After a while Lexman resumed his story.
“I told you that there was a man at the palazzo named Salvolio. Salvolio
was a man who had been undergoing a life sentence in one of the prisons
of southern Italy. In some mysterious fashion he escaped and got across
the Adriatic in a small boat. How Kara found him I don't know. Salvolio
was a very uncommunicative person. I was never certain whether he was
a Greek or an Italian. All that I am sure about is that he was the most
unmitigated villain next to his master that I have ever met.
“He was a quick man with his knife and I have seen him kill one of the
guards whom he had thought was favouring me in the matter of diet with
less compunction than you would kill a rat.
“It was he who gave me this scar,” John Lexman pointed to his cheek.
“In his master's absence he took upon himself the task of conducting
a clumsy imitation of Kara's persecution. He gave me, too, the only
glimpse I ever had of the torture poor Grace underwent. She hated dogs,
and Kara must have come to know this and in her sleeping room--she was
apparently better accommodated than I--he kept four fierce beasts so
chained that they could almost reach her.
“Some reference to my wife from this low brute maddened me beyond
endurance and I sprang at him. He whipped out his knife and struck at
me as I fell and I escaped by a miracle. He evidently had orders not to
touch me, for he was in a great panic of mind, as he had reason to be,
because on Kara's return he discovered the state of my face, started
an enquiry and had Salvolio taken to the courtyard in the true eastern
style and bastinadoed until his feet were pulp.
“You may be sure the man hated me with a malignity which almost rivalled
his employer's. After Grace's death Kara went away suddenly and I was
left to the tender mercy of this man. Evidently he had been given a
fairly free hand. The principal object of Kara's hate being dead,
he took little further interest in me, or else wearied of his hobby.
Salvolio began his persecutions by reducing my diet. Fortunately I ate
very little. Nevertheless the supplies began to grow less and less, and
I was beginning to feel the effects of this starvation system when there
happened a thing which changed the whole course of my life and opened to
me a way to freedom and to vengeance.
“Salvolio did not imitate the austerity of his master and in Kara's
absence was in the habit of having little orgies of his own. He would
bring up dancing girls from Durazzo for his amusement and invite
prominent men in the neighbourhood to his feasts and entertainments, for
he was absolutely lord of the palazzo when Kara was away and could do
pretty well as he liked. On this particular night the festivities had
been more than usually prolonged, for as near as I could judge by the
day-light which was creeping in through my window it was about four
o'clock in the morning when the big steel-sheeted door was opened and
Salvolio came in, more than a little drunk. He brought with him, as I
judged, one of his dancing girls, who apparently was privileged to see
the sights of the palace.
“For a long time he stood in the doorway talking incoherently in a
language which I think must have been Turkish, for I caught one or two
words.
“Whoever the girl was, she seemed a little frightened, I could see that,
because she shrank back from him though his arm was about her shoulders
and he was half supporting his weight upon her. There was fear, not only
in the curious little glances she shot at me from time to time, but also
in the averted face. Her story I was to learn. She was not of the class
from whence Salvolio found the dancers who from time to time came up to
the palace for his amusement and the amusement of his guests. She was
the daughter of a Turkish merchant of Scutari who had been received into
the Catholic Church.
“Her father had gone down to Durazzo during the first Balkan war and
then Salvolio had seen the girl unknown to her parent, and there had
been some rough kind of courtship which ended in her running away on
this very day and joining her ill-favoured lover at the palazzo. I tell
you this because the fact had some bearing on my own fate.
“As I say, the girl was frightened and made as though to go from the
dungeon. She was probably scared both by the unkempt prisoner and by the
drunken man at her side. He, however, could not leave without showing to
her something of his authority. He came lurching over near where I lay,
his long knife balanced in his hand ready for emergencies, and broke
into a string of vituperations of the character to which I was quite
hardened.
“Then he took a flying kick at me and got home in my ribs, but again I
experienced neither a sense of indignity nor any great hurt. Salvolio
had treated me like this before and I had survived it. In the midst of
the tirade, looking past him, I was a new witness to an extraordinary
scene.
“The girl stood in the open doorway, shrinking back against the door,
looking with distress and pity at the spectacle which Salvolio's
brutality afforded. Then suddenly there appeared beside her a tall Turk.
He was grey-bearded and forbidding. She looked round and saw him, and
her mouth opened to utter a cry, but with a gesture he silenced her and
pointed to the darkness outside.
“Without a word she cringed past him, her sandalled feet making no
noise. All this time Salvolio was continuing his stream of abuse, but he
must have seen the wonder in my eyes for he stopped and turned.
“The old Turk took one stride forward, encircled his body with his left
arm, and there they stood grotesquely like a couple who were going to
start to waltz. The Turk was a head taller than Salvolio and, as I could
see, a man of immense strength.
“They looked at one another, face to face, Salvolio rapidly recovering
his senses... and then the Turk gave him a gentle punch in the ribs.
That is what it seemed like to me, but Salvolio coughed horribly, went
limp in the other's arms and dropped with a thud to the ground. The Turk
leant down soberly and wiped his long knife on the other's jacket before
he put it back in the sash at his waist.
“Then with a glance at me he turned to go, but stopped at the door and
looked back thoughtfully. He said something in Turkish which I could not
understand, then he spoke in French.
“'Who are you?' he asked.
“In as few words as possible I explained. He came over and looked at the
manacle about my leg and shook his head.
“'You will never be able to get that undone,' he said.
“He caught hold of the chain, which was a fairly long one, bound it
twice round his arm and steadying his arm across his thigh, he turned
with a sudden jerk. There was a smart 'snap' as the chain parted. He
caught me by the shoulder and pulled me to my feet. 'Put the chain
about your waist, Effendi,' he said, and he took a revolver from his
belt and handed it to me.
“'You may need this before we get back to Durazzo,' he said. His belt
was literally bristling with weapons--I saw three revolvers beside the
one I possessed--and he had, evidently come prepared for trouble. We
made our way from the dungeon into the clean-smelling world without.
“It was the second time I had been in the open air for eighteen months
and my knees were trembling under me with weakness and excitement. The
old man shut the prison door behind us and walked on until we came up to
the girl waiting for us by the lakeside. She was weeping softly and he
spoke to her a few words in a low voice and her weeping ceased.
“'This daughter of mine will show us the way,' he said, 'I do not know
this part of the country--she knows it too well.'
“To cut a long story short,” said Lexman, “we reached Durazzo in the
afternoon. There was no attempt made to follow us up and neither my
absence nor the body of Salvolio were discovered until late in the
afternoon. You must remember that nobody but Salvolio was allowed
into my prison and therefore nobody had the courage to make any
investigations.
“The old man got me to his house without being observed, and brought a
brother-in-law or some relative of his to remove the anklet. The name of
my host was Hussein Effendi.
“That same night we left with a little caravan to visit some of the old
man's relatives. He was not certain what would be the consequence of
his act, and for safety's sake took this trip, which would enable him
if need be to seek sanctuary with some of the wilder Turkish tribes, who
would give him protection.
“In that three months I saw Albania as it is--it was an experience never
to be forgotten!
“If there is a better man in God's world than Hiabam Hussein Effendi,
I have yet to meet him. It was he who provided me with money to leave
Albania. I begged from him, too, the knife with which he had killed
Salvolio. He had discovered that Kara was in England and told me
something of the Greek's occupation which I had not known before. I
crossed to Italy and went on to Milan. There it was that I learnt that
an eccentric Englishman who had arrived a few days previously on one of
the South American boats at Genoa, was in my hotel desperately ill.
“My hotel I need hardly tell you was not a very expensive one and we
were evidently the only two Englishmen in the place. I could do no less
than go up and see what I could do for the poor fellow who was pretty
well gone when I saw him. I seemed to remember having seen him before
and when looking round for some identification I discovered his name I
readily recalled the circumstance.
“It was George Gathercole, who had returned from South America. He was
suffering from malarial fever and blood poisoning and for a week, with
an Italian doctor, I fought as hard as any man could fight for his
life. He was a trying patient,” John Lexman smiled suddenly at the
recollection, “vitriolic in his language, impatient and imperious in his
attitude to his friends. He was, for example, terribly sensitive about
his lost arm and would not allow either the doctor or my-self to enter
the room until he was covered to the neck, nor would he eat or drink in
our presence. Yet he was the bravest of the brave, careless of himself
and only fretful because he had not time to finish his new book. His
indomitable spirit did not save him. He died on the 17th of January of
this year. I was in Genoa at the time, having gone there at his request
to save his belongings. When I returned he had been buried. I went
through his papers and it was then that I conceived my idea of how I
might approach Kara.
“I found a letter from the Greek, which had been addressed to Buenos
Ayres, to await arrival, and then I remembered in a flash, how Kara had
told me he had sent George Gathercole to South America to report upon
possible gold formations. I was determined to kill Kara, and determined
to kill him in such a way that I myself would cover every trace of my
complicity.
“Even as he had planned my downfall, scheming every step and covering
his trail, so did I plan to bring about his death that no suspicion
should fall on me.
“I knew his house. I knew something of his habits. I knew the fear in
which he went when he was in England and away from the feudal guards who
had surrounded him in Albania. I knew of his famous door with its steel
latch and I was planning to circumvent all these precautions and bring
to him not only the death he deserved, but a full knowledge of his fate
before he died.
“Gathercole had some money,--about 140 pounds--I took 100 pounds of
this for my own use, knowing that I should have sufficient in London
to recompense his heirs, and the remainder of the money with all such
documents as he had, save those which identified him with Kara, I handed
over to the British Consul.
“I was not unlike the dead man. My beard had grown wild and I knew
enough of Gathercole's eccentricities to live the part. The first step
I took was to announce my arrival by inference. I am a fairly good
journalist with a wide general knowledge and with this, corrected by
reference to the necessary books which I found in the British Museum
library, I was able to turn out a very respectable article on Patagonia.
“This I sent to The Times with one of Gathercole's cards and, as you
know, it was printed. My next step was to find suitable lodgings between
Chelsea and Scotland Yard. I was fortunate in being able to hire a
furnished flat, the owner of which was going to the south of France for
three months. I paid the rent in advance and since I dropped all the
eccentricities I had assumed to support the character of Gathercole, I
must have impressed the owner, who took me without references.
“I had several suits of new clothes made, not in London,” he smiled,
“but in Manchester, and again I made myself as trim as possible to avoid
after-identification. When I had got these together in my flat, I
chose my day. In the morning I sent two trunks with most of my personal
belongings to the Great Midland Hotel.
“In the afternoon I went to Cadogan Square and hung about until I saw
Kara drive off. It was my first view of him since I had left Albania and
it required all my self-control to prevent me springing at him in the
street and tearing at him with my hands.
“Once he was out of sight I went to the house adopting all the style and
all the mannerisms of poor Gathercole. My beginning was unfortunate for,
with a shock, I recognised in the valet a fellow-convict who had
been with me in the warder's cottage on the morning of my escape from
Dartmoor. There was no mistaking him, and when I heard his voice I was
certain. Would he recognise me I wondered, in spite of my beard and my
eye-glasses?
“Apparently he did not. I gave him every chance. I thrust my face into
his and on my second visit challenged him, in the eccentric way which
poor old Gathercole had, to test the grey of my beard. For the moment
however, I was satisfied with my brief experiment and after a reasonable
interval I went away, returning to my place off Victoria Street and
waiting till the evening.
“In my observation of the house, whilst I was waiting for Kara to
depart, I had noticed that there were two distinct telephone wires
running down to the roof. I guessed, rather than knew, that one of these
telephones was a private wire and, knowing something of Kara's fear, I
presumed that that wire would lead to a police office, or at any rate
to a guardian of some kind or other. Kara had the same arrangement in
Albania, connecting the palazzo with the gendarme posts at Alesso. This
much Hussein told me.
“That night I made a reconnaissance of the house and saw Kara's window
was lit and at ten minutes past ten I rang the bell and I think it was
then that I applied the test of the beard. Kara was in his room, the
valet told me, and led the way upstairs. I had come prepared to deal
with this valet for I had an especial reason for wishing that he should
not be interrogated by the police. On a plain card I had written the
number he bore in Dartmoor and had added the words, 'I know you, get out
of here quick.'
“As he turned to lead the way upstairs I flung the envelope containing
the card on the table in the hall. In an inside pocket, as near to my
body as I could put them, I had the two candles. How I should use them
both I had already decided. The valet ushered me into Kara's room and
once more I stood in the presence of the man who had killed my girl and
blotted out all that was beautiful in life for me.”
There was a breathless silence when he paused. T. X. leaned back in his
chair, his head upon his breast, his arms folded, his eyes watching the
other intently.
The Chief Commissioner, with a heavy frown and pursed lips, sat stroking
his moustache and looking under his shaggy eyebrows at the speaker. The
French police officer, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his head
on one side, was taking in every word eagerly. The sallow-faced Russian,
impassive of face, might have been a carved ivory mask. O'Grady,
the American, the stump of a dead cigar between his teeth, shifted
impatiently with every pause as though he would hurry forward the
denouement.
Presently John Lexman went on.
“He slipped from the bed and came across to meet me as I closed the door
behind me.
“'Ah, Mr. Gathercole,' he said, in that silky tone of his, and held out
his hand.
“I did not speak. I just looked at him with a sort of fierce joy in my
heart the like of which I had never before experienced.
“'And then he saw in my eyes the truth and half reached for the
telephone.
“But at that moment I was on him. He was a child in my hands. All the
bitter anguish he had brought upon me, all the hardships of starved days
and freezing nights had strengthened and hardened me. I had come back to
London disguised with a false arm and this I shook free. It was merely a
gauntlet of thin wood which I had had made for me in Paris.
“I flung him back on the bed and half knelt, half laid on him.
“'Kara,' I said, 'you are going to die, a more merciful death than my
wife died.'
“He tried to speak. His soft hands gesticulated wildly, but I was half
lying on one arm and held the other.
“I whispered in his ear:
“'Nobody will know who killed you, Kara, think of that! I shall go scot
free--and you will be the centre of a fine mystery! All your letters
will be read, all your life will be examined and the world will know you
for what you are!'
“I released his arm for just as long as it took to draw my knife and
strike. I think he died instantly,” John Lexman said simply.
“I left him where he was and went to the door. I had not much time to
spare. I took the candles from my pocket. They were already ductile from
the heat of my body.
“I lifted up the steel latch of the door and propped up the latch with
the smaller of the two candles, one end of which was on the middle
socket and the other beneath the latch. The heat of the room I knew
would still further soften the candle and let the latch down in a short
time.
“I was prepared for the telephone by his bedside though I did not
know to whither it led. The presence of the paper-knife decided me. I
balanced it across the silver cigarette box so that one end came under
the telephone receiver; under the other end I put the second candle
which I had to cut to fit. On top of the paper-knife at the candle end
I balanced the only two books I could find in the room, and fortunately
they were heavy.
“I had no means of knowing how long it would take to melt the candle
to a state of flexion which would allow the full weight of the books to
bear upon the candle end of the paper-knife and fling off the receiver.
I was hoping that Fisher had taken my warning and had gone. When I
opened the door softly, I heard his footsteps in the hall below. There
was nothing to do but to finish the play.
“I turned and addressed an imaginary conversation to Kara. It was
horrible, but there was something about it which aroused in me a curious
sense of humour and I wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh!
“I heard the man coming up the stairs and closed the door gingerly. What
length of time would it take for the candle to bend!
“To completely establish the alibi I determined to hold Fisher in
conversation and this was all the easier since apparently he had not
seen the envelope I had left on the table downstairs. I had not long
to wait for suddenly with a crash I heard the steel latch fall in its
place. Under the effect of the heat the candle had bent sooner than I
had expected. I asked Fisher what was the meaning of the sound and he
explained. I passed down the stairs talking all the time. I found a cab
at Sloane Square and drove to my lodgings. Underneath my overcoat I was
partly dressed in evening kit.
“Ten minutes after I entered the door of my flat I came out a beardless
man about town, not to be distinguished from the thousand others who
would be found that night walking the promenade of any of the great
music-halls. From Victoria Street I drove straight to Scotland Yard. It
was no more than a coincidence that whilst I should have been speaking
with you all, the second candle should have bent and the alarm be given
in the very office in which I was sitting.
“I assure you all in all earnestness that I did not suspect the cause of
that ringing until Mr. Mansus spoke.
“There, gentlemen, is my story!” He threw out his arms.
“You may do with me as you will. Kara was a murderer, dyed a hundred
times in innocent blood. I have done all that I set myself to do--that
and no more--that and no less. I had thought to go away to America, but
the nearer the day of my departure approached, the more vivid became
the memory of the plans which she and I had formed, my girl... my poor
martyred girl!”
He sat at the little table, his hands clasped before him, his face lined
and white.
“And that is the end!” he said suddenly, with a wry smile.
“Not quite!” T. X. swung round with a gasp. It was Belinda Mary who
spoke.
“I can carry it on,” she said.
She was wonderfully self-possessed, thought T. X., but then T. X. never
thought anything of her but that she was “wonderfully” something or the
other.
“Most of your story is true, Mr. Lexman,” said this astonishing girl,
oblivious of the amazed eyes that were staring at her, “but Kara
deceived you in one respect.”
“What do you mean?” asked John Lexman, rising unsteadily to his feet.
For answer she rose and walked back to the door with the chintz curtains
and flung it open: There was a wait which seemed an eternity, and then
through the doorway came a girl, slim and grave and beautiful.
“My God!” whispered T. X. “Grace Lexman!”