CHAPTER VII
A RED-HAIRED WOMAN!
I bent over the corpse and touched the forehead tentatively with my finger-tips. It was stone cold. The man must have been dead many hours.
“Come on; we must send for the police; pull yourself together, man!” I said to Jenkins, who seemed half-paralyzed with fear and horror.
We squeezed back through the small opening, and I gently closed the door, and gripping Jenkins by the arm, marched him down the stairs to my rooms. He was trembling like a leaf, and scarcely able to stand alone.
“We’ve never had such a thing happen before,” he kept mumbling helplessly, over and over again.
I bade him have some whiskey, if he could find any, and remain there to keep an eye on the staircase, while I went across to Scotland Yard; for, through some inexplicable pig-headedness on the part of the police authorities, not even the headquarters was on the telephone.
The Abbey bells were ringing for afternoon service, and there were many people about, churchgoers and holiday makers in their Sunday clothes. The contrast between the sunny streets, with their cheerful crowds, and the silent sinister tragedy of the scene I had just left struck me forcibly.
If I had sent Jenkins on the errand, I guess he would have created quite a sensation. That is why I went myself; and I doubt if any one saw anything unusual about me, as I threaded my way quietly through the throng at Whitehall corner, where the ’buses stop to take up passengers.
A minute or two later I was in an inspector’s room at “the Yard,” giving my information to a little man who heard me out almost in silence, watching me keenly the while.
I imagine that I appeared quite calm. I could hear my own voice stating the bald facts succinctly, but, to my ears, it sounded like the voice of some one else, for it was with a great effort that I retained my composure. I knew that this strange and terrible event which I had been the one to discover was only another link in the chain of circumstances, which, so far as my knowledge went, began less than twenty-four hours ago; a chain that threatened to fetter me, or the girl I loved. For my own safety I cared nothing. My one thought was to protect Anne, who must be, either fortuitously, or of her own will, involved in this tangled web of intrigue.
I should, of course, be subjected to cross-examination, and, on my way to Scotland Yard, I had decided just what I meant to reveal. I would have to relate how I encountered the old Russian, when he mistook my flat for Cassavetti’s; but of the portrait in his possession, of our subsequent interview, and of the incident of the river steps, I would say nothing.
For the present I merely stated how Jenkins and I had discovered the fact that a murder had been committed.
“I dined in company with Mr. Cassavetti last night,” I continued. “But before that – ”
I was going to mention the mysterious Russian; but my auditor checked me.
“Half a minute, Mr. Wynn,” he said, as he filled in some words on a form, and handed it to a police officer waiting inside the door. The man took the paper, saluted, and went out.
“I gather that you did not search the rooms? That when you found the man lying dead there, you simply came out and left everything as it was?”
“Yes. I saw at once we could do nothing; the poor fellow was cold and rigid.”
I felt that I spoke dully, mechanically; but the horror of the thing was so strongly upon me, that, if I had relaxed the self-restraint I was exerting, I think I should have collapsed altogether. This business-like little official, who had received the news that a murder had been committed as calmly as if I had merely told him some one had tried to pick my pocket, could not imagine and must not suspect the significance this ghastly discovery held for me, or the maddening conjectures that were flashing across my mind.
“I wish every one would act as sensibly; it would save us a lot of trouble;” he remarked, closing his note-book, and stowing it, and his fountain pen, in his breast-pocket. “I will return with you now; my men will be there before we are, and the divisional surgeon won’t be long after us.”
I pulled out my keys, but, for all the self-control I thought I was maintaining, my hand trembled so I could not fit the latch-key into the lock.
“Allow me,” said my companion, and took the bunch out of my shaking hand, just as the door was opened from within by a constable who had stationed himself in the lobby.
On the top landing we overtook another constable, and two plain-clothes officers, to whom Jenkins was volubly asserting his belief that it was none other than the assassin who had left the door open in the night.
The minute investigation that followed revealed several significant facts. One was that the assassin must have been in the rooms for some considerable time before Cassavetti returned, – to be struck down the instant he entered. The position of the body, just behind the door, proved that. Also he was still wearing his thin Inverness, and his hat had rolled to a corner of the little hall. He had not even had time to replace his keys in his trousers pocket; they dangled loosely from their chain, and jingled as the body was lifted and moved to the inner room.
The rooms were in great disorder, and had been subjected to an exhaustive search; even the books had been tumbled out of their shelves and thrown on the floor. But ordinary robbery was evidently not the motive, for there were several articles of value scattered about the room; nor had the body been rifled. Cassavetti wore a valuable diamond ring, which was still on his finger, as his gold watch was still in his breast-pocket; it had stopped at ten minutes to twelve.
“Run down, so that shows nothing,” the detective remarked, as he opened it and looked at the works. “Do you know if your friend carried a pocket-book, Mr. Wynn? He did? Then that’s the only thing missing. It was papers they were after, and I presume they got ’em!”
That was obvious enough, for not a scrap of written matter was discovered, nor the weapon with which the crime was committed.
“It’s a fairly straightforward case,” Inspector Freeman said complacently, later, when the gruesome business was over, and the body removed to the mortuary. “A political affair, of course; the man was a Russian revolutionary – we used to call ’em Nihilists a few years ago – and his name was no more Cassavetti than mine is! Now, Mr. Wynn, you told me you knew him, and dined with him last night. Do you care to give me any particulars, or would you prefer to keep them till you give evidence at the inquest?”
“I’ll give them you now, of course,” I answered promptly. “I can’t attend the inquest, for I’m leaving England to-morrow morning.”
“Then you’ll have to postpone your journey,” he said dryly. “For you’re bound to attend the inquest; you’ll be the most important witness. May I ask where you were going?”
I told him, and he nodded.
“So you’re one of Lord Southbourne’s young men? Thought I knew your face, but couldn’t quite place you,” he responded. “Hope you won’t meet with the same fate as your predecessor. A sad affair, that; we got the news on Friday. Sounds like much the same sort of thing as this” – he jerked his head towards the ceiling – “except that Mr. Carson was an Englishman, who never ought to have mixed himself up with a lot like that.”
Again came that expressive jerk of the head, and his small bright eyes regarded me more shrewdly and observantly than ever.
“Let me give you a word of warning, Mr. Wynn; don’t you follow his example. Remember Russia’s not England – ”
“I know. I’ve been there before. Besides, my chief warned me last night.”
“Lord Southbourne? Just so; he knows a thing or two. Well, now about Cassavetti – ”
I was glad enough to get back to the point; it was he and not I who had strayed from it, for I was anxious to get rid of him.
I gave him just the information I had decided upon, and flattered myself that I did it with a candor that precluded even him from suspecting that I was keeping anything back. To my immense relief he refrained from any questioning, and at the end of my recital put up his pocket-book, and rose, holding out his hand.
“Well, you’ve given me very valuable assistance, Mr. Wynn. Queer old card, that Russian. We shouldn’t have much difficulty in tracing him, though you never can tell with these aliens. They’ve as many bolt holes as a rat. You say he’s the only suspicious looking visitor you’ve ever seen here?”
“The only one of any kind I’ve encountered who wanted Cassavetti. After all, I knew very little of him, and though we were such near neighbors, I saw him far more often about town than here.”
“You never by any chance saw a lady going up to his rooms, or on the staircase as if she might be going up there? A red-haired woman, – or fair-haired, anyhow – well-dressed?”
“Never!” I said emphatically, and with truth. “Why do you ask?”
“Because there was a red-haired woman in his flat last night. That’s all. Good day, Mr. Wynn.”
CHAPTER VIII
A TIMELY WARNING
It was rather late that evening when I returned to the Cayleys; for I had to go to the office, and write my report of the murder. It would be a scoop for the “Courier;” for, though the other papers might get hold of the bare facts, the details of the thrilling story I constructed were naturally exclusive. I made it pretty lurid, and put in all I had told Freeman, and that I intended to repeat at the inquest.
The news editor was exultant. He regarded a Sunday murder as nothing short of a godsend to enliven the almost inevitable dulness of the Monday morning’s issue at this time of year.
“Lucky you weren’t out of town, Wynn, or we should have missed this, and had to run in with the rest,” he remarked with a chuckle.
Lucky!
“Wish I had been out of town,” I said gloomily. “It’s a ghastly affair.”
“Get out! Ghastly!” he ejaculated with scorn. “Nothing’s ghastly to a journalist, so long as it’s good copy! You ought to have forgotten you ever possessed any nerves, long ago. Must say you look a bit off color, though. Have a drink?”
I declined with thanks. His idea of a drink in office hours, was, as I knew, some vile whiskey fetched from the nearest “pub,” diluted with warm, flat soda, and innocent of ice. I’d wait till I got to Chelsea, where I was bound to happen on something drinkable. As a good American, Mary scored off the ordinary British housewife, who preserves a fixed idea that ice is a sinful luxury, even during a spell of sultry summer weather in London.
I drove from the office to Chelsea, and found Mary and Jim, with two or three others, sitting in the garden. The house was one of the few old-fashioned ones left in that suburb, redolent of many memories and associations of witty and famous folk, from Nell Gwynn to Thomas Carlyle; and Mary was quite proud of her garden, though it consisted merely of a small lawn and some fine old trees that shut off the neighboring houses.
“At last! You very bad boy. We expected you to tea,” said Mary, as I came down the steps of the little piazza outside the drawing-room windows. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been packing all this time? Why, goodness, Maurice; you look worse than you did this morning! You haven’t been committing a murder, have you?”
“No, but I’ve been discovering one,” I said lamely, as I dropped into a wicker chair.
“A murder! How thrilling. Do tell us all about it,” cried a pretty, kittenish little woman whose name I did not know. Strange how some women have an absolutely ghoulish taste for horrors!
“Give him a chance, Mrs. Vereker,” interposed Jim hastily, with his accustomed good nature. “He hasn’t had a drink yet. Moselle cup, Maurice, or a long peg?”
He brought me a tall tumbler of whiskey and soda, with ice clinking deliciously in it; and I drank it and felt better.
“That’s good,” I remarked. “I haven’t had anything since I breakfasted with you, – forgot all about it till now. You see I happened to find the poor chap – Cassavetti – when I ran up to say good-bye to him.”
“Cassavetti!” cried Jim and Mary simultaneously, and Mary added: “Why, that was the man who sat next us – next Anne – at dinner last night, wasn’t it? The man the old Russian you told us about came to see?”
I nodded.
“The police are after him now; though the old chap seemed harmless enough, and didn’t look as if he’d the physical strength to murder any one,” I said, and related my story to a running accompaniment of exclamations from the feminine portion of my audience, especially Mrs. Vereker, who evinced an unholy desire to hear all the most gruesome details.
Jim sat smoking and listening almost in silence, his jolly face unusually grave.
“This stops your journey, of course, Maurice?” he said at length; and I thought he looked at me curiously. Certainly as I met his eyes he avoided my gaze as if in embarrassment; and I felt hot and cold by turns, wondering if he had divined the suspicion that was torturing me – suspicion that was all but certainty – that Anne Pendennis was intimately involved in the grim affair. He had always distrusted her.
“For a day or two only. Even if the inquest is adjourned, I don’t suppose I’ll have to stop for the further hearing,” I answered, affecting an indifference I was very far from feeling.
“Then you won’t be seeing Anne as soon as you anticipated,” Mary remarked. “I must write to her to-morrow. She’ll be so shocked.”
“Did Miss Pendennis know this Mr. Cassavetti?” inquired Mrs. Vereker.
“We met him at the dinner last night for the first time. Jim and Maurice knew him before, of course. He seemed a very fascinating sort of man.”
“Where is Miss Pendennis, by the way?” pursued the insatiable little questioner. “I was just going to ask for her when Mr. Wynn turned up with his news.”
“Didn’t I tell you? She left for Berlin this morning; her father’s ill. She had to rush to get away.”
“To rush! I should think so,” exclaimed Mrs. Vereker. “Why, she was at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s last night; though I only caught a glimpse of her. She left so early; I suppose that was why – ”
I stumbled to my feet, feeling sick and dizzy, and upset the little table with my glass that Jim had placed at my elbow.
“Sorry, Mary, I’m always a clumsy beggar,” I said, forcing a laugh. “I’ll ask you to excuse me. I must get back to the office. I’ve to see Lord Southbourne when he returns. He’s been out motoring all day.”
“Oh, but you’ll come back here and sleep,” Mary protested. “You can’t go back to that horrible flat – ”
“Nonsense!” I said almost roughly. “There’s nothing wrong with the flat. Do you suppose I’m a child or a woman?”
She ignored my rudeness.
“You look very bad, Maurice,” she responded, almost in a whisper, as we moved towards the house. I was acutely conscious that the others were watching my retreat; especially that inquisitive little Vereker woman, whom I was beginning to hate. When we entered the dusk of the drawing-room, out of range of those curious eyes, I turned on my cousin.
“Mary – for God’s sake – don’t let that woman – or any one else, speak of – Anne – in connection with Cassavetti,” I said, in a hoarse undertone.
“Anne! Why, what on earth do you mean?” she faltered.
“He doesn’t mean anything, except that he’s considerably upset,” said Jim’s hearty voice, close at hand. He had followed us in from the garden. “You go back to your guests, little woman, and make ’em talk about anything in the world except this murder affair. Try frocks and frills; when Amy Vereker starts on them there’s no stopping her; and if they won’t serve, try palmistry and spooks and all that rubbish. Leave Maurice to me. He’s faint with hunger, and inclined to make an ass of himself even more than usual! Off with you!”
Mary made a queer little sound, that was half a sob, half a laugh.
“All right; I’ll obey orders for once, you dear, wise old Jim. Make him come back to-night, though.”
She moved away, a slender ghostlike little figure in her white gown; and Jim laid a heavy, kindly hand on my shoulder.
“Buck up, Maurice; come along to the dining-room and feed, and then tell me all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I persisted. “But I guess you’re right, and hunger’s what’s wrong with me.”
I managed to make a good meal – I was desperately hungry now I came to think of it – and Jim waited on me solicitously. He seemed somehow relieved that I manifested a keen appetite.
“That’s better,” he said, as I declined cheese, and lighted a cigarette. “‘When in difficulties have a square meal before you tackle ’em; that’s my maxim, – original, and worth its weight in gold. I give it you for nothing. Now about this affair; it’s more like a melodrama than a tragedy. You know, or suspect, that Anne Pendennis is mixed up in it?”
“I neither know nor suspect any such thing,” I said deliberately. I had recovered my self-possession, and the lie, I knew, sounded like truth, or would have done so to any one but Jim Cayley.
“Then your manner just now was inexplicable,” he retorted quietly. “Now, just hear me out, Maurice; it’s no use trying to bluff me. You think I am prejudiced against this girl. Well, I’m not. I’ve always acknowledged that she’s handsome and fascinating to a degree, though, as I told you once before, she’s a coquette to her finger-tips. That’s one of her characteristics, that she can’t be held responsible for, any more than she can help the color of her hair, which is natural and not touched up, like Amy Vereker’s, for instance! Besides, Mary loves her; and that’s a sufficient proof, to me, that she is ‘O. K.’ in one way. You love her, too; but men are proverbially fools where a handsome woman is concerned.”
“What are you driving at, Jim?” I asked. At any other time I would have resented his homily, as I had done before, but now I wanted to find out how much he knew.
“A timely warning, my boy. I suspect, and you know, or I’m very much mistaken, that Anne Pendennis had some connection with this man who is murdered. She pretended last night that she had never met him before; but she had, – there was a secret understanding between them. I saw that, and so did you; and I saw, too, that her treatment of you was a mere ruse, though Heaven knows why she employed it! I can’t attempt to fathom her motive. I believe she loves you, as you love her; but that she’s not a free agent. She’s not like an ordinary English girl whose antecedents are known to every one about her. She, and her father, too, are involved in some mystery, some international political intrigues, I’m pretty sure, as this unfortunate Cassavetti was. I don’t say that she was responsible for the murder. I don’t believe she was, or that she had any personal hand in it – ”
I had listened as if spellbound, but now I breathed more freely. Whatever his suspicions were, they did not include that she was actually present when Cassavetti was done to death.
“But she was most certainly cognizant of it, and her departure this morning was nothing more or less than flight,” he continued. “And – I tell you this for her sake, as well as for your own, Maurice – your manner just now gave the whole game away to any one who has any knowledge or suspicion of the facts. Man alive, you profess to love Anne Pendennis; you do love her; I’ll concede that much. Well, do you want to see her hanged, or condemned to penal servitude for life?”
CHAPTER IX
NOT AT BERLIN
“Hanged, or condemned to penal servitude for life.”
There fell a dead silence after Jim Cayley uttered those ominous words. He waited for me to speak, but for a minute or more I was dumb. He had voiced the fear that had been on me more or less vaguely ever since I broke open the door and saw Cassavetti’s corpse; and that had taken definite shape when I heard Freeman’s assertion concerning “a red-haired woman.”
And yet my whole soul revolted from the horrible, the appalling suspicion. I kept assuring myself passionately that she was, she must be, innocent; I would stake my life on it!
Now, after that tense pause, I turned on Jim furiously.
“What do you mean? Are you mad?” I demanded.
“No, but I think you are,” Jim answered soberly. “I’m not going to quarrel with you, Maurice, or allow you to quarrel with me. As I told you before, I am only warning you, for your own sake, and for Anne’s. You know, or suspect at least – ”
“I don’t!” I broke in hotly. “I neither know nor suspect that – that she – Jim Cayley, would you believe Mary to be a murderess, even if all the world declared her to be one? Wouldn’t you – ”
“Stop!” he said sternly. “You don’t know what you’re saying, you young fool! My wife and Anne Pendennis are very different persons. Shut up, now! I say you’ve got to hear me! I have not accused Anne Pendennis of being a murderess. I don’t believe she is one. But I do believe that, if once suspicion is directed towards her, she would find it very difficult, if not impossible, to prove her innocence. You ought to know that, too, and yet you are doing your best, by your ridiculous behavior, to bring suspicion to bear on her.”
“I!”
“Yes, you! If you want to save her, pull yourself together, man; play your part for all it’s worth. It’s an easy part enough, if you’d only dismiss Anne Pendennis from your mind; forget that such a person exists. You’ve got to give evidence at this inquest. Well, give it straightforwardly, without worrying yourself about any side issues; and, for Heaven’s sake, get and keep your nerves under control, or – ”
He broke off, and we both turned, as the door opened and a smart parlor-maid tripped into the room.
“Beg pardon, sir. I didn’t know you were here,” she said with the demure grace characteristic of the well-trained English servant. “It’s nearly supper-time, and I came to see if there was anything else wanted. I laid the table early.”
“All right, Marshall. I’ve been giving Mr. Wynn some supper, as he has to be off. You needn’t sound the gong for a few minutes.”
“Very well, sir. If you’d ring when you’re ready, I’ll put the things straight.”
She retreated as quietly as she had come, and I think we both felt that her entrance and exit relieved the tension of our interview.
I rose and held out my hand.
“Thanks, Jim. I can’t think how you know as much as you evidently do; but, anyhow, I’ll take your advice. I’ll be off, now, and I won’t come back to-night, as Mary asked me to. I’d rather be alone. See you both to-morrow. Good night.”
I walked back to Westminster, lingering for a considerable time by the river, where the air was cool and pleasant. The many pairs of lovers promenading the tree-shaded Embankment took no notice of me, or I of them.
As I leaned against the parapet, watching the swift flowing murky tide, I argued the matter out.
Jim was right. I had behaved like an idiot in the garden just now. Well, I would take his advice and buck up; be on guard. I would do more than that. I would not even vex myself with conjectures as to how much he knew, or how he had come by that knowledge. It was impossible to adopt one part of his counsel – impossible to “forget that such a person as Anne Pendennis ever existed;” but I would only think of her as the girl I loved, the girl whom I would see in Berlin within a few days.
I wrote to her that night, saying nothing of the murder, but only that I was unexpectedly detained, and would send her a wire when I started, so that she would know when to expect me. Once face to face with her, I would tell her everything; and she would give me the key to the mystery that had tortured me so terribly. But I must never let her know that I had doubted her, even for an instant!
The morning mail brought me an unexpected treasure. Only a post-card, pencilled by Anne herself in the train, and posted at Dover.
It was written in French, and was brief enough; but, for the time being, it changed and brightened the whole situation.
“I scarcely hoped to see you at the station, mon ami; there was so little time. What haste you must have made to get there at all! Shall I really see you in Berlin? I do want you to know my father. And you will be able to tell me your plans. I don’t even know your destination! The Reichshof, where we stay, is in Friedrich Strasse, close to Unter den Linden. Au revoir!
A. P.”
A simple message, but it meant much to me. I regarded it as a proof that her hurried journey was not a flight, but a mere coincidence.
Mary had a post-card, too, from Calais; just a few words with the promise of a letter at the end of the journey. She showed it to me when I called round at Chelsea on Monday evening to say good-bye once more. The inquest opened that morning, and was adjourned for a week. Only formal and preliminary evidence was taken – my own principally; and I was able to arrange to leave next day. Inspector Freeman made the orthodox statement that “the police were in possession of a clue which they were following up;” and I had a chat with him afterwards, and tried to ferret out about the clue, but he was close as wax.
We parted on the best of terms, and I was certain he did not guess that my interest in the affair was more than the natural interest of one who was as personally concerned in it as I was, with the insatiable curiosity of the journalist superadded. Whatever I had been yesterday, I was fully master of myself to-day.
Jim was out when I reached Chelsea, somewhat to my relief; and Mary was alone for once.
She welcomed me cordially, as usual, and commended my improved appearance.
“I felt upset about you last night, Maurice; you weren’t a bit like yourself. And what on earth did you mean in the drawing-room – about Anne?” she asked.
“Sheer madness,” I said, with a laugh. “Jim made that peg too strong, and I’m afraid I was – well, a bit screwed. So fire away, if you want to lecture me; though, on my honor, it was the first drink I’d had all day!”
I knew by the way she had spoken that Jim had not confided his suspicions to her. I didn’t expect he would.
She accepted my explanation like the good little soul she is.
“I never thought of that. It’s not like you, Maurice. But I won’t lecture you this time, though you did scare me! I guess you felt pretty bad after finding that poor fellow. I felt shuddery enough even at the thought of it, considering that we knew him, and had all been together such a little while before. Has the murderer been found yet?”
“Not that I know of. The inquest’s adjourned, and I’m off to-morrow. I’ll have to come back if necessary; but I hope it won’t be. Any message for Anne? I shall see her on Wednesday.”
“No, only what I’ve already written: that I hope her father’s better, and that she’d persuade him to come back with her. She was to have stayed with us all summer, as you know; and I’m not going to send her trunks on till she writes definitely that she can’t return. My private opinion of Mr. Pendennis is that he’s a cranky and exacting old pig! He resented Anne’s leaving him, and I surmise this illness of his is only a ruse to get her back again. Anne ought to be firmer with him!”
I laughed. Mary, as I knew, had always been “firm” with her “poppa,” in her girlish days; had, in fact, ruled him with a rod of iron – cased in velvet, indeed, but inflexible, nevertheless!
I started on my delayed journey next morning, and during the long day and night of travel my spirits were steadily on the up-grade.
Cassavetti, the murder, all the puzzling events of the last few days, receded to my mental horizon – vanished beyond it – as boat and train bore me swiftly onwards, away from England, towards Anne Pendennis.
Berlin at last. I drove from the Potsdam station to the nearest barber’s, – I needed a shave badly, though I had made myself otherwise fairly spick and span in the toilet car, – and thence to the hotel Anne had mentioned.
She would be expecting me, for I had despatched the promised wire when I started.
“Send my card up to Fraulein Pendennis at once,” I said to the waiter who came forward to receive me.
He looked at me – at the card – but did not take it.
“Fraulein Pendennis is not here,” he asserted. “Herr Pendennis has already departed, and the Fraulein has not been here at all!”