CHAPTER VI.
IT WAS GONE! THROUGH DEADMAN'S COURT.
"What a night!" then exclaimed Constable Pond.
"The worst _I_ ever saw," responded Constable Applebee. "It's arecord, that's what it is. We had a bad spell in December--lasted twodays--you remember it, Pond?
"Should think I did."
"It was nothing compared to this. I'd sooner walk through a foot and ahalf of snow than through such a fog. It gets into the eyes, and intothe chest, and into the head; you can squeeze it through your fingers.When it's snow you know where you are; there it is, at your feet; itdon't mount. It gives a man fair play; this don't. I've been lookingfor you everywhere. Where did you get to?"
"Hard to say. As fur as I know I haven't been off my beat."
"Same here. Anything to report?"
"No. Have you?"
Constable Applebee gave no direct reply, but branched off into what,apparently, was another subject. "Look here, Pond. Are you a nervousman?"
"Not particularly," answered Constable Pond, with a timid look around.
"But you don't like this sort of thing?"
"Who would?"
"Ah, you may say that. If fog was fog, and nothing else, I'd put upwith it. And why? Because we've got to."
"A true bill," said Constable Pond, assenting.
"But it brings something else along with it. That's what I complainof--and what I mostly complain of is shadders."
"What do you mean?" inquired Constable Pond.
"What I say. Shadders. I don't call _my_self a nervous man, but whenyou see something stealing along a yard or two ahead of you, and yougo to lay hold of it and it vanishes--yes, Pond, vanishes--it's enoughto give a man the creeps."
"It'd give _me_ the creeps."
"Very well, then," said Constable Applebee, as though a matter whichhad been in dispute was now settled. "Put a substantial body in my wayand I'll tackle it. But how _can_ you tackle it when it melts anddisappears? You call out, 'Now, then, what are you up to?' and youdon't get a whisper in reply. Ain't that enough to aggravate a man?"
"More than enough; I know how I should feel over it. But look here,Applebee, it ain't imagination, is it?"
"Imagination!" exclaimed Constable Applebee, in a voice of scorn."What! Me! Why, I don't suppose, from the day I was born to thisblessed night of white fog, that if it was all reckoned up I've hadimagination enough to fill a two-ounce bottle."
This new view of the quality of imagination in relation to quantityseemed to impress Constable Pond, who turned it over in his mindwithout feeling himself equal to offer an opinion on it.
"A fog like this always serves me the same way," said ConstableApplebee. "There was a black fog when I was born I've heard my motheroften say. That's why, perhaps."
"But what happened?" asked Constable Pond. "You haven't told me that."
"This happened. I see a shadder creeping along the wall. I foller ittill I'm within half-a-dozen yards. Then I stop and hail it. Theminute it hears my voice it gives a start, and when I run forward tolay hands on it, it vanishes."
"You've got," said Constable Pond, admiringly, "the heart of a lion. Idon't bring to mind that there's any orders about taking up shadders.Bodies, yes. Shadders, no."
"I ain't exactly a mouse," said Constable Applebee, stiffeninghimself. "It happened a second time. There it was, creeping ahead ofme. This time I don't give it a chance. I run after it and call out,'Stand up like a man!'"----
"It might have been a female shadder," suggested Constable Pond.
"Perhaps you know more about it than I do," said Constable Applebee,testily.
"No, Applebee, no. Go on."
"'Stand up like a man!' I call out. What's the consequence? Itvanishes again, and there I stand, dumbfoundered."
"Does it come a third time, Applebee?"
"No, it don't come a third time. When I was a little boy my mothertook me to the Polytechnic to see 'Pepper's Ghost.' You saw it, and itwasn't there. You run a sword through it, and it grinned in your face.I was that scared I couldn't sleep for a week afterwards. It's mybelief, if I'd got close enough to run a knife into the shadder, it'dhave served me just the same. Step up, we're in the gutter."
"It's singular, that's what it is. It's singular. Shall you reportit?"
"I'm doubtful of it. They might think I was off my head. Let it bebetween us, Pond."
"It don't pass my lips, Applebee."
They entered a hooded court, and halted there.
"Where are we?" asked Constable Pond.
"In Deadman's Court." Constable Pond shivered. "Leading to CatchpoleSquare, and leading nowhere else. You wouldn't catch _me_ living in acooldersack."
"What may be the meaning of that, Applebee?" asked Constable Pond.
"You couldn't have been much of a dab at school to ask that question.Now, me!--but I won't boast. Cooldersack is French for blindthoroughfare. A man that sleeps as sound as I do 'd find himself in atrap, with a entrance like this. Suppose you live in the end housewhere Mr. Samuel Boyd lives, and there's a fire in the middle of thenight. How's the fire engines to get to you? You wouldn't have half achance. A man might as well be shut up in a bottle. Do you know theSquare at all, Pond?"
"No. Never been in it to my knowledge."
"Couldn't have been in it without," said Constable Applebee, chucklingat his wit. "It's the rummiest built place _you_ ever saw. Just stepin a minute. Not that you can see much of it with this fog on, but Icould describe it blindfold. Six houses with the street doors in frontof us--we're standing facing 'em now--and only one of 'em let, the oneat the end corner, Mr. Samuel Boyd's. The others have been empty Idon't know how long. Now right about face, and what do you see?"
"As fur as I can make out," said Constable Pond, peering before him,"it's a blank wall."
"It _is_ a blank wall, the backs of six houses, without any backentrance to 'em."
"Where's the front entrance?"
"In Shore Street. If we had Samuel Boyd's money we'd do better withit, wouldn't we, Pond? We'd have a house with a bit of garden in frontand a bit of garden at the back, with a rose tree or two, and flowersin the winder--because what's the use of money if you don't enjoy it?"
"That's what I say. Life's short. Only tempery."
"Temporarily, Pond, temporarily," said Constable Applebee, incorrection. "You _must_ have made a mess of it at school. My missis'dgo wild with delight if she had a house like that. She's as fond offlowers as bees of honey."
"So's mine," said Constable Pond, standing up for his own like a man.
"They all are. And if I had my wish I'd never leave the house in themorning without one in my buttonhole. It mellers a man, Pond, that'swhat it does, it mellers him, and whether you're rough or whetheryou're smooth it shows you've got a good heart. I never saw SamuelBoyd with a flower in _his_ buttonhole, and if I lived to a hundred Inever should. And I never had a civil word from him."
"Nor anything in the way of a tip, I'll bet," remarked Constable Pond.
"You'd win it. It was a different pair of shoes with his son, Mr.Reginald. There he was, as handsome and free a young chap as you'd seteyes on in a day's march, with a flower in his coat and a smile or acheery word to brighten you up. 'A wild night, constable,' he'd say,'have a cigar?' And he'd slip one in my hand, and sometimes the priceof a pint. It's nigh upon two years since I set eyes on him--wusluck!" These reminiscences came to a sudden stop. Constable Applebeeclutched his comrade's arm, and whispered hoarsely, "Look there! Theshadder!"
A figure was creeping along the wall, as though in the endeavour toescape observation. They darted forward, and Constable Applebee laidhis hand upon it, crying, "Now, then, give an account of yourself!" Itwas not a shadow, for shadows have no substance. It was not a shadow,for shadows have no voice. The sound of a sob escaped from the figure.Constable Applebee's grasp was nerveless rather than vigorous, and aless powerful effort than it made would have enabled it to escape. Itwas gone! Throu
gh Deadman's Court!
"Quick, Pond, quick!" cried Constable Applebee. In a state ofconfusion they scrambled out of Catchpole Square, and came intoviolent collision. Ruefully rubbing their heads they looked aboutthem, and saw nothing but the thick white fog.
"Vanished!" exclaimed Constable Applebee. The collision had knockedConstable Pond's helmet off. Stooping to recover it he saw somethingwhite beneath it--a lady's handkerchief, trimmed with lace. With a slyglance at Constable Applebee he put it into his pocket.
"It'll do for the missis," he thought. "She's fond of a bit of lace."
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 7