by Sax Rohmer
“It’s sweet of you,” said Fay, exercising a tremendous effort and conquering her weakness. “It is such an old story, and so silly. I haven’t the courage to tell you.”
“Knowing you, dear, I am sure it is not silly, although it may be old.”
“Well, you see — there’s someone I am very fond of.”
“Do I know him?”
Fay shook her head sadly.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t mean that there was any understanding between us; I just mean that I am in love with him. We are quite old friends. We have known one another — oh, for ever so long. Somehow, very stupidly, I sort of took it for granted that—”
“It isn’t your special patient?”
Fay shook her head again. “No, it isn’t Dan. Dan and I are old friends too, as you know. But ours isn’t that kind of friendship. I can’t imagine why I should bother you at all — but I just had to. You have always been so kind to me, matron, always ready to help ... No, this is someone you have never met, but someone I am desperately fond of. And at the party, without wanting to know at all, I was just forced to hear the story of his hopeless entanglement with a quite worthless girl.”
“You mean she is not—”
“I believe you were going to say, ‘a lady’. No, she is not. Worse than that, she is not even straight. But he ... wants to marry her!”
“Oh, my dear! I think I understand. I am most terribly sorry. He must be mad, whoever he is. For his own sake, as well as for yours, something should be done to save him. Have you spoken to Lord Marcus about it?”
“No, I tried to, before I left this morning, but somehow it couldn’t be done. Besides — think of what happened there last night—”
“Good gracious, dear, of course! Even now, I find it hard to believe. Do you mean that poor Sir Giles was actually murdered in your cousin’s house?”
Fay shook her head wearily. “No one knows. He was just found there.” She stood up resolutely, and faced the matron. “Thank you ever so much for listening,” she said. “Now really I must hurry along. I am late already.”
Mrs. Maddison observed that Fay’s usually clear eyes were heavy. “Under those circumstances, you poor child, you cannot possibly have slept well.”
“No. I am afraid I didn’t sleep at all ...”
7
The Limping Man
In the office of the Assistant Commissioner, Chief Detective Inspector Firth was making a report. The office of Colonel O’Halloran was a comfortably furnished apartment, offering a marked contrast to that of the Chief Inspector. It was more than half a library, having a thick carpet and rugs on the floor, and pictures (chiefly of horses) on the walls; a bright room on this sunny morning, its bay window commanding an extensive view of the Thames.
Colonel O’Halloran, a small, slightly built man, wiry and brown faced, thinning hair crowning a high forehead, wore an unmistakably horsey suit. He had also those rather large, square hands which look as though they were accustomed to managing horses, and he stood beside a slightly untidy desk, tapping his fingers on the top, and shooting little interrogatory glances from deep-set gray eyes at the Chief Inspector. His nervous movements were interminable; for when he was not tapping his prominent teeth he was tapping the desk, or filling a pipe, or rolling a cigarette (he made his own) or toying with papers, or staring out of the window.
“Cause of Sir Giles’s death fully established; been confirmed by specialists.” The Assistant Commissioner spoke rapidly, in a high, staccato, abbreviated manner. “Personal possessions appear to be intact. Since they include wrist-watch, nearly twenty pounds ready money, may dismiss robbery as motive.”
Now, Firth was prepared to stand by his superior officer to the last trench and the last shot; but he was not prepared always to agree with him or even to pretend to do so. “In spite of which, sir,” he said, “I hold to the theory, wi’ respect, that robbery was the motive.”
“Oh,” said the colonel, blinking rapidly, “do you? Well — we shall see. No discernible fingerprints on bell-push of Lord Marcus’ house, or elsewhere. Inquiries to confirm stories of Miss Fay Perigal and James Wake, butler, already afoot. Regarding Lord Marcus, must confess my mind divided.”
“So is mine, sir,” said Firth.
“Formerly in same regiment in Egypt. We were both with Allenby. Up to time that he left the Army, knew Amberdale well. Always eccentric. Too much money for a young man, as he was then. First-rate horseman, better than myself, and I was pretty hot. Won classic events on his own mounts. Then, suddenly, gave it all up — same time he gave up the Army.”
“If I don’t interrupt you, sir, am I right in supposing that he was also a good boxer?”
“All-round athlete, Firth. All-round man. Oh! I see what you’re driving at. Stupid of me. Thinking of the bruise, described by Fawcett as ‘bluish contusion’ which he found above Sir Giles’s heart? Result of a powerful blow, he suggests. Don’t believe Amberdale would deny it, if he’d done it. However — where was I? Oh, yes, Amberdale. Well, something overtook him. Went in for queer studies. Disappeared for years. Told he was living in solitude, somewhere up Nile Valley. Apart from social occasions, here and there, seen practically nothing of him since those days. Of one thing am sure: Amberdale is no liar — but he may be mad.”
“That is what I was thinking, sir.”
“Keep his address out of it if you can. Tell ’em the body was taken to house in West End and dumped there.”
Firth frowned. “I’ll do my best, sir. But you know what Fleet Street is like! Then there is this Mrs. Vane.”
“Whatever his interest in Mrs. Vane, Firth, doubt if of amorous nature. Never was a skirt hunter, never. Women used to chase him. Astonishingly handsome man in young days. Not so bad now, I believe. But Mrs. Vane, well—”
“Sergeant Bluett has her record, sir,” said Firth dourly.
“Yes, he would have. One doesn’t want to be rude, but we are dealing with a murder charge, and — er — she is very little better than society courtesan, you know. Mixed up with all sorts of men, as well as poor Charlie Vane. Mug to marry her. You tell me her evidence was unsatisfactory?”
“Well, sir—” Firth leaned forward in his chair, resting long, sensitive hands upon bony knees— “strictly speaking, it wasn’a evidence at a’. She had joined Lord Marcus that night for the purpose of whatever mumbo-jumbo they had in hand, and they had dined together ... When I say ‘dined,’ according to the lady’s statement, confirmed by Wake, the repast consisted of some kind o’ specially baked wheaten bread—”
“Dealings with black market,” smiled the Assistant Commissioner. “Where the devil does Amberdale get wheat?”
“Aye, it’s a fact, sir. But such was their dinner, wi’ fresh fruit and cold water. Wake left them, and according to Mrs. Vane’s account, she then ‘devoted herself to the Rites.’ That’s what she told me. They both talk verra freely about the Rites, whatever the Rites may be. She claims to remember nothing fro’ the time these Rites began until she was awakened by Lord Marcus — that is, more than an hour after the crime was discovered.”
The Assistant Commissioner crossed and stared out of the window, apparently fascinated by the spectacle of a stream of barges laden with cement being towed down the river. When he spoke, he spoke over his shoulder:
“Dr. Fawcett is quite satisfied this state of hypnosis or trance, or whatever it is, was authentic?”
“Quite so, sir. As far as that goes, speaking unprofessionally, Mrs. Vane was certainly in a verra queer state.”
“Yes, yes. Just run through that part of your report again, Firth. Seem to recall something—”
The Chief Inspector opened a notebook, glancing across at the check back of the speaker. “You mean, Mrs. Vane’s reference to a limping man?”
“That’s it.” Colonel O’Halloran turned, and producing from one pocket a quantity of tobacco which presumably he kept there loose, and from another a packet of cigarette papers, he began with g
reat skill to manufacture a cigarette. “Limping man: that’s what stuck in my mind.”
“Aye, it was certainly queer,” Firth admitted, studying his notes. “Weel, Mrs. Vane was presently produced by Lord Marcus, as I told ye. She came out wrapped in a fur coat of a verra costly character. Sergeant Bluett tells me it is chinchilla—”
“Poor old Amberdale,” murmured the colonel, biting ragged ends from his cigarette and snapping a lighter into action.
“Dr. Fawcett made her over, and assured me that she had been under the influence of drugs—”
“What drugs?”
“On that point he remained uncertain, sir. I questioned her closely, but her manner was vague to the point o’ imbecility. She was like a body talking in her sleep. Lord Marcus insisted that she must not be asked to see the dead man, and as Dr. Fawcett supported him, I had the body removed before she came in. She admitted, however, wi’out any pressure on my part, that she had known Sir Giles weel at one time. She stated that she had not seen him for six months or more. Then came her words to which you refer, sir. She seemed to come over whimsy — kind o’ fey; and she exclaimed:
“‘He was there while I was in the shrine! He kept coming between me and the path. I see him now — there, outside the door!’” Firth was reading from notes. “‘The limping man, wi’ blood on his hands ...’”
“H’m,” muttered Colonel O’Halloran; “and you say that Amberdale tried to gather exact details?”
“He did, sir. But Mrs. Vane assured him that she could not see, or could not remember any more.”
“Very odd. One wonders if there’s anything in it.” The colonel sat down, but immediately stood up again. “Sir Giles occupied small service flat, not far away. You tell me the people there have no idea when he set out. No evidence to show, either, where he was coming from at time he met his death. Usual calls sent around taxi depôts, I take it?”
“Yes, sir; I am awaiting results. I am also checking up on James Wake, of course. I examined the door of the house, the steps, and immediate approaches. But it had rained during the night, and quite briefly, I found nothing. The remarkable custom of Lord Marcus — I mean leaving his key outside — complicates the matter to no sma’ degree.”
“Lord Marcus has done almost everything in his life to complicate matters, Inspector.” The colonel turned and stared at Firth, his eyes bright, restless and continually blinking. “Don’t think you need bother much about Miss Perigal. She will be his second cousin: his first cousin Geraldine married Commander Stephen Perigal. This girl will be their daughter. Should be a fine type, but never met her.”
“I should say, sir, that as they come nowadays, she is a verra nice girl.”
The Assistant Commissioner nodded. “Well, case in your hands, Firth, and I wish you luck of it. Most mysterious. May be superstitious: Irish heritage; but can’t help thinking about one thing.”
“That being, sir?”
“Limping man, with blood on his hands ... look out for the fellow, Firth — look out for him.”
8
Concerning Taxi Drivers
On regaining his own office, Firth found Sergeant Bluett there. Bluett was leaning on the mantelpiece staring down at the empty grate. He turned as the Chief Inspector entered.
“Have ye got in touch with Gaston Max, Bluett, about that sma’ matter?”
Sergeant Bluett took out a newspaper and rolled it very tightly: Gaston Max was a sore point with Sergeant Bluett. “Not in his office. Probably making inquiries at the Mansion House, disguised as the Lord Mayor,” he said with heavy sarcasm.
Firth stared hard. “Your conception of humor is not mine,” he replied dourly. “Any news fro’ the taxi depôts?”
“A taximan has come along,” Bluett reported. “He is downstairs now. So I told them to ask him to wait till you came back. I think we had better have him up.”
“Anything to help us?”
“So they say downstairs.” Bluett crossed to the desk and indicated a slip of paper. “He says that he picked up a woman passenger near the scene of the crime, not long before it occurred. She was seen off by a man whose description seems to tally with that of Sir Giles.”
Inspector Firth sat down and studied the slip, then slowly nodded his head. He picked up the telephone ...
Less than two minutes later came a rap on the door.
“Come in,” called Firth.
The door was opened by a constable in uniform. “The taxi driver you asked to see, sir.”
As the taxi driver entered, the constable went out, closing the door. Bluett, who had resumed his favorite pose by the mantelpiece, turned, resting on his elbow, and contemplated the new arrival, whom Firth, also, was studying critically.
The man wore a rusty blue suit and a muffler in lieu of a collar. His hands were exceptionally dirty. In one of them he held a peaked cap. He had an unshaven face, pouchy eyes, and a bulbous looking nose. His untidy hair might have reminded a gardener of a dying dahlia: it was of reddish brown color and quite uncombed.
“Good mornin’, guv’nor,” he said cheerily to the Chief Inspector, and nodded, grinning to Bluett. One saw that he had brilliantly white teeth, apparently natural.
“I understand,” Firth began, “that your name is Peter Finch, and that you have a statement to make.” He took up the slip from his desk. “The matter is of no special importance, mark you, but it may have a bearing upon other matters that are. You say that about ten minutes past one last night, you picked up a lady at the Berkeley Square end of Bruton Street?”
“That’s right, guv’nor.”
“She was accompanied by a man who saw her off. Now—” he laid down the slip:— “Describe to me verra carefully, first, the lady, then the man.”
“Well, the bird was a peach, guv’nor. A bit of dark stuff, with lily white skin. She was in evenin’ dress, so I had a good dekko — see what I mean? ‘Er ‘air was black and all beautiful waves, and she ‘ad big dark eyes and a great big smile, and the kind of legs what only grows in ‘ollywood. At least, I used to think so. Speakin’ for meself, I should say A.1. with knobs on.”
“Well, go ahead.”
“The man wore evenin’ clothes, too; one o’ these ‘ere button-over dinner coats — Tuxedo. Smart ‘e was, and likewise very posh, more posh than the bird. ‘E didn’t seem to want to let ‘er go. But she wouldn’t listen to no argument; and after kissin’ ‘er with great gusto, ‘e shoved ‘er in me taxi and then kissed ‘er again. ‘Er name was Darling Rita.”
“I see. Where did you take her?”
“I took ‘er to a block o’ flats in King’s Road, Chelsea, guv’nor. But ‘aving ‘ad me little lark, so to speak, I think we might as well discuss this ‘ere matter more on the level.”
Whereupon, brushing back the untidy tangle from his forehead, and apparently by means of relaxing certain muscles and removing some substance from his jaws, another face, a totally different face, peered out through the bulbous mask of Peter Finch. This was a notably mobile face, and its present expression was impishly mischievous. Sergeant Bluett ran his fingers through upstanding hair, and his boyish eyes expressed an astonishment so profound that it was comical. Chief Inspector Firth gave no sign. He sat there, square chin resting in upraised hands, and merely watched the transformed man.
“Gaston Max!” muttered Bluett. “Well, I’ll be—”
“But, Friar Tuck, my old friend! Surely you know me, eh?”
Sergeant Bluett put his newspaper in another pocket, drew out a large white handkerchief, and blew his nose. It was true that he was known at Scotland Yard as Friar Tuck, although the origin of this soubriquet had become lost in obscurity, but its use by Gaston Max represented the last straw.
“There have been occasions, Mr. Max,” said Chief Inspector Firth, and the strength of his Scottish accent indicated the depth of his resentment, “when I ha’ felt called upon to point out to ye that if the Paris Service is run on the lines of a Hollywood musical, Scotland Yard is mo
re consairvative.”
“Ah! but Inspector Firth, my old, you do both Paris and myself a grave injustice.”
The speaker’s manner, accent (that of a Frenchman speaking English perfectly, except for unusual idioms, and with an uncommon intonation) ill-befitted the character which the distinguished investigator had assumed. It was difficult to understand, now that he had abandoned his impersonation, how one could have accepted as authentic pouches under the eyes which were obviously artificial, as well as those other physical eccentricities which characterised Mr. Peter Finch. Sergeant Bluett put his newspaper on the mantelpiece without removing a disgusted stare from the face of the French detective.
“What I don’t understand,” he remarked, “is why, if you can speak Cockney (although, mark you, I thought there was something phony about it) you can’t speak proper English.”
This deliberate casus belli Chief Inspector Firth scotched immediately.
“I might point out, Bluett,” he said, “that we all have our own ideas regarding proper English. Aye, man, Max—” a smile softened the severity of the hazel eyes— “ye’re nothing but a monkey. But I confess that your impersonations astound me. I would only add that I consider them unnecessary.”
“But no, my old, how wrong you are! When the biography of Gaston Max comes to be written, then you will see that if I had followed the traditional path which you follow obediently, and I think with such excellent results, I should not at this moment know so much about the affairs of the lamented Sir Giles. Ah! no, no, it is an old trick of mine, that taxicab. It is my shrimping net. Always I have the flag down when it suits me. Always I am ready for a fare I am looking for. And so it was last night.”
“It is clear to me,” Firth admitted, “that you ha’ got hold of a clue which may lead us somewheres. We know that this Rita—”
“Darling Rita,” Max corrected.
“We know that this girl was with Sir Giles just before he was killed. But he may have merely picked her up.”