The Illustrious Prince

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER III. AN INCIDENT AND AN ACCIDENT

  Smoothly the huge engine came gliding into the station--a dumb, silentcreature now, drawing slowly to a standstill as though exhausted afterits great effort. Through the windows of the saloon the station-mastercould see the train attendant bending over this mysterious passenger,who did not seem, as yet, to have made any preparations for leaving hisplace. Mr. Hamilton Fynes was seated at a table covered with papers,but he was leaning back as though he had been or was still asleep. Thestation-master stepped forward, and as he did so the attendant camehurrying out to the platform, and, pushing back the porters, called tohim by name.

  "Mr. Rice," he said, "If you please, sir, will you come this way?"

  The station-master acceded at once to the man's request and enteredthe saloon. The attendant clutched at his arm nervously. He was a pale,anaemic-looking little person at any time, but his face just now waspositively ghastly.

  "What on earth is the matter with you?" the station-master askedbrusquely.

  "There's something wrong with my passenger, sir," the man declared ina shaking voice. "I can't make him answer me. He won't look up, and Idon't--I don't think he's asleep. An hour ago I took him some whiskey.He told me not to disturb him again--he had some papers to go through."

  The station-master leaned over the table. The eyes of the man who satthere were perfectly wide-open, but there was something unnatural intheir fixed stare,--something unnatural, too, in the drawn grayness ofhis face.

  "This is Euston, sir," the station-master began,--"the terminus--"

  Then he broke off in the middle of his sentence. A cold shiver wascreeping through his veins. He, too, began to stare; he felt the colorleaving his own cheeks. With an effort he turned to the attendant.

  "Pull down the blinds," he ordered, in a voice which he should neverhave recognized as his own. "Quick! Now turn out those porters, and tellthe inspector to stop anyone from coming into the car."

  The attendant, who was shaking like a leaf, obeyed. The station-masterturned away and drew a long breath. He himself was conscious of asense of nausea, a giddiness which was almost overmastering. This wasa terrible thing to face without a second's warning. He had not theslightest doubt but that the man who was seated at the table was dead!

  At such an hour there were only a few people upon the platform, andtwo stalwart station policemen easily kept back the loiterers whosecuriosity had been excited by the arrival of the special. A third tookup his position with his back to the entrance of the saloon, and allowedno one to enter it till the return of the station-master, who had gonefor a doctor. The little crowd was completely mystified. No one hadthe slightest idea of what had happened. The attendant was besieged byquestions, but he was sitting on the step of the car, in the shadow ofa policeman, with his head buried in his hands, and he did not once lookup. Some of the more adventurous tried to peer through the windows atthe lower end of the saloon. Others rushed off to interview the guard.In a very few minutes, however, the station-master reappeared upon thescene, accompanied by the doctor. The little crowd stood on one side andthe two men stepped into the car.

  The doctor proceeded at once with his examination. Mr. Hamilton Fynes,this mysterious person who had succeeded, indeed, in making a recordjourney, was leaning back in the corner of his seat, his arms folded,his head drooping a little, but his eyes still fixed in that unseeingstare. His body yielded itself unnaturally to the touch. For the maintruth the doctor needed scarcely a glance at him.

  "Is he dead?" the station-master asked.

  "Stone-dead!" was the brief answer.

  "Good God!" the station-master muttered. "Good God!"

  The doctor had thrown his handkerchief over the dead man's face. He wasstanding now looking at him thoughtfully.

  "Did he die in his sleep, I wonder?" the station-master asked. "It musthave been horribly sudden! Was it heart disease?"

  The doctor did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be thinking out someproblem.

  "The body had better be removed to the station mortuary," he said atlast. "Then, if I were you, I should have the saloon shunted on to asiding and left absolutely untouched. You had better place two of yourstation police in charge while you telephone to Scotland Yard."

  "To Scotland Yard?" the station-master exclaimed.

  The doctor nodded. He looked around as though to be sure that none ofthat anxious crowd outside could overhear.

  "There's no question of heart disease here," he explained. "The man hasbeen murdered!"

  The station-master was horrified,--horrified and blankly incredulous.

  "Murdered!" he repeated. "Why, it's impossible! There was no one elseon the train except the attendant--not a single other person. All myadvices said one passenger only."

  The doctor touched the man's coat with his finger, and thestation-master saw what he had not seen before,--saw what made him turnaway, a little sick. He was a strong man, but he was not used to thissort of thing, and he had barely recovered yet from the first shock offinding himself face to face with a dead man. Outside, the crowd uponthe platform was growing larger. White faces were being pressed againstthe windows at the lower end of the saloon.

  "There is no question about the man having been murdered," the doctorsaid, and even his voice shook a little. "His own hand could never havedriven that knife home. I can tell you, even, how it was done. The manwho stabbed him was in the compartment behind there, leaned over, anddrove this thing down, just missing the shoulder. There was no struggleor fight of any sort. It was a diabolical deed!"

  "Diabolical indeed!" the station-master echoed hoarsely.

  "You had better give orders for us to be shunted down on to a sidingjust as we are," the doctor continued, "and send one of your men totelephone to Scotland Yard. Perhaps it would be as well, too, not totouch those papers until some one comes. See that the attendant doesnot go home, or the guard. They will probably be wanted to answerquestions."

  The station-master stepped out to the platform, summoned an inspector,and gave a few brief orders. Slowly the saloon was backed out of thestation again on to a neglected siding, a sort of backwater for sparecarriages and empty trucks,--an ignominious resting place, indeed, afterits splendid journey through the night. The doors at both ends wereclosed and two policemen placed on duty to guard them. The doctor andthe station-master seated themselves out of sight of their gruesomecompanion, and the station-master told all that he knew about thedespatch of the special and the man who had ordered it. The attendant,who still moved about like a man in a dream, brought them some brandyand soda and served them with shaking hand. They all three talkedtogether in whispers, the attendant telling them the few incidents ofthe journey down, which, except for the dead man's nervous desire forsolitude, seemed to possess very little significance. Then at last therewas a sharp tap at the window. A tall, quietly dressed man, with reddishskin and clear gray eyes, was helped up into the car. He saluted thedoctor mechanically. His eyes were already travelling around the saloon.

  "Inspector Jacks from Scotland Yard, sir," he announced. "I have anotherman outside. If you don't mind, we'll have him in."

  "By all means," the station-master answered. "I am afraid that you willfind this rather a serious affair. We have left everything untouched sofar as we could."

  The second detective was assisted to clamber up into the car. It seemed,however, as though the whole force of Scotland Yard could scarcely domuch towards elucidating an affair which, with every question whichwas asked and answered, grew more mysterious. The papers upon thetable before the dead man were simply circulars and prospectuses ofno possible importance. His suitcase contained merely a few toiletnecessaries and some clean linen. There was not a scrap of paper or evenan envelope of any sort in his pockets. In a small leather case theyfound a thousand dollars in American notes, five ten-pound Bank ofEngland notes, and a single visiting card on which was engraved the nameof Mr. Hamilton Fynes. In his trousers pocket was a handful of gold.He had no other
personal belongings of any sort. The space between thelining of his coat and the material itself was duly noticed, but it wasempty. His watch was a cheap one, his linen unmarked, and his clothesbore only the name of a great New York retail establishment. He hadcertainly entered the train alone, and both the guard and attendant wereready to declare positively that no person could have been concealed init. The engine-driver, on his part, was equally ready to swear thatnot once from the moment when they had steamed out of Liverpool Stationuntil they had arrived within twenty miles of London, had they travelledat less than forty miles an hour. At Willington he had found a signalagainst him which had brought him nearly to a standstill, and underthe regulations he had passed through the station at ten miles an hour.These were the only occasions, however, on which he had slackened speedat all. The train attendant, who was a nervous man, began to shiveragain and imagine unmentionable things. The guard, who had never lefthis own brake, went home and dreamed that his effigy had been added tothe collection of Madame Tussaud. The reporters were the only people whowere really happy, with the exception, perhaps of Inspector Jacks, whohad a weakness for a difficult case.

  Fifteen miles north of London, a man lay by the roadside in the shadowof a plantation of pine trees, through which he had staggered only a fewminutes ago. His clothes were covered with dust, he had lost his cap,and his trousers were cut about the knee as though from a fall. Hewas of somewhat less than medium height, dark, slender, with delicatefeatures, and hair almost coal black. His face, as he moved slowly fromside to side upon the grass, was livid with pain. Every now and then heraised himself and listened. The long belt of main road, which passedwithin a few feet of him, seemed almost deserted. Once a cart camelumbering by, and the man who lay there, watching, drew closely backinto the shadows. A youth on a bicycle passed, singing to himself. A boyand girl strolled by, arm in arm, happy, apparently, in their profoundsilence. Only a couple of fields away shone the red and green lights ofthe railway track. Every few minutes the goods-trains went rumbling overthe metals. The man on the ground heard them with a shiver. Resolutelyhe kept his face turned in the opposite direction. The night mail wentthundering northward, and he clutched even at the nettles which grewamongst the grass where he was crouching, as though filled with a suddenterror. Then there was silence once more--silence which became deeperas the hour approached midnight. Passers-by were fewer; the birds andanimals came out from their hiding places. A rabbit scurried across theroad; a rat darted down the tiny stream. Now and then birds moved in theundergrowth, and the man, who was struggling all the time with a deadlyfaintness, felt the silence grow more and more oppressive. He began evento wonder where he was. He closed his eyes. Was that really the tinklingof a guitar, the perfume of almond and cherry blossom, floating to himdown the warm wind? He began to lose himself in dreams until he realizedthat actual unconsciousness was close upon him. Then he set histeeth tight and clenched his hands. Away in the distance a faint,long-expected sound came travelling to his ears. At last, then, his longwait was over. Two fiery eyes were stealing along the lonely road.The throb of an engine was plainly audible. He staggered up, swaying alittle on his feet, and holding out his hands. The motor car came toa standstill before him, and the man who was driving it sprang to theground. Words passed between them rapidly,--questions and answers,--thequestions of an affectionate servant, and the answers of a man fightinga grim battle for consciousness. But these two spoke in a language oftheir own, a language which no one who passed along that road was likelyto understand.

  With a groan of relief the man who had been picked up sank back amongstthe cushioned seats, carefully almost tenderly, aided by the chauffeur.Eagerly he thrust his hand into one of the leather pockets and drewout a flask of brandy. The rush of cold air, as the car swung roundand started off, was like new life to him. He closed his eyes. When heopened them again, they had come to a standstill underneath a red lamp.

  "The doctor's!" he muttered to himself, and, staggering out, rang thebell.

  Dr. Spencer Whiles had had a somewhat dreary day, and was thoroughlyenjoying a late rubber of bridge with three of his most agreeableneighbors. A summons into the consulting room, however, was sounexpected a thing that he did not hesitate for a moment to obey it,without even waiting to complete a deal. When he entered the apartment,he saw a slim but determined-looking young man, whose clothes werecovered with dust, and who, although he sat with folded arms and grimface, was very nearly in a state of collapse.

  "You seem to have met with an accident," the doctor remarked. "How didit happen?"

  "I have been run over by a motor car," his patient said, speaking slowlyand with something singularly agreeable in his voice notwithstanding itsslight accent of pain. "Can you patch me up till I get to London?"

  The doctor looked him over.

  "What were you doing in the road?" he asked.

  "I was riding a bicycle," the other answered. "I dare say it was my ownfault; I was certainly on the wrong side of the road. You can see whathas happened to me. I am bruised and cut; my side is painful, and alsomy knee. A car is waiting outside now to take me to my home, but Ithought that I had better stop and see you."

  The doctor was a humane man, with a miserable practice, and he forgotall about his bridge party. For half an hour he worked over his patient.At the end of that time he gave him a brandy and soda and placed a boxof cigarettes before him.

  "You'll do all right now," he said. "That's a nasty cut on your leg, butyou've no broken bones."

  "I feel absolutely well again, thank you very much," the young man said."I will smoke a cigarette, if I may. The brandy, I thank you, no!"

  "Just as you like," the doctor answered. "I won't say that you are notbetter without it. Help yourself to the cigarettes. Are you going backto London in the motor car, then?"

  "Yes!" the patient answered. "It is waiting outside for me now, and Imust not keep the man any longer. Will you let me know, if you please,how much I owe you?"

  The doctor hesitated. Fees were a rare thing with him, and the evidencesof his patient's means were somewhat doubtful. The young man put hishand into his pocket.

  "I am afraid," he said, "that I am not a very presentable-lookingobject, but I am glad to assure you that I am not a poor man. I am ableto pay your charges and to still feel that the obligation is very muchon my side."

  The doctor summoned up his courage.

  "We will say a guinea, then," he remarked with studied indifference.

  "You must allow me to make it a little more than that," the patientanswered. "Your treatment was worth it. I feel perfectly recoveredalready. Good night, sir!"

  The doctor's eyes sparkled as he glanced at the gold which his visitorhad laid upon the table.

  "You are very good, I'm sure," he murmured. "I hope you will have acomfortable journey. With a nerve like yours, you'll be all right in aday or so."

  He let his patient out and watched him depart with some curiosity,watched until the great motor-car had swung round the corner of thestreet and started on its journey to London.

  "No bicycle there," he remarked to himself, as he closed the door. "Iwonder what they did with it."