"MURDER MOST FOUL"
"I'm speaking from Charing Cross station; can you hear me?" the voice
continued. "I've had a letter from my father; he's ill, and I must go to
him at once. I'm starting now, nine o'clock."
I glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to nine.
"I'll be with you in five minutes--darling!" I responded, throwing in
the last word with immense audacity. "_Au revoir_; I've got to hustle!"
I put up the receiver and dashed back into my bedroom, where my cold
bath, fortunately, stood ready. Within five minutes I was running down
the stairs, as if a sheriff and posse were after me, while Mrs. Jenkins
leaned over the hand-rail and watched me, evidently under the impression
that I was the victim of sudden dementia.
There was not a cab to be seen, of course; there never is one in
Westminster on a Sunday morning, and I raced the whole way to Charing
Cross on foot; tore into the station, and made for the platform whence
the continental mail started. An agitated official tried to stop me at
the barrier.
"Too late, sir, train's off; here--stand away--stand away there!"
He yelled after me as I pushed past him and scooted along the platform.
I had no breath to spare for explanations, but I dodged the porters who
started forward to intercept me, and got alongside the car, where I saw
Anne leaning out of the window.
"Where are you going?" I gasped, running alongside.
"Berlin. Mary has the address!" Anne called. "Oh, Maurice, let go;
you'll be killed!"
A dozen hands grasped me and held me back by main force.
"See you--Tuesday!" I cried, and she waved her hand as if she
understood.
"It's--all right--you fellows--I wasn't trying--to board--the car--" I
said in jerks, as I got my breath again, and I guess they grasped the
situation, for they grinned and cleared off, as Mary walked up to me.
"Well, I must say you ran it pretty fine, Maurice," she remarked
accusatively. "And, my! what a fright you look! Why, you haven't shaved
this morning; and your tie's all crooked!"
I put my hand up to my chin.
"I was only just awake when Anne rang me up," I explained
apologetically. "It's exactly fifteen and a half minutes since I got out
of bed; and I ran the whole way!"
"You look like it, you disreputable young man," she retorted laughing.
"Well, you'd better come right back to breakfast. You can use Jim's
shaving tackle to make yourself presentable."
She marched me off to the waiting brougham, and gave me the facts of
Anne's hasty departure as we drove rapidly along the quiet,
clean-washed, sunny streets.
"The letter came last night, but of course Anne didn't get it till she
came in this morning, about three."
"Did you sit up for her?"
"Goodness, no! Didn't you see Jim lend her his latch-key? We knew it
would be a late affair,--that's why we didn't go,--and that some one
would see her safe home, even if you weren't there. The Amory's motored
her home in their car; they had to wait for the storm to clear. I had
been sleeping the sleep of the just for hours, and never even heard her
come in. She'll be dead tired, poor dear, having next to no sleep, and
then rushing off like this--"
"What's wrong with Mr. Pendennis?" I interpolated. "Was the letter from
him?"
"Why, certainly; who should it be from? We didn't guess it was
important, or we'd have sent it round to her at Mrs. Sutherland's last
night. He's been sick for some days, and Anne believes he's worse than
he makes out. She only sent word to my room a little before eight; and
then she was all packed and ready to go. Wild horses wouldn't keep Anne
from her father if he wanted her! We're to send her trunks on
to-morrow."
While my cousin prattled on, I was recalling the events of a few hours
back. I must have been mistaken, after all! What a fool I had been! Why
hadn't I gone straight to Kensington after I left Lord Southbourne? I
should have spared myself a good deal of misery. And yet--I thought of
Anne's face as I saw it just now, looking out of the window, pale and
agitated, just as it had looked in the moonlight last night. No! I might
mentally call myself every kind of idiot, but my conviction remained
fixed; it was Anne whom I had seen. Suppose she had left Mrs.
Sutherland's early, as I had decided she must have done, when I racked
my brains in the night. It was close on one o'clock when I saw her on
the river; she might have landed lower down. I did not know--I do not
know even now--if there were any steps like those by Westminster Bridge,
where a landing could be effected; but suppose there were, she would be
able to get back to Cayleys by the time she had said. But why go on such
an expedition at all? Why? That was the maddening question to which I
could not even suggest an answer.
"What was it you called to Anne about seeing her on Tuesday?" demanded
Mary, who fortunately did not notice my preoccupation.
"I shall break my journey there."
"Of course. I forgot you were off to-morrow. Where to?"
"St. Petersburg."
"My! You'll have a lively time there by all accounts. Here we are; I
hadn't time for breakfast, and I'm hungry. Aren't you?"
As we crossed the hall I saw a woman's dark cloak, flung across an oak
settee. It struck me as being rather like that which Anne--if it were
Anne--had worn. Mary picked it up.
"That oughtn't to be lying there. It's Mrs. Sutherland's. Anne borrowed
it last night as her own was flimsy for a car. I must send it back
to-day. Go right up to Jim's dressing-room, Maurice; you'll find all you
want there."
She ran up the stairs before me, the cloak over her arm, little thinking
how significant that cloak was to me.
I cut myself rather badly while shaving, and I evinced a poor appetite
for breakfast. Jim and Mary, especially Jim, saw fit to rally me on
that, and on my solemn visage, which was not exactly beautified by the
cut. I took myself off as soon after the meal as I decently could, on
the plea of getting through with my packing; though I promised to return
in the evening to say good-bye.
I had remembered my appointment with the old Russian, and was
desperately anxious not to be out if he should come.
On one point I was determined. I would give no one, not even Mary, so
much as a hint of the mysteries that were half-maddening me; at least
until I had been able to seek an explanation of them from Anne herself.
My man never turned up, nor had he been there while I was absent, as I
elicited by a casual inquiry of Jenkins as to whether any one had
called.
I told him when I returned from the Cayleys that I was going away in the
morning, and he came to lend a hand with the packing and clearing up.
"No, sir, not a soul's been; the street door was shut all morning. I'd
rather be rung up a dozen times than have bad characters prowling about
on the staircase. There's a lot of wrong 'uns round about Westminster!
Seems quieter than usual up here to-day, don't it, sir? With all the
residentials away, except you."
"Why, is Cassavetti away, too?" I asked, looking up.
"I think he must be, sir, for I haven't seen or heard anything of him.
But I don't do for him as I do for you and the other gents. He does for
himself, and won't let me have a key, or the run of his rooms. His
tenancy's up in a week or two, and a pretty state we shall find 'em in,
I expect! We shan't miss him like we miss you, sir. Shall you be long
away this time?"
"Can't say, Jenkins. It may be one month or six--or forever," I added,
remembering Carson's fate.
"Oh, don't say that, sir," remonstrated Jenkins.
"I wonder if Mr. Cassavetti is out. I'd like to say good-bye to him," I
resumed presently. "Go up and ring, there's a good chap, Jenkins. And if
he's there, you might ask him to come down."
It struck me that I might at least ascertain from Cassavetti what he
knew of Anne. Why hadn't I thought of that before?
Jenkins departed on his errand, and half a minute later I heard a yell
that brought me to my feet with a bound.
"Hello, what's up?" I called, and rushed up the stairs, to meet Jenkins
at the top, white and shaking.
"Look there, sir," he stammered. "What is it? 'Twasn't there this
morning, when I turned the lights out, I'll swear!"
He pointed to the door-sill, through which was oozing a sluggish,
sinister-looking stream of dark red fluid.
"It's--it's blood!" he whispered.
I had seen that at the first glance.
"Shall I go for the police?"
"No," I said sharply. "He may be only wounded."
I went and hammered at the door, avoiding contact with that horrible
little pool.
"Cassavetti! Cassavetti! Are you within, man?" I shouted; but there was
no answer.
"Stand aside. I'm going to break the lock," I cried.
I flung myself, shoulder first, against the lock, and caught at the
lintel to save myself from falling, as the lock gave and the door swung
inwards,--to rebound from something that it struck against.
I pushed it open again, entered sideways through the aperture, and
beckoned Jenkins to follow.
Huddled up in a heap, almost behind the door, was the body of a man; the
face with its staring eyes was upturned to the light.
It was Cassavetti himself, dead; stabbed to the heart.