Kitabı oku: «Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective», sayfa 15
The servant proved difficult to persuade, and I had to explain who I was before she yielded. Mrs. Seligmann sprang from the sofa as we entered. She looked wild, almost mad, as the chauffeur had said, but she recognized us and forced herself to welcome us.
"What are you here for?" she said, and I started. There was the suggestion of a snarl in her voice.
"We believe your husband was murdered by Percival Marsh," said Quarles quietly.
"It's a lie!" she shrieked.
"How comes it, then, that he has those papers which were in your husband's possession?"
In a moment she had hurled herself upon the professor, and had snapped at the hand which he threw out to protect himself. Her strength was awful, and all the time we were struggling with her she fought with her nails and teeth, and growled like an infuriated animal. Her clothes were partly torn from her in the struggle, and – but it was too ghastly to enlarge upon. She was an animal in the form of a beautiful woman. The house was quickly roused, and we had to have the chauffeur's help before we could bind her securely. Then I telephoned to Maidenhead for the police.
"I thought a dog had helped, Wigan; that was my theory," said Quarles as we went back to town. "I noted that a dog had trodden on the polished skirting near the study sofa. Miss Wickham might have had a dog, that is why I questioned the housemaid so closely to make sure she entered the house quite alone. When we were brought in contact with Marsh I suspected Mrs. Seligmann. Those glasses I wear sometimes are curious, acting like opera-glasses, and they enabled me to see a portrait of Mrs. Seligmann standing back on a corner table, and, moreover, that it was signed. Marsh evidently knew her well; was in love with her, perhaps, and she with him. My saying that he had first been to River Mansions in the morning was guesswork, but by his not denying it, the fact was established that the papers must have come into his possession, or why should he have gone there? He must have known that Miss Wickham usually went away on Saturday or Sunday and did not return till late on Monday. I argued that Mrs. Seligmann might have sent them, and that Marsh suspected this, hence his visit to Miss Wickham to make certain. It may be true that he did not know she was going to Seligmann on Saturday night, and if he heard from the porter that she had left town on Saturday afternoon he would know that the papers could not have come from her. He would hear from the porter that she had returned in the small hours of Sunday morning, and when, later in the day, he read of the murder he would not know what to think. It is also possible, Wigan, that Seligmann expected his wife to call for him that night. That their motor had broken down on the way up to town makes it even probable. I went to Maidenhead to see if Mrs. Seligmann had a dog, a savage brute who would attack at her command, savage but small. The great brute in the yard did not fit my theory. God knows I didn't suspect the real truth. Strange that I should have felt that I was in a forest, stranger still that Zena should speak of Pan. I don't explain, Wigan, I can't, but it has happened – a return of the human to wild and awful atavism. She meant to kill, to rid herself of the man who was in her way. The human in her used the stiletto or hatpin, the animal in her used claws. She will be called mad, and so she is in one sense, but not in another; nor was it murder in the true sense of the word. The wild wolf does not murder; he kills because he must. Even the dog recognized an enemy of whom he was afraid. The beast was not ill, but cowed, and snapped at her as you heard the chauffeur say. Had she had her way with me to-day, I should have looked like poor Seligmann."
Arriving in town I found that Miss Wickham had communicated with the police and had given an account of her visit to Hampstead, which closely corresponded with Quarles's idea. She had gone at that hour because she was anxious on Marsh's account, and it was the only time Seligmann could see her unless she waited another week. He was very kind, and had told her that Marsh was a scoundrel. He was attempting to make love to his wife, he declared, who laughed at him, and was quite in agreement with her husband when he said he would presently punish him by using the papers he held. He was expecting his wife to call for him that night in a taxi. She came, and killed him.
I am thankful to say that a fortnight after her arrest Mrs. Seligmann died.
CHAPTER XV
THE STRANGE AFFAIR OF THE FLORENTINE CHEST
Only the other day, in a turning off Finsbury Pavement, there was demolished one of those anachronisms which used to be met with more frequently in London, an old house sandwiched in between immense blocks of buildings, a relic of the past holding its own against the commercial necessities and rush of modern civilization. It was connected with a very strange case Quarles and I had to deal with not long after the Seligmann affair.
The house looked absurdly small in the midst of its surroundings, but had once been a desirable residence, probably standing in its own gardens. Now it was almost flush with the street, dingy to look at, yet substantial. The door, set back in a porch, had two windows on either side of it, and there were four windows in the story above it. A brass plate on the door had engraved upon it "Mr. Portman," and it would appear that the bare fact of such a gentleman's existence was considered sufficient information to give to the world, since there was nothing to show what was his calling in life, nor what hours he was prepared to transact business.
As a matter of fact, he not only did his business in the old house, but lived there.
The room on the right of the hall was the living room. On the left was a small apartment, with windows of frosted glass, which was occupied during certain hours of the day by his only clerk, a cadaverous and unintellectual looking youth, whose chief work in life seemed to be the cutting of his initials into various parts of the cheap furniture which the room contained. Behind this office, but not connected with it, was Mr. Portman's business room, to which no one penetrated unless conducted thither by the cadaverous youth. Behind the living room, down a passage, was the kitchen, where Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper, passed her days. A girl occasionally came in to help her, otherwise she was solely responsible for her master's comfort.
One November afternoon Mr. Portman returned to his house shortly after four o'clock. He stood in the doorway of the small room for a few moments, giving instructions to his clerk, and then went to his own room, closing the door after him. A little later Mrs. Eccles took him some tea on a tray, which she did every afternoon when he was at home. He talked to her for some minutes about a friend who was coming to dinner with him on the following evening, giving her such particular orders that he evidently wished to entertain this friend particularly well. Soon after five Mrs. Eccles returned to fetch the tray. The door was locked then, and Mr. Portman called out to her that he was busy, but was going out shortly, when she could have the tray.
It was nearly six when she went to the room again. Mr. Portman had gone out, but evidently did not expect to be long, as he had left the gas burning, only turning it low. She had not heard him go, but the clerk said Mr. Portman had come out of his room at a quarter to six, had paused in the passage outside to say, "I shall not be long, but you needn't wait, good night," and had then gone out, closing the front door quietly behind him.
He did not return that night. For five days Mrs. Eccles waited, and then, growing alarmed, gave information to the police.
These were the bare facts of the case when it came into my hands, but I was told that my investigations might possibly throw some light on two or three cases which had puzzled the authorities in recent years.
Mr. Portman was a money-lender, and had so long called himself Portman for business purposes that possibly he had almost forgotten his real name himself. Since for years he had transacted his business unmolested, it was probable that the evil reports which had been circulated concerning him from time to time were grossly exaggerated; but the fact remained that the police authorities had taken considerable trouble to collect items concerning Portman's career, and had kept an eye upon him. Complaints about him had reached them, but those who borrow money are easily critical of those who lend, and there had never been sufficient warrant for taking any action. If, as happened at intervals, Portman had to appear in the witness-box, he came through the ordeal fairly well. He might show that he was bent on getting his pound of flesh, but he was always careful to have the law on his side. He was legally honest – that was his attitude; he could not afford to be generous when a large percentage of his clients would certainly cheat him if they had the chance.
Portman's business room at the back of the house was large, but dark and depressing, its two windows, which were heavily barred, looking on to the blank wall of a warehouse. A large desk and a safe gave it a business aspect, but the room was crowded with costly furniture which fancy might suppose had once belonged to some unfortunate debtor who had been unable to satisfy Mr. Portman's demands. Some good pictures hung upon the walls, and in a recess opposite the door stood an old chest heavily clamped with iron. The key, which might have hung at the waist of a medieval jailer, so huge was it, was in the lock, which was evidently out of order. When I turned the key the lid would not open. Looking through the drawers in the desk, I found several letters which showed that Mr. Portman's business was often with well-known people – men one would not expect to find associated with him in any way – and the sums involved were often so large that only a rich man could deal with them.
Mrs. Eccles answered my questions without any hesitation. Whatever the world might think of Mr. Portman, she appeared to have a genuine affection for him. She had noticed no change in him recently; he had appeared to her to be in his usual health and spirits.
"When you went for the tray and found the door locked, did you think he had anyone with him?" I asked.
"I didn't hear anyone, but I can't say I listened. It was not the first time I had found the door locked and been told to go back presently for the tray."
"A friend was to dine with him on the following night. Did the friend come?"
"No."
"What was his name?"
"Mr. Portman did not mention it."
"Did you prepare the dinner?"
"No."
"Why not?" I asked. "You did not communicate with the police until five days later, so you must have been expecting your master to return."
"It's difficult to say exactly what I expected," Mrs. Eccles answered, "but I never thought about preparing the dinner. When he didn't return I began to think something was wrong, because I've never known him to be away even for a night without letting me know."
"Why didn't you give information sooner?"
"Sooner? Why, I keep on asking myself whether I've done right in giving it at all. The master might walk in at any moment, and I don't know what he'd say if he did."
The clerk seemed to think that Mr. Portman had been worried recently. He had had several pieces of business which the youth said had not progressed too smoothly. He knew practically nothing about these various items of business, but he gave me the names of half a dozen people who had called upon Mr. Portman during the past week or two.
"He was close, you know," the youth went on; "didn't give much away about his doings."
"Then why do you think he has been worried recently?" I asked.
"He's been snappy with me," was the answer; "but by the way he spoke the other night when he went out I thought everything must have come right."
A further investigation of Mr. Portman's room resulted in a curious find. Under a bookcase, which was raised a few inches from the floor, I discovered a key – the key of the safe. How it had come there, whether it was a duplicate or the one Mr. Portman carried, it was impossible to decide.
Apparently the safe had not been opened, for a drawer therein contained a large sum in gold and notes, and there was not the slightest indication that any of the papers had been touched. It was quite evident, however, that a number of people would profit by Portman's death, especially if he should die suddenly and leave no one to carry on his business; and this was precisely what had happened. Not a relative or friend had come forward to lay claim to anything, and many of his debtors were likely to go free. Among these was Lord Stanford, one of the names the clerk had given me as recent visitors, and I went to see him, only to find that he had left England the day after Portman's disappearance. He had gone to Africa, and that was all I could discover.
Another man who had called upon Portman recently, and whom I went to see, was a Mr. Isaacson. From him I obtained an interesting piece of information. He had seen Portman in Finsbury Pavement on the evening of his disappearance. He must have met him some ten minutes after he had left his house.
"I stopped to speak to him, but he was in a hurry, and did not stop," said Isaacson.
"I suppose you were not due to dine with him on the following evening?" I said.
"Dine with him? No, I have never had that honor. I do not think you quite appreciate Mr. Portman's position. I lend money in a small way, there are many like me, and if, as occasionally happens, business comes to us which is too large for us to deal with, we go to Mr. Portman. The business is carried through in our names, but Mr. Portman is the real creditor."
In his own way Mr. Portman was a man of importance, and a man of mystery. There was nothing to suggest he was dead, and it was quite possible that some crooked business had kept him from home unexpectedly.
I chanced to go and see Christopher Quarles one evening when I got to this point in my investigations, and he at once began to ask questions about the Finsbury affair. I had not intended to enlist his help. I was quite satisfied with the progress I had made, but he was so keen about the mystery that I told the whole story to him and Zena.
"You seem very interested," I said, when I had finished.
"I am. Mr. Portman has been talked about before now, and I remember I once had a theory about him."
"Does the present affair help to confirm that theory?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It might be interesting to know why Lord Stanford has gone abroad," he said.
"That is exactly the line I am following," I returned.
"I should like to know something about the man who was coming to dinner and did not come," said Zena. "It is curious that he should have heard so quickly of Mr. Portman's death, and more curious still that he should make no inquiries."
"Lord Stanford may be able to tell us something about him," I said.
"Zena makes a point, Wigan," said Quarles. "It is rather a complicated puzzle. Of course, Portman may not be dead, but if he is alive why should he run the risk of a police search among his papers? He would know that such an investigation would be likely to do him harm. He would hardly run such a risk. Since Mr. Isaacson saw him in Finsbury Pavement he has vanished completely. He left the gas burning in his room, therefore he did not expect to be out long. He was hurrying, according to Mr. Isaacson, presumably to keep an appointment. Now, if he is dead, it looks like a premeditated thing, because there is no body. It is easy enough to murder; it is the most difficult thing in the world to hide the victim successfully. If a sudden crime is committed, and the murderer has his wits about him, the body will probably be found under circumstances likely to throw suspicion on anyone but the right man; but a premeditated crime usually means the disappearance of the body if in any way it can be managed. So we get a kind of theory which may carry us a long way, and the further we go we shall be the more convinced, I fancy, that many other theories are just as likely to be right."
"Portman may not be dead," I said.
"For the reasons I have given I think we may presume that he is," Quarles answered. "The difficulty of the case arises from the fact that so many people stand to profit by his death."
"Stanford, for instance," said I.
"And Isaacson, perhaps," he returned, "and a score of others. As far as Stanford is concerned, he is a young man with expectations, but with little money at present. He is probably in the hands of other money-lenders besides Portman; he is a fool no doubt, but one would not expect him to be a murderer."
"Given certain conditions, you cannot tell what a man will do."
"True, Wigan, but I do not find the required conditions. Don't let me influence you. Something may be learned from Stanford, but that would not be my line of attack."
"What would yours be?"
"I should like to talk to Mrs. Eccles and the clerk."
When Quarles solved a case his explanation was usually so clear that one could only marvel that the salient points had not been apparent to everybody from the first; when he was considering the difficulties it seemed impossible that the mystery could ever be solved. As I listened to him I felt that his help was necessary in this affair.
"Why not come with me to Finsbury?" I said.
"I will to-morrow," he answered. "By the way, Wigan, wasn't it foggy on the night of Portman's disappearance?"
"It was, dear," said Zena. "Don't you remember, I went to see some people at Highgate that day and was late for dinner?"
Quarles nodded and changed the conversation; he had done with the affair until to-morrow.
When I met him next morning, wrapped in a heavy cloak, for it was cold, I could not help thinking that he looked the very last man in the world to solve an intricate mystery. He was the kind of old gentleman who would annoy everybody by asking foolish questions and telling stories which had grown hoary with age.
"I'm a simple old fool, Wigan, that's my character," he said, guessing my thoughts; "and, if you can look annoyed with me and show irritability, so much the better. Where does Isaacson live? I should like to see him first."
I found it quite easy to be irritable. When we called on Isaacson, Quarles asked him the most ridiculous questions which certainly had nothing whatever to do with Portman, but in a vague way concerned the theory and honesty of money-lending.
"Was Mr. Portman a Jew?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes."
"I seem to remember seeing him without glasses," said Quarles. "I thought Jews always wore glasses."
"We are usually short-sighted," said Isaacson, touching his spectacles, "I am myself. Mr. Portman worked in glasses always, but if you met him in the street you would probably see him without them."
"Ah, you are remembering that he did not wear them the night you met him in Finsbury Pavement," said Quarles, "that is probably why he did not see you."
"He happened to be wearing them that night," Isaacson returned. "I believe he did see me, but was in too much of a hurry to stop."
"Rude, very rude," remarked Quarles.
"Small men have to put up with many things from big ones," said Isaacson humbly.
The professor treated him to a short dissertation on the equality of man, and then we left.
"Honest, I think, so far as he goes," said Quarles, "but he is desperately afraid of being drawn too deeply into this affair. He couldn't afford to be questioned too closely about his business, Wigan."
It had been thought advisable to keep the clerk at his post for the present, and he was quite ignorant of the fact that he was watched both during his business and leisure hours. His own importance rather impressed him at this time, and Quarles soon succeeded in making him talkative, but, as far as I could see, very little of what he said was worth particular note.
"I think Mr. Portman would have been wise if he had confided more in you," said Quarles, after talking to him for some time.
"I think so, too," the youth answered.
"He never did, I suppose?"
"No – no, I cannot say he ever did."
"When he came in that afternoon he stood in the doorway there and talked to you?"
"He was telling me about some papers he would want in the morning. Very snappy he was, I can tell you."
"The weather, possibly. It was foggy and unpleasant."
"He was usually unpleasant, no matter what the weather was. He paid me fairly well, or I shouldn't have stayed with him as I have done."
"Yet, when he went out later that evening, he stopped in the doorway to say good night."
"He did, and you might have knocked me down with a feather," said the youth. "I don't remember his ever doing such a thing before. I'd put some letters which had come during the afternoon on his table, and the news in them must have been good. He'd had some worrying business on hand, I know."
"That would certainly account for his cordiality," said Quarles. "Really, I sympathize with you. Practically, I suppose, you have little to do but answer the door when the bell rings."
"If the office bell rings I pull this catch," the youth said, "and the client walks in. The front door has a spring on it and closes itself. Sometimes a fool will ring the office bell when it's Mrs. Eccles he wants, and that's annoying."
"Very," laughed the professor. "Did any clients call that day?"
"No. A chap wanting to sell some patent office files came and wasted my time for a quarter of an hour; swore that the governor had seen him two or three months ago and told him to call. A rotten patent it was, too."
"He showed them to you?"
"Had a bag full of them. Wanted me to buy the beastly things. I had to be rude to him to get rid of him."
"Did you go to the door with him?"
"Not much!" the youth answered. "I just pulled this catch and told him he would find the door open, and the sooner he got out of it the better. He would have liked to borrow a bob or two, I fancy, but I wasn't parting."
"Did you tell Mr. Portman he had called?"
"I never worried him with callers of that sort."
Then Quarles became impressive.
"I suppose you have no idea where Mr. Portman is? To your knowledge nothing has happened which would account for his absence?"
"Nothing. If you want my opinion – I should say he's dead, had an accident, most likely, and no papers on him to say who he was."
"One more question," said Quarles, "in strict confidence, mind. Is Mrs. Eccles honest?"
"As daylight," was the prompt reply. "Would she have put the police on this business if she hadn't been?"
"I never thought of that," said Quarles humbly. "Your brain is young and mine is old."
"Makes a difference, no doubt," said the youth.
"And my memory is like a sieve," the professor went on. "I've already forgotten whether this file seller was a clean-shaven chap or wore a beard."
"Don't worry about that," said the youth, "because I didn't describe him. He was an old chap with a gray beard, and had lost most of his teeth, I should think, by the way he talked."
"Poor fellow. Poor fellow! I expect I should have been fool enough to give him a bob."
"I expect you would," laughed the youth, in his superior wisdom.
With Mrs. Eccles Quarles's method was still foolish. For some time he did not mention Mr. Portman, and so silly was he that I should not have been surprised had the woman been less respectful in her manner. But he set her talking as he had set the clerk talking, and she was presently explaining that the guest her master was expecting to dine with him must have been of considerable importance, because the preparations were elaborate.
"He's never given such a dinner before," said Mrs. Eccles, "and I suggested that with such preparation he might have asked other guests."
"And the wine?" asked Quarles.
"He said he would look after that himself."
"Very natural," answered the professor. "You've been with Mr. Portman many years, haven't you?"
"Fourteen or more."
"So long! I wonder if you remember a young friend of mine who used to come here, I think. Ten or eleven years ago it must be. He squinted and had red hair."
"I do remember him," said Mrs. Eccles. "He came here to dine once, I recollect. I believe Mr. Portman said he was going abroad. I know he dined here, and I do not think I saw him again."
Quarles nodded.
"I believe he did leave the country; some said in disgrace. I wonder who it was that was going to dine with Mr. Portman that night."
"The master didn't say. All he said was an old friend."
"A young man might be called an old friend," said Quarles.
"Oh, he couldn't be young," said Mrs. Eccles, "because the master said he had known him when he was a young man."
"That is interesting," said Quarles. "Shall we go and look at Mr. Portman's room, Wigan?"
When we closed the door Quarles stood in the center of the room and looked slowly round it.
"Was that screen standing there when you first entered the room, Wigan?"
"Yes."
"Where did you find the safe key?"
"Under that bookshelf."
He went to the safe and walked slowly from it to the door, flicking his hand as he went. Then he looked out of the windows.
"No exit or entrance that way," he said. "There is only the door. Is that the chest that won't open?"
He turned the key and tried the lid. He could not lift it. He locked the chest, then unlocked it again, and hammered upon the lid with his fist.
"The bolts sound as if they worked properly," he said. "I think it's only that the lid has caught somehow."
We tackled it together, and, after several efforts, we succeeded in raising the lid. The chest was empty. Quarles examined it very closely without and within. We could not move it, it was too heavy, but the professor produced a magnifying glass and studied the marks on the wood. He measured the length and depth of the chest, and shut it and opened it several times.
"Opens quite easily now, Wigan," he remarked.
Very carefully he had put two newspapers into it, and some odd bits of paper, which he took from his pocket.
"You see how I have placed them, Wigan, which way up the newspapers are, and the scraps of writing on this piece of paper? We'll set a trap," and he closed the chest and locked it. "This is an old house, and there may be a way into this room which we know nothing about. We shall see."
We left the room, but Quarles told me not to lock the door. He beckoned me to follow him to the kitchen.
"Mrs. Eccles, how long has your master had that oaken chest in his room?" he asked the housekeeper.
"It's been there all my time, sir."
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised if it is connected with your master's disappearance."
Mrs. Eccles's mouth slowly opened in astonishment.
"We shall be back in two hours, and then – then we shall know."
We left her and went to the office. The youth was cutting an initial on the corner of the table.
"Busy, I see," said Quarles. "I fancy Mr. Portman's disappearance has something to do with that old chest in his room."
"How can that be?"
"I don't know yet. We are going to make an important inquiry and shall be back in a couple of hours. We'll be careful to ring the office bell, not the house one."
As we turned to the front door Quarles caught my arm. He opened the door, letting it go so that it would close itself. For a few moments we remained motionless, then, creeping toward the office door, watched until the clerk's back was turned, and went quickly to Portman's room.
"It is very easy, Wigan," whispered the professor; "if for us, then also for others. You see why I did not want you to lock the door of this room? Now we are in, we will lock it on the inside, and that screen will hide us."
"There is no question that Mr. Portman left the house," I said.
"Oh, no. Isaacson was quite definite, but I am trying to fit facts to my theory. I said we should be back in two hours, so we have about two hours to wait."
There was plenty of room behind the screen, but those two hours went slowly. I could not decide what theory the professor had got in his mind, but concluded that he was not so satisfied with the honesty of Mrs. Eccles and the cadaverous youth as I was. He had looked at his watch when we went behind the screen, and he allowed a full two hours to elapse before he would leave our hiding-place.
He walked straight to the chest and opened it. It was empty. All the papers had gone.
"Well, Wigan?"
I stared into the chest and did not answer.
"It looks like another way into this room, doesn't it" – and then he started – "or out of it. I hadn't thought of that. Wait."
He took an old envelope from his pocket, dropped it into the chest, and locked it. He waited a moment, then opened the chest again. The envelope had gone.
"I confess, Wigan, that this is a surprise," said Quarles. "I must go home and think. I believe – yes, I believe we have the clew. You must search Portman's papers for some reference to a business acquaintance, probably a foreigner. Perhaps Portman knows Italy – Florence. It might very likely be Florence. I fancy this chest had its home there. If you find any reference to a friend who is a Florentine, and can lay hands on him, you might question him closely about his movements on the day of Portman's disappearance."
"The first thing is to get this chest moved," I said.
"Let that wait for forty-eight hours," said Quarles. "We may have a more complete story by then. Give me until to-morrow night, then come and see me."
When I went to Chelsea the following night I was taken at once to the empty room. Zena was there. Quarles was standing by his table, on which was a rough plan, evidently a production of his own, and quite unintelligible without an explanation.
"Of course you have not discovered anything yet, Wigan?"
"There has not been time," I answered.
"No, quite so," he said, motioning me to a seat. "But we have a fairly clear story, I think. Zena said, you remember, that she would like to know something about the man who was coming to dine with Portman that night. It was an important point, particularly so since the guest did not put in an appearance. You saw the importance of it, Wigan, because you asked Isaacson whether he was the expected guest. Now, Isaacson had seen Portman after he had left his house that night, but had not spoken to him. This fact suggested a question to my mind: was Isaacson telling the truth? There were two possibilities. Isaacson might have seen him, gone with him, and be responsible for his disappearance; or he might have been mistaken. The man he saw might not have been Portman. The second possibility was the one which appealed to me. The fact remained, however, that Isaacson knew him well, therefore the man he took to be Portman must have wished to be taken for Portman, I argued. This would account for his hurrying on without speaking, since a closer investigation might have betrayed him. I looked for some fact to support this theory. I found it in Isaacson's statement that Portman wore glasses in the street on this occasion, which was unusual, so unusual, mark you, that Isaacson noticed it. Now, if my theory were right, it seemed possible that after Mr. Portman entered his room that afternoon he never left it. That he was there when Mrs. Eccles took in the tea-tray there could be no doubt; but that it was Mr. Portman who answered through the locked door was another matter.
