possible; you have put your sister into the care of the shrewdest man
in London." Whereat the object of this quite unexpected eulogy found
himself becoming covered with modest confusion.
"Well, Max?" remarked Mr. Carlyle tentatively when they were alone.
"Well, Louis?"
"Of course it wasn't worth while rubbing it in before young Hollyer,
but, as a matter of fact, every single man carries the life of any
other man--only one, mind you--in his hands, do what you will."
"Provided he doesn't bungle," acquiesced Carrados.
"Quite so."
"And also that he is absolutely reckless of the consequences."
"Of course."
"Two rather large provisos. Creake is obviously susceptible to both.
Have you seen him?"
"No. As I told you, I put a man on to report his habits in town. Then,
two days ago, as the case seemed to promise some interest--for he
certainly is deeply involved with the typist, Max, and the thing might
take a sensational turn at any time--I went down to Mulling Common
myself. Although the house is lonely it is on the electric tram route.
You know the sort of market garden rurality that about a dozen miles
out of London offers--alternate bricks and cabbages. It was easy
enough to get to know about Creake locally. He mixes with no one
there, goes into town at irregular times but generally every day, and
is reputed to be devilish hard to get money out of. Finally I made the
acquaintance of an old fellow who used to do a day's gardening at
Brookbend occasionally. He has a cottage and a garden of his own with
a greenhouse, and the business cost me the price of a pound of
tomatoes."
"Was it--a profitable investment?"
"As tomatoes, yes; as information, no. The old fellow had the fatal
disadvantage from our point of view of labouring under a grievance. A
few weeks ago Creake told him that he would not require him again as
he was going to do his own gardening in future."
"That is something, Louis."
"If only Creake was going to poison his wife with hyoscyamine and bury
her, instead of blowing her up with a dynamite cartridge and claiming
that it came in among the coal."
"True, true. Still--"
"However, the chatty old soul had a simple explanation for everything
that Creake did. Creake was mad. He had even seen him flying a kite in
his garden where it was found to get wrecked among the trees. A lad of
ten would have known better, he declared. And certainly the kite did
get wrecked, for I saw it hanging over the road myself. But that a
sane man should spend his time 'playing with a toy' was beyond him."
"A good many men have been flying kites of various kinds lately," said
Carrados. "Is he interested in aviation?"
"I dare say. He appears to have some knowledge of scientific subjects.
Now what do you want me to do, Max?"
"Will you do it?"
"Implicitly--subject to the usual reservations."
"Keep your man on Creake in town and let me have his reports after you
have seen them. Lunch with me here now. 'Phone up to your office that
you are detained on unpleasant business and then give the deserving
Parkinson an afternoon off by looking after me while we take a motor
run round Mulling Common. If we have time we might go on to Brighton,
feed at the 'Ship,' and come back in the cool."
"Amiable and thrice lucky mortal," sighed Mr. Carlyle, his glance
wandering round the room.
But, as it happened, Brighton did not figure in that day's itinerary.
It had been Carrados's intention merely to pass Brookbend Cottage on
this occasion, relying on his highly developed faculties, aided by Mr.
Carlyle's description, to inform him of the surroundings. A hundred
yards before they reached the house he had given an order to his
chauffeur to drop into the lowest speed and they were leisurely
drawing past when a discovery by Mr. Carlyle modified their plans.
"By Jupiter!" that gentleman suddenly exclaimed, "there's a board up,
Max. The place is to be let."
Carrados picked up the tube again. A couple of sentences passed and
the car stopped by the roadside, a score of paces past the limit of
the garden. Mr. Carlyle took out his notebook and wrote down the
address of a firm of house agents.
"You might raise the bonnet and have a look at the engines, Harris,"
said Carrados. "We want to be occupied here for a few minutes."
"This is sudden; Hollyer knew nothing of their leaving," remarked Mr.
Carlyle.
"Probably not for three months yet. All the same, Louis, we will go on
to the agents and get a card to view whether we use it to-day or not."
A thick hedge, in its summer dress effectively screening the house
beyond from public view, lay between the garden and the road. Above
the hedge showed an occasional shrub; at the corner nearest to the car
a chestnut flourished. The wooden gate, once white, which they had
passed, was grimed and rickety. The road itself was still the
unpretentious country lane that the advent of the electric car had
found it. When Carrados had taken in these details there seemed little
else to notice. He was on the point of giving Harris the order to go
on when his ear caught a trivial sound.
"Someone is coming out of the house, Louis," he warned his friend. "It
may be Hollyer, but he ought to have gone by this time."
"I don't hear anyone," replied the other, but as he spoke a door
banged noisily and Mr. Carlyle slipped into another seat and ensconced
himself behind a copy of _The Globe_.
"Creake himself," he whispered across the car, as a man appeared at
the gate. "Hollyer was right; he is hardly changed. Waiting for a car,
I suppose."
But a car very soon swung past them from the direction in which Mr.
Creake was looking and it did not interest him. For a minute or two
longer he continued to look expectantly along the road. Then he walked
slowly up the drive back to the house.
"We will give him five or ten minutes," decided Carrados. "Harris is
behaving very naturally."
Before even the shorter period had run out they were repaid. A
telegraph-boy cycled leisurely along the road, and, leaving his
machine at the gate, went up to the cottage. Evidently there was no
reply, for in less than a minute he was trundling past them back
again. Round the bend an approaching tram clanged its bell noisily,
and, quickened by the warning sound, Mr. Creake again appeared, this
time with a small portmanteau in his hand. With a backward glance he
hurried on towards the next stopping-place, and, boarding the car as
it slackened down, he was carried out of their knowledge.
"Very convenient of Mr. Creake," remarked Carrados, with quiet
satisfaction. "We will now get the order and go over the house in his
absence. It might be useful to have a look at the wire as well."
"It might, Max," acquiesced Mr. Carlyle a little dryly. "But if it is,
as it probably is in Creake's pocket, how do you propose to get it?"
"By going to the post office, Louis."
"Quite so. Have you ever tried to see a copy of a telegram addressed
to someone else?"
"I don't think I have ever had occasion yet," admitted Carrados. "Have
you?"
"In one or two cases I have perhaps been an accessory to the act. It
is generally a matter either of extreme delicacy or considerable
expenditure."
"Then for Hollyer's sake we will hope for the former here." And Mr.
Carlyle smiled darkly and hinted that he was content to wait for a
friendly revenge.
A little later, having left the car at the beginning of the straggling
High Street, the two men called at the village post office. They had
already visited the house agent and obtained an order to view
Brookbend Cottage, declining with some difficulty the clerk's
persistent offer to accompany them. The reason was soon forthcoming.
"As a matter of fact," explained the young man, "the present tenant is
under _our_ notice to leave."
"Unsatisfactory, eh?" said Carrados encouragingly.
"He's a corker," admitted the clerk, responding to the friendly tone.
"Fifteen months and not a doit of rent have we had. That's why I
should have liked--"
"We will make every allowance," replied Carrados.
The post office occupied one side of a stationer's shop. It was not
without some inward trepidation that Mr. Carlyle found himself
committed to the adventure. Carrados, on the other hand, was the
personification of bland unconcern.
"You have just sent a telegram to Brookbend Cottage," he said to the
young lady behind the brasswork lattice. "We think it may have come
inaccurately and should like a repeat." He took out his purse. "What
is the fee?"
The request was evidently not a common one. "Oh," said the girl
uncertainly, "wait a minute, please." She turned to a pile of telegram
duplicates behind the desk and ran a doubtful finger along the upper
sheets. "I think this is all right. You want it repeated?"
"Please." Just a tinge of questioning surprise gave point to the
courteous tone.
"It will be fourpence. If there is an error the amount will be
refunded."
Carrados put down his coin and received his change.
"Will it take long?" he inquired carelessly, as he pulled on his
glove.
"You will most likely get it within a quarter of an hour," she
replied.
"Now you've done it," commented Mr. Carlyle as they walked back to
their car. "How do you propose to get that telegram, Max?"
"Ask for it," was the laconic explanation.
And, stripping the artifice of any elaboration, he simply asked for it
and got it. The car, posted at a convenient bend in the road, gave him
a warning note as the telegraph-boy approached. Then Carrados took up
a convincing attitude with his hand on the gate while Mr. Carlyle lent
himself to the semblance of a departing friend. That was the
inevitable impression when the boy rode up.
"Creake, Brookbend Cottage?" inquired Carrados, holding out his hand,
and without a second thought the boy gave him the envelope and rode
away on the assurance that there would be no reply.
"Some day, my friend," remarked Mr. Carlyle, looking nervously toward
the unseen house, "your ingenuity will get you into a tight corner."
"Then my ingenuity must get me out again," was the retort. "Let us
have our 'view' now. The telegram can wait."
An untidy workwoman took their order and left them standing at the
door. Presently a lady whom they both knew to be Mrs. Creake appeared.
"You wish to see over the house?" she said, in a voice that was
utterly devoid of any interest. Then, without waiting for a reply, she
turned to the nearest door and threw it open.
"This is the drawing-room," she said, standing aside.
They walked into a sparsely furnished, damp-smelling room and made a
pretence of looking round, while Mrs. Creake remained silent and
aloof.
"The dining-room," she continued, crossing the narrow hall and opening
another door.
Mr. Carlyle ventured a genial commonplace in the hope of inducing
conversation. The result was not encouraging. Doubtless they would
have gone through the house under the same frigid guidance had not
Carrados been at fault in a way that Mr. Carlyle had never known him
fail before. In crossing the hall he stumbled over a mat and almost
fell.
"Pardon my clumsiness," he said to the lady. "I am, unfortunately,
quite blind. But," he added, with a smile, to turn off the mishap,
"even a blind man must have a house."
The man who had eyes was surprised to see a flood of colour rush into
Mrs. Creake's face.
"Blind!" she exclaimed, "oh, I beg your pardon. Why did you not tell
me? You might have fallen."
"I generally manage fairly well," he replied. "But, of course, in a
strange house--"
She put her hand on his arm very lightly.
"You must let me guide you, just a little," she said.
The house, without being large, was full of passages and inconvenient
turnings. Carrados asked an occasional question and found Mrs. Creake
quite amiable without effusion. Mr. Carlyle followed them from room to
room in the hope, though scarcely the expectation, of learning
something that might be useful.
"This is the last one. It is the largest bedroom," said their guide.
Only two of the upper rooms were fully furnished and Mr. Carlyle at
once saw, as Carrados knew without seeing, that this was the one which
the Creakes occupied.
"A very pleasant outlook," declared Mr. Carlyle.
"Oh, I suppose so," admitted the lady vaguely. The room, in fact,
looked over the leafy garden and the road beyond. It had a French
window opening on to a small balcony, and to this, under the strange
influence that always attracted him to light, Carrados walked.
"I expect that there is a certain amount of repair needed?" he said,
after standing there a moment.
"I am afraid there would be," she confessed.
"I ask because there is a sheet of metal on the floor here," he
continued. "Now that, in an old house, spells dry rot to the wary
observer."
"My husband said that the rain, which comes in a little under the
window, was rotting the boards there," she replied. "He put that down
recently. I had not noticed anything myself."
It was the first time she had mentioned her husband; Mr. Carlyle
pricked up his ears.
"Ah, that is a less serious matter," said Carrados. "May I step out on
to the balcony?"
"Oh yes, if you like to." Then, as he appeared to be fumbling at the
catch, "Let me open it for you."
But the window was already open, and Carrados, facing the various
points of the compass, took in the bearings.
"A sunny, sheltered corner," he remarked. "An ideal spot for a
deck-chair and a book."
She shrugged her shoulders half contemptuously.
"I dare say," she replied, "but I never use it."
"Sometimes, surely," he persisted mildly. "It would be my favourite
retreat. But then--"
"I was going to say that I had never even been out on it, but that
would not be quite true. It has two uses for me, both equally
romantic; I occasionally shake a duster from it, and when my husband
returns late without his latchkey he wakes me up and I come out here
and drop him mine."
Further revelation of Mr. Creake's nocturnal habits was cut off,
greatly to Mr. Carlyle's annoyance, by a cough of unmistakable
significance from the foot of the stairs. They had heard a trade cart
drive up to the gate, a knock at the door, and the heavy-footed woman
tramp along the hall.
"Excuse me a minute, please," said Mrs. Creake.
"Louis," said Carrados, in a sharp whisper, the moment they were
alone, "stand against the door."
With extreme plausibility Mr. Carlyle began to admire a picture so
situated that while he was there it was impossible to open the door
more than a few inches. From that position he observed his confederate
go through the curious procedure of kneeling down on the bedroom floor
and for a full minute pressing his ear to the sheet of metal that had
already engaged his attention. Then he rose to his feet, nodded,
dusted his trousers, and Mr. Carlyle moved to a less equivocal
position.
"What a beautiful rose-tree grows up your balcony," remarked Carrados,
stepping into the room as Mrs. Creake returned. "I suppose you are
very fond of gardening?"
"I detest it," she replied.
"But this _Gloire_, so carefully trained--?"
"Is it?" she replied. "I think my husband was nailing it up recently."
By some strange fatality Carrados's most aimless remarks seemed to
involve the absent Mr. Creake. "Do you care to see the garden?"
The garden proved to be extensive and neglected. Behind the house was
chiefly orchard. In front, some semblance of order had been kept up;
here it was lawn and shrubbery, and the drive they had walked along.
Two things interested Carrados: the soil at the foot of the balcony,
which he declared on examination to be particularly suitable for
roses, and the fine chestnut-tree in the corner by the road.
As they walked back to the car Mr. Carlyle lamented that they had
learned so little of Creake's movements.
"Perhaps the telegram will tell us something," suggested Carrados.
"Read it, Louis."
Mr. Carlyle cut open the envelope, glanced at the enclosure, and in
spite of his disappointment could not restrain a chuckle.
"My poor Max," he explained, "you have put yourself to an amount of
ingenious trouble for nothing. Creake is evidently taking a few days'
holiday and prudently availed himself of the Meteorological Office
forecast before going. Listen: '_Immediate prospect for London warm
and settled. Further outlook cooler but fine._' Well, well; I did get
a pound of tomatoes for _my_ fourpence."
"You certainly scored there, Louis," admitted Carrados, with humorous
appreciation. "I wonder," he added speculatively, "whether it is
Creake's peculiar taste usually to spend his week-end holiday in
London."
"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, looking at the words again, "by gad,
that's rum, Max. They go to Weston-super-Mare. Why on earth should he
want to know about London?"
"I can make a guess, but before we are satisfied I must come here
again. Take another look at that kite, Louis. Are there a few yards of
string hanging loose from it?"
"Yes, there are."
"Rather thick string--unusually thick for the purpose?"
"Yes, but how do you know?"
As they drove home again Carrados explained, and Mr. Carlyle sat
aghast, saying incredulously: "Good God, Max, is it possible?"
An hour later he was satisfied that it was possible. In reply to his
inquiry someone in his office telephoned him the information that
"they" had left Paddington by the four-thirty for Weston.
It was more than a week after his introduction to Carrados that
Lieutenant Hollyer had a summons to present himself at The Turrets
again. He found Mr. Carlyle already there and the two friends were
awaiting his arrival.
"I stayed in all day after hearing from you this morning, Mr.
Carrados," he said, shaking hands. "When I got your second message I
was all ready to walk straight out of the house. That's how I did it
in the time. I hope everything is all right?"
"Excellent," replied Carrados. "You'd better have something before we
start. We probably have a long and perhaps an exciting night before
us."
"And certainly a wet one," assented the lieutenant. "It was thundering
over Mulling way as I came along."
"That is why you are here," said his host. "We are waiting for a
certain message before we start, and in the meantime you may as well
understand what we expect to happen. As you saw, there is a
thunderstorm coming on. The Meteorological Office morning forecast
predicted it for the whole of London if the conditions remained. That
is why I kept you in readiness. Within an hour it is now inevitable
that we shall experience a deluge. Here and there damage will be done
to trees and buildings; here and there a person will probably be
struck and killed."
"Yes."
"It is Mr. Creake's intention that his wife should be among the
victims."
"I don't exactly follow," said Hollyer, looking from one man to the
other. "I quite admit that Creake would be immensely relieved if such
a thing did happen, but the chance is surely an absurdly remote one."
"Yet unless we intervene it is precisely what a coroner's jury will
decide has happened. Do you know whether your brother-in-law has any
practical knowledge of electricity, Mr. Hollyer?"
"I cannot say. He was so reserved, and we really knew so little of
him--"
"Yet in 1896 an Austin Creake contributed an article on 'Alternating
Currents' to the American _Scientific World_. That would argue a
fairly intimate acquaintanceship."
"But do you mean that he is going to direct a flash of lightning?"
"Only into the minds of the doctor who conducts the post-mortem, and
the coroner. This storm, the opportunity for which he has been waiting
for weeks, is merely the cloak to his act. The weapon which he has
planned to use--scarcely less powerful than lightning but much more
tractable--is the high voltage current of electricity that flows along
the tram wire at his gate."
"Oh!" exclaimed Lieutenant Hollyer, as the sudden revelation struck
him.
"Some time between eleven o'clock to-night--about the hour when your
sister goes to bed--and one thirty in the morning--the time up to
which he can rely on the current--Creake will throw a stone up at the
balcony window. Most of his preparation has long been made; it only
remains for him to connect up a short length to the window handle and
a longer one at the other end to tap the live wire. That done, he will
wake his wife in the way I have said. The moment she moves the catch
of the window--and he has carefully filed its parts to ensure perfect
contact--she will be electrocuted as effectually as if she sat in the
executioner's chair in Sing Sing prison."
"But what are we doing here!" exclaimed Hollyer, starting to his feet,
pale and horrified. "It is past ten now and anything may happen."
"Quite natural, Mr. Hollyer," said Carrados reassuringly, "but you
need have no anxiety. Creake is being watched, the house is being
watched, and your sister is as safe as if she slept to-night in
Windsor Castle. Be assured that whatever happens he will not be
allowed to complete his scheme; but it is desirable to let him
implicate himself to the fullest limit. Your brother-in-law, Mr.
Hollyer, is a man with a peculiar capacity for taking pains."
"He is a damned cold-blooded scoundrel!" exclaimed the young officer
fiercely. "When I think of Millicent five years ago--"
"Well, for that matter, an enlightened nation has decided that
electrocution is the most humane way of removing its superfluous
citizens," suggested Carrados mildly. "He is certainly an
ingenious-minded gentleman. It is his misfortune that in Mr. Carlyle
he was fated to be opposed by an even subtler brain--"
"No, no! Really, Max!" protested the embarrassed gentleman.
"Mr. Hollyer will be able to judge for himself when I tell him that it
was Mr. Carlyle who first drew attention to the significance of the
abandoned kite," insisted Carrados firmly. "Then, of course, its
object became plain to me--as indeed to anyone. For ten minutes,
perhaps, a wire must be carried from the overhead line to the
chestnut-tree. Creake has everything in his favour, but it is just
within possibility that the driver of an inopportune train might
notice the appendage. What of that? Why, for more than a week he has
seen a derelict kite with its yards of trailing string hanging in the
tree. A very calculating mind, Mr. Hollyer. It would be interesting to
know what line of action Mr. Creake has mapped out for himself
afterwards. I expect he has half-a-dozen artistic little touches up
his sleeve. Possibly he would merely singe his wife's hair, burn her
feet with a red-hot poker, shiver the glass of the French window, and
be content with that to let well alone. You see, lightning is so
varied in its effects that whatever he did or did not do would be
right. He is in the impregnable position of the body showing all the
symptoms of death by lightning shock and nothing else but lightning to
account for it--a dilated eye, heart contracted in systole, bloodless
lungs shrunk to a third the normal weight, and all the rest of it.
When he has removed a few outward traces of his work Creake might
quite safely 'discover' his dead wife and rush off for the nearest
doctor. Or he may have decided to arrange a convincing alibi, and
creep away, leaving the discovery to another. We shall never know; he
will make no confession."
"I wish it was well over," admitted Hollyer, "I'm not particularly
jumpy, but this gives me a touch of the creeps."
"Three more hours at the worst, lieutenant," said Carrados cheerfully.
"Ah-ha, something is coming through now."
He went to the telephone and received a message from one quarter; then
made another connection and talked for a few minutes with someone
else.
"Everything working smoothly," he remarked between times over his
shoulder. "Your sister has gone to bed, Mr. Hollyer."
Then he turned to the house telephone and distributed his orders.
"So we," he concluded, "must get up."
By the time they were ready a large closed motor car was waiting. The
lieutenant thought he recognised Parkinson in the well-swathed form
beside the driver, but there was no temptation to linger for a second
on the steps. Already the stinging rain had lashed the drive into the
semblance of a frothy estuary; all round the lightning jagged its
course through the incessant tremulous glow of more distant lightning,
while the thunder only ceased its muttering to turn at close quarters
and crackle viciously.
"One of the few things I regret missing," remarked Carrados
tranquilly; "but I hear a good deal of colour in it."