AHMM, November 2008
Page 17
One satisfaction, indeed, we had, and we made the most of it; and that was that, though we had not discovered the burglars, we had prevented any fresh burglaries.
"They evidently know we are on the war-path,” Mr. Ball said to me, with a laugh, “and so, to all appearances, have withdrawn from the neighbourhood altogether. But it would have been a satisfaction to me if I could have tracked them before I said good-bye to Banfield."
"I feel dreadfully disappointed,” I said. “Still, I think we have done some good."
Mr. Ball's three months in Banfield were now almost up, and he was returning to town quite recruited, notwithstanding all the work and worry of the last month.
I really felt sad when I saw his heavy luggage carted away to the station. As a fellow-lodger, he had been almost everything one could desire; and I felt certain that Miss Pinskill would never get any one to fill his place that in any way would compare with him.
We celebrated his last evening with us by a special little dinner; and in proposing his health I really think I excelled myself. Miss Eliza said it was the best after-dinner speech she had ever listened to, excepting the speech Mr. Ball made in reply. That speech I shall never forget, and for many reasons. He had a most winning manner with him, and once or twice while he was speaking quite a lump came into my throat. I have no gift of pathos myself; perhaps for that reason I appreciate it so much in others. Not that I like being made to cry, for in a man it looks weak.
Well, we all retired early that night, for the effort to appear cheerful when we did not feel it exhausted us somewhat.
I fell asleep quickly, notwithstanding the heaviness of my heart, and was in the depths of profound slumber, when I was startled by the violent ringing of the front-door bell. I waited for some time, leaning on my elbow, for someone to go down and open the door, but I heard no one stirring. So at length, as my window was directly over the front door, I went and raised it, and asked—
"Who is there?"
"Oh, is that you, Mr. Field?” came a female voice that I did not recognize. “Will you please come and baptize Mrs. Sandy's baby? They are afraid it is dying."
"I will come at once,” I answered. “Go back, and say I am following as quickly as possible."
And I closed the window, turned up my gas, and began to dress. I felt thankful now that no one else in the house had been disturbed.
In less than ten minutes I was out of my room, and in passing Mr. Ball's door I was surprised to see it standing ajar. For a moment I stood and listened, but there was no sound within.
"I hope you have not been alarmed, Mr. Ball?” I said, standing close to the door.
But I waited in vain for a reply.
Now, I knew that Mr. Ball was a very light sleeper, and was therefore not a little surprised that he was not the first to awake.
I was impatient to get to Mrs. Sandy's child, and yet something detained me. Perhaps it was mere curiosity. I put my mouth to the opening of the door and spoke again, but still no reply.
Then I pushed the door wide open, and walked into the room. It was unoccupied. The bed had evidently not been slept in.
I was more concerned than I knew. A thousand vague suspicions seemed to rush through my mind in a moment, but I could not afford to lose any more time. Creeping gently downstairs, I took my hat from the stand in the hall, and proceeded to unbolt the door. It was unbolted already.
Could it be possible that Miss Pinskill had gone to bed and left it merely on the latch? No, it could not be that. Mr. Ball had evidently gone out before me. But why? That question haunted me as I hurried through the silent and deserted streets and lanes in the direction of the Sandys'.
Suddenly I halted, and drew into the shadow of the thorn hedge. I was near a large house that stood alone. I knew the house well, and was slightly acquainted with the people who lived in it, though not so well acquainted by any means as I desired.
I had heard a window creak, then I saw it slowly and almost noiselessly open, then the form of a man appeared.
"Another burglary,” I reflected; “and, as usual, not a single policeman about."
How it was I did not cry out or faint I do not know to this day, but I did neither. I crept under the verandah with the tread of a cat. I knew the robber would descend by one of the pillars, and I got close up to it. Some trellis-work was carried along the ground from pillar to pillar. The thief would get his foot on this trellis-work, and then step lightly to the ground. All this passed through my mind as in a flash. I was surprised at myself. I never knew my brain act so readily before; and, stranger still, I was not for the moment conscious of any fear.
The foot of the thief came into sight, close to my face. Quickly it descended and rested on the trellis-work, as I had expected; another moment, and he had let loose with his hands. I seized the foot and gave it a jerk, and he fell with his head in a bank of flowers.
With a muttered oath, he tried to struggle to his feet; but I held the foot on the top of the trellis-work, and he could not rise. He was quick to see what had happened, and, with an awful curse, he hissed—
"Let go, you fool, or I'll blow your brains out!"
I almost let go then, for I recognized the voice of Mr. Ball, and the discovery for the moment seemed to unman me, but only for a moment.
"Mr. Ball!” I exclaimed. “Can it be possible?"
"What, the curate?” he said, in mocking tones. “Come, let go, for I don't want to hurt you."
"Never!” I replied.
And I began to shout, “Help! Murder! Police!” at the top of my voice.
"You fool!” he cried. “Another sound, and I shoot!"
"You think I'm a coward,” I replied; “but I'll show you!"
And I began to shout louder than before, though I was almost dying with fright.
All this time he was struggling might and main to get away from me; but I held on like grim death, and the more he struggled the more my strength seemed to increase.
Suddenly he ceased to struggle, and I heard the click of a revolver. I knew he was levelling it at me. I tried to get my head behind the pillar; but suddenly there was a blaze of light before my eyes, then a stinging sensation along the side of my head.
"I am not dead yet!” I cried; but I felt the warm blood running down my neck inside my collar.
The reply was another flash. I felt a hot spot burn suddenly in my right arm, my fingers relaxed their hold, a mist came up before my eyes, I heard a confused sound of voices and hurrying feet, then all the world grew dark and still.
When I recovered consciousness I found myself lying in bed in a strange room, with a doctor on one side of me, and a nurse on the other. They told me that I was at the “Cedars,” the house that had been broken into, that Ball had been captured on the spot, where he fired at me, and that all the valuables that he had taken out of the house had been recovered.
Later in the day Mabel Rutherford (by common consent the sweetest girl in Banfield) came and sat by my side, and told me that I was a brave man, and that she hoped I would not die. I felt myself an awful hypocrite; but I was too weak to protest. I knew I was but a coward at best. Howbeit, her words were very sweet to me, and more than compensated me for all I suffered.
Well, I lay there many weeks, and so had ample time to reflect on the strange perversity of human nature. I never realized so vividly before how the best gifts of God might be turned to evil account, and the greatest and noblest talents prostituted to the most wicked ends. Here was a man whose gifts almost amounted to genius, a man who would shine in any company, and whose talents would win him success in any department of life, deliberately choosing to do evil, and turning Heaven's benedictions into a snare. Surely God is very merciful and infinitely patient with the most sinful of His children.
But to return. The morning after the burglary Ball was brought before the mayor and full bench of magistrates. Of his guilt, there could, of course, be no doubt, for he had been caught red-handed in the act, as it were, with stole
n goods upon him. But as there was a strong presumption that he was also the author of the other burglaries, the mayor, after animadverting very strongly upon his conduct, remanded him for a week, and he was conducted back to the cells. He appeared to be very crestfallen, and scarcely once lifted his eyes during the whole time he as in the dock.
The court, I was told, was crowded to excess, for the news of his capture had spread far and wide, and people were curious to see a man who had been able to act the part of honest man and thief with such success. That he had accomplices was taken for granted, and the hope was freely expressed that the rascals who had made themselves such a terror to the neighbourhood would soon be keeping him company. That night, the mayor—who was a very wealthy man—was about to retire to rest with his family, when there came a violent ring at the doorbell. As the servants had already gone to bed, the mayor went himself and unbolted the door and opened it, and was not a little surprised to see a policeman standing in front of him.
"Well, constable, what's up now?” the mayor inquired.
"I'm sorry to trouble your worship,” was the answer, in a low voice; “but the truth is, Ball has confessed everything, and I think we are on the point of arresting the whole gang."
"That's good news, indeed!” said the mayor, rubbing his hands. “But come inside, and let me hear the details."
The policeman stepped inside, and the door was closed behind him.
"Please don't alarm the ladies,” he said, in the same low tone. “But the truth is, there is to be an attempt to burgle your house tonight. But we shall be ready for them. Already there are police in hiding all round the place. May I suggest to you to put out all the lights, as though you had retired for the night, and remain quietly downstairs?"
"I will do so, most certainly,” said the mayor, looking very white, and trembling visibly.
"They will seek an entrance at the back,” the constable went on; “and, of course, we must let them get in before we arrest them."
"I suppose you could not arrest them before they got in?” the mayor asked nervously.
"If we did, I'm afraid we could prove nothing worse than trespass against them. No, no; we must bring the whole charge against them if possible."
"Quite right, quite right!” said the mayor, briskly. “I'll leave the matter entirely in your hands."
"Is your family in the drawing-room?"
"Yes; we were just about to retire for the night."
"Well, ask them to keep as still as possible, and if they hear any noise overhead, don't let them get alarmed. I will station myself against the staircase-window on the first landing, so that I may be able to signal to our men, and direct their movements. I hope before the clock strikes one the whole gang will be safe in our hands."
"I hope so, too. Let me get a chair for you to sit on while you wait; it will be better than standing all the time."
"Thank you; I shall be very much obliged if you will."
Five minutes later all the lights were put out. The mayor retired to the drawing-room with his family, and bolted the door, while the constable stationed himself at the staircase-window with his dark-lantern, and his truncheon ready to hand.
The time passed with painful slowness. Twelve o'clock came and went. Every one sat mute, intent, alert, listening for any sound that might break the oppressive stillness. Half-past twelve struck, then one, and still there was no movement in any part of the house.
"We may expect them at any moment now,” whispered the mayor, his teeth chattering; but no one replied to him.
Half-past one struck, and finally two. What an age it had seemed! and still there was not the faintest sound in any part of the house.
The mayor got uneasy, and went to the keyhole and listened. Then he opened the door and looked into the dark hall. Everything was as still as the grave. He walked to the foot of the stairs, and looked up. He could see the chair outlined against the window, but no one sat in it. What could have become of the constable?
Five minutes later lights were got, and a search instituted, and then the whole truth was revealed. Every bedroom in the house, except those occupied by the servants, had been ransacked, and all the valuables taken clean away.
"Good heavens!” cried the mayor; “what does it all mean?"
Then a horrible suspicion darted through his mind, and he rushed off in his slippers to the police-station.
But everything appeared to be quiet and in order—too quiet, in fact, for no one seemed to be about. It was lively enough, however, five minutes later.
In the cell that Ball was supposed to occupy a constable was found, minus his coat and helmet, lying on the hard bed, and apparently fast asleep. Indeed, it was a long time before he could be aroused to anything like a comprehension of the situation.
Next day he told an incoherent story of how the prisoner Ball complained that he had something in his eye which gave him great pain, and he asked his warder to bring his lantern and look into his eye through the bars of the door. The warder did so, and then—well, he never knew exactly what happened then. He believed he was mesmerized or hypnotized. He seemed to lose control of himself, and had an indistinct recollection of doing whatever the prisoner told him.
One thing, however, was clear: that Ball attired himself in the policeman's coat and helmet, and, taking his truncheon and lantern, went direct to the mayor's house, with such results as I have described.
There were those who believed that Ball simply bribed the constable; but that was never proved. In any case, he got clear away, and that was the last ever seen of him in Banfield.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: THE LINEUP
Jane K. Cleland is the author of the Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery series; her latest book is Antiques to Die For. Jane is also the chair of the Wolfe Pack's literary awards and president of the Mystery Writers of America/NY Chapter.
O'Neil De Noux is a former police officer who's published ten books and more than two hundred short stories. His short story “The Heart Has Reasons” (AHMM, September 2006) won the Shamus Award for Best Short Story, presented by the Private Eye Writers of America.
LOREN D. ESTLEMAN is a three-time winner of the Shamus Award. His recent books include the novel Gas City, published by Forge, and Amos Walker's Detroit. His last story in AHMM, “The Latin Beat,” appeared in the June 2008 issue.
Booked & Printed columnist ROBERT C. HAHN reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly and New York Post, among other places, and is the former mystery columnist for the Cincinnati Post.
J. Rentilly is a Los Angeles-based journalist who covers film, music, and literature for a variety of national and international publications.
Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest novel is The Perfect Man, written under the name Kris Dexter. Her mystery short fiction has won the Ellery Queen Readers Choice Award and has been nominated three times for an Edgar Award.
Peter Sellers lives in Toronto and Stratford, Ontario. He writes short stories exclusively; he won the Ellery Queen Readers Choice Award in 2001.
Brian Thornton, a former Las Vegas resident, is the author of the nonfiction book 101 Things You Didn't Know About Lincoln and is completing a historical thriller set in Antebellum Washington, D.C. He is the Northwest Chapter President for the Mystery Writers of America.
James Lincoln Warren is a frequent contributer to AHMM; his last story, “Cold Reason,” appeared in the April 2008 issue. He is also the editor and founder of “Criminal Brief: The Mystery Short Story Web Log Project” (www.criminalbrief.com). A former Surface Warfare Officer in the U.S. Navy; he currently lives in Los
[Back to Table of Contents]
Linda Landrigan: Editor
Laurel Fantauzzo: Assistant Editor
Susan Kendrioski: Executive Director, Art and Production
Carole Dixon: Senior Production Manager
Evira Matos: Production Associate
Victoria Green: Senior Art Director
Irene Lee: Producti
on Artist/Graphic Designer
Abigail Browning: Manager, Subsidiary Rights and Marketing
Bruce W. Sherbow: Vice President, Sales and Marketing
Sandy Marlowe: Circulation Services
Julia McEvoy: Manager, Advertising Sales
Connie Goon: Advertising Sales Coordinator
Peter Kanter: Publisher
www.TheMysteryPlace.com
[Back to Table of Contents]
COMING IN DECEMBER 2008
Guilt by Gilbert M. Stack
Grave Trouble R. T. Lawton
The Proper Application of Pressure to a Wound by Sherry Decker
[Back to Table of Contents]
Directory of Services
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine
* * * *
Editorial Offices
475 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016
* * * *
Subscription Services
(800) 220-7443
www.themysteryplace.com
* * * *
Change of Address & Subscription Inquiries
www.themysteryplace.com
Or send your current mailing label and new address to:
AHMM
6 Prowitt Street
Norwalk, CT 06855-1220
Address problems to
Sandy Marlowe at smarlowe@pennypublicatons.com
* * * *
Back Issues
Send check for $5.00 per issue
($7.00 per issue outside the U.S.) to:
AHMM
6 Prowitt Street, Suite 100
Norwalk, CT 06855-1220
Please specify which issue you are ordering.
* * * *
Subrights & Permissions
licensing@pennypublications.com
Or fax inquiries to (212) 686-7414
* * * *
Newsstand Sales
Dell Magazines, Department NS
6 Prowitt Street
Norwalk, CT 06855-1220
(203) 866-6688
newsstand@pennypublications.com
* * * *
Advertising Representative