A silent witness
it seemed to me that a pitiful little smile trembled for a moment on
the bloodless lips, but she made no answer beyond a faint, broken
sigh, and it was only when she moved her hand slightly that the
overwhelming horror of the reality burst upon me. Then when I saw the
crimson stain upon her fingers and upon the bosom of her dress, the
meaning of that horrible pallor, the sharpening features and strange,
pinched expression flashed upon me with a shock that seemed to arrest
the very blood at my heart. Yet, stunned as I was, I realized
instantly that human skill could avail her nothing; that I could do
nought for her but raise her from the sharp edge of the stair and rest
her head on my arm. And so I held her, whispering endearments
brokenly, and looking as well as I might through the blinding tears
into those inscrutable eyes, that gazed up at me, no longer with that
stare of horror but with a vague and childlike wonder. And, even as I
looked, the change came in an instant. The wide eye-lids relaxed and
drooped, the eyes grew filmy and sightless, the hand slipped from her
breast and dropped with a thud on the stair, and the supple body in my
arms shrank of a sudden with the horrible limpness of death.
Up to this point my recollection is clear, even vivid, but of what
followed I have only a dim and confused impression. The awfulness--the
unbelievable horror of this frightful thing that had happened left me
so dazed and numb that I recall but vaguely the passage of time of
what went on around me in this terrible dream from which there was to
be no waking. Dimly I recollect kneeling by her side on the silent
staircase--but how long I know not--holding her poor body in my arms
and gazing incredulously at the marble-white face--now with its drowsy
lids and parted lips, grown suddenly girlish and fragile--while the
hot tears dropped down on her dress; choking with grief and horror and
a fury of hate for the foul wretch who had done this appalling thing,
and who was now far away out of reach. I see--dimly still--the livid
marks of accursed fingers lingering yet on the whiteness around the
mouth to tell me why no cry from her had reached me, and the dreadful,
red-edged cut in the bodice, mutely demanding vengeance from God and
man.
And then of a sudden the silence is shattered by rushing feet and the
clamour of voices. Someone--it is Jervis--leads me forcibly away to
our room and places me in a chair by the table. Presently I see her
lying on our sofa, drowsy-eyed, peaceful, like a marble figure on a
tomb. And I see Thorndyke, with a strange, coppery flush and something
grim and terrible in the set calm of his face, showing the letter,
which I had left on the table, to a tall stranger, who hurries from
the room. Anon come two constables with heads uncovered carrying a
stretcher. I see her laid on the sordid bier and reverently covered.
The dread procession moves out through the doorway, the door is shut
after it, and so, in dreadful fulfilment of her words, she passed out
of my life.
CHAPTER XX.
THE HUE AND CRY
The silence of the room remained unbroken for a quite considerable
time after the two bearers had passed out with their dreadful burden.
My two friends sat apart and, with a tact of which I was gratefully
sensible, left me quietly undisturbed by banal words of consolation,
to sustain the first shock of grief and horror and get my emotion
under control. Still dazed and half-incredulous, I sat with my elbows
on the table and my teeth clenched hard, looking dreamily across the
room, half unconsciously observing my two friends as they silently
examined the fatal letter. I saw Thorndyke rise softly and take a
small bottle from a cabinet, and watched him incuriously as he
sprinkled on the paper some of the dark-coloured powder that it
contained. Then I saw him blow the powder from the surface of the
paper into the fire and scan the letter closely through a lens. And
still no word was spoken. Only once, when Jervis, in crossing the
room, let his hand rest for a moment on my shoulder, did any
communication pass between us; and that silent touch told me
unobtrusively--if it were needful to tell me--how well he understood
my grief for the woman who had walked open-eyed into the valley of the
shadow, had offered her heart’s blood that I might pass unscathed.
In about a quarter of an hour the tall stranger returned, bringing
with him an atmosphere of bustling activity that at once dispelled the
gloomy silence. His busy presence and brisk, matter-of-fact speech,
though distressing to me at the moment, served as a distraction and
brought me out of my painful reverie to the grim realities of this
appalling catastrophe.
“You were quite right, sir,” said he. “The chambers were an empty set.
Mr. Courtland left them about six weeks ago, so they tell me at the
office. I’ve looked them over carefully, and I think it is pretty
clear what this man meant to do.”
“Did you go in?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes. Mr. Polton went with me and picked the lock, so I was able to go
right through the rooms. And it is evident that this villain was not
acting on the spur of the moment. He’d made a very neat plan, and I
should say that it was pretty near to coming off. He had selected his
chambers with remarkable judgment, and uncommonly well suited they
were to his purpose. In the first place, they were the top
set--nothing above them; no chance strangers passing up or down; and
they were the only set on that landing. Then some previous tenant had
made a little trap or grille in the outer door, a little hole about
six inches square with a sliding cover on the inside. That was the
attraction, I fancy. The landing lamp was alight--he must have lighted
it himself, as the landing was out of use--and I fancy he meant to
watch through the grille for your friend to come and shoot him as he
knocked at the door.”
“That would be taking more risk than he usually did,” said Thorndyke.
“You mean that the report of the shot would have been heard. Perhaps
it might. But these modern, small-bore, repeating pistols make very
little noise, though they are uncommonly deadly, especially if you
open the nose of the bullets.”
“But,” objected Thorndyke, “if he had been heard, there he would have
been, boxed up in the chambers with no means of escape.”
Our acquaintance shook his head. “No,” said he; “that’s just what he
wouldn’t have been, and there is where he had planned the affair so
neatly. These chambers are a double set. They have a second entrance
that opens on the staircase of the next house. You see the idea. When
he’s fired his shot and made sure that it was all right--or all wrong,
if you prefer it--he would just have slipped through to the other
entrance, let himself out, shut the door quietly and walked down the
stairs. Then, if the shot had been heard, there was he, coming out of
the next house to join the crowd and see what was the matter. It was a
clever scheme, and, as I say, it might very well have come off if this
poor young lady hadn’t given it away. So that’s all about the
chambers; and now”--here he cast a glance in my direction--“I must ask
for a few particulars.” He produced a large, black-covered notebook
and, opening it on the table, looked at me inquiringly.
“This,” said Thorndyke, “is Mr. Superintendent Miller of the Criminal
Investigation Department. He has charge of this case, so you must tell
him exactly what happened. And try, Jardine, to be as clear and
circumstantial as possible.”
The Superintendent looked up sharply. “I had an impression,” said he,
“that this gentleman’s name was Howard.”
“He has used the name of Howard since he has been staying here, for
reasons which no longer exist but which I will explain to you later.
His name is Humphrey Jardine, and he is a bachelor of medicine.”
Mr. Miller entered these particulars in his book and then said:
“I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you were actually present
when this poor lady was murdered?”
“No, I was not.”
“And I presume you did not see the murderer?”
“I saw a man, whom I believe to have been the murderer, come out of
our entry and walk quickly towards the Tudor Street Gate. But I can
give you no description of him. I saw him from the window and by the
light of the entry lamp.”
The Superintendent wrote down my answer and reflected for a few
moments.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you had better just give us an account of what
happened and we can ask you any questions afterwards. It’s very
painful for you, I know, but it has to be, as you will understand.”
It was more than painful; it was harrowing to reconstitute that
hideous tragedy, step by step, with the knowledge that the poor
murdered corpse was still warm. But it had to be, and I did it,
haltingly, indeed, and with many a pause to command my voice; but in
the end, I gave the superintendent a full description of the actual
occurrences, though I withheld any reference to those words that my
poor dead friend had spoken for my ear alone.
When I had read through and signed my statement, Mr. Miller studied
his note-book with an air of dissatisfaction and then turned to
Thorndyke.
“This is all quite clear, Doctor,” said he, “and just about what you
inferred from that letter. But it doesn’t help us much. The question
is, Who is this man? I’ve an inkling that you know, Doctor.”
“I have a very strong suspicion as to who he is,” replied Thorndyke.
“That will do for me,” said Miller. “Your strong suspicion is equal to
another man’s certainty. Do you know his name, sir?”
“He has recently passed under the name of Samway,” replied Thorndyke.
“What his real name is, I think I shall be able to tell you later.
Meanwhile, I can give you such particulars as are necessary for making
an arrest.”
The Superintendent looked narrowly at Thorndyke as the latter pressed
the button of the electric bell.
“Apparently, Doctor,” said he, “you have been making some
investigations concerning this man, and, as it was not in connection
with this crime, it must have been in connection with something else.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “you are quite right, Miller, and it will be
a matter of the deepest regret to me to my dying day that
circumstances have hindered those investigations as they have. The
delay has cost this poor woman her life. A few more days and my case
would almost certainly have been complete, and then this terrible
disaster would have been impossible.”
As Thorndyke finished speaking, the door opened quietly and Polton
entered with a small, neatly-made parcel in his hand.
“Ah!” said Thorndyke, “you guessed what I wanted, and guessed right,
as you always do, Polton. How many are there in that parcel?”
“Three dozen, sir,” replied Polton.
“That ought to be enough for the moment. Hand them to the
Superintendent, Polton. If you want any more, Miller, we can let you
have a further supply, and I am having a half-tone block made which
will be ready to-morrow morning.”
“Are these portraits of the man you suspect?” asked Miller.
“No, I haven’t his portrait, unfortunately, but on each card is a
photograph of three of his finger-prints, which are all I have been
able to collect, and on the back is a description which will enable
you easily to identify him. You can post them off to the various
sea-ports and telegraph the description in advance; and I would
recommend you especially to keep a watch on Dover and Folkestone, as I
know that he has been in the habit of using that route.”
“Speaking of finger-prints,” said Miller, “have you tried that letter
for them?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “I powdered it very carefully, but there is
not a single trace of a fingerprint. He must have realized the risk he
was taking and worn gloves when he wrote it.”