The Master Detective Part 10

"Did you read that?"

He pointed to a paragraph headed, "Strange Affair in Savoy Street," and I read as follows:

"Last night, just after twelve o'clock, an elderly gentleman was walking down Savoy Street, and was approaching the Embankment end, when a man stepped from a doorway and deliberately fired at him. This was the old gentleman's story told to half a dozen pedestrians who came running to the spot. He seemed rather dazed, as well he might be, at the sudden attack, and his a.s.sailant had disappeared. None of those who were first upon the scene saw him, and although there is no doubt that a revolver was fired, and that the gentleman's description of the a.s.sailant's position was so exact that the bullet was found embedded in a door on the opposite side of the street, the denouement casts some doubt on the story. Quite a small crowd had collected by the time the police arrived, and then the old gentleman was not to be found. In the excitement he had slipped away without any one seeing him go. We understand that the police theory is that there was no attempt at murder, but that the old gentleman, having fired a revolver for a lark, or perhaps for a wager, told a tale to save himself from the consequences of his folly, and then, seizing his opportunity, quietly slipped away. Those who were first upon the spot say his dazed condition may have been the result of too much to drink. We cannot say the explanation is altogether satisfactory to us."

"Well?" said Quarles when he saw I had finished.

"I agree with the writer of the paragraph," I answered. "The explanation is far from satisfactory. Such a story and such a smart disappearance do not suggest drunkenness."

"Perhaps not, although it is wonderful how Providence seems to watch over the drunken man. However, the elderly gentleman was not drunk and his story was strictly true. I was the elderly gentleman."

"You! And your a.s.sailant?"

Quarles got up and walked slowly to the window and back again.

"It was a very near thing, Wigan, and it has got on my nerves a bit. You know that I am held chiefly responsible for the solution of these robbery cases with which you have been busy lately. That belief is at the bottom of this attempt, I fancy. You remember the fellow who got off over the first affair. There was little doubt of his guilt, but you had insufficient evidence to bring it home to him. He was the man who fired at me last night."

"Had you no chance of capturing him?"

"No, and the moment I saw his face clearly by the light of a street lamp as he turned to run away, I made up my mind not to give information. I should have got away at once, only people were on the spot too quickly; so I told the simple truth, and slipped away at the first opportunity to avoid being recognized by the police. It was rather neatly done, I think."

"But I do not see why you should withhold information," I said.

"I didn't want my name mentioned in connection with the affair, and I did not want the man to know I had recognized him. I think there is bigger game to go for. All along I have believed that in these cases of yours there was a connecting-link, a subtle personality in the background. I believe you have only succeeded in bringing some of the tools to justice."

"And you want to get at the central scoundrel?"

"I must, or he will get at me. Without knowing it I have probably escaped other traps he has set. The fact that I am only your scapegoat does not alter the position. He means to have me if he can. We, or rather you, have come very near to unmasking him, I imagine, and his fear has made him desperate."

"What is to be done?"

"I want you to go very carefully through those cases, treating them as though they were all part of one problem. If necessary, you could get an interview with one or two of the men who are doing time. When a man is undergoing punishment, and believes that an equally guilty person has got off scot-free, he is likely to become communicative."

"All this will take time, and in the meanwhile--"

"I am chiefly concerned with the meanwhile," said Quarles, "and it happens rather fortunately that I have something to interest me and take my mind off the matter. These letters and pamphlets were sent to me a few days ago by Dr. Randall. You have heard of him, no doubt."

"I don't think so."

"He is a specialist in nervous diseases, so is naturally interested in psychological matters. An article of mine in a psychological review attracted his attention, and through a mutual friend--a barrister in the Temple--we were introduced last night. To-night I am dining with Randall at a little restaurant in Old Compton Street, and--well, I want you to come too, Wigan."

"But--"

"Oh, I can make it all right. I shall send him a note, asking if I can bring a friend who is much interested in these matters."

"But I am not, and directly I open my mouth I shall show my ignorance."

"Then obviously you must keep your mouth shut," said Quarles. "The fact is, Wigan, last night has got on my nerves. I am--I may as well be quite honest--I am a little afraid of going about alone. I want you to call for me and go with me."

"Of course I will. But surely, with your nerves on edge, it would be wiser to keep away from psychological problems. What is the particular problem?"

"Randall will explain to-night, and you must at least pretend to be interested. As regards my nerves, I can a.s.sure you this kind of thing is a relief after the other. I do not think I am a coward as a rule, but I am afraid of this unknown scoundrel. I have a presentiment that I am in very real danger."

"You probably exaggerate it," I said.

"Maybe. But I never ignore a strong presentiment, and I--I slept with a loaded revolver under my pillow last night, Wigan."

There was no doubt as to his nervous condition; he showed it in his restlessness, in his acute consciousness of sounds in the house and in the street. He expected to be brought suddenly face to face with danger, and was afraid he would not be ready to meet it.

He certainly was not himself. Zena had gone to stay with friends in the country for a few days, or I should have got her to persuade the old man to give up this psychological business--at least until he was in a normal condition again.

The restaurant, where we found Dr. Randall waiting for us, was one of those excellent little French places which cannot be beaten until they have become too successful and popular, when they almost invariably deteriorate. Randall said he was delighted the professor had brought me, and dinner was served at once at a cozy table in a corner.

"A patient of mine originally brought me here," said the doctor. "It is rather a discovery, I think, and personally I prefer dining where I am unlikely to come in contact with a lot of people I know. In recent years we have improved, of course; but in England we still eat, while in France they dine. Here we are practically in France."

Certainly more French was spoken than English, and the doctor spoke in French to the waiter. Quarles's nervousness, which had been apparent during the drive from Chelsea, disappeared as dinner progressed, and I did not suppose a stranger like Randall would notice it. He would probably form rather a wrong impression of the professor, would look upon him as a highly-strung man, and would not realize that he was not in a normal condition this evening. Randall carried his profession in his face, but for the time being his medical manner was laid aside; nor did he speak of the business which had brought us together until we had got to the coffee and liqueur stage.

"I suppose you read the papers I sent you, Professor?"

"Yes, but rather cursorily," Quarles answered. "I think if you told the whole story I should understand it better; besides, my friend here knows nothing of it, and will bring an unbiased mind to bear upon it."

"And may give us a new idea," said the doctor. "I don't know whether you are acquainted with Manleigh Road, Bayswater. There are about fifty houses in it--a terrace, in fact, on either side. The houses are sixty or seventy years old, I daresay, ugly but roomy, and some few years ago a lot of money was spent in bringing them up to date, putting in bath-rooms, modernizing them, and redecorating them thoroughly. In spite of this, however, they have not attracted the kind of tenant they were intended for. Many of them have apartments to let. The house we have to do with is No. 7. The even numbers are on one side of the road, the odd on the other. No. 5 is a boarding-house of a very respectable kind, frequented by young fellows in business chiefly. No. 9 is occupied by a man who, after retiring from business comparatively wealthy, had financial losses. His four daughters have had to go out and work. I mention these facts to show that the surroundings are entirely commonplace. The owner of No. 7 went abroad some years ago, owing to the death of his wife, I understand, and left the house in the hands of an agent. It was to be let furnished, but, except for a caretaker, it remained empty for several months. It was then taken by a newly-married couple. They could not remain in it. The house was haunted, they said, and I believe the agent threatened them with legal proceedings if they spread such an absurd report. He seemed to think they said so only to repudiate their bargain. It was then let to a man named Greaves, about whom nothing was known. He paid the rent in advance, and lived there alone with a housekeeper and a young servant. One morning he was found dead in his bed, in the large room on the first floor at the back. A piece of cord was fastened tightly round his neck. There seemed little doubt that he had committed suicide, for when he did not come down to breakfast the housekeeper went to his room and found the door locked on the inside. It had to be broken open. Perhaps you heard of the case?"

Quarles shook his head.

"Well, the door was locked on the inside, the window was shut and fastened, there was no sign that any one had entered the room, and nothing was missing. Foul play was out of the question, but the doctor who was called in was troubled about the affair. It was from him that I had these particulars. Dr. Bates had become acquainted--not professionally, I believe--with the young couple who had lived in the house for a time, and they had told him the place was haunted. In bringing his judgment to bear upon Greaves' death, it is only right to remember that his mind had received a bias."

"I take it he did not believe it was a case of suicide," said Quarles.

"His reason told him it must be, yet something beyond reason told him it wasn't."

"He thought it was murder?" I asked.

"No, not ordinary murder," Randall answered. "He thought it was a supernatural death."

"I have read the letter he wrote to you; there is nothing very definite in it," said Quarles.

"It was his indefinite state of mind which caused him to relate the whole story to me. When the police failed to make any discovery, he thought some one interested in psychological research might solve the mystery."

"What, exactly, were the experiences of this young couple?" I asked.

"Chiefly noises, footsteps echoing through a silent house. Once the shadow of a man, or so it seemed, was thrown suddenly upon the wall by a ray of moonlight, and once the curtains and sheets of a bed were found torn, as if hands, finding nothing else to destroy, had taken vengeance upon them. Of course, this all comes second-hand from Dr. Bates."

"And is probably unconsciously exaggerated," said Quarles. "The ordinary man is almost certain to overstate and to emphasize unduly one part of the evidence."

"That was my feeling exactly," returned Randall, "so I spent a night in that haunted room myself. The result was disappointing."

"Did nothing happen?" I asked.