by John Rhode
He wrestled with the problem the whole morning and well on into the afternoon. Then suddenly he took the resolution with both hands, and, without giving time for his newly-found courage to cool, he left Riverside Gardens hastily and started for Westbourne Terrace. In the Professor lay his only hope; he would tell him the whole story and abide by his decision, whatever it might be. As he went, he wondered vaguely in what part of the Empire it would be best to bury a past which must exclude him for ever from the land of his birth.
The menacing calm of Sunday afternoon enfolded the virtuous thoroughfares of Bayswater, faintly redolent of the lingering odours of baked meats. A round-eyed housemaid, summoned by his ringing from some distant depths, opened the door to him. Mary was doubtless enjoying her day off in the bosom of some relative’s family. Harold was conducted to the Professor’s study, where he spent a bad five minutes alone, tempted by an overwhelming desire for sudden flight from those sacred precincts.
At last the Professor came in, briskly, as a man who would scorn to have it known that he sometimes indulged in a nap after lunch on Sunday.
‘Well, my boy, I am very glad to see you,’ he began affably. ‘I am alone today, as it happens. Evan arrived this morning and carried April off to some entertainment which appeared to appeal to them both. Sit down, sit down. Have you anything to tell me?’
Harold’s heart sank. It was evident from the warmth of this welcome that the Professor had not yet seen that fatal story in The Weekly Record. How should he begin the dreaded confession?
‘Thank you, sir,’ he began confusedly. Then abruptly he snatched the offending paper from his pocket and held it out, almost defiantly. ‘There’s a page in that rag I think you ought to read, sir,’ he blurted out.
To his astonishment the Professor smiled, but made no effort to take the proffered paper.
‘Excellent, my boy,’ he said kindly. ‘I am more than ever convinced of the genuineness of your repentance. I can guess what it cost you to bring me that newspaper. As a matter of fact, I have already read it with some considerable care. Evan brought a copy with him when he came this morning.’
‘Then you don’t believe it?’ exclaimed Harold eagerly.
The Professor put the tips of his fingers together and gazed fixedly at the ceiling.
‘The theory advanced in that narrative, thinly disguised as fiction, is extremely plausible,’ he replied oracularly. ‘There are, however, certain aspects of it which predispose me to doubt its correctness. It would assist me to hear your views upon it.’
Harold averted his eyes. ‘The rotten thing about it is that there was a girl,’ he mumbled. ‘I ought to have told you about her before, sir, but until a couple of days ago I had no idea that she had anything to do with this business.’
The Professor paused a moment before replying. ‘My dear boy, of course there was a girl,’ he said at last kindly, in parental rather than professorial tones. ‘I guessed that long ago, and the revelations consequent upon the disclosure of the Naxos Club were such as to strengthen my convictions. But at the same time, I am convinced that she had very little connection with the man found dead in your rooms. Unless, of course—how tall is she?’
Harold started at the abrupt question. ‘Tall, sir?’ he repeated. ‘Why, I hardly know. Not much shorter than I am. Fairly tall for a girl—slim; it’s difficult to describe her.’
‘Of course it is,’ replied the Professor. ‘No two persons’ accounts of the same human being ever agree; that is one of the first difficulties of a case like this. I shall have to see her for myself. Now, my boy, tell me in as few words as possible the history of your relations with her, especially shortly before and since the events we are investigating.’
In straightforward language Harold confessed the whole story of his intimacy with Vere, the meetings at the Naxos Club, her visits to him at Riverside Gardens. He explained how, on the fatal night, he had been expecting her at the Naxos Club and how he had seen nothing of her until that evening, two days ago, when she had waited for him at the end of Riverside Gardens. As exactly as he could, he repeated their conversation in his rooms, and concluded with the threats she had uttered on her departure. The Professor listened attentively, throwing in a question here and there, as was his wont. When Harold had finished he sat for a long time wrapt in thought.
‘Of course, you were quite right to break off your relations with this young woman,’ he said at length. ‘It is, however, un-fortunate that you should have quarrelled with her before she divulged the identity of the man who desired your absence from your rooms that night. I assume that you have no reason to doubt the truth of her story?’
‘None at all, sir, though, of course, I have no means of confirming it,’ replied Harold.
‘Naturally,’ agreed the Professor. Then suddenly, after a pause, ‘Have you had the hasp of your window mended yet?’ he enquired.
‘Why, no, sir, I haven’t,’ replied Harold. ‘You don’t think that anyone else is likely to break in, do you?’
‘Then leave it alone for the present,’ said the Professor, ignoring his anxious enquiry. ‘Now, my boy, I am not going to ask you to seek out Miss Vere Donaldson again. You have broken with her, and it is better that the cleavage should be permanent. If necessary, I will secure an interview with her myself. Meanwhile, do not worry about the plausible theory set out in The Weekly Record. I can assure you that it contains a flaw which is quite sufficient to destroy the whole argument.’
‘What is that, sir?’ enquired Harold eagerly.
The Professor immediately assumed his didactic tone. ‘Until theories are submitted to the test of uncontrovertible facts, they are worthless,’ he said. ‘In due course I will present you with an explanation of the events of that night which will be proof against any attempts to destroy it. Until then, I must ask you to trust me.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Harold. ‘I know I can safely leave matters in your hands. Meanwhile, what can I do?’
‘Stay where you are and wait,’ replied the Professor kindly. ‘I know that inaction is the hardest thing to demand, but, believe me, at this juncture it is necessary. By the way, when Miss Vere was in the habit of coming to your rooms, how did she gain access?’
‘At first I used to let her in,’ said Harold. ‘Then, in case she should come when I was out, I gave her a key. She lost it very soon afterwards, though.’
‘I see,’ replied the Professor. Harold, guessing that the interview was at an end, and dreading the return of April and Evan, rose and took his leave.
The Professor sat for a long time after his departure, lost in thought. Then he took up the copy of The Weekly Record from the table on which Harold had left it, and read the story through once more with deep attention. ‘I wonder!’ he muttered as he flung it away in disgust. ‘No, it is impossible! I must have facts, more facts!’
And with a face grave beyond his wont, he turned and left the room.
CHAPTER IX
ON the following day, faithful to his promise, Mr Boost called for Harold about five o’clock in the afternoon and they set out for Camberwell together. Mr Boost was silent and moody, replying to Harold’s advances by grunts or monosyllables. Harold rather welcomed this attitude on his part than otherwise. It augured well for home-truths at Mr Samuel’s shop, and truth was what he particularly desired. The angrier became the protagonists, the more likely he was to learn the true facts about that mysterious bale. For by now he had come to the conclusion that Mr Samuels and his nephew Isidore were far too slippery customers for him to tackle single-handed.
It was dark when they got off the tram, a darkness intensified by a thin mist-like drizzle of rain. As they started to trudge towards Inkerman Street, a fire-engine flashed past them, a whirlwind of bright lights and clanging bells. The traffic drew aside like the waters of the Red Sea at its coming, then surged back to resume its dull and roaring way. Somewhere ahead of them a pulsating glow illumined a fragment of the weeping sky.
‘
That fire’s not far off,’ opined Mr Boost. ‘All the better; it’ll draw most of the folk after it. I’m not anxious to be seen messing about here.’
‘Looks like it,’ agreed Harold. ‘It can’t be far beyond Inkerman Street, by the look of it.’
Men passed them running, calling out to one another in raucous cries. Evidently a good fire was regarded as a free entertainment. On either hand small shopkeepers could be seen putting up their shutters hurriedly, and hastening after the throng. The wet breath of the wind carried towards them a sharp and acrid tang of burning.
Mr Boost and Harold quickened their steps, half unconsciously; such is the power of crowd-psychosis. Jostled by the throng, they reached the end of Inkerman Street and, as they did so, the full glare of the conflagration burst upon them. Halfway down the narrow thoroughfare a cordon of police, black figures against a sea of light, held at bay a seething mass of sightseers. Beyond them a couple of fire-engines, their polished brass reflecting the red fury of the flames, poured steady streams of water upon a house through whose roof angry tongues were already licking.
Mr Boost rapped out an oath and caught Harold by the arm. ‘That’s Samuels’ place a-burning!’ he exclaimed. ‘Damned if I don’t believe the comrades have paid him back after all! Blasted fools! He’ll laugh like hell at it. I’ll bet he’s insured himself for four times the value of the stuff. I wonder where he’s got to!’
‘By Jove,’ replied Harold. ‘What if he was in bed in that back room still? There wouldn’t be much left of him by this time!’
Mr Boost laughed, shortly and scornfully. ‘Old Samuels let himself be caught like that, eh?’ he said. ‘No fear, he’s too cunning an old swine for that. Come on! Let’s get as close as we can and find out.’
He threw his weight into the fray, and, ably assisted by Harold, the two fought their way amid a storm of objurgation through the serried ranks towards the cordon of police. They had nearly achieved their aim, when Mr Boost suddenly sheered off, followed by Harold, and elbowed his way towards a little man in a tattered overcoat, who was dancing about on tiptoe, vainly trying to get a view of the spectacle.
Mr Boost laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder. The little man started, as though betrayed by an uneasy conscience. He turned sharply and peered up into Mr Boost’s face.
‘Oh, it’s you, comrade, is it?’ he exclaimed in tones of manifest relief. ‘You gave me a regular start, you did, coming on a fellow like that. You’ve got business over yonder, maybe?’
‘Never you mind what my business is, Bob,’ replied Mr Boost. ‘You’re just the man I want to see. I want to know how this happened. No lies, now, it’s the truth I’m after.’
Bob became voluble at once. ‘I wouldn’t tell you no lies, comrade, you know that,’ he protested. ‘And it’s the truth I don’t know how it happened, s’ help me, Dick. Just burst into flames, the old place did, not more’n an hour ago. I see’d the old man leave the place, and then his nevvy rushed out hollerin’ …’
He broke off shortly, suddenly becoming aware of Harold’s interested face at Mr Boost’s side.
‘’Oo’s this?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘You didn’t ought to come up to me in a crowd like this. You can’t never tell who’s listenin’.’
‘Well, come out of it,’ replied Mr Boost impatiently, grasping him firmly by the arm. ‘This chap’s all right. He came along o’ me. Now then, Bob, step lively.’
Thus adjured, and impelled by Mr Boost’s powerful arm, Bob wormed his way through the crowd to a portion of the pavement more remote from the fire and comparatively clear from sightseers. Once there, he turned complainingly to Mr Boost.
‘Oh dear! Oh dear! You’ll be the death of me, comrade,’ he moaned. ‘Why can’t you let a fellow alone? Near broke my arm, you did, with that great fist o’ yourn.’
‘Oh, stow it, Bob,’ interrupted Mr Boost. ‘What’s all this about the old man and Isidore? Where are they? I want a word with ’em, sharp.’
‘Isidore’s safe enough,’ replied Bob with a malicious grin. ‘I got my eye on him all right. But the old man’s gone, like the wily old devil he is. ’Tain’t like him to hang about to be asked awkward questions. Oh, he’s a cunning old cuss, he is.’
‘Gone?’ said Mr Boost. ‘Where the devil’s he gone to? What yer mean, gone?’
‘Well, I’m telling yer, ain’t I?’ replied Bob, plaintively. ‘I saw ’im go, and I ’eard ’im tell the cabby to drive to Waterloo Station.’
‘What cabby? When did he go then?’ inquired Mr Boost.
‘Why, the cabby what came to fetch ’im,’ replied Bob. ‘’Bout three o’clock it must have been. I was standing at the door of my ’ouse, when a four-wheeled cab comes along and draws up outside the old man’s shop.
‘“’Ullo!” thinks I, “that’ll be a customer!” Then I looks for some fun. The old man don’t open the door to anybody. He’s been ill or something for two or three weeks now, and the door’s never opened till that nevvy of ’is comes ’ome. Well, the cabby climbs down from his box, and raps at the door. Knock away, my lad, thinks I. Your knuckles’ll be sore before you’re finished with that game. But not a bit of it. Cabby hadn’t knocked above a couple of times when the door opens, and the old man hobbles out, all muffled-up like, an’ wheezin’ an’ coughin’ like you’ve ’eard ’im a score o’ times, only worse. ’E looked fit to drop, an’ I thought ’e’d never manage to get into the cab. ’Owever, cabby gives ’im ’is arm, and between ’em ’e gets into the cab somehow. ’E coughs and grumbles for a bit, then he manages to growl out, “Waterloo Station, an’ look sharp.” The cab drives away, an’ that’s the last I see of ’im.’
‘Gone to have a holiday in the country, I suppose,’ commented Mr Boost scornfully. ‘But what about Isidore? He hadn’t come back, I suppose?’
‘I dunno,’ replied Bob. ‘I didn’t see ’im, not then, that is. ’E can’t ’ave been in, ’cos the old man locked the door behind ’im when ’e came out an’ put the key in ’is pocket. I see’d ’im do it. It warn’t till ’e came rushin’ out—’
‘Yes, yes, but what ’appened next?’ interrupted Mr Boost.
‘Why, Bill Watters, wot lives up the road, comes up to me and says, “The old man don’t look too grand, does ’e?” He’d seen ’im go off, too. We ’as a bit of a yarn, then I goes back into my ’ouse and lies down for a sleep. Next thing I ’eard was a lot of ’ollerin’ down the road, and chaps runnin’ like mad. So I comes out, and sees a crowd standin’ round the old man’s shop, a-starin’ at the windows. Sure enough there was a lot of smoke comin’ out of all of ’em. Then I guessed what ’ad ’appened, and why the old man ’ad made off. Well, I thinks, there’s a lot o’ junk in there that won’t be any the worse for burnin’, when all of a sudden I sees the shop window flung up and out tumbles that there nevvy, with nothing on but a shirt and a pair o’ socks. Would you believe it, that murderin’ old devil ’ad left ’im there to burn!’
Bob paused, gratified at the dramatic climax of his recital. But Mr Boost was wholly unimpressed.
‘Well, get on!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘What became of Isidore, then?’
‘Why, you know ’e was always a bit soft, like,’ replied Bob. ‘The fire seems to ’ave sent ’im quite balmy. ’E sprawls about on the pavement, a most disgustin’ sight, ’ollerin’, “’Elp, ’elp! Fire, fire!” as though anyone couldn’t see that the place was alight. Nobody seems to know what to do, so I lays ’old of ’im. “’Ere, you come along o’ me, young feller,” I says. “You ought to be ashamed o’ yourself, that you did, with ladies about an’ all.” So with that I lugs ’im up and takes ’im ’ome to my place. He sort o’ went off like when I gets ’im there, so I shoves ’im on a bed, and there ’e is. Like to ’ave a look at ’im?’
Mr Boost nodded. ‘Best thing you could have done, Bob,’ he said. ‘Yes, let’s go and have a word with him.’
Suiting the action to the word, Mr Boost put his powerful elbows into action again, and
, closely followed by Harold and Bob, forced a passage through the crowd until they reached the door of one of the dilapidated houses towards the end of Inkerman Street remote from the fire. They followed Bob up a couple of flights of rickety steps, and paused before a closed door.
‘’E’s in there,’ exclaimed Bob, in a husky whisper. ‘Proper done in ’e is, too.’
‘Well, we’ll see if we can’t get some sense into him,’ replied Mr Boost grimly, laying his hand on the door and flinging it open.
There was no lamp in the room, but the glare of the fire outside illuminated it with a red flickering glow. It held a few crazy sticks of furniture, and a couple of old iron bedsteads, upon which lay in disorder a few stained and discoloured blankets. But of any human occupant there was no sign.
Bob looked once round the room and dropped his jaw in dismay. ‘Why, ’e’s gorn!’ he exclaimed.
‘Gone? What the devil do you mean?’ replied Mr Boost angrily. ‘Look here, Bob, none o’ your games with me. You know it won’t do.’
‘S’help me, I ain’t told you nothing but the truth, comrade,’ asserted Bob plaintively. ‘I left ’im ’ere and then went off to see the engines come, and then I stays till you comes up.’