THE LADY OF THE LEOPARD SKIN
I got little more out of my chief during the rest of the journey to
town. The gold repeater came into action as soon as we were seated in
the train, and I could only wonder what was the problem that was still
baffling that keen intelligence.
To me, I confess, the solution of the mystery seemed now to be well in
sight. On our return to town I expected to find that Inspector Charles
had ascertained the present whereabouts of the explorer of Sumatra.
From him it should not be difficult to learn the identity of the
Leopardess, as I called her in my own mind; and I took it for granted
that she was a victim of Weathered’s who had delivered herself out of
his power by the use of the deadly fungus of the upas.
My one anxiety at present was the thought of the missing letters. I
wearied myself with speculating as to whose hands they had passed
into since the murder, and by what means they could be recovered and
destroyed without their contents becoming known. I was as far as ever
from seeing my way clearly when we arrived in Montague Street that
evening.
A serious disappointment waited for us there. An official envelope
stamped with the seal of New Scotland Yard lay on the table in the
hall. Before I had closed the front door Tarleton had pounced upon it,
torn it open, and scanned the note inside with an impatient scowl.
“Fool!”
He almost flung the Inspector’s communication in my face. It stated
briefly that Captain Armstrong had met his death by malarial fever
in Yucatan six months ago; and that was all. I hardly know what more
Charles could have said, since he was quite ignorant why the explorer’s
address was wanted. Tarleton sometimes failed to allow for the fact
that his assistants were not all gifted with his own quickness of
apprehension. However, I didn’t venture to defend the delinquent.
My chief’s irritation soon subsided, and as soon as we were seated at a
well-spread table he acquitted the Inspector handsomely.
“After all, I didn’t take Charles into my confidence, as I have taken
you, Cassilis. But now we must set to work in earnest. What do you
suggest as the next step?”
The question was too much for me, as I had to confess. Perhaps I was
too much worried about the letters to be able to give my mind to
anything else.
The consultant smiled good-naturedly.
“Our only clue to Captain Armstrong’s friend is his book. Books are
produced by publishers, and publishers pay royalties. By this time the
publisher of _Across Sumatra_ ought to have heard from Armstrong’s
executor. And the executor should be able to put us on the track of the
person who has come into possession of his effects.”
He paused to let this reasoning sink into my mind before he added, “I
think this greatly simplifies matters. It is much more likely that
Armstrong kept some of the upasine himself among his trophies than that
he gave it away, to a woman, above all. Depend upon it, we shall find
that it passed on his death to the lady of the leopard’s claws.”
He seemed about to say more but broke off abruptly, as though a new
thought had struck him. “She will have to be handled carefully,” was
all he said after a short silence.
It was impossible for me to listen any longer without reminding him of
the other task before us.
“Have you made any plans yet for the recovery of the letters?” I asked
anxiously.
“Ah!” He gave me a shrewd look. “You are quite right to interest
yourself in that business, my boy. It is more important to protect Lady
Violet than even to detect Weathered’s murderer. The living come before
the dead, eh? I am inclined to trust that part of the work to you.”
I suppose I must have shown some dismay. My kindly chief proceeded to
explain himself.
“We must begin with the assumption that everything that Weathered left
behind him, including his correspondence, has become the property of
his widow. If he kept these letters in his house they must be now
in her possession, unless her daughter has annexed them. I think you
should go round to Warwick Street to-morrow morning, and ask to see
Mrs. Weathered.”
I thought of the rather commonplace widow, who had appeared to be
completely dominated by her daughter, and I did not hope much from the
interview.
“I doubt if she will part with them without Miss Neobard’s consent,” I
said with hesitation. “Even if she has them.”
“Try,” the physician urged. “I should not be surprised if that woman,
quiet as she looked, was deeper in her husband’s secrets than Sarah
Neobard was, in spite of her jealousy. Still waters run deep, remember.
See her alone, if you can, and put the matter to her as a woman and a
mother. Ask her how she would feel if her own daughter had been enticed
to writing very confidential letters to a doctor, and those letters
were now in a stranger’s hands. I fancy you will get something out of
Mrs. Weathered.”
“And if I fail?”
Tarleton compressed his lips rather grimly. “In that case, one of us
may have to show her that her own daughter is not yet out of the wood.
We have both heard a confession from Sarah Neobard, and it was not made
under any pledge of secrecy.”
There the matter rested that night. The next day soon after breakfast
my chief set off to make inquiries at the publishers of _Across
Sumatra_, and I started on my difficult errand to Warwick Street.
Only my knowledge of the desperate position in which Violet had placed
herself could have nerved me to the task in front of me. It was painful
enough to have to plead for mercy from a stranger; the prospect of
having to threaten the mother with her daughter’s prosecution for a
crime of which I did not believe her guilty was so repugnant to me
that I made up my mind beforehand not to act on Tarleton’s hint. My
confidence in his sense of justice was very strong, but I felt that I
was too much in the dark myself to accept such a responsibility.
The blinds of the house were down, a circumstance which I attributed
to the presence of a corpse inside. But there was a long delay in
answering my ring, and when the youthful butler opened the door to me
his untidy dress and rough hair suggested that he did not consider
himself on duty.
“Mrs. Weathered isn’t here,” he told me, without ceremony, as soon as I
asked to see her. “The funeral took place yesterday and the ladies have
gone out of town.”
“Where have they gone?” I demanded in dismay.
The youth put on a stolid look.
“My instructions are to say that letters will be forwarded,” he
answered, with a touch of sullenness.
And I could get no more out of him. To all appearances Sarah Neobard
and her mother had fled.
As soon as I had got over my first surprise, I felt more relief than
disappointment. Tarleton himself would now have to take the matter in
hand, and I had more confidence in his power to deal with it than in
my own. When we met again at lunch time I reported my failure to him,
and he heard me with a tightening of the jaws that boded no good to the
fugitives.
“Our friend Sarah has made a mistake,” he commented. “She ought to have
known that she could not hide herself very long if the police really
wanted her. I think we can trust Captain Charles to let us know where
she is before many days have passed. I wonder what she told her mother
to persuade her to run away like that.”
Again some thought seemed to strike him which he did not see fit to
disclose to me. He shook his head doubtfully, and then sprang to his
feet and hurried to the telephone.
When he came back it was to tell me that the police had been put on the
trail of the two women. “I have told them nothing about the letters,”
he added for my consolation. “We don’t want them to get on the files of
Scotland Yard if we can help it. I have given them a hint that I have
something up my sleeve.”
He poured himself out a glass of wine and sipped it with a relish.
“I have been more fortunate than you this morning,” he resumed. “It
appears that Armstrong had another book in the press when he died,
so that his publishers have been in active communication with his
executor--or rather his executrix.”
The correction startled me. Tarleton had laid some emphasis on the
feminine termination.
“She is Armstrong’s sister, his only one. He had no other near
relations, so far as the publishers could tell me, and with his
solitary, wandering life he is not likely to have had any intimate
friends. At all events, he left everything he possessed to his sister.
I have made sure of that by looking up the will at Somerset House.”
The atmosphere seemed to become heavier as he spoke. At last the quarry
was almost in sight. If the explorer had kept any of the mysterious
poison it must have passed into his sister’s possession on his death.
“The publisher couldn’t tell me whether she was a married woman or a
widow,” the specialist continued, “but he gave me her name and address:
Mrs. Amelia Baker, Carlyle Square, Chelsea.”
“Carlyle Square!” I ejaculated. “That is within a stone’s throw of the
Domino Club.”
My chief gave me a look of mild disappointment.
“Is that the only thing that strikes you? What about the name?”
“Amelia Baker.” I repeated the name to myself. “Baker”--surely one of
the commonest of English surnames. There must be hundreds of Bakers
in the London Directory. And yet I had a dim consciousness of some
association with it that I couldn’t quite fix. Tarleton’s patience gave
out before my helplessness.
“Think? Where did you come across that name last?” He snatched out a
slip of paper from his breast pocket and passed it across the table.
It was the list of names he had given me to copy three days before,
the list of Weathered’s patients who had given numbers under which, as
we had learned since from Violet, they could write to him. And at the
bottom of the list there stood, “Mrs. Baker, 35.”
To me it looked like proof conclusive. This was Weathered’s latest
victim, to all appearance, and in making her his enemy he had at last
met his match. I remembered the waiter’s description of her at the
dance in her savage dress and savage ornaments, as though she meant
by her attire to signify that she was bent on vengeance. And now we
knew that she was in possession of a deadly drug which could be given
without fear of detection, as she might well suppose if her brother
had not told her of his dealings with the great expert. Gerard had
testified to her showing a repugnance for Weathered that looked like
hatred. The case appeared to be complete.
Something like this I said to Tarleton, carried away by my delight
at the thought that I had now no more to dread. But he did not show
himself altogether satisfied.
“There is such a thing as having too complete a case,” he remarked in
a meditative voice. “Even if we are right in believing that we have
found the Leopardess, as Gerard called her, we have still to prove that
she murdered Weathered. The waiter himself told us that she left early,
hours before he showed any symptoms of being poisoned. My instinct
tells me that there is something in this business that I don’t yet
know. There is no crime so difficult to detect as one in which a woman
is concerned. In this case I find myself surrounded by women, and every
woman is an enigma to the wisest man.--Now listen to this.”
He took out another paper from his pocket, and read aloud from it.
“This is the report of the Inspector. He has had men engaged in
looking up all the names on that list, and the moment it struck me
that Armstrong’s executrix might be the Mrs. Baker who figures there,
I asked Charles to let me know what his man had found out. Here is
what he writes: ‘Widow with independent means. Perfectly respectable.
Favourably known to local tradesmen. Keeps two servants. Interested in
scientific movements. Sister of well-known traveller. Visits freely
in Chelsea. Has friends among literary men and artists. Also fond of
animals, cats and birds. Not known to suffer from any serious form
of illness. Has been attended by local doctor for small ailments. No
connection can be traced with Weathered.’--That is the police report.”
It was a deeply disappointing one to me. My vision of the enraged woman
in her leopard costume engaged in a murderous plot against a sinister
blackmailer faded as I listened. This harmless, middle-aged woman,
living quietly on her income in a good neighbourhood, and amusing
herself with animal pets and such artistic and intellectual society as
was within her reach, failed altogether to come up to the portrait my
imagination had drawn.
Tarleton folded up the report and replaced it in his pocket. “You and I
will call on this lady presently, and see if we can find out something
more.”
I wondered what we should find. I was wondering still when the
physician’s car drew up before a house in the pleasant little square
named after Chelsea’s most famous resident since the time of Sir Thomas
More. The house was only distinguished from its neighbours by an air
of dinginess which seemed due to neglect. In spite of the two servants
kept by the owner or tenant, there was a lack of neatness both outside
and inside. The steps looked in need of scrubbing, and the paint on the
door was disfigured with blisters. The door was opened to Tarleton’s
vigorous knock and ring by a housemaid who had evidently not changed
her dress since her morning’s work was done, and the hall into which we
passed was more like an ill-kept lumber-room than the ordinary entrance
to a lady’s house.
The explorer had evidently left many treasures picked up on his travels
which his sister had taken no great pains to arrange to the best
advantage. Savage weapons of various kinds were nailed up anyhow on the
walls, one hiding another. Horns of different strange animals, either
deer or oxen, surmounted such doors as we could see. Our feet were
entangled in a draggled buffalo skin spread on the floor. The maiden
who let us in took no notice of our trouble in following her, and
offered no apology for the untidiness of the surroundings. She led the
way upstairs to the first landing and threw open the door of a front
room which was no doubt dignified with the title of drawing-room.
“I’ll tell the missus you’re here.”
With this ungracious promise, and without suggesting that we should sit
down, she shut us in and left us. Tarleton glanced round him with a
humorous expression.
“I am reminded of what someone said of a famous explorer--‘Sir ----
is admirably qualified to deal with savages because he is just as
savage as they are.’ Captain Armstrong seems to have shared the same
qualification with his sister, judging from her household.”
The drawing-room resembled a museum as ill-arranged as the hall. Cases
of stuffed birds met the eye in every corner. A badly preserved fish
of enormous size, lacking an eye, monopolized one wall; I inclined
to think it was a tarpon. The space was choked with rickety small
tables, and those pieces of furniture dear to the past generation as
chiffoniers and what-nots, every one laden with curiosities in the
way of shells, savage ornaments, beads and rude knives in sheaths of
coloured leather. But what naturally drew our attention most were
the skins that strewed the floor and made all movement well-nigh
impossible, unless by way of skips and jumps. Every known species of
Africa, I should think, was represented, except perhaps the elephant.
Two of those in sight were leopards, and my chief gave me a quick look
of triumph as he pointed them out. Neither of them, none of the skins
in fact, were mounted on cloth in the common fashion. The owner of this
weird collection could have picked one up and fastened it across her
shoulders without the least difficulty.
Mrs. Baker took some time to appear. Although we had postponed our
call till four o’clock, it is probable that her siesta had been
interrupted. Certainly she had the air of having only been roused from
sleep long enough to make a rather imperfect toilet. Her hair could
best be described as touzled, but it was of that light straw colour
that lends itself to a pleasing disorder. The face beneath was bright
and birdlike, animated by an expression of lively interest amounting
to perkiness. The dress, I can only suppose, was intended to rank as
a tea-gown, although it was strongly suggestive of a dressing-gown.
But whatever impressions of slovenliness and neglect were produced by
Mrs. Baker’s appearance and surroundings, they were almost instantly
dissipated by her manner, which was the perfection of genuine
cordiality and ease.
“I’m ashamed to have kept you waiting, Sir Frank!” she exclaimed,
grasping me warmly by the hand. “But dear me,” she proceeded before I
could speak, “if I haven’t mistaken the son for the father! How are
_you_, Sir Frank! I declare the likeness would deceive anybody.”
My chief extricated his hand from her friendly clutch with a smile.
“You flatter me, madam. Dr. Cassilis, I regret to say, is no relation
to me, though he is good enough to assist me.”
Mrs. Baker was not in the least embarrassed. Her smile at the mistake
was heartier than either of ours.
“Just like me,” she avowed good-naturedly. “If there’s a chance for me
to put my foot in it, I’m sure to do it. And I know you so well, by
name, of course. To think of all our diseases being due just to tiny
weeny insects! I’m sure everybody ought to be grateful to you.”
It was apparent that there was some slight confusion in the mind of
our hostess between Tarleton and some other scientist of equal if not
greater eminence--possibly the immortal Pasteur. Meanwhile, one thought
possessed my mind to an extent that made me indifferent to everything
else. This chatty, blundering, good-natured creature could by no
conceivable possibility be connected with the tragedy in the Domino
Club. Whatever part she had played and whether she had or had not been
present on the fateful night, it was no less than absurd to credit her
with any responsibility for Weathered’s death.
With an agility which I could only envy she skipped lightly over the
many pitfalls that bestrewed the floor, and stage-managed us both into
comfortable chairs, while she took up an attitude on a couch smothered
in cushions, which faintly recalled Thorwaldsen’s statue of Ariadne.
“I hope you will accept my condolences on Captain Armstrong’s death, if
it’s not too late,” the consultant contrived to slip in presently.
The bereaved sister brightened up. Doubtless this was the clue she had
wanted to our reason for calling on her.
“To be sure!” she exclaimed. “You knew my brother, of course. Everybody
knew him. What a man he was! The greatest explorer who ever lived, so I
think. He would have discovered America, and Livingstone, and the North
Pole, if only those other people hadn’t done it first.” Her face fell
for a moment, as she added, “He was careless in money matters, I know.
It was his open, generous nature. Did he borrow from either of you
gentlemen?”
The question was put in a tone of resignation which I understood as
soon as we had both disclaimed any such transaction with the late
Captain Armstrong.
“I am so thankful,” the loyal sister sighed. “So many of his friends
have come to me since his death was announced in the papers, and they
all brought I O U’s for money that he owed them. I have paid them all,
of course, but I had to do it out of my own money. Poor Edgar left
nothing.”
I glanced at my chief in some surprise. But he knew the world better
than I did, as his answer showed.
“I was afraid that his books hadn’t brought him in very much, valuable
as they were to science.”
Mrs. Baker shook her head. “Not one of them paid its expenses. I had to
advance the money to publish them, and I don’t suppose I shall ever get
it back.”
“You have some things to remember him by, at all events,” Tarleton
suggested. “Those leopard skins are very fine.”
“Ah, yes.” The sister brightened up again. “Everything he brought home
he gave to me. It’s a wonderful collection, isn’t it? People tell me I
ought to give it to the nation. I think I shall leave this house and
its contents to trustees as a memorial, like Carlyle’s house in Cheyne
Row, you know.”
We could only express approval of this pious intention. My chief now
came to the object of our visit.
“Captain Armstrong did me the honour to come to me some time ago, after
his return from Sumatra. He had heard of me as a student of poisons,
and he brought me a sample of one he had discovered.”
“I know the one you mean, the toadstool that grows round the upas tree.
Wasn’t that a wonderful discovery? I can tell you----” She checked
herself rather sharply, and said no more.
“I persuaded him to sell me all he had brought to England,” the
specialist remarked, without appearing to notice anything. “But it has
occurred to me since that he might have kept a little as a specimen,
and if that is so, and you are disposed to part with it, I shall be
glad.”
Mrs. Baker eyed us with a touch of uneasiness, I thought.
“I know I can trust you, Sir Frederick; and if Dr. Castle is your
assistant I suppose I can trust him too. Dear Edgar did leave me a
little bottleful, but he told me not to part with it to anyone, and not
even to let anyone know I had it.”
This was disconcerting news. I saw Tarleton’s thick eyebrows go up and
down.
“That was very sound advice,” he responded quietly. “However, your
brother trusted me, as I have said, and I hope you can do the same. I
shall be very greatly obliged if you will let me see the bottle.”
The little woman got nimbly off the couch. “After all, it will be a
relief to me to get rid of it,” she murmured. “I have always taken care
to keep it under lock and key.”
She produced a bunch of about two dozen keys from her pocket, all of
them of that common design that will open each other’s locks with ease,
and advanced to a chiffonier. “It is in here,” she informed us as she
threw back the flimsy door and thrust her head inside.
The next moment we heard a startled cry.
“The bottle is gone!”