Afternoon Tea Mysteries Vol Three

by Anthology

  “She answered by a nod, and he moved off with a poor try at a slouchy gait. When I saw this I knew he was no sailor.

  “As the door closed behind him, a sound of women screaming and scolding came from the docks, then a child’s cry cut into the night, after which there was quiet in that quarter and in the house, too. For Mother Merry, with a scared look, jumped towards the room where the men were sitting, and, pushing her way in, held up her hand so as to draw all eyes.

  “‘The warning,’ she cried. ‘It’s the cops! See if you can get out by the window.’

  “One of the men arose and went to the window, looked out, and came crawling back, putting out a light as he did so.

  “‘They’re on the water,’ he whispered; and, whether I am a fool or not, that whisper sent the creeps up my back.

  “‘Both front and back?’ she cried. ‘That means business; you’ll have to squeeze into the hole, boys.’

  “Another light went out.

  “Meanwhile I had crept to the door.

  “’Ware there! that fellow’s trying to sneak,’ shouted a voice.

  “I drew back. Old Merry came to my aid.

  “‘Don’t be a fool,’ she whispered. ‘Stay here or they’ll think you’re in with them!’

  “The growl of some half-dozen of them brought the warning home. I laughed and got in line with the boys, grumbling aloud as I did so:

  “‘Then they’ll make a mistake. If you are wanted by the cops, I am, too. But how about that other fellow?’ I whispered, getting close to Mother Merry in the hubbub.

  “She didn’t hear me; she was telling how some thing was to be done. Then another light went out. The place now was in nearly total darkness.

  “‘Hush!’ came from the doorway where the curtain blew in and out.

  “‘Hush and quick,’ came in hoarse echo from Mother Merry’s quivering lips.

  “Suddenly the room was empty. Of the half-dozen drunken figures I had seen moving about me the minute before, not one was in sight. I heard a creak, then a scuffle, and then a bang, and the room stood empty. Only a few bottles and a pack or two of cards were left on the dirty top of the old pine table, as proof that a tough crowd had been there raising Cain. The old woman cleared the table and shoved the lot into a cupboard; then she sat down. Never have I seen a woman so steady and at the same time so frightened.

  “‘There is room for one more,’ she quickly said, pointing to where the men had disappeared. ‘It’s over the water, and the floor is full of holes, but the police haven’t got on to it yet. Will you go down?’

  “‘I wasn’t with the crowd,’ I told her.

  “‘That won’t help you. You’re in the house—Ah!’

  “It was almost a cry she gave; the door to the upper rooms had opened and the sailor who had struck me as such a peculiar chap stood in the room before us. ‘I forgot,’ she wailed out. ‘What am I to do with him?’

  “The sailor, who was no sailor, stared straight be fore him, as well he might, for he had left a lighted room and found a dark one. Yet in that stare there was a look of pain easily to be seen by the light thrown out by the red-hot stove. He didn’t mind Mother Merry’s cry. He had something else on his mind. He looked like a man suddenly wakened up, and I had a strange idea that his dreams, if he had had them, held him just then in a closer grip than the facts he had come among.

  “‘Is it so late?’ he sighed; and I started, for the voice was the voice of a gentleman.

  “The words, and the way he said them, seemed to bring fresh trouble to Mother Merry.

  “‘Oh, the ill-luck!’ she wailed. ‘The cops are at the door. The place has been threatened for a month, and to-night they are closing round. Will you face them, or shall I open the trap again—Oh, don t!’ she groaned, as he gave a sudden reel backward; ‘it makes me feel wicked. I ought to have warned you.’

  “‘It would have made no difference,’ he said. ‘I should still have gone up. Help me, if you can, and remember what you have sworn. To-morrow I will send money. O God! O God! to leave now—’

  “‘You cannot leave. Hark, that is the second signal! In another moment they will be here. Do you want to fall into their hands?’

  “‘I had rather die. Quick! Some place! Money is no object. Let that fellow I see over there help me. He looks as if he wasn’t afraid of the police. Let him change togs with me.’

  “‘I am a private detective,’ I whispered, going very close to him in the dark. ‘My name is Yox, and you will find papers to support the name and business in my coat pocket. They may hold you for a day, but no longer,’ and I handed over my coat.

  “‘I am sorry that I cannot confide my name to you with the same ease I do this coat,’ he replied, as he threw me the garment which had so disfigured him. ‘But my name is the secret I would defend with my life. Say that you are Benjamin Jones.’

  “‘First fork over the cash which you say is no object to you!’ I cried.

  “‘You must trust me for that,’ he answered. ‘If I get off without discovery you will receive a hundred dollars at your address within the week. I have left all I had above’.

  “‘Chaff!’ I muttered.

  “‘He will pay,’ Mother Merry assured me.

  “‘Then here’s my cap,’ I grumbled, not any too well pleased.

  “He took it, and though it was a common one enough, he looked like another man in it.

  “‘Support me in my character!’ he ordered, just as that blowing curtain was caught and held back by a hand from without and the face of a policeman looked in.

  “‘Hey, there! lamps up!’ was the order. We got a light flashed over us from the doorway.

  “The man at my side advanced to meet it, and I saw him talking with the officer who had pushed his head through the upper half of the door. Then every thing about and before me became mixed in the rush the police made from every side, and I failed to see anything again for some minutes. When a minute’s quiet came about again, and I had the chance to use my eyes, I did not find the man to whom I had lent my coat and my name. He had been allowed to slip away.

  “But I had no such luck. The place being turned over, and only a few women found, they turned on me. But I was game, and was soon able to show them I was one of their own sort. At which there naturally came the question as to who the other fellow was. But I did not help them out on this, and it ended in my being taken to Jefferson Market with the rest.

  “We all got off next day and without much trouble. I have always thought that fellow paid the fines; at all events, one week from that day I found an envelope addressed to me, lying on my desk at the office. It contained bills to the amount agreed upon.

  “Now, Mr. Underhill, who was this man? I have been asking myself that question ever since I pocketed his money. The fellow who can pay out hundreds like that is a man to know.”

  I waited for the answer, which was slow in coming. But then Underhill was always slow. When he did speak it was lazily enough.

  “Didn’t you say you had some clue to his identity; a match-box or something of that kind, which you found in one of the pockets of the coat he gave you?”

  “Yes, I have that.”

  “And that there were initials on it which you had not been able to decipher?”

  “Oh, yes, initials; but what can a fellow make out of initials?

  “Not much, of course. Have you that match-box with you?

  “I just have. I sport it everywhere. I think so much of it I have even talked of having my name changed to fit the letters of this monogram.”

  “Let me see it, will you?”

  The fellow drew it out.

  A minute passed, then Underhill drawled out:

  “It’s not as easy to make out as I expected. Will you let me compare it with a collection I have in a book here? I may have its mate.”

  “Sure, sir.”

  Underhill came my way. The sudden heat into which I was thrown by this unexpected move acted as a double warnin
g. I must beware of self-betrayal, and I must take care not to give away my presence to the sharp-eyed, sharp-eared man whose perspicacity I had reason to dread. I therefore rose as quietly as possible and met Underhill’s entering figure with a silent inquiry, nicely adjusted to the interest I was supposed to feel in the matter. He was no less careful, but there was a sparkle in his eye as he handed over to my inspection the match-box he had just taken from Yox, which contradicted his air of unconsciousness, and led me to inspect with great interest the monogram he displayed to my notice. It was by no means a simple one, as you will see by the sub-joined copy.

  As I studied it, Underhill wrote on a sheet of paper lying open on the table:

  “I have seen that match-box a dozen times.”

  Then, separating the letters of the monogram, he wrote them out in a string, thus:

  L L D G

  “Leighton Gillespie?” I inquired in a kind of soundless whisper.

  “Leighton Le Droit Gillespie,” he wrote.

  It was the name with which my own mind was full; the name with which it had been full ever since the inquest.

  XVIII. The Phial

  THE moment was not propitious for a fuller under standing between us. Sam lowered the light and sauntered back into the outer room, remarking lazily to Yox:

  “If I were you I wouldn’t sport this thing around too openly. If judiciously kept out of sight it may bring you in another hundred some day.”

  “How’s that? You know those initials?”

  “Know Louis Le Duc Gracieux? Well, rather. But as long as you have not the honour, keep quiet, lie low, and await events. That is, if you care about the money. What have you done with the blouse?”

  “Put it away in cotton.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, put the match-box with it.”

  “I will.”

  “Have another cigar?”

  “Thank you. I don’t often have such a snap. Well, what is it, sir?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “I thought you looked as if you wanted something from me.”

  “I? Not the least in the world.”

  Silence, then a lazy movement on the part of Sam which disturbed something on the table at which they were sitting. The small noise had the effect of eliciting another word from Sam.

  “I thought your story had more to it when I heard it last. Didn’t you say something about a small parcel which this mysterious man took out of his pocket before handing over his blouse?”

  “Perhaps; but that wasn’t anything. I wonder you remember it.”

  Long silence on the part of Sam.

  “I never forget anything,” he observed at last. “Was it a big parcel or a little?”

  “It was a small one.”

  “How small?”

  “Oh, a thing a man could hold in his fist. Why do you ask about it?”

  “Whim. I am trying to wake myself up. What was the shape of this parcel?”

  “Bless me if I’ve given two thoughts to it.”

  “You’ll get that blessing, Yox; for you’ve given more than two thoughts to it.”

  “I?”

  “Yes, or why should you have described it as minutely as you did the other night?”

  “Did I?”

  “Undoubtedly; I can even recall your words. You said the fellow was pretty well shaken up for a man of his size and appearance, and after handing you the blouse he caught it back and took something out of one of the pockets. It looked like one of those phials the homoeopaths use. You see, you were inclined to be more dramatic on that occasion than on this. Indeed, I have been a little disappointed in you to-night.”

  “Oh, well! a fellow cannot always cut a figure. I’ll try to remember the bottle next time I tell the story.”

  Sam did not answer; I heard him yawn instead. But I did not yawn; that word “phial,” had effectually roused me.

  “As you say, it is a small matter,” Underhill finally drawled. “So is the straw that turns the current. He was a philosopher who said, ‘The little rift within the lute,’ etc., etc.” Then suddenly, and with a wide awake air which evidently startled his companion: “Do you suppose, Yox, that Mother Merry runs an opium-joint in those upper rooms?”

  The answer he received evidently startled him.

  “She may. I hadn’t thought of it before, but I remember, now, that when those women were brought down there was amongst them one who certainly was under the influence of something worse than liquor. Faugh! I see her yet. But it wasn’t opium he had in that bottle; that is, not the opium which is used for smoking. The firelight shone full upon it as he passed it from one pocket to another, and I saw distinctly the sparkle of some dark liquid.”

  Sam Underhill, who seemed to have fallen back into his old condition of sleepy interest, mumbled something about his having been able to see a good deal, considering the darkness of the place. To which his now possibly suspicious visitor replied:

  “I would have seen more if I had known so much was to be got out of it. Can you give me a point or two as to how I’m to get that extra hundred?”

  Whereupon Sam retorted, “Not to-night,” in a way to close the conversation.

  As soon as the man had left I rushed in upon Sam without ceremony. He was still sitting at the table smoking, and received me with a look of mingled amusement and anxiety.

  “How did the comedy strike you?” he asked.

  I attempted a shrug which failed before his imperturbable nonchalance.

  “How did it strike you?” he persisted.

  “As cleverly carried out, but not so cleverly that the fellow will not suspect it to be a comedy.”

  “Oh, well! So long as he does not associate the right name with those four initials we are safe. And he won t; I know Yox well enough for that.”

  “Then you know him for a fool. Louis Gracieux! Who is Louis Gracieux? Besides, the phial—why, the whole town is talking about a phial—”

  “I know, but not about a match-box that is worth another hundred dollars to the man holding it. Yox isn’t a member of the regular police; he’s in business for himself, which means he’s in it for what he can make. Now, he knows—or, rather, I flatter myself that I have made him see—that there is more to be got out of this matter by circumspection and a close tongue than by bragging of his good luck and giving every ass about him a chance to chew upon those letters. Oh, he’ll keep quiet now, for a week or two at least. After that I cannot promise.”

  “Do you think his version of this affair reliable?”

  “Absolutely. He would have exaggerated more if he had been forcing an invention upon us.”

  I sat down and, regarding Underhill across the table, remarked somewhat pointedly:

  “Now that the name has been mentioned between us, we can talk more openly. What date have you been able to give to Yox’s adventure? You surely have not failed to get from him the day he went down to Mother Merry s?”

  Sam rose—he who detested rising—and, going to a little side table where a pile of newspapers lay, he pulled off the top one and laid it open before me, taking care, however, to stretch his arm across the upper margin in a way to cover up effectually the date.

  “Read,” said he, pointing to a paragraph.

  I followed his finger and read out a brief account of the descent which had been made on Mother Merry’s, and a description of the proceedings which had ended in the release of the women involved.

  “Now take a look at the date,” he went on, lifting his arm.

  I did so; it was a memorable one,—the evening of Mr. Gillespie’s death.

  “The affair at Mother Merry’s took place on the preceding night,” commented Sam. There was no languishing note in his voice now.

  I sat silent; when I did speak it was plainly and decidedly.

  “I see what you mean. You think he went to that place to get the acid.”

  Sam puffed away at his cigar.

  “It has been a mystery to everyone where that acid came from,�
� I continued; “a mystery which has evidently baffled the police. If a druggist in the whole range of this great city had lately sold a phial of this poison to anyone answering the description given of these brothers, we would have heard from him before now. Equally so if a doctor had prescribed it.”

  “A second Daniel come to judgment,” quoth Sam, sententiously.

  And now we, through chance or special providence, perhaps, have stumbled upon a clue as to how this deadly drug may have entered the Gillespie family.”

  “I regret to agree with you, but that is the way it looks. But, Outhwaite, you must remember—and as a lawyer you will—that a long and tangled road lies between mere supposition and the establishment of a fact like this. This phial, so carefully transferred from a pocket where a seemingly more valuable article lay hid, has not been identified as holding poison, only as holding a liquid. Much less has it been proven to be the bottle found under the clock in the Gilles pie dining-room.”

  “All very true.”

  “Yet this fellow’s story of—well, let us say, Louis Gracieux’ appearance and conduct in this more than doubtful place, warrants us in thinking the worst of his errand.”

  I felt the force of this suggestion.

  “Quite true.” I assented. Then, in some agitation, for my thoughts were divided between the relief which a knowledge of this night’s occurrences might bring to Hope and the terrible results to the man himself, I went on to say:

  “His little girl—you never saw his little girl, Sam. Well, she’s a fairy-like creature, and the last time I saw her she had her arms about his neck.”

  “Don’t talk about children,” he hastily objected. “You’ll make a muff of me,” and then I remembered he had a great weakness for children. “I had rather you’d talk about Miss Meredith. Nothing but the interest I take in the peculiar position held by this young lady gives me the requisite courage to stir in this matter. I have known those boys too long and too well; that is, I have drunk too many bottles with George and sat out too many nights in full view of Alfred’s handsome figure, stretched out in the mysterious apathy I have alluded to. With Leighton I have fewer associations; but I have seen enough of him to know perfectly well the match-box which Yox handed out.”