CHAPTER XLV.
DR. PETERSSEN IS TRACKED
The name of the visitor I expected, and who hopped up the stairs which led to my chambers half an hour after I entered them, was Bob Tucker. He is a friend of mine, with plenty of money at command, and has no need to work for a living; but he has a fad, if I may so express it. This fad lay in the detective line, and to give him a job in that direction was to bestow a favor upon him. He entered upon it con amore, and pursued it with a zest never to be found in the professional, who works by the job, or the hour, or the day. He has often said to me that if he were to lose his money he would start an office of his own and lead a jolly life. Whether that meant a jolly life to others is a doubtful point. Anyway, he is an enthusiastic young fellow of about six and twenty, and is never so happy as when he can adopt a disguise and hunt something or somebody down. He objects to be called Robert, which he insists is not his proper name. He distinctly remembers, he avers, being christened Bob, so Bob Tucker he is to all his friends. So far as I am personally concerned, this is convenient to me, my name being Robert, which I prefer to Bob.
I had foreseen the likelihood of the failure of the search upon which I had entered with Emilia, and the surer arrow in my quiver to which I referred when I spoke to Emilia about returning to London was Dr. Peterssen. It was my intention, if all else failed, to break a lance with him, directly or indirectly, and with this object in view I had instructed Bob Tucker to find out where he lived, what kind of establishment he kept, what his neighbors thought of him, the character he bore, and, in short, anything and everything about his establishment which could possibly be learned. Bob was delighted with the task, and undertook it eagerly.
"Does he live in London?" he asked.
"Don't know," I answered.
This increased Bob's delight, and he said he would show me something when he made report to me. Of course I told him all I knew of the man, and that he had charge of at least one patient who was not in his right mind.
"Well, Bob?" I said, on this evening.
"Give me a drink first," was Bob's rejoinder.
I gave him one, and took one myself. We clinked our glasses and emptied them. Then Bob lit a cigar, and so did I.
"Ready?" said he.
"Quite ready," said I.
"Keeps a private madhouse," said Bob.
"Queen Anne's dead," said I.
"Has more than one patient."
"Has three. A man, or gentleman, and two children."
"Children?"
"Children. Prefers them. Less trouble. Besides, longer expectations with young 'uns. More time for them to grow old."
"True," said I. It will be observed that it was a speciality of Bob's to speak in short sentences.
"Man, or gentleman," continued Bob, "harmless. Gentle as a dove. Greengrocer's boy told me. Sees him sometimes. In the grounds. Pities him."
"How old is this poor gentleman, Bob?"
"Forty, perhaps. Forty-five, perhaps. Not more than fifty at the outside. Hair quite gray, but youngish face."
"Where is this private madhouse, Bob?"
"Sheldon. Forty-three miles from London. Population seven hundred and thirty. Two beerhouses. Shut at ten."
"Has the establishment a name?"
"Tylney House. Enclosed. Stone wall all round it. Easy to get over in one part. All the other parts, broken glass at top."
"Character?"
"Difficult to get at. Population has no opinions. I should say, damned scoundrel."
"Why should you say so?"
"Impression."
"Is Dr. Peterssen always at home?"
"Seldom. Away for days together. Comes back. Stops for a day and a night. Goes away again next morning."
"Who takes care of Tylney House in his absence?"
"Keeper, with only one idea. Liquor."
"Does he take it at the beershops?"
"No. Private stock. Keeps a dog. Savage."
"Is anyone admitted to the house?"
"No admittance except on business."
"Do many people go there upon business?"
"None. House like a prison."
"Is it a large house, Bob?"
"Largish. Room for more."
"More patients?"
"Yes."
"Look here, Bob. I want to tackle this Dr. Peterssen in some way as yet unthought of, but before I do so I should like to make sure of a certain point. How is it to be done?"
"Don't understand you."
"Well, this is how it is. I am morally convinced he has something in his house to which he has no claim, and which I would pay a good price to get hold of."
"Property?"
"Yes."
"Portable?"
"Yes."
"Any objection to say what it is?"
"We're tiled in, Bob?"
"Honor bright and shining. Unless you give consent, not to be mentioned outside this room."
"Thank you, Bob. The property is a desk."
"Buy it of him. My opinion he would sell anything. His own mother if he had one."
"He would not dare to sell it. He would deny that he had ever seen it."
"Might bring him into trouble?"
"Yes. There are a lot of things hanging to the possession of this desk."
"Spirit it away."
"How?"
"Get a patient in-a friendly patient. A child for choice. A sharp one it would have to be."
"By Jove, Bob, you put an idea into my head."
"Glad to hear it. Act on it."
"You wouldn't mind assisting me?"
"Anything in my power."
"You are a trump. But you have been making personal inquiries in the village. If you went down again-supposing you consent to do what I want-you would be recognized."
"Not at all. Disguise. I'd take Old Nick himself in, much less Dr. Peterssen and a parcel of clod-hoppers." (This was a long sentence for Bob.) "Try me."
"Supposing I could find such a friendly patient-a smart little girl who knows her way about-would you go down and arrange that she should be taken care of in Tylney House?"
"Delighted."
"You've not heard of any cruelties being practised there?"
"No. Besides, I should be on the spot. Could arrange a system of signals. Piece of white paper, with a stone in it, thrown over wall. All's well. Piece of blue paper, with a stone in it, thrown over wall. Getting frightened. Come and take me away. No paper at all thrown over wall. Ring the bell and demand to see friendly patient."
"Bob, you're a genius."
"Thanks. When shall it be?"
"Come and see me to-morrow at one."
"I shall be here; to the minute."
He gave me a wink, and after another drink took his departure. He would have stopped longer had I not told him that I had business of importance to attend to, to which he responded, "A wink's as good as a nod," and hastened to say good-night.
The idea he had put into my head was that he should take Sophy down to Sheldon as a relative of his own, and arrange for her admission to Tylney House, and the desk I wished to get hold of was the Indian desk of sandalwood, inlaid with silver, which Mrs. Middlemore had informed me was in M. Felix's apartment on the morning of the 16th of January, but which was not there when we searched the rooms a couple of days after. The housekeeper was positive that she saw it on the 16th, and was almost as positive that the police had not removed it. If not they, who? Why, Dr. Peterssen in his interview with M. Felix, on the night of the 16th, leaving behind him the snake-shaped dagger which M. Felix had thrown at Emilia a few minutes later. Emilia had repeated to me Gerald's words to her with reference to this desk, during their honeymoon in Switzerland-"There is a secret drawer in this desk, Emilia, and in the desk something which concerns you nearly." What if this should mean the copy of the marriage certificate? In my mind I set it down as meaning it, and I thought, also, that there was a fair chance of finding it in the desk even at this length of time. The secret drawer was known to Gerald; Emilia, who had used the desk, was not aware of this secret drawer until Gerald spoke of it. It might be that Gerald's brother did not know of it, and that it had remained all these years undiscovered. Granted that the chance was a slender one, still it should not be neglected. I had no compunction in enlisting Sophy in the plan I had devised. My moral sense was not blunted, and I felt myself perfectly justified in fighting Dr. Peterssen with his own weapons. Before I sought Sophy I thought it necessary to have a few private words with Emilia, and I drove at once to my mother's house for that purpose.
"I can stop only five minutes," I said, in excuse of my hurried arrival and departure; "I have a hundred things to attend to to-night." I beckoned to Emilia, and she followed me to an unoccupied room. "I wish you," I said to her, "to bend your mind most earnestly on the night of the 16th of last month. Don't tremble; there is nothing to be frightened at; I am hard at work in your interests, and I am full of hope. Are you quite calm?" She nodded, and I continued. "You saw Dr. Peterssen go into the house in Gerard Street; you saw him come out of it. When he went in did he carry a parcel with him?"
"No."
"You are sure of it?"
"I am sure I should have noticed it. I had perfect control over myself, and nothing escaped my attention."
"When he came out of the house did he have a parcel with him?"
"Yes, now you mention it, I remember that he did. I attached no importance to it at the time, my mind being bent upon my own errand."
"That is all I wish to know at present. Keep a stout heart. All may yet be well."
So, with a bright smile, I left her, and bade the cabman drive to Gerard Street, Soho.
CHAPTER XLVI.
I ENTER INTO AN ARRANGEMENT WITH SOPHY
At the corner of the street I dismissed the cab, and hurried after a familiar figure. It was Sophy, who seemed to be literally flying along the pavement, now on one leg, now on the other, and had she not suddenly wheeled round in my direction I should have had to run at the top of my speed to catch her. Seeing me she pulled up, and, with her face scarlet with excitement, greeted me boisterously.
"Why, what on earth are you doing, Sophy?" I asked, laughing and wondering at her.
She lifted her feet, one after another, for my inspection; she was skating on wheels.
"I'm the champion skater," she said, triumphantly; "I shall git a turn at the music halls before long. Look 'ere; I can beat the lot of 'em."
Away she flew with marvellous swiftness for a space of fifty yards or so, then wheeled round and round and reached my side by executing a series of circles in the cleverest manner possible. I have no doubt that there are technical terms to describe her feats, but I am not acquainted with them.
"There!" she cried. "What do you think of that?"
"You'll break your neck if you don't mind," I said.
"Break my neck!" she exclaimed. "Not me! That's nothink to what I can show yer. I am glad to see yer back, I am? Aunty sed you'd give us up. 'Not 'im,' sed I; 'he ain't one of the giving-up sort.' You look tired out; ain't yer been well?"
"Quite well, Sophy, but, like you, very busy. Is your aunt at home?"
"Yes," said Sophy, bursting into a fit of laughter; "she's down in the kitching, with a pore man's plaster on 'er side. I got 'er to put on the roller-skates-leastways I put 'em on for 'er-and the minute she stood up in 'em she toppled over and fell agin the dresser. She ain't 'urt much, but she likes to make a lot of a little. I'm all over bruises, I am, but I don't fuss over 'em."
"You shouldn't play tricks on her," I said gravely; "she has been a good friend to you."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Sophy, with a rebellious toss of her head. "She makes me pay for it, nagging at me morning, noon, and night. But there, I ain't going to say nothink agin 'er. She's got a temper, and so 'ave I."
"She has been greatly worried, Sophy; you must be gentle with her."
"I'll do anythink you tell me; you don't bully a gal, you don't. If you told me to go and jump off the top of the Monument I'd do it-yes, I would, though you mightn't believe me."
"I shall not ask you to do anything so stupid, but you can render me a service, if you have the will and the pluck."
"Can I?" she exclaimed, eagerly. "I ain't much to look at, but I've got the pluck of a big 'un. Only you tell me what it is."
"It will first depend upon whether your aunt can spare you. We will go in and see her."
"She'll 'ave to spare me, and if she don't like it she may lump it. Now I know yer want me, I ain't going to let yer off."
"You appear anxious to serve me, Sophy."
"I'm going to serve yer," she said, with emphatic nods. "There's nothink mean about you. When a gent makes a promise he sticks to it."
"A promise, Sophy!"
"Didn't yer promise yer'd give me somethink to do for yer-and didn't yer say jest now it depends upon whether I've got the pluck to do it? That settles it. I've got the pluck, and the thing's as good as done. Nobody in all the world 'as been as good to me as you've been, and it ain't likely I shall ever forgit it. You'll see. One day when I'm Somebody," and here the grateful girl gyrated round me gently, and really with grace-"yer'll be proud of 'elping me on, and then I'll show yer I can remember."
"Your aunt can't be left alone," I said, after a moment's consideration. "Do you know of any girl or woman who would take your place here while you are away for a week or two?"
"I know twenty that'll be glad of the job. I'm to go away, am I?" Her eyes glittered at the prospect of an adventure. "I'm ready this minute Where to?"
"I'll tell you all about it after I've spoken with your aunt. It isn't an easy task I shall set you, Sophy."
"The 'arder it is the better I shall like it."
"Do you think you could play a part?" I asked.
"On the stage?" she cried, eagerly.
"No; off the stage."
"On or off," she said, with a shade of disappointment, "it don't matter. I'm game for anythink. Let's git aunty settled fust."
Sophy, being now provided with a latch-key, opened the street door, and taking off her roller skates in the passage, preceded me down-stairs. Mrs. Middlemore was darning stockings, and seemed cheerful enough, but when she looked up and saw us her face assumed a colorless expression, and she pressed her hand to her side. Sophy winked at me, and said, in a whisper, "She's putting of it on; she ain't 'urt a bit, no more than you are."
"Oh, good evening, sir," said Mrs. Middlemore, mournfully. "What are yer whispering about, Sophy?"
"Only telling the gent," replied the unblushing girl, "not to speak too loud, 'cause of yer nerves, aunty."
"It's all Sophy's doings, sir," moaned Mrs. Middlemore. "She made me put on a pair of rollers that's going to break 'er legs afore she's done with 'em. She's a double 'andful, sir; I can't manage 'er."
"She has told me of the accident," I said, "and is very sorry for it. Sophy means well, Mrs. Middlemore."
"I won't dispute with you, sir, but she'll be the death of me if she goes on as she's a-doing of now. You've been away a long time, sir."
"Not so very long; I had important business in the country to attend to. Nothing has happened, except your accident, during my absence, I suppose?"
"Nothink as I can think of, sir."
"No more visitors in disguise; no more false summonses to the police court?"
"No, sir-only I've got my fancies."
"What kind of fancies?"
Mrs. Middlemore looked timorously around, and Sophy answered for her. "There's a sperrit in the 'ouse, she ses. She 'ears it moving about, and she's ready to swear in the middle of the night that it's a-standing at the foot of the bed."
"Do you also hear and see it, Sophy?" I asked.
"Not me," replied Sophy, contemptuously. "It's a wide-awake sperrit, and makes itself scarce when I'm about."
"Ah, well," I said, "there's no accounting for fancies. Let us get to business, Mrs. Middlemore. I intend to rob you of Sophy for a little while."
"Rob me of Sophy, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore. "What on earth am I to do without 'er?"
"Oh, you will get along very well without her-"
"But you don't know what a 'elp she is to me, and 'ow good she's been. I've got that fond of 'er that I don't like 'er to be out of my sight. You're joking, sir, ain't yer?"
"Not at all," said I, smiling at this sudden display of affection. "I have something for Sophy to do, and if she undertakes it she will get well paid for the job."
"Never mind about my being paid for it," interposed Sophy; "I'm going to do it, whatever it is."
"And leave me 'ere all alone!" whimpered Mrs. Middlemore.
"You will not be alone. The first thing in the morning a girl shall be engaged to keep in the house with you, and I will pay her wages; and you shall have an allowance while Sophy's away. Remember what I have done for you, and don't make any further objections."
"I'm sure you've been very good, sir," said Mrs. Middlemore, her trouble lessened by the prospect of gain; the virtues of golden ointment are not to be excelled. "Might I take the liberty of arksing whether it's got anythink to do with Mr. Felix?"
"I cannot answer you," I said. "What Sophy will do will be a secret between her and me for the present. By and by, perhaps, she will tell you all about it."
"You've got a way with you, sir, that nobody can't resist. You'll come back to me, Sophy?"
"Course I will, aunty," said the girl, "when the job's done."
"And now, Sophy," I said "if you will come upstairs with me we will have a little chat. Then you can decide."
"I've decided already," said Sophy, and she followed me to the sitting-room which had been occupied by M. Felix.
Everything apparently was the same as on the night of the disappearance of M. Felix's body. I was aware of only one article which was missing after Dr. Peterssen's visit to the house, and that was the revolver which M. Felix kept under his pillow. I had no doubt in my mind that Dr. Peterssen had taken advantage of his being alone in the house, on the occasion of Mrs. Middlemore's unnecessary visit to the Bow Street Police Station, to appropriate other articles, but only the revolver and the desk-which he had taken away on the night of his interview with M. Felix-were within my knowledge. It is true that even this knowledge was gained by means of circumstantial evidence which would scarcely have been admitted in a court of law, but I was quite satisfied on the point, and I had the strongest moral conviction that time would prove the correctness of my conclusions.
"Sit down, Sophy," I said, "and think of nothing else but what I am about to say to you."
"I'm a-doing of it," said Sophy, with a look of absolute concentration that strengthened my confidence in her, and spoke volumes in favor of her being, as she hoped, somebody one day.
"You remember the day on which your aunt was sent to Bow Street Police Court by a man whom she left in the house alone?"
"Yes, I do."
"You said you saw the man. Would you know him again?"
"I'd swear to 'im."
"On the night that Mr. Felix's body disappeared you were the only person in the house who knew anything at all of the matter. You behaved like a little heroine on that occasion, Sophy."
"That's something good, ain't it?"
"Something very good. There is no possibility, I suppose, of your being able to give me a description of the man who, by some strange means, got into the house on that night?"
"I can't tell you nothink more about 'im. It was in the dark, yer know, and when he spoke it was under 'is breath."
"The question was an idle one, but I was bound to ask it. It may or may not have been the same man who deceived your aunt. Sophy, the man you saw and can swear to is an infernal scoundrel, and I look upon him as my enemy."
"That's enough for me; he's mine, too, and I'm 'is."
"You can keep a secret, Sophy."
"You tell me one, and wild 'orses sha'n't tear it from me."
"You are a faithful little soul, and I put great trust in you. Everything I am saying to you is a secret."
"That's enough," said Sophy, touching her lips with her fingers. "Red 'ot pinches shouldn't git it out of me."
"The man you saw was in this house, to my certain knowledge, once before-while M. Felix was alive. Your aunt did not know it; M. Felix opened the street door for him. It was the night M. Felix was found dead, and when the man went away he took a desk with him that belonged to M. Felix."
Sophy nodded. "Aunty's spoke to me about that desk. She never could make out, she ses, what 'd become of it."
"I will describe it to you, Sophy." I did so, and she listened attentively, nodding from time to time with surprising intelligence. "If you happen to see this desk in the possession of the man whom I look upon as my enemy, do you think you could identify it?"
"Know it again? Yes, I should. But 'ow am I to git to the man?"
"I have thought of a plan, or rather a friend of mine has, which requires courage to carry it out successfully. It requires something more than courage; without great good sense and coolness the plan would fail. The question is whether you possess those qualities."
"It ain't no question at all; I've got what you want, and can do what you want."
"There is something in the desk, Sophy, that is of the utmost importance to me."
"And I'm to git it for yer. All right. Smuggle me into the 'ouse, and consider it done."
"But you don't know what kind of a place it is, my girl. It's a private madhouse." Sophy did not blench; she simply nodded, and fixed her large brown eyes on my face. "The man's name," I continued, "is Peterssen, Dr. Peterssen. If he wanted a young girl as a servant you should apply for the situation, but I don't think there is a vacancy in his establishment. He is ready to take more patients, though, and he likes young patients better than old ones."
"You're going to put me in there as a mad gal," cried Sophy, in a tone of irrepressible excitement, which lasted, however, only for a moment. She cooled down instantly, and said in her usual tone, "Crikey! That's a good move. I'm game! It's a good part to play, and no mistake."
"You'll do it, then?"
"Do it? Won't I do it? Why, I never thought I'd 'ave sech a chance."
"You will have to be respectably dressed, Sophy, hands and face nice and clean, and hair very tidy. How long in the morning will it take you to do that?"
"You git me the clothes and I won't keep yer waiting. I'll give myself a good scrub to-night."
"I've only one fear for you," I said, "which you won't mind my mentioning. Going as a girl in a respectable position, your language might draw suspicion upon you. I can't see a way out of that difficulty."
"I can," said Sophy, with a merry twinkle. "Why should I speak at all? Let me go as a dumb gal. It'll be more than ever they can manage to git a word out of me if I was there for a year."
I looked at her admiringly. Her sharp wits had solved a problem which had greatly perplexed me.
"You are sure you will not be afraid, Sophy?"
"Not a bit afraid; I shall enjoy it. It'll be a reg'lar game."
"Very well, then. You can sleep upon it to-night, and if you alter your mind you can let me know. I shall sleep here myself, and shall be up early in the morning. There will be a great deal to do, and no time must be lost. Goodnight. Say nothing to your aunt."
She nodded smilingly, bade me good-night, and left me to my reflections.