A TELEPHONIC TALK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
Theydon's journalistic experiences had been, for the most part, those of
the "special correspondent," or descriptive writer. He had never entered
one of those fetid slums of a great city in which, too often, murder is
done, never sickened with the physical nausea of death in its most
revolting aspect, when some unhappy wretch's foul body serves only to
further pollute air already vile.
It was passing strange, therefore, that Winter had no sooner opened the
door of No. 17 than the novice of the party became aware of a heavy,
pungent scent which he associated with some affrighting and unclean
thing. At first he swept aside the phantasy. Strong as he was, his
nervous system had been subjected to severe strain that evening. He knew
well that the mind can create its own specters, that the five senses can
be subjugated by forces which science has not as yet either measured or
defined.
Moreover, he was standing in a hall furnished with a taste and quiet
elegance that must surely indicate similar features in each room of a
suite which, in other respects, bore an almost exact resemblance of his
own apartments. In sheer protest against the riot of an overwrought
imagination he brushed a hand across his eyes.
The chief inspector noted the action.
"You will find nothing grewsome here, I assure you," he said, quietly.
"Beyond a few signs of hurried rummaging of drawers and boxes there is
absolutely no indication of a crime having been committed."
"Mr. Theydon came prepared to see ghosts," squeaked Furneaux. "Evidently
he is not acquainted with the peculiar smell of a joss stick."
Theydon turned troubled eyes on the wizened little man who seemed to
have the power of reading his secret thought.
"A joss stick," he repeated. "Isn't that some sort of incense used by
Chinese in their temples?"
"Yes," said Furneaux.
"Lots of ladies burn them in their boudoirs nowadays," explained Winter
offhandedly.
"The Chinese burn them to propitiate evil spirits," murmured Furneaux.
"The Taou gods are mostly deities of a very unpleasant frame of mind.
The mere scowl of one of them from a painted fan suggests novel and
painful forms of torture. I've seen Shang Ti grinning at me from a
porcelain vase, otherwise exquisite, and felt my hair rising."
"I do wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, Charles," said Winter, frowning
heavily.
"Am I talking nonsense, Mr. Theydon?" demanded Furneaux. "Didn't your
flesh creep when that queer perfume assailed your nostrils, which are
not yet altogether atrophied by the reek of thousands of rank cigars?"
"Stop it!" commanded Winter, throwing open a door.
"And they christened him Leander--Leander, who swam the Hellespont for
love of a woman!" muttered Furneaux.
Theydon began to believe that both detectives were cranks of the first
order. Furneaux, whose extraordinary insight he actually feared, was
obviously an excellent example of the alliance between insanity and
genius. In a word, he failed, and not unreasonably, to understand that
when the Jersey man was mouthing a strange jargon of knowledge and
incoherence, and Winter was inclined to be snappy with his subordinate,
and each was more than rude to the other, they were then giving tongue
like hounds hot on the trail.
Winter's Christian names were James Leander, the latter being conferred
for no more classical reason than his father's association with a famous
boating club, but the fact supplied Furneaux with material for many a
quip. These things Theydon learnt later. At present he was giving all
his attention to Winter, who led the way into a dainty furnished
bedroom. The electric lights were governed by two switches. A pair of
lamps occupied the usual place in front of a dressing table; a third was
suspended from a canopy over the bed, and was controlled also by an
alternate switch behind the bolster. Winter turned on all three lights,
so the room was brilliantly illuminated.
Any place less likely to become the scene of a brutal crime could hardly
be imagined. It looked exactly what it was, the bedchamber of a refined
and well-bred woman, whose trained sense of color and design was shown
by the harmony of carpet, rugs, wall paper and furniture.
Winter pointed to a slight depression on the side of the bed. A white
linen coverlet was rumpled as though some one had sat there.
"That is where Ann Rogers, the maid, found her mistress at ten o'clock
this morning," he said. "As you see, the bed had not been slept in.
Indeed, Mrs. Lester was fully dressed. My belief is that she was pounced
on the instant she entered the room--probably to retire for the
night--strangled before she could utter a sound, and flung here when
dead."
Again Theydon was aware of the subtle, penetrating, and not wholly
unpleasing scent which Furneaux had attributed to the burning of a joss
stick, but his mind was focused on the detective's words, which
suggested a queer discrepancy between certain vague possibilities
already flitting through his brain and the terrible drama as it
presented itself to a skilled criminologist.
"But," he said, almost protestingly, "from what I have seen of Mrs.
Lester she was a strong and active woman. It is inconceivable that the
man who came here last night could have murdered her while I was writing
two brief notes. I am positive he did not remain five minutes, and Bates
or I, or both of us, must have heard some trampling of feet, some
indications of a struggle. Moreover, you think she was about to retire.
Doesn't that opinion conflict with the known facts?"
"What known facts?"
"Well--or--those I have mentioned. The brief visit, the open nature of
the arrival and departure, the posting of a letter, which, by the way,
may have been written in his presence."
"It was."
Theydon positively jumped. He would not be surprised now if Forbes's
name came out.
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"Mrs. Lester wrote to an aunt in Oxfordshire, a lady who lives in the
village of Iffley, near the first lock on the Thames below Oxford. As it
happened, this aunt, a Miss Beale, was lunching with a friend in Oxford
today, and some one showed her an early edition of a London evening
newspaper containing an account of the murder. Instead of yielding to
hysteria, and passing from one fainting fit into another, Miss Beale had
the rare good sense to go straight to the police station. One of our men
has interviewed her this evening, and she is coming here tomorrow, but
in the meantime the Oxford police telephoned the gist of the letter,
which is headed 'Monday, 11:30 p. m.' The hour is not quite accurate,
but near enough, since the context shows that a 'friend' had just called
and given certain information which had determined the writer to leave
London 'to-morrow'--meaning today--'or Wednesday at latest.' So you see,
Mr. Theydon, if the unknown is an honest man, he will soon hear of the
hue and cry raised by the murder, and declare himself to the police.
Indeed, for all I know, he may have reported himself to the Yard
already. In that event you will probably meet him again quite soon."
An electric bell jarred at the end of the main passage. It smote on
their ears with the loud emphasis of a pistol shot. Even the detectives
were startled, and Winter said, in a tone of distinct annoyance:
"Go and see who the deuce that is, Furneaux."
Furneaux returned promptly with Bates, pallid and apologetic.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the intruder, addressing Theydon, but allowing
his eyes to roam furtively about the room as though he expected to see
something ghoul-like and sinister, "Mr. Forbes has rung up--"
Theydon's voice literally quavered. For the first time in his life he
knew why a woman shrieks in the stress of sudden excitement.
"Tell Mr. Forbes I am still engaged with the gentlemen from Scotland
Yard," he gasped. "I'll give him a call the moment I'm free. He will
understand. Anyhow, I can't explain further now."
"Yes, sir," and Bates disappeared.
"Mr. Forbes? The gentleman you were dining with?" inquired Winter.
"Yes," said Theydon. He knew he ought to add something by way of
explanation, but his heart was thumping madly, and he dared not trust
his voice.
"You told him, I suppose, that Scotland Yard was worrying you, and he
wants to know the result?"
Then Theydon saw an avenue of escape, and took it eagerly.
"I spoke of the murder, of course," he said, "but Mr. Forbes was hardly
interested. He had seen the newspaper placards, and that was all he knew
of it. The truth is, he is wholly wrapped up in a scheme for reforming
mankind by excluding airships and aeroplanes from warlike operations,
and found me a somewhat preoccupied listener. He wants my help, such as
it is, and I have no doubt the present call is a preliminary to another
meeting tomorrow."
"Why not go to him? We'll wait. We can do nothing more tonight after
leaving here."
"Speaking candidly, I am not in a mood to discuss such visionary
projects. I shall be glad if Mr. Forbes has gone to bed when I do ring
him up."
Winter shook his head.
"Excuse me, Mr. Theydon, but I am older than you, and may 'venture on
advice,'" he said. "A writer who has his way to make in the world cannot
afford to slight a man of Mr. Forbes's standing. Go to him at once. It
will please him. Don't hurry."
Theydon realized that a continued refusal would certainly set Furneaux's
wits at work, and he dreaded the outcome. He went without another word.
When the outer door had closed behind him Winter turned to Furneaux.
"Well?" he said.
For answer Furneaux waved a hand and tiptoed into the hall. Waiting
until he heard the door of No. 18 slam he opened the latch of No. 17 so
cautiously that no sound was forthcoming. Soon he had an ear to
Theydon's letter box and was following attentively a one-sided
conversation.
Now, Theydon had thought hard during the few strides from one flat to
the other. His telephone was fixed close to the party wall dividing the
two sets of apartments and he was not certain that, in the absolute
quietude prevailing in Innesmore Mansions at that late hour, a voice
could not be overheard. True, he did not count on Furneaux playing the
eavesdropper at the slit of the letter box, but he resolved to take no
risks and say nothing that any one could make capital of.
So, when he had asked the exchange to reconnect him with the caller who
had just rung up, and he was put through, this is what Furneaux heard:
"That you, Mr. Forbes. Sorry I sent my man just now with a message that
must leave sounded rather curt, but the Scotland Yard people kindly
excused me, so I can give you a minute or two.... No, I'm sorry, but I
cannot come to luncheon tomorrow, nor go to Brooklands again this week.
You see, this dreadful murder which I spoke of will necessitate my
presence at an inquest, and the police seem to attach much significance
to the visit to Mrs. Lester last night of a man whom I saw in the
street, and whom Bates and I heard entering and leaving the poor lady's
flat.... Bates? O, he is my general factotum. He and his wife keep house
for me.... Yes, I'll gladly let you know the earliest date when I'll be
free. Then you and I can go into the flying proposition thoroughly....
No. The detectives have apparently not got any clew to the murderer, nor
even discovered any motive for the crime. They have taken me into No.
17. In fact, I was there when your call was made.... The murderer
ransacked the place thoroughly, but did not touch money or jewelry, I
understand. The only peculiar thing, if I may so describe it, about the
place, is the scent of a burnt joss stick. It clings to the passage and
the bedroom in which the body was found.... Ah, by the way, Mrs. Lester
wrote a letter, which her visitor posted, and the addressee, her aunt,
is in communication with the police. The text tends to clear the man of
suspicion.... Yes, if, by chance, I find myself at liberty tomorrow,
I'll 'phone you at your city office. I'll find the number in the
directory, of course?... O, thanks--I'll jot it down--00400 Bank....
Goodnight! Too bad that this wretched affair should interfere with our
crusade, which, the more I think of it, the stronger it appeals. _Au
revoir_, then."
In reality, Forbes had not said one word about his peace propaganda, but
he had evidently been quick to realize that Theydon was purposely giving
their talk a twist in that direction. A muttered "I
understand--perfectly," showed this, and he did not strive to conceal
the alarm which possessed him when Theydon spoke of the joss stick. He
murmured distinctly, "Great Heavens! Then I was not mistaken," and again
voiced his distress on hearing of the letter.
But he made matters easy by pressing Theydon to come and see him on the
morrow, either at his office in Old Broad Street or at his residence. On
the whole, Theydon did not care who heard what he had said, but it was a
relief to find that he had to ring for readmission to No. 17.
Furneaux opened the door.
"You soon got rid of your friend, then?" said the detective, while they
were on the way to rejoin Winter.
"Yes. It was just what I imagined--a pressing invitation to plunge
forthwith into Mr. Forbes's project for the regeneration of mankind. I
had to tell him frankly that you gentlemen had first claim on me. I
suppose I shall be wanted at the inquest?"
"Not tomorrow. The coroner will hear the medical evidence, and that of
Ann Rogers, if she is in a condition to appear, and there will be an
adjournment for a week."
"Ah, that reminds me. Didn't Mrs. Lester's servant admit the visitor
last night?"
Theydon put the question advisedly. He was calmer now, and had made up
his mind as to the course he should pursue. Although he had assured
Winter that he would recognize the stranger if confronted with him, and,
if Forbes was brought into the inquiry, the admission might prove
awkward, he meant to say that he had, indeed, noticed a remarkable
resemblance in the millionaire to the man he had seen looking up at the
name tablet on the corner, but felt that the likeness was only one of
those singular coincidences which abound in a cosmopolitan city.
The smartest cross-examiner at the bar could not shake him if he took
that stand. The sheer improbability of Forbes being the mysterious
visitor would justify his attitude, and the notion was so consoling that
he faced the two detectives with new confidence and a self-possession
that was exceedingly pleasant when compared, with his earlier
embarrassment.
"No," said Winter. "By a most remarkable chance, Ann Rogers was given
leave to spend the night with her father, who lives in Camden Town. He
is an old man and was taken ill last evening. He believes he asked some
one to telegraph to his daughter, asking her to come to him. She
certainly received a telegram and as certainly did visit him. Of course,
that phase of the affair will be cleared up thoroughly, but the main
facts are indisputable. Ann Rogers has her own latchkey. As Mrs. Lester
usually sat up late, being a lover of books, and seldom stirred before
ten o'clock, the maid waited until that hour before bringing her
mistress's cup of tea. That stain on the carpet near the door shows
where the tray fell from her hands."
Sometimes an artist obtains the strongest effect by one deft sweep of
the brush. Winter, though he would have blushed if described as an
artist in words, had achieved a similar result by his concluding
sentence. Theydon pictured the scene. He saw the limp form thrown across
the bed, the distorted face, the hands and arms posed grotesquely.
He heard the shrill scream of the terrified servant, an elderly woman
whom Bates described as "a quiet body," and could imagine the clatter of
the laden tray as it dropped from nerveless fingers. A sort of fury rose
within him. Mrs. Lester had been done to death in a horrible and
insensate way, and no matter who suffered, be he millionaire or pauper,
the wretch who committed the crime should be made to pay the penalty of
the law.
In that moment he forgot Evelyn Forbes, and thought only of the fair and
gracious woman whose agonized spirit had taken flight under the
compulsion of the tiger grip of some human brute now moving among his
fellow-creatures unknown and unsuspected. It was inconceivable that
Forbes should be guilty, but why should he not avow his acquaintance
with the victim, and thus aid the police in their quest?
He glowered savagely at the telltale stain, and vowed to rid his
conscience of an incubus. He would wait till the morrow and force Forbes
to come out into the open. Otherwise--
"You wish you had the murderer here now?"
Furneaux spoke softly, and with no trace of his wonted irony, but
Theydon was aware that once more the little detective had peered into
his very soul.
"Yes," he said, and there was a new gravity in his tone. "I do wish
that. I have never before been brought in contact with a crime of this
magnitude. It conveys a sort of personal responsibility. To think that I
was in my room, reading about aviation, while a woman's life was being
choked out of her within a few feet of where I was seated! O, it is
monstrous! Let me tell you two, here and now, that if I can do anything
to bring Mrs. Lester's slayer to justice, you can count on me, no matter
what the cost."
"I'm sure you mean what you say, Mr. Theydon," said Winter soothingly.
"Well, I suppose we can do no more tonight. I have little else to tell
you--"
"The skull--the ivory skull!" put in Furneaux.
For an instant an expression of annoyance flitted across the chief
inspector's good-humored face. Theydon did not see it, because
Furneaux's odd-sounding words caused him to look with astonishment at
the man who uttered them.
"An ivory skull!" he cried. "What has an ivory skull to do with the
murder of Mrs. Lester?"
"We cannot even begin to guess at its meaning yet," said Winter, who,
after one fierce glance at his colleague, had recovered his poise. "That
is why I did not mention it. I hate the introduction of bizarre features
into an inquiry of this sort. But, now that the thing has been spoken
of, I may as well state that when the medical examination was being made
at the mortuary a tiny skull, not bigger than a pea, and made of ivory,
was found inside Mrs. Lester's underbodice. The curious fact is that it
was loose. Had it been attached to a cord, or secured in some way, one
might regard it as a charm or amulet, because some women, even in the
London of today, are not beyond the reach of superstition in such
matters. But, as I say, it was not safeguarded at all, so we may
reasonably assume that it was not carried habitually. Of course,
Furneaux readily evolved a far-fetched theory that it is a sign, or
symbol, and was thrust out of sight among the clothing on the dead
woman's breast by the man who killed her. But that is idle guesswork. We
of the Yard seldom pay heed to theatrical notions of that kind. Here is
the article. I don't mind letting you see it, but kindly remember that
its existence must not be made known. I must have your promise not to
mention it to a living creature."
Furneaux chuckled derisively.
"That is precisely the sort of thing anybody would say who attached no
importance to the exhibit," he piped.
Winter so nearly lost his temper that he repressed the retort on his
lips. He contented himself, however, with producing a small white object
from his waistcoat pocket, and handed it to Theydon. It was a bit of
ivory, hollow, and very light, and fashioned as a skull.
Yet, it was by no means an ordinary creation. The artist who fashioned
it had gratified a morbid taste by imparting to the eyeless sockets and
close-set rows of teeth a malign and threatening grin. Wickedness, not
death, was suggested, but the craftsmanship was faultless. A collector
would have paid a large sum for it, while the average citizen would
refuse to have it in his house.
"What an extraordinary thing," said Theydon, turning the curio round and
round in his fingers.
"It's wonderfully well carved," agreed Winter.
"From that point of view it's a masterpiece, but what I meant was the
astounding fact that it should have been discovered on the dead woman's
body. Was it placed over her heart?"
"Why do you ask that?" came the sharp demand.
"Because--if it is a token of some vendetta--if the murderer wished to
signify that he had glutted his vengeance--"
"O, you're as bad as Furneaux," cried Winter impatiently. "Give it to
me. I must be off. The hour is long past midnight and I have a busy day
before me tomorrow."
Back in the seclusion of his own rooms, Theydon debated the question
whether or not he should endeavor to communicate with Forbes again that
night. Somehow it seemed to him that Forbes would be most concerned at
hearing of the gray car. And what of the ivory skull?
Suppose he knew of that! But a certain revulsion of feeling had come
over Theydon since the sheer brutality of the murder had been revealed.
He failed to see now why he should be so solicitous for Forbes's
welfare. No matter what private purpose the man might serve by
concealing his visit to Mrs. Lester, it ought to give way before the
paramount importance of tracking a pitiless and callous criminal.
So Theydon hardened his heart and went to bed, and, being sound in mind
and constitution, slept like a just man wearied. Nevertheless, the last
thing he saw before the curtain fell on his tired brain was an ivory
skull dancing in the darkness.
Greatly as the many problems attached to Mrs. Lester's death bewildered
him, he would have been even more perplexed if he had overheard the
conversation between Winter and Furneaux when they entered a taxi and
gave Scotland Yard as their destination.
"Look here, Charles," began Winter firmly; but the other stayed him with
a clutch of thin, nervous fingers on an arm strong enough to fell an ox.
"Listen first, James--lecture me afterward," pleaded Furneaux. "I can't
help yielding to impulse. And why should I strive to help it, anyhow?
How often has impulse led me to the goal when by every known rule of
evidence I was completely beaten? That is my plea. That is why I brought
that young fellow into No. 17, and watched the story of the tragedy
reshaping itself in his imagination. That is why, too, I spoke of the
ivory skull. Think what it means to one with the writer's temperament.
The skull will never leave his mind's eye. It will focus and control his
thoughts and actions. And I feel it in my bones that only by keeping in
touch with Mr. Francis Theydon shall we solve the Innesmore Mansions
mystery. I can't explain why I think this, no more than the receiver of
a wireless message can account for the waves of energy it picks up from
the void and transmutes into the ordered sequences of the Morse code.
All I know is that when I am near him I am, as the children say, 'warm,'
and when away from him, 'cold.' While he was examining the skull I was
positively 'hot,' and was half inclined to treat him as a thought
transference medium and order him sternly to speak.... No. Be calm! I
even bid you be honest. When have you, ever before, admitted an outsider
to your councils? And, if you make an exception of Theydon, why are you
doing it?"
Winter bit the end off a cigar with a vicious jerk of his round head. He
struck a match and created such a volume of smoke that Furneaux coughed
affectedly.
"The real clew," he said at last, "rests with the gray car. What did you
make of that?"
"That, my bulky friend, will figure in my memory as a reproach for many
a year. When, if ever, I am tempted to preen myself on some peculiarly
close piece of ratiocinative reasoning, I shall say: 'Little man, pigmy,
remember the gray car.'"
"You think that some one had the impudence to follow us, watch us in
Waterloo, and take up Theydon's trail when we had revealed it?"
"A-ha. It touched you, too, did it?"
"But why?"
"The some one in question wants to know that."
"You mean they are anxious to find out what we are doing?"
"Exactly."
Winter laughed cheerfully.
"Before long I shall begin to enjoy this hunt, Charles. I like to find
originality in a felon. It varies the routine. At any rate, it is
something new that you and I should be shadowed by the very people we
are in pursuit of--O, I was nearly forgetting. Anything fresh in that
telephone talk?"
"It seemed all right."
"Seemed?"
"Well, it was too straightforward. Theydon puzzles me. I admit it
frankly. He also worries me. But let me handle him in my own way. Have
no fear that he will use our material for newspaper purposes. With
regard to the Innesmore Mansions affair, Theydon will lie close as a
fish. Why? No use asking you, of course. You despise intuition. When you
die some one should begin your epitaph: 'From information received.' But
I'll stick to Theydon. See if I don't, even if I have to go up with him
in one of Forbes's airships."