THE RED LIGHT
Sir Frank and I both sprang to our feet to go to the chiffonier. But
it was useless to turn over the rubbish it contained. The bottle of
upasine was not there. And either the sister of the explorer was a
very perfect actress or she was as much surprised as I was by its
disappearance.
“Whoever can have taken it?” she cried, gazing at us as if not quite
certain that we were beyond suspicion of the theft. “Both my maids have
been with me for years, and I have never missed anything before.”
It was at moments like these that I most admired my chief. The
encounter with a new perplexity seemed to afford him the keenest
pleasure. He was like an angler who finds that he has hooked a trout
where he only expected a chub. I could see from the knitting of his
brows that he was already readjusting his ideas to this new factor in
the case, and working out a different solution.
His first step was to soothe the mistress of the house.
“If you will allow me to help you I think we may be able to get on the
track of the thief. Shall we sit down and talk it over quietly?”
Mrs. Baker, still rather distrustful, let herself be led back to her
couch. But this time she did not attempt a statuesque pose. She sat
bolt upright, turning her head from one to the other of us like a
nervous robin.
“You haven’t missed anything else, you say,” Tarleton began, “so that
it looks as though the thief must have been someone who knew what he
was taking. The question is how many of your friends knew about this
poison?”
“Not one of them,” was the positive answer. “I have never mentioned it
to a soul.”
“Think,” the doctor persisted courteously. “Remember that Captain
Armstrong mentions his discovery of it in his book, _Across Sumatra_.
Surely some of your acquaintances must have read the book and talked to
you about it?”
The little woman began to show signs of misgiving.
“I can’t remember,” she confessed.
She had shown us both already that memory was not her strong point. The
consultant prompted her gently.
“The person most likely to be interested in such a thing as a new
poison would be a scientist or a medical man.”
Mrs. Baker’s eyes sought the floor. “I am positive that my doctor
knew nothing about it. Besides, I haven’t seen him for the last six
months--not since my brother’s death.” The disclaimer was made in a
rather shaken voice, however.
“But a lady like you must have some acquaintances in the scientific
world,” the examiner insinuated. “I was under the impression that I had
heard of you as a patroness of science.”
The flattery did its work. Mrs. Baker lifted her head again and repaid
it with a gracious smile.
“I am interested in science,” she admitted. “When my poor brother
was alive I used to give At Homes for him to show his curiosities to
people. I have had as many as six Fellows of the Royal Geographical
Society at one time before now.”
“I felt sure of it. And you see your brother may easily have mentioned
this bottle, or shown it, to someone without your knowledge.”
The birdlike head wavered. “But I am certain that it hadn’t been taken
when he died. I had to make a list of everything he left for probate,
and I should have missed it if it hadn’t been there. And I have had no
At Homes since.”
It struck me that this was said rather unwillingly, under the stress of
conscience. Tarleton seemed to think the same. The look he gave to the
little woman showed me that he believed she was keeping something back.
His next question was a bombshell.
“May I ask if you have taken any interest in the science of
psycho-analysis?”
Mrs. Baker’s collapse was pitiful. If the specialist had suddenly
changed into a cobra before her eyes she could not have looked at him
with greater terror.
“What do you mean, Sir Roderick?” she faltered.
Tarleton slowly shook his head.
“My dear madam, it is time for us to leave off fencing with one
another. Dr. Cassilis and I are both incapable of betraying your
confidence and neither of us has the slightest desire to injure you.
This dangerous poison has been stolen from you, and you cannot feel
easy in your mind till you know that it has been recovered, and is in
safe hands. All we ask is your help in tracing it, and that help I am
sure you feel that you ought to give.”
He had struck the right note this time. The poor little woman took out
her handkerchief and dabbed her forehead in a distracted manner as she
nerved herself to speak.
“You are quite right, Sir Robert. I know I ought to tell you
everything, but it isn’t at all pleasant. Have you ever heard of a Dr.
Wycherley?”
The situation was too grave for these erratic names to provoke a smile.
“I have heard of Dr. Weathered,” the specialist said gravely.
“Weathered, of course! How could I have forgotten it. But I never can
remember names, Sir Herbert. He isn’t a friend of yours, I hope?”
“He never was.” Evidently she hadn’t heard of the death in the Domino
Club, and my chief didn’t think the time had yet come to tell her of
it.
Mrs. Baker gave a sigh of relief before plunging into her tale.
“It all began with my going to hear him give a lecture on
psycho-analysis at the Caxton Hall. He looked quite a distinguished
man, and he lectured beautifully. I was fascinated by the things he
said. He told us that he could look inside our minds, and see things
there that we had never dreamt of--in our subconscience, he called it.”
“Subconsciousness, yes,” Tarleton put in with the least touch of
impatience.
“I dare say that was it. He said we might have murderous propensities
without knowing it. Think of that! I might be secretly longing to kill
my dear brother, and if the propensity wasn’t found out and removed in
time, I might end by doing it. I was horrified.”
I confess I was horrified, too, as I grasped the methods by which
Weathered had drawn this harmless little creature into his toils.
“I couldn’t sleep for thinking of all the dreadful things that my
subconscience might be planning and plotting behind my back. I felt
I must know the worst, so as to be on my guard against it. I went to
consult Dr. Weathered at his house, and it was a dreadful experience.
He found out that I had a murderous propensity. And he told me that the
only way for me to rid myself of it was to write letters to him telling
him every evil thought that came into my mind.”
My chief and I looked at each other. There was no need of words to
express the idea we had in common. There could be little doubt as
to Weathered’s line of action. He had found himself dealing with a
credulous weak-minded simpleton, and he had proceeded to use the
power of suggestion. He had simply put into the poor woman’s mind
the thoughts he pretended to be driving out. The only question that
remained was whether he had gone so far as to instigate her to the
commission of a crime.
“I wrote him letter after letter,” Mrs. Baker continued. “Every time
I felt angry with one of the maids I had to let him know. Sometimes
he answered the letters, and sometimes he didn’t. When he did write
he generally asked me questions about how I was tempted to commit the
murder. That was how he found out about the poison.”
Even I had seen this coming. Tarleton no doubt had seen it some time
before, and worked up to it deliberately; but he let no sign of
satisfaction appear.
“Did he ever ask you to let him have it?” he asked. The answer
surprised me.
“No, never. He told me to be very careful never to part with it.”
“Ah, I understand. He told you to take the greatest care of it, and you
told him exactly where you kept it?”
“Yes, yes.” The explorer’s sister gazed at him in admiration. “How did
you guess that?”
“I think it is quite plain, ma’am. He didn’t want you or anyone else
to be in a position to say that he had obtained the poison from you.
With the information you gave him he could walk into the house at any
time, and take it--secretly.”
This was a development I hadn’t foreseen. Was the mystery going to
resolve itself into a case of suicide, after all? After failing to put
an end to himself by means of opium, had Weathered finally resorted
to a more certain drug? But then, in that case, why shouldn’t he have
demanded it openly from his deceived patient? Truly the riddle was
becoming more insoluble as we advanced.
Mrs. Baker was rather indignant at the suggestion that her precautions
for the security of the dangerous bottle had not been sufficient; but
the consultant brushed aside her objections almost irritably.
“Nonsense, my dear woman, that lock of yours could be picked by a
clever child of twelve. All that the thief had to do was to come to
the house when he knew you were out, give a false name to the servant,
and ask to be allowed to wait. As soon as he found himself alone in
this room he could help himself to what he wanted, and then remember an
engagement, and come away. Very likely the maid who would let him in
wouldn’t even trouble to tell you a visitor had called.”
The mistress of the house was reluctantly obliged to admit this
possibility. Tarleton folded his arms, a sign that the interview was
over as far as his interest in it was concerned, but he was good
enough to give me a chance of satisfying my curiosity.
“What do you say, Cassilis? Do you think we ought to ask Mrs. Baker to
tell us anything more?”
I thought our hostess looked as little willing as I was to leave her
story unfinished.
“Oh, but you must hear the end,” she protested. “And you mustn’t go
away without so much as a cup of tea.” She hopped lightly to the
electric bell. “I want you to know that I’m not a patient of Dr.
Weathered any longer; and I think I ought to tell you why--when the
maid is gone.”
The saving clause was prompted by a rough bang at the door, followed by
the entrance of the untidy servant. She had anticipated her mistress’s
orders, and brought in a huge tray laden with food sufficient to
satisfy a large party of hungry people. The variety of sandwiches was
amazing. Mrs. Baker’s popularity with the local tradesmen and the
success of her At Homes seemed to be fully explained.
“You will hardly believe it,” she resumed as soon as we had settled
down to a serious attack on this provender, “but Dr. Willoughby ended
by actually tempting me to commit a crime.”
It was easier for us to believe than she supposed, but I did my best to
look incredulous.
“Yes, Dr. Carstairs, he told me that the only way to get rid of my
murderous propensities was to give way to them. He advised me to kill
Samuel.”
This really was beyond my power to believe. “Samuel?” I repeated.
“Yes, my beautiful black cat, the one that slept at the foot of my bed
every night.”
Tarleton raised his head quickly.
“Did he suggest that you should give him the poison from Sumatra?” he
put in.
The explorer’s sister nodded.
The object of the advice she had received was plain enough. The
scoundrel wanted to test the effect of the poison; perhaps he felt some
doubt if it was still active. Beyond that his intentions were dark.
Such a man was quite capable of committing a murder by deputy, and he
might have designed to make an instrument of this deluded patient of
his. But, if so, there was nothing to tell us whose life he had been
aiming at. He had felt himself to be surrounded by enemies, according
to Madame Bonnell’s statement. He may have wished to provide himself
with a weapon for use in case of need.
The worthy owner of Samuel told us that she had refused to slay her pet.
“I sent him away for fear I should be tempted to kill him,” she said
with tears in her eyes. “I found him a happy home with a former maid of
mine who is married and living in the country. She writes me about him
once a month, when I send her a postal order. I shall never dare to
have him back again.”
My youthful indignation became too much for me.
“There is not the slightest reason why you shouldn’t have your cat back
to-morrow,” I said bluntly. “You are no more likely to kill it than
I am. The man was telling you a pack of lies from the beginning. Sir
Frank Tarleton will tell you the same. We have been finding out a good
deal about this man during the last few days; and you were not his only
victim.”
Mrs. Baker opened her eyes in a way that showed more offence than
gratitude. I had gone the wrong way to work to disabuse her.
“I am much obliged to you, Dr. Cassidy,” she said stiffly, “but I much
prefer to be on the safe side. We none of us know the secrets of our
own hearts, it seems to me. I consider Dr. Witheredge a cruel man, and
I have done with him; but he was extremely clever; and I am satisfied
that there is something in the science of psycho-analysis.”
Tarleton came to my rescue. “The more there is in it the more dangerous
it may be in the hands of a clever man without scruples. If you’ll
allow me to say so, I think you acted very wisely in deciding to have
nothing more to do with Dr. Weathered.”
The lady accepted this graciously, and smoothed down her ruffled
feathers. I thought I might venture on a fresh question.
“Did you know that he was the real proprietor of the Domino Club?”
“Never! You don’t say so? I understood it was run by a
Frenchwoman--Madame Bonnet.”
“You have been there, I suppose?”
“Only once. I heard so much about it that I thought I must go and see
what it was like. I was there only last Wednesday. But I didn’t stay
more than an hour. Dr. Weathell was there, disguised as an Inquisitor,
and I was so afraid of his recognizing me that I came away.”
There could be no doubt, as far as I could see, that this was the
truth. And if it was the truth the lady of the leopard skin and claws
was now ruled out of the case. Her part in it had been confined to
supplying the poison, or rather in innocently letting it be known where
it could be found. To clinch the matter I said:
“I wasn’t there, but we heard that a lady had been present who left
early. She wore the skin of a leopard, and a necklace of leopard’s
claws.”
“Yes, that was me; I went as a Leopardess,” our amiable hostess
responded with a frankness which put an end to the last doubt. She
added in a tone of quiet triumph, “I can see now that that was where my
murderous propensities came out. Why else should I have gone as a beast
of prey?”
I had to admit that she had scored off me. Anything less like a beast
of prey or a potential murderess than the bright and birdlike little
woman I have never seen.
My chief picked out one point that I had overlooked.
“Did Weathered mention the Club to you, ma’am? Or did you know this
Madame Bonnell?”
Mrs. Baker drew herself up.
“I didn’t _know_ her,” she said with emphasis. “Such a person is not
in my social circle. I knew of her. A friend of mine in Chelsea gave
me her card when I went to buy a ticket for the dance, but she was a
friend of Madame Bunner’s. It was only a form.”
The answer was equally decisive. It seemed clear to me that the only
person who could have known of the existence of the poison, and
abstracted it, was the man who had perished by it. I saw Tarleton’s
watch come out of his pocket, and its slow, steady motion told me that
his brain was already at work on the last winding of the mystery.
When we had done full justice to the refreshments put before us we
came away pledged to attend the first At Home given by our hostess,
which she explained would be as soon as she was out of mourning for
her brother. I think she had won both our hearts in spite of her
eccentricities, and we entertained no serious dread that her murderous
propensities would be indulged at our expense.
Tarleton was very silent till we were back at Montague Street. Even
when we were in his study again he did not seem much disposed to
discuss the new situation with me. For the first time since the
beginning of the investigation I had the impression that I was not
entirely in his confidence.
When I expressed my curiosity as to Weathered’s motive for stealing the
bottle of upasine he lifted his bushy eyebrows and looked at me almost
as if he were annoyed.
“We don’t know that he did steal it,” he growled. “Everyone who read
Armstrong’s book knew of his discovery, and would expect to find some
of the new poison among his belongings. And as for that little woman,
she has probably babbled about it to a dozen persons whom she has
forgotten. Her memory is like a sieve.”
The judgment struck me as harsh. Mrs. Baker certainly had a genius
for forgetting names, but so have many people whose memories are good
enough in other respects. It seemed to me that she had shown a pretty
fair recollection of her dealings with Weathered at all events; and I
said so.
Tarleton hunched himself up in his favourite armchair and growled again.
“You ask me to believe that a doctor who had stolen what he knew to
be a deadly drug, and who was actually taking precautions to prevent
himself being poisoned at the time, was careless enough to let it be
taken from him?--Well, I don’t.”
I had never known him to speak so irritably before. I sat dumb, asking
myself what was in his mind. And all at once the explanation flashed
upon me.
If he didn’t believe that Weathered had taken the fatal bottle he must
have been searching for the probable thief among Weathered’s enemies.
The last question he had put to Mrs. Baker showed that his thoughts had
turned for a moment in the direction of the Frenchwoman, who of all
others had the best opportunity to administer the poison. Who else was
left?
The one enemy of Weathered’s whom we both knew of, the one person who
had not only a reason but, it might be said, a moral right to take his
life in self-defence was Violet Bredwardine. And she had confessed to
having lent the disguise worn on the night of the murder by one who
must have been her friend, and probable champion. A dozen trifling
incidents rushed back into my mind; the specialist’s anxiety lest his
own bottle should have been tampered with; the way he had contrived--it
looked like contrivance to me now--to give me a chance of meeting
Violet alone. There could be only one meaning in it all.
My chief suspected me, had suspected me from the very first, of being
the murderer. The red light was in my eyes at last.