But on neither could we detect any wound, nor was there anything to show the cause of death. I examined the hand of the woman, a tiny, slim, cold hand, the contact of which thrilled me by its chilliness, and saw that her rings, set with emeralds, rubies and diamonds, were of the finest quality.
“She’s beautiful,” Patterson observed, gazing down upon her. “Perhaps she was his wife.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Curious that they should have both died together in this manner.”
“They were evidently sitting here chatting before dinner, when both were either murdered, or died suddenly before assistance could reach them. She died before he did.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked quickly, my eyes wandering around the large, comfortable room, the atmosphere of which was heavy with fragrant odours.
“Because he placed that cushion beneath her head,” answered the shrewd, observant police-officer. “He had kissed her, and she was in the act of smiling at his last act of love when her heart suddenly failed, and soul and body parted.”
“And he died immediately afterwards, you think?”
“Yes, that’s what I surmise. What’s your opinion?”
“I can form no theory at present,” I answered, bewildered. In the course of years spent in the investigation of crime for journalistic purposes I had had my wits sharpened, and rather prided myself upon the soundness of the theories I propounded in the articles I wrote. Patterson knew this, and probably for that reason had invoked my companionship in this curious affair.
Together we made a searching examination of the whole room, but there was absolutely nothing to show the motive, or even the mode, of the tragedy. The absence of servants was of course extremely suspicious, but neither of us attached much importance to that. A close examination of the scene was our present object, experience having taught that upon the scene of most crimes there remains some trace of the assassin. The old saying that “Murder will out” is truer than the majority of people believe, for even that night we had had a striking illustration in Patterson’s’ attention being attracted by the snake in the gateway.
Beside the dead woman’s chair was lying a handkerchief, a tiny square of lawn and lace, which I picked up. It emitted an odour very sweet and subtle, such as I had never before smelt.
Patterson sniffed it, but placed it down.
“Some new scent,” he said. “Women are always going in for the latest inventions in perfumes.”
“But this is an extraordinary one,” I said, again smelling it. “Terribly strong, too,” I added, for the odour had a strange, half-intoxicating effect upon me. The small red light steadily burning, the fragrance of the incense, the two dead forms lying there, still and cold, and the single gas-burner, hissing as it flared, combined to present a weird, lurid picture, each detail of which has ever since been indelibly photographed upon my memory.
The smile of death upon that woman’s lips was horrible. That look of hers has ever since haunted me, for now that I know the truth and have realised all that had taken place in that room prior to the tragedy, that laugh of derision has a significance which renders its recollection bitter, gruesome, hideous.
I know not what prompted me at that moment, but bending again beside the prostrate man I placed my hand inside his vest, recollecting that sometimes tailors, adopting the French mode, made pockets there, and that therein many men carried articles of value in secrecy and safety.
As I did so, I felt that there was a pocket in the lining, that it was buttoned, and that there was something within. Quickly I unbuttoned it and drew forth a small packet wrapped in glazed writing-paper, dirty and worn through being carried for a long time. With care I opened it, and inside found an object which caused us both to give vent to an ejaculation of wonder.
It was simply a penny.
“His mascot, I suppose,” remarked the inspector. “A lucky coin.”
“But it has no hole through it,” I observed.
“The hole is of no importance. The coin may have been given him for luck,” replied my companion. “Lots of people believe in such things, especially betting men.”
“He was evidently very careful of it,” I said, at the same time searching and finding another pocket on the other side of the vest, and from this I took a neat little cloth-covered case, not much larger than those containing cigarette tubes, and found on opening it that it contained a small hypodermic syringe, complete with its needles and accessories.
“This shows that he was addicted to the morphia habit,” I remarked. “An overdose, perhaps.”
My friend, who had now recovered something of his coolness and self-possession, took the tiny instrument and examined it carefully beneath the gas-light.
“There’s been no morphia in this lately,” he said. “It’s quite dry, and certainly hasn’t been used to-day.”
“Let’s search the whole house,” I suggested. “We may find something which will give us a clue as to who and what these people were. Funny that the servants don’t come back, isn’t it?”
“I don’t expect they will,” answered Patterson.
“Depend upon it that there’s more mystery in this affair than we at present suspect.”
“Why?”
“Look at these,” he said, passing over to me the three banknotes found upon the dead man. “They are spurious!”
No second glance was needed to convince me that he spoke the truth. They were clever imitations of ten-pound notes, but the paper, the despair of the forger, was thick and entirely different to that of the genuine bank-note.
Again I glanced at that beautiful woman’s face with its smile of mingled ecstatic pleasure and bitterness. Her sightless eyes seemed fixed upon me, following me as I moved.
I drew back horrified, shuddering. Her gaze was ghastly.
“It certainly is a most mysterious affair,” I ejaculated again, glancing around the place. “You ought at once to report it.”
“No,” cried my companion quickly. “The discovery must be yours. You must report it, Mr Urwin.”
“Why?”
“Because, as I’ve already told you, I fear to do so on account of the snake.”
I smiled at his curious objection, but an instant later grew serious because of the sharp and sudden ringing of an electric bell somewhere on the ground floor. It was the bell my companion had heard when first knocking at the door.
We both listened for a few moments while the ringing continued, until with sudden resolve I dashed downstairs to ascertain where the bell was. Without difficulty I found it, for there in the hall, revealed by the gas-lamp we had lit, was a telephone instrument with its bell agitated violently.
Without a second’s delay I placed the receiver to my ear and gave the usual signal —
“Hulloa! Hulloa?”
The whirr and clicking stopped, and a voice, squeaky as that of an elderly person, said petulantly —
“I’ve been ringing up for an hour or more. What’s wrong that you haven’t replied? You’re at fifty-eight, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered, recollecting that fifty-eight was the number of that house. “Nothing is wrong. Why? Can’t you be patient?”
“I felt uneasy,” answered the mysterious voice apologetically. “I thought there might possibly have been some hitch as you haven’t rung up.”
“No,” I responded. “None.”
“Then of course it’s all over?” inquired the voice. I started at this strange query. This unknown inquirer was evidently in possession of the truth, and believed himself to be talking to an accomplice. He knew of the commission of the crime, therefore it occurred to me that by the exercise of due caution I might be able to discover his identity.
“Yes,” I answered, breathless in excitement.
“Both?” asked the voice.
“Both,” I responded.
“Good. Then I shall see you at the place we arranged – eh?”
“Of course,” I answered. “But when? I’ve forgotten.”
“Forgotten!” echoed the squeaky voice in a tone of undisguised disgust. “Take care, or you’ll blunder yet. You’re a confounded idiot. Why, to-morrow at midday.”
“I know I’m a fool,” I replied. “But in the excitement it’s quite slipped my memory where you said I was to meet you.”
Then, holding the receiver tremblingly to my ear, I listened with quick heart-beating for the response of that mysterious, far distant voice which squeaked so strangely, sounding thin and high-pitched, more like that of a woman than of a man.
“You’re a confounded fool to waste time like this if you’re still at fifty-eight,” said the voice.
“You’ve said so before,” I responded. “But where shall I meet you?”
Chapter Three
An Appointment
The voice answered at last —
“I’ll meet you beside the lake in St. James’s Park, Buckingham Palace end, at twelve to-morrow. Remember that.”
“Very well,” I responded eagerly. “Anything more?”
“No,” was the reply. “Be careful how you get out, and where you go. So long!”
Then, next instant, I knew by the sound that the connexion had been switched off.
“What’s the matter?” asked Patterson, now beside me.
“Wait, and I’ll tell you afterwards,” I said, at the same time ringing up again.
In response I was answered by a feminine voice at the Exchange, who inquired what number I desired.
“Tell me, miss, who has just been speaking to me. Kindly oblige me, as it’s most important.”
There was silence for a few moments, then the female voice inquired – “Are you there?” to which I responded.
“You were on a moment ago with 14,982, the public call-office at Putney.”
“How long was I on?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Have I been on to the same place before this evening?” I asked.
“No. Several numbers have been ringing you up, but you haven’t replied.”
“Who were they?”
“Oh, I really can’t tell you now. It’s quite impossible. I remember that the call-office at Piccadilly Circus was one, and I think the one in the Minories.”
“They were all call-offices – no private persons?”
“I’m unable to say. I’ve been on duty for the past four hours, and have connected up thousands of numbers.”
“Then you can’t tell me anything else?” I asked disappointedly.
“No. I’m sorry I can’t,” replied the girl.
I was about to place the receiver on its hook when a sudden thought occurred to me, and again I addressed her.
“This matter is a most urgent one,” I said. “Can’t you ask at the call-office for a description of the man who has just been speaking?”
“There’s no one there. It is merely an instrument placed in a passage leading to some offices,” was the reply.
I hung up the receiver, and turning to Patterson repeated the conversation.
“Extraordinary,” he ejaculated, when I had concluded. “We must keep that appointment. The inquiry is plain proof that murder has been committed, and further, that more than one person is in the secret.”
“But is it not strange that this person, whoever he is, should dare to telephone in that manner?”
“It certainly is a bold move,” my companion answered, “but from his conversation it is evident that the assassin promised to telephone to him, and was either disturbed in his work and compelled to escape hurriedly, or else forgot it altogether. Again, it’s plain that to avoid detection the unknown man went from one call-office to another, always ringing up to this house, and never obtaining a response until you answered.”
“His inquiry was certainly a guarded one.”
“And your answers were smart, too,” he laughed. “You were careful not to commit yourself.”
“Do you think he’ll keep the appointment?” I asked eagerly.
“That remains to be seen,” answered my friend, glancing at the bull’s-eye to see if it were burning well. “If he’s not a blunderer he won’t.”
“Well, let’s hope he does,” I said. “You would arrest him, of course?”
“I don’t know,” he answered doubtfully. “We might learn more by keeping observation upon him for a day or two.”
“Well,” I said, “we haven’t yet searched the place thoroughly. Let’s see what is above.”
My companion followed me upstairs rather reluctantly, I thought, passing the room where the mysterious tragedy had occurred and ascending to the floor above. There were four bedrooms, each well-furnished, but finding that they contained nothing of a suspicious character we continued to the top floor, where there were several smaller low-ceilinged rooms opening from a narrow passage. Two of them were evidently the sleeping apartments of the servants, the third was filled with lumber, but the fourth, which overlooked the back premises, long and narrow, was fitted as a kind of workshop or laboratory. A curious smell greeted our nostrils as we opened the door – a smell very much like the perfume on the dead woman’s handkerchief.
We found a gas-jet and lit it, afterwards gazing round the place with some surprise. Upon shelves around the walls were various bottles containing liquids; on the table stood two curious-looking globes of bright steel, riveted like those of a steam-boiler, and connected by a long tubular coil rolled into three consecutive spirals which ended with a kind of nozzle. From the fact that an electric battery and a lathe also stood in the room we at once came to the conclusion that the master of that house had been engaged in some scientific investigations.
From place to place we went, searching every corner for any written document or letter, until at last I found, crumpled and cast into the empty grate, an old envelope on which I read the address: “Professor Douglas Dawson.”
“At any rate we’ve got the name of the occupant of this place,” I said, handing my find to the police-officer.
“Dawson?” he repeated, “Dawson? I fancy I’ve heard that name in connexion with scientific discovery.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “If he’s a well-known man we shall soon find out all about him at the Royal Institution.”
I was standing near the fireplace with the envelope still in my hand when, of a sudden, I was startled by a strange scuttling noise near my feet.
“Good heavens!” gasped Patterson, his eyes riveted on the spot. “Look there! Look at that glass case! There are snakes in it!”
I sprang away, and looking in the direction he indicated saw that a glass case, standing on the ground, contained two great snakes with beautiful markings of yellow and black. Even as I looked they were coiled, with their flat heads erect and their bead-like eyes shining like tiny stars in the shadow, their bodies half-hidden in a blanket.
“Nice kind of pets, to keep in a house,” observed Patterson. “That’s one of them that’s escaped into the garden, I expect.”
“I quite agree,” I said, “this place is decidedly the reverse of cheerful. Hadn’t we better report at once? There’s been a mysterious tragedy here, and immediate efforts should be made to trace the assassin.”
“But, my dear fellow, how do you know they’ve been murdered?” he argued. “There’s no marks of violence whatever.”
“Not as far as we’ve been able to discover. A doctor can tell us more after the post-mortem,” I responded.
There were many very strange features connected with this remarkable discovery. My friend’s reluctance to commence an investigation, his firm resolve not to report the discovery, the mysterious voice at the telephone, the fact that some experimental scientist had his laboratory in that house, and the revelation of the unaccountable tragedy itself, were all so extraordinary that I stood utterly bewildered.
Absolutely nothing remained to show who were the pair lying dead, and no explanation seemed possible of that strange red light burning there so steadily, and unflickering. By the appearance of the glass, and the dust in the oil, the tiny lamp must have burned on incessantly for a very long time.
Strange it was that there, within a few yards of one of London’s great arteries of traffic, that charming woman and her companion should have been cut off swiftly and suddenly, without a hand being stretched forth to save them.
In company we went downstairs, leaving the light in the laboratory still burning, and re-entered the drawing-room to take a final glance around. As I approached the prostrate body of the man I felt something beneath my foot, and glancing down saw that some coppers had evidently fallen from his pocket and were lying strewn about the carpet. Then, having remained a few minutes longer, we both went out by the door we had entered, locking it and taking the key.
“We must report it, Patterson,” I said. “It certainly has some queer and very extraordinary features.”
“Yes,” he responded; adding slowly, “did you notice anything strange up in that top room where the chemicals and things were?”
“Yes, a good deal,” I answered. “It isn’t every one who keeps snakes as pets.”
“I don’t mean that,” he answered. “But did you notice on the table a glassful of liquid, like water?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that stuff was bubbling and boiling without any heat beneath.”
“Perhaps the man who experiments there is a conjurer,” I suggested, smiling at his surprise at seeing liquid boil when exposed to air. Police-officers know little of any other science save that of self-defence.
“Now,” he said seriously, as we strode forward together in the direction of Kensington Church, “you must go to the station and report the discovery as if made by you – you understand. Remember, the snake attracted your attention, you entered, found the man and woman lying dead, lit the gas, searched the house, then left to get assistance, and met me.”
“That’s all very well,” I answered. “But you forget that you borrowed that lamp from one of your own men, and that I called on you first.”
“Ah!” he gasped; turning slightly pale. “I never thought of that!”
“Why don’t you report it yourself?” I urged.
“For superstitious reasons,” he laughed nervously.
“Hang superstition!” I cried. Adding: “Of course, I’ll report it if you like, but it would be far better for you to do so and risk this mysterious bad luck that you fear.”
He was silent for a moment, thinking deeply, then answered in a strange, hard voice, —
“Perhaps you’re right, Urwin. I – I’m a confounded fool to be afraid,” and with an effort quite apparent he braced himself up and we entered the police-station. Ascending the stairs we were soon closeted with Octavius Boyd, inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to that Division, a middle-aged, dark-bearded, pleasant-faced man in plain-clothes, who, as soon as he heard our story, was immediately ready to accompany us, while five minutes later the clicking of the telegraph told that news of our discovery was being transmitted to headquarters at New Scotland Yard.
Patterson took down the London Directory, and turning it up at Upper Phillimore Place, found that the occupier of the house in question was Andrew Callender. He made inquiries in the section-house of the men off duty as to what was known of that house, but only one constable made a statement, and it was to the effect that he had, when on duty in Kensington Road, seen a youngish lady with fair hair, whose description tallied with that of the dead woman, come out and go across to the shops on the opposite side of the road.
“Do you know anything of the servants?” inquired Patterson.
“Well, sir,” the man answered, “one was a man, and the other a woman.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the servant of the house next door told me so. The woman was the cook, and the man did the housework. She said that the house was a most mysterious one.”
“Is she there now?” my friend asked.
“No, sir. She was discharged a fortnight ago. Dishonest, I think.”
“And you don’t know where she is?”
Boyd had by this time called one of his plain-clothes men, who had obtained lamps, turning the dark slides over the flame, the station-sergeant had carefully ruled a line and written something in that remarkable register kept in every London police-station, wherein is recorded every event which transpires in the district, from a tragedy to the return of the sub-divisional inspector from his rounds, or the grooming of the horses. Then, after a short conversation with one of the second-class inspectors, we all four, accompanied by a sergeant, started for Upper Phillimore Place.
In order not to attract attention we separated. Patterson walking with me to the opposite side of the road, while the detectives walked together, and the sergeant alone. Little did the passers-by suspect when they saw Patterson and me strolling leisurely along that we were on our way to investigate what afterwards proved to be one of the strangest and most remarkable mysteries that had ever puzzled the Metropolitan Police.