The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

“‘Yes. That will be a good arrangement. Will you come here on Saturday night and start with me?’

  “‘No, no!’ he replied. ‘That would never do. We must not be seen together. Give me a rendezvous. We will meet near the place.’

  “Quite so! It would never do for us to be seen together in Whitechapel where we were both known. The fact might be mentioned at the inquest. It would be most inconvenient for Piragoff.

  “‘And, look you,’ he continued; ‘wear a top-hat and good clothes; if you have an evening suit, put it on. And bring a new Gladstone bag with some clothes in it. Where will you meet me?’

  “I mentioned Upper Bedford Place and suggested half past twelve, to which he agreed; and, after sending me out to see that the coast was clear, he took his leave, twisting his waxed mustache as he went out.

  “I was, on the whole, very well pleased with the arrangement. Particularly pleased was I with Piragoff’s transparent plan for disposing of me. For, now that it really came to action, I found myself shying somewhat at the office of executioner; though I meant to do my duty all the same. But the fact that this man was already arranging coolly to murder me made my task less unpalatable. The British sporting instinct is incurable.

  “Piragoff’s scheme was perfectly simple. We should go together to the house, we should bring away the spoil—I carrying half—convey it to my premises in Saul Street early on Sunday morning. Then we should break up the ‘stuff,’ and when our labors were concluded, and I was of no further use, he would knock me on the head. The quiet back gate would enable him to carry away the booty in instalments to his lodgings. Then he would lock the gate and vanish. In a few days the police would break into my house and find my body; and Mr. Piragoff, in his hotel at, say Amsterdam, would read an account of the inquest. It was delightfully simple and effective, but it failed to take into account the player on the opposite side of the board.

  “The interval between Wednesday and Saturday was a time of anxious thought and considerable excitement. I went out every night, and had the pleasure of discovering that I was honored by the attendance—at a little distance—of Mr. Piragoff. One evening only I eluded him, and watched him drive off furiously in a hansom in pursuit of another hansom which was supposed to contain me. On that night I visited the museum. Not that I had anything special to do. My very complete and even elaborate arrangements had been made some time before and I now had only to look them over and see that they were in going order; to test, for instance, the brass handle that was connected with the electric main, and see that the well-oiled blocks of a couple of purchase tackles ran smoothly and silently. Everything was in working trim, even to the concussor, stowed out of sight, but within easy reach, in its narrow basket.

  “Saturday night arrived in due course. I shut up the shop at nine, put on evening clothes, took the newly purchased Gladstone and hailed a hansom. I drove, in the first place, to the Criterion Restaurant and dined delicately but substantially, carefully avoiding indigestible dishes. From the restaurant I drove to the museum, where I loitered, making a final inspection of my arrangements, until twenty-five minutes past twelve. Then I came forth and walked quietly to Upper Bedford Place.

  “As I turned the corner and looked down the wide thoroughfare the long stretch of pavement contained but a single figure; a dim, dark blot on the gray of the summer night. It moved towards me, and, resolving itself into a definite shape, showed me Piragoff in evening dress, enveloped in a voluminous overcoat and carrying a small handbag.

  “‘You are punctual, Vosper,’ he said graciously. ‘Shall we make our visit now? Is the house quiet yet? These are not, you see.’ He nodded at the boarding-houses that we were passing, several of which still showed lights in the windows.

  “‘Our house has settled down,’ I answered. ‘The collector is an early bird. I have just been past it to see that all the lights were out.’

  “We walked quickly across the square towards the neighborhood of my house. Piragoff was very affable. He conversed cheerfully as we went and gave a pleasant ‘Good night’ to a policeman, who touched his helmet civilly in response. When I halted at the door of the museum, he looked about him with a slight frown.

  “‘I seem to know this place,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I have been here before; many years ago. Yes, yes; I remember.’

  “He laughed softly as if recalling an amusing incident. I set my teeth, inserted the key and pushed the door open.

  “‘Enter,’ I said. He stepped into the hall. I followed and softly closed the door, slipping up the catch as the lock clicked. It was a small precaution, but enough to hinder a hasty retreat.

  “I piloted him through to the museum and switched on a single electric lamp which filled the great room with a ghostly twilight. Piragoff looked about him inquisitively and his eye fell on the long wall-case with the dimly seen, pallid shapes of the company within it. His face blanched suddenly and he stared with wide-open eyes.

  “‘God!’ he exclaimed, ‘what are those things?’

  “‘Those skeletons?’ said I. ‘They are part of the collection. The fellow who owns this place hoards all sorts of trash. Come round and have a look at them.’

  “‘But skeletons!’ he whispered. ‘Skeletons of men! Ah, I do not like them!’

  “Nevertheless he followed me round the room, peering in nervously at the case of skulls as we passed. I walked him slowly past the whole length of the wall-case and he stared in at the twenty-four motionless, white figures, shuddering audibly. I must admit that their appearance was very striking in that feeble light; their poses were so easy and natural and their faces, modeled by broad shadows, so singularly expressive. I was very pleased with the effect.

  “‘But they are horrible!’ gasped Piragoff. ‘They seem to be alive. They seem to beckon to one—to say, “Come in here: come in and stay with us.” Ah! They are dreadful! Let us go away from them.’

  “He stole on tiptoe to the other side of the room and stood positively shaking; shaking at the sight of a mere collection of dry bones. It was amazing. I have often been puzzled by the odd, superstitious fear with which ignorant people view these interesting and beautiful structures. But surely this was an extreme case. Here was a callous wretch who would murder without a scruple a young and lovely woman and laugh at the recollection of the atrocity. And he was actually terrified at the sight of a few irregularly shaped fragments of phosphate of lime and gelatine. I repeat, it was amazing.

  “Piragoff recovered only to develop the ferocity of a frightened ruffian.

  “‘Where is the stuff, fool?’ he demanded. ‘Show it to me quickly or I will cut your throat. Quick! Let us get it and go.’

  “I watched him warily. These neurotic Slav criminals, when they get into a state of panic, are like frightened cats; very dangerous to be near. And the more frightened, the more dangerous. I must keep an eye on Piragoff.

  “‘I can open one of the cabinets,’ I said.

  “‘Then open it, pig! Open it quickly! I want to get away from this place!’

  “He grinned at me like an angry monkey, and I led him to the secret cupboard. As I very deliberately turned the hidden catches and prepared to take out the panel, I considered whether it was not time to set the apparatus going. For I had prepared a little surprise for Piragoff and I was now rather doubtful how he would take it. Besides, I was not enjoying the proceedings as much as I had expected to. Piragoff’s lack of nerve was disconcerting.

  “However, I took out the panel and stood by to watch the result. Piragoff peered into the cupboard and uttered a growl of disappointment.

  “‘There is nothing there but books and those boxes. Lift the boxes down, pig, and let us see what is in them.’

  “I lifted the boxes from the shelf.

  “‘They are very light,’ I said. ‘And here are two pistols on top of them.’

  “These pistols were the surprise that I had prepared in a spirit of mischief. I had taken them from the pockets of the last two specimens and kept t
hem for the sake of the devices that those two imbeciles had scratched on the butts.

  “‘Pistols!’ exclaimed Piragoff. ‘Let me look at them.’ He snatched the weapons from the top of the box and took them over to the lamp. Immediately I heard a gasp of astonishment.

  “‘God! But this is a strange thing! Here is Louis Plotcovitch’s pistol! And this other belonged to Boris Slobodinsky! They have been here too!’

  “He stared at me open-mouthed, holding the pistols—which I had carefully unloaded—one in each trembling hand. What little nerve he had had was going fast.

  “I laid the boxes on a small table and switched on the lamp that hung close over it. High up above the table was one of the crossbeams of the roof. From the beam there hung down two purchase-tackles. The tail-rope of each tackle ended in a noose that was hitched on a hook on the wall, and the falls of the two tackles were hitched lightly over two other hooks. But none of these appliances was visible. The shaded lamp threw its bright light on the table only.

  “Piragoff came across the room and laid down the pistols.

  “‘Open those boxes,’ he said gruffly, ‘and let us see what is in them.’

  “I took off the lid of one; and Piragoff started back with a gasp, but came back, snuffing at the box like a frightened animal.

  “‘What the devil are these things?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  “‘They look like dolls’ heads,’ I answered.

  “‘They look like dead men’s heads,’ he whispered, shudderingly, ‘only they are too small. They are dreadful. This collector man is a devil. I should like to kill him.’ He glared with horrid fascination at the little dry preparations—there were eight in this box, each in its own little black velvet compartment with its number and date on the label. I opened the second box—also containing eight—and he stared into that with the same shuddering fascination.

  “‘What do you suppose these dates mean?’ he whispered.

  “‘I suppose,’ I replied, ‘those are the dates on which he acquired them. Here is another box.’ This, the last one, was intended to hold nine heads, but it contained only eight—at present. There was an empty compartment of red velvet in the middle, on either side of which were the heads of the last two specimens, twenty-three and twenty-four.

  “I took off the lid and stood back to see what would happen.

  “Piragoff stared into the box without speaking for two or three seconds. Suddenly he uttered a shriek. ‘It is Boris! Boris and Louis Plotcovitch!’

  “His figure stiffened. He stood rigid with his hands on his thighs, leaning over the box, his hair bristling, his white face running with sweat, his jaw dropped; the very personification of horror. And of a sudden he began to tremble violently.

  “I looked at him with disgust and an instantaneous revulsion of feeling. What! Should I call in the aid of all those elaborate appliances to dispatch a poor trembling devil like this? I would have none of them. The concussor was good enough for him. Nay, it was too good.

  “I reached out behind me and lifted one of the nooses from its hook. Its own weight had nearly closed the loop, for the steel eyelet spliced into the end ran very easily and smoothly on the well-greased rope. I opened the loop wide, and leaning towards Piragoff from behind, quietly dropped it over his shoulders, pulling it tight as it fell to the level of his elbows. He sprang up, but at that instant I kicked away one of his feet and pushed him to the unsupported side, when he fell sprawling face downwards. I gave another tug at the rope, and, as he struggled to get to his feet, I snatched the fall of the tackle from its hook and ran away with it, hauling as I went. Looking back, I saw Piragoff slowly rise to the pull of the tackle until he was upright with his feet just touching the floor. Then I belayed the fall securely to one of a pair of cleats, and approached him.

  “Hitherto, sheer amazement had kept him silent, but as I drew near him he gave a yell of terror. This would not do. Taking the gag from the place where I had hidden it in readiness, I came behind him and slipped it over his mouth where I secured it, cautiously evading his attempts to clutch at me. It was a poor gag—having no tongue-piece—but it answered its purpose, for it reduced his shouts to mere muffled bellowings, inaudible outside.

  “Now that the poor wretch was pinioned and gagged and helpless, my feelings urged me to get the business over quickly. But certain formalities had to be observed. It was an execution. I stepped in front of the prisoner and addressed him.

  “‘Listen to me, Piragoff.’ At the sound of his name he stopped bellowing and stared at me, and I continued, ‘Twenty years ago a burglar came to this house. He was in the dining-room at two o’clock in the morning preparing to steal the plate. A lady came into the room and disturbed him. He tried to prevent her from ringing the bell. But she rang it; and he shot her dead. I need not tell you, Piragoff, who that burglar was. But I will tell you who I am. I am the husband of that lady. I have been looking for you for twenty years, and now I have caught you; and you have got to pay the penalty of that murder.’

  “As I ceased speaking he broke out into fresh bellowings. He wagged his head from side to side and the tears coursed down his ghastly face. It was horrible. Trembling, myself, from head to foot, I took the second noose from its hook, passed it over his head and quickly adjusted it. Then I snatched the second fall and walked away with it, gathering in the slack. As the rope tightened in my hand the bellowings suddenly ceased. I never looked back. I continued to haul until I felt the tackle-blocks come together. I belayed the rope to the second cleat and set a half-hitch on the turns. Then I walked out of the museum and shut the door.

  “It had been very different from what I had anticipated. As I sat by the laboratory table with my head buried in my hands, I shook as if I had an ague; my skin was bathed in a cold sweat and I felt that it would have been a relief to weep. I was astonished at myself. Twenty-four of these vermin had I exterminated with a light heart, because the blow was dealt in the heat of conflict; and now, because this wretch had been helpless and unresisting, I was nearly broken with the effort of dispatching him.

  “I sat in the dark laboratory slowly recovering and thinking of the long years that had slipped away since the hand of this miscreant had robbed me of my darling. Gradually I grew more calm. But fully an hour passed before I could summon resolution to go back into the museum and satisfy myself that the long-outstanding debt had indeed been paid at last to the uttermost farthing.

  “On Monday morning I withdrew from my bank a hundred pounds in notes, which I handed to my landlord’s widow—Mr. Nathan had died some years previously—with a note surrendering the shop and house in Saul Street. I emptied the safe and brought away such things as I cared to keep, leaving the rest for Mrs. Nathan. Then I shaved off my ragged beard and white mustache, set my Bloomsbury house in order, pensioned off the sergeant-major (who was now growing an old man) and engaged a set of respectable servants. When the last specimen was finished and put in its place in the museum, my work was done. I had now only to wait quietly for the end. And for that I am now waiting, I hope not impatiently.

  “Something tells me that I have not long to wait. Certain new and strange sensations, which I have discussed with my friend Dr. Wharton, seem to herald a change. Wharton makes light of them, but I think and hope he is mistaken. And in that hope I rest content; believing that soon I shall hear the curfew chime steal out of the evening mist to tell me that the day is over and that my little spark may be put out.”

  A SILENT WITNESS (1914) [part 1]

  CHAPTER I

  THE BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY

  The history upon which I am now embarking abounds in incidents so amazing that, as I look back on them, a something approaching to scepticism contends with my vivid recollections and makes me feel almost apologetic in laying them before the reader. Some of them indeed are so out of character with the workaday life in which they happened that they will appear almost incredible; but none is more fraught with mystery than the experience
that befell me on a certain September night in the last year of my studentship and ushered in the rest of the astounding sequence.

  It was past eleven o’clock when I let myself out of my lodgings at Gospel Oak; a dark night, cloudy and warm and rather inclined to rain. But, despite the rather unfavourable aspect of the weather, I turned my steps away from the town, and walking briskly up the Highgate Road, presently turned into Millfield Lane. This was my favourite walk and the pretty winding lane, meandering so pleasantly from Lower Highgate to the heights of Hampstead, was familiar to me under all its aspects.

  On sweet summer mornings when the cuckoos called from the depths of Ken Wood, when the path was spangled with golden sunlight, and saucy squirrels played hide and seek in the shadows under the elms (though the place was within earshot of Westminster and within sight of the dome of St. Paul’s); on winter days when the Heath wore its mantle of white and the ring of gliding steel came up from the skaters on the pond below; on August evenings, when I would come suddenly on sequestered lovers (to our mutual embarrassment) and hurry by with ill-feigned unconsciousness. I knew all its phases and loved them all. Even its name was delightful, carrying the mind back to those more rustic days when the wits foregathered at the Old Flask Tavern and John Constable tramped through this very lane with his colour-box slung over his shoulder.

  It was very dark after I had passed the lamp at the entrance to the lane. Very silent and solitary too. Not a soul was stirring at this hour, for the last of the lovers had long since gone home and the place was little frequented even in the daytime. The elms brooded over the road, shrouding it in shadows of palpable black, and their leaves whispered secretly in the soft night breeze. But the darkness, the quiet and the solitude were restful after the long hours of study and the glare of the printed page, and I strolled on past the ghostly pond and the little thatched cottage, now wrapped in silence and darkness, with a certain wistful regret that I must soon look my last on them. For I had now passed all my examinations but the final “Fellowship,” and must soon be starting my professional career in earnest.