More Rivals of Sherlock Holmes

by Nick Rennison

  And I kept on waiting for quite a considerable time. It was rather early for tea, but as time passed and people began to gather together, and there were still no signs of the persons whose presence I particularly desired, I began to fidget. If none of them appeared I should have to reconsider my plan of campaign. I was just on the point of concluding that the moment had come when I had better think of something else, when I saw Mr John Tung standing in the doorway and with him his two acquaintances. This was better than I had expected. Their appearance together in the public room of the hotel suggested all sorts of possibilities to my mind.

  I had that missive prepared. I waited until I had some notion of the quarter of the room in which they proposed to establish themselves, then I rose from my chair and, crossing to the other side of the lounge, left on a table close to that at which they were about to sit – I hoped unnoticed – the envelope on which ‘Mr John Tung’ was so plainly written. Then I watched for the march of events.

  What I had hoped would occur did happen. A waiter, bustling towards the newcomers, saw the envelope lying on a vacant table, picked it up, perceived that it was addressed to Mr John Tung, and bore it to that gentleman. I could not hear, but I saw what was said. The waiter began:

  ‘Is this your letter, sir?’

  Mr Tung glanced, as if surprised, at the envelope which the man was holding, then took it from between his fingers and stared at it hard.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

  ‘It was on that table, sir.’

  ‘What table?’

  ‘The one over there, sir.’

  Mr Tung looked in the direction in which the man was pointing, as if not quite certain what he meant.

  ‘How came it to be there? Who put it there?’

  ‘Can’t say, sir. I saw an envelope lying on the table as I was coming to you, and when I saw your name on it I thought it might be yours. Tea, sir?’

  ‘Tea for three, and bring some buttered toast.’

  The waiter went. Mr Tung remained staring at the envelope as if there were something in its appearance which he found a little puzzling. One of his companions spoke to him; but as his back was towards me I could not see what he said – I could guess from the other’s answer.

  ‘Some rubbish; a circular, I suppose – the sort of thing one does get in hotels.’

  Then he opened the envelope, and – I had rather a funny feeling. I was perfectly conscious that from the point of view of a court of law I had not the slightest right to pen a single one of the words which were on the sheet of paper inside that envelope. For all I could prove, Mr Tung and his friends might be the most innocent of men. I might find it pretty hard to prove that the Mongolian-looking gentleman had whispered either of the brief, jerky sentences which I had seen him whisper; and, even if I could get as far as that, there still remained the difficulty of showing that they bore anything like the construction which I had put upon them. If I had misjudged him, if my deductions had been wrong, then Mr Tung, when he found what was in that envelope, would be more than justified in making a fine to-do. It was quite possible, since I could not have eyes at the back of my head, that someone had seen me leave that envelope on the table, in which case my authorship might be traced, and I should be in a pretty awkward situation. That woman in the grey dress would be shown to have had right on her side when she declined, with such a show of scorn, to allow me even to speak to her. So, while Mr Tung was tearing open the envelope and taking out the sheet of paper, I had some distinctly uncomfortable moments. Suppose I had wronged him – what was I to do? Own up, make a clean breast of it – or run away?

  I had not yet found an answer when I became perfectly certain that none was required. My chance shot had struck him like a bombshell; the change which took place in his countenance when he began to read what was written on that piece of paper was really curious. I should have said he had a visage over whose muscles he exercised great control – Mongols have as a rule. But those words of mine were so wholly unexpected that when he first saw them his expression was, on the instant, one of stunned amazement. He glanced at the opening words, then, dropping his hands to his sides, gazed round the room, as if he were wondering if there were anyone there who could have written them. Then he raised the sheet of paper again and read farther. And, as he read, his breath seemed to come quicker, his eyes dilated, the colour left his cheeks, his jaw dropped open. He presented a unique picture of the surprise which is born of terror.

  His companions, looking at him, were affected as he was, without knowing why. The big, burly man leaned towards him; I saw him mutter:

  ‘You look as if you’d had a stroke. What’s the matter? What’s that you’ve got there? Don’t look like that. Everyone is staring at you. What’s up?’

  Mr Tung did not reply; he looked at the speaker, then at the sheet of paper – that time I am sure he did not see what was on it. Then he crumpled the sheet of paper up in his hand, and without a word strode across the lounge into the hall beyond. His two companions looked after him in bewildered amazement; then they went also, not quite so fast as he had done, but fast enough. And all the people in the lounge looked at each other. The manner of the exit of these three gentlemen had created a small sensation.

  My little experiment had succeeded altogether beyond my anticipation. It was plain that I had not misjudged this gentleman. It would be difficult to find a more striking illustration than that presented by Mr John Tung of the awful accusing conscience which strikes terror into a man’s soul. I could not afford to let my acquaintance with these three interesting gentlemen cease at this moment; the woman in the grey dress must still not be left to their tender mercies.

  After what seemed to me to be a sufficient interval, I left my tea and went after them into the hall. I was just in time. The three men were in the act of leaving the hotel. As they were moving towards the door a page came up, an official envelope in his hand.

  ‘Mr John Tung? A telegram for you, sir.’

  Mr Tung took it as if it were some dangerous thing, hesitated, glanced at the men beside him, tore it open, read what was on the flimsy sheet of pink paper, and walked so quickly out of the building that his gait almost approached a run. His companions went after him as if they were giving chase. My wire had finished what those few plain words on the sheet of paper had begun.

  I was lingering in the hall, rather at a loss as to what was the next step that I had better take, when the woman in the grey dress came out of the lift, which had just descended. A cab was at the door, on which was luggage. Although she must have seen me very clearly, she did not recognise my presence, but passed straight out to the cab. She was going up to London by the five-five train.

  I no longer hesitated what to do. I, too, quitted the hotel and got into a cab. It still wanted ten minutes to five when I reached the station. The train was standing by the platform; the grey-frocked lady was superintending the labelling of her luggage – apparently she had no maid. She was escorted by a porter, who had her luggage in charge, to a first-class carriage. On the top of her luggage was the tell-tale thing which has probably done more harm than good – the dressing-bag which is so dear to the hearts of many women, which ostentatiously proclaims the fact that it contains their jewels, probably their money, all that they are travelling with which they value most. One has only to get hold of the average travelling woman’s dressing-bag to become possessed of all that she has – from the practical thief’s point of view – worth taking – all contained in one portable and convenient package.

  At the open door of the compartment next to the one to which the porter ushered her, the big, burly man was standing – rather to my surprise. I thought I had startled him more than that. Presently who should come strolling up but his more slightly built acquaintance. Apparently he did not know him now; he passed into the compartment at whose door he was standing, without a nod or sign of greeting. My glan
ce travelling down the platform, I saw that standing outside a compartment only a few doors off was Mr John Tung.

  This did not suit me at all. I did not propose that those three gentlemen should travel with the grey-frocked lady by the five-five train to town, Rather than that I would have called in the aid of the police, though it would have been a very queer tale that I should have had to tell them. Perhaps fortunately, I hit upon what the old-time cookery books used to call ‘another way’. I had done so well with one unexpected message that I thought I would try another. There were ten minutes before the train started – still time.

  I rushed to the ladies’ waiting-room. I begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from the attendant in charge. It was a sheet of paper which she gave me – and on it I scribbled:

  ‘You are watched. Your intentions are known.

  ‘The police are travelling by the five-five train to London in attendance on the lady in the grey dress. If they do not take you on the road they will arrest you when you reach town.

  ‘Then heigh-ho for the gallows!’

  I was in doubt whether or not to add that last line, I daresay if I had had a second or two to think I should not have added it; but I had not. I just scrawled it off as fast as I could, folded the sheet of paper, slipped it into the envelope, which I addressed in large, bold letters to Mr John Tung. The attendant had a little girl with her, of, perhaps, twelve or thirteen years old, who was acting as her assistant. I took her to the waiting-room door, pointed out Mr Tung, and told her that if she would slip that envelope into the gentleman’s hand and come back to me without having told him where she got it from, I would give her a shilling.

  Officials were examining tickets, doors were being closed, preparations were being made to start, when that long-legged young person ran off on her errand. She gave Mr Tung the envelope as he was stepping into the carriage.

  He had not time even to realise that he had got it before she was off again. I saw him glance with a startled face at the envelope, open it hurriedly, scan what was within, then make a dart into the compartment by which he was standing, emerge with a bag in his hand, and hurry from the station. Conscience had been too much for him again. The big, burly man, seeing him going, went hurrying after him, as the train was in the very act of starting. As it moved along the platform the face of the third man appeared at the window of his compartment, gazing in apparent astonishment after the other two. He might go to London by the five-five if he chose. I did not think it mattered if he went alone. I scanned the newspapers very carefully the next day; as there was no record of anything unusual having happened during the journey or afterwards I concluded that my feeling that nothing was to be feared from that solitary gentleman had been well founded, and that the lady in the grey dress had reached her destination in comfort and safety. What became of Mr Tung when he left the station I do not know; I can only say that he did not return to the hotel. That Buxton episode was in August. About a month afterwards, towards the close of September, I was going north. I started from Euston station. I had secured my seat, and, as there were still several minutes before the train went off, I strolled up and down the platform. Outside the open door of one of the compartments, just as he had done at Buxton station, Mr Tung was standing!

  The sight of him inspired me with a feeling of actual rage. That such a dreadful creature as I was convinced he was should go through life like some beast of prey, seeking for helpless victims whom it would be safe to destroy – that he should be standing there, so well-dressed, so well fed, so seemingly prosperous, with all the appearance about him of one with whom the world went very well – the sight of him made me positively furious. It might be impossible, for various reasons, to bring his crimes home to him, but I could still be a thorn in his side, and might punish him in a fashion of my own. I had been the occasion to him of one moment in which conscience had mastered him and terror held him by the throat. I might render him a similar service a second time.

  I was seized with a sudden desire to give him a shock which would at least destroy his pleasure for the rest of that day. Recalling what I had done at Buxton, I went to the bookstall and purchased for the sum of one penny an envelope and a sheet of paper. I took these to the waiting-room, and on the sheet of paper I wrote three lines – without even a moment’s consideration:

  ‘You are about to be arrested. Justice is going to be done.

  ‘Your time has come.

  ‘Prepare for the end.’

  I put the sheet of paper containing these words into the envelope, and, waylaying a small boy, who appeared to have been delivering a parcel to someone in the station, I instructed him to hand my gentleman the envelope and then make off. He did his part very well. Tung was standing sideways, looking down the platform, so that he did not see my messenger approaching from behind; the envelope was slipped into his hand almost before he knew it, and the boy was off. He found himself with an envelope in his hand without, I believe, clearly realising whence it had come – my messenger was lost in the crowd before he had turned; it might have tumbled from the skies for all he could say with certainty.

  For him the recurrence of the episode of the mysterious envelope was in itself a shock. I could see that from where I stood. He stared at it, as he had done before, as if it had been a bomb which at any moment might explode. When he saw his own name written on the face of the envelope, and the fashion of the writing, he looked frantically around, as if eagerly seeking for some explanation of this strange thing. I should say, for all his appearance of sleek prosperity, that his nerves were in a state of jumps. His lips twitched; he seemed to be shaking; he looked as if it would need very little to make him run. With fingers which I am sure were trembling he opened the envelope; he took out the sheet of paper – and he read.

  When he had read he seemed to be striving to keep himself from playing the cur; he looked across the platform with such an expression on his face and in his eyes! A constable was advancing towards him, with another man by his side. The probability is that, scared half out of his senses, conscience having come into its own, he misinterpreted the intention of the advancing couple. Those three lines, warning him that he was about to be arrested, that his time had come, to prepare for the end, synchronised so perfectly with the appearance of the constable and his companion, who turned out to be a ‘plain clothes man’ engaged in the company’s business, that in his suddenly unnerved state he jumped to the conclusion that the warning and its fulfilment had come together – that those two officers of the law were coming to arrest him there and then.

  Having arrived at that conclusion, he seems to have passed quickly to another – that he would not be taken alive. He put his hand into his jacket pocket, took out a revolver, which had no doubt been kept there for quite another purpose, put the muzzle to his brow, and while the two men – thinking of him not at all – were still a few yards off, he blew his brains out. He was dead before they reached him – killed by conscience.

  They found his luggage in the compartment in which he had been about to travel. The contents of his various belongings supplied sufficient explanation of his tragic end. He lived in a small flat off the Marylebone Road – alone; the address was contained in his bag. When the police went there they found a miscellaneous collection of articles which had certainly, in the original instance, never belonged to him. There were feminine belongings of all sorts and kinds. Some of them were traced to their former owners, and in each case the owner was found to have died in circumstances which had never been adequately explained. This man seemed to have been carrying on for years, with perfect impunity, a hideous traffic in robbery and murder – and the victim was always a woman. His true name was never ascertained. It was clear, from certain papers which were found in his flat, that he had spent several years of his youth in the East. He seemed to have been a solitary creature – a savage beast alone in its lair. Nothing was found out about his parents or his friends; nor
about two acquaintances of whom I might have supplied some particulars. Personally, I never saw nor heard anything of either of them again.

  I went on from Euston station by that train to the north. Just as we were about to start, a girl came bundling into my compartment whom I knew very well.

  ‘That was a close shave,’ she said, as she took her seat. ‘I thought I should have missed it; my taxi-cab burst a tyre. What’s this I heard them saying about someone having committed suicide on the platform? Is it true?’

  ‘I believe there was something of the kind; in fact, I know there was. It has quite upset me.’

  ‘Poor dear! You do look out of sorts. A thing like that would upset anyone.’ She glanced at me with sympathetic eyes. ‘I was talking about you only yesterday. I was saying that a person with your power of what practically amounts to reading people’s thoughts ought to be able to do a great deal of good in the world. Do you think you ever do any good?’

  The question was asked half laughingly. We were in a corridor carriage. Two women at the other end of it suddenly got up and went, apparently, in search of another. I had been in no state to notice anything when I had got in; now I realised that one of the women who had risen was the one who had worn the grey dress at Buxton. She had evidently recognised me on the instant. I saw her whisper to her companion in the corridor, before they moved off:

  ‘I couldn’t possibly remain in the same compartment with that half-bred gipsy-looking creature. I’ve had experience of her before.’