The Beetle Part 61

'What's the meaning of this, Mrs Henderson? I don't see anything here.'

'It's be'ind the bed, Mr Phillips. I left 'im just where I found 'im, I wouldn't 'ave touched 'im not for nothing, nor yet 'ave let n.o.body else 'ave touched 'im neither, because, as I say, I know 'ow particular you pleesmen is.'

We all four went hastily forward. Atherton and I went to the head of the bed, Lessingham and the Inspector, leaning right across the bed, peeped over the side. There, on the floor in the s.p.a.ce which was between the bed and the wall, lay the murdered man.

At sight of him an exclamation burst from Sydney's lips.

'It's Holt!'

'Thank G.o.d!' cried Lessingham. 'It isn't Marjorie!'

The relief in his tone was unmistakable. That the one was gone was plainly nothing to him in comparison with the fact that the other was left.

Thrusting the bed more into the centre of the room I knelt down beside the man on the floor. A more deplorable spectacle than he presented I have seldom witnessed. He was decently clad in a grey tweed suit, white hat, collar and necktie, and it was perhaps that fact which made his extreme attenuation the more conspicuous. I doubt if there was an ounce of flesh on the whole of his body. His cheeks and the sockets of his eyes were hollow. The skin was drawn tightly over his cheek bones,-the bones themselves were staring through. Even his nose was wasted, so that nothing but a ridge of cartilage remained. I put my arm beneath his shoulder and raised him from the floor; no resistance was offered by the body's gravity,-he was as light as a little child.

'I doubt,' I said, 'if this man has been murdered. It looks to me like a case of starvation, or exhaustion,-possibly a combination of both.'

'What's that on his neck?' asked the Inspector,-he was kneeling at my side.

He referred to two abrasions of the skin,-one on either side of the man's neck.

'They look to me like scratches. They seem pretty deep, but I don't think they're sufficient in themselves to cause death.'

'They might be, joined to an already weakened const.i.tution. Is there anything in his pockets?-let's lift him on to the bed.'

We lifted him on to the bed,-a featherweight he was to lift. While the Inspector was examining his pockets-to find them empty -a tall man with a big black beard came bustling in. He proved to be Dr Glossop, the local police surgeon, who had been sent for before our quitting the Station House.

His first p.r.o.nouncement, made as soon as he commenced his examination, was, under the circ.u.mstances, sufficiently startling.

'I don't believe the man's dead. Why didn't you send for me directly you found him?'

The question was put to Mrs Henderson.

'Well, Dr Glossop, I wouldn't touch 'im myself, and I wouldn't 'ave 'im touched by no one else, because, as I've said afore, I know 'ow particular them pleesmen is.'

'Then in that case, if he does die you'll have had a hand in murdering him,-that's all'

The lady sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'Of course Dr Glossop, we all knows that you'll always 'ave your joke.'

'You'll find it a joke if you have to hang, as you ought to, you-'

The doctor said what he did say to himself, under his breath.

I doubt if it was flattering to Mrs Henderson. 'Have you got any brandy in the house?'

'We've got everythink in the 'ouse for them as likes to pay for it,-everythink.' Then, suddenly remembering that the police were present, and that hers were not exactly licensed premises, 'Leastways we can send out for it for them parties as gives us the money, being, as is well known, always willing to oblige.'

'Then send for some,-to the tap downstairs, if that's the nearest! If this man dies before you've brought it I'll have you locked up as sure as you're a living woman.'

The arrival of the brandy was not long delayed,-but the man on the bed had regained consciousness before it came. Opening his eyes he looked up at the doctor bending over him.

'Hollo, my man! that's more like the time of day! How are you feeling?'

The patient stared hazily up at the doctor, as if his sense of perception was not yet completely restored,-as if this big bearded man was something altogether strange. Atherton bent down beside the doctor.

'I'm glad to see you looking better, Mr Holt. You know me don't you? I've been running about after you all day long.'

'You are-you are-' The man's eyes closed, as if the effort at recollection exhausted him. He kept them closed as he continued to speak.

'I know who you are. You are-the gentleman.'

'Yes, that's it, I'm the gentleman,-name of Atherton.-Miss Lindon's friend. And I daresay you're feeling pretty well done up, and in want of something to eat and drink,-here's some brandy for you.'

The doctor had some in a tumbler. He raised the patient's head, allowing it to trickle down his throat. The man swallowed it mechanically, motionless, as if unconscious what it was that he was doing. His cheeks flushed, the pa.s.sing glow of colour caused their condition of extraordinary, and, indeed, extravagant attentuation, to be more prominent than ever. The doctor laid him back upon the bed, feeling his pulse with one hand, while he stood and regarded him in silence.

Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone;

'If you want him to make a statement he'll have to make it now, he's going fast. You won't be able to get much out of him,-he's too far gone, and I shouldn't bustle him, but get what you can.'

The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand.

'I understand from this gentleman-' signifying Atherton-'that your name's Robert Holt. I'm an Inspector of police, and I want you to tell me what has brought you into this condition. Has anyone been a.s.saulting you?'

Holt, opening his eyes, glanced up at the speaker mistily, as if he could not see him clearly,-still less understand what it was that he was saying. Sydney, stooping over him, endeavoured to explain.

'The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been doing anything to you? Has anyone been hurting you?'

The man's eyelids were partially closed. Then they opened wider and wider. His mouth opened too. On his skeleton features there came a look of panic fear. He was evidently struggling to speak. At last words came.

'The beetle!' He stopped. Then, after an effort, spoke again. 'The beetle!'

'What's he mean?' asked the Inspector.

'I think I understand,' Sydney answered; then turning again to the man in the bed. 'Yes, I hear what you say,-the beetle. Well, has the beetle done anything to you?'

'It took me by the throat!'

'Is that the meaning of the marks upon your neck?'

'The beetle killed me.'

The lids closed. The man relapsed into a state of lethargy. The Inspector was puzzled;-and said so.

'What's he mean about a beetle?'

Atherton replied.

'I think I understand what he means,-and my friends do too. We'll explain afterwards. In the meantime I think I'd better get as much out of him as I can,-while there's time.'

'Yes,' said the doctor, his hand upon the patient's pulse, 'while there's time. There isn't much-only seconds.'

Sydney endeavoured to rouse the man from his stupor.