THE MAN IN THE CHAIR
It was only then that the full meaning of what had taken place began
to dawn upon Dorothy. It was only when the door had been opened and
shut, and the stranger was gone, that she commenced to realise what
kind of a drama this was which had been enacted before her eyes; that
it was not a comedy, but a tragedy; in which the most tragic part was
probably still to come. It was odd how silent it was when the stranger
had gone. Unconsciously she had found comfort in his neighbourhood,
his presence. When that was withdrawn, only the unspeakable remained.
Not the least terrible part of it was that, so soon as it became clear
to her that she really was alone, she could not take her eyes off the
figure in the chair. She would have given more than she had ever had
if Mr Emmett would only have moved; if only he would make some effort
to alter what must be a position of such obvious discomfort. Though
she had come to regard him almost as if he were the bad ogre of some
fairy tale, at that moment she would rather he should do anything than
keep so still; she was more afraid of him dead than alive; especially
as each instant the feeling oppressed her more and more that he was
dead because of her. Actually--practically--it was she who had killed
him. If she had only made her presence known; if she had only moved;
if she had only uttered a sound--the thing would not have been done
which had been done; of that she was assured. That, morally, she was
an accomplice in this man's killing, she knew, if no one else did.
From the moment in which she had discovered the stranger in the room,
and had begun to watch, and to listen, she had seen the coming event
casting its shadow before; she knew that now, as she had known it
then. Some instinct had told her that the fury which possessed the
stranger was of the sort which, to use a phrase, makes a man "see
red"; that because of him Mr Emmett was in danger--although Mr Emmett
himself had not suspected it, she knew. She had seen it in the
stranger's face, in his manner; she had felt it in the air.
Not only had she had, in a sense, the prophetic vision, she had
rejoiced to have it. She herself had had such a loathing for the man,
had stood in such terror of him, that when that queer instinct began
to tell her that it was quite within the range of possibility that the
stranger might act as executioner the blood began to run pleasurably
faster through her veins. Expectation became desire; she waited
eagerly for him to strike the blow; knowing, before it came, that it
was coming. Was that not to be his accomplice? Her hope had been that
he would do what she felt he was about to do; although she might have
stayed him with the movement of a finger she had given no sign. It was
useless for her to tell herself that she had not expected that he
would actually kill him: perhaps the stranger himself had not meant
actually to kill him. She had foreseen that he would probably assail
him with violence; and had been willing that he should use what
violence he chose. A little more--a little less--what did it matter?
Only in the event of the stranger getting the worst of it would she
have interposed; she would not have cared how much worsted Mr Emmett
might have been. The proof that he had been worsted was there before
her, in the chair. The result being, so far as she herself was
concerned, that, as has been said, she was more afraid of him dead
than alive.
How long, after she was left alone with her guardian, she remained
motionless behind that curtain, she never knew. Before, while the
drama was being acted, she would not have revealed herself on any
account, lest she should balk the principal player; now her capacity
to do so seemed to have left her. It was so still in the room that she
dared not disturb the silence. She kept her eyes fastened to that bare
place, looking at what she could not help but look; motionless,
scarcely breathing; as if some form of paralysis had riveted her in
that one position. But, by degrees, in spite of the horror which held
her, there did come to her some dim appreciation of the fact that she
could not stay there all night; for ever. She would have to leave her
hiding-place some time, and show herself to the figure in the chair.
The necessity was a terrible one; but it was a necessity; therefore,
the sooner she came out from behind that curtain the sooner the ordeal
would be over; only let her be sure to go as softly as she could; so
that, making no noise, none might hear her. With this idea of moving
quietly she lifted her hand to part the curtains, and had just
insinuated her fingers between them when the door was opened, and her
hand fell back.
Her first impression was, as she saw the door swinging back upon its
hinges, that it was probably the stranger, who had come back to do she
knew not what. But the person who actually entered was the waiter. His
appearance made her conscious of a sense of shock; she began to shiver
all over; though the strange thing was, not that he should come in
when he did, but that he should not have come before.
This was not one of your foreign waiters; plainly he was English to
the core--an elderly man, with grey hair, slight side-whiskers, a
stoop, and that air of deprecation which comes to some waiters,
possibly because they spend so much of their time in considering the
wishes of others without reference to their own. A decorous person;
possibly one of the institutions of the house. His professional attire
was in better condition than it is apt to be; there was a suggestion
about him of unusual cleanliness, even his hands seemed decently kept;
the napkin which he carried over his arm was spotless. Apparently he
had taken it for granted that, since the meal must have been long
since over, the diners had departed, and that therefore it was not
necessary to knock. He paused at the door for a moment to look about
him. Mr Emmett was hidden by the broad high back of the chair on which
he was sitting. After his momentary hesitation, seeing no one, the
waiter moved forward with the peculiar gait which comes to waiters
after performing, for many years, balancing feats with plates and
dishes. He had not only reached the table, he had begun to gather
together the dessert plates, before he saw Mr Emmett--in his surprise
he nearly dropped a plate.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for not noticing you before, but I'd no
idea----" He stopped short, as if struck by the singularity of the
gentleman's attitude. "I hope, sir, that nothing's happened----" Again
he stopped, perceiving that something indeed had happened. His bearing
changed, his voice dropped. "I do believe----" Leaving his sentences
unfinished appeared, with him, to amount to a habit; he stopped again.
Raising his left hand, with his fingers he rubbed his bristly chin,
delivering himself of a complete sentence at last: "Well, I never
did!" To an outsider the words might not have conveyed much meaning;
they seemed to convey enough meaning to him. Then came the half of a
query. "Whatever is----"
He got no further; seeming to be in a state of such perturbation that,
for the time, he had lost his wits. He stood staring at the man in the
chair as an anxious rabbit might look at a fox which it is not sure is
dead. Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind what was the best thing
for him to do. He went hustling towards the door; when he reached it
he checked himself as if seized with an idea. What the idea was was
made plain when he took the key out of the lock, opened the door, and,
as Dorothy could hear, locked it again on the outside. And again she
was left alone with her guardian.
This time her sensations were worse than before: she was being
punished for her share in what had been done. She became awake to the
fact that with that door locked--and egress, therefore, rendered
impossible--her position had become a most unpleasant one. No doubt
the waiter, declining, wisely enough, to accept more responsibility
than he could help, had gone to tell the news to someone. Soon that
someone would come back with the waiter; the news would be passed on,
sooner or later, to the police. The girl had, of course, no actual
knowledge of the procedure in such cases; she knew more about French
methods than English, but she had sufficient intelligence to be aware
that, ultimately, the police would appear upon the scene. If she was
unable to escape before they came, as, if each time someone went out
of the room, the door was locked, would be the case--and the police
found her there behind the curtain--what would happen to her then?
What conclusions would they draw?
The terror of such a prospect moved her to action--or, at least, to
attempted action. Was there no other way of getting out of the room
except by the door? She turned to the window which was behind her.
Drawing aside the blind she found that it was set with small panes of
coloured glass. She was quick-witted enough to guess that that was
probably because it looked out upon a stable or a yard, or something
equally agreeable; and therefore a good view was a thing not to be
desired. If that were the case then to attempt to escape that way
would be to court discovery. Besides, she remembered that the room was
on the first floor, that the approach from the hall was up a flight of
several stairs; whatever might be on the other side of that window, it
was not likely that it would be easy to reach the ground. Was there no
other way out of the room? She thrust the curtains aside to look--and
heard the key being put into the lock of the door.
She was back again behind the curtain when the door reopened, and the
waiter reappeared, with, at his heels, somebody who was evidently a
personage. A short, cobby man, middle-aged, wearing a gloire de Dijon
rose in the buttonhole of his frock-coat, about him a general air of
being well groomed. The waiter moved quickly towards the table, the
other following close behind him. When they reached the chair the
waiter said nothing; it was unnecessary; the other saw. What he saw
seemed to impress him with a sense of having been subjected to a
personal affront. He asked pettishly:
"What's the meaning of this?" Receiving no answer--the waiter was
again stroking his bristly chin with the fingers of his left hand,
with about him still that suggestion of the anxious rabbit--he
addressed himself to the figure in the chair. "Mr Emmett! Sir!" No
notice being taken he repeated his former futile inquiry: "What the
deuce does this mean?" Then he added, as if the notion had all at once
occurred to him: "He's dead!"
"I'm afraid he is, sir."
The personage went on from discovery to discovery.
"He couldn't have done it himself--look at his head--he couldn't have
smashed it like that--someone must have done it for him."
"Looks as if that were the case, sir."
"Then who can have done it?--in my hotel; with the house full of
people; in a private sitting-room; seated at his own dinner-table!
What have you been doing?"
"Several things; there have been a great many things, sir, to do, with
the house so busy. I've seen and heard nothing of what was taking
place in this room since I came to say there was a gentleman wished to
see him."
"A gentleman? What gentleman?"
"That I couldn't say, sir. A message and a note were brought to me;
which I brought in to Mr Emmett; and he went out to see the
gentleman."
"Went out, did he? He didn't bring the gentleman in here?"
"Not so far as I am aware, sir. They ought to be able to tell you
better about that downstairs."
The personage was looking about him.
"What's all this broken glass?--and what's that?"
He was pointing to the splintered neck of the bottle which the
stranger had left on the table.
"Seems, sir, as if a bottle had been broken."
"A champagne bottle--perhaps----" The personage looked at the waiter;
the waiter looked at him. Possibly it was because of what each saw in
the other's eyes that the speaker left his sentence unfinished. He
broke into petulant anger. "Nice thing this is to happen in my house
right at the beginning of the race week, about the only time in the
year when one does have a chance of making a little money--goodness
only knows what mischief it may do me when it gets known. Who's that
at the door? Shut it at once! You can't come in here!"
It seemed that someone could come in, because someone did--a woman.
She was what is sometimes described as a fine woman, still in the
prime of life; big and well covered, she would probably have turned
the scale at sixteen stone. She wore a black silk dress, which had a
generous train; her ample bust glittered with chains and gewgaws.
Unmistakably this was the hostess, the personage's wife. She stood in
the doorway.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"First of all, Mrs Elsey, be so good as to shut that door. Then, when
you've done that, if you'll take the trouble to walk as far as this,
you will see what is the matter for yourself."
Shutting the door, she walked to the table--and saw.
"Why, whatever! Good gracious! Who's done it?"
"Seems as if someone had--by the looks of him."
"Bob!--what a sight he is! Goodness knows he never was much in the way
of looks, but who'd have thought he ever could have looked like that?
Don't you know who did it?"
"I'd make it hot for him if I did--doing a thing like this in my
house, in my busiest season!"
"There's plenty who might have done it--plenty. No one ever had much
love for him--and small blame to them. Why I only heard, with my own
ears, a man say to him this afternoon: 'By God, Emmett, for two pins,
I'd have your life'--sounded as if he meant it too."
"Perhaps someone gave him the two pins."
This was the waiter. Whether the remark was meant to be humorous, or
merely a suggestion, was not clear. No one heeded him. The personage
went on:
"What man was that? Be careful what you say, Mrs Elsey."
"No need for you to tell me to be careful; I can be that without your
telling me--as careful as anyone. What I say I heard I did hear--I'm
ready to swear to it anywhere, though who the man was I don't know; he
was a stranger to me--but I should know him again among a hundred. He
was a smallish man, with a sharp, clean-shaven face, and a brown suit,
and a white billycock, which he wore a little on one side--he'd
something to do with horses, of that I'm sure. But he's not the only
one who had a grudge against George Emmett. Who, who had anything to
do with him, hadn't? Why, if it comes to that, we'd no cause to love
him."
"Now, Mrs Elsey, none of that sort of talk, if you please; that's a
sort of talk I won't have. It doesn't follow that because a man has a
grudge against another man he wants to kill him."
"Doesn't it? It depends on the man. But whatever did he do it with? I
never saw such a sight as he has made of him!"
"Seems as if he did it with a bottle--a champagne bottle."
"He must have hit him a crack, to make a sight of him like that--why,
his head's all smashed to pulp."
"You can hit a man a crack with a champagne bottle, if you mean
business, and know how to. But this sort of thing won't do--the first
thing we've got to do is to send for the doctor and the police; and,
till they've been, nothing's to be touched; let them find things just
as we did, then they'll be able to draw their own conclusions, and
blame no one. So out you go, Mrs Elsey, and you too, Timmins, and I'll
lock the door, and keep it locked, and, Timmins, you hang about and
see that no one comes near; and, if you want to keep your place, mind
you don't say so much as a syllable to anyone about what's in here,
till I give you leave."
It was not such an easy business as, possibly, the personage would
have wished, to induce his wife to leave the room: she evinced an
uncomfortable curiosity in the details of the scene of which the man
in the chair was such a gruesome centre; had she been left alone, she
might have pushed her curiosity beyond desirable limits. As it was,
her husband had to put his arm through hers, and positively lead her
from the room, she remonstrating as she went. So soon as she was out
the door was slammed, and the key turned on the other side. And once
more, for the third time, Dorothy Gilbert was left alone with her
guardian, from whom there seemed to be as little chance as ever of
escaping. It was by some ironical stroke of fate that he appeared to
guard her better dead than living.