A CATASTROPHE.
The play has commenced. Longcluse, who likes and understands the game,
sitting beside Richard Arden, is all eye. He is intensely eager and
delighted. He joins modestly in the clapping that now and then follows a
stroke of extraordinary brilliancy. Now and then he whispers a criticism
in Arden's ear. There are many vicissitudes in the game. The players
have entered on the third hundred, and still "doubtful it stood." The
excitement is extraordinary. The assembly is as hushed as if it were
listening to a sermon, and, I am afraid, more attentive. Now, on a
sudden, Hood scores a hundred and sixty-eight points in a single break.
A burst of prolonged applause follows, and, during the clapping, in
which he had at first joined, Longcluse says to Arden,--
"I can't tell you how that run of Hood's delights me. I saw a poor
little friend of mine here before the play began--I had not seen him
since I was little more than a boy--a Frenchman, a good-natured little
soul, and I advised him to back Hood, and I have been trembling up to
this moment. But I think he's safe now to win. Markham can't score this
time. If he's in 'Queer Street,' as they whisper round the room, you'll
find he'll either give a simple miss, or put himself into the pocket."
"Well, I'm sure I hope your friend will win, because it will put three
hundred and eighty pounds into my pocket," said Richard Arden.
And now silence was called, and the building became, in a moment, hushed
as a cathedral before the anthem; and Markham knocked his own ball into
the pocket as Longcluse had predicted.
On sped the game, and at last Hood scored a thousand, and won the match,
greeted by an uproar of applause that, now being no longer restrained,
lasted for nearly five minutes. The assemblage had, by this time,
descended from the benches, and crowded the floor in clusters,
discussing the play or settling bets. The people in the gallery were
pouring down by the four staircases, and adding to the crowd and buzz.
Suddenly there is a sort of excitement perceptible of a new kind--a
gathering and pressure of men about one of the doors at the far corner
of the room. Men are looking back and beckoning to their companions;
others are shouldering forward as strenuously as they can. What is
it--any dispute about the score?--a pair of men boxing in the passage?
"No suspicion of fire?" the men at this near end exclaim, and sniff over
their shoulders, and look about them, and move toward the point where
the crowd is thickening, not knowing what to make of the matter. But
soon there runs a rumour about the room--"a man has just been found
murdered in a room outside," and the crowd now press forward more
energetically to the point of attraction.
In the cross-passage which connects the two corridors, as Mr. Longcluse
described, there is an awful crush, and next to no light. A single jet
of gas burns in the smoking room, where the pressure of the crowd is not
quite so much felt. There are two policemen in that chamber, in the
ordinary uniform of the force, and three detectives in plain clothes,
one supporting a corpse already stiffening, in a sitting posture, as it
was found, in a far angle of the room, on the bench to your left as you
look in. All the people are looking up the room. You can see nothing but
hats, and backs of heads, and shoulders. There is a ceaseless buzz and
clack of talk and conjecture. Even the policemen are looking, as the
rest do, at the body. The man who has mounted on the chair near the
door, with the other beside him, who has one foot on the rung and
another on the seat, and an arm round the first gentleman's neck,
although he has not the honour of his acquaintance, to support himself,
can see, over the others' heads, the one silent face which looks back
towards the door, upon so many gaping, and staring, and gabbling ones.
The light is faint. It has occurred to no one to light the gas lamps in
the centre. But that forlorn face is distinct enough. Fixed and leaden
it is, with the chin a little raised. The eyes are wide open, with a
deep and awful gaze; the mouth slightly distorted with what the doctors
call "a convulsive smile," which shows the teeth a little, and has an
odd, wincing look.
As I live, it is the little Frenchman, Pierre Lebas, who was talking so
gaily to-night with Mr. Longcluse!
The ebony haft of a dagger, sticking straight out, shows where the hand
of the assassin planted the last stab of four, through his black satin
waistcoat, embroidered with green leaves, red strawberries, and yellow
flowers, which, I suppose, was one of the finest articles in the little
wardrobe that Madame Lebas packed up for his holiday. It is not worth
much now. It has four distinct cuts, as I have said, on the left side,
right through it, and is soaked in blood.
His pockets have been rifled. The police have found nothing in them but
a red pocket-handkerchief and a papier-maché snuff-box. If that dumb
mouth could speak but fifty words, what a world of conjecture it would
end, and poor Lebas's story would be listened to as never was story of
his before!
A policeman now takes his place at the door to prevent further pressure.
No new-comers will be admitted, except as others go out. Those outside
are asking questions of those within, and transmitting, over their
shoulders, particulars, eagerly repeated. On a sudden there is a
subsidence of the buzz and gabble within, and one voice, speaking almost
at the pitch of a shriek, is heard declaiming. White as a sheet, Mr.
Longcluse, in high excitement, is haranguing in the smoking-room,
mounted on a table.
"I say," he cried, "gentlemen, excuse me. There are so many together
here, so many known to be wealthy, it is an opportunity for a word.
Things are coming to a pretty pass--garotters in our streets and
assassins in our houses of entertainment! Here is a poor little
fellow--look at him--here to-night to see the game, perfectly well and
happy, murdered by some miscreant for the sake of the money he had about
him. It might have been the fate of anyone of us. I spoke to him
to-night. I had not seen him since I was a boy almost. Seven children
and a wife, he told me, dependent on him. I say there are two things
wanted--first, a reward of such magnitude as will induce exertion. I
promise, for my own share, to put down double the amount promised by the
highest subscriber. Secondly, something should be done for the family he
has left, in proportion to the loss they have sustained. Upon this point
I shall make inquiry myself. But this is plain, the danger and scandal
have attained a pitch at which none of us who cares to walk the streets
at night, or at any time to look in upon amusements like that we
attended this evening, can permit them longer to stand. There is a fatal
defect somewhere. Are our police awake and active? Very possibly; but if
so the force is not adequate. I say this frightful scandal must be
abated if, as citizens of London, we desire to maintain our reputation
for common sense and energy."
There was a tall thin fellow, shabbily dressed, standing nearly behind
the door, with a long neck, and a flat mean face, slightly pitted with
small-pox, rather pallid, who was smiling lazily, with half-closed eyes,
as Mr. Longcluse declaimed; and when he alluded pointedly to the
inadequacy of the police, this man's amusement improved, and he winked
pleasantly at the clock which he was consulting at the moment with the
corner of his eye.
And now a doctor arrived, and Gabriel Laroque the watchmaker, and more
police, with an inspector. Laroque faints when he sees his murdered
friend. Recovered after a time, he identifies the body, identifies the
dagger also as the property of poor Lebas.
The police take the matter now quite into their hands, and clear the
room.