THE DEAD MAN'S NAME
Doing is better than dreaming; and a year of experience is worth a
century of theorising. All his life Darrel had sat in his study
laboriously weaving romances out of such material as he had collected
in his wanderings. Now, by a happy chance of fortune, he was about to
step out of his ideal world into actual life, and take an active part
in a real story. Already fate had laid the foundation of an intricate
plot; and it was his business to work out to a fit conclusion the
criminal problem presented to him. In his own mind Darrel considered
the task impossible.
Conceive the difficulties of the case. A man--name unknown--meets
with, and is murdered by, a woman. This woman--also unknown--goes to
keep tryst with an individual--either male or female--and is killed by
him, or her. This was all the material upon which Darrel had to work,
and it may be guessed that his heart failed him at the meagre detail
afforded by the affair. The sole clues were two clay images coloured
blue; the initials 'J.G.' marked on the murdered man's linen; and the
possible chance of extracting useful information from a cabman. Yet
starting from these three points, Torry hoped to arrive at the goal he
aimed at, viz.: to capture, and condemn, and hang, the guilty
individual. Darrel could not with-hold his admiration at the
determination of the little man.
"Detective fiction is easier to follow than detective fact," said
Darrel to himself as he prepared to go out. "With the materials
supplied by this Mortality-lane case, I could work out a very fair
novel. Fate, Fortune, Destiny, or whosoever is designing this actual
romance will develop it in quite a different way, no doubt. Well"--he
put on his hat--"I am one of the actors in the drama, and it is my
turn to step on to the stage. Here goes for an elucidation of the Blue
Mummy Mystery."
Rather amused by his own ideas, Darrel stepped into a hansom, and
drove to his friend's rooms near the British Museum. In his pocket he
carried the grotesque little image from which he hoped to learn so
much. Luckily the Egyptologist--Patron was his name--proved to be at
home, a long, lean _savant_ with grizzled hair and spectacles. He
received Darrel very amiably, for they were old friends, and had been
fellow-students at Oxford. Frank looked still young and blooming, as
was natural at the age of five-and-twenty; but Patron, though barely
thirty, was already aged by hard study and a misanthropic temperament.
In the hands of this prematurely old individual Darrel placed the
image.
"Look at the Egyptian mummy, old fellow," said he taking a seat, "and
tell me what you think of it."
Mr. Patron stroked his cheek and chin; examined the azure idol through
his learned spectacles, and contradicted Frank in a clear, calm voice.
"As usual, my dear Darrel, you speak without thinking," said he, "the
image is not Egyptian at all."
"It is the representation of a mummy," protested Frank, "and I always
understood that the Egyptians were the only people who salted and
dried their dead."
"Then you understood wrongly," contradicted Patron. "The ancient
Peruvians also embalmed their dead. This is the image of a Peruvian
mummy."
"How do you know?" asked Darrel, rather amazed at this remark.
"Don't you see the representation of the sun on its breast?" snapped
the other. "The ancient Peruvians were sun-worshippers. Judging from
the solar symbol, I should say that this mummy comes from the tomb of
some Inca. It is--what we call--a tomb image."
"What is that?" questioned the visitor.
Patron cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and prepared for a
long historical lecture. "In common with certain Asiatic nations,"
said he, "the ancient Peruvians practised the barbarous custom of
immolating victims at the obsequies of great men. Sometimes--according
to Prescott--a thousand attendants and favourite concubines would be
slaughtered, so that they might accompany the dead Inca to his bright
mansion in the sun. On occasions, however, the actual slaughter was
dispensed with, and images of clay in the form of mummies, such as we
see here," said the _savant_, pointing to the blue figure, "were
substituted for human beings. For every counsellor, or slave, or wife,
or attendant, a clay image was placed in the sepulchre of the dead; so
that, in such instance, there would be many hundreds of these
fictitious mummies arranged round the corpse. The figure we have here
is an example of a tomb image. I hope I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly," rejoined Darrel, slipping the image into his pocket. "But
your lecture does not help me in the least."
"In what way? Where did you get the mummy?" questioned Patron
disconnectedly.
"Out of a murdered woman's pocket."
"Bless me! how strange! Why was she murdered? And how did she become
possessed of so unique a curiosity as a Peruvian tomb-image?
"Patron, my friend, those are two questions to which I am trying to
obtain an answer."
"If I can help you, Darrel----"
"Thank you; Patron; but I fear you can help me no further. Good-day."
"Good-day, good-day," replied the Egyptologist hastily; for his mind
was already reverting to his own particular work, and he was becoming
oblivious to the story told by his visitor. "Good-day;" after which he
soared into cloudland.
Darrel went away little satisfied with his visit. He had obtained
certain historical information, but none likely to throw any light on
the mystery of the double crime. The Blue Mummy was connected with the
murders in some concealed way, independent of its archæological
merits; and it was this hidden connection which Darrel desired to
discover. At present, however, he could not see the slightest chance
of gaining the necessary information; therefore, this especial clue
was absolutely useless--at all events for the time being. Later on its
value might be discovered and utilised; but in the meantime, Frank
dismissed it, to follow up the clue of the initials on the linen of
the dead man. To accomplish this he drove directly to Bond-street.
The mere fact that the red-haired man--as in the absence of an actual
name it is convenient to call him--was in the habit of dealing with
Harcot and Harcot, shewed that he must have been, if not rich, at
least fairly well off. The shop, as Darrel knew, was a very expensive
one, and the goods it supplied were sold at much above their market
value, from the fact that they were supposed to be particularly
fashionable. Darrel carried with him the shirt of the dead man which
had been confided to him by Torry; and this he displayed to the eyes
of the senior partner. Mr. Harcot was a tall, stately-looking man,
more like a Duke than a shopkeeper, and after examining the shirt
through his _pince-nez_, he inquired loftily what it was Mr. Darrel
desired to know. Darrel promptly supplied the information.
"I wish to learn what those initials stand for," said he, laying his
forefinger on the letters 'J.G.'
"May I ask why!"
Darrel reflected. "I see no reason why you should not know," he
remarked; "but you must respect my confidence."
"Certainly, sir, certainly," replied Harcot, whose curiosity was now
excited. "Please come this way where we shall not be disturbed."
The tradesman led the way into a small room partitioned off from the
shop by a glass screen and on closing the door of this, he handed
Darrel a chair with great politeness.
"I await your explanation, sir," he said, smoothing out the shirt on
the table.
"One moment," said Frank quickly. "If I tell you my reason for asking
this question, and you agree to answer it, can I rely on your being
able to give me the desired information?"
"Assuredly, sir. You will observe that under these letters 'J.G.'
there is a number, one thousand four hundred and twenty. Well, sir, we
index, so to speak, all shirts of our manufacture in that way;
and--should your reason for seeking information satisfy me--I have
only to look up that number in our books to learn for whom this shirt
was made."
"Then you had better do so at once, Mr. Harcot; for thereby you may be
able to capture a criminal."
The tradesman looked amazed. "Capture a criminal?" he repeated.
"Yes. On Sunday morning last, after one o'clock, the man to whom that
shirt belonged was murdered."
"Murdered, sir!"
"Yes; stabbed to the heart in Mortality-lane."
"Dear, dear!" cried Mr. Harcot in much agitation. "You don't say so! I
noticed an account of the tragedy in the _Star_--an early issue, Mr.
Darrel, published at two o'clock; but I did not think that a customer
of ours was the victim. How very dreadful! Who is the unfortunate
gentleman?"
"That is what I wish you to tell me, Mr. Harcot."
"With pleasure, with pleasure; but if you will excuse my saying so,
sir, I did not know that you were an officer of the law."
"Nor am I," rejoined Darrel drily. "I am a novelist; but the detective
in charge of this case has permitted me to assist him."
"Oh, indeed, sir," replied Mr. Harcot, considerably astonished. "If
you will permit me, sir, I will look up our books."
Washing his hands with invisible soap, and bowing politely, Mr. Harcot
vanished, leaving Darrel to his own thoughts. In about ten minutes he
returned, looking very pale and concerned. Frank was a trifle
surprised at this agitation.
"Dear, dear!" gasped the man, sitting down with an air of
consternation. "I am shocked, really. Such a respectable gentleman! so
old a customer!"
"What is the name?" cried Darrel anxiously.
"Grent, sir; Jesse Grent, of Wray House, Wraybridge."
"Grent--Grent!" muttered Darrel thoughtfully. "I seem to know the
name."
"Everybody does, Mr. Darrel. Grent and Leighbourne, of Fleet-street."
"What! the bankers?"
"Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Jesse Grent was the head of the firm and now he is
an angel. I hope so, for he was a good man, sir, who paid his bills
most regul----"
"Thank you, Mr. Harcot," said Frank, cutting short these lamentations,
which were a trifle mercenary. "You have told me all I wish to know.
Mr. Jesse Grent, banker. H'm!--so he was the red-haired man."
Mr. Harcot was about to protest that the late Mr. Grent had white
hair, but that Frank, with a curt nod, walked smartly out of the shop.
Whereupon Harcot senior went to inform Harcot junior of the loss of a
good customer, and to suggest an immediate sending in of the bill to
the executors.
It was now too late to call at Torry's private office, as it was long
after six o'clock before Frank terminated his inquiries; so he went
back to his rooms and pondered over his discovery. He had heard of Mr.
Grent, who was a rich banker and much respected. That he should be
found dead in a disreputable neighborhood, in disguise, added to the
mystery of the case. Frank thought over the matter all night, until
his brain was on fire; and he was glad when the morning came that he
could see Torry. Just as he was considering the advisability of paying
a visit, the detective himself made his appearance and looked
considerably disturbed.
"I say, Mr. Darrel," he burst out, "there are two murderers!"
"Two!"
"Yes--a man and a woman!"