THE BIRTH OF THE KILLER
Monsieur Dupont was one of those fortunate individuals who can sleep in
a train.
He left Paddington at one o'clock, and slept for an hour, a sleep of
childlike ease and innocence. When he woke the train was within five
minutes of his destination. He alighted at a small country station, and
instituted inquiries for a conveyance.
Twenty minutes later, an unimpressionable horse, attached to a hybrid
vehicle, was jogging him along country lanes which would have delighted
a man with less serious purposes. But Monsieur Dupont was too much
occupied with the uglinesses of humanity to heed the beauties of nature.
It was not until they arrived at the outskirts of a small village that
he began to look about him with interest.
It was a lovely spot, nestling in primeval innocence under the shelter
of protecting hills. Monsieur Dupont uttered a heavy sigh, and spoke,
for the first time during the drive, to the stout, sunburnt lad who
conducted the equipage.
"My friend," he said sorrowfully, "who could imagine that such a corner
of heaven could have been the cradle of one of the most terrible
tragedies of the world? I feel like a purveyor of sins, creeping into
the preserves of God."
The startled stare that confronted him was not helpful to further
conversation. The disconcerted youth vigorously obtained fresh impetus
from their source of progress, and drew up at length, with obvious
relief, before a low, creeper-covered house, lying in a nest of flowers.
Monsieur Dupont's gentle knock produced a rubicund housekeeper, of about
eighty, who blended in perfect harmony with the house, the creeper, and
the flowers.
"Doctor Lessing, if you please, madame," said Monsieur Dupont.
He was shown into a small library, opening on to the garden. The room
was flooded with sunshine. There were flowers everywhere.
"_Mon Dieu_," said Monsieur Dupont, aloud, "that I should come to ask
such questions here."
He turned as the door opened, and bowed before a sturdy, white-haired
old man, bronzed with the health of the country.
"Monsieur Dupont?" said the doctor. "What can I do for you?"
Monsieur Dupont took a letter from his pocket, and unfolded it.
"Monsieur, I beg you to read this letter. It is from the French Embassy,
and begs assistance to me in an investigation that I am making."
Doctor Lessing read the letter, and returned it.
"I shall be happy to assist you in any way I can," he said, courteously.
"Please sit down."
Monsieur Dupont sat down by the open windows and drank in the fragrance
of the garden.
"Doctor Lessing," he began, "I believe it is for a long time that you
have lived in this beautiful place?"
"For forty-five years," the old doctor smiled contentedly. "But I am by
no means one of its oldest inhabitants. Lives are long in the country.
To what period do you wish to refer?"
"A period," Monsieur Dupont replied, "nearly forty years ago. I do not
know exactly."
"A long stretch," said Doctor Lessing ruefully. "But my memory shall do
its best for you. That is all I can promise."
"I am engaged," said Monsieur Dupont, "on an extraordinary quest. I do
not think that any human being has ever been engaged on a more
extraordinary quest."
"A pleasant one, I trust," said the doctor.
"As much to the contrary as it is possible to imagine."
The doctor murmured a regret and waited for his huge visitor to
continue.
"Do you," Monsieur Dupont inquired, "recollect the name of Winslowe?"
Doctor Lessing started slightly.
"Winslowe?"
"Oscar Winslowe."
A keen glance flashed from the doctor's eyes.
"Yes," he said quickly, "I recollect the name."
"He lived, I think in this village at the time I have said?"
"Yes." The reply was a trifle curt.
"Perhaps," Monsieur Dupont proceeded evenly, "there were circumstances
in connection with that name which helped to fix it in your memory?"
"There were certain circumstances," the doctor admitted, "which made it
a name that I am unlikely to forget."
"Unpleasant circumstances?" queried Monsieur Dupont.
"The most unpleasant that have ever occurred to me in the whole length
of my practice."
"It is for that story," said Monsieur Dupont, "that I have come to ask.
May I beg all the details that you can recall?"
"Perhaps you will first tell me," the doctor returned, "for what purpose
you require this information?"
"I require it," Monsieur Dupont replied impressively, "to save the life
of an innocent man, who is wrongly accused of the crime of murder. I
require it also prove three deaths, and possibly to prevent another
three."
Again the doctor started. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.
"Three deaths?" he exclaimed sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Three deaths," repeated Monsieur Dupont. "Of three very beautiful
women."
The doctor sprang to his feet.
"My God!" he cried hoarsely.
"Will you tell me the story?" said Monsieur Dupont.
Doctor Lessing sat down again in his chair. He was considerably shaken.
He leant back and closed his eyes, remaining silent for a few moments.
"I think," he began at last, "that I can, at all events, remember the
chief facts of the case. It was such a remarkable and distressing one
that it stands out in the annals of such a peaceful spot as this, and it
has therefore remained in my memory, though so much else has faded. But
you must make allowances for the flight of time. Look out of the window
to the left, and you will see a large red house, on the slope of the
hill."
"I see it," said Monsieur Dupont, following the direction.
"That was Oscar Winslowe's house, forty years ago. Winslowe was an
unprincipled and dissolute man. He was only about twenty-five or six at
that time, but already he was sodden with drink, drugs, and vice of
every description. He was the worst kind of blackguard. But his wife was
the exact opposite to him, a gentle, delicate girl. She was not
beautiful, but her nature more than compensated for lack of beauty. He
had married her for her money, and treated her abominably. I became
friendly with her, partly because of the pity I felt for her on account
of his treatment, and partly because I sincerely admired the beauty of
her character. In consequence of that friendship, I undertook to watch
over her entry into motherhood."
"That is what I want," said Monsieur Dupont. "Her entry into
motherhood."
"The more I saw of her," continued the doctor, "the greater grew my
pity. There have been wonderful women in the world who have made history
by their patience and endurance--but this woman was one of those,
equally brave and equally patient, of whom history knows nothing. She
worshipped her husband, blindly, dumbly--as an animal will still love
the man or woman who ill-treats it. She never uttered a word of
complaint or blame. Her greatest hope was that the advent of the child
would induce from him something of the consideration and tenderness that
he had never given her. She believed it was some fault, some
shortcoming, of hers that had kept it from her. It didn't occur to her
that it might be the beauty of another woman."
"Ah!" said Monsieur Dupont eagerly.
"She discovered that about three months before the child was born. I
can't remember how the discovery came about. She followed him to
London--and found him, even that short time before the birth of his
child, lavishing on a beautiful society woman all that should have been
hers."
In spite of the years that had passed the doctor's voice still rose in
anger. He paused, checking himself.
"Before that supreme insult, that shattering of her hopes, the poor girl
lost her reason. In the state of her health, it was not surprising. She,
who would never have harmed a fly, who had never wished ill to any one
in her life, became possessed with an awful fury to stamp out the beauty
that had robbed her--to destroy the face and body that were more to the
man she loved than her own. The other woman, undeserving of
consideration as she was, narrowly escaped a horrible punishment. The
unfortunate girl was brought back here, and I was sent for to attend
her. She grew worse hour after hour. Her mind was completely unhinged.
From a furious hatred of the beauty of the woman who had wronged her,
the mania increased into a furious hatred of beauty in any shape or
form, and a savage lust to destroy it. In the house there were many
portraits of the beautiful women of the Winslowe family. She tore the
pictures to shreds. There were statues and valuable works of art. She
smashed them all to pulp. Her madness was the most terrible thing I
have ever seen. She had to be forcibly restrained."
Monsieur Dupont listened intently. There was an expression of triumph on
his face.
"A pitiful story," he said softly.
"She partially recovered in a few weeks," the doctor went on, "and
before the three months were up her reason, if not actually sound again,
was at least restored. But she was a wreck of a woman. There was
darkness all round her. She heard nothing more of Winslowe. He never
came back to the house. The madness returned when she gave birth to her
child, and she died in an asylum a fortnight afterwards."
A longer pause followed. The recitation of his memories moved the good
old doctor as the actual experience must have moved the young man of
forty years before. He rose, and walked to the window, sniffing the
scent of the flowers with relief.
"She left the care of the child to the nurse who was devoted to her,
with ample funds for its future. When the affairs were settled up, the
nurse took the child away with her, and I have not seen her since."
He made a relieved gesture.
"That is the whole story," he said.
"The nurse," inquired Monsieur Dupont, "what was her name?"
"Masters. Miss Elizabeth Masters."
"Is she still alive?"
"So far as I know she is," the doctor replied. "But I should not have
been likely to have heard of her death, if it had taken place."
"Can you assist me to discover her address?"
"She wrote to me periodically," Doctor Lessing returned. "She was an
excellent nurse, and I got her some cases in town. But it is a long time
since I last heard from her. There may be one or two old letters of hers
in my desk. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will see if I can find
them for you."
He left the room. Monsieur Dupont turned to the window, and gazed
dreamily out into the sunshine.
"And so," he muttered--"in this corner of paradise the Destroyer was
born."