THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT
"There was something about Mr. John Ireland's manner which I couldn't
quite make out."
This was what Mr. Paxton told himself as he came out of the Bodega. He
turned down Ship Street, on to the front, meaning to stroll along the
King's Road to his hotel. As he came out of the hotel his eye caught a
glimpse of a loiterer standing in the shadow of a door higher up the
street. When he had gone a little distance along the King's Road,
glancing over his shoulder, he perceived that some one was standing at
the corner of Ship Street, with his face turned in his direction.
"It occurs to me as being just possible that the events of the night
are going to form a fitting climax to a day of adventure. That Ireland
can have the slightest inkling of how the case really stands is
certainly impossible; and yet, if I didn't know it was impossible, I
should feel just a trifle uneasy. His manner's queer. I wonder if he
has any suspicions of Lawrence, or of Lawrence's friend. That he knew
the pair I'll bet my boots. Plainly, Lawrence is not the fellow's real
name; it is simply the name by which he chose to be known to Daisy. If
Ireland has cause to suspect the precious pair, seeing me with them
twice, under what may seem to him to be curious circumstances, may
cause him to ask himself what the deuce I am doing in such a galley.
Undoubtedly, there was something in Mr. Ireland's manner which
suggested that, in his opinion, I knew more about the matter than I
altogether ought to."
Again Mr. Paxton glanced over his shoulder. About a hundred yards
behind him a man advanced in his direction. Looking across the road,
on the seaward side, he perceived that another man was there--a man
who, as soon as Mr. Paxton turned his head, stopped short, seeming to
be wholly absorbed in watching the sea. The man immediately behind
him, however, was still advancing. Mr. Paxton hesitated. A fine rain
was falling. It was late for Brighton. Except these two, not a
creature was in sight.
"I wonder if either of those gentlemen is shadowing me, and, if so,
which?"
He turned up West Street. When he had gone some way up it he peeped to
see. A man was coming up the same side of the street on which he was.
"There's Number One." He went farther; then looked again. The same man
was coming on; at the corner of the street a second man was loitering.
"There's Number Two. Unless I am mistaken that is the gentleman who on
a sudden found himself so interested in the sea. The question is,
whether they are both engaged by the same person, or if they are in
separate employ. I have no doubt whatever that one of them defies the
chances of catching cold in the interests of Mr. Lawrence. Until the
little mystery connected with the disappearance of his Gladstone bag
is cleared up, if he can help it, he is scarcely likely to allow me to
escape his constant supervision. For him I am prepared; but to be
attended also by a myrmidon of Ireland's is, I confess, a prospect
which I do not relish."
He trudged up the hill, pondering as he went. The rain was falling
faster. He pulled his coat collar up about his ears. He had no
umbrella.
"This is for me an experience of an altogether novel kind, and
uncommonly pleasant weather it is in which to make its acquaintance.
One obvious reason why Mr. Lawrence should have me shadowed is because
of the strong desire which he doubtless feels to know where it is that
I am staying. The natural deduction being that where I stay, there
also stays my Gladstone bag. The odds are that Mr. Lawrence feels a
quite conceivable curiosity to know in what the difference exactly
consists between my Gladstone bag, and the one from which he, as he
puts it, for a time has parted. Why John Ireland should wish to have
my movements dogged I do not understand; and I am bound to add I would
much rather not know either."
Mr. Paxton had reached the top of West Street. The man on the same
side of the road still plodded along. On the opposite side of the
street, much farther behind, came the other man too. Mr. Paxton formed
an immediate resolution.
"I have no intention of tramping the streets of Brighton to see which
of us can be tired first. I'm off indoors. The Gladstone, with its
contents, I'll confide to the landlord of the hotel, to hold in his
safe keeping. Then we'll see what will happen."
He swept round the corner into North Street, turning his face again
towards the front. As he expected, first one follower, then the other,
appeared.
"It's the second beggar who bothers me. I wonder what it means?"
Arrived at the hotel, Mr. Paxton went straight to the office. He asked
for the landlord. He was told that the landlord did not reside in the
building, but that he could see the manager. He saw the manager.
"I have property of considerable value in my Gladstone bag. Have you a
strong room in which you could keep it for me till the morning?"
The manager replied in the affirmative, adding that he was always
pleased to take charge of valuables which guests might commit to his
charge. Mr. Paxton went to his bedroom. He unlocked the Gladstone
bag--again with some difficulty--unwrapped the evening paper which
served as an unworthy covering for such priceless treasures. There
they were--a sight to gladden a connoisseur's heart; to make the blood
in his veins run faster! How they sparkled, and glittered, and
gleamed! How they threw off coruscations, each one a fresh revelation
of beauty, with every movement of his hands and of his eyes. He would
get nothing for them--was that what John Ireland said? Nothing, at any
rate, but the lowest market price, as for the commonest gems. John
Ireland's correctness remained to be proved. There were ways and
means in which a man in his position--a man of reputation and of the
world--could dispose of such merchandise, of which perhaps John
Ireland, with all his knowledge of the shady side of life, had never
dreamed.
Putting the stones back into the bag, Mr. Paxton took the bag down
into the office. Then he went into the smoking-room. It was empty when
he entered. But hardly had he settled himself in a chair, than some
one else came in, a short, broad-shouldered individual, with piercing
black eyes and shaven chin and cheeks. Mr. Paxton did not fancy his
appearance; the man's manner, bearing, and attire were somewhat rough;
he looked rather like a prizefighter than the sort of guest one would
expect to encounter in an hotel of standing. Still less was Mr. Paxton
pleased with the familiarity of his address. The man, placing himself
in the adjoining chair, plunged into the heart of a conversation as if
they had been the friends of years. After making one or two remarks,
which were of so extremely confidential a nature that Mr. Paxton
hardly knew whether to smile at them as the mere gaucheries of an
ill-bred person, or to openly resent them as an intentional
impertinence, the man began to subject him to a species of
cross-examination which caused him to eye the presumptuous stranger
with suddenly aroused but keen suspicion.
"Stopping here?"
"It seems that I am, doesn't it?"
"On what floor?"
"Why do you ask?"
"On the third floor, ain't you?"
"Why should you suppose that I am on the third floor?"
"I don't suppose nothing. Perhaps you're on the fourth. Are you on the
fourth?"
"The world is full of possibilities."
The man took a pull or two at his pipe; then, wholly unabashed, began
again--
"What's your number?"
"My number?"
"What's the number of your room?"
"I see."
"Well--what is it?"
"What is what?"
"What is what! Why, what's the number of your room?"
"Precisely."
"Well, you haven't told me what it is."
"No."
"Aren't you going to tell me?"
"I am afraid that I must wish you good-night." Rising, Mr. Paxton
moved towards the door. Turning in his chair, the stranger stared at
him with an air of grievance.
"You don't seem very polite, not answering a civil question when
you're asked one."
Mr. Paxton only smiled.
"Good-night."
He could hear the stranger grumbling to himself, even after the door
was closed. He asked the porter in the hall casually who the man might
be.
"I don't know, sir. He came in just after you. I don't think I have
ever seen him before. He has taken a bed for the night."
Mr. Paxton went up the stairs, smiling to himself as he went.
"They are hot on the scent. Mr. Lawrence evidently has no intention of
allowing the grass to grow under his feet. He means, if the thing is
possible, to have a sight of that Gladstone bag, at any rate by
deputy. I may be wrong, but the deputy whom I fancy he has selected is
an individual possessed of such a small amount of tact--whatever other
virtues he may have--that I hardly think I am. In any case it is
probably just as well that that Gladstone bag sleeps downstairs, while
I sleep up."
The door of Mr. Paxton's bedroom was furnished with a bolt as well as
a lock. He carefully secured both.
"I don't think that any one will be able to get through that door
without arousing me. And even should any enterprising person succeed
in doing so, I fear that his success will go no farther. His labours
will be unrewarded."
Mr. Paxton was master of a great art--the art of being able to go to
sleep when he wished. Practically, in bed or out of it, whenever he
chose, he could treat himself to the luxury of a slumber; and also,
when he chose, he could wake out of it. This very desirable
accomplishment did not fail him then. As soon as he was between the
sheets he composed himself to rest; and in an infinitesimally short
space of time rest came to him. He slept as peacefully as if he had
not had a care upon his mind.
And his sleep continued far into the night. But, profound and restful
though it was, it was light. The slightest unusual sound was
sufficient to awake him. It was indeed a sound which would have been
inaudible to nine sleepers out of ten which actually did arouse him.
Instantly his eyes were wide open and his senses keenly on the alert.
He lay quite still in bed, listening. And as he listened he smiled.
"I thought so. My friend of the smoking-room, unless I err. Trying to
turn the key in the lock with a pair of nippers, from outside. It
won't do, my man. You are a little clumsy at your work. Your
clumsiness betrayed you. You should get a firm hold of the key before
you begin to turn, or your nippers are apt to slip, and when they slip
they make a noise."
Mr. Paxton permitted no sign to escape him which could show the
intruder who was endeavouring to make an unceremonious entrance into
the apartment that he had ceased to sleep. He continued to lie quite
still and to listen, enjoying what he heard. Either the lock was rusty
or the key refractory, or, as Mr. Paxton said, the operator clumsy,
but certainly he did take what seemed to be an unconscionable length
of time in performing what is supposed to be a rudimentary function in
the burglar's art. He fumbled and fumbled, time after time, in vain.
One could hear in the prevailing silence the tiny click which his
nippers made each time they lost their hold. Some three or four
minutes probably elapsed before a slight grating sound--which seemed
to show that the lock was rusty--told that, after all, the key had
been turned. Mr. Paxton almost chuckled.
"Now for the scattering of the labourer's hopes of harvest!"
The person who was outside the door, satisfied that the lock had been
opened, firmly, yet no doubt gently, grasped the handle of the door.
He turned it. With all his gentleness it grated. One could hear that
he gave it an inward push, only to discover that the bolt was shot
inside. And that same moment Mr. Paxton's voice rang out, clear and
cold--
"Who's there?"
No answer. Mr. Paxton's sharp ears imagined that they could just
detect the shuffling along the passage of retreating footsteps.
"Is any one at the door?"
Still no reply. Mr. Paxton's next words were uttered _sotto voce_ with
a grin.
"I don't fancy that there is any one outside the door just now; nor
that to-night there is likely to be again. I'll just jump out and undo
the result of that poor man's patient labours."
Re-locking the door, Mr. Paxton once more composed himself to rest,
and again sleep came to him almost in the instant that he sought it.
And for the second time he was aroused by a sound so faint that it
would hardly have penetrated to the average sleeper's senses. On this
occasion the interruption was unexpected. He turned himself slightly
in bed, so that he might be in a better position for listening.
"What's that? If it's my friend of the smoking-room again, he's a
persevering man. It doesn't sound as if it were coming from the door;
it sounds more as if it were coming from the window--and, by George,
it is! What does it mean? It occurs to me that this is a case in which
it might be advisable that I should make personal inquiries."
Slipping out of bed, Mr. Paxton thrust his legs into a pair of
trousers. He took a revolver from underneath his pillow.
"It's lucky," he said to himself, as his fingers closed upon the
weapon, "that my prophetic soul told me that this was a plaything
which might be likely to come in handy."
In his bare feet he moved towards the window, holding the revolver in
his hand.
The room was in darkness, but Mr. Paxton was aware that in front of
the window stood the dressing-table. He knew also that the window
itself was screened, not only by the blind, but by a pair of heavy
curtains. Placing himself by the side of the dressing-table, he
gingerly moved one of the curtains, with a view of ascertaining if his
doing so would enable him to see what was going on without. One thing
the movement of the curtains did reveal to him, that there was a dense
fog out of doors. The blind did not quite fit the window, and enough
space was left at the side to show that the lights in the King's Road
were veiled by a thick white mist. Mr. Paxton moved both the blind and
the curtain sufficiently aside to enable him to see all that there was
to be seen, without, however, unnecessarily exposing himself.
For a moment or so that all was nothing. Then, gradually becoming
accustomed to the light, or want of it, he saw something which, while
little enough in itself, was yet sufficient to have given a nervous
person a considerable shock. Something outside seemed to reach from
top to bottom of the window. At first Mr. Paxton could not make out
what it was. Then he understood.
"A ladder--by George, it is! It would almost seem as if my friend of
the smoking-room had given his friends outside the 'office,' and that
they are taking advantage of the fog to endeavor to succeed where he
has failed. If I had expected this kind of thing, I should have
preferred to sleep a little nearer to the sky. Instead of the first
floor, it should have been the third, or even the fourth, beyond the
reach of ladders. Messrs. Lawrence and Co. seem resolved to beat the
iron while it's hot. The hunt becomes distinctly keen. It is perhaps
only natural to expect that they should be anxious; but, so far as I
am concerned, a little of this sort of thing suffices. They are slow
at getting to work, considering how awkward they might find it if some
one were to come along and twig that ladder. Hallo, the fun begins!
Unless my ears deceive me, some one's coming now."
Mr. Paxton's ears did not deceive him. Even as he spoke a dark
something appeared on the ladder above the level of the window. It was
a man's head. The head was quickly followed by a body. The acute
vision of the unseen watcher could dimly make out, against the white
background of fog, the faint outline of a man's figure. This figure
did an unexpected thing. Without any sort of warning, the shutter of a
dark lantern was suddenly opened, and the light thrown on the window
in such a way that it shone full into Mr. Paxton's eyes. That
gentleman retained his presence of mind. He withdrew his head, while
keeping his hold on the blind; if he had let it go the movement could
scarcely have failed to have been perceived.
The light vanished almost as quickly as it came. It was followed by a
darkness which seemed even denser than before. It was a second or two
before Mr. Paxton could adapt his dazzled eyes to the restoration of
the blackness. When he did so, he perceived that the man on the ladder
was leaning over towards the window. If the lantern had been flashed
on him just then, it would have been seen that an ugly look was on Mr.
Paxton's countenance.
"You startled me, you brute, with your infernal lantern, and now I've
half a mind to startle you."
Mr. Paxton made his half-mind a whole one. He brought his revolver
to the level of his elbow; he pointed it at the window, and he
fired. The figure on the ladder disappeared with the rapidity of a
jack-in-the-box. Whether the man had fallen or not, there was for the
moment no evidence to show. Mr. Paxton dragged the dressing-table
away, threw up the window, and looked out. The mist came streaming in.
In the distance could be heard the stampede of feet. Plainly two or
three persons were making off as fast as their heels would carry them.
An imperious knocking came at the bedroom door.
"Anything the matter in there?"
Mr. Paxton threw the door wide open. A porter was standing in the
lighted corridor.
"A good deal's the matter. Burglary's the matter."
"Burglary?"
"Yes, burglary. I caught a man in the very act of opening my window,
so I had a pop at him. He appears to have got off; but his ladder he
has left behind."
Other people came into the room, among them the manager. An
examination of the premises was made from without. The man had
escaped; but the precipitancy of his descent was evidenced by the fact
that his lantern, falling from his grasp, had been shattered to
fragments on the ground.
The fragments he had not stayed to gather. Still less had he and his
associates stood on the order of their going sufficiently long to
enable them to remove the ladder.