Capital Crimes: London Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Just to test things, we’ll give him the chance,’ I said. ‘He’ll be at the Odeon Club to-night. I’ll drive round there, and send in my name as a former American acquaintance.’

  From a heap which lay in a bowl on my desk I picked out an old visiting-card that bore the name Colonel Charlton P. Lysters, and armed with it, drove round to the Odeon. There were two or three other men in the visitors’ waiting-room; when Tregarthen entered, turning Colonel Lyster’s card on his fingers, he stared helplessly at each. I stepped forward with outstretched hand.

  ‘I guess you’ve forgotten me, Mr Tregarthen,’ I said. ‘We met way back in ninety-five, in Denver.’

  He was plainly nonplussed, and he took my hand with a very limp response to my vigorous shake.

  ‘I—I really don’t remember,’ he said, staring at me steadily and scrutinisingly. ‘I can’t recall—’

  ‘Let me jog your memory,’ I said, and I took him by the arm and led him a little aside. ‘But only,’ I continued, relapsing into my natural voice, ‘only to the extent of reminding you that Killingley and I drank tea with you this afternoon.’

  Tregarthen started back, staring still more.

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, that’s fine, old chap. You’ll keep that up in the morning?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘But—we’ll have to rely on more than this, I reckon.’

  ‘Well, if the man’s Mendoba, he’ll not recognise you, anyway,’ he said. ‘And that’s the main thing, at first.’

  It was not a man, Mendoba, or Morton, or any other, that I encountered when I walked into a quietly but well-furnished little outer office in Contango Chambers next morning. I gained a general impression of a bright fire shining on a thick and warm-coloured Turkey carpet, of an easy-chair or two, a good picture or so, and of a young lady who sat at an elegant desk which was not furnished with a typewriting machine. She was stylishly attired; she had nothing of the usual girl clerk in her appearance; but her eyes, bright and penetrating, sized me up shrewdly as she advanced to the pretence for a counter which fenced me off from her and the rest of the room. She looked an enquiry.

  ‘Mr Morton?’ I said.

  And, following out instructions, I gave the young lady a look as enquiring as her own, and at the same time laid my ungloved left hand on the little counter and thus exhibited the curiously marked signet ring.

  The Magician’s unconventional janitor slightly inclined her head. Without verbal reply she turned and vanished through a door on the left of the room. Without delay she reappeared, silently admitted me within the counter, and opened another door on the right.

  ‘Mr Morton will come to you in a few moments,’ she said as she motioned me to enter. ‘Please be seated.’

  Then she closed the door upon me and left me alone. I looked round. The room was a tiny apartment; a small table in the middle of the floor was furnished with a plain morocco writing-pad, a gold-mounted inkstand, a bundle of quill pens, all new; on either side of the table were set two elbow-chairs. The walls were panelled in dark wood, unrelieved by any picture or ornament; the floor was covered by a thick carpet in which one’s feet sank with a sense of luxury; the one window of the place was filled with old painted glass. The place was an ideal cabinet in which to discuss extremely confidential business. And it was soundproof. I was close to the heart of the city, just above one of its busiest thoroughfares along which rolled a perpetual tide of heavy traffic. But I could not hear a sound; the silence in that small room was deeper than any silence I ever knew; its deepness seemed to be accentuated by the gentle murmur of a fire which burnt brightly in the grate behind me.

  I sat down in one of the elbow-chairs (there were but two seats in the room) and waited. The silence became, if possible, deeper; the murmur of the fire grew monotonous. And I suddenly conceived the idea that I was being watched.

  That feeling of being alone, in a strange place, and of being silently looked at, inspected, taken stock of, from some coign of vantage of which one knows nothing, is one of the most trying experiences, one of the most severe nerve-tests, which a human being can go through. It makes you feel that you are at somebody’s or at something’s mercy. You cannot move a finger or wink an eye without the consciousness that it is being seen and noted by a watchful observer who is stationed you know not where. It is an uncanny, a weird feeling—like all such feelings, it grows upon you. In this case the feeling grew upon me. I suppose I am naturally highly-strung; certainly my nerves began to feel the strain of sitting there under this conviction. In cases where I am face to face with either danger or difficulty they come readily to the scratch and are as strong as iron and dependable as steel; if any man stared at me I should give him as long and as steady a stare as he gave me. But to sit alone, feeling until you reached the point of absolute certainty that an eye is on you, and that you do not know where that eye is—this is enough to disconcert even the strongest nerved man, and in this instance it disconcerted me. For the effect of such a feeling is to force you to a state of absolute quietude lest you should betray something in your face or your attitude, and that is wearing. And in this case I did not care to think that I was being watched at all.

  I kept quiet, my eyes fixed on the morocco writing-case. I was thinking. I was endeavouring to summon up some notion of what I expected Mendoba (if this was the man) to be like. I had only seen him twice, and for a mere moment on each occasion, at the gambling-hell; he then presented himself as a tall, well-built man, a very little inclined to stoutness, with grey hair, a full grey beard, who wore slightly smoked spectacles. But I knew that he had discarded beard and wig in the train at Charing Cross when he shot Francis Taplin. What was he like then, when they were removed? I had nothing to go by but his height and figure, and they—

  The door suddenly opened, and as suddenly closed. I turned to see a young gentleman, irreproachably garbed after the fashion of that aristocracy of the City which is particular in matters of raiment. And as I looked at him, gaining a general impression of his personality and appearance, a curious doubt and feeling of difficulty fell on me. Could this Mr Morton—if the young gentleman was Mr Morton—be one and the same person with the Mendoba of the gambling-hell?

  I took a closer look at him as he came forward. He was tall and of a spare but athletic figure, which was well set off by his beautifully cut and shaped morning coat. He was a handsome young man—my first glance at him had showed me an olive-complexioned skin; black, smooth hair, scrupulously arranged; a pair of black, penetrating eyes. Those eyes fixed themselves upon me as we exchanged bows. He waved a slim, white hand in the direction of the chair from which I had risen at his entrance.

  ‘Mr Morton?’ I said interrogatively.

  He bowed again; again motioned me to my chair, and taking that on the other side of the table, leaned his elbows upon it, put his fingers together, rested his chin upon their tips, and continued to regard me with attention. Something in his eyes disconcerted me; they were so steady, so penetrating, so very cold and inflexible (these, I think, are the terms I should use), that I began to feel uncomfortable. Only once did they move from my face; that was to glance for the fraction of a second at the ring on my finger. After that they never left mine. And—whether I would or no—I was compelled to keep mine upon them. I say compelled deliberately—there is no other word for it.

  There was a momentary silence, after my vis-à-vis had taken his seat. Then he said—using a formal tone:

  ‘You wish to consult me?’

  ‘Under advice,’ I answered. ‘The advice of the man from whom I procured this.’

  I was about to say ‘ring,’ but he waved a finger carelessly.

  ‘Just so. My preliminary fee, as he no doubt informed you, is five hundred guineas in cash. Afterwards, you pay me ten per cent. on the profit of the deal which you propose to make—that is, if I advise you to make it.’

  I had bee
n coached for all this, and I drew out the amount of money for which he asked. I handed him five one-hundred pound Bank of England notes and five five-pound notes, and he placed them on the morocco writing-case.

  ‘What do you wish me to advise you about?’ he asked.

  I was prepared for that, too. But I wanted to fence with him a little. And for that I was also prepared. All the same, I began to wish that he would not stare at me so persistently with those coal-black eyes!

  ‘You are famous for a remarkable gift of insight?’ I remarked, with what was doubtless a feeble attempt at a smile.

  ‘I possess a gift of insight, coupled with some financial knowledge,’ he replied.

  ‘A remarkably astute and deep-seated knowledge,’ I said.

  ‘Call it so, if you will. You wish to engage in some financial operation?’

  ‘I do. That is why I am here.’

  ‘Of a considerable nature, of course? Otherwise you would certainly not be here. What is it?’

  ‘What it is,’ I said, ‘will be best explained by my asking you a simple question. What place will Russia occupy as a political and financial power two years hence?’

  He inclined his head slightly, but his eyes were still fixed on mine, and I was unpleasantly conscious of their power.

  ‘Two years hence,’ he answered quietly, ‘Russia will be at war with Japan. And Russia will be beaten. Does that answer your question?’

  Now, as events proved, he was right in this prophecy. I do not pretend to know how he came to prognosticate matters so successfully; I only know that what he foretold came to pass within the time specified. But at that time I personally knew of no reason why Russia and Japan should so soon go to war, so I displayed a little incredulity.

  ‘You are sure of that?’ I asked.

  ‘I never say anything unless I am sure of it,’ he answered. ‘What I say in this matter, will be.’

  I made pretence of hesitation.

  ‘This is a big question to me,’ I said. ‘I had the intention of making most important investments in Russia, which would be seriously prejudiced in the event of that country going to war within the next six years, especially if, as you prophesy, she suffered defeat. Is it within your province to give me ground for your expectations?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ he answered. His eyes appeared to draw my own more compellingly than ever. Their expression deepened to one of intense concentration: unconsciously I edged my elbow-chair nearer to the table. ‘Most certainly,’ he repeated. ‘Now, attend to me.’

  What I am going to state or confess may sound incredible to all people save those who understand and have seen something of the effects of suggestive influence. But it is the plain truth—and like all plain truths it can be put into a very few words.

  And the plain truth is this: I have no knowledge whatever of what further took place between me and the young man of the remarkable eyes. From the moment that he told me to attend to him until another moment of which I am presently going to speak, my mind was a blank.

  Whether a man can be rightly called unconscious who walks, talks, eats, transacts business, has conversation, rational and coherent, with other folk, and who is not aware that he has done any of these things, is a question which I shall leave the experts to decide. It is quite certain that before noon of one day and eight o’clock of the next I walked, talked, ate and drank, smoked and behaved myself as a rational man does, and was quite unaware of the fact. I have since conversed with several people who met me during that period; they all agreed that they saw nothing in me that was not absolutely normal and ordinary.

  But the truth is that I passed out of one state of consciousness about noon on one day, seated in that snug room in Contango Chambers in Budge Row, and woke up to another state of equal—perhaps sharper, more alert—consciousness at eight o’clock the next morning in a bedroom of the Royal York Hotel at Brighton.

  It was a beautiful, sharp, winter morning; the clear light that flooded my bedroom awoke me. I opened my eyes.…

  There are few things in the ordinary way of life that can frighten a man so much as waking suddenly in a strange room wherein he certainly does not expect to find himself. I was frightened. I shut my eyes as soon as I had opened them. But in that momentary opening I had seen that I was in the bedroom of an hotel, and I had remembered the interview of yesterday. Again I heard the compelling voice of the man with the equally compelling eyes.

  ‘Attend to me!’

  But—what since then?

  I sprang out of bed, and made for the window I jerked up the blinds and looked out. Instantly I recognised the Old Steine. The tramcars were running on the road beneath; early birds were walking across the gardens. So I was in Brighton. But—how did I come there?

  I turned from the window, and looked around me. It was quite evident that when I left town I had known what I was doing. There was a suit-case, there were toilet articles, duly set out; a winter dressing-gown lay ready to hand. And—yes, of course, this was the room which I usually occupied when I visited Brighton, as I often did. But—once more—how did I come to be in it?

  I remember everything of my recent doings up to the point where the Magician of Cannon Street bade me attend to him: after that I remembered nothing. And, naturally, the only word I could think of, the conventional word, often meaningless, but by no means so in my case, sprang to my lips:

  ‘Hypnotised!’

  That, of course, must be the explanation—I was a victim to hypnotic suggestion. The man of Contango Chambers had driven my own will clean away from me with those devilish eyes of his and had substituted impulses of his own for his own purpose. What purpose? Obviously to get me out of the way, while he got himself out of the way. And so, there were precious hours—twenty of them—lost, and—where was he?

  I have always prided myself on being pretty smart about tackling emergencies and difficulties. I recognised that the only thing to do in this case was to get a quick move on in the direction of London. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was precisely five minutes past eight. Now, I know that Killingley never presented himself at my office until ten o’clock, and it was accordingly useless to telephone to him there; I also knew that there was no telephone at the cottage at Hampstead where he lived with his mother and sister. Well, I would endeavour to be in town before half the morning had passed, and I started to take measures. I summoned a certain man-servant, and gave him sharp orders.

  ‘Send me some coffee, and some hot toast here at once,’ I said. ‘Order for me the best and quickest motor-car you can get in Brighton, with a thoroughly good chauffeur. Let him be round here with the car as quickly as he can. There’s only one word for it—hurry!’

  The man knew me and my ways, and he shot off in a way that satisfied me. I dressed as rapidly as ever I had performed that operation in my life, swallowed the toast and the coffee, and was down in the hall and ready for the car within twenty minutes of giving my orders.

  ‘Car’ll be here in a minute, sir,’ said my factotum.

  Turning to the office to pay my bill, I caught sight of a pile of morning papers which had just come in. I picked one up mechanically, and opening it, ran my eye over the headlines of the middle pages. And then, for the second time that morning, I jumped with amazement. For there, in great, staring black letters I read:

  THE MURDER OF DR. TAPLIN

  remarkable arrest in london

  ‘Car, sir!’ said a voice behind me.

  I forgot that the newspaper was the property of the hotel. I have confused recollections that I crumpled it up in my hand, leaped into, or was bundled into, the automobile, that I gave the chauffeur a peremptory command, and that Brighton faded away behind me.

  The car was speeding away northwards between Batham and Pangdean before I woke to the fact that I was holding the newspaper crushed up in my hand. Then I spread its creases out and read
what appeared beneath those staring headlines. There was not much to be read, but what there was made me think harder than before.

  ***

  ‘The murder of Dr Francis Taplin, of Wimpole Street, which took place at Charing Cross Railway Station two years ago, under highly sensational circumstances, the murderer killing his victim and making his escape just as a boat train was about to start, was recalled yesterday afternoon, when the police, acting on information, quietly effected at Charing Cross the arrest of a man who is alleged to have committed the crime.

  ‘The man in question had booked a ticket for Paris, and had already taken his seat in a first-class smoking compartment. when he was arrested by plain-clothes officers, who acted in such swift and unobtrusive fashion that their prisoner was removed from both train and station without any excitement or commotion being aroused.

  ‘Great reticence is being shown by the police authorities, but it is understood that they derived their information from private sources, and that they have full confidence that they not only hold the murderer of Dr Francis Taplin, but that the prisoner is also a person who was wanted at the time of the murder in connection with the keeping of a private gaming-house in the West End, and who effected a clever escape when it was raided by the police. It is rumoured that he is a foreigner of great ability who is an adept at skilfully disguising himself, and that he has of late been engaged in various questionable transactions in the City. He is expected to be brought up at Bow Street at noon to-day.’

  I dropped the newspaper on the opposite seat as I leaned back in the swiftly-speeding car.

  ‘That’s Killingley!’ I said. ‘Killingley’s done the trick. But how?’

  We turned into Jermyn Street well before eleven o’clock. I dashed straight upstairs to my office—to find Killingley and Tregarthen closeted together. And I saw at one glance that neither had been to bed. Further, I saw that Killingley was in a state of high concern; he so far lost his usual sang-froid, indeed, as to rush forward, and shake my hand violently. After which he relapsed into his usual normal condition.