The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “You said yesterday,” she began, “that Dr. Thorndyke might have something to tell us today, and I hoped that he might. I even tried to pluck up courage to ask him, but then I was afraid that it might seem intrusive. He isn’t the sort of man that you can take liberties with. So I suppose that whatever it was that happened this morning is a dead secret?”

  “Not entirely,” I replied. “I mustn’t go into details at present, but I am allowed to give you the most important item of information. There is going to be an arrest tomorrow.”

  “Do you mean that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered the man?” Marion demanded incredulously.

  “He says that he has, and I take it that he knows. What is more, he offered to conduct the police to the house. He has actually given them the address.”

  “I would give all that I possess,” exclaimed Miss Boler, “to be there and see the villain taken.”

  “Well,” I said, “you won’t be far away, for the man lives in Abbey Road, nearly opposite the studio.”

  Marion stopped and looked at me aghast. “What a horrible thing to think of!” she gasped. “Oh, I am glad I didn’t know! I could never have gone to the studio if I had. But now we can understand how he managed to find his way to the place that foggy night, and to escape so easily.”

  “Oh, but it is not that man,” I interposed, with a sudden ease of hopeless bewilderment. For I had forgotten this absolute discrepancy when I was talking to Thorndyke about the identification.

  “Not that man!” she repeated, gazing at me in wild astonishment. “But that man was my father’s murderer. I feel certain of it.”

  “So do I,” was my rather lame rejoinder.

  “Besides,” she persisted, “if he was not the murderer, who was he, and why should he want to kill me?”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “It seems conclusive. But apparently it isn’t. At any rate, the man they are going to arrest is the man whose mask Thorndyke found at the studio.”

  “Then they are going to arrest the wrong man,” said she, looking at me with a deeply troubled face. I was uncomfortable, too, for I saw what was in her mind. The memory of the ruffian who had made that murderous attack on her still lingered in her mind as a thing of horror. The thought that he was still at large and might at any moment reappear made it impossible for her ever to work alone in the studio, or even to walk abroad without protection. She had looked, as I had, to the discovery of the murderer to rid her of this abiding menace. But now it seemed that even after the arrest of the murderer this terrible menace would remain.

  “I can’t understand it,” she said dejectedly. “When you showed me that photograph of the man who tried to kill me, I naturally hoped that Dr. Thorndyke had discovered who he was. But now it appears that he is at large and still untraced, yet I am convinced that he is the man who ought to have been followed.”

  “Never mind, my dear,” I said cheerfully. “Let us see the affair out. You don’t understand it and neither do I. But Thorndyke does. I have absolute faith in him, and so, I can see, have the police.”

  She assented without much conviction, and then Miss Boler began to press for further particulars. I mentioned the probable time of the arrest and the part that I was required to play in identifying the accused.

  “You don’t mean that you are asked to be present when the actual arrest is made, do you?” Marion asked anxiously.

  “Yes,” I answered. “You see, I am the only person who really knows the man by sight.”

  “But,” she urged, “you are not a policeman. Suppose this man should be violent, like that other man; and he probably will be.”

  “Oh,” I answered airily, “that will be provided for. Besides, I am not asked to arrest him; only to point him out to the police.”

  “I wish,” she said, “you would stay in the studio until they have secured him. Then you could go and identify him. It would be much safer.”

  “No doubt,” I agreed. “But it might lead to their arresting the wrong man and letting the right one slip. No, Marion, we must make sure of him if we can. Surely you are at least as anxious as any of us that he should be caught and made to pay the penalty?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “if he is really the right man—which I can hardly believe. But still, punishing him will not bring poor Daddy back, whereas if anything were to happen to you, Stephen—Oh! I don’t dare to think of it!”

  “You needn’t think of it, Marion,” I rejoined, cheerfully. “I shall be all right. And you wouldn’t have your—apprentice hang back when the bobbies are taking the affair as a mere every-day job.”

  She made no reply beyond another anxious glance; and I was glad enough to let the subject drop, bearing in mind Thorndyke’s words with regard to the pistol. As a diversion, I suggested a visit to the National Gallery, which we were now approaching, and the suggestion being adopted, without acclamation, we drifted in and rather listlessly perambulated the galleries, gazing vacantly at the exhibits and exchanging tepid comments. It was a spiritless proceeding, of which I remember very little but some rather severe observations by Miss Boler concerning a certain ‘hussy’ (by one Bronzino) in the great room. But we soon gave up this hollow pretence and went forth to board a yellow bus which was bound for the Archway Tavern; and so home to an early supper.

  On the following morning I made my appearance betimes at Ivy Cottage, but it was later than usual when Marion and I started to walk in leisurely fashion to the studio.

  “I don’t know why we are going at all,” said she. “I don’t feel like doing any work.”

  “Let us forget the arrest for the moment,” said I. “There is plenty to do. Those arms of Polton’s have got to be taken out of the moulds and worked. It will be much better to keep ourselves occupied.”

  “I suppose it will,’ she agreed; and then, as we turned a corner and came in sight of the studio, she exclaimed:

  “Why, what on earth is this? There are some painters at work on the studio! I wonder who sent them. I haven’t given any orders. There must be some extraordinary mistake.”

  There was not, however. As we came up, one of the two linen-coated operators advanced, brush in hand, to meet us and briefly explained that he and his mate had been instructed by Superintendent Miller to wash down the paint-work and keep an eye on the premises opposite. They were, in fact, ‘plain-clothes’ men on special duty.

  “We have been here since seven o’clock,” our friend informed us, as we made a pretence of examining the window-sashes, “and we took over from a man who had been watching the house all night. My nabs is there all right. He came home early yesterday evening and he hasn’t come out since.”

  “Then you know the man by sight?” Marion asked eagerly.

  “Well, miss,” was the reply, “we have a description of him, and the man who went into the house seemed to agree with it; and, as far as we know, there isn’t any other man living there. But I understand that we are relying on Dr. Gray to establish the identity. Could I have a look at the inside woodwork?”

  Marion unlocked the door and we entered, followed by the detective, whose interest seemed to be concerned exclusively with the woodwork of windows; and from windows in general finally became concentrated on a small window in the lobby which commanded a view of the houses opposite. Having examined the sashes of this, with his eye cocked on one of the houses aforesaid, he proceeded to operate on it with his brush, which, being wet and dirty and used with a singular lack of care, soon covered the glass so completely with a mass of opaque smears that it was impossible to see through it at all. Then he cautiously raised the sash about an inch, and whipping out a prism binocular from under his apron, stood back a couple of feet and took a leisurely survey through the narrow opening of one of the opposite houses.

  “Hallo!” said he. “There is a woman visible at the first-floor window. Just have a look at her, sir. She can’t see us through this narrow crack.”

  He handed me the glass, indicating the house, and I put the instrume
nt to my eyes. It was a powerful glass, and seemed to bring the window and the figure of the woman within a dozen feet of me. But at the moment she had turned her head away, apparently to speak to someone inside the room, and all that I could see was that she seemed to be an elderly woman who wore what looked like an old-fashioned widow’s cap. Suddenly she turned and looked out over the half-curtain, giving me a perfectly clear view of her face; and then I felt myself lapsing into the old sense of confusion and bewilderment.

  I had, of course, expected to recognize Mrs. Morris. But this was evidently not she, although not such a very different-looking woman, an elderly, white-haired widow in a crape cap and spectacles—reading-spectacles they must be, since she was looking over and not through them. She seemed to be a stranger—and yet not quite a stranger; for as I looked at her some chord of memory stirred. But the cup of my confusion was not yet full. As I stared at her, trying vainly to sound a clearer note on that chord of memory, a man slowly emerged from the darkness of the room behind and stood beside her; and him I recognized instantly as the bottle-nosed person whom I had watched from my ambush at the top of Dartmouth Park Hill.

  “Well, sir,” said the detective, as the man and woman turned away from the window and vanished, “what do you make of ’em? Do you recognize ’em?”

  “I recognize the man,” I replied, “and I believe I have seen the woman before, but they aren’t the people I expected to see.”

  “Oh, dear!” said he. “That’s a bad lookout. Because I don’t think there is anybody else there.”

  “Then,” I said, “we have made a false shot; and yet—well, I don’t know. I had better think this over and see if I can make anything of it.”

  I turned into the studio, where I found Marion—who had been listening attentively to this dialogue—in markedly better spirits.

  “It seems a regular muddle,” she remarked cheerfully. “They have come to arrest the wrong man and now it appears that he isn’t there.”

  “Don’t talk to me for a few minutes, Marion, dear,” said I. “There is something behind this and I want to think what it can be. I have seen that woman somewhere, I feel certain. Now, where was it?”

  I cudgelled my brains for some time without succeeding in recovering the recollections connected with her. I re-visualized the face that I had seen through the glass, with its deepset, hollow eyes and strong, sharply sloping eyebrows, and tried to connect it with some person whom I had seen, but in vain. And then in a flash it came to me. She was the widow whom I had noticed at the inquest. The identification, indeed, was not very complete, for the veil that she had worn on that occasion had considerably obscured her features. But I had no doubt that I was right, for her present appearance agreed in all that I could see with that of the woman at the inquest.

  The next question was, who could she be? Her association with the bottle-nosed man connected her in some way with what Thorndyke would have called ‘the case’; for that man, whoever he was, had certainly been shadowing me. Then her presence at the inquest had now a sinister suggestiveness. She would seem to have been there to watch developments on behalf of others. Could she be a relative of Mrs. Morris? A certain faint resemblance seemed to support this idea. As to the man, I gave him up. Evidently there were several persons concerned in this crime, but I knew too little about the circumstances to be able to make even a profitable guess. Having reached this unsatisfactory conclusion, I turned, a little irritably, to Marion, exclaiming:

  “I can make nothing of it. Let us get on with some work to pass the time.”

  Accordingly we began, in a half-hearted way, upon Polton’s two moulds. But the presence of the two detectives was disturbing, especially when, having finished the exterior, they brought their pails and ladders inside and took up their station at the lobby window. We struggled on for a time; but when, about noon. Miss Boler made her appearance with a basket of provisions and a couple of bottles of wine, we abandoned the attempt and occupied ourselves in tidying up and laying a table.

  “Don’t you think, Marion,” I said, as we sat down to lunch (having provided for the needs of the two ‘painters,’ who lunched in the lobby), “that it would be best for you and Arabella to go home before any fuss begins?”

  “Whatever Miss Marion thinks,” Arabella interposed firmly, “I am not going home. I came down expressly to see this villain captured, and here I stay until he is safely in custody.”

  “And I,” said Marion, “am going to stay with Arabella. You know why, Stephen. I couldn’t bear to go away and leave you here after what you have told me. We shall be quite safe in here.”

  “Well,” I temporised, seeing plainly that they had made up their minds, “you must keep the door bolted until the business is over.”

  “As to that,” said Miss Boler, “we shall be guided by circumstances,” and from this ambiguous position neither she nor Marion would budge.

  Shortly after lunch I received a farther shock of surprise. In answer to a loud single knock, I hurried out to open the door. A tradesman’s van had drawn up at the kerb and two men stood on the threshold, one of them holding a good—sized parcel. I stared at the latter in astonishment, for I recognized him instantly as the second shadower of the Dartmouth Park Hill adventure; but before I could make any comment, both men entered—with the curt explanation ‘police business’—and the last—comer shut the door, when I heard the van drive off.

  “I am Detective-Sergeant Porter,” the stranger explained. “You know what I am here for, of course.”

  “Yes,” I replied; and turning to the other man, I said:

  “I think I have seen you before. Are you a police-officer, too?”

  My acquaintance grinned. “Retired Detective-Sergeant,” he explained, “name of Barber. At present employed by Dr. Thorndyke. I think I have seen you before, sir,” and he grinned again, somewhat more broadly.

  “I should like to know bow you were employed when I saw you last,” said I. But here Sergeant Porter interposed:

  “Better leave explanations till later, sir. You’ve got a back gate, I think.”

  “Yes,” said one of the ‘painters.’ “At the bottom of the garden. It opens on an alley that leads into the next road—Chilton Road.”

  “Can we get into the garden through the studio?” the sergeant asked, and on my answering in the affirmative, he requested permission to inspect the rear premises. I conducted both men to the back door and let them out into the garden, where they passed out at the back gate to reconnoitre the alley. In a minute or two they returned; and they had hardly re-entered the studio when another knock at the door announced more visitors. They turned out to be Thorndyke and Superintendent Miller; of whom the latter inquired of the senior painter:

  “Is everything in going order, Jenks?”

  “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “The man is there all right. Dr. Gray saw him; but I should mention, sir, that he doesn’t think it’s the right man.”

  “The devil he doesn’t!” exclaimed Miller, looking at me uneasily and then glancing Thorndyke.

  “That man isn’t Morris,” said I. “He is that red-nosed man whom I told you about. You remember.”

  “I remember,” Thorndyke replied calmly. “Well, I suppose we shall have to content ourselves with the red-nosed man;” upon which ex-Sergeant Barber’s countenance became wreathed in smiles and the superintendent looked relieved.

  “Are all the arrangements complete, Sergeant?” Miller inquired, turning to Sergeant Porter.

  “Yes, sir,” the latter replied. “Inspector Follett has got some local men, who know the neighbourhood well, posted in the rear watching the back garden, and there are some uniformed men waiting round both the corners to stop him, in case he slips past us. Everything is ready, sir.”

  “Then,” said the superintendent, “we may as well open the ball at once. I hope it will go off quietly. It ought to. We have got enough men on the job.”

  He nodded to Sergeant Porter, who at once picked up his
parcel and went out into the garden, accompanied by Barber. Miller, Thorndyke and I now adjourned to the lobby window, where, with the two painter-detectives, we established a lookout. Presently we saw the sergeant and Barber advancing separately on the opposite side of the road, the latter leading and carrying the parcel. Arrived at the house, he entered the front garden and knocked a loud single knock. Immediately, the mysterious woman appeared at the ground-floor window—it was a bay-window—and took a long, inquisitive look at ex-Sergeant Barber. There ensued a longish pause, during which Sergeant Porter walked slowly past the house. Then the door opened a very short distance—being evidently chained—and the woman appeared in the narrow opening. Barber offered the parcel, which was much too large to go through the opening without unchaining the door, and appeared to be giving explanations. But the woman evidently denied all knowledge of it, and having refused to receive it, tried to shut the door, into the opening of which Barber had inserted his foot; but he withdrew it somewhat hastily as a coal-hammer descended, and before he could recover himself the door shut with a bang and was immediately bolted.

  The ball was opened, as Miller had expressed it, and the developments followed with a bewildering rapidity that far out-paced any possible description.

  The sergeant returning and joining Barber, the two men were about to force the ground-floor window, when pistol-shots and police whistles from the rear announced a new field of operations. At once Miller opened the studio door and sallied forth, with the two detectives and Thorndyke; and when I had called out to Marion to bolt the door, I followed, shutting it after me. Meanwhile, from the rear of the opposite houses came a confused noise of police-whistles, barking dogs and women’s voices, with an occasional report. Following three rapid pistol-shots there came a brief interval, then, suddenly, the door of a house farther down the street burst open and the fugitive rushed out, wild-eyed and terrified, his white face contrasting most singularly with his vividly-red nose. Instantly, the two detectives and Miller started in pursuit, followed by the sergeant and Barber; but the man ran like a hare and was speedily drawing ahead when suddenly a party of constables appeared from a side-turning and blocked the road. The fugitive zigzagged and made as if he would try to dodge between them, flinging away his empty pistol and drawing out another. The detectives and Miller were close on him, when in an instant he turned and, with extraordinary agility, avoided them. Then, as the two sergeants bore down on him, he fired at them at close range, stopping them both, though neither actually fell. Again he out-ran his pursuers, racing down the road towards us, yelling like a maniac and firing his pistol wildly at Thorndyke and me. And suddenly my left leg doubled up and I fell heavily to the ground nearly opposite the studio door.