A FRIEND IN NEED
But that Gebb knew the writer of this curt note, which was hardly
civil in its brevity, he would have been much surprised at the
untoward chance of its coming at so critical a moment to help him out
of his difficulties. As it was, he felt more relieved than astonished,
and hastened to obey the summons without delay. It was not the first
time he had used Mr. Parge as a finger-post to point out the right
path, and in the present instance he was rather vexed with himself
that he had not applied before in this quarter for advice and
guidance. But better late than never, thought he, while repairing his
error, and making up for his neglect by replying in person to the
summons.
Towards Parge, the detective stood in the relation of pupil to master;
for it was Parge who, observing his abilities, had induced him to join
the profession, and had never ceased to praise, and blame, and help
him on to the best of his ability. For some considerable time Parge
had been a noted detective himself, and he had retired within the last
few years into private life, owing to a tendency to obesity and an
increase of years which forbade his further exercising his talents in
the way of thief-catching and assassin-hunting. The criminal
fraternity had rejoiced rather too soon, when they heard that their
great enemy had retired on a pension; for Parge left behind him a
worthy successor in the person of Gebb, and he still instructed the
latter in particularly difficult cases where two heads were better
than one. Mr. Parge, by reason of his eighteen stone, was chained to
an armchair for the rest of his life; but his brain was still active,
and he took a sufficient interest in Scotland Yard affairs to read all
criminal cases, and help his more active deputy to bring them to
satisfactory conclusions. The old detective sat in his house like Odin
on the Air-throne, and--through the medium of the Press--knew much
that was going on in the shady section of society, which he had
watched for so many years. Frequently he instructed Gebb how to act,
and what conclusions to form on slender evidence; and the pupil, when
at a loss, invariably turned to his master for a word of encouragement
and explanation. But that Parge had forestalled him by sending the
note, Gebb, later on, would have laid the case of the Yellow Boudoir
before his--so to speak--sleeping partner.
"I guess the old man will be in a rage," said Gebb to himself as he
hurried with all speed to Pimlico. "I should have seen him before on
the matter, only it has bothered me so. He says he has solved the
mystery--that means he has discovered who killed Miss Ligram. I don't
believe it--with the greatest possible respect for Simon--I don't
believe it."
The ex-detective dwelt in a little house in a little square, and
passed his time usually in a huge armchair, placed conveniently near
the window, so that he could survey the busy world from which he had
withdrawn. He was a Daniel Lambert for size and rotundity, with a
large red face like a full moon, and an impressive girth which would
have made the fortune of an alderman; but his eyes were keen and
bright, and the brain pertaining to this man-mountain of flesh was as
active as one cased in the leanest of bodies. He was clothed in a
gaudy-figured dressing-gown of blue and red, wore carpet slippers on
his large feet, a smoking-cap with a large tassel on his sparse locks,
and sat amid a litter of newspapers. Parge took in nearly every
morning and evening journal in London, and from dawn till dark read
the police news, cutting out all such cases as he deemed worthy of his
attention. In the evening he usually played whist with his wife and
two cronies, or kept the company enthralled by his stories of the
scoundrels he had exposed, and the under-world he had moved in. Mrs.
Parge--an anæmic woman, as slender as Simon was stout--waited on her
husband, and thought him--intellectually and morally, as he was
physically--the greatest of men. She did all the house-work with the
assistance of a small servant, and, being an excellent cook, had
contributed not a little to the weight and size of her spouse by
preparing those appetizing dishes which her Simon loved. The couple
had a comfortable income, a comfortable house, and both enjoyed the
best of health, so that the Parge household was as happy a one as
could be found in London.
"My word, Absalom," said lean Mrs. Parge when she opened the door,
"you're going to have a bad time; you've going to catch it. Simon saw
you from the window, and is getting up steam to receive you."
A series of growls proceeding from the near parlour proclaimed the
truth of this warning, and when Gebb entered the presence of his
master, steam was got up so far that Parge's smoking-cap came skimming
past the head of the visitor. Gebb picked it up and brought it to
Parge, who received him and it with a growl of wrath. At Parge's feet
lay a pile of newspapers, some open, some folded, some with evidence
of scissors' work and some quite whole. On a near table there lay a
large volume bound in red cloth, which Gebb recognized as one of the
series of books in which Parge noted down the more important cases,
and stored his newspaper cuttings. He wondered if the old man had it
at his elbow to throw at him, for Parge's fingers evidently itched to
send the book after the smoking-cap; but, as he refrained from further
violence, Gebb concluded that the volume had been placed within reach
of its owner for some purpose connected with his visit. He was right,
as subsequent events proved.
"Oh!" growled Parge, glaring at the young man, "so you've thought fit
to come at last?"
"I couldn't come sooner, Simon," protested Gebb, taking a chair, "I've
been worried out of my life by this Grangebury case."
"And what good has all your worry done, you fool? You've found out
nothing."
"Indeed I have. I've traced back Miss Ligram's life to the year '93.
She is--but I forget--you don't know the case."
"Don't I!" retorted Parge, sharply. "I know a deal more than you can
tell me. I suppose you are in difficulties over the matter?"
Gebb admitted that he was. "And I candidly confess that I do not see
my way out of them," he added, with an anxious look at Parge.
The fat man grunted. "If you had come to me in the first instance I
could have saved you a lot of trouble."
"Can you explain the mystery, Simon?"
"I can. If I couldn't, I wouldn't have sent for you."
"Do you know the motive for the committal of the crime?"
"I do I've employed my wits to some purpose, I can tell you."
"And the name of the assassin?"
"Yes! Didn't I say in my letter that I had solved the mystery, you
fool?"
"And where he is to be found?" continued Gebb, exhaustively.
For the first time Parge replied in the negative. "There you have me,"
he grumbled, scratching his chin. "I know where he should be, but I
don't know where he is. It will be your business to find him."
"If you'll give me a clue to his whereabouts, I'll do my best," was
the meek reply of the pupil.
"I can't," said the ex-detective, frankly. "I did my best to hunt him
down four years ago, before I retired, and I failed."
"Ho! Ho! So this cove has been in trouble before?"
"Not only in trouble, but in prison."
"On what charge?" asked Gebb, with openly expressed surprise.
"On a charge of murder!"
"What! Is this assassination of Miss Ligram his second crime?"
"It is," replied Parge, enjoying the astonishment of his visitor; "but
this man--I'll tell you his name later on--did not intend to kill Miss
Ligram."
"But he did kill her--strangled her!"
"Not Miss Ligram!" said the fat man, obstinately. "Ligram was an
assumed name."
"I know that, Simon. She has passed under half a dozen names."
"So the papers say. Just run over the names."
Gebb did so promptly, giving the names in order. "Margil, Migral,
Ramlig, Limrag, Milgar, and Ligram."
"Good! Now, Absalom, what strikes you as strange about these names?"
"They are all invented," said Gebb, after a pause.
"Quite so," assented Parge, "and their invention does credit to the
imagination of the lady. Do you notice that the same letters,
differently placed, are used in every instance?"
"Anagrammatic!" said Gebb, with a nod.
"Precisely! She manufactured all these false names out of her real
one."
"A very ingenious idea, Simon. And what is her real name?"
"Gilmar!" replied Parge, slowly. "Miss Ellen Gilmar, of Kirkstone
Hall, near Norminster, Hants."
For quite two minutes Gebb sat in silence, looking at his chief in
blended wonder and amazement Try as he might he could not guess how
the fat man had come by this knowledge. What he, with the use of
his limbs, and the power of the law, had failed to discover, this
invalid--as he might be called--had found out without moving from his
armchair. In a darker age Gebb might have judged Parge to be gifted
with necromantic power, or divination by second sight.
"Are you certain of this?" he asked in a hesitating voice.
"Quite certain!" cried Parge, furiously. "Quite certain. I'm not a
fool."
"But how did you find out?"
"By exercising my memory and joining the past with the present."
"In what way?" asked Gebb, still perplexed "What clue had you?"
"The clue of the Yellow Boudoir."
"The Yellow Boudoir!" repeated Gebb, recalling his own fancy.
"Yes!" said Parge, gravely "Twenty years ago, in a room furnished in
the same fashion, in a room under the roof of Kirkstone Hall, there
was a murder committed. In this book," Parge here laid his hand on the
large volume, "there is a full account of the trial of one, Marmaduke
Dean, for the murder of John Kirkstone; and the crime was committed in
the Yellow Boudoir."
"But what has a crime committed twenty years ago to do with the
assassination of Miss Lig--I mean, of Miss Gilmar?"
"Everything. Miss Gilmar only reaped as she sowed. You must hear the
story in full before you can see the connection. But to put the matter
briefly, you must understand that Dean was convicted of killing
Kirkstone and was sentenced to death. Afterwards, as there was some
doubt about the absolute justice of the verdict, the death sentence
was commuted to penal servitude for life. Dean swore that he was
innocent, and that the accomplishment of the crime had been brought
about by the machinations of Ellen Gilmar. He swore, if his life were
spared, to escape from prison and kill the woman who had placed him by
her craft and cruelty in the dock. About four years ago the man did
escape from Dartmoor Prison; and it was dread lest he should keep his
word which drove Miss Gilmar from lodging to lodging, under different
names. For some reason--best known to herself--she chose to dwell in a
room, furnished and draped similar to that in which the first crime
had been committed. It was reading the description of that room which
put me on the right track.
"And you believe that Miss Ligram and Miss Gilmar are one and the same
person?" asked Gebb, breathlessly.
"I am certain of it, on the authority of the Yellow Boudoir."
"And you think that Dean murdered her?"
"Yes; I believe that Dean kept his word."
"But what was his reason?"
"Vengeance!" said Parge, opening the red book. "Listen! I will tell
you the case after my own fashion, and you shall learn the reason why
Miss Ligram was strangled at Grangebury."