Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-90469872
(National Library of Australia)
THE RED-HEADED MAN
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
CLAUDE DUVAL OF '95
_A ROMANCE OF THE ROAD_
Some Press Opinions
Athenæm.--"The book is cleverly written and will interest the reader
who can forget its impossibilities."
Academy.--"The book is a story of modern highway robbery by a lady
instead of a gentleman of the road."
Scotsman.--"A capital story of mystery, and unravelled with an
entertaining thought."
Pall Mall Gazette.--"Mr. Fergus Hume has shown his wonted skill in
steering his reader plausibly through the pitfalls of a tangled plot
in his 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five.' The conception of a mounted and
masked highwayman in our own day is daring and original and is worked
out with great ingenuity."
Daily Graphic.--"Mr. Fergus Hume starts with a good idea in his tale
of a modern highwayman and he has crowded a variety of incidents into
the pages of his book. The story opens dramatically and with some
novelty."
Whitehall Review.--"A rattling romance of the road, well written, well
conceived and capitally told. The present book is one of absorbing
interest and it is impossible to put it aside until the last line is
reached."
Black and White.--"There is abundant action and a well-sustained
mystery in Mr. Fergus Hume's 'Claude Duval of '95."
Morning Post.--"Less characteristic than the majority of Mr. Hume's
stories this 'Romance of the Road' is one of the most entertaining
among them."
Gentlewoman.--"Mr. Hume's latest contribution to fiction 'Claude Duval
of Ninety-Five' is a good honest tale of adventure which you cannot
easily put by when you take it up."
Westminster Gazette.--"'Claude Duval of '95' is an excellent story."
Manchester Guardian.--"A female highwayman is a somewhat daring
variety in fiction of which crime and audacity is the chief merit of
Mr. Fergus Hume's latest work. Mr. Hume is a clever writer in a very
fertile vein."
Literary World.--"In 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five' we have a
recendesence of highway robbery very skilfully contrived."
Weekly Sun.--"The plot is very cleverly worked out. The book is to be
heartily commended as one of its author's masterpieces."
Literature.--"The story is novel, and is worked out into a present day
environment with real dexterity."
Yorkshire Post.--"An entertaining romance which should agree with the
prevailing mood of the libraries."
Observer.--"Mr. Hume's story will rank among the best of its type."
DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS, LONDON.
THE RED-HEADED MAN
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"_The Mystery of a Hansom Cab_," "_Claude Duval of '95_,"
"_A Masquerade Mystery_," "_The Rainbow Feather_," _etc._
London
DIGBY, LONG & CO.
18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C.
1899
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. AN EXTRAORDINARY CRIME
II. THE BLONDE LADY
III. MR. TORRY'S THEORY
IV. THE DEAD MAN'S NAME
V. "DE MORTIUS NIL NISI BONUM"
VI. THE SECRETARY
VII. EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST
VIII. THE ROBBERY
IX. CAPTAIN MANUEL
X. DONNA MARIA
XI. UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE
XII. A CHANCE MEETING
XIII. A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
XIV. THE SECRET SOCIETY
XV. A WOMAN SCORNED
XVI. THE TURQUOISE RING
XVII. MORE MYSTERIES
XVIII. A STRANGE OCCURRENCE
XIX. ANOTHER PUZZLE
XX. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
XXI. DONNA MARIA EXPLAINS
XXII. THE LOCKET
XXIII. A CONFESSION
XXIV. A QUEER MESSAGE
XXV. THE MEETING IN HYDE PARK
XXVI. CONCLUSION
THE RED-HEADED MAN
CHAPTER I
AN EXTRAORDINARY CRIME
Frank Darrel was a young man of twenty-five, with a sufficiency of
good looks, and a comfortable income of five hundred a year. Also by
way of employing his spare time, he was a realistic novelist of a
particularly new school, founded on the axiom that fact invariably
poaches on the domain of fiction. He neither conceived nor adopted,
but set down actual details of the life around him, with so rigid an
adherence to the truth that his published works read like police
reports re-written in decent English. In a word, he held the mirror up
to nature, and presented the reflection, beautiful or ugly, to the
criticism of the British public.
To preach thoroughly his gospel of art, as he conceived it, Darrel
lived in London, that microcosm of life in all its phases, good, bad,
and indifferent. Usually he worked in the morning, slept in the
afternoon, amused himself in the evening, and devoted the night from
twelve to five to exploring the deeps of the metropolitan ocean. In a
disguise of decent poverty more threadbare than ragged, this
enthusiast would exploit the dark corners of the Strand, penetrate
into Whitechapel slums, and explore the least-known recesses of the
City. On occasion he would view the West End and its civilised vices
by gaslight, make expeditions into suburbs of known respectability,
and, when weary of observing middle class virtue, would haunt less
reputable districts in search of character and adventure. All his
gleanings were then transmuted into vigorous prose, and figured, under
picturesque titles, as novels of fact improved into fiction. This
method of shifting the commonplace into romance was adopted by one
Honoré de Balzac, with a result known to all the intellectual world.
Darrel, with less genius than persevering observation, was a disciple
of that great man.
One evening late in the summer of last year, Darrel, disguised as a
respectable mechanic, found himself observing humanity within the
narrow limits of Drury-lane. The hour of midnight had just boomed in
twelve strokes from the towers of near churches, and the ragged,
hoarse-voiced crowd was beginning to thin into scattered groups.
Vendors of various wares had extinguished their flaring lights, and
had wheeled home their barrows. Playgoers, chattering about their
evening's pleasure, were disappearing into side streets; shops were
being closed; hotel-keepers were driving forth late customers more or
less intoxicated; and the whole machinery of the quarter's
civilisation was running down rapidly, to stop altogether somewhere
about the small hours of the morning. Frank, with a short pipe in his
mouth, and a keen eye in his head, stood observingly at a corner, and
took note of this slackening. It was at this moment that his attention
was attracted to a red-headed man.
This individual was tall and stout. He was dressed in a seedy suit of
greasy broadcloth; and his hair and beard were a violent red. He
seemed restless and ill at ease, passed and re-passed young Darrel,
looked into the window of a still open shop, glanced at a near
policeman with obvious nervousness, and conducted himself so
uncomfortably that the novelist began to watch him.
"That fellow wants to do something," he thought, "and can't make up
his mind to take the first step. I'll bet a criminal matter occupies
his thoughts. I'll keep my eye on him."
Shortly the red-headed man walked past Frank with a resolute air, and
disappeared down a dark lane to the left. Darrel, after some
hesitation was about to follow, when the creature returned, and again,
began his restless wanderings in the more populated lane. Once or
twice he paused near the policeman, as though wishing to ask him some
question, and once or twice his heart so failed him that he turned
away, with a look of anxiety. Then he caught sight of Darrel, and
advanced directly towards him; but again flinched and wilted away. At
once interested and puzzled, Frank turned to observe the shop window,
but in the meantime watched the red-headed man out of the corner of
his eye. His appearance and behaviour promised an adventure.
For the third time this vacillating individual stepped up to the
policeman and almost opened his mouth to speak; but before he could
utter a word he shrank away, and placed himself at the shop-window
next to Frank. The young man, apparently indifferent, out of
diplomacy, became aware that he was being scrutinised; and judged that
the man was debating the advisability of speaking to him. The next
moment, his judgment proved correct.
"I beg your pardon," whispered the red-haired man in husky tones, "but
could you tell me the whereabouts of Mortality-lane?"
"It is close at hand," replied Frank readily. "I'll take you there if
you like."
"Thank you, no," said the other hurriedly; "just tell me where----"
"I can't explain," answered Darrel, cutting him short. "You would not
be able to find it in this network of streets. If you don't trust me,
ask that policeman to guide you."
The man winced and drew a quick breath, then looked again at Frank.
"You are an educated man," said he--"a gentleman."
"I might say the same of you," rejoined Darrel, who had noted the
refined accent of the man, "but that is neither here nor there.
Mortality-lane is to the left. Good-night, sir."
"Stay, stay!" cried the red-headed man as Darrel moved away. "I trust
you; please guide me to the place."
Ever sparing of words, Frank nodded and turned down a side street,
followed by his companion, who walked beside him in a cat-like way. In
the narrow street there was but scant light, as the gas lamps were few
and far between; still, the luminosity of the summer night revealed to
Darrel that his companion kept at a respectful distance and had his
right hand in the breast of his seedy coat. Evidently he was nervous
of his guide, and feared a sudden assault in some dark corner. From
this obvious fear Darrel concluded that his companion was not a
criminal; and, moreover, carried some valuables about him which he
dreaded might be stolen. On further reflection, the novelist decided
that the red-headed man was a disguised gentleman, who was venturing
into strange places and stranger company on some disreputable errand.
Darrel wondered what his purpose might be, but did not think it
advisable to ask questions; nor, as he mentally admitted, had he the
right to do so.
The two men walked onward in silence. The one a little in advance of
the other. Turning down one street, crossing a second, walking up a
third, they at length emerged into a small open space in which stood
three four-wheeled cabs. Opposite the first of these, on the further
side of the square, as it might be called, there was a narrow alley,
and to this Darrel pointed.
"Yonder is Mortality-lane," he said, "but it is not a very safe place
for a single person. If you like, I'll go down----"
"No--no," interrupted the red-headed man eagerly, "you have shewn me
where it is; that is all I wish to know."
"Are you not going down the lane?" asked Darrel in surprise.
"On the contrary, I am going home," replied the man; then adding in an
abrupt tone, "Good-night," he walked towards the first cab and spoke a
few words to the driver. Darrel saw that he gave the cabman some
money, then disappeared into the cab, closing the door after him. For
two or three minutes the driver occupied himself in taking the blanket
off his horse and adjusting the harness. Then he mounted the box and
drove off slowly in the direction of the Strand.
At once a wild desire came on Darrel to ascertain the reason of the
red-headed man's strange behaviour. Almost without thinking he crossed
over to the second cab and opened the door.
"Follow that first cab," said he to the driver, "and I'll give you
half a sovereign."
"Hullo!" replied the man, noting suspiciously the dress of his fare,
"wot's yer little game?"
"Police business worth half a sovereign," was Darrel's diplomatic
reply.
"Blimme, that's all right, sir," said the driver, accepting this
explanation with alacrity. "Jump in, an' I'll ketch up t'other keb in
two shakes!"
Confident that the driver would earn his money, Darrel lay back on the
cushions, and wondered what would be the outcome of his pursuit. That
the red-headed man should have turned away at the very goal towards
which he had requested guidance was most extraordinary. If he had no
special business in Mortality-lane, why had he inquired for it? and if
he had a reason for going, and his reason was an innocent one, why did
he not ask the policeman in Drury-lane instead of applying to a
complete stranger? Frank, ever on the alert for romance, asked himself
these questions, but could find no answer to them. However, he hoped
to gratify his curiosity when he caught up with the stranger who was
the cause of it--provided the stranger was willing to afford an
explanation.
The cab--presumably following the other vehicle--drove down
Bell-street, and turned into the Strand, now almost emptied of
traffic. It rolled along the thoroughfare as far as Trafalgar-square,
then turned down Northumberland-avenue, passed along the Embankment,
and up Arundel-street into the Strand again. Darrel was greatly
puzzled by this circular route--the more so when he found his cab
driving up Drury-lane. Then a sudden thought struck him.
"The red-headed man fancied I was watching him," he said to
himself, "and drove away to get rid of me. I should not be surprised
if the first cab, with him inside, returns to the entrance to
Mortality-lane."
This proved to be the case, for following almost the same route as he
had conducted the stranger, the first four-wheeler drove into the
little square and took up its old station at the mouth of the lane.
But by this time the third cab left behind had disappeared.
"'Ere y'are, sir!" said Darrel's driver, opening the door. "We've both
come back 'ome an' never stopped the whole bloomin' time. Carn't mek
out wot 'Enry's fare's bin arter."
Frank, as puzzled as the cabman, jumped out, and, walking to the first
vehicle, looked inside. To his surprise, the red-headed man had
vanished.
"Wot's wrong with moy keb, mister," said the gruff voice of the
driver.
"The man--the man with the red hair?" inquired the amazed Darrel.
"Oh, 'e's all right. Don't y' fret yerself about 'im. Wot y'
poll-pryin' 'ere for, eh?"
"Y'd best taike care, 'Enry," remarked the other cabman, sauntering
up. "This gent's to do with the perlice."
The insolence of Henry gave place at once to respect. "Didn't know you
was a 'tec, sir. Might the cove with carrots be wanted?"
"He might be," said Darrel, not thinking it wise to disclaim the
profession attributed to him by the two cabmen. "When did he get out?"
"Well, y' see, sir, he were never in, so to speak."
"What do you mean?"
"'Twas this way, sir. The carrots cove comes 'ere, an' sez: 'A
man'--you, sir--''e's follerin' me. I'll give y' five bob to let me
pass through yer keb an' down thet there lane. Then,' sez he, 'jes y'
drive orf an' drive back, an' y' can pick me up and taike me 'ome.' So
while I was talking the blannkit orf he whips in at one door, an' out
of t'other, and down thet lane like mad. I drives orf, an' larfs when
I sees you was follerin'. So 'ere I am back agin t' pick 'im up; but I
don't see the bloomin' cove," concluded Henry, with a glance round.
It was with great amazement that Darrel listened to the story of the
cabman. Strange indeed must have been the errand of the red-haired man
to Mortality-lane, when he was so suspicious of a stranger and took
such elaborate precautions against discovery. The word discovery no
sooner flashed into Darrel's brain than he repeated it aloud.
Discovery of what? With, perhaps, unpardonable curiosity, Frank made
up his mind to acquaint himself with the reason of the man's strange
conduct.
"Well," said he in reply to Henry, "I'll wait here with you until this
man reappears."
"Y'll wait by yerself, then," said Henry, getting on his box. "It's
past one o'clock, an', fare or no fare, I ain't a-goin to stay all
night."
When he drove off Darrel was left alone with the other cabman, and
turned towards him in some perplexity. "Are you going too?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Moy missus'll be expecting me," replied the man; "But," he
added, taking down one of the cab lamps, "If y' think the gent's in
that lane I'll go down with yer, an' look him up. Then I can drive y'
both t' Bow-street."
With great alacrity Frank assented to this, and they went down the
middle of the lane. As the gas lamps were few, the cabman flashed the
light he carried from right to left. Mortality-lane is not very long,
and they were soon close to the end where it opens into Lincoln's Inn
Fields. Here the cabman uttered an oath as he stumbled over a body.
Darrel looked, and, in the circle of the light cast by the carriage
candle, beheld the red-haired man stone dead, with an ugly wound over
the heart.