later
involuntarily returning to fix the unconscious man with yet more
horrible intensity. And ever through his mind walked, like a dreadful
procession, the thoughts of what that other man--the man of blood and
violence--would do in these circumstances. Detail by detail the
hideous synthesis fitted together the parts of the imagined crime,
and arranged them in due sequence until they formed a succession of
events, rational, connected and coherent.
He rose uneasily from his chair, with his eyes still riveted upon his
guest. He could not sit any longer opposite that man with his hidden
store of precious gems. The impulse that he recognized with fear and
wonder was growing more ungovernable from moment to moment. If he
stayed it would presently overpower him, and then---- He shrank with
horror from the dreadful thought, but his fingers itched to handle
the diamonds. For Silas was, after all, a criminal by nature and
habit. He was a beast of prey. His livelihood had never been earned;
it had been taken by stealth or, if necessary, by force. His
instincts were predacious, and the proximity of unguarded valuables
suggested to him, as a logical consequence, their abstraction or
seizure. His unwillingness to let these diamonds go away beyond his
reach was fast becoming overwhelming.
But he would make one more effort to escape. He would keep out of
Brodski’s actual presence until the moment for starting came.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I will go and put on a thicker pair
of boots. After all this dry weather we may get a change, and damp
feet are very uncomfortable when you are travelling.”
“Yes; dangerous too,” agreed Brodski.
Silas walked through into the adjoining kitchen, where, by the light
of the little lamp that was burning there, he had seen his stout,
country boots placed, cleaned and in readiness, and sat down upon a
chair to make the change. He did not, of course, intend to wear the
country boots, for the diamonds were concealed in those he had on.
But he would make the change and then alter his mind; it would all
help to pass the time. He took a deep breath. It was a relief, at any
rate, to be out of that room. Perhaps if he stayed away, the
temptation would pass. Brodski would go on his way--he wished that he
was going alone--and the danger would be over--at least--and the
opportunity would have gone--the diamonds----
He looked up as he slowly unlaced his boot. From where he sat he
could see Brodski sitting by the table with his back towards the
kitchen door. He had finished eating, now, and was composedly rolling
a cigarette. Silas breathed heavily, and, slipping off his boot, sat
for a while motionless, gazing steadily at the other man’s back. Then
he unlaced the other boot, still staring abstractedly at his
unconscious guest, drew it off, and laid it very quietly on the floor.
Brodski calmly finished rolling his cigarette, licked the paper, put
away his pouch, and, having dusted the crumbs of tobacco from his
knees, began to search his pockets for a match. Suddenly, yielding to
an uncontrollable impulse, Silas stood up and began stealthily to
creep along the passage to the sitting-room. Not a sound came from
his stockinged feet. Silently as a cat he stole forward, breathing
softly with parted lips, until he stood at the threshold of the room.
His face flushed duskily, his eyes, wide and staring, glittered in
the lamplight, and the racing blood hummed in his ears.
Brodski struck a match--Silas noted that it was a wooden
vesta--lighted his cigarette, blew out the match and flung it into
the fender. Then he replaced the box in his pocket and commenced to
smoke.
Slowly and without a sound Silas crept forward into the room, step by
step, with catlike stealthiness, until he stood close behind
Brodski’s chair--so close that he had to turn his head that his
breath might not stir the hair upon the other man’s head. So, for
half-a-minute, he stood motionless, like a symbolical statue of
Murder, glaring down with horrible, glittering eyes upon the
unconscious diamond merchant, while his quick breath passed without a
sound through his open mouth and his fingers writhed slowly like the
tentacles of a giant hydra. And then, as noiselessly as ever, he
backed away to the door, turned quickly and walked back into the
kitchen.
He drew a deep breath. It had been a near thing. Brodski’s life had
hung upon a thread. For it had been so easy. Indeed, if he had
happened, as he stood behind the man’s chair, to have a weapon--a
hammer, for instance, or even a stone----
He glanced round the kitchen and his eyes lighted on a bar that had
been left by the workmen who had put up the new greenhouse. It was an
odd piece cut off from a square, wrought-iron stanchion, and was
about a foot long and perhaps three-quarters of an inch thick. Now,
if he had had that in his hand a minute ago----
He picked the bar up, balanced it in his hand and swung it round his
head. A formidable weapon this: silent, too. And it fitted the plan
that had passed through his brain. Bah! He had better put the thing
down.
But he did not. He stepped over to the door and looked again at
Brodski, sitting, as before, meditatively smoking, with his back
towards the kitchen.
Suddenly a change came over Silas. His face flushed, the veins of his
neck stood out and a sullen scowl settled on his face. He drew out
his watch, glanced at it earnestly and replaced it. Then he strode
swiftly but silently along the passage into the sitting-room.
A pace away from his victim’s chair he halted and took deliberate
aim. The bar swung aloft, but not without some faint rustle of
movement, for Brodski looked round quickly even as the iron whistled
through the air. The movement disturbed the murderer’s aim, and the
bar glanced off his victim’s head, making only a trifling wound.
Brodski sprang up with a tremulous, bleating cry, and clutched his
assailant’s arms with the tenacity of mortal terror.
Then began a terrible struggle, as the two men, locked in a deadly
embrace, swayed to and fro and trampled backwards and forwards. The
chair was overturned, an empty glass swept from the table and, with
Brodski’s spectacles, crushed beneath stamping feet. And thrice that
dreadful, pitiful, bleating cry rang out into the night, filling
Silas, despite his murderous frenzy, with terror lest some chance
wayfarer should hear it. Gathering his great strength for a final
effort, he forced his victim backwards onto the table and, snatching
up a corner of the tablecloth, thrust it into his face and crammed it
into his mouth as it opened to utter another shriek. And thus they
remained for a full two minutes, almost motionless, like some
dreadful group of tragic allegory. Then, when the last faint
twitchings had died away, Silas relaxed his grasp and let the limp
body slip softly onto the floor.
It was over. For good or for evil, the thing was done. Silas stood
up, breathing heavily, and, as he wiped the sweat from his face, he
looked at the clock. The hands stood at one minute to seven. The
whole thing had taken a little over three minutes. He had nearly an
hour in which to finish his task. The goods train that entered into
his scheme came by at twenty minutes past, and it was only three
hundred yards to the line. Still, he must not waste time. He was now
quite composed, and only disturbed by the thought that Brodski’s
cries might have been heard. If no one had heard them it was all
plain sailing.
He stooped, and, gently disengaging the tablecloth from the dead
man’s teeth, began a careful search of his pockets. He was not long
finding what he sought, and, as he pinched the paper packet and felt
the little hard bodies grating on one another inside, his faint
regrets for what had happened were swallowed up in
self-congratulations.
He now set about his task with business-like briskness and an
attentive eye on the clock. A few large drops of blood had fallen on
the tablecloth, and there was a small bloody smear on the carpet by
the dead man’s head. Silas fetched from the kitchen some water, a
nail-brush and a dry cloth, and, having washed out the stains from
the table-cover--not forgetting the deal table-top underneath--and
cleaned away the smear from the carpet and rubbed the damp places
dry, he slipped a sheet of paper under the head of the corpse to
prevent further contamination. Then he set the table cloth straight,
stood the chair upright, laid the broken spectacles on the table and
picked up the cigarette, which had been trodden flat in the struggle,
and flung it under the grate. Then there was the broken glass, which
he swept up into a dust-pan. Part of it was the remains of the
shattered tumbler, and the rest the fragments of the broken
spectacles. He turned it out onto a sheet of paper and looked it over
carefully, picking out the larger recognizable pieces of the
spectacle-glasses and putting them aside on a separate slip of paper,
together with a sprinkling of the minute fragments. The remainder he
shot back into the dust-pan and, having hurriedly put on his boots,
carried it out to the rubbish-heap at the back of the house.
It was now time to start. Hastily cutting off a length of string from
his string-box--for Silas was an orderly man and despised the
oddments of string with which many people make shift--he tied it to
the dead man’s bag and umbrella and slung them from his shoulder.
Then he folded up the paper of broken glass, and, slipping it and the
spectacles into his pocket, picked up the body and threw it over his
shoulder. Brodski was a small, spare man, weighing not more than nine
stone; not a very formidable burden for a big, athletic man like
Silas.
The night was intensely dark, and, when Silas looked out of the back
gate over the waste land that stretched from his house to the
railway, he could hardly see twenty yards ahead. After listening
cautiously and hearing no sound, he went out, shut the gate softly
behind him and set forth at a good pace, though carefully, over the
broken ground. His progress was not as silent as he could have wished
for, though the scanty turf that covered the gravelly land was thick
enough to deaden his footfalls, the swinging bag and umbrella made an
irritating noise; indeed, his movements were more hampered by them
than by the weightier burden.
The distance to the line was about three hundred yards. Ordinarily he
would have walked it in from three to four minutes, but now, going
cautiously with his burden and stopping now and again to listen, it
took him just six minutes to reach the three-bar fence that separated
the waste land from the railway. Arrived here he halted for a moment
and once more listened attentively, peering into the darkness on all
sides. Not a living creature was to be seen or heard in this desolate
spot, but far away, the shriek of an engine’s whistle warned him to
hasten.
Lifting the corpse easily over the fence, he carried it a few yards
farther to a point where the line curved sharply. Here he laid it
face downwards, with the neck over the near rail. Drawing out his
pocket-knife, he cut through the knot that fastened the umbrella to
the string and also secured the bag; and when he had flung the bag
and umbrella on the track beside the body, he carefully pocketed the
string, excepting the little loop that had fallen to the ground when
the knot was cut.
The quick snort and clanking rumble of an approaching goods train
began now to be clearly audible. Rapidly, Silas drew from his pockets
the battered spectacles and the packet of broken glass. The former he
threw down by the dead man’s head, and then, emptying the packet into
his hand, sprinkled the fragments of glass around the spectacles.
He was none too soon. Already the quick, laboured puffing of the
engine sounded close at hand. His impulse was to stay and watch; to
witness the final catastrophe that should convert the murder into an
accident or suicide. But it was hardly safe: it would be better that
he should not be near lest he should not be able to get away without
being seen. Hastily he climbed back over the fence and strode away
across the rough fields, while the train came snorting and clattering
towards the curve.
He had nearly reached his back gate when a sound from the line
brought him to a sudden halt; it was a prolonged whistle accompanied
by the groan of brakes and the loud clank of colliding trucks. The
snorting of the engine had ceased and was replaced by the penetrating
hiss of escaping steam.
The train had stopped!
For one brief moment Silas stood with bated breath and mouth agape
like one petrified; then he strode forward quickly to the gate, and,
letting himself in, silently slid the bolt. He was undeniably
alarmed. What could have happened on the line? It was practically
certain that the body had been seen; but what was happening now? and
would they come to the house? He entered the kitchen, and having
paused again to listen--for somebody might come and knock at the door
at any moment--he walked through the sitting-room and looked round.
All seemed in order there. There was the bar, though, lying where he
had dropped it in the scuffle. He picked it up and held it under the
lamp. There was no blood on it; only one or two hairs. Somewhat
absently he wiped it with the table-cover, and then, running out
through the kitchen into the back garden, dropped it over the wall
into a bed of nettles. Not that there was any thing incriminating in
the bar, but, since he had used it as a weapon, it had somehow
acquired a sinister aspect to his eye.
He now felt that it would be well to start for the station at once.
It was not time yet, for it was barely twenty-five minutes past
seven; but he did not wish to be found in the house if any one should
come. His soft hat was on the sofa with his bag, to which his
umbrella was strapped. He put on the hat, caught up the bag and
stepped over to the door; then he came back to turn down the lamp.
And it was at this moment, when he stood with his hand raised to the
burner, that his eyes, travelling by chance into the dim corner of
the room, lighted on Brodski’s grey felt hat, reposing on the chair
where the dead man had placed it when he entered the house.
Silas stood for a few moments as if petrified, with the chilly sweat
of mortal fear standing in beads upon his forehead. Another instant
and he would have turned the lamp down and gone on his way; and then
he strode over to the chair, snatched up the hat and looked inside
it. Yes, there was the name, “Oscar Brodski,” written plainly on the
lining. If he had gone away, leaving it to be discovered, he would
have been lost; indeed, even now, if a search-party should come to
the house, it was enough to send him to the gallows.
His limbs shook with horror at the thought, but in spite of his panic
he did not lose his self-possession. Darting through into the
kitchen, he grabbed up a handful of the dry brush-wood that was kept
for lighting fires and carried it to the sitting-room grate where he
thrust it on the extinct, but still hot, embers, and crumpling up the
paper that he had placed under Brodski’s head--on which paper he now
noticed, for the first time, a minute bloody smear--he poked it in
under the wood, and striking a wax match, set light to it. As the
wood flared up, he hacked at the hat with his pocket knife and threw
the ragged strips into the blaze.
And all the while his heart was thumping and his hands a-tremble with
the dread of discovery. The fragments of felt were far from
inflammable, tending rather to fuse into cindery masses that smoked
and smouldered than to burn away into actual ash. Moreover, to his
dismay, they emitted a powerful resinous stench mixed with the odour
of burning hair, so that he had to open the kitchen window (since he
dared not unlock the front door) to disperse the reek. And still, as
he fed the fire with small cut fragments, he strained his ears to
catch, above the crackling of the wood, the sound of the dreaded
footsteps, the knock on the door that should be as the summons of
Fate.
The time, too, was speeding on. Twenty-one minutes to eight! In a few
minutes more he must set out or he would miss the train. He dropped
the dismembered hat-brim on the blazing wood and ran upstairs to open
a window, since he must close that in the kitchen before he left.
When he came back, the brim had already curled up into a black,
clinkery mass that bubbled and hissed as the fat, pungent smoke rose
from it sluggishly to the chimney.
Nineteen minutes to eight! It was time to start. He took up the poker
and carefully beat the cinders into small particles, stirring them
into the glowing embers of the wood and coal. There was nothing
unusual in the appearance of the grate. It was his constant custom to
burn letters and other discarded articles in the sitting room fire:
his housekeeper would notice nothing out of the common. Indeed, the
cinders would probably be reduced to ashes before she returned. He
had been careful to notice that there were no metallic fittings of
any kind in the hat, which might have escaped burning.
Once more he picked up his bag, took a last look round, turned down
the lamp and, unlocking the door, held it open for a few moments.
Then he went out, locked the door, pocketed the key (of which his
housekeeper had a duplicate) and set off at a brisk pace for the
station.
He arrived in good time after all, and, having taken his ticket,
strolled through onto the platform. The train was not yet signalled,
but there seemed to be an unusual stir in the place. The passengers
were collected in a group at one end of the platform, and were all
looking in one direction down the line; and, even as he walked
towards them, with a certain tremulous, nauseating curiosity, two men
emerged from the darkness and ascended the slope to the platform,
carrying a stretcher covered with a tarpaulin. The passengers parted
to let the bearers pass, turning fascinated eyes upon the shape that
showed faintly through the rough pall; and, when the stretcher had
been borne into the lamp-room, they fixed their attention upon a
porter who followed carrying a handbag and an umbrella.
Suddenly one of the passengers started forward with an exclamation.
“Is that his umbrella?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” answered the porter, stopping and holding it out for the
speaker’s inspection.
“My God!” ejaculated the passenger; then, turning sharply to a tall
man who stood close by, he said excitedly: “That’s Brodski’s
umbrella. I could swear to it. You remember Brodski?” The tall man
nodded, and the passenger, turning once more to the porter, said: “I
identify that umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named Brodski. If
you look in his hat you will see his name written in it. He always
writes his name in his hat.”
“We haven’t found his hat yet,” said the porter; “but here is the
station-master coming up the line.” He awaited the arrival of his
superior and then announced: “This gentleman, sir, has identified the
umbrella.”
“Oh,” said the station-master, “you recognize the umbrella, sir, do
you? Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you
can identify the body.”
“Is it--is he--very much injured?” the passenger asked tremulously.
“Well, yes,” was the reply. “You see, the engine and six of the
trucks went over him before they could stop the train. Took his head
clean off, in fact.”
“Shocking! shocking!” gasped the passenger. “I think, if you don’t
mind--I’d--I’d rather not. You don’t think it’s necessary, doctor, do
you?”
“Yes, I do,” replied the tall man. “Early identification may be of
the first importance.”
“Then I suppose I must,” said the passenger.
Very reluctantly he allowed himself to be conducted by the
station-master to the lamp-room, as the clang of the bell announced
the approaching train. Silas Hickler followed and took his stand with
the expectant crowd outside the closed door. In a few moments the
passenger burst out, pale and awe-stricken, and rushed up to his tall
friend. “It is!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “It’s Brodski! Poor old
Brodski! Horrible! horrible! He was to have met me here and come on
with me to Amsterdam.”
“Had he any--merchandize about him?” the tall man asked; and Silas
strained his ears to catch the reply.
“He had some stones, no doubt, but I don’t know what. His clerk will
know, of course. By the way, doctor, could you watch the case for me?
Just to be sure it was really an accident or--you know what. We were
old friends, you know, fellow townsmen, too; we were both born in
Warsaw. I’d like you to give an eye to the case.”
“Very well,” said the other. “I will satisfy myself that--there is
nothing more than appears, and let you have a report. Will that do?”
“Thank you. It’s excessively good of you, doctor. Ah! here comes the
train. I hope it won’t inconvenience you to stay and see to this
matter.”
“Not in the least,” replied the doctor. “We are not due at Warmington
until tomorrow afternoon, and I expect we can find out all that is
necessary to know before that.”
Silas looked long and curiously at the tall, imposing man who was, as
it were, taking his seat at the chess board, to play against him for
his life. A formidable antagonist he looked, with his keen,
thoughtful face, so resolute and calm. As Silas stepped into his
carriage he thought with deep discomfort of Brodski’s hat, and hoped
that he had made no other oversight.