DICK MAKES A DISCOVERY.
His familiarity with the regulations and movements of the police
hailing from the Bishop Street Police Station was of assistance to
him. He knew that one end of Constable Applebee's beat was close to
Catchpole Square, and his design was to watch for that officer's
approach, and to remain hidden till he turned in the opposite
direction. This would ensure him freedom of action for some fifteen or
twenty minutes, time sufficient to enable him to mount the wall. He
experienced little difficulty in the execution of this design.
Constable Applebee sauntered to the end of his beat, lingered a moment
or two, and then began to retrace his steps. Dick now prepared for
action. "I really think," he mused, "that I should shine as a
burglar."
There were few persons in the streets, and none in the thoroughfare on
which the dead wall abutted. The first step to be taken was to
ascertain if any person was in the house. He turned, therefore, into
Catchpole Square, and looked up at the windows. There was no light in
them, and from the position in which he stood he could discern no
signs of life within. No long neglected cemetery could have presented
a more desolate appearance. He knocked at the door, and his summons,
many times repeated, met with no response. Dick did all this in a
leisurely manner, being prepared with an answer in case an explanation
was demanded. So absolutely imperative was it that he should be
convinced that the house was uninhabited before he forced an entrance
that he kept in the Square fully a quarter of an hour, at the
expiration of which he passed through Deadman's Court, and was once
more in front of the dead wall. Stealing to each end of the
thoroughfare to see that no person was in view, he unwound the rope
from his body, and fixed upon the spot to fling the grapnel. The first
throw was unsuccessful; and the second; but at the third the grapnel
caught, and Dick pulled at it hard in order to be sure that it was
fast. Then, moistening the palms of his hands, and muttering, "Now,
then, old Jack and the beanstalk," he commenced to climb.
It was not an easy task, partly in consequence of his inexperience at
this kind of work, and partly because of the bulging of the large
bottle of water under his waistcoat. But Dick was not to be beaten;
not only were all the latent forces of his mind in full play, but all
the latent forces of his body, and though his hands were chafed in the
execution of the task, and the perspiration streamed down his face, he
reached the top of the wall in safety, and with the bottle unbroken.
"Bravo, Dick," he gasped, pausing to recover his breath. "Humpty
Dumpty sat on a wall, I hope Humpty Dumpty won't have a bad fall. Take
care of yourself, Dick, for my sake."
Drawing up the rope he reversed the grapnel, fixed it tight, let the
rope drop on the inner side of the wall, and slid nimbly down.
He looked around. There were windows at the back, most of them masked
with inside shutters, as they had been for years. To each of the six
houses there was a back yard, and each yard was separated from its
neighbour on either side by a wall as nigh as high as that which
enclosed them all in the rear. Thus Dick found himself shut out from
the world, as it were, with little likelihood of his movements being
detected from any of the houses except the one he intended to break
into--and that was as still and lifeless as death itself.
"Now, my lad," he said, "just to put life into you, for this desert of
Sahara is enough to give any man the blue devils, I'll treat you to a
drink. Is it agreed to? Passed unanimously."
Then came the difficult task of unhooking the grapnel, for it would
never do to leave it on the wall. He made several futile attempts to
loosen and bring it down, and had he not discovered in a corner a
forked pole which at some remote period had probably been used as a
clothes' prop, there would have been nothing for it but to leave it
there and run the risk of discovery. With the aid of the pole,
however, he succeeded in unhooking it, so suddenly that it fell to the
ground with a crash and nearly gave him a crack on the head.
Gathering up the rope and slinging it over his arm, Dick searched for
a means of effecting an entrance into the house. From the evidences of
decay all around he judged that no use had been made of the back of
the premises for a considerable time past; during his service with
Samuel Boyd he had had no acquaintance of the rooms which looked out
upon the yard, his duties confining him to the office in which the
secretarial work was done. Above a door, which he tried in vain to
open, was a small window which seemed less secure than the others; and
when he reached up to it (standing on a rickety bench against the
wall), this proved to be the case; but though the frame rattled when
he shook it he saw no means of getting out of the difficulty except by
breaking a pane of glass. Half measures would not serve now, and he
adopted this bold expedient, pausing to listen, when the shattered
glass fell upon the floor within, whether the crash had raised an
alarm. There was no indication of it.
Passing his hand through the aperture he managed to unfasten the
window and to raise the sash. Much more difficult was it to raise his
body to the level of the window; he had no safe foothold, the rickety
bench upon which he stood threatened every moment to fall to pieces,
and indeed in his violent efforts this actually happened, and he was
left clinging to the window-sill by his fingers and nails; by a
desperate effort he got his knees upon the sill, and tumbled or
scrambled into a small dark room. He could not now proceed without a
light, and he congratulated himself again on his forethought in
bringing candles and matches, for Dick was not a smoker, and these
articles might easily have been overlooked.
Having obtained a light he took a survey of the room. The walls were
bare, and there was no furniture in it. Casting his eyes upon the
floor he was horrified to see it stained with fresh red blood upon
which he was treading. He was so startled that he involuntarily
pressed his left hand upon his heart, and raised his right hand, in
which he held the lighted candle, in anticipation of a sudden attack.
Then he discovered that he had cut that hand, and that the blood on
the floor was his own. In his excitement he had not felt the pain of
the wound. Wrapping his handkerchief round it, and drawing a deep
breath of relief, he opened a door at the end of the room, and emerged
into a passage, with a staircase leading to the rooms above.
Ascending, he passed through another door which shut off this
staircase from the better parts of the house, and found himself on a
landing with which he was familiar, for on this floor was situated the
office in which he used to work, another staircase at the end of the
landing leading down to the front entrance. He knew now where he was,
and in which direction to proceed.
All his movements had been made with extreme caution, and almost at
every step he took he paused and prepared for a surprise. But he was
not interrupted in any way, and there was nothing to indicate that he
was not master of the situation. It troubled him to observe that his
footsteps left traces of blood behind them; these dark stains conveyed
a suggestion that he had been engaged in a guilty deed. "Do I look
like a murderer?" he thought. "I feel like one."
Before he entered the office he descended to the ground floor passage
to ascertain if the street door was fast, and he was surprised to see
the key lying on the mat. It was a sign of some significance, for had
Samuel Boyd left his house for any length of time he would most
certainly have locked the door from the outside and taken the key with
him. But, assuming that this was not the case, why was not the key in
the lock, and assuming, further, that Samuel Boyd had retired to rest,
why was not the door bolted and chained?
Confused by the thought, Dick turned the key in the lock, opened the
door an inch or two, and looked out upon Catchpole Square. All was
silent and still. Dark clouds were scudding across the sky, with a
heavy-hearted presage in them; such was the impression the gloom of
night produced upon Dick. He reclosed and locked the door, and
returned to the passage above.
When he turned the handle of the office door and entered the room in
which he used to work he could hear the beating of his heart. In the
dim light he could almost fancy that his skeleton was sitting on the
old stool at the desk; but no being, human or spectral, with the
exception of himself was there. Against the walls and in the corners
lay the strange medley of articles which gave so singular a character
to the apartment. There were no signs of confusion or disturbance;
everything was in order. The drawers in desk and tables were closed,
the safe in its old position, and to all appearance untampered with;
beneath a paperweight of Japanese metal, representing a hideous mask,
lay some papers which Dick did not stop to examine. Some of the
articles in the collection had not been there during his term of
service. The wine and the grand pianoforte were new to him. But who
was that sitting in a chair, dressed in a flowered gaberdine?
"I beg your pardon," stammered Dick.
The figure did not answer him, and approaching nearer with stealthy
steps he beheld the wax figure of the Chinaman, in an attitude of
collapse, as it had fallen into the chair on the night of the 1st of
March, when it was shot through the heart.
"In heaven's name how came _you_ here?" muttered Dick. "Speak up like
a man, in pigeon-English if you like."
He could scarcely have been more amazed had the figure lifted its head
and addressed him. A sense of tragedy weighed heavily upon his
spirits, and the air seemed charged with significance and dreadful
import. The occurrences of the last twenty-four hours: the
disappearance of Abel Death, his wife's agonised appeal at the police
station, Florence's flight from home, the discovery of her
handkerchief in Catchpole Square, even--unreasonable as was the
inclusion--the visit of Dr. Vinsen to the Death family--all seemed to
converge to one point in this room, with its deathlike stillness, and
to the strong probability of their explanation being found there. It
partook more of a fancy from a madman's brain than that of a sane
person, and yet Dick, candle in hand, peered in all directions for a
clue to the elucidation of these mysteries. That he saw none did not
weaken the impression under which he laboured. The dusky figures of
knight and lady in the hangings of tapestry, the quaint carvings of
man and beast on the mantel and fireplace, the paintings of flying
angels on the ceiling, mocked and gibed at him whichever way he
turned, and tended to increase the fever of his blood.
There were three communicating doors in the apartment--one leading to
the passage, one to Mr. Boyd's bedroom, one to a room which had always
been kept locked. Against the wall between that room and the office
the grand piano was placed, and Dick recollected that in his time a
large screen had been there, covering the space now occupied by the
back of the piano. Very cautiously and slowly he opened the door of
the bedroom. Wrought to a pitch of intense excitement it was not
surprising that his hand shook--to such an extent, indeed, had he lost
control of himself that the candle dropped to the ground and was
extinguished. He was plunged in darkness.
In the brief glance he had directed to the bed he fancied he had seen
the outline of a sleeping form, and as he knelt to search for the
candle he called aloud, "Mr. Boyd!" and trembled at the sound of his
voice. "Mr. Boyd! Mr. Boyd!" he called again in louder tones, and his
heated fancy created a muffled echo of the name, "Mr. Boyd! Mr. Boyd!"
Finding the candle he relighted it, and rising to his feet, slowly
approached the bed.
A dumb form was there, its back towards him. The bed was in the middle
of the room, the head against the wall. Treading very gently he passed
to the other side, and bending forward, with the candle in his
upstretched hand, he saw a man's face--the face of Samuel Boyd, cold
and dead!