Soon after six o’clock Lisely Hatten returned, greeting me merrily
before going upstairs to take off her hat and coat. Later we sat over
the fire in the little back room awaiting our evening meal.
“I’ve had a horribly busy day to-day, and everything went wrong. My
boss has been out of temper because he couldn’t get his golf, and I
made two mistakes in letters for which I got cursed!” she told me.
“One girl has got the sack because she cheeked the old bean. Oh, it’s
been a perfectly wonderful day!” she said.
“So it appears,” I laughed, yet knowing that in my rather ill-fitting,
cheap gray suit I presented a sorry figure. Like most men-about-town,
I rather prided myself on the cut of my clothes, and the neatness of
my tie, socks, and shoes. But, when I looked at my present reflection
in the mirror, I stood horrified.
She took the cigarette I offered her and consumed it, her mind seeming
lazy, with all the gusto of an ardent smoker, and then suddenly she
remarked:
“I see by to-night’s paper that they haven’t found the Bloomsbury
murderer yet. Scotland Yard is sparing no effort to find him. They
were discussing it in the office to-day. The police seem to think that
he’s the man to whom a lorry-driver sold his clothes the night before
last.”
“Well, I hope they’ll find him,” I remarked, bending to take a fresh
cigarette, and thereby to hide my countenance.
Just at that moment I became aware that she had fixed her big, dark
eyes on me with a very curious stare--a bewildered, puzzled, tell-tale
glance. Then, a moment later, she exclaimed in an unusual tone:
“You may think it strange, Mr. Paige, but--but somehow you yourself
are very much like the description of the man they want.”
Surely Fate spins threads of iron.
CHAPTER THREE.
WHAT THE PAPERS SAID
Silent, tense, our minds grappled. I succeeded in laughing.
“Do I really resemble the assassin?” I asked, with, I fear, humor,
ill-assumed.
“You are very like the description given in the papers,” she declared.
“Possibly, but, as far as I read, the woman only saw the fellow by the
light of the street-lamp, and the description she gave was, after all,
a vague one.” Then I added, “I hope they won’t arrest me, for I wasn’t
in London. I only came up from Colchester yesterday.”
“So Mrs. Bowyer has told me,” she said. Her words instantly aroused my
suspicion that the pair had already been discussing me in secret.
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, I haven’t any motive to kill anybody.
I’m engaged to one of the best girls in the world. She lives here, in
London, and that is why I’m up here--to be near her.”
“And yet it is so funny, Mr. Paige,” she remarked, after a brief
pause, looking me in full in the face. “When I read the description of
the man the police want, and look at you, it seems that it really must
be you!”
“It would be most interesting and sensational if you discovered a
murderer--wouldn’t it?” I remarked. “But I’m afraid I can’t give the
poor, distressed girl the satisfaction of identifying me as her
lover’s murderer.”
“I love mysteries,” declared Miss Hatten. “I read all the detective
stories I can get hold of. I hate those sloppy love romances written
for domestic servants. Women writers are the worst offenders.”
“All of your sex love to become amateur detectives,” I remarked
good-humoredly. “But it requires a good deal of training.”
How I wished, in the light of after-events, I had left that final
sentence unuttered.
She paused for a moment, evidently puzzled.
“Yes. Perhaps it is for that reason my suspicions have been aroused
that you are here in hiding.”
“Really, I hope you don’t think so, Miss Hatten,” I said very
seriously. “If so, let us go around to Carter Street Police Station
together, and, if you wish, I’ll give myself up for the crime. I can’t
say more, can I?” And I laughed heartily.
“Don’t be so silly, Mr. Paige. You really wouldn’t like to go to
Carter Street, would you?” the girl said, disarmed at the open
frankness which had caused me so much trepidation. “Of course, it’s
only my fancy. I could not think that you would actually kill a man.”
“There must always be a motive if one kills one’s
fellow-creature--jealousy, gain, hatred, or personal advancement,” I
declared, smiling as I stood before her. “But, if that is lacking,
then it is seldom that a life is taken. According to the newspapers,
the man was shot in cold blood. Hence, there must have been some very
distinct motive. It is that which the police must discover before they
find the assassin.”
We chatted on, and I was intensely relieved to discover that I had
allayed her suspicions. No doubt, my worthy landlady had been
discussing the point with her; and, surely, no person is more
dangerous to a fugitive from justice than a suspicious landlady.
Ah! What an idiot I had been not to remain beside the man’s body, and
brave the consequences! My actions, in themselves, had convicted me.
As I sat opposite her, as we ate our modest meal together, the whole
situation was appalling. Over that thin ice which I was treading, I
knew not to what destination it would lead me. At any moment might
come discovery, exposure, arrest. Women when suspicious, as when they
love, are the most dangerous enemies of mankind. But the smart,
good-looking girl, seated laughing before me in that unpretentious
room in one of London’s crowded suburbs, was a complex problem that I
could not solve.
Was she my friend--or my enemy? I could not decide which. On her
silence my whole future depended.
Hence, was it any wonder that I sat there apprehensive, watchful,
helpless?
Those dark winter days of dread dragged by with terrible monotony in
that stuffy little house. That long street of stucco, uniform
residences, with their flights of steps to the front door, the deep
areas, and the bow-windows, each dingier than its neighbor, was the
most depressing place of residence. And, as day followed day, my only
recreation was to go out after dark, and tread the worst lit
by-streets in the hope of not being recognized.
There was daily a great degree of uncertainty as to whether I really
had allayed the girl Lisely’s suspicions, or whether she was watching
my movements. I strongly suspected the latter. In some confused,
indescribable way, all truth, I felt, was being distorted, probably
because of my own miserable obsession.
Each day the papers reported how active search still was being made,
and how all the ports were being watched. At Dover, a man was arrested
and brought to Bow Street. But, when put up for identification the
girl, Hilda Bennett, failed to recognize him as her lover’s assailant.
The worst feature of the situation was that the papers had taken up
the case strongly, and were daily criticizing the apparent
incompetency of the police, urging them to greater activity.
One journal, after referring to the audacious murder of Mr. Warwick
May and the peril of the streets, made the following comments:
“During the past few days, a special squad of detectives has been
searching a number of small hotels and boarding-houses in London,
where it is believed the man may be in hiding.
“Scotland Yard believe that the alleged assassin may be receiving
assistance from a clever woman associate.
“He is described as about thirty years of age, 5 ft. 9 in. in height,
fresh complexion, dark-brown hair, hazel eyes with a peculiarity in
them which suggests a squint. He may be growing a moustache. He is
well built. He talks in a quiet tone.
“There are, including the wanted man, seven men at large somewhere in
the British Isles, for whom Scotland Yard, and the police throughout
the country, are keeping a day and night vigil.
“These men are all known to the police--their descriptions, haunts,
and habits are all recorded in the official records at Scotland Yard.
“Still, for the time, the mysterious seven are eluding their pursuers.
“The man most wanted by the authorities is John Hayes, the
well-spoken, handsome young fellow who is believed to be the brains
behind the theft of the mail-bags between Southampton and London, last
July.
“Hayes, who is in his twenties, was engaged as driver of a royal mail
van, and was known among his associates as ‘The Gent.’ He always
dressed well and his speech indicated gentle birth and a good
education.
“He is known to have served a term of imprisonment in the United
States. His photograph has been circulated to every police-station in
the kingdom. Yet he still evades arrest.
“‘Good-looking, well-spoken, and young,’ are the main characteristics
of another suspect. He is the clever, evening-dress burglar who calmly
let himself into the Curzon Street house of Mr. William Bingham, and
got away with jewelry valued at £40,000.
“The police have a very shrewd idea of the man they want. At the
moment, however, a detailed description of him is not considered
advisable.
“The fourth of the elusive seven is the scoundrel who, a fortnight
ago, shot and wounded a girl named Carlland, outside her house in
Maresfield Gardens, Hampstead.
“Detectives engaged on the case are anxious to interview a certain man
in connection with this outrage. But he remains in hiding, and is
successfully dodging all efforts to run him to earth.
“There is a distinct clue here, for the man, who is 6 ft. tall, stoops
and is splay-footed. He is about 40 years of age, of sallow
complexion. Like the other missing suspects, he is well-dressed,
usually wearing a well-cut suit, hard felt hat, and brown gloves.
“‘There is no place like London for hiding,’ said a Scotland Yard
detective yesterday, ‘and I would wager that all these “wanteds” are
within a five-mile radius of Charing Cross.’ And yet the police are
baffled!”
Naturally all this increased my alarm, for the police were being
goaded into activity by adverse public opinion.
Each time I went out at night I did so in fear and trepidation. I used
to purchase my evening paper regularly of a man who stood at the
corner of Beresford Street, and more than once I fancied he eyed me
with suspicion.
One evening I rang up Bolland, my man, pretending to speak from
Reading, saying that I was still detained in the country, and asking
him to send my letters to the Grand Hotel at Eastbourne. Next day I
wrote to the hotel, engaging a room. Two days later, I sent a polite
letter of apology, saying that I was detained, and asking that if any
letters should come for me they might be sent, re-addressed, to the
poste restante at Charing Cross, to which, one dark, wet evening at
half-past five, I ventured to take a taxi, and obtained them.
There were about half a dozen, including two from Joan. In reply to
them I sent her a long wire to Cannes. The others were of no account.
Concerning one matter, I grew greatly troubled--that of finance.
Though I had a fair balance at my bankers, yet I had no check-book,
nor had I anybody whom I could trust to go to the bank and cash a
check. The one check I carried with me on my flight I would be
compelled to send to Bolland for his wages and outgoings. On my long,
lonely walks at night, I tried to devise some plan. I knew that my
father, not hearing from me, would ring up Bolland, who would tell him
that I was away. Yet, looming ahead were a number of political
engagements I had made, and, if I were missing, people might wonder,
and set up inquiries.
This fact caused me to resolve to brave the dangers and see my father
in secret. As the House was sitting, he was, I knew, living at his
flat in Albany. Therefore, I sent him word by registered letter that I
was in hiding in Camberwell, and gave him my address and name as
Paige. I told him that a great misfortune had befallen me, and that it
was imperative that I should see him in secret. I asked him to say no
word to anyone, but to meet me at midnight at the quietest and most
unfrequented spot I had explored, namely, outside Denmark Hill
Station. I asked him to name the night.
To my joy, next evening the post brought me a letter from him,
expressing greatest anxiety concerning me, and appointing the
following night for our rendezvous. He assured me that he was
impatient to see me.
Though I could hardly contain myself at the thought of being able to
confide in the dear old governor, I knew how furious he would be at
the mere thought of besmirching the family honor. In the eyes of both
police and public I was an alleged assassin, and if caught would be
tried as such. A clever counsel in all probability would obtain my
release. But the scandal, in any case, must fall on my honorable
family.
Soon after receipt of that letter, the girl Hatten returned from her
office, and, as we sat together at dinner, she remarked:
“Do you often go to the pictures?”
“Not very often,” I replied, for in her query I surmised that she
wanted me to take her out one evening, to the pictures or a
dance-hall. More than once, indeed, she had insinuated such a course.
But how dare I show my face in a public place when the whole world had
eyes searching for me?
“Whatever do you do when you go out at night?” she asked.
“Usually I take what I have written in the day over to Fleet Street,”
I replied glibly.
“I thought journalists worked all night and slept all day. A friend of
mine who is on a daily paper never gets home before five in the
morning. Yet you are always back by twelve or so. You must have a soft
job. I wish I had one like yours,” she said, adding: “To be cooped up
in an office all day is getting on my nerves. The fogs in the City are
terrible just now. We had the lights on all day to-day.”
“It has been pretty dark here,” I remarked. “We had to light up about
two o’clock.”
Then the subject dropped, and she began to relate how her boss had
fallen in love with one of her fellow-typists, and that he was taking
her to the theatre that evening.
“She’s a silly flapper, and I told her so,” my sprightly companion
said. “He’s got a fearful old hag for a wife. She comes to the office
sometimes, and eyes me up and down, as though I were some new species
of animal. I don’t blame him for wanting to escape from her for an
evening.”
“I suppose he flirts with you--eh?” I laughed tantalizingly.
“Flirt? I’d like to see him try it,” she replied promptly. “He
wouldn’t do it a second time, you bet. He knows I’m not one of that
sort--especially when I have a nice boy of my own.”
“I congratulate you,” I laughed. “Many boys are not exactly nice!”