The afternoon wore on and merged into evening. The daylight faded, and, as the twilight deepened and the night closed in on the old house, we felt that the time had come to set the watch. For this was a quiet country neighbourhood where people went to rest early and measured time by the sun rather than by the clock. Accordingly, we went forth in search of the Superintendent and found him in the act of mustering his forces, preparatory to placing them at their posts in the churchyard.
“It seems a bit early,” said he. “But it won’t do to be caught napping. Our friends may turn up earlier than we expect. I’ll just go out and see my men posted, and then we will make our arrangements.”
With this he departed and we proceeded with the preliminaries that concerned us. First Woodburn instructed Mrs. Gibbins to have all lights out at the usual time—which appeared to be ten o’clock—and advised that the inmates should go to bed when they put out the lights (which I suspected to be a counsel of perfection that was not likely to be followed). Then we made out our programme for the night watch in the gallery. Woodburn not only volunteered, but insisted on joining the party; and Polton, when he was offered the use of a spare bedroom, became, for the first time on record, positively mutinous, absolutely refusing to be driven away from the scene of action. So he had to be put on the roster of the “garrison,” and proceeded with us to the gallery to take up our final positions, where we were presently joined by the Superintendent.
“Well,” the latter remarked, surveying our party with a grin, “if there is only one man, we ought to be able to manage him. Seven of us, all told. Seems as if we weren’t taking many risks. Of course, if there should be more than one, we shan’t be too many. And now we’ve got to settle on our stations, because, when once we have taken them, we must keep them. There must be no moving about. Now, we can’t lock that door, as there is no keyhole on the inside, so one or two of us had better take post in the first room—the one that is next to the door. The question is, which of us?”
“I think you had better take that post, Miller,” said Thorndyke, “as that is where he, or they, will probably have to be stopped. They will know that the door is unlocked as soon as they discover that someone is in the room, and, as the secret door will be blocked, they will naturally make a burst for the main door.”
“Yes,” agreed Miller, “I think you are right, Doctor. Then I propose that Mr. Woodburn and I take the end room, and the rest of you take post in the workshop, where you will be close to the secret door.”
These arrangements having been agreed to, Thorndyke made a final round to make sure that nothing was visible that might create premature suspicion. First, he inspected the secret door, and set the catch exactly as he had found it, wiping away the last traces of the dusting powder by the light of his lamp (for we had put on no lights in the gallery). Then he went to the main door, and, taking the dangling remains of the seal, heated the wax with a lighted match (which he carefully shrouded with his hand), and stuck it in its original place so that, to a casual glance, it appeared to be unbroken.
“Now, I think we are all ready,” said he, “and it is about time that we took our places.”
The existing arrangements did not make for luxury, or even common comfort. The Superintendent and Woodburn found in their room one chair, and collected another from the adjoining room. But in the workshop there was but one hideously incommodious stool, which we all rejected, preferring to seat ourselves on the bench, when we had removed the flasks and other obstructions. It was far from being a comfortable seat, and the shelves behind it offered but an uneasy support to the back. However, Thorndyke reminded us that many a journeyman tailor spent the greater part of his life seated on just such a bench, and added with undoubted truth that it had the virtue of offering a steady resistance to any tendency to drowsiness.
I look back on that long vigil as one of the strangest experiences of my life. It was like that of a big-game hunter, offering a curious combination of tedium and excitement, of wearisome monotony with the need for incessant alertness and the uncertainty as to what the next moment might bring forth, or whether it might bring forth anything. We took our places, very prematurely, at half-past nine; and thereafter we sat in the dark, conversing little, and then in the softest of whispers, and hardly daring to change our positions. It would have been a relief to smoke, but this was, of course, forbidden, though at intervals, a faint sniff, accompanied by the suspicion of a distinctive scent, informed me that Polton was indulging in the mild dissipation of a pinch of snuff. Once, indeed, the cold touch of a metal snuff-box on my hand was accompanied by a whispered invitation to test the virtues of Brown Rappee; an invitation which I half-reluctantly declined.
The tardy minutes crawled on with incredible slowness. Sitting there in the darkness, encompassed, as it seemed, by the silence of the tomb, I was able to mark their passage by the chimes of a clock, somewhere in the village, which were borne faintly to my ear across the quiet countryside. The clock struck the quarters; but each quarter seemed to have the duration of an hour. I fingered the automatic pistol in my pocket and wondered what degree of urgency would induce me to use it. Like Thorndyke, I had a profound dislike of firearms; and none of our party had seemed to show much enthusiasm when he handed them out. Miller had the typical police officer’s contempt for a mere assassin’s weapon, and had offered his to Polton. But Polton assured him that he had never fired a pistol in his life and should probably hit the wrong man; upon which Miller hastily took it back.
The distant clock had struck half-past ten when the dreariness of our vigil was to some extent mitigated by the appearance of the moon. It first came into view through the curtained window of the gallery which was just visible through the half-open door of the workshop, as a misshapen, coppery disc (for it was a few days past the full), just peeping above the window-sill. Then, by slow degrees, it crept up higher and higher; and, as its dull copper brightened into a warm, ruddy glow and then to a clear, cold, silvery sheen, the shape of the lofty window became traced on the floor in an elongated, luminous patch, on which the pattern of the lace curtains stood out clearly in forms of delicate shadow.
That shape of patterned moonlight came as a welcome distraction which helped to fill the long intervals between the chimes of the distant clock. Like some solitary prisoner in his cell, I followed its infinitely slow progress across the floor, idly calculating the time that it would take to reach the foot of the pilaster in which was the secret door. At present, the pilaster was enveloped in dense, black shadow, and a wide space of floor separated it from the patch of moonlight. I tried to think of that space in terms of angular distance and time, but failed to reach any intelligible result. Then I fell to thinking about the man for whom we were waiting. Was he now on the road, drawing gradually nearer to his doom—or, perchance, ours? If so, how far away was he now? Was he travelling alone or had he companions with whom we should have to reckon? Or was he, even now, comfortably tucked up in bed in some far-away hiding-place with no intention of sallying forth this night? Or was he lurking in the village, fully warned by the sight of us to keep out of the way? To leave us to our profitless vigil until the coming of daylight should send us away, drowsy and defeated?
The silence of the old house was like the silence of some cavern in the heart of a mountain. Save for the infrequent chime of the far-away clock, there was not a sound. Not a window rattled—for it was a still night—not a joist creaked, no mouse “shrieked in the wainscot” or scuttled through its burrow. None of the ordinary night sounds of an old house were audible. It was as still as the inside of a pyramid.
A few minutes had passed since the hardly audible chime of the distant clock had told out the half-hour after eleven when that deathly silence was, for the first time, disturbed by a sound that seemed to come from within the house. And, even then, it was so faint and indefinite that I doubted whether I had, in fact, heard anything. I listened intently. Then, after the lapse of nearly a minute, it was repeated. It conv
eyed nothing to me. It was just a sound—infinitely faint and remote, and so devoid of any recognizable character that I was still doubtful. But at this moment Thorndyke silently slid off the bench and was followed—less silently—by Polton. I, too, slipped my legs over the edge and, as I stood upright beside Thorndyke, I asked in a whisper:
“Did you think you heard anything?”
“Yes,” he replied. “It was the slab turning on its pivot. Listen!”
I strained my ears, but for a few moments I could hear no further sound. Then I became aware of a faint but distinctly audible murmur or rustle as if a number of separate sounds were being confused by echoes. Suddenly it became much more distinct and changed in character; for now I could clearly distinguish footsteps—soft, stealthy footsteps, mingled with their reverberations, but unmistakable.
Nearer and nearer they came, still secret and stealthy, but now recognizable as the tread of feet on the long stairway. Once, the feet slipped or stumbled, and the sound of some hard object striking the steps, followed by a muttered curse, told me that the man was nearer than I had thought. Suddenly on the side of the pilaster, there appeared a bright thread—the light of a lamp from the stairway shining through the crack of the secret door.
With a throbbing heart I watched that thread of light, drawn on the black shadow of the pilaster, as it waxed in brightness from moment to moment. At last plain sounds from within the woodwork told us that our visitor had come. There was a soft scraping like the sound of a groping hand; two successive creaks followed by a sharp click. Then the secret door swung open, and a man stepped out into the room.
At first, he was no more than a dim, dark shape, as he stood in the shadow; but when he moved, I could see that he was hatless, and that he carried a good-sized handbag in one hand and in the other what looked like a large electric lamp, the light of which was switched off. From the door he went across to the table and laid his bag on it. Then he walked softly up the room until he came to the door, where he switched on his lamp and threw its light on the seals. Apparently their appearance satisfied him, for he turned away after a brief glance; but then, as if by an after-thought, he turned back and threw the light on again. Evidently he had detected something amiss, for, after a few moments’ inspection, he mounted the steps to examine the seals more closely. As be did so, Thorndyke glided like a shadow from the workshop door to the pilaster, where he halted just in front of the secret opening. Almost at the same moment looking out from the workshop, I saw another shadow glide out of the door of the farther room without a sound and slip round behind the stranger as he ascended the steps.
At this point, I crept silently out into the gallery, for the reflection from the moonlit floor enabled me to recognize this second shadow as the Superintendent, and I knew that the critical moment had come. It had seemed to me that Miller had moved quite noiselessly, but apparently I was wrong; for, at the very moment when his arm stretched out to seize his prey, the stranger turned sharply, and, as the light of his lamp fell on the Superintendent, he uttered a sort of snarl, struck out viciously, and wrenched himself away, springing from the steps and racing down the room, closely pursued by Miller and Woodburn.
As to what followed my recollections are somewhat confused. It all happened so quickly and the light was so imperfect that nothing but a general impression remains. I saw the fugitive adroitly catch up a chair and whirl it back at his pursuers, with the result that Miller staggered heavily sideways, and Woodburn, whose legs it struck, fell sprawling on the floor. The next moment, as the man swerved to pass the workshop door, the light of his lamp fell on Thorndyke. I think that in that instant he must have recognized him, for he uttered a savage cry, checked for a moment, and then threw out his arm. Instantly I realized, though I could not see it, that the hand of that extended arm held a pistol, and I started forward. But at that instant something hurtled past me and struck the stranger in the face with such force that he staggered backward. The report of the pistol rang out sharply, and the missile, whatever it was, clattered heavily on the floor.
It had been a near thing; and, indeed it was not yet over, though Miller had now rushed forward and grasped the pistol arm while I sprang at the other. But our prisoner fought and struggled like a maniac, yet with a settled purpose, for the flash and report of the pistol were repeated again and again, not at random, but always when the weapon could be brought to bear in Thorndyke’s direction. Now, however, my colleague, having closed and fastened the secret door, came forward to take a hand with the light of his lamp turned full on the struggling, swaying group, which had now been joined by Woodburn.
Suddenly I heard Thorndyke call out sharply:
“Keep out of the way, Polton!” At the same moment I caught sight of our artificer, skirmishing round at Miller’s side, with his eyes riveted on the pistol. Almost as Thorndyke spoke, a pair of large crucible-tongs came into view, reaching out towards the hand which held the weapon. There was a quick but unhurried movement, and the tongs took firm hold of the pistol by its flat stock. Then the long handles were quietly raised and twisted the weapon irresistibly out of the prisoner’s grasp.
The removal of the pistol brought the struggle virtually to an end. I did, indeed, feel the hand which I controlled thrusting towards the waist-belt. But I had already detected the presence there of a sheath-knife of formidable size, and I easily circumvented the movement. And, when Thorndyke seized both the prisoner’s wrists and held them together, Miller was able to snap on the handcuffs. Even then, our prisoner continued to struggle violently; and it was not until Thorndyke had encircled his legs and pinioned his arms with a couple of document straps (which he had, apparently, put in his pocket for that purpose) that his resistance ceased. Then we sat him in a chair, and, while we recovered our breath, considered the next move.
“I think,” said Miller, “I will just run across to the churchyard and relieve my men. They may be able to produce some sort of transport. If not, I shall have to borrow Mr. Woodburn’s car. I leave the prisoner in your custody, Doctor.”
As soon as he had gone, Woodburn proceeded to light the two hanging lamps which swung by long chains from beams in the gallery ceiling—for there was neither gas nor electric light in the house—when we were able to survey one another and examine our prisoner. Woodburn was the only one of us who had suffered visibly from the encounter, having an undeniable black eye. But the prisoner was a sorry spectacle, and, villain as he was, I could not but feel some twinges of compunction as I looked at him. His face was badly bruised and bleeding; at which I was not surprised, when I picked up the missile that had struck him and recognized it as Polton’s “case-opener.” But what most contributed to his forlorn and wretched aspect was his bald head, from which the wig had been dislodged during the fray. It was not a common, natural, and decent bald head, which would have been normal enough, but the baldness was in large patches with separating areas of stubble; the condition, in fact, known to our profession as Alopecia areata.
I picked up the wig and carefully replaced it on his head, disregarding his profane and furious protests. Then I went with Thorndyke to the workshop, where the research case had been deposited, to fetch the little first-aid case that was part of its permanent equipment, and, as I was thus engaged, Thorndyke proceeded to moralize.
“That Alopecia is interesting,” he remarked. “I mean, as an illustration of the incalculability of human affairs. If be had not been compelled to wear a wig, he would probably never have thought of personating Dobey. Probably, too, he would not have murdered Badger—at any rate not in that way; and he might not have murdered Toke. Evidently, the course of his criminal career has been largely influenced by his Alopecia. He had to wear a wig, but he could wear any kind of wig that he pleased and change it at any time for any other kind that circumstances seemed to require.”
“Yes,” I agreed; “a disguise which has to be habitually worn naturally suggests additions and variations.”
I took the little emergency c
ase and a basin of water, and we went back to the prisoner. As I was mixing some lotion while Thorndyke prepared a dressing, the patient watched him with a glare of the most concentrated malice.
“Don’t you touch me, you devil!” he exclaimed, huskily, “or I’ll bite you. I ought to have settled with you years ago.”
In different circumstances it might have been permissible to remind him that he had made three pretty determined attempts. Nevertheless, as a matter of policy, he was certainly right. But for Thorndyke, be would have been, at this moment, at large and unsuspected.
I had hardly finished attending to his damaged face when Miller returned.
“We shall be able to manage quite well,” he announced. “My men discovered a car in that lane—heard it arrive, in fact. So I shan’t want Mr. Woodburn’s. We can take him to London in his own car.”
Here the two officers entered, and, advancing up the gallery, took a long and curious look at the prisoner. Then Miller proceeded to make the formal charge.
“I arrest you, Walter Hornby, for the murder of Mr. Didbury Toke; and I caution you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used against you—”
“Oh, go to blazes!” interrupted Hornby. “Do you think I am a cackling old woman? I am not going to say anything.”
Nevertheless, in spite of his bravado, I had the impression that the nature of the charge came as an appalling shock. I think he had expected to be charged only with breaking and entering, for after this outburst he settled down into sullen silence and submitted passively to being carried away by the two officers. Only once, as he was borne out, he turned his head to bestow on Thorndyke a look of the most concentrated malignancy.
When the grim procession, accompanied by the Superintendent, had passed out and the footsteps had died away, Thorndyke turned to his faithful henchman and laid his hand on his shoulder.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 134