Rupert Makes Some Discoveries
By a sort of tacit understanding Thorndyke and I parted in the
vicinity of South Kensington Station, to which he had made a bee line
on leaving the square. As he had made no suggestion that I should go
back with him, I inferred that he had planned a busy evening examining
and testing the odds and ends that he had picked up in the empty
house; while I had suddenly conceived the idea that I might as well
take the opportunity of calling on Madeline, who might feel neglected
if I failed to put in an appearance within a reasonable time after my
return to town. Our researches had taken up most of the afternoon and
it was getting on for the hour at which Madeline usually left the
school; and as the latter was less than half-an-hour’s walk from the
station, I could reach it in good time without hurrying.
As I walked at an easy pace through the busily populated streets, I
turned over the events of the afternoon with rather mixed feelings. In
spite of my great confidence in Thorndyke, I was sensible of a chill
of disappointment in respect alike of his words and his deeds. In this
rather farcical grubbing about in the dismantled house there was a
faint suggestion of charlatanism; of the vulgar, melodramatic sleuth,
nosing out a trail; while, as to his hair-splitting objections to a
piece of straightforward evidence, they seemed to me to be of the kind
at which the usual hard-headed judge would shake his hard head while
grudgingly allowing them as technically admissible.
But whither was Thorndyke drifting? Evidently he had turned a dubious
eye on Wallingford; and that egregious ass seemed to be doing all that
he could to attract further notice. But to-day I had seemed to detect
a note of suspicion in regard to Madeline; and even making allowance
for the fact that he had not my knowledge of her gentle, gracious
personality, I could not but feel a little resentful. Once more,
Wallingford’s remarks concerning a possible mare’s nest and a public
scandal recurred to me, and, not for the first time, I was aware of
faint misgivings as to my wisdom in having set Thorndyke to stir up
these troubled waters. He had, indeed, given me fair warning, and I
was half-inclined to regret that I had not allowed myself to be warned
off. Of course, Thorndyke was much too old a hand to launch a
half-prepared prosecution into the air. But still, I could not but ask
myself uneasily whither his overacute inferences were leading him.
These reflections brought me to the gate of the school, where I
learned from the porter that Madeline had not yet left and accordingly
sent up my card. In less than a minute she appeared, dressed in her
out-of-door clothes and wreathed in smiles, looking, I thought, very
charming.
“How nice of you, Rupert!” she exclaimed, “to come and take me home. I
was wondering how soon you would come to see my little spinster lair.
It is only a few minutes’ walk from here. But I am sorry I didn’t know
you were coming, for I have arranged to make a call—a business
call—and I am due in about ten minutes. Isn’t it a nuisance?”
“How long will you have to stay?”
“Oh, a quarter of an hour, at least. Perhaps a little more.”
“Very well. I will wait outside for you and do sentry-go.”
“No, you won’t. I shall let you into my flat—I should have to pass
it—and you can have a wash and brush-up, and then you can prowl about
and see how you like my little mansion—I haven’t quite settled down in
it yet, but you must overlook that. By the time you have inspected
everything, I shall be back and then we can consider whether we will
have a late tea or an early supper. This is the way.”
She led me into a quiet by-street, one side of which was occupied by a
range of tall, rather forbidding buildings whose barrack-like aspect
was to some extent mitigated by signs of civilized humanity in the
tastefully curtained windows. Madeline’s residence was on the second
floor, and when she had let me in by the diminutive outer door and
switched on the light, she turned back to the staircase with a wave of
her hand.
“I will be back as soon as I can,” she said. “Meanwhile go in and make
yourself at home.”
I stood at the door and watched her trip lightly down the stairs until
she disappeared round the angle, when I shut the door and proceeded to
follow her injunctions to the letter by taking possession of the
bathroom, in which I was gratified to find a constant supply of hot
water. When I had refreshed myself by a wash, I went forth and made a
leisurely survey of the little flat. It was all very characteristic of
Madeline, the professional exponent of Domestic Economy, in its
orderly arrangement and its evidences of considered convenience. The
tiny kitchen reminded one of a chemical laboratory or a doctor’s
dispensary with its labelled jars of the cook’s materials set out in
ordered rows on their shelves, and the two little mortars, one of
Wedgewood ware and the other of glass. I grinned as my eye lighted on
this latter and I thought of the fragments carefully collected by
Thorndyke and solemnly transported to the Temple for examination.
Here, if he could have seen it, was evidence that proved the ownership
of that other mortar and at the same time demolished the significance
of that discovery.
I ventured to inspect the bedroom, and a very trim, pleasant little
room it was; but the feature which principally attracted my attention
was an arrangement for switching the electric light off and on from
the bed—an arrangement suspiciously correlated to a small set of
bookshelves also within easy reach of the bed. What interested me in
it was what Thorndyke would have called its “unmechanical ingenuity”;
for it consisted of no more than a couple of lengths of stout string,
of each of which one end was tied to the light-switch and the other
end led by a pair of screw-eyes to the head of the bed. No doubt the
simple device worked well enough in spite of the friction at each
screw-eye, but a man of less intelligence than Madeline would probably
have used levers or bell-cranks, or at least pulleys to diminish the
friction in changing the direction of the pull.
There was a second bedroom, at present unoccupied and only partially
furnished and serving, apparently, as a receptacle for such of
Madeline’s possessions as had not yet had a permanent place assigned
to them. Here were one or two chairs, some piles of books, a number of
pictures and several polished wood boxes and cases of various sizes;
evidently the residue of the goods and chattels that Madeline had
brought from her home and stored somewhere while she was living at
Hilborough Square. I ran my eye along the range of boxes, which were
set out on the top of a chest of drawers. One was an old-fashioned
tea-caddy, another an obvious folding desk of the same period, while a
third, which I opened, turned out to be a work-box of mid-Victorian
age. Beside it was a little flat rosewood case which looked like a
small case of mathematical instruments. Observing that the key was in
the lock, I turned it and lifted the lid, not with any conscious
curiosity as to what was inside it, but in the mere idleness of a man
who has nothing in particular to do. But the instant that the lid was
up my attention awoke with a bound and I stood with dropped jaw
staring at the interior in utter consternation.
There could be not an instant’s doubt as to what this case was, for
its green-baize-lined interior showed a shaped recess of the exact
form of a pocket pistol; and, if that were not enough, there, in its
own compartment was a little copper powder-flask, and in another
compartment about a dozen globular bullets.
I snapped down the lid and turned the key and walked guiltily out of
the room. My interest in Madeline’s flat was dead. I could think of
nothing but this amazing discovery. And the more I thought, the more
overpowering did it become. The pistol that fitted that case was the
exact counterpart of the pistol that I had seen in Thorndyke’s
laboratory; and the case, itself, corresponded exactly to his
description of the case from which that pistol had probably been
taken. It was astounding; and it was profoundly disturbing. For it
admitted of no explanation that I could bring myself to accept other
than that of a coincidence. And coincidences are unsatisfactory
things; and you can’t do with too many of them at once.
Yet, on reflection, this was the view that I adopted. Indeed, there
was no thinkable alternative. And really, when I came to turn the
matter over, it was not quite so extraordinary as it had seemed at the
first glance. For what, after all, was this pistol with its case? It
was not a unique thing. It was not even a rare thing. Thorndyke had
spoken of these pistols and cases as comparatively common things with
which he expected me to be familiar. Thousands of them must have been
made in their time, and since they were far from perishable, thousands
of them must still exist. The singularity of the coincidence was not
in the facts; it was the product of my own state of mind.
Thus I sought—none too successfully—to rid myself of the effects of
the shock that I had received on raising the lid of the case; and I
was still moodily gazing out of the sitting room window and arguing
away my perturbation when I heard the outer door shut and a moment
later Madeline looked into the room.
“I haven’t been so very long, have I?” she said, cheerily. “Now I will
slip off my cloak and hat and we will consider what sort of meal we
will have; or perhaps you will consider the question while I am gone.”
With this she flitted away; and my thoughts, passing by the problem
submitted, involuntarily reverted to the little rosewood case in the
spare room. But her absence was of a brevity suggesting the
performance of the professional quick-change artist. In a minute or
two I heard her approach and open the door; and I turned—to receive a
real knock-out blow.
I was so astonished and dismayed that I suppose I must have stood
staring like a fool, for she asked in a rather disconcerted tone:
“What is the matter, Rupert? Why are you looking at my jumper like
that? Don’t you like it?”
“Yes,” I stammered, “of course I do. Most certainly. Very charming.
Very—er—becoming. I like it—er—exceedingly.”
“I don’t believe you do,” she said, doubtfully, “you looked so
surprised when I first came in. You don’t think the colour too
startling, do you? Women wear brighter colours than they used to, you
know, and I do think this particular shade of green is rather nice.
And it is rather unusual, too.”
“It is,” I agreed, recovering myself by an effort. “Quite
distinctive.” And then, noting that I had unconsciously adopted
Thorndyke’s own expression, I added, hastily, “And I shouldn’t
describe it as startling, at all. It is in perfectly good taste.”
“I am glad you think that,” she said, “for you certainly did look
rather startled at first, and I had some slight misgivings about it
myself when I had finished it. It looked more brilliant in colour as a
garment than it did in the form of mere skeins.”
“You made it yourself, then?”
“Yes. But I don’t think I would ever knit another. It took me months
to do, and I could have bought one for very little more than the cost
of the wool, though, of course, I shouldn’t have been able to select
the exact tint that I wanted. But what about our meal? Shall we call
it tea or supper?”
She could have called it breakfast for all I cared, so completely had
this final shock extinguished my interest in food. But I had to make
some response to her eager hospitality.
“Let us split the difference or strike an average,” I replied. “We
will call it a ‘swarry’—tea and unusual trimmings.”
“Very well,” said she, “then you shall come to the kitchen and help. I
will show you the raw material of the feast and you shall dictate the
bill of fare.”
We accordingly adjourned to the kitchen where she fell to work on the
preparations with the unhurried quickness that is characteristic of
genuine efficiency, babbling pleasantly and pausing now and then to
ask my advice (which was usually foolish and had to be blandly
rejected) and treating the whole business with a sort of playful
seriousness that was very delightful. And all the time I looked on in
a state of mental chaos and bewilderment for which I can find no
words. There she was, my friend, Madeline, sweet, gentle, feminine—the
very type of gracious womanhood, and the more sweet and gracious by
reason of these homely surroundings. For it is an appalling
reflection, in these days of lady professors and women legislators,
that to masculine eyes a woman never looks so dignified, so
worshipful, so entirely desirable, as when she is occupied in the
traditional activities that millenniums of human experience have
associated with her sex. To me, Madeline, flitting about the
immaculate little kitchen, neat-handed, perfect in the knowledge of
her homely craft; smiling, dainty, fragile, with her gracefully
flowing hair and the little apron that she had slipped on as a sort of
ceremonial garment, was a veritable epitome of feminine charm. And
yet, but a few feet away was a rosewood case that had once held a
pistol; and even now, in Thorndyke’s locked cabinet—but my mind
staggered under the effort of thought and refused the attempt to
combine and collate a set of images so discordant.
“You are very quiet, Rupert,” she said, presently, pausing to look at
me. “What is it? I hope you haven’t any special worries.”
“We all have our little worries, Madeline,” I replied, vaguely.
“Yes, indeed,” said she, still regarding me thoughtfully; and for the
first time I noticed that she seemed to have aged a little since I had
last seen her and that her face, in repose, showed traces of strain
and anxiety. “We all have our troubles and we all try to put them on
you. How did you think Barbara was looking?”
“Extraordinarily well. I was agreeably surprised.”
“Yes. She is wonderful. I am full of admiration of the way she has put
away everything connected with—with that dreadful affair. I couldn’t
have done it if I had been in her place. I couldn’t have let things
rest. I should have wanted to know.”
“I have no doubt that she does. We all want to know. But she can do no
more than the rest of us. Do you ever see Wallingford now?”
“Oh, dear, yes. He was inclined to be rather too attentive at first,
but Barbara gave him a hint that spinsters who live alone don’t want
too many visits from their male friends, so now he usually comes with
her.”
“I must bear Barbara’s words of wisdom in mind,” said I.
“Indeed you won’t!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rupert. You
know her hint doesn’t apply to you. And I shouldn’t have troubled
about the proprieties in Tony’s case if I had really wanted him. But I
didn’t, though I am awfully sorry for him.”
“Yes, he seems to be in a bad way mentally, poor devil. Of course you
have heard about his delusions?”
“If they really are delusions, but I am not at all sure that they are.
Now help me to carry these things into the sitting room and then I
will do the omelette and bring it in.”
I obediently took up the tray and followed her into the sitting room,
where I completed the arrangement of the table while she returned to
the kitchen to perform the crowning culinary feat. In a minute or two
she came in with the product under a heated cover and we took our
seats at the table.
“You were speaking of Wallingford,” said I. “Apparently you know more
about him than I do. It seemed to me that he was stark mad.”
“He is queer enough, I must admit—don’t let your omelette get cold—but
I think you and Barbara are mistaken about his delusions. I suspect
that somebody is really keeping him under observation; and if that is
so, one can easily understand why his nerves are so upset.”
“Yes, indeed. But when you say you suspect that we are mistaken, what
does that mean? Is it just a pious opinion or have you something to go
upon?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t offer a mere pious opinion to a learned counsel,” she
replied, with a smile. “I have something to go upon, and I will tell
you about it, though I expect you will think I am stark mad, too. The
fact is that I have been under observation, too.”
“Nonsense, Madeline,” I exclaimed. “The thing is absurd. You have let
Wallingford infect you.”
“There!” she retorted. “What did I say? You think I am qualifying for
an asylum now. But I am not. Absurd as the thing seems—and I quite
agree with you on that point—it is an actual fact. I haven’t the
slightest doubt about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I am open to conviction. But let us have your actual
facts. How long do you think it has been going on?”
“That I can’t say; and I don’t think it is going on now at all. At any
rate, I have seen no signs of any watcher for more than a week, and I
keep a pretty sharp lookout. The way I first became aware of it was
this: I happened one day at lunch time to be looking out of this
window through the chink in the curtains when I saw a man pass along
slowly on the other side of the street and glance up, as it seemed, at
this window. I didn’t notice him particularly, but still I did look at
him when he glanced up, and of course, his face was then directly
towards me. Now it happened that, a few minutes afterwards, I looked
out again; and then I saw what looked like the same man pass along
again, at the same slow pace and in the same direction. And again he
looked up at the window, though he couldn’t have seen me because I was
hidden by the curtain. But this time I looked at him very closely and
made careful mental notes of his clothing, his hat and his features,
because, you see, I remembered what Tony had said and I hadn’t
forgotten the way I was treated at the inquest or the way in which
that detective man had turned out my cupboard when he came to search
the house. So I looked this man over very carefully indeed so that I
should recognize him without any doubt if I should see him again.
“Well, before I went out after lunch I had a good look out of the
window, but I couldn’t see anything of him; nor did I see him on my
way to the school, though I stopped once or twice and looked back.
When I got to the school I stopped at the gate and looked along the
street both ways, but still there was no sign of him. Then I ran up to
a class-room window from which I could see up and down the street; and
presently I saw him coming along slowly on the school side and I was
able to check him off point by point, and though he didn’t look up
this time, I could see his face and check that off, too. There was no
doubt whatever that it was the same man.
“When I came out of school that afternoon I looked round but could not
see him, so I walked away quickly in the direction that I usually take
when going home, but suddenly turned a corner and slipped into a shop.
I stayed there a few minutes buying some things, then I came out, and,
seeing no one, slipped round the corner and took my usual way home but
kept carefully behind a man and a woman who were going the same way. I
hadn’t gone very far before I saw my man standing before a shop window
but evidently looking up and down the street. I was quite close to him
before he saw me and of course I did not appear to notice him; but I
hurried home without looking round and ran straight up to this window
to watch for him. And sure enough, in about a couple of minutes I saw
him come down the street and walk slowly past.”
“And did you see him again after that?”
“Yes, I saw him twice more that same day. I went out for a walk in the
evening on purpose to give him a lead. And I saw him from time to time
every day for about ten days. Then I missed him, and I haven’t seen a
sign of him for more than a week. I suppose he found me too monotonous
and gave me up.”
“It is very extraordinary,” I said, convinced against my will by her
very circumstantial description. “What possible object could any one
have in keeping a watch on you?”
“That is what I have wondered,” said she. “But I suppose the police
have to do something for their pay.”
“But this doesn’t quite look like a police proceeding. There is
something rather feeble and amateurish about the affair. With all due
respect to your powers of observation, Madeline, I don’t think a
Scotland Yard man would have let himself be spotted quite so easily.”
“But who else could it be?” she objected; and then, after a pause, she
added with a mischievous smile, “unless it should be your friend, Dr.
Thorndyke. That would really be a quaint situation—if I should, after
all, be indebted to you, Rupert, for these polite attentions.”
I brushed the suggestion aside hastily but with no conviction. And
once more I recalled Wallingford’s observations on mare’s nests.
Obviously this clumsy booby was not a professional detective. And if
not, what could he be but some hired agent of Thorndyke’s. It was one
more perplexity, and added to those with which my mind was already
charged, it reduced me to moody silence which must have made me the
very reverse of an exhilarating companion. Indeed, when Madeline had
rallied me once or twice on my gloomy preoccupation, I felt that the
position was becoming untenable. I wanted to be alone and think things
out; but as it would have been hardly decent to break up our little
party and take my departure, I determined, if possible, to escape from
this oppressive tête-à-tête. Fortunately, I remembered that a famous
pianist was giving a course of recitals at a hall within easy walking
distance and ventured to suggest that we might go and hear him.
“I would rather stay here and gossip with you,” she replied, “but as
you don’t seem to be in a gossiping humour, perhaps the music might be
rather nice. Yes, let us go. I don’t often hear any good music
nowadays.”
Accordingly we went, and on the way to the hall Madeline gave me a few
further details of her experiences with her follower; and I was not a
little impressed by her wariness and the ingenuity with which she had
lured that guileless sleuth into exposed and well-lighted situations.
“By the way,” said I, “what was the fellow like? Give me a few
particulars of his appearance in case I should happen to run across
him.”
“Good Heavens, Rupert!” she exclaimed, laughing mischievously, “you
don’t suppose he will take to haunting you, do you? That would really
be the last straw, especially if he should happen to be employed by
Dr. Thorndyke.”
“It would,” I admitted with a faint grin, “though Thorndyke is
extremely thorough and he plumes himself on keeping an open mind. At
any rate, let us have a few details.”
“There was nothing particularly startling about him. He was a
medium-sized man, rather fair, with a longish, sharp, turned-up nose
and a sandy moustache, rather bigger than men usually have nowadays.
He was dressed in a blue serge suit, without an overcoat and he wore a
brown soft felt hat, a turn-down collar and a dark green necktie with
white spots. He had no gloves but he carried a walking-stick—a
thickish yellow cane with a crooked handle.”
“Not very distinctive,” I remarked, disparagingly.
“Don’t you think so?” said she. “I thought he was rather easy to
recognize with that brown hat and the blue suit and the big moustache
and pointed nose. Of course, if he had worn a scarlet hat and
emerald-green trousers and carried a brass fire-shovel instead of a
walking-stick he would have been still easier to recognize; but you
mustn’t expect too much, even from a detective.”
I looked with dim surprise into her smiling face and was more
bewildered than ever. If she were haunted by any gnawing anxieties,
she had a wonderful way of throwing them off. Nothing could be less
suggestive of a guilty conscience than this quiet gaiety and placid
humour. However, there was no opportunity for moralizing, for her
little retort had brought us to the door of the hall; and we had
barely time to find desirable seats before the principal musician took
his place at the instrument.
It was a delightful entertainment; and if the music did not “sooth my
savage breast” into complete forgetfulness, it occupied my attention
sufficiently to hinder consecutive thought on any other subject.
Indeed, it was not until I had said “good night” to Madeline outside
her flat and turned my face towards the neighbouring station that I
was able to attempt a connected review of the recent startling
discoveries.
What could they possibly mean? The pistol alone could have been argued
away as a curious coincidence, and the same might have been possible
even in the case of the wool. But the two together! The long arm of
coincidence was not long enough for that. The wisp of wool that we had
found in the empty house was certainly—admittedly—Madeline’s. But that
wisp matched identically the ball of wool from the pistol; and here
was a missing pistol which was certainly the exact counterpart of that
which had contained the wool plug. The facts could not be disputed.
Was it possible to escape from the inferences which they yielded?
The infernal machine, feeble as it was, gave evidence of a diabolical
intention—an intention that my mind utterly refused to associate with
Madeline. And yet, even in the moment of rejection, my memory suddenly
recalled the arrangement connected with the electric light switch in
Madeline’s bedroom. Its mechanism was practically identical with that
of the infernal machine, and the materials used—string and
screw-eyes—were actually the same. It seemed impossible to escape from
this proof piled on proof.
But if the machine itself declared an abominable intention, what of
that which lay behind the machine? The sending of that abomination was
not an isolated or independent act. It was related to some antecedent
act, as Thorndyke had implied. Whoever sent it, had a guilty
conscience.
But guilty of what?
As I asked myself this question, and the horrid, inevitable answer
framed itself in my mind, I turned automatically from Middle Temple
Lane and passed into the deep shadow of the arch that gives entrance
to Elm Court.