Crow's Inn Tragedy

by Annie Haynes

  “Poor girl! But I think she has been dreading this for some time. Probably anything, even this certainty, will be better, than the state of fear in which she has been living of late.”

  “Probably,” the inspector assented. Then he went on after a minute’s pause, “Thompson’s is the most ingenious case I have ever come across of a deliberately planned course of dishonesty, with a second identity so that Thompson of Bechcombes’ could disappear utterly and Mr. Hoyle of Rose Cottage, Burford, could just take up his simple country life, paint his pictures and potter about the village where he was already known.”

  “Yes. His fatal mistake was made in putting in his daughter as Mr. Bechcombe’s secretary,” John Steadman said thoughtfully. “It trebled his chances of discovery and I can’t really see his motive. I suppose he thought she could assist his schemes in some way.”

  “Yes, I fancy he did get some information from her,” the inspector assented. “Though I am certain the girl herself did not know that Thompson and Hoyle were one and the same until after Mr. Bechcombe’s death. Then I imagine he disclosed his identity to her and that accounts for the state of tension in which she has been living. His second mistake was the leaving of her photograph in his room. That gave the clue to his identity.”

  “Yes. Well, as you know, inspector, it is the mistakes that criminals make that provide you and me with our living,” Steadman said with a chuckle. “And now Mr. Thompson—Hoyle, will disappear for some considerable time from society. And the intelligent public will probably clamour for his trial for Mr. Bechcombe’s murder. For a large section of it has already believed him guilty.”

  “And not without reason,” the inspector said gravely. “Appearances have been, and are, terribly against Thompson. Mrs. Carnthwacke’s evidence may save him if—”

  “Yes. If,” Steadman prompted.

  “If she is able to give it,” the inspector concluded. “But Mrs. Carnthwacke is not recovering from the injuries she received in that terrible assault upon her so quickly as was expected. In fact, the latest editions of the evening papers, after having devoted all their available space to Thompson’s career and arrest, will have a paragraph in the stop press news recording Mrs. Carnthwacke’s death.”

  “What!” Steadman glanced sharply at the inspector’s impassive face. Then a faint smile dawned upon his own. “So that, with that of Thompson’s arrest, the Yellow Dog will feel pretty safe.”

  “I hope so,” returned the inspector imperturbably.

  CHAPTER XXI

  “One minute, sir. I shan’t hurt you!”

  With a comical look at the inspector John Steadman submitted himself to the hands of the little old man in the shabby black suit, who was surveying him with critical eyes in the looking-glass, and who now approached him with a curious little instrument looking like a pair of very fine tweezers, combined with a needle so minute that it almost required a microscope to see it.

  They were in a small room at the back of a little shop in Soho, whither the inspector had conducted John Steadman, and where the former had already undergone a curious metamorphosis. The presiding genius of the establishment was this little old man with an oddly wrinkled face that reminded Steadman of a marmoset, and with pale grey eyes that were set far apart, and that seemed to stare straight at you and almost through you, with as little expression as a stone. The room was odd-looking as well as its master. It had very little furniture in it. Nothing on the wall but the big looking-glass that ran from floor to ceiling, and occupied the greater part of one side. Two tables stood near and a very old worm-eaten escritoire was by the window. There were four chairs in the room, all of the plain Windsor variety, one standing right in front of the mirror differing from the others only in that it had arms and an adjustable head.

  Inspector Furnival had just been released from its clutches, and now John Steadman was taking his place. A huge enveloping sheet was thrown over him; a brilliant incandescent light was focused upon him, and the queer little marmoset face, with a big, curiously made magnifying glass screwed into it, was submitting him to an anxious scrutiny.

  “I shall not hurt you,” the soft, caressing voice with its foreign intonation repeated. “Just a few hairs put in—a very few put in, and Monsieur’s best friend would not know him.”

  Steadman thought it very likely his best friend would not as he glanced back at the inspector. But now the lean yellow fingers were at work. From the angle at which the head-rest was fixed the barrister could not see what they were doing, but they were pinching, prodding, stabbing. It seemed to him that they would never stop. At last, however, the tweezers were thrown aside and he felt little, tiny brushes at work, dropping moisture here, drying it up with fragrant powder.

  “Monsieur’s teeth?” the foreign voice said with its sing-song intonation.

  Steadman shrugged his shoulders as he took a plate from his mouth and dropped it into the fingerbowl held out to him.

  “Ah, all the top! That is goot—very goot!” Something soft and warm was pressed into his mouth, pushed up and down until at last it felt secure. Then, with a satisfied sigh, the yellow fingers raised the head-rest; the little man stood back, the marmoset face wrinkled itself into a satisfied smile. “I hope that Monsieur is pleased.”

  Steadman, as he faced his reflection, thought that it was not a question of his best friend but that he himself would not have recognized the image he saw therein. The shape of the eyebrows had been entirely altered. They now slanted upwards, while a clever disposition of lines and hairs made the eyelids themselves appear to narrow and lengthen. His hair, thin in front and near the temples for many a long day now, had actually disappeared, and the enormously broad, high expanse of forehead was furrowed with skilfully drawn lines, and like the rest of his face of a greenish, greyish colour. The nose had become thinner in a mysterious fashion, the bridge had grown higher, the nostrils had widened. But the greatest change was in the mouth, the lips were thicker, more sensual looking. Then, in place of Steadman’s perfectly fitting artificial teeth were several projecting yellow fangs with hideous gaps between.

  “As the English talk, she, your own mother would not know you, eh?” the silky voice questioned anxiously.

  And John Steadman, smiling in the curiously stiff fashion which was all the alterations would allow, said that he was sure she would not.

  Both he and Furnival donned queerly designed overcoats that looked more like dressing-gowns than anything else, and soft hats. As they made their way through the streets with their hands folded in front and hidden by their wide sleeves, their eyes masked in blue spectacles, their heads turned neither to the right nor left, no one would have suspected their disguise—no one would have taken them for Englishmen. They got into a taxi and the inspector gave an address not far from Stepney Causeway. Once safely inside, he handed Steadman an automatic pistol and a police whistle.

  “For emergencies,” he said shortly. “I don’t fancy we shall have to use them; but the police are all round the house. At the sound of the whistle they will rush the place.”

  “Yes, you may depend upon me, inspector,” Steadman said quietly.

  “Here we are!” said the inspector, drawing a couple of parcels from his capacious pockets. One of them he handed to John Steadman, the other he unfastened himself. He shook out a voluminous, flimsy garment of bright yellow and unwrapped from its tissue paper a small yellow mask. “These dominoes we had better put on here beneath our overcoats, Mr. Steadman, and our masks we shall have to slip on as soon as we get inside.”

  “You have had the cordon drawn all round as I suggested, inspector?”

  “It is as narrow as can be, sir. They will almost be able to hear what we say. Oh, I am taking no risks. But I mean to catch the Big Yellow Dog himself to-night—dead or alive.”

  “Ay! Dead or alive!” Steadman echoed. “You have been near him once or twice before, haven’t you, inspector?”

  “Not so near as I shall be to-night,” the inspector ret
orted.

  They had no time for more. The taxi stopped and they got out. The inspector paused to give a few low toned directions to the cabman, then he led the way down a side street. From this it seemed to Steadman to spread out in every direction, a perfect network of narrow streets and alleys. It was a veritable maze and the barrister would have been utterly bewildered, but the inspector apparently knew his ground, he wound himself in and out with an eel-like dexterity. At last, however, he slackened his steps and then, side by side, he and Steadman made their way over the ill-kept, ill-lighted pavement, More than once the barrister heard a faint cheeping sound issue from the inspector’s lips. Although he heard no response, he knew that the cordon that the detective had spoken of was in its place.

  When the inspector stopped again he looked round and up and down, then turned sharply to the right, into a small cul-de-sac apparently running between two high brick walls, for Steadman could see no windows on either side. As they were nearing the opposite end to that by which they had entered, however, they came upon a low door at the right. To the barrister’s heated fancy there was something sinister about its very aspect. The windows on either side were grimy and closely shuttered; they and the door were badly in need of a coat of paint. What there was upon it was blistered, and so filthy that it was impossible even to guess at its original colour. There was no sign of either knocker or bell, but right at the top of the door was a small grille through which the janitor could survey the applicants for admission, himself unseen. The inspector applied his knuckles to the door, softly at first, then with a crescendo of taps that was evidently a signal. Steadman, with his eyes fixed on the grille, could see nothing, no faintest sign of movement, but for one moment he felt a sickening sense of being looked at, he could almost have fancied of being looked through. Then moving softly, noiselessly, in spite of its apparently dilapidated condition, the door in front of them opened.

  The inspector stepped inside, Steadman keeping close to him, and gave the word—“Chink-a-pin,” and at the same moment Steadman became aware of a figure veiled in black from head to foot standing motionless against the wall behind the door. The door closed after them with a snap in which Steadman fancied he heard something ominous. They found themselves in a long, rather wide passage down which they proceeded, the inspector still leading; their bare hands held out in front of them, thumb-tip joined to thumb-tip, finger-tip to finger-tip. On the door at the end of the passage the inspector knocked again so softly that it seemed impossible that he should be heard.

  However, as if by magic, this door opened suddenly.

  Inside, in contrast with the brightness in the passage, everything looked dark, but gradually Steadman made out a faint, flickering light. A soft, sibilant voice spoke, this time apparently out of the air, since there was no sign of any speaker:

  “The Great Dane bites.”

  “His enemies will bite the dust.” The inspector gave the countersign.

  Once again they moved forward and found themselves in a narrow passage running at right angles to the first. Here, instead of bareness, were softly carpeted floors and heavy hangings on the walls, and a sickly, sweet smell as if of incense. The light, dim and flickering at first, grew stronger and more diffused. Steadman saw that the passage in which they stood served as an ante-chamber or vestibule to some larger room into which folding doors standing slightly ajar gave access. They were not alone, either. At a sign from the inspector Steadman had donned his yellow mask. In another moment shadowy hands had relieved him of his coat and were gently pushing him forward, and he saw faintly that there were other yellow clad forms flitting backwards and forwards. Between the half-open doors he could glimpse more light, golden, dazzling, while over everything there brooded a sense of mystery, of evil unutterable. In that moment there came over John Steadman a certainty of the danger of this enterprise to which they stood committed, and brave man though he was he would have drawn back if he could. But it was too late. With one hand beneath his yellow domino, clutching his automatic firmly he paced by the inspector’s side into the Golden Room. As the first sight of it burst upon him he asked himself whether he could really be living in sober twentieth-century England, or whether he had not been translated into some scene out of the “Arabian Nights.”

  The room was oblong in shape, the ceiling, pale yellow in colour, was low, across it sprawled great golden flowers and in the centre of each of them blazed, like some lovely exotic jewel, a radiant amber light. The walls of this extraordinary room were panelled in yellow too, and round about them were ranged twelve golden seats. Ten of them were occupied by figures, masked and dominoed as he and the inspector were. The two seats at the end of the room nearest to them were unoccupied, while at the opposite end stood a raised dais, also of gold; an empty golden chair, looking like a throne, stood upon it. Right in the middle of the room stood a great mimosa in full bloom, its powerful fragrance mingling with that other perfume that Steadman had sensed before. His feet sank into the pile of the carpet as he followed the inspector to the unoccupied chairs nearest to them. At the same moment the hangings at the back of the throne were parted and a tall figure came through, masked, and wearing the same kind of yellow domino as all the others. He seated himself upon the throne upon the dais. At the same moment a sweet toned bell began to ring slowly.

  Steadman had hardly realized that there was any sound to be heard, but now he became conscious by its sudden cessation that there had been a low incessant hum going on around. Then the bell ceased, and the silence grew deadly. The very immobility of those yellow figures began to get on John Steadman’s nerves, though up to now he would have denied that he possessed any. His eyes were fixed upon that figure in the chair on the dais. Silent, immobile, it sat, hands joined together in front like those of every other figure in the room; but in these hands there was a curious defect—the thumb was extraordinarily long, the first finger short, so that they looked to be of the same length. And, as Steadman noticed this, his fingers clutched his revolver and felt the cool metal of the police whistle. Of what use was it, he asked himself, surely no sound could reach the outside world from this terrible room. Suddenly he became conscious of a slight, a very slight movement close to him. Had the inspector moved, he wondered as he glanced round. And then the arms of his chair seemed to contract and lengthen; he felt himself gripped in a vice. Now he knew that the danger he had felt was upon him. He saw the inspector at his side begin to struggle violently. Desperately he tried to bring out his revolver—he was powerless, caught as in a vice. Some hidden mechanism in those chairs had been released, arms and legs were held more firmly than human hands could have held them.

  An oath broke from the inspector’s lips as he realized the nature of the trap in which they were caught. But there came no answering sound from those waiting, motionless, yellow figures on every side. Their very immobility seemed only to render the position more terrible. And then at last the silence was broken by a laugh, a wicked, malicious laugh, the very sound of which made Steadman’s blood run cold in his veins.

  CHAPTER XXII

  The laughter ceased as suddenly as it had begun and, as if by a concerted signal, every light in the room went out. A voice rang out, Steadman fancied from the figure on the dais.

  “Arms up! inspector. Arms up! Mr. Steadman.” Then another ripple of that horrible laughter. “Ah, I forgot! Our wonderful chairs make all such commands a superfluity! And so, inspector, you are going to have your wish—you are going to meet the Yellow Dog at last! But I fear, I greatly fear that when that interview is over you will not be in a position to make your discoveries known to that wonderful Scotland Yard, of which you have been so distinguished a member.” The emphasis on the “have been” was ominous.

  But there was no fear in the inspector’s voice as it rapped out:

  “Be careful what you do, Yellow Dog. He laughs best who laughs last. I warn you that this house is virtually in the hands of the police.”

  “Is that so, my d
ear inspector?”

  There was another laugh, but this time John Steadman fancied there was some subtle change in the quality.

  “But I rather think the police do not know where this house ends, and those of others begin!”

  “Shall I supply you with the names of the others? The police know more than you think, you dog!” said the inspector daringly.

  “And less than they think,” said the raucous voice mockingly, “or you and your friend would hardly find yourselves here, dear inspector.”

  “Damnation!” Steadman knew that the detective was struggling fiercely from those clutching, enveloping arms.

  “In case, however, that there is just the thinnest substratum of truth in your statement, Furnival,” the mocking voice went on, “perhaps we had better waste no more time but get on to business.”

  The silvery bell tinkled again, the light was switched on.

  Steadman saw that all the golden chairs were empty, that there was apparently no one in the room with the inspector and himself but that figure on the dais. He saw that the inspector had given up struggling and that by some means he had managed to tear the yellow mask from his face, which was unwontedly scarlet from his efforts to free himself.

  “Strip!” ordered that voice from the platform.

  In an instant a dozen hands had seized Steadman. It seemed that there were countless, yellow-masked men in the room. He had not even been conscious of their coming, until he had felt them and those ruthless, yellow, claw-like fingers catching at him on all sides at once. The gripping arms of the chair had released him, but it was in vain that he sought to release himself—he was conscious, vaguely, that the inspector was fighting too. But neither the inspector nor Steadman was in fighting condition. Both of them were elderly men who in their young days had not been athletic, and their efforts now were hopeless. Their garments were rent from them, the contents of their pockets were passed to the man on the platform, who commented upon them sarcastically.