Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 4

by R. Austin Freeman

  She shook her head passionately. "I can never do that," she sobbed. "It will haunt me as long as I live. Oh! and I am so frightened, even now. What a coward I am!"

  "Indeed you are not!" I exclaimed. "You are just weak from loss of blood. Why did you let me leave you, Marion?"

  "I didn't think I was hurt, and I wasn't particularly frightened then, and I hoped that if you followed him, he might be caught. Did you see him?"

  "No. There is a thick fog outside. I didn't dare to leave the threshold. Were you able to see what he was like?"

  She shuddered and choked down a sob. "He is a dreadful-looking man," she said; "I loathed him at the first glance—a beetle-browed, hook-nosed wretch with a face like that of some horrible bird of prey. But I couldn't see him very distinctly, for it is rather dark in the lobby and he wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled down over his brows."

  "Would you know him again? And can you give a description of him that would be of use to the police?"

  "I am sure I should know him again," she said with a shudder. "It was a face that one could never forget. A hideous face! The face of a demon! I can see it now and it will haunt me, sleeping and waking, until I die."

  Her words ended with a catch of the breath and she looked piteously into my face with wide, terrified eyes. I took her trembling hand and once more drew her head to my shoulder.

  "You mustn't think that, dear," said I. "You are all unstrung now, but these terrors will pass. Try to tell me quietly just what this man was like. What was his height for instance?"

  "He was not very tall. Not much taller than me. And he was rather slightly built."

  "Could you see whether he was dark or fair?"

  "He was rather dark. I could see a shock of hair sticking out from under his hat and he had a moustache with turned-up ends and a beard—a rather short beard."

  "And now as to his face. You say he had a hooked nose?"

  "Yes, a great, high-bridged nose like the beak of some horrible bird. And his eyes seemed to be deep-set under heavy brows with bushy eyebrows. The face was rather thin with high cheek-bones—a fierce, scowling, repulsive face."

  "And the voice? Should you know that again?"

  "I don't know," she answered. "He spoke in quite a low tone, rather indistinctly. And he said only a few words—something about having come to make some inquiries about the cost of a wax model. Then he stepped into the lobby and shut the outer door, and immediately, without another word, he seized my right arm and struck at me. But I saw the knife in his hand and, as I called out, I snatched at it with my left hand, so that it missed my body and I felt it cut my right arm. Then I got hold of his wrist. But he had heard you coming and wrenched himself free. The next moment he had opened the door and rushed out, shutting it behind him."

  She paused and then added in a shaking voice: "If you had not been here—if I had been alone—"

  "We won't think of that, Marion. You were not alone; and you will never be again in this place. I shall see to that."

  At this she gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and looked into my face with the pallid ghost of a smile. "Then I shan't be frightened any more," she murmured; and closing her eyes she lay for a while, breathing quietly as if asleep. She looked very delicate and frail with her waxen checks and the dark shadows under her eyes, but still I noted a faint tinge of colour stealing back into her lips. I gazed down at her with fond anxiety, as a mother might look at a sleeping child that had just passed the crisis of a dangerous illness. Of the bare chance that had snatched her from imminent death I would not allow myself to think. The horror of that moment is too fresh for the thought to be endurable. Instead I began to occupy myself with the practical question as to how she was to be got home. It was a long way to North Grove—some two miles, I reckoned—too far for her to walk in her present weak state; and then there was the fog. Unless it lifted it would be impossible for her to find her way; and I could give her no help, as I was a stranger to this locality. Nor was it by any means safe; for our enemy might still be lurking near, waiting for the opportunity that the fog would offer.

  I was still turning over these difficulties when she opened her eyes and looked up at me a little shyly.

  "I'm afraid I've been rather a baby," she said, "but I am much better now. Hadn't I better get up?"

  "No," I answered. "Lie quiet and rest. I am trying to think bow you are to be got home. Didn't you say something about a caretaker?"

  "Yes; a woman in the little house next door, which really belongs to the studio. Daddy used to leave the key with her at night so that he could clean up. But I just fetch her in when I want her help. Why do you ask?"

  "Do you think she could get a cab for us?"

  "I am afraid not. There is no cab-stand anywhere near here. But I think I could walk, unless the fog is too thick. Shall we go and see what it is like?"

  "I will go," said I, rising. But she clung to my arm.

  "You are not to go alone," she said, in sudden alarm. "He may be there still."

  I thought it best to humour her and accordingly helped her to rise. For a few moments she seemed rather unsteady on her feet, but soon she was able to walk, supported by my arm, to the studio door, which I opened, and through which wreaths of vapour drifted in. But the fog was perceptibly thinner; and even as I was looking across the road at the now faintly visible houses, two spots of dull yellow light appeared up the road and my ear caught the muffled sound of wheels. Gradually the lights grew brighter and at length there stole out of the fog the shadowy form of a cab with a man leading the horse at a slow walk. Here seemed a chance to escape from our dilemma.

  "Go in and shut the door while I speak to the cabman," said I. "He may be able to take us. I shall give four knocks when I come back."

  She was unwilling to let me go, but I gently pushed her in and shut the door and then advanced to meet the cab. A few words set my anxieties at rest, for it appeared that the cabman had to set down a fare a little way along the street and was very willing to take a return fare, on suitable terms. As any terms would have been suitable to me under the circumstances, the cabman was able to make a good bargain and we parted with mutual satisfaction and a cordial au revoir. Then I steered back along the fence to the studio door, on which I struck four distinct knocks and announced myself vocally by name. Immediately the door opened and a hand drew me in by the sleeve.

  "I am so glad you have come back," she whispered. "It was horrid to be alone in the lobby even for a few minutes. What did the cabman say?"

  I told her the joyful tidings and we at once made ready for our departure. In a minute or two the welcome glare of the cab-lamps reappeared, and when I had locked up the studio and pocketed the key I helped her into the rather ramshackle vehicle.

  I don't mind admitting that the cabman's charges were extortionate; but I grudged him never a penny. It was probably the slowest journey that I had ever made, but yet the funereal pace was all too swift. Half-ashamed as I was to admit it to myself, this horrible adventure was bearing sweet fruit to me in the unquestioned intimacy that had been born in the troubled hour. Little enough was said; but I sat happily by her side, holding her uninjured hand in mine (on the pretence of keeping it warm), blissfully conscious that our sympathy and friendship had grown to something sweeter and more precious.

  "What are we to say to Arabella?" I asked. "I suppose she will have to be told?"

  "Of course she will," replied Marion; "you shall tell her. But," she added in a lower tone, "you needn't tell her everything—I mean what a baby I was and how you had to comfort and soothe me. She is as brave as a lion and she thinks I am, too. So you needn't undeceive her too much."

  "I needn't undeceive her at all," said I, "because you are;" and we were still arguing this weighty question when the cab drew up at Ivy Cottage. I sent the cabman off rejoicing, and then escorted Marion up the path to the door, where Miss Boler was waiting, having apparently heard the cab arrive.

  "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 to-morrow 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.

  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 dangerous 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."