HOW A MURDERER MIGHT HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED.
Dr. Vinsen vainly seeking in the darkness for the cause of Dr. Pye's
alarm, could not utter a word. In his listening attitude, with the
white fear depicted on his countenance, he presented a terror-struck
appearance, and seemed to be waiting for advancing footsteps, or for
the sound of voices in the street without, demanding admittance. But
the silence was not broken.
"Can't you speak?" he then said in a whisper to his companion. "What
is it? Is there anybody in the Square? Turn up the light."
His hand was groping for the tap that controlled the gas when Dr. Pye
seized his arm and held him back. Dr. Vinsen winced and impatiently
endeavoured to free himself, but the fingers that had fastened
themselves upon his muscles were more like rods of steel than flesh
and bone.
"Let go!" he muttered. "You are crushing my arm."
"Do not stir," replied Dr. Pye, releasing him. Then he masked the
shutter, and brought light into the room.
It was characteristic of this man that, short as had been the interval
between his startled exclamation and the lighting up of the apartment,
he had regained his self-control, and that on his features no trace of
his recent agitation was visible. There are moments of unexpected
surprise when the fixed habits of a carefully trained life slip their
hold, and the mind becomes as unquestioningly receptive as that of a
child. Such a moment had come to Dr. Pye when he beheld the vision of
the man the mystery of whose death was on every tongue. It held him
only for the moment; before the passing of another his dominant will
had reasserted itself, and his face resumed his impenetrable calm.
"Now, what is it?" again demanded Dr. Vinsen. His eyes travelled round
the room, and colour came into his cheeks when he saw they were alone.
"You did not see it?" replied Dr. Pye.
"See what?"
"The figure of Samuel Boyd standing at his window?"
Dr. Vinsen stared incredulously at his host, and then a long deep
breath of relief escaped him. "Only that!" he exclaimed. "I thought it
was something worse."
Dr. Pye repeated his question. "You did not see it?"
"I saw nothing. The dead do not rise from their graves. Dead once,
dead for ever. But you can convince me by producing ocular proof. Your
ingenious device takes an instantaneous picture of any object upon
which it flashes its light. Produce me the picture of the dead and
buried Samuel Boyd."
"I cannot. The last film has been used, and I omitted to put in
others."
"Very unfortunate," said Dr. Vinsen, dryly. "Suppose you supply the
omission, and try again."
Dr. Pye acted upon the suggestion. He placed an automatic arrangement
of films in the little machine, again turned down the gas, again
opened the circular lid in the shutter, again threw the flash light
upon the house of Samuel Boyd. The blank walls and windows confronted
them, and no sign of life, physical or spiritual, was visible; and
when the film was removed and developed it showed no face of man or
spirit.
"I did not expect a result," said Dr. Pye; "there was no form at the
window."
"You saw none on the first occasion."
"As clearly as I behold you now I saw the shadow, spirit, or
reflection of Samuel Boyd. I was not under the spell of a delusion; my
senses did not deceive me. My pulse beats steadily; there is no fever
in my blood. I saw it."
"And I refuse to believe it. My friend, you do nothing without design,
and if I doubt your protestation I but follow the excellent example
you set me. I have no faith in _diablerie_, nor am I a child to be
influenced by a goblin tale. Who thinks me so, mistakes my
character--mis-takes my cha-rac-ter; and that might lead to more
serious mistakes."
There was no indication that Dr. Pye paid heed to these words, or that
they produced any impression upon him; he seemed to be absorbed in a
train of thought which he was endeavouring to follow to a logical end.
"I recall a singular case," he said, musingly, "of a man who was
brutally murdered in his own apartments while he was engaged in making
experiments in photography. It occurred in a foreign country, and the
police, investigating the case, had their suspicions directed to a
person who had had dealings with the murdered man, and who had been
seen entering his apartments within an hour or two of the murder. They
followed up the clue, and arrested the suspected man, who
energetically proclaimed his innocence. The evidence at the trial was
entirely circumstantial, but it was considered conclusive, and the man
went to the scaffold, protesting his innocence with his dying breath.
Some years afterwards business of a private nature brought me into
contact with a man who had but a short time to live, and on his
deathbed he confessed to me that he was the murderer. In proof of this
he had, by a strange fatuity, carried about with him during all these
years a certain piece of evidence which, had it been presented to a
jury, would have been fatal to him. The circumstances were these: On
the day of the murder he had entered the apartment of his victim at
the moment that a prepared plate had been placed in the camera. A
quarrel took place between them, which culminated in the murderer
suddenly plunging a knife into the heart of the student photographer.
Death was instantaneous, and as he fell to the ground his eyes were
fixed upon the face of his murderer. There he lay upon the ground,
dead, his eyes wide open. The murderer was himself a photographer, and
a whimsical fancy seized him to take a picture of those staring eyes,
in which a wild horror dwelt. He acted upon it. Focussing the dead
face he exposed the plate, and, the picture taken, stole away from the
house with the negative in his possession. He subsequently developed
the picture and enlarged it, and there, under the lens of a powerful
microscope, was the portrait of the murderer upon the pupils of the
dead man's eyes. It had been his last living vision, which had fixed
itself upon the retina. I have the picture by me now, and since that
day have been much interested in the photographic art, in which I have
made some curious experiments. Later researches have proved that we
can photograph what is invisible to the eye, what is even concealed in
a box. The photographs of shadows and the spirits of the dead can be
taken. The image of Samuel Boyd being in my mind, found its reflection
in a window in a moment of light. Why should we not be able to
photograph a vision created by the imagination?"
"Or," said Dr. Vinsen, with a touch of sarcasm, "the thoughts of men."
"Or," said Dr. Pye, with an assenting nod, "the thoughts of men. It
will be done; and when it is accomplished it will open the road to
greater discoveries."
"Ah," said Dr. Vinsen, shrugging his shoulders, "great
discoveries--_your_ great discoveries, ending in visions."
"To you, visions; to me, reality. The age of miracles is not yet past.
It is my intention to get out of this country, and return to Italy,
where there is light, where the sun shines. This atmosphere, these
leaden skies, these black nights, are fatal. I must release myself. My
purpose is fixed."
"And mine."
Both spoke in a tone of decision, and both had a motive-spring which
had yet to be revealed.
"Let us come back to earth," said Dr. Vinsen, "and above all,
let us be practical. There are accounts between us which must be
settled--pray do not forget that."
"I will not."
"You were at the inquest to-day," said Dr. Vinsen, rather uneasily,
for there was a menace in Dr. Pye's tone. "The papers report you
fully. Your warning to the jury not to be led away by a resemblance
that might be accidental was a masterstroke. It produced a good
effect, but will it assist Mr. Reginald Boyd? We shall see--we shall
see. Justice is slow. Were you to formulate a code you would make it
swifter, surer--eh, my friend?"
"I would make it swift as sudden death to all who stood in my path,"
said Dr. Pye, and now there was a cold glitter in his eyes as he
looked at his visitor.
"No doubt, no doubt, and no feeling of mercy would restrain you; but
we cannot break through the meshes. Sentinels stand at every corner,
and slow as justice is in these mean streets, of which you have so
poor an opinion, its eyes are never closed. It is fortunate for some
that it can occasionally be hoodwinked by a master mind, to which"
(here he bent his head, half in mockery, half in sincerity) "I pay
tribute. That poor woman, Mrs. Abel Death, has had no news of her
husband--singular, is it not? Her strange little child Gracie, I
regret to say, views me with disfavour. It is some compensation that
her mother regards us as her benefactors; and in some respects we
deserve to be so regarded. The expenditure of money in that quarter
has not been entirely thrown away--not en-tire-ly thrown a-way. It has
assisted me to direct public opinion, and to keep watch upon my friend
Remington, whom I would like to plunge to the bottom of the Red Sea,
to rot with the bones of the Egyptians."
That a man so mild in voice and so bland in manner should break into
sudden malignity was surprising.
"He is better where he is," said Dr. Pye; "his living presence is
necessary. People shoot wild when there is no target to aim at, and a
chance shot might hit the mark."
"Always profound," said Dr. Vinsen, admiringly, "always, always
profound. A target--yes, a target. It is a thousand pities, my dear
friend, that you are not in all things more practical and less
imaginative. Take, for instance, these gewgaws by which you are
surrounded, these flasks and vases, these jewelled trifles, this
curiously wrought work from some Eastern country--of what avail are
they for the true pleasures of life?" Dr. Pye was silent. "You may
say, perhaps, they feed the artistic sense. As I believe only in what
I see, so do I believe only in what I feel. Better to feed the
material senses--far more rational. If what you have presented to my
view in your character is genuine, and not the outcome of a deliberate
intention to deceive--in-ten-tion to de-ceive--it is composed of
singularly contradictory qualities. In a certain sense, unique, for
who would expect to find Alnaschar dreams floating among the fleshpots
of Egypt? Your taste in wine is not to be excelled--I approve of it;
it is a passion you carry to an excess which I consider as ridiculous
as it is unwise--still, in the main, I approve of it. Good wine
nourishes the tissues, helps to prolong life. Hippocrates and many
long-headed ancients have something to say on this head. But these
lifeless memorials of a dead past, in which there is no vitality,
which are eternally the same, dumb and expressionless----My dear
friend, I fear you are not listening."
"My thoughts are elsewhere," said Dr. Pye, rising and approaching the
window. Dr. Vinsen followed him, with suspicion and discontent on his
face. For the fourth time on this night the room was plunged in
darkness; for the fourth time the circular lid of the shutter was
drawn aside.
"There, there!" whispered Dr. Pye. "What do you see?"
Dr. Vinsen peered into the night. "I see nothing."
"Stand back."
Swift as thought he threw the flash-light upon the windows of Samuel
Boyd's house. Then he masked the shutter and turned on the gas.
Accompanied by Dr. Vinsen, who jealously watched his every movement,
he stepped to the table, withdrew the film from the little machine,
and developed it. And there before them came gradually into view the
pictured presentment of the face and form of Samuel Boyd, standing at
the window of his house in Catchpole Square.
Dr. Vinsen's face was pallid, his eyes dilated, his teeth chattered.
Dr. Pye's face was thoughtful, introspective.
"Do you believe now?" he asked in an undertone.
Dr. Vinsen passed his hand confusedly across his brows.
"We had certain plans," continued Dr. Pye; "are they to be carried out
to-night?"
"Not to-night; not to-night," replied Dr. Vinsen, turning towards the
door.
The next moment Dr. Pye was alone.