It happened that the two men, waiting in the vestibule of the restaurant
for Francis' car to crawl up to the entrance through the fog which
had unexpectedly rolled up, heard the slight altercation which was
afterwards referred to as preceding the tragedy. The two young people
concerned were standing only a few feet away, the girl pretty, a little
peevish, an ordinary type; her companion, whose boyish features were
marred with dissipation, a very passable example of the young man about
town going a little beyond his tether.
“It's no good standing here, Victor!” the girl exclaimed, frowning. “The
commissionaire's been gone ages already, and there are two others before
us for taxis.”
“We can't walk,” her escort replied gloomily. “It's a foul night.
Nothing to do but wait, what? Let's go back and have another drink.”
The girl stamped her satin-shod foot impatiently.
“Don't be silly,” she expostulated. “You know I promised Clara we'd be
there early.”
“All very well,” the young man grumbled, “but what can we do? We shall
have to wait our turn.”
“Why can't you slip out and look for a taxi yourself?” she suggested.
“Do, Victor,” she added, squeezing his arm. “You're so clever at picking
them up.”
He made a little grimace, but lit a cigarette and turned up his coat
collar.
“I'll do my best,” he promised. “Don't go on without me.”
“Try up towards Charing Cross Road, not the other way,” she advised
earnestly.
“Right-oh!” he replied, which illuminative form of assent, a word spoken
as he plunged unwillingly into the thick obscurity on the other side of
the revolving doors, was probably the last he ever uttered on earth.
Left alone, the girl began to shiver, as though suddenly cold. She
turned around and glanced hurriedly back into the restaurant. At that
moment she met the steady, questioning scrutiny of Francis' eyes. She
stood as though transfixed. Then came the sound which every one talked
of for months afterwards, the sound which no one who heard it ever
forgot--the death cry of Victor Bidlake, followed a second afterwards by
a muffled report. A strain of frenzied surprise seemed mingled with the
horror. Afterwards, silence.
There was the sound of some commotion outside, the sound of hurried
footsteps and agitated voices. Then a terrible little procession
appeared. Something--it seemed to be a shapeless heap of clothes--was
carried in and laid upon the floor, in the little space between the
revolving doors and the inner entrance. Two blue-liveried attendants
kept back the horrified but curious crowd. Francis, vaguely recognised
as being somehow or other connected with the law, was one of the
few people allowed to remain whilst a doctor, fetched out from the
dancing-room, kneeled over the prostrate form. He felt that he knew
beforehand the horrible verdict which the latter whispered in his ear
after his brief examination.
“Quite dead! A ghastly business!”
Francis gazed at the hole in the shirt-front, disfigured also by a
scorching stain.
“A bullet?” he asked.
The doctor nodded.
“Fired within a foot of the poor fellow's heart,” he whispered. “The
murderer wasn't taking any chances, whoever he was.”
“Have the police been sent for?”
The head-porter stepped forward.
“There was a policeman within a few yards of the spot, sir,” he replied.
“He's gone down to keep every one away from the place where we found the
body. We've telephoned to Scotland Yard for an inspector.”
The doctor rose to his feet.
“Nothing more can be done,” he pronounced. “Keep the people out of here
whilst I go and fetch my hat and coat. Afterwards, I'll take the body to
the mortuary when the ambulance arrives.”
An attendant pushed his way through the crowd of people on the inner
side of the door.
“Miss Daisy Hyslop, young lady who was with Mr. Bidlake, has just
fainted in the ladies' room, sir,” he announced. “Could you come?”
“I'll be there immediately,” the doctor promised.
The rest of the proceedings followed a normal course. The police
arrived, took various notes, the ambulance followed a little later, the
body was removed, and the little crowd of guests, still infected with a
sort of awed excitement, were allowed to take their leave. Francis and
Wilmore drove almost in silence to the former's rooms in Clarges Street.
“Come up and have a drink, Andrew,” Francis invited.
“I need it,” was the half-choked response.
Francis led the way in silence up the two flights of stairs into his
sitting-room, mixed whiskies and sodas from the decanter and syphon
which stood upon the sideboard, and motioned his friend to an
easy-chair. Then he gave form to the thought which had been haunting
them both.
“What about our friend Sir Timothy Brast?” he enquired. “Do you believe
now that he was pulling our legs?”
Wilmore dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. It was a chilly
evening, but there were drops of perspiration still standing there.
“Francis,” he confessed, “it's horrible! I don't think realism like this
attracts me. It's horrible! What are we going to do?”
“Nothing for the present,” was the brief reply. “If we were to tell our
story, we should only be laughed at. What there is to be done falls to
my lot.”
“Had the police anything to say about it?” Wilmore asked.
“Only a few words,” Francis replied. “Shopland has it in hand. A good
man but unimaginative. I've come across him in one or two cases lately.
You'll find a little bit like this in the papers to-morrow: 'The murder
is believed to have been committed by one of the gang of desperadoes who
have infested the west-end during the last few months.' You remember the
assault in the Albany Court Yard, and the sandbagging in Shepherd Market
only last week?”
“That seems to let Sir Timothy out,” Wilmore remarked.
“There are many motives for crime besides robbery,” Francis declared.
“Don't be afraid, Andrew, that I am going to turn amateur detective and
make the unravelment of this case all the more difficult for Scotland
Yard. If I interfere, it will be on a certainty. Andrew, don't think I'm
mad but I've taken up the challenge our great philanthropist flung at
me to-night. I've very little interest in who killed this boy Victor
Bidlake, or why, but I'm convinced of one thing--Brast knew about it,
and if he is posing as a patron of crime on a great scale, sooner or
later I shall get him. He may think himself safe, and he may have the
courage of Beelzebub--he seems rather that type--but if my presentiment
about him--comes true, his number's up. I can almost divine the meaning
of his breaking in upon our conversation to-night. He needs an enemy--he
is thirsting for danger. He has found it!”
Wilmore filled his pipe thoughtfully. At the first whiff of tobacco he
began to feel more normal.
“After all, Francis,” he said, “aren't we a little overstrung to-night?
Sir Timothy Brast is no adventurer. He is a prince in the city, a
persona grata wherever he chooses to go. He isn't a hanger-on in
Society. He isn't even dependent upon Bohemia for his entertainment.
You can't seriously imagine that a man with his possessions is likely
to risk his life and liberty in becoming the inspiration of a band of
cutthroats?”
Francis smiled. He, too, had lit his pipe and had thrown himself into
his favourite chair. He smiled confidently across at his friend.
“A millionaire with brains,” he argued, “is just the one person in the
world likely to weary of all ordinary forms of diversion. I begin to
remember things about him already. Haven't you heard about his wonderful
parties down at The Walled House?”
Wilmore struck the table by his side with his clenched fist.
“By George, that's it!” he exclaimed. “Who hasn't!”
“I remember Baker talking about one last year,” Francis continued,
“never any details, but all kinds of mysterious hints--a sort of mixture
between a Roman orgy and a chapter from the 'Arabian Nights'--singers
from Petrograd, dancers from Africa and fighting men from Chicago.”
“The fellow's magnificent, at any rate,” Wilmore remarked.
His host smoked furiously for a moment.
“That's the worst of these multi-millionaires,” he declared. “They think
they can rule the world, traffic in human souls, buy morals, mock at the
law. We shall see!”
“Do you know the thing that I found most interesting about him?” Wilmore
asked.
“His black opals,” the other suggested. “You're by the way of being a
collector, aren't you?”
Wilmore shook his head.
“The fact that he is the father of Oliver Hilditch's widow.”
Francis sat quite still for a moment. There was a complete change in his
expression. He looked like a man who has received a shock.
“I forgot that,” he muttered.