“Well, the police have made some interesting discoveries. The
automatic pistol, with which the murder was committed, has been found
to have been stolen with a quantity of goods and jewelry from a house
in Cromwell Road, about a month ago, and, further, the man whose name
was given as Warwick May has been identified by his finger-prints to
be a well-known burglar, named Rodwell, who is wanted for a number of
thefts, his speciality being safe-breaking.”
“That’s very interesting,” I remarked.
“Yes, it is now supposed to be a crime of revenge,” my father went on,
“possibly on the part of one of his friends of the same fraternity,
whom he has betrayed to the police. At least, that is the latest
theory.”
“It does not help me very much--does it?”
“Only that they will be looking for a burglar, and not for my son,” he
said quietly.
“I fear they will be looking for the burglar in just the kind of place
of concealment that I have chosen. You see, I dare not move my
quarters now, or that girl’s suspicions, and those of my landlady,
would certainly be confirmed,” I remarked despondently.
When I spoke of the necessity of having money, he at once produced ten
bank of England notes, each for ten pounds, saying:
“I have brought you this to go on with. But I do wish you would return
to Sackville Street, and allow Bolland to think you have got back from
the country.”
“I would, father, only I dare not leave Avenue Road, for reasons I
have just given. Nor dare I risk the channel crossing, for all the
ports are watched.”
“True. That girl is, unfortunately, your chief danger. Your disguise
is excellent, but your life must be terribly monotonous.”
“Not without its interesting side, though. I am now studying life amid
the working-classes.”
“My dear boy! You were always optimistic and cheerful. I, however,
confess I do not share your optimism at the present moment. These are
dark days for both of us. To-morrow, I’ll see Jesmond, the Home
Secretary, and get out of him what the police are doing in the case.”
“Then I have your forgiveness, father?” I asked him, as we were
retracing our steps toward the station.
“Of course, my boy. Such a tragic adventure as yours might happen to
anybody,” said the dear old fellow. “But your initial mistake was that
you did not remain and face the consequences.”
“I thought of you, dad--of the family,” I replied.
“Well, we must hope for the best,” he said. “We had better hold no
communication with each other. I will go to Sackville Street, see
Bolland, explain your absence, and pay him regularly. You had better
not bother about letters or money. I’ll send you cash from time to
time. When I came to meet you, I intended to urge you to go back to
Sackville Street as though nothing had happened. But I now fully
realize the danger of that girl Hatten. You must do all you can to
dispel her doubts; and continue to live there at least for a time,
until your strange adventures are at an end.”
Then he gripped my hand warmly, and with a final:
“Good-bye, my dear boy! I shall be thinking hourly of you,” the dear
old governor entered the station, leaving me alone.
“Until my strange adventures are at an end!” I repeated aloud, as I
walked back to the main road.
I never dreamed that I was only at the very beginning of a series of
the most remarkable happenings, such as, perhaps, no other man in all
the world, except my own unimportant self, Lionel Hipwell, has lived
to relate!
CHAPTER FOUR.
DEADLY PERIL
Down Denmark Hill I went, consoled and gratified that, at least, I
still had one big-hearted and affectionate friend in the world, my
dear old father, who believed my story. But did the world--or would
the jury at the Old Bailey--believe it?
Surely it was, in face of the allegation of that poor woman of the
night, a very thin defence.
I argued within myself as a man who had been called to the Bar and
understood the pros and cons of a criminal case. I saw that, with the
bitter enmity of the woman Bennett who, out of revenge, would swear
that I had attacked her burglar-lover, I should have a great
difficulty to assure any jury of my innocence.
The career of the dead man, his profession as a burglar, the automatic
pistol, and his criminal record would all go in my favor. But, I knew
only too well that counsel instructed by the Public Prosecutor could
make out a deadly case against me, not only of manslaughter, but of
murder.
One detail which I examined, placing myself in the case as counsel for
the prosecution, was that of the pistol. A burglar, having taken such
a weapon from a house in Cromwell Road, would hardly keep it on his
person to provide a hall-mark that he was a thief. On the contrary,
the prosecution, of a certainty, would argue that the particular
weapon--licenses for which go to and fro in every police-station in
Britain, after the abortive General Strike, the most careful record
being taken--could be traced, and suddenly the clue would be at an
end. I might have bought it from somebody--someone unknown--who wanted
to rid himself of the responsibility and the tax for carrying
firearms.
I walked through the fog, now and then narrowly escaping bumping
against half-suffocated people who, on their way home to bed, were
treading through the impenetrable veil. My eyes were watering, my
breath became affected, and I longed to be back again in my shabby
little sitting-room; for, the night was the worst that had been
experienced in London for many years.
My father had heartened me. Jesmond, who was Home Secretary and his
intimate friend, might reveal to him what Scotland Yard was doing, and
that knowledge might allow me a loophole for escape.
In the Camberwell Road the fog, at the lower height, had settled down
to a dense blackness, such as South London experiences now and then in
the course of every few years. Trains, buses, and taxis had ceased
running several hours ago, and the usual busy thoroughfares of the
arterial roads to London, Blackfriars, Waterloo, and Westminister
Bridges were silent, save for the voices of the unseen, or of those
whose passing shadows were weirdly distorted. Only those who have
battled with a thick night fog in London can conceive such atmospheric
traffic, and ocular conditions.
I had trodden the pavement of the Camberwell Road on so many nights,
at all hours, that I was able, after a number of efforts, to find the
turning which took me into Avenue Road. All was dark and mysterious in
that drab, monotonous thoroughfare; the light of the street-lamps had
been blotted out by the fog. There was nothing for me to do but to
creep along, feeling the rows of iron railings beside the deep areas.
Each house was uniform in construction, and, in normal conditions,
easily distinguishable by daylight, or even by the light of the
street-lamps. But that night I became utterly lost. At last, however,
I found the house, as I imagined. But, ascending the steps, I felt a
brass-plate on the lintel of the door; hence the house was not the one
in which I lived.
I tried a second one, but my key did not fit the key-hole. I knew,
then that that, too, was not Mrs. Bowyer’s. So thick was the fog that
only by feeling the railings could I guide myself. Here and there a
red blur in the darkness was visible, but to recognize where I lived
seemed impossible. I tried a dozen different doors, but my key refused
to open any of them.
Then I wondered whether Mrs. Bowyer, believing I had gone to bed, had
let down the catch in the latch, and, therefore, the key refused to
turn! The prospect of spending such a night out of doors was certainly
not a pleasant one, and, though I had a hundred pounds in my pocket, I
dare not seek lodgings in any hotel, even provided I found one.
The night was black and suffocating; many street accidents occurred in
consequence. Except the tubes, all traffic was suspended, save
perhaps, the mail trains, which crawled slowly out of London where,
beyond the greater metropolis, the fog was not quite so thick.
For fully half an hour I endeavored to discover Mrs. Bowyer’s, but
without success, when suddenly it occurred to me that I might have
mistaken the turning, and that I was in the wrong street! I groped my
way back to the main road, and then, to my amazement, established the
fact that I was not in Avenue Road at all. So I went on to the next
turning and, at last, found the familiar grocer’s shop at the corner.
Creeping along by the railings again I counted the flights of steps
until I discovered those leading to Mrs. Bowyer’s.
With a sigh of relief, I turned the key and entered. The light in the
hall had been extinguished as sign to me that Mrs. Bowyer, her
daughter, and her lady lodger had retired. So, having secured the
door, as I always did, I crept noiselessly up to my rooms.
As I did so, a rather unusual perfume greeted my nostrils. Every house
has its own peculiar smell, but one of the women must have been using
some subtle Eastern perfume, sweet and much resembling sandalwood.
Having gained the landing on the first floor, I suddenly heard the
gruff voice of a man, followed by a low, exultant laugh; and then I
saw that from beneath the door came a streak of light. There came a
woman’s high-pitched and rather musical voice, too, followed by that
of a second man. Evidently, Mrs. Bowyer had visitors. Why, however,
had the hall light been extinguished? I stood listening. Several
people were conversing in such low tones that I could not distinguish
what they were saying. Suddenly I heard one word quite distinctly. It
was “police.”
My heart stood still.
The detectives were there waiting for my return to arrest me!
Again I listened, but they were only discussing something in low
whispers. I had walked into the trap set for me.
Having turned, I was about to descend the stairs and creep forth into
the fog again when, of a sudden, I became aware of a strong, heavy
hand clutching my throat. And somebody whom I could not see, blocked
my passage on the stairs.
They had at last discovered me.
What happened during the next exciting moments I can hardly tell.
The man shouted, whereupon the door was flung open, and seven or eight
persons emerged excitedly from the room, while I, in the grasp of two
rough-looking individuals, was hauled unceremoniously into the light.
In a second I realized that the room was furnished quite differently
from that of Mrs. Bowyer. Then it suddenly dawned on me that I had
inadvertently entered the wrong house! Yet I saw standing there,
statuesque and amazed, the handsome figure of my fellow-lodger, Lisely
Hatten. With her was an over-dressed foreign woman, a tall,
fair-haired young Englishman, of the type of a naval officer, and four
beetle-browed, swarthy foreigners, all in a great state of anger and
alarm.
“I found this fellow listening!” cried the very tall, muscular man of
Negroid type, with thick lips and bloodshot eyes, who had seized me on
the stairs. He spoke with a strange accent. “The spy has overheard!”
Whereat the strange nocturnal party stood aghast.
“I heard nothing! I am no spy,” I protested instantly.
“Perhaps not,” exclaimed one of the other men, who was apparently in
authority. “But you have seen!”
Then, next second I became aware that upon the table was a quantity of
old-fashioned jewelry lying in a heap, gems which flashed and
glittered beneath the light, but all in antique settings.
“I have seen nothing,” I assured my captors.
Were they jewel-thieves in the act of dividing their spoils?
“You are a police-spy!” shouted the dark-bearded, undersized foreigner
who had just spoken.
“Yes,” cried the girl who was my fellow-lodger. “I suspected him from
the first. He told me he was a journalist, but nobody knows him in
Fleet Street. He goes out on night duty from Scotland Yard.”
“That is certainly untrue,” I said resentfully. “I am no police-spy,
and your affairs, whatever they may be, are surely no business of
mine.”
The big, dark-faced man, who had made me his prisoner, laughed
mockingly and said:
“Unfortunately for you, we happen to know you. You are Lionel Hipwell.
Why do you come to live here in disguise as Mr. Paige if you are not
acting for the police?”