DURGO, THE DETECTIVE
As has been seen, Durgo was no ordinary man, and even had he been white
instead of black, would have passed for a clever member of the Aryan
race. Undoubtedly the strain of Arab blood in him sharpened his
intellectual faculties, and made him ambitious to play a leading part in
the history of his tribe. That the members of it were savages mattered
very little, since he had been educated in the lore of the ruling race,
and could raise them sooner or later almost to his own level. Almost,
that is, but not quite, for Durgo had no notion that any individual of
his tribe should be as clever as himself. He wished to be a despot, and
rule from an autocratic throne.
The one weak point in his character--if gratitude can be called
weakness--was his adoration of Edwin Lister. That gentleman had
undoubtedly saved his life, and assuredly had aided him to attain to his
present position of culture by inducing the old chief to send his clever
son to England. But Cyril knew, what Durgo in his blind idolatry did
not--that Edwin Lister was not a man to work for nothing, and wanted
much more than he ever gave. There was every chance that he would abuse
the gratitude of Durgo, when the negro's ambition was achieved, and if
his protege revolted from complying with the exorbitant demands which
would surely be made on his generosity, he would speedily be reminded of
what had been done for him. With an ordinary man this would have
mattered little as such a one would decline unreasonable exactions. But
Durgo's strongest trait was gratitude, and it was probable that in spite
of his clever brain and European education, he would become the mere
puppet of his benefactor. Thus the very nobility of Durgo's nature would
reduce him to slavery, and he would be ruined because he possessed the
rarest of all virtues.
Little as Cyril had seen of his father, he knew his character
thoroughly, being able to read by intuition, as well as by observation.
Edwin had only one god to worship, and that was himself--a deity so
congenial that the egotist was most devout in his religion. Of course,
Durgo's enslavement and Edwin Lister's tyranny had nothing to do with
Cyril, as father and son had long since gone on their several ways. But
Cyril liked the negro, and swore to himself that if Durgo aided him to
marry Bella, he would stand by him when Edwin Lister played the tyrant.
As yet--so much Cyril gathered--the trader had not shown the cloven
foot, but he would do so sooner or later, and then Cyril hoped to open
Durgo's eyes to the fact that his gratitude was being abused.
But there was much to be done before affairs arrived at this point, and
the first necessary step to take was to discover the whereabouts of
Edwin Lister. Durgo had learned much from Cyril, and something from
Granny Tunks; now it was necessary that he should be informed by Bella
of the accusation of Pence, and of her doubts about the preacher. She
resolved to see Durgo for herself, and when Dora was at school, she
watched at the window of the cottage for the coming of the negro. She
did not even tell Cyril of her intention, as he disbelieved her
statement that Pence had stolen certain papers and was connected in some
way with the murder. That she had absolutely no grounds for such a
belief troubled Bella very little, since she was very much the woman.
All she knew was, that Pence could not have heard the truth about her
not being Huxham's daughter from Huxham himself and it was necessary to
find out how he came to know, let alone the necessity of making certain
of its truth. Cyril would have scruples in assaulting Pence, and
learning the truth at the sword's point, as it were. Durgo, being
uncivilised, for all his education would have no such scruples, and
therefore was the best person to apply to. He would undoubtedly twist
Pence's slender neck as he would that of a rabbit, if he could force
from him any information likely to forward his aims. And unless some
such brutal course was taken Bella felt sure that Pence would hold his
tongue. In her exasperation against the troublesome preacher, all the
girl's worst traits came uppermost.
Durgo did not pass along the road in the morning, and Bella almost
despaired of seeing him. She nearly decided to go to "The Chequers Inn,"
but a memory of Mrs. Giles' gossiping tongue prevented her risking so
much. In the afternoon, however, Durgo lounged along the road, in his
lazy, heavy, massive fashion, arrayed in his rough tweed clothes, and
looking very much like a burly prize-fighter. Luckily there was no one
in sight, as Miss Ankers' cottage was in a solitary corner on the
outskirts of Marshely, so Bella ran hatless into the garden to beckon
the negro into the cottage.
"Come in! come in! I wish to speak to you," she said hurriedly, when he
stepped up to the white palings; and she glanced right and left, to be
sure that no curious eyes were on her.
Durgo stared and frowned, as education in a world-famous University had
not quite eradicated his contempt for women. However, when Bella ran
inside again, and stood beckoning him in the passage, he resolved to
enter, if only to learn why she acted in this bold way. So tall was
Durgo, and so low the door, that he had to stoop considerably to enter,
and when in the little drawing-room he bulked hugely as Gulliver in the
Lilliputian temple.
"What is it, missy?" asked Durgo roughly, for he was not inclined to
waste his time in saying pretty nothings to this Englishwoman, when so
much was at stake. "I cannot stay here; I am busy."
"I wish to help you," said Bella, going straight to the point.
"In what way?" Durgo stared at her peremptory tone.
"I wish to help you on condition that you help me."
"In what way?" he asked again, and sat down on a chair, which creaked
under his mighty weight.
"Listen," said Bella, speaking very slowly, and with her eyes on his
strong, black face. "You are not of my colour or race, yet I am going to
trust you, as Cyril told me all about you. Besides, we are both working
for the same end--that is, we both wish to find Edwin Lister. Cyril told
me what Mrs. Tunks discovered."
"He had no right," frowned Durgo; "I want no women----"
"Don't despise women," said Bella drily, "for you may need the help of
one woman, and she is my own self. You know that I am supposed to be
Captain Huxham's daughter?"
"Supposed to be?" Durgo noted the way she placed her words at once,
which said much for his powers of observation, and the quick working of
his brain.
"Yes, Silas Pence, the preacher----"
"I know him, missy. Go on."
"Loves me," continued Bella, with a blush; "and to marry me he would
stop at nothing. Last night he declared that I was not the daughter of
Captain Huxham, and that Captain Huxham had told him as much."
"Do you believe that?"
"Yes. That is, I believe I am not Captain Huxham's daughter, since the
money was not left to me. But I do not believe that Captain Huxham told
this to Silas Pence. I believe," Bella bent forward, "that Mr. Pence is
concerned in this murder, and stole certain papers, which revealed the
truth."
Durgo's eyes flashed. He saw at once the value of such information. "Can
you prove this?" he asked in his throaty tones.
"That's just where it is," she answered quickly. "I wish _you_ to prove
it."
"How can I do that?"
"Question Mr. Pence, and make him answer. Force him, in whatever way you
like, to show how he actually obtained the information. If he stole the
papers stating the fact--and this I believe--he must have been in the
room where the murder was committed some hour during that night. If so,
he must have seen Edwin Lister, and must know where he is."
"Hai!" Durgo leaped to his feet. "That is true: that is probable.
Perhaps he can say if my master got the jewels."
"Perhaps he can, but I am certain that he will not."
"Oh, I think he will! I think he will," said Durgo significantly.
"Don't hurt him," cried Bella, alarmed, for much as she disliked the
preacher she did not wish him to come to harm at the hands of this
African semi-savage. As a matter of fact, she was sorry to enlist
Durgo's services at all; but, under the circumstances, there seemed to
be no help for it.
"I shall not hurt him more than is necessary," said Durgo, catching up
his bowler hat and placing it on his woolly head; "if he speaks plainly
I won't hurt him at all. You have helped me, missy, and you will find
that I am not ungrateful. When you marry the son of my master, you will
be rich. I, Durgo, the king, will make you rich," he ended arrogantly.
"One moment," said Bella, detaining him; "these jewels belong to Captain
Huxham. Have you any right to take them?"
"Every right, since they never belonged to Captain Huxham," said the
negro decisively. "My father, the great chief Kawal, gave them to
Maxwell Faith, and from Maxwell Faith they were stolen by Huxham. If
Faith were alive I would return the jewels to him, and ask him to help
me with my expedition. But he is dead; Huxham murdered him, and stole
the jewels. Edwin Lister came to get back what belongs to me, and I
think he has them."
"Supposing you find Mr. Lister, and learn that he has not the jewels?"
Durgo rolled his eyes ferociously. "I shall then enter the Manor-house
by force, and learn where they are hidden."
"You would only be handed over to the police by Mrs. Vand and her
husband, Henry. It will be better for me to search."
"How can you, since you are not friendly with Mrs. Vand?"
Bella laughed. "I know much more about the Manor-house than Mrs. Vand
does, I assure you," she said significantly. "There are all manner of
secret passages and unknown chambers in that ancient mansion. If I
desired to enter, I could do so in the night-time by a secret door
hidden behind the ivy at the back of the house."
"Then do so," said Durgo eagerly, "and search for the jewels."
"Not yet. Wait until you see Edwin Lister, and learn if he procured the
jewels. By the way, where did your father get them?"
Durgo reflected for a few minutes. "I have heard much talk of my
father's treasure, of which these jewels were part. You know how rich
the Northern part of Africa was in the time of the Romans?"
"Yes. Cyril made me read Gibbons' History."
"Well, when the Arabs swept across Northern Africa, they looted the
Roman cities, then possessed more or less by the Goths and Vandals. Many
of the Arabs came South to Nigeria, and brought their plunder with them.
I think that these jewels, which my father gave to Maxwell Faith, came
into his possession from some remote ancestor, who so brought them. But
I cannot say. Still, that is my opinion."
"It is a feasible idea, certainly," said Bella musingly, and astonished
at the knowledge of the negro, quite forgetting that he had been
educated at Oxford; "but where the jewels came from, matters little.
What we have to find out, is where they are, and Mr. Pence----"
"I shall see this man," interrupted Durgo quietly; "he may lie to
others: he will tell the truth to me."
"No violence," warned Bella anxiously.
Durgo nodded. "I fear your police too much," said he, with an ironical
grin, and strode out of the house, looking more burly and defiant than
ever. Bella had regretted her employment of his services, but what else
could she do when so much was at stake? Bella wished to marry Cyril,
and, to do so, desired to be certain that she was not Captain Huxham's
daughter. The papers--if her wild surmise was correct--would prove if
what Pence said was true. Then, since Cyril's father had not murdered
her father--she put it in this confused way--she would be able to marry
her lover with a clear conscience. That he might be the son of an
assassin troubled her very little. To get her way after the manner of a
woman deeply in love, she would have set the world on fire, or would
have wrecked the solar system. And in placing the safety of Pence in the
hands of a semi-civilised negro, she undoubtedly was risking his life.
But she did not care, so long as she attained to the knowledge which she
was confident he possessed.
It will be seen that Bella Huxham was no Sunday-school angel, or even
the amiable heroine of a _Family Herald_ novelette, who never by any
chance does wrong. She was simply an average girl, with good instincts,
brought up so far as school-training was concerned in a conventional
way. At home no one had taught her to discern right from wrong, and,
like the ordinary healthy young animal of the human race, she had not
passed through sufficient sorrow to make her inquire into the truths of
religion. Bella needed trouble to train her into a good, brave woman,
and she was certainly getting the training now. But she made mistakes,
as was natural, considering her inexperience.
That same evening, Mr. Silas Pence was seated in his shabby
sitting-room, making notes for his next Sunday sermon. He occupied
lodgings in a lonely cottage on the verge of the common, and did so
because his landlady was a member of the Little Bethel congregation, who
boarded and lodged him cheaply in order to have the glory of
entertaining the minister. The landlady was a heavy-footed, heavy-faced
woman, with two great hulking sons, and occupied the back part of the
premises. Silas inhabited the best sitting-room and the most comfortable
bedroom. There was no fence round the front of the cottage, although
there was a garden of vegetables at the back, so the sitting-room window
looked straight out on to the purple heather and golden gorse of the
waste land. An artist would have delighted in the view, but Silas had no
eye for anything beautiful in nature, and paid very little attention to
the changing glories of the year. The lodging was cheap, and the
situation healthy, so he was perfectly satisfied.
On this especial evening, the young preacher sat at the red-repp covered
table, reading his Bible and making his notes. It was after ten o'clock,
and his landlady was asleep, as were her two sons, both agricultural
labourers worn out with the heavy toils of the day. The sitting-room
window was wide open, and the blind was up, so that the cool night
breeze was wafted faintly into the somewhat stuffy room, which was
crowded with unnecessary furniture. Silas made a few notes, then threw
down his pencil and sighed, resting his weary head on his hand.
Pence was by no means a bad man, but he was weak and excitable. The
pursuit of Bella aroused the worst part of his nature, and made him
think, say, and do much which he condemned. The better part of him
objected to a great deal which he did, but the tide of his passion
hurried him away and could not be checked by the dykes of common-sense.
At times--and this was one of them--he bitterly blamed himself for
giving way to the desire for Hepzibah, as he called Bella Huxham, in his
own weak mind. But, sane in all other ways, he was insane on this one
point, and felt that he would jeopardise his chance of salvation to call
her wife. Nevertheless he was sane enough to know his insanity, and
would have given much to root out the fierce love which was destroying
his life.
But the insane passion which he cherished for a woman who would have
nothing to do with him led him deeper and deeper into the mire of sin,
and in spite of his prayers and cries for help, the Unseen would do
nothing to extricate him from the morass of difficulties into which he
had plunged himself. At times Silas even doubted if God existed, so
futile were his attempts to gain comfort and guidance. Much as he loved
Bella, he desired to win clear of the unwilling influence which she
exercised on his nature, and vainly prayed for light whereby to know the
necessary means to get rid of the tormenting demon. But no answer came,
and he relapsed into despair, wondering what his congregation would say
if any member knew the unmastered temptations of his inner life. The
struggle made him weak and ill and thin and nervous, and but that deep
in his heart he knew vaguely that God was watching over him, and would
aid at the proper time, he would have taken his own miserable life.
With his head buried in his hands, Silas thought thus, with many groans
and with many bitter tears, the shedding of which made his eyes burn.
Occupied with his misery, he did not see a dark, massive form glide
towards the open window, nor did he hear a sound, for Durgo stepped as
light-footed as a cat. The sill of the window was no great distance from
the ground, and the big negro flung his leg over the sill and into the
room. But in getting hastily through, he was so large and the window so
small, that he made a sliding noise as the window slipped still further
up. Silas started to his feet, but only to see Durgo completely in the
room, facing him with a grim smile.
"I have come to speak with you, sir," said the negro.
Silas turned white, being haunted by a fear known only to himself. But
he read in the eyes of this black burglar--or, rather, he guessed by
some wonderful intuition, that his fear and the cause of his fear were
known to this man. Durgo saw the look in the preacher's eyes, and read
his thoughts in his turn. The negro was not boasting when he hinted that
he possessed certain psychic power. "Yes," he said, keeping his burning
gaze directly on the miserable white man; "you stole papers from Captain
Huxham's room, and I----"
"I did not," interrupted Pence wildly, and making a clutch at his breast
coat-pocket. "How dare you--"
"The papers are in your pocket," interrupted Durgo, advancing, as he
noted the unconscious action and guessed its significance. "Give me
those papers."
"I have no papers. I will alarm the house----"
"Do so, and you shall be arrested."
"What do you mean?"
"You saw my master, Edwin Lister, enter the Manor-house, and thought
that he was his son. Cyril Lister told me as much. From what you said to
Miss Huxham about her not being the daughter of the sailor, I believe
that you followed my master into the house. What took place?"
"Nothing! nothing! I swear that I did not----"
"Those papers," said Durgo, pointing to the white hand which still
clutched feebly at the breast-pocket, "say that the girl is not Captain
Huxham's daughter. I want to know whose daughter she is."
"You are talking rubbish. I have no papers."
"I am making a guess, and I believe my guess is a true one. Will you
give up those papers, or must I wring your neck?"
With widely-open eyes, the preacher flung himself against the
mantel-piece and clutched at a handbell. Just as he managed to ring this
feebly, for his hands were shaking, and he was utterly unnerved, Durgo,
seeing that there was no time to be lost, sprang forward and laid a
heavy grasp on the miserable man's throat, ripping open his jacket with
the other hand. In less than a minute he had the papers in his hand.
"No! no! no!" shouted Silas, and made a clutch at them.
Durgo thrust the papers into his pocket, and raising Pence up shoulder
high, dashed him down furiously. His head struck the edge of the fender,
and he lay unconscious. But Durgo did not wait to see further. He glided
out of the window like a snake--swift, silent, stealthy, and dangerous.