“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering how on earth you would manage to get home.” Then she suddenly observed Marion’s bandaged hand and uttered an exclamation of alarm.
“Miss Marion has cut her hand rather badly,” I explained. “We won’t talk about it just now. I will tell you everything presently when you have put her to bed. Now I want some stuff to make dressings and bandages.”
Miss Boler looked at me suspiciously, but made no comment. With extraordinary promptitude she produced a supply of linen, warm water and other necessaries, and then stood by to watch the operation and give assistance.
“It is a nasty wound,” I said, as I removed the extemporized dressing, “but not so bad as I feared. There will be no lasting injury.”
I put on the permanent dressing and then exposed the wound on the arm, at the sight of which Miss Boler’s eyebrows went up. But she made no remark, and when a dressing had been put on this, too, she took charge of the patient to conduct her up to the bedroom.
“I shall come up and see that she is all right before I go,” said I; “and meanwhile, no questions, Arabella.”
She cast a significant look at me over her shoulder and departed with her arm about the patient’s waist.
The rites and ceremonies above-stairs were briefer than I had expected—perhaps the promised explanations had accelerated matters. At any rate, in a very few minutes Miss Boler bustled into the room and said: “You can go up now, but don’t stop to gossip. I am bursting with curiosity.”
Thereupon, I ascended to my lady’s chamber, which I entered as diffidently and reverently as though such visits were not the commonplace of my professional life. As I approached the bed, she heaved a little sigh of content and murmured:
“What a fortunate girl I am! To be petted and cared for and pampered in this way! Arabella is a perfect angel; and you. Dr. Gray—”
“Oh, Marion!” I protested. “Not Dr. Gray.”
“Well, then, Stephen,” she corrected with a faint blush.
“That is better. And what am I?”
“Never mind,” she replied, very pink and smiling. “I expect you know. If you don’t, ask Arabella when you go down.”
“I expect she will do most of the asking,” said I. “And I have strict orders not to stop to gossip, so let me see the bandages and then I must go.”
I made my inspection, without undue hurry, and having seen that all was well, I took her hand.
“You are to stay here until I have seen you tomorrow morning, and you are to be a good girl and try not to think of unpleasant things.”
“Yes; I will do everything that you tell me.”
“Then I can go away happy. Good night, Marion.”
“Good night, Stephen.”
I pressed her hand and felt her fingers close on mine. Then I turned away and, with only a moment’s pause at the door for a last look at the sweet, smiling face, descended the stairs to confront the formidable Arabella.
Of my cautious statement and her keen cross-examination I will say nothing. I made the proceedings as short as was decent, for I wanted, if possible, to take counsel with Thorndyke. On my explaining this, the brevity of my account was condoned, and even my refusal of food.
“But remember, Arabella,” I said as she escorted me to the gate, “she has had a very severe shock. The less you say to her about the affair for the present, the quicker will be her recovery.”
With this warning I set forth through the rapidly-thinning fog to catch the first conveyance that I could find to bear me southward.
CHAPTER XI
Arms and the Man
The fog had thinned to a mere haze when the porter admitted me at the Inner Temple Gate, so that, as I passed the Cloisters and looked through into Pump Court, I could see the lighted windows of the residents’ chambers at the far end. The sight of them encouraged me to hope that the chambers in King’s Bench Walk might throw out a similar hopeful gleam. Nor was I disappointed; and the warm glow from the windows of number 5A sent me tripping up the stairs profoundly relieved though a trifle abashed at the untimely hour of my visit.
The door was opened by Thorndyke, himself, who instantly cut short my apologies.
“Nonsense, Gray!” he exclaimed, shaking my hand. “It is no interruption at all. On the contrary: how beautiful upon the staircase are the feet of him that bringeth—well, what sort of tidings?”
“Not good, I am afraid, sir.”
“Well, let us have them. Come and sit by the fire.” He drew up an easy-chair, and having installed me in it and taken a critical look at me, invited me to proceed. I accordingly proceeded bluntly to inform him that an attempt had been made to murder Miss D’Arblay.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “These are bad tidings indeed! I hope she is not injured in any way.”
I reassured him on this point and gave him the details as to the patient’s condition, and he then asked:
“When did the attempt occur and how did you hear of it?”
“It happened this evening and I was present.”
“You were present!” he repeated, gazing at me in the utmost astonishment. “And what became of the assailant?”
“He vanished into the fog,” I replied.
“Ah, yes. The fog. I had forgotten that. But now let us drop this question and answer method. Give me a narrative from the beginning with the events in their proper sequence. And omit nothing, no matter how trivial.”
I took him at his word—up to a certain point. I described my arrival at the studio, the search in the cupboard, the sinister interruption, the attack and the unavailing attempt at pursuit. As to what befell thereafter I gave him a substantially complete account—with certain reservations—up to my departure from Ivy Cottage.
“Then you never saw the man at all?”
“No; but Miss D’Arblay did;” and here I gave him such details of the man’s appearance as I had been able to gather from Marion.
“It is quite a vivid description,” he said as he wrote down the details; “and now shall we have a look at that piece of the mould?”
I disinterred it from my tobacco-pouch and handed it to him. He glanced at it and then went to a cabinet, from a drawer in which he produced the little case containing Polton’s casts of the guinea and a box which he placed on the table and opened. From it he took a lump of moulding-wax and a bottle of powdered French chalk. Pinching off a piece of the wax, he rolled it into a ball, dusted it lightly with the chalk powder and pressed it with his thumb into the mould. It came away on his thumb bearing a perfect impression of the inside of the mould.
“That settles it,” said he, taking the obverse cast from the case and laying it on the table beside the wax ‘squeeze.’ “The squeeze and the cast are identical. There is now no possible doubt that the electrotype guinea that was found in the pond was made by Julius D’Arblay. Probably it had been delivered by him to the murderer on the very evening of his death. So we are undoubtedly dealing with that same man. It is a most alarming situation.”
“It would be alarming if it were any other man,” I remarked.
“No doubt,” he agreed. “But there is something very special about this man. He is a criminal of a type that is almost unknown here, but is not uncommon in South European and Slav countries. You find him, too, in the United States, principally among the foreign-born or alien population. He is not a normal human being. He is an inveterate murderer, to whom a human life does not count at all. And this type of man continually grows more and more dangerous, for two reasons: first, the murder habit becomes more confirmed with each crime; second, there is virtually no penalty for the succeeding murders, for the first one entails the death-sentence and fifty murders can involve no more. This man killed Van Zellen as a mere incident of a robbery. Then he appears to have killed D’Arblay to secure his own safety, and he is now attempting to kill Miss D’Arblay, apparently for the same reason. And he will kill you and he will kill me if our existence is inconvenient or dang
erous to him. We must bear that in mind and take the necessary measures.”
“I can’t imagine,” said I, “what motive he can have for wanting to kill Miss D’Arblay.”
“Probably he believes that she knows something that would be dangerous to him—something connected with those moulds, or perhaps something else. We are rather in the dark. We don’t know for certain what it was he came to look for when he entered the studio, or whether or not he found what he wanted. But to return to the danger. It is obvious that he knows the Abbey Road district well, for he found his way to the studio in the fog. He may be living close by. There is no reason why he should not be. His identity is quite unknown.”
“That is a horrid thought!” I exclaimed.
“It is,” he agreed; “but it is the assumption that we have to act upon. We must not leave a loophole unwatched. He mustn’t get another chance.”
“No,” I concurred warmly; “he certainly must not—if we can help it. But it is an awful position. We carry that poor girl’s life in our hands, and there is always the possibility that we may be caught off our guard, just for a moment.”
He nodded gravely. “You are quite right. Gray. An awful responsibility rests on us. I am very unhappy about this poor young lady. Of course, there is the other side—but at present we are concerned with Miss D’Arblay’s safety.”
“What other side is there?” I demanded.
“I mean,” he replied, “that if we can hold out, this man is going to deliver himself into our hands.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked eagerly.
“I recognize a familiar phenomenon,” he replied. “My large experience and extensive study of crimes against the person have shown me that in the overwhelming majority of cases of obscure crime the discovery has been brought about by the criminal’s own efforts to make himself safe. He is constantly trying to hide his tracks—and making fresh ones. Now, this man is one of those criminals who won’t let well alone. He kills Van Zellen and disappears, leaving no trace. He seems to be quite safe. But he is not satisfied. He can’t keep quiet. He kills D’Arblay; he enters the studio, he tries to kill Miss D’Arblay: all to make himself more safe. And every time he moves, he tells us something fresh about himself. If we can only wait and watch, we shall have him.”
“What has he told us about himself this time?” I asked. “We won’t go into that now, Gray. We have other business on hand. But you know all that I know as to the facts. If you will turn over those facts at your leisure, you will find that they yield some very curious and striking inferences.”
I was about to press the question when the door opened and Mr. Polton appeared on the threshold. Observing me, he crinkled benevolently and then, in answer to Thorndyke’s inquiring glance, said: “I thought I had better remind you, sir, that you have not had any supper.”
“Dear me, Polton,” Thorndyke exclaimed, “now you mention it, I believe you are right. And I suspect that Dr. Gray is in the same case. So we place ourselves in your hands. Supper and pistols are what we want.”
“Pistols, sir!” exclaimed Polton, opening his eyes to an unusual extent and looking at us suspiciously.
“Don’t be alarmed, Polton,” Thorndyke chuckled. “It isn’t a duel. I just want you to go over our stock of pistols and ammunition.”
At this I thought I detected a belligerent gleam in Polton’s eye, but even as I looked, he was gone. Not for long, however. In a couple of minutes he was back with a large handbag, which he placed on the table and again retired. Thorndyke opened the bag and took out quite a considerable assortment of weapons—single pistols, revolvers and automatics—which he laid out on the table, each with its box of appropriate cartridges.
“I hate fire-arms!” he exclaimed as he viewed the collection distastefully. “They are dangerous things, and when it comes to business they are scurvy weapons. Any poltroon can pull a trigger. But we must put ourselves on equal terms with our opponent, who is certain to be provided. Which will you have? I recommend this Baby Browning for portability. Have you had any practice?”
“Only target practice. But I am a fair shot with a revolver. I have never used an automatic.”
“We will go over the mechanism after supper,” said he. “Meanwhile, I hear the approach of Polton and am conscious of a voracious interest in what he is bringing. When did you feed last?”
“I had tea at the studio about half past four.”
“My poor Gray!” he exclaimed, “you must be starving. I ought to have asked you sooner. However, here comes relief.” He opened a folding table by the fire just as Polton entered with the tray, on which I was gratified to observe a good-sized dish-cover and a claret-jug. Polton rapidly laid the little table and then, whisking off the cover, retired with a triumphant crinkle.
“You have a regular kitchen upstairs, I presume,” said I as we took our seats at the table, “as well as a laboratory? And a pretty good cook, too, to judge by the results.”
Thorndyke chuckled. “The kitchen and the laboratory are one,” he replied, “and Polton is the cook. An uncommonly good cook, as you suggest, but his methods are weird. These cutlets were probably grilled in the cupel furnace, but I have known him to do a steak with the brazing-jet. There is nothing conventional about Polton. But whatever he does, he does to a finish, which is fortunate, because I thought of calling in his aid in our present difficulty.”
I looked at him inquiringly and he continued: “If Miss D’Arblay is to go on with her work, which she ought to, as it is her livelihood, she must be guarded constantly. I had considered applying to Inspector Follett, and we may have to later; but for the present it will be better for us to keep our own counsel and play our own hand. We have two objects in view. First—and paramount—is the necessity of securing Miss D’Arblay’s safety. But, second, we want to lay our hands on this man, not to frighten him away, as we might do if we put the police on his track. When once we have him, her safety is secured for ever; whereas if he were merely scared away he would be an abiding menace. We have got to catch him, and at present he is catchable. Secure in his unknown identity, he is lurking within reach, ready to strike, but also ready to be pounced upon when we are ready to pounce. Let us keep him confident of his safety while we are gathering up the clues.”
“Hm! yes,” I assented, without much enthusiasm. “What is it that you propose to do?”
“Somebody,” he replied, “must keep watch over Miss D’Arblay from the moment when she leaves her house until she returns to it. How much time—if any—can you give up to this duty?”
“My whole time,” I answered promptly. “I shall let everything else go.”
“Then,” said he, “I propose that you and Polton relieve one another on duty. It will be better than for you to be there all the time.”
I saw what he meant and agreed at once. The conventions must be respected as far as possible.
“But,” I suggested, “isn’t Polton rather a light-weight—if it should come to a scrap, I mean?”
“Don’t undervalue small men, even physically,” he replied. “They are commonly better built than big men and more enduring and energetic. Polton is remarkably strong and he has the pluck of a bulldog. But we must see how he is placed as regards work.”
The question was put to him and the position of affairs explained when he came down to clear the table; whereupon it appeared (from his own account) that he was absolutely without occupation of any kind and pining for something to do. Thorndyke laughed incredulously but did not contest this outrageous and barefaced untruth, merely remarking:
“I am afraid it will be rather an idle time for you.”
“Oh, no, it won’t, sir,” Polton assured him emphatically. “I’ve always wanted to learn something about sculptor’s moulding and wax-casting, but I’ve never had a chance. Now I shall have. And that opportunity isn’t going to be wasted.”
Thorndyke regarded his assistant with a twinkling eye. “So it was mere self-seeking that made y
ou so enthusiastic,” said he. “But you are quite a good moulder already.”
“Not a sculptor’s moulder, sir,” replied Polton; “and I know nothing about waxwork. But I shall, before I have been there many days.”
“I am sure you will,” said Thorndyke. “Miss D’Arblay will have an apprentice and journeyman in one. You will be able to give her quite a lot of help; which will be valuable just now while her hand is disabled. When do you think she will be able to go back to work, Gray?”
“I can’t say. Not tomorrow certainly. Shall I send you a report when I have seen her?”
“Do,” he replied; “or better still, come in tomorrow evening and give me the news. So, Polton, we shall want you for another day or so.”
“Ah!” said Polton, “then I shall be able to finish that recording-clock before I go;” upon which Thorndyke and I laughed aloud and Polton, his mendacity thus unmasked, retired with the tray, crinkling but unabashed.
The short remainder of the evening—or rather, of the night—was spent in the study of the mechanism and mode of use of automatic pistol. When I finally bestowed the ‘Baby,’ fully loaded, in my hip-pocket and rose to go, Thorndyke sped me on my way with a few words of warning and advice.
“Be constantly on your guard. Gray. You are going to make a bitter enemy of a man who knows no scruples; indeed, you have done so already, and something tells me that he is aware of it. Avoid all solitary or unfrequented places. Keep to main thoroughfares and well-lighted streets and maintain a vigilant lookout for any suspicious appearances. You have said truly that we carry Miss D’Arblay’s life in our hands. But to preserve her life we must preserve our own; which we should probably prefer to do in any case. Don’t get jumpy—I don’t much think you will; but keep your attention alert and your weather eyelid lifting.”
With these encouraging words and a hearty handshake, he let me out and stood watching me as I descended the stairs.
CHAPTER XII
A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY
About eleven o’clock in the forenoon of the third day after the terrible events of that unforgettable night of the great fog, Marion and I drew up on our bicycles opposite the studio door. She was now outwardly quite recovered, excepting as to her left hand, but I noticed that, as I inserted the key into the door, she cast a quick, nervous glance up and down the road; and as we passed through the lobby, she looked down for one moment at the great bloodstain on the floor and then hastily averted her face.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 133