DOROTHY IS LEFT ALONE WITH HER
GUARDIAN FOR THE NIGHT
With the passing minutes the girl's plight took a different shape.
When she had first rushed behind that curtain it had been with a
childish desire to hide; to avoid the man who had threatened her with
kisses; and perhaps worse--for her maiden soul had warned her that he
was one who, if opportunity offered, would not stop at a little. In
sheer childish terror she had fled to the first refuge she could think
of; as if it were a refuge; as if, after an instant's search, he was
not sure to discover her hiding-place, and have her out. The advent of
the stranger if, in a way, it had saved her, had also complicated the
situation; it was not, then, so much discovery she had to fear, as
something it was not good to think of. Indeed, the situation was
reversed; because, had she then taken the initiative and discovered
herself, not only would she have been saved; but also Mr Emmett, and
the stranger. Too late she was beginning to realise that all three
were destroyed: the two living, and the one dead. Practically, in
killing Mr Emmett, the stranger had killed himself, and her. It might
turn out that he had done it actually. And in his action she was aware
that she had been an aider and abettor. So in remaining hidden she had
thrown away her own salvation.
The position now, however, wore a different aspect. Her mental
faculties were more on the alert than they had been; as it seemed to
her, they kept coming and going; so that now she saw clearly, and now
not at all. So far as they enabled her to judge, now, again, her only
hope of immunity rested on her continuing undiscovered. If they found
her all sorts of dreadful consequences would immediately result. For
one thing they would quite probably accuse her of having had at least
a hand in her guardian's death, if she were not the actual assassin;
not unnaturally taking it for granted that her persistent concealment
could only have a criminal meaning. She could only disprove the
charge, if it could be disproved, by shifting the onus of guilt on to
the vanished stranger's shoulders. Already--though, as yet, the thing
might not be acknowledged to herself--in her heart she had arrived at
a final resolution that under no conceivable circumstances would she
bear witness against him. Happen what might; where, in this matter, he
was concerned she would be dumb. Although she had not formulated it in
so many words, she felt that, in what had been done, they had been
partners, even friends; that, though unwittingly, it had been done for
her. Therefore, if to prove her innocence, it should become necessary
to prove his guilt, her doom was sealed. In that case, so soon as they
drew aside the curtain, and found her behind it, her fate was sealed.
It amazed her to think that she had not been discovered already. She
herself was so conscious of her imminent proximity to what had taken
place; was so well aware of how slender a protection that screen of
hanging drapery really was; that it bewildered her that she should
have played, with complete impunity, for so long the part of a
spy--and more. But the continuance of such impunity could not be
counted on. When the police came--and, possibly, they were already on
the threshold--the room would be searched for evidence. Then, in a
moment, her hiding-place would be revealed. She could not wait for
that; she must get away out of the room, before they came. But
how?--since the door was locked.
Parting the curtains, she stepped out from between them, looking about
her eagerly for a key to the riddle. The wildest notions came into her
head. There was a sideboard at one end of the room, with a cupboard
beneath. It might not occur to them to look inside that cupboard;
might there not be room in it for her? A moment's consideration made
her doubt it. She might be able to squeeze herself into a small space;
but, compress herself as she might, she doubted if there would be room
for her inside that cupboard; even if it was empty, which was by no
means sure. Then there was the fireplace; but, though it was
old-fashioned, it was not a large one; she was pretty certain that she
would not be able to force herself up the chimney. But though she
crammed herself into the cupboard, or rammed herself up the flue, she
would still be little better off. That was not at all the sort of
thing she wanted. She would still be in the room: what she wanted
was to get out of the room. Plainly there were only two ways out of
it--the door, and the window. Since the door was locked, only the
window remained.
Drawing back into the recess she turned towards the window; it would
have to be that way, since there was no other--though she threw
herself out of it. Getting inside the blind she tried to raise the
sash; it was immovable; obviously, it was fastened. She knew nothing
of English windows; this was the first she had seen, but she presumed
that it was meant to open. She searched for the fastening, above,
below, on either side; so far as she could learn, there was none;
apparently this window was a fraud--it was not meant to open.
Examining it more closely she saw that there was nothing on either
side to show that it was intended to be moved up and down; the paint
was unbroken; the thing was a fixture.
The discovery startled her; was it an English custom to have no
practicable window in a room? Nothing which would admit fresh air? If
that were so, then, since the door was secured against her, beyond the
slightest shadow of a doubt, she was caught like a rat in a trap, and
only God could help her. She noticed that what looked like two wooden
handles were hung on the ends of cords on either side of this dummy
window, near the top of the sash. Did they mean anything? If they did,
what was it? She gripped the two on the right, and pulled; then the
two on the left, and pulled at them; nothing happened. Then she
perceived that one handle on either side was of dark, and the other of
light, wood; perhaps that might mean something. She took hold of the
lighter handle on either side, and was about to tug, when she heard
the key turned in the lock. Instantly the handles slipped from between
her fingers; but before she could get from behind the blind she heard
the door open, and footsteps come into the room.
This time she was indeed at a disadvantage. To all intents and
purposes she was pinned between the blind and the window; she dared
not move, since the slightest movement caused the stiffened blind to
make an ominous rustling; if she tried to get away from under it she
would be certain to make a noise which would ensure discovery. The
only thing she could do was to stay where she was, and to refrain, if
the thing were possible, from moving even so much as a muscle. She
could see nothing. At first, in the shock of being taken unawares, her
limbs trembled so; her brain was in such a tumult; there was such a
singing in her ears, that she could not even hear. It was only by
degrees that the sounds resolved themselves into distinct voices; and
she became conscious of what was being said.
The personage, who was the landlord, and whose name was Elsey, had
entered the room; and his wife, who declined to be kept out; and a
fair-haired, spectacled young man, who was a doctor; and a policeman,
who chanced to be the nearest at hand. The procession of four moved
towards the table. The landlord spoke; his manner suggested a sense
both of importance and of resentment.
"Here, Dr Nichols, and officer, is Mr Emmett, as you can see for
yourselves. You see him exactly as he was found by Timmins, one of my
waiters; Timmins is outside the door, and can give testimony to that
effect, if required. He has not been touched; and nothing has been
touched; each thing is just as it was when discovered, as Timmins can
testify; and as, for that matter, I can testify; because I know it to
be a fact. As regards this unfortunate man the question now is, is
life extinct?"
He spoke as a showman might have done, who wished to call attention to
the special features of his show. The doctor was bending over the
figure in the chair.
"How long is it since he was found in this condition?"
"It might be ten minutes; it might be a quarter of an hour; it might
be more. Timmins is outside, and will corroborate me, if required. At
the earliest possible moment I sent for you, you happening to be the
medical gentleman who lived nearest."
"I should say that there can be little doubt but that, as you put it,
life's extinct; but it's not easy to examine him properly in this
chair." He looked round the room, his glance passing over the
curtained recess--if he had only known of the girl who shivered within
it! "That couch wouldn't be convenient either: it's not long enough.
Couldn't you have a mattress, or something, placed upon that table? We
might lay him on it, or, for the matter of that, we might manage
without."
"Certainly you can have a mattress. I wish to do everything for Mr
Emmett, who is an old customer of mine, which possibly can be done,
though nothing can be more serious than the inconvenience, to say
nothing of the positive loss, which he is likely to occasion me.
Timmins!" The waiter came just inside the door, rubbing his chin.
"Fetch me a mattress--at once!"
"Yes, sir; where from, sir?"
"Anywhere! Don't be a fool, sir, and stand gaping there; do as you're
told!"
His wife interposed.
"It's you who's the fool, Mr Elsey! Where do you suppose Timmins is
going to get a mattress from? Who do you suppose is going to give it
him?--without my sanction! Come with me, Timmins; I'll see that a
mattress is got."
When she reappeared the waiter was carrying one doubled up on his
shoulder. A space had been cleared on the table, on which the mattress
was placed. Then the landlord, the waiter, the doctor, and the
policeman lifted Mr Emmett between them; the united four seemed to
find him no easier burden than the stranger, singlehanded, had done.
While the doctor was still conducting his gruesome examination someone
else came into the room, an inspector of police. Him the landlord
greeted with bustling cordiality.
"Most dreadful thing has happened, Mr Tinney; so unfortunate for me
that it should have occurred in my house, at this, my busiest season;
one of my oldest customers too, Mr Emmett; I daresay you know him."
"George Emmett? Oh yes, I know him; who doesn't? How did it happen?"
"That's what we don't know--what nobody seems to know--that's the
mystery; the whole affair is most mysterious, and--and lamentable. To
put it at its lowest, with every desire to put self on one side, one
can't help feeling that someone has been guilty of a very unfriendly
act to me. In my business one never knows how this sort of thing may
be taken, especially by one's best customers. At this moment every
bedroom's full; yet directly this becomes known I may have my house
empty on my hands, my race week spoilt!"
"What's the cause of death?" The inspector put this question to the
doctor.
"A blow with some blunt instrument, which must have been delivered
with tremendous force. Some of the frontal cranium bones seem to be
broken in two or three places. Of course my examination has at present
only been superficial, but that appears to be the case."
The landlord proffered an addition of his own:
"It looks as if the blow had been delivered with a champagne bottle."
He held up the broken neck. "We found this on the table, and the
remaining pieces are here upon the floor."
The inspector again addressed the doctor.
"Could it have been done with a champagne bottle?"
The doctor settled his spectacles on his nose. Being a young man, a
sense of responsibility seemed to weigh upon him. His reply was
guarded:
"It might. Of course you understand that I am not prepared to give a
definite opinion, but, to some extent, my present impression is, that
it might have been."
The inspector turned to the landlord.
"Don't you know who was in the room with him?"
"That's the point--we don't; that's to say, not so that we can speak
with certainty. You see, this is a private sitting-room, and occupants
of private sitting-rooms have visitors of whom we know nothing. We
can't keep an eye upon them as if they were public rooms--it stands to
reason. But one of my waiters, named Timmins--this is Timmins--informs
me that he brought a message and a note to Mr Emmett, who was enjoying
his wine after dinner, to the effect that a gentleman wished to see
him; and that he went out to see the gentleman; but whether the
gentleman returned with him Timmins cannot say."
The inspector addressed the waiter.
"When you brought that message was he alone?"
"Yes, sir, he was alone; except for the young lady."
The landlord exclaimed.
"Young lady!--What young lady?"
"Why, sir, the young lady he dined with; he and she dined together."
"This is the first time you've mentioned a young lady."
"Well, sir, he and the young lady had dinner together--dinner was
ordered for two. I thought you knew that."
"I knew nothing about it--this is the first I've heard about it; this
is the first time I've heard about any young lady. Did you know about
it?" This last question was put to his wife. "I knew a lady came with
him; he took two bedrooms, one for himself and one for her; his was
No. 238, hers was No. 49, on the floor above. He wanted her next to
him, they tell me in the office; but the rooms on either side of his
were engaged."
"What was the lady's name?"
"That I don't know; I find he entered himself in the book as 'George
Emmett and Lady.' When I asked Miss Wilson, who was there when he came,
why she let him do it, she said that she asked him what was the lady's
name; and he said it was all right and didn't matter."
"Did you see her?"
"No; I can't say that I did. I'm told she's quite young. She seems to
have brought precious little luggage. There's only a small battered
old tin box in her room."
"I can only say that this is the first mention I've heard of any young
lady; I'd no idea that anyone came with him. I can't understand,
Timmins, why you didn't speak of her before."
"Well, sir, I thought you knew."
"Don't I tell you I didn't know? What do you mean by persisting in
thinking I knew? I understood you to say that when you brought the
message he was alone."
"So he was, sir--except for the young lady."
"Except for the young lady! What the devil do you mean by 'except for
the young lady'? He wasn't alone if she was there--was he?"
The inspector interposed.
"That's all right, Mr Elsey; you leave this to me--this is more in my
line than yours." He tackled the waiter, whose expression, as they
worried him, became more and more rabbitlike. "You say that Mr Emmett
and this young lady dined together?"
"Yes, sir, they did--I waited on them."
"Did she strike you as being young? How old would you have set her
down as?"
"Well, sir, not more than seventeen or eighteen, at the
outside--though perhaps she might have been a little more or
less--it's not easy to tell a young lady's age."
"Did she strike you as being a lady? You know what I mean."
"Yes, sir, I do. Well, sir, I daresay--I should say, sir, she was
quite a lady; most certainly a lady; though plainly dressed; in fact,
for a lady, almost shabby."
"Did she and Mr Emmett appear to be upon good terms?"
"Well, sir, I couldn't exactly say that they did."
"What do you mean by that? On what sort of terms were they? Explain
yourself, man."
"Well, sir--for one thing she never uttered so much as a single word
while I was in the room, neither to me nor to Mr Emmett; not even so
much as yes or no when I handed her a dish. And she scarcely ate
anything; and she never drank anything neither. Mr Emmett told me to
fill her glass with champagne; but I don't believe she ever so much as
put her lips to it--in fact, when I came in and found him there was
her glass just as it was when I filled it. Mr Emmett, he did all the
talking. From the way in which she sat right back in her chair--that's
the chair in which she sat, sir--and never spoke or moved, it seemed
as if she were frightened half out of her life of him."
"Why should she be frightened? Did you hear him say anything to
frighten her?"
"No, sir, nothing I could swear to; but he kept speaking to her in a
chaffing sort of way, which I could see she didn't like."
"Did she seem to be angry?--in a bad temper?"
"No, sir, not so much that as afraid of him."
"When he went out to see this gentleman, did he leave her behind?"
"Yes, sir, he did, on that chair; and I couldn't help noticing how
queer she looked--so white that I couldn't help wondering if she was
feeling ill."
"Was she here when you found him?"
"No, sir; the room was empty."
"Did anyone see her go out of the room?--did you?"
"No, sir; I haven't seen her since I saw her sitting in that chair."
"Then where is she now? Where is she, Mr Elsey?"
"I've no more idea than you have, Mr Tinney. As I've already tried to
explain, till a moment or two ago I hadn't the faintest notion that
there was a lady in the case."
"Mrs Elsey, where is this interesting young lady?"
Dorothy, behind the blind and the curtain, could scarcely refrain from
shrieking: "Here!"
Mrs Elsey shook her head.
"That's more than I can tell you, Mr Tinney. Beyond knowing that a
young lady came with Mr Emmett, I don't know anything. What Timmins
has been telling you is all news to me."
"Someone must know where she is, if she's in the house. I don't want
to make any statement, but it seems to me that she's a most important
witness, and the sooner she's produced the better. If, as Mr Timmins
hints, she was feeling ill, she may have retired to her room. Perhaps,
Mrs Elsey, you won't mind making inquiries. If she isn't in her room,
wherever she is, she must be found, so don't let there be any mistake
about it. I must have an interview with this very interesting young
lady before we are either of us very much older--you understand?"
"No, Mr Tinney, I can't say I do understand; not as you put it. I will
have inquiries made; in fact, I'll make them myself; but as for
finding her, wherever she is, that's another question altogether, and
one for which I decline to be held responsible. Things are coming to a
pretty pass if I'm to be held responsible for the comings and goings
of anyone who chooses to take a room in my house."
The lady sailed out of the room, with her head in the air. The
inspector looked at her husband.
"I'm afraid I've trodden on Mrs Elsey's toes."
"She's very sensitive, Mrs Elsey is--very sensitive. I'm far from
saying that you mean anything; but, as you must see for yourself, she
has enough to bear already, without having more put upon her."
"I'm putting nothing on her. I simply say that that young woman must
be found, and, if your good lady can't find her, someone else will
have to, because found she's got to be--and pretty soon."
"Quite so, Mr Tinney, quite so; no one denies it for a single instant.
I only wish that I had known of her existence sooner; much trouble
might have been saved."
How that was, was not quite clear. The inspector made no comment. He
turned to the waiter.
"Now, Mr Timmins, about this gentleman whom you say Mr Emmett went out
to see. Did you know him? Was he a stranger? What did he look like?"
"That, sir, is more than I can tell you, seeing that I never saw him.
The message and the note were both brought to me by one of the
coffee-room waiters, of the name of Dowling--he may be able to tell
you more than I can."
"Then fetch Mr Dowling here."
The landlord interposed.
"Excuse me!--one moment, Mr Tinney! At present no one knows what has
occurred except ourselves; and, if it is possible, I should like as
few persons as possible to know, till the morning."
"I don't see how you're going to prevent people knowing; you can't
cover a murder with a napkin."
"Exactly; still, at the same time, if you wouldn't mind interviewing
Dowling in my room, instead of here, I shall be only too glad to place
it at your service; and to ensure you all possible privacy."
"Very well; there need be no difficulty about that. Have you finished,
Dr Nichols?"
"I think I may say that, for the present, I have. Of course, a further
examination will be necessary; but I think, under the circumstances,
that that may be postponed till the morning; when, perhaps, I may be
able to have the assistance of one of my colleagues."
"Have the assistance of whoever you like. Have his pockets been
touched, Mr Elsey?"
"Certainly not, Mr Tinney: nothing has been touched--nothing; at
least, not by anyone in my employ. I took care of that."
"Then I'll go through them, in your presence. It's just as well to
have witnesses in cases of this sort." Mr Tinney "went through" the
pockets of the man on the table; subjecting him to a process to which
he would probably have strongly objected had it been in his power to
object. A heterogeneous collection they produced.
"I'll put these things in my handkerchief, Mr Elsey; and, if you don't
mind, I'll draw up a list of them, in your presence, in your room
downstairs. In these cases you can't be too particular; and, as it's
quite within the bounds of possibility that circumstances might arise
in which someone may wish to hold you responsible for the property
which he had in his possession when he came to your hotel, it's only
right and proper that you should know exactly what I have got of his
in my keeping. Now there's one other thing, before we go downstairs;
about this room. If the corpse is to be left here--and I think it'll
just be as well that it should be--then I must lock the door, and take
the key. Have you a pass-key?"
"I believe I have one, somewhere."
"Then you must let me have it; you must let me have any keys which fit
that lock. And you must give me your undertaking that no one, neither
you nor Mrs Elsey, nor anyone, shall come into this room until I
unlock it in the morning. If you won't, or can't, give me such an
undertaking, then I shall have to leave one of my men outside there
all night, to keep an eye on the door, to see that no one does come
in."
"I will certainly give you such an undertaking--certainly I will! I
promise you that no one shall come near the room; no one! You need
have no fears upon that score."
"Then that's all right. Now, I think, we can go downstairs; and I'll
hear what Mr Dowling has to say, about that mysterious gentleman, who,
maybe, wasn't so very mysterious after all. And perhaps Mrs Elsey may
have some news for us of that very interesting young lady; though it
doesn't seem as if she's found her, or we should have heard. I'm not
giving away any official secret when I say that I shouldn't be
surprised if that young lady turns out to be the key of the situation,
and on that account it's just possible that she may not be so easy to
find as we should like her to be. But found she'll have to be; and
found she will be; if our good hostess can't do it, then I will. I
always was reckoned pretty good at hide-and-seek; I generally knew as
well as another whether I was hot or cold. Now, gentlemen, if you
please."
The party passed to the door. The inspector switched off the lights;
drew the door to after him; locked it, and drew out the key; and
Dorothy was left alone, in the darkness, to spend the night with her
guardian.