THE
SKELETON KEY
BY
BERNARD CAPES
AUTHOR OF “THE GREAT SKENE MYSTERY,”
“A CASTLE IN SPAIN,” ETC., ETC.
WITH INTRODUCTION
BY
G. K. CHESTERTON
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
INTRODUCTION.
To introduce the last book by the late Bernard Capes is a sad sort
of honour in more ways than one; for not only was his death untimely
and unexpected, but he had a mind of that fertile type which must
always leave behind it, with the finished life, a sense of unfinished
labour. From the first his prose had a strong element of poetry, which
an appreciative reader could feel even more, perhaps, when it refined
a frankly modern and even melodramatic theme, like that of this
mystery story, than when it gave dignity, as in “Our Lady of
Darkness,” to more tragic or more historic things. It may seem a
paradox to say that he was insufficiently appreciated because he did
popular things well. But it is true to say that he always gave a touch
of distinction to a detective story or a tale of adventure; and so
gave it where it was not valued, because it was not expected. In a
sense, in this department of his work at least, he carried on the
tradition of the artistic conscience of Stevenson; the technical
liberality of writing a penny-dreadful so as to make it worth a pound.
In his short stories, as in his historical studies, he did indeed
permit himself to be poetic in a more direct and serious fashion; but
in his touch upon such tales as this the same truth may be traced. It
is a good general rule that a poet can be known not only in his poems,
but in the very titles of his poems. In the case of many works of
Bernard Capes, “The Lake of Wine,” for instance, the title is itself a
poem. And that case would alone illustrate what I mean about a certain
transforming individual magic, with which he touched the mere
melodrama of mere modernity. Numberless novels of crime have been
concerned with a lost or stolen jewel; and “The Lake of Wine” was
merely the name of a ruby. Yet even the name is original, exactly in
the detail that is hardly ever original. Hundreds of such precious
stones have been scattered through sensational fiction; and hundreds
of them have been called “The Sun of the Sultan” or “The Eye of
Vishnu” or “The Star of Bengal.” But even in such a trifle as the
choice of the title, an indescribable and individual fancy is felt; a
sub-conscious dream of some sea like a sunset, red as blood and
intoxicant as wine. This is but a small example; but the same element
clings, as if unconsciously, to the course of the same story. Many
another eighteenth century hero has ridden on a long road to a lonely
house; but Bernard Capes, by something fine and personal in the
treatment, does succeed in suggesting that at least along that
particular road, to that particular house, no man had ever ridden
before. We might put this truth flippantly, and therefore falsely, by
saying he put superior work into inferior works. I should not admit
the distinction; for I deny that there is necessarily anything
inferior in sensationalism, when it can really awaken sensations. But
the truer way of stating it would perhaps be this; that to a type of
work which generally is, for him or anybody else, a work of invention,
he always added at least one touch of imagination.
The detective or mystery tale, in which this last book is an
experiment, involves in itself a problem for the artist, as odd as any
of the problems which it puts to the policeman. A detective story
might well be in a special sense a spiritual tragedy; since it is a
story in which even the moral sympathies may be in doubt. A police
romance is almost the only romance in which the hero may turn out to
be the villain, or the villain to be the hero. We know that Mr.
Osbaldistone’s business has not been betrayed by his son Frank, though
possibly by his nephew Rashleigh. We are quite sure that Colonel
Newcome’s company has not been conspired against by his son Clive,
though possibly by his nephew Barnes. But there is a stage in a story
like “The Moonstone,” when we are meant to suspect Franklin Blake the
hero, as he is suspected by Rachel Verinder the heroine; there is a
stage in Mr. Bentley’s “Trent’s Last Case” when the figure of Mr.
Marlowe is as sinister as the figure of Mr. Manderson. The obvious
result of this technical trick is to make it impossible, or at least
unfair, to comment, not only on the plot, but even on the characters;
since each of the characters should be an unknown quantity. The
Italians say that translation is treason; and here at least is a case
where criticism is treason. I have too great a love or lust for the
_roman policier_ to spoil sport in so unsportsmanlike a fashion; but I
cannot forbear to comment on the ingenious inspiration by which in
this story, one of the characters contrives to remain really an
unknown quantity, by a trick of verbal evasion, which he himself
defends, half convincingly, as a scruple of verbal veracity. That is
the quality of Bernard Capes’ romances that remains in my own memory;
a quality, as it were, too subtle for its own subject. Men may well go
back to find the poems thus embedded in his prose.
G. K. Chesterton.
[DEDICATION.]
Mrs Bernard Capes wishes to express her gratitude to Mr Chesterton for
his appreciative introduction to her husband’s last work, and to Mr A.
K. Cook for his invaluable assistance in preparing it for the press.
Winchester
CONTENTS.
Introduction
I. My First Meeting with the Baron
II. My Second Meeting with the Baron
III. Wildshott
IV. I Am Interested in the Baron
V. The Baron Continues to Interest Me
VI. “That Thunders in the Index”
VII. The Baron Visits the Scene of the Crime
VIII. An Entr’acte
IX. The Inquest
X. Afterwards
XI. The Baron Drives
XII. The Baron Walks
XIII. Accumulating Evidence
XIV. The Explosion
XV. The Face on the Wall
XVI. The Baron Finds a Champion
XVII. And Audrey
XVIII. The Baron Returns
XIX. The Dark Horse
XX. The Baron Lays His Cards on the Table
XXI. A Last Word
Footnotes.
THE SKELETON KEY
CHAPTER I.
MY FIRST MEETING WITH THE BARON
(_From the late Mr. Bickerdike’s “Apologia”_[1])
Some few years ago, in the month of September, I happened to be
kicking my heels in Paris, awaiting the arrival there of my friend
Hugo Kennett. We had both been due from the south, I from Vaucluse
and Kennett from the Riviera, and the arrangement had been that we
should meet together for a week in the capital before returning home.
_Enfants perdus!_ Kennett was never anything but unpunctual, and he
failed to turn up to time, or anywhere near it, at the rendezvous. I
was a trifle hipped, as I had come to the end of my circular notes,
and had rather looked to him to help me through with a passing
difficulty; but there was nothing for it but to wait philosophically
on, and to get, pending his appearance, what enjoyment I could out of
life. It was not very much. The Parisian may be a saving man, but
Paris is no city to save in. It is surprising how dull an empty purse
can make it. It had come to this after two days, either that I must
shift my quarters from the Ritz into cheaper lodgings, or abandon my
engagement altogether and go back alone.
One afternoon, aimless and thirsty, I turned into the Café l’Univers
in the Place du Palais Royal, and sat down at one of the little tables
under the awning where was a vacant chair. This is a busy spot, upon
which many streets converge, and one may rest there idly and study an
infinite variety of human types. There was a man seated not far from
me, against the glass side of the verandah whose occupation caught my
attention. He was making very rapidly in a minute-book pencil notes of
all the conspicuous ladies’ hats that passed him. It was extraordinary
to observe the speed and fidelity with which he secured his
transcripts. A few, apparently random, sweeps of the pencil in his
thin nervous fingers, and there, in the flitting of a figure, was some
unconscious head ravished of its most individual idea. It reminded me
of the “wig-snatching” of the eighteenth century; yet I could not but
admire the dexterity of the thief, as, sitting behind him, I followed
his skilful movements.
“A clever dog that, sir,” said a throaty voice beside me.
It came from a near neighbour, whom I had not much observed until
now--a large-faced, clean-shaved gentleman of a very full body and a
comfortable complacent expression. He was dressed in a baggy
light-grey suit, wore a loose Panama hat on his head, and smelt,
pleasantly and cleanly, of snuff. On the table before him stood a
tumbler of grenadine and soda stuffed with lumps of ice, and with a
couple of straws sticking from it.
“Most,” I answered. “What would you take him to be?”
“Eh?” said the stranger. “Without prejudice, now, a milliner’s
pander--will that do?”
I thought it an admissible term, and said so, adding, “or a
fashion-plate artist?”
“Surely,” replied the stranger. “A distinction without a difference,
is it not?”
No more was said for the moment, while I sat covertly studying the
speaker. He reminded me a little of the portraits of Thiers, only
without the spectacles. A placid, well-nourished benevolence had been
his prominent feature, were it not somehow for the qualification of
the eyes. Those were as perpetually alert, busy, observant, as the
rest was seemingly supine. They appeared to “peck” for interests among
the moving throng, as a hen pecks for scattered grain.
“Wonderful hands,” he said suddenly, coming back to the artist. “Do
you notice anything characteristic about them now?”
“No,” I said. “What?”
He did not answer, but applied for a refreshing moment or two to his
grenadine.
“Ah!” he said, leaning back again, with a relishing motion of his
lips. “A comfortable seat and a cool glass, and we have here the best
café-chantant in the world.”
“Well, it suits me,” I agreed--“to pass the time.”
“Ah!” he said, “your friend is unpunctual?”
I yawned inexcusably.
“He always is. What would you think of an appointment, sir, three days
overdue?”
“I should think of it with philosophy, having the Ritz cuisine and
cellar to fall back upon.”
I turned to him interestedly, my hands behind my head.
“You have?”
“No, but you,” said he.
I was a bit puzzled and amused; but curious, too.
“You are not staying at the Ritz?” I asked. He shook his head
good-humouredly. “Then how do you know I am?”
“There is not much mystery in that,” said he. “You happened to be
standing on the steps when I happened to be passing. The rest you have
admitted.”
“And among all these”--I waved my hand comprehensively--“you could
remember me from that one glimpse?”
He laughed, but again ignored my question.
“How did you know,” I persisted, “that my friend was a man?”
“You yourself,” said he, “supplied the gender.”
“But not in the first instance.”
“No, not in the first instance,” he agreed, and said no more.
“You don’t like the Ritz?” I asked after an interval, just to talk and
be talked to. I was horribly bored, that is the truth, by my own
society; and here was at least a compatriot to share some of its
burden with me.
“I never said so,” he answered. “But I confess it is too sumptuous for
me. I lodge at the Hôtel Montesquieu, if you would know.”
“Where is that, may I ask?”
“It is in the Rue Montesquieu, but a step from here.”
“I should like, if you don’t mind, to hear something of it. I am at
the Ritz, true, but in a furiously economical mood.”
“Certainly,” he answered, with perfect good-humour. “It would not
suit all people; it does not even figure in the guides; but for those
of an unexacting disposition--well it might serve--to pass the time.
You can have your good bedroom there and your adequate _petit
déjeuner_--nothing more. For meals, there is a Duval’s across the road,
or, more particularly, the Restaurant au Bœuf à la mode in the Rue de
Valois close by, where such delicacies may be tasted as _sole à la
Russe_, or _noisettes d’agneau à la Réjane_. Try it.”
I was half thinking I would, and wondering how I could express my
sense of obligation to my new acquaintance, when a sudden crash and
scream in the road brought us both to our feet. The hat-sketcher,
having finished with his task and gone, had stepped thoughtlessly off
the kerb right under the shafts of a passing cab.
For a tranquil body, my companion showed the most curious excitement
over the accident. Uttering broken exclamations of reproof and
concern, he hurried down, as fast as his bulk would permit him, to the
scene of the mishap, about which a crowd was already swarming. I could
see little of what followed; but, the press after a time dispersing, I
made shift to inquire of an onlooker as to the nature of the victim’s
hurt, and was told that the man had been taken off to the St. Antoine
Hospital in the very cab which had run him down, my friend of the
Panama hat accompanying him. And so there for the moment our
acquaintance ended.
But we met again at the Montesquieu--whither I had actually
transferred my quarters in the interval--a day or two later. He came
down into the hall just as I had entered it from the street, and
greeted me and pressed my arm paternally.
“But this will not do at all,” he said. “This will not do at all,” and
summoned the hôtelier from his little dark room off the passage.
“I am sorry, Monsieur,” he said, when the bowing goodman appeared, “to
find such scant respect paid to my recommendation. If this is the
treatment accorded to my patronage, I must convey it elsewhere.”
The proprietor was quite amazed, shocked, confounded. What had he
done to merit this severe castigation from M. Le Sage? If M. le Baron
would but condescend to particularise his offence, the resources of
his establishment were at M. le Baron’s command to remedy it.
“That is easily specified,” was M. le Baron’s answer. “I sing the
modest praises of your hotel to my friend, Mr. Bickerdike; on the
strength of these my friend decides to give you a trial. What is the
result? You put him into number 19, where the aspect is gloomy, where
the paper peels off the wall; where to my certain suspicion there are
bugs.”
I laughed, not quite liking this appropriation, but the landlord was
profuse in his apologies. Not for a moment had he guessed that I was a
friend of M. le Baron Le Sage; I had not informed him of the fact; it
was a mere question of expediency: Number 19 happened to be the only
room vacant at the moment; but since--in short, I was transferred
straightway to a very good _appartement_ in the front, where were
ample space and comfort, and a powder-closet to poke my head into if I
wished, and invoke the ghosts of the dead lords of Montesquieu, whose
Hôtel this had once been.
Now I should have been grateful for M. le Baron’s friendly offices,
and I hope I was, but with a dash of reservation. I did not know what
to make of him, in fact, and the uncertainty kept me on my guard. Nor
was I the more reassured upon his commiserating me presently on the
fact of my friend, Mr. Kennett, not having yet turned up. So he had
found out my friend’s name? That might be possible through an inquiry
at the Ritz, where Kennett was expected. But why was he interested in
inquiring at all? Then, as to my own name; he might have ascertained
that, of course, of my present landlord--a pardonable curiosity, only
somehow coloured by his unauthorised examination of my room. What had
he wanted in there in the first instance? On the other hand, he was
evidently held, for whatever reason, in high respect by the
proprietor; and if the reason itself was to seek for me, I had
certainly no grounds for suspecting its adequate claims. He _appeared_
to be a man of education and some distinction, not to speak of his
title, which, however, might be territorial and of small account. And,
assuredly, he did not seem French, unless by deliberate adoption. His
speech, appearance, habit of mind, were all as English as the shoes he
wore on his feet.
I asked him, on that day of his service to me, how it had gone with
the poor hat-sketcher whom, I had understood, he had accompanied to
the hospital. He seemed to regard my question as if for a moment it
puzzled him, and then he answered:--
“O, the artist! O, yes, to be sure. I accompanied him, did I? Yes,
yes. An old house this, Mr. Bickerdike--a fragment of old Paris. If
there is nothing more I can do for you, I think I will be going.”
So it always was on the few further occasions which brought us
together. He could not, or would not, answer a direct question
directly; he seemed to love secrecy and evasion for their own sake,
and for the opportunity they gave him for springing some valueless
surprises on the unsuspecting. Well, he should not have his little
vanity for me. There is nothing so tiresome as that habit of
meaningless reserve, of hoarding information which there can be no
possible objection to disseminating; but some people seem to have it.
I responded by asking no more questions of M. le Baron, and I only
hope my incuriosity disappointed him. The next day, or the day after,
Kennett turned up, and I left the Montesquieu for my original
quarters.