Kitabı oku: «The Clue of the Twisted Candle», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XVIII
T. X. sat at his desk, his chin in his hands, his mind remarkably busy. Grave as the matter was which he was considering, he rose with alacrity to meet the smiling girl who was ushered through the door by Mansus, preternaturally solemn and mysterious.
She was radiant that day. Her eyes were sparkling with an unusual brightness.
“I’ve got the most wonderful thing to tell you,” she said, “and I can’t tell you.”
“That’s a very good beginning,” said T. X., taking her muff from her hand.
“Oh, but it’s really wonderful,” she cried eagerly, “more wonderful than anything you have ever heard about.”
“We are interested,” said T. X. blandly.
“No, no, you mustn’t make fun,” she begged, “I can’t tell you now, but it is something that will make you simply—” she was at a loss for a simile.
“Jump out of my skin?” suggested T. X.
“I shall astonish you,” she nodded her head solemnly.
“I take a lot of astonishing, I warn you,” he smiled; “to know you is to exhaust one’s capacity for surprise.”
“That can be either very, very nice or very, very nasty,” she said cautiously.
“But accept it as being very, very nice,” he laughed. “Now come, out with this tale of yours.”
She shook her head very vigorously.
“I can’t possibly tell you anything,” she said.
“Then why the dickens do you begin telling anything for?” he complained, not without reason.
“Because I just want you to know that I do know something.”
“Oh, Lord!” he groaned. “Of course you know everything. Belinda Mary, you’re really the most wonderful child.”
He sat on the edge of her arm-chair and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“And you’ve come to take me out to lunch!”
“What were you worrying about when I came in?” she asked.
He made a little gesture as if to dismiss the subject.
“Nothing very much. You’ve heard me speak of John Lexman?”
She bent her head.
“Lexman’s the writer of a great many mystery stories, but you’ve probably read his books.”
She nodded again, and again T. X. noticed the suppressed eagerness in her eyes.
“You’re not ill or sickening for anything, are you?” he asked anxiously; “measles, or mumps or something?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said; “go on and tell me something about Mr. Lexman.”
“He’s going to America,” said T. X., “and before he goes he wants to give a little lecture.”
“A lecture?”
“It sounds rum, doesn’t it, but that’s just what he wants to do.”
“Why is he doing it!” she asked.
T. X. made a gesture of despair.
“That is one of the mysteries which may never be revealed to me, except—” he pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the girl. “There are times,” he said, “when there is a great struggle going on inside a man between all the human and better part of him and the baser professional part of him. One side of me wants to hear this lecture of John Lexman’s very much, the other shrinks from the ordeal.”
“Let us talk it over at lunch,” she said practically, and carried him off.
CHAPTER XIX
One would not readily associate the party of top-booted sewermen who descend nightly to the subterranean passages of London with the stout viceconsul at Durazzo. Yet it was one unimaginative man who lived in Lambeth and had no knowledge that there was such a place as Durazzo who was responsible for bringing this comfortable official out of his bed in the early hours of the morning causing him—albeit reluctantly and with violent and insubordinate language—to conduct certain investigations in the crowded bazaars.
At first he was unsuccessful because there were many Hussein Effendis in Durazzo. He sent an invitation to the American Consul to come over to tiffin and help him.
“Why the dickens the Foreign Office should suddenly be interested in Hussein Effendi, I cannot for the life of me understand.”
“The Foreign Department has to be interested in something, you know,” said the genial American. “I receive some of the quaintest requests from Washington; I rather fancy they only wire you to find if they are there.”
“Why are you doing this!”
“I’ve seen Hakaat Bey,” said the English official. “I wonder what this fellow has been doing? There is probably a wigging for me in the offing.”
At about the same time the sewerman in the bosom of his own family was taking loud and noisy sips from a big mug of tea.
“Don’t you be surprised,” he said to his admiring better half, “if I have to go up to the Old Bailey to give evidence.”
“Lord! Joe!” she said with interest, “what has happened!”
The sewer man filled his pipe and told the story with a wealth of rambling detail. He gave particulars of the hour he had descended the Victoria Street shaft, of what Bill Morgan had said to him as they were going down, of what he had said to Harry Carter as they splashed along the low-roofed tunnel, of how he had a funny feeling that he was going to make a discovery, and so on and so forth until he reached his long delayed climax.
T. X. waited up very late that night and at twelve o’clock his patience was rewarded, for the Foreign Office messenger brought a telegram to him. It was addressed to the Chief Secretary and ran:
“No. 847. Yours 63952 of yesterday’s date. Begins. Hussein Effendi a prosperous merchant of this city left for Italy to place his daughter in convent Marie Theressa, Florence Hussein being Christian. He goes on to Paris. Apply Ralli Theokritis et Cie., Rue de l’Opera. Ends.”
Half an hour later T. X. had a telephone connection through to Paris and was instructing the British police agent in that city. He received a further telephone report from Paris the next morning and one which gave him infinite satisfaction. Very slowly but surely he was gathering together the pieces of this baffling mystery and was fitting them together. Hussein Effendi would probably supply the last missing segments.
At eight o’clock that night the door opened and the man who represented T. X. in Paris came in carrying a travelling ulster on his arm. T. X. gave him a nod and then, as the newcomer stood with the door open, obviously waiting for somebody to follow him, he said,
“Show him in—I will see him alone.”
There walked into his office, a tall man wearing a frock coat and a red fez. He was a man from fifty-five to sixty, powerfully built, with a grave dark face and a thin fringe of white beard. He salaamed as he entered.
“You speak French, I believe,” said T. X. presently.
The other bowed.
“My agent has explained to you,” said T. X. in French, “that I desire some information for the purpose of clearing up a crime which has been committed in this country. I have given you my assurance, if that assurance was necessary, that you would come to no harm as a result of anything you might tell me.”
“That I understand, Effendi,” said the tall Turk; “the Americans and the English have always been good friends of mine and I have been frequently in London. Therefore, I shall be very pleased to be of any help to you.”
T. X. walked to a closed bookcase on one side of the room, unlocked it, took out an object wrapped in white tissue paper. He laid this on the table, the Turk watching the proceedings with an impassive face. Very slowly the Commissioner unrolled the little bundle and revealed at last a long, slim knife, rusted and stained, with a hilt, which in its untarnished days had evidently been of chased silver. He lifted the dagger from the table and handed it to the Turk.
“This is yours, I believe,” he said softly.
The man turned it over, stepping nearer the table that he might secure the advantage of a better light. He examined the blade near the hilt and handed the weapon back to T. X.
“That is my knife,” he said.
T. X. smiled.
“You understand, of course, that I saw ‘Hussein Effendi of Durazzo’ inscribed in Arabic near the hilt.”
The Turk inclined his head.
“With this weapon,” T. X. went on, speaking with slow emphasis, “a murder was committed in this town.”
There was no sign of interest or astonishment, or indeed of any emotion whatever.
“It is the will of God,” he said calmly; “these things happen even in a great city like London.”
“It was your knife,” suggested T. X.
“But my hand was in Durazzo, Effendi,” said the Turk.
He looked at the knife again.
“So the Black Roman is dead, Effendi.”
“The Black Roman?” asked T. X., a little puzzled.
“The Greek they call Kara,” said the Turk; “he was a very wicked man.”
T. X. was up on his feet now, leaning across the table and looking at the other with narrowed eyes.
“How did you know it was Kara?” he asked quickly.
The Turk shrugged his shoulders.
“Who else could it be?” he said; “are not your newspapers filled with the story?”
T. X. sat back again, disappointed and a little annoyed with himself.
“That is true, Hussein Effendi, but I did not think you read the papers.”
“Neither do I, master,” replied the other coolly, “nor did I know that Kara had been killed until I saw this knife. How came this in your possession!”
“It was found in a rain sewer,” said T. X., “into which the murderer had apparently dropped it. But if you have not read the newspapers, Effendi, then you admit that you know who committed this murder.”
The Turk raised his hands slowly to a level with his shoulders.
“Though I am a Christian,” he said, “there are many wise sayings of my father’s religion which I remember. And one of these, Effendi, was, ‘the wicked must die in the habitations of the just, by the weapons of the worthy shall the wicked perish.’ Your Excellency, I am a worthy man, for never have I done a dishonest thing in my life. I have traded fairly with Greeks, with Italians, have with Frenchmen and with Englishmen, also with Jews. I have never sought to rob them nor to hurt them. If I have killed men, God knows it was not because I desired their death, but because their lives were dangerous to me and to mine. Ask the blade all your questions and see what answer it gives. Until it speaks I am as dumb as the blade, for it is also written that ‘the soldier is the servant of his sword,’ and also, ‘the wise servant is dumb about his master’s affairs.’”
T. X. laughed helplessly.
“I had hoped that you might be able to help me, hoped and feared,” he said; “if you cannot speak it is not my business to force you either by threat or by act. I am grateful to you for having come over, although the visit has been rather fruitless so far as I am concerned.”
He smiled again and offered his hand.
“Excellency,” said the old Turk soberly, “there are some things in life that are well left alone and there are moments when justice should be so blind that she does not see guilt; here is such a moment.”
And this ended the interview, one on which T. X. had set very high hopes. His gloom carried to Portman Place, where he had arranged to meet Belinda Mary.
“Where is Mr. Lexman going to give this famous lecture of his?” was the question with which she greeted him, “and, please, what is the subject?”
“It is on a subject which is of supreme interest to me;” he said gravely; “he has called his lecture ‘The Clue of the Twisted Candle.’ There is no clearer brain being employed in the business of criminal detection than John Lexman’s. Though he uses his genius for the construction of stories, were it employed in the legitimate business of police work, I am certain he would make a mark second to none in the world. He is determined on giving this lecture and he has issued a number of invitations. These include the Chiefs of the Secret Police of nearly all the civilized countries of the world. O’Grady is on his way from America, he wirelessed me this morning to that effect. Even the Chief of the Russian police has accepted the invitation, because, as you know, this murder has excited a great deal of interest in police circles everywhere. John Lexman is not only going to deliver this lecture,” he said slowly, “but he is going to tell us who committed the murder and how it was committed.”
She thought a moment.
“Where will it be delivered!”
“I don’t know,” he said in astonishment; “does that matter?”
“It matters a great deal,” she said emphatically, “especially if I want it delivered in a certain place. Would you induce Mr. Lexman to lecture at my house?”
“At Portman Place!” he asked.
She shook her head.
“No, I have a house of my own. A furnished house I have rented at Blackheath. Will you induce Mr. Lexman to give the lecture there?”
“But why?” he asked.
“Please don’t ask questions,” she pleaded, “do this for me, Tommy.”
He saw she was in earnest.
“I’ll write to old Lexman this afternoon,” he promised.
John Lexman telephoned his reply.
“I should prefer somewhere out of London,” he said, “and since Miss Bartholomew has some interest in the matter, may I extend my invitation to her? I promise she shall not be any more shocked than a good woman need be.”
And so it came about that the name of Belinda Mary Bartholomew was added to the selected list of police chiefs, who were making for London at that moment to hear from the man who had guaranteed the solution of the story of Kara and his killing; the unravelment of the mystery which surrounded his death, and the significance of the twisted candles, which at that moment were reposing in the Black Museum at Scotland Yard.
CHAPTER XX
The room was a big one and most of the furniture had been cleared out to admit the guests who had come from the ends of the earth to learn the story of the twisted candles, and to test John Lexman’s theory by their own.
They sat around chatting cheerfully of men and crimes, of great coups planned and frustrated, of strange deeds committed and undetected. Scraps of their conversation came to Belinda Mary as she stood in the chintz-draped doorway which led from the drawing-room to the room she used as a study.
“… do you remember, Sir George, the Bolbrook case! I took the man at Odessa....”
“… the curious thing was that I found no money on the body, only a small gold charm set with a single emerald, so I knew it was the girl with the fur bonnet who had…”
“… Pinot got away after putting three bullets into me, but I dragged myself to the window and shot him dead—it was a real good shot…!”
They rose to meet her and T. X. introduced her to the men. It was at that moment that John Lexman was announced.
He looked tired, but returned the Commissioner’s greeting with a cheerful mien. He knew all the men present by name, as they knew him. He had a few sheets of notes, which he laid on the little table which had been placed for him, and when the introductions were finished he went to this and with scarcely any preliminary began.
CHAPTER XXI
THE NARRATIVE OF JOHN LEXMAN
“I am, as you may all know, a writer of stories which depend for their success upon the creation and unravelment of criminological mysteries. The Chief Commissioner has been good enough to tell you that my stories were something more than a mere seeking after sensation, and that I endeavoured in the course of those narratives to propound obscure but possible situations, and, with the ingenuity that I could command, to offer to those problems a solution acceptable, not only to the general reader, but to the police expert.
“Although I did not regard my earlier work with any great seriousness and indeed only sought after exciting situations and incidents, I can see now, looking back, that underneath the work which seemed at the time purposeless, there was something very much like a scheme of studies.
“You must forgive this egotism in me because it is necessary that I should make this explanation and you, who are in the main police officers of considerable experience and discernment, should appreciate the fact that as I was able to get inside the minds of the fictitious criminals I portrayed, so am I now able to follow the mind of the man who committed this murder, or if not to follow his mind, to recreate the psychology of the slayer of Remington Kara.
“In the possession of most of you are the vital facts concerning this man. You know the type of man he was, you have instances of his terrible ruthlessness, you know that he was a blot upon God’s earth, a vicious wicked ego, seeking the gratification of that strange blood-lust and pain-lust, which is to be found in so few criminals.”
John Lexman went on to describe the killing of Vassalaro.
“I know now how that occurred,” he said. “I had received on the previous Christmas eve amongst other presents, a pistol from an unknown admirer. That unknown admirer was Kara, who had planned this murder some three months ahead. He it was, who sent me the Browning, knowing as he did that I had never used such a weapon and that therefore I would be chary about using it. I might have put the pistol away in a cupboard out of reach and the whole of his carefully thought out plan would have miscarried.
“But Kara was systematic in all things. Three weeks after I received the weapon, a clumsy attempt was made to break into my house in the middle of the night. It struck me at the time it was clumsy, because the burglar made a tremendous amount of noise and disappeared soon after he began his attempt, doing no more damage than to break a window in my dining-room. Naturally my mind went to the possibility of a further attempt of this kind, as my house stood on the outskirts of the village, and it was only natural that I should take the pistol from one of my boxes and put it somewhere handy. To make doubly sure, Kara came down the next day and heard the full story of the outrage.
“He did not speak of pistols, but I remember now, though I did not remember at the time, that I mentioned the fact that I had a handy weapon. A fortnight later a second attempt was made to enter the house. I say an attempt, but again I do not believe that the intention was at all serious. The outrage was designed to keep that pistol of mine in a get-at-able place.
“And again Kara came down to see us on the day following the burglary, and again I must have told him, though I have no distinct recollection of the fact, of what had happened the previous night. It would have been unnatural if I had not mentioned the fact, as it was a matter which had formed a subject of discussion between myself, my wife and the servants.
“Then came the threatening letter, with Kara providentially at hand. On the night of the murder, whilst Kara was still in my house, I went out to find his chauffeur. Kara remained a few minutes with my wife and then on some excuse went into the library. There he loaded the pistol, placing one cartridge in the chamber, and trusting to luck that I did not pull the trigger until I had it pointed at my victim. Here he took his biggest chance, because, before sending the weapon to me, he had had the spring of the Browning so eased that the slightest touch set it off and, as you know, the pistol being automatic, the explosion of one cartridge, reloading and firing the next and so on, it was probably that a chance touch would have brought his scheme to nought—probably me also.
“Of what happened on that night you are aware.”
He went on to tell of his trial and conviction and skimmed over the life he led until that morning on Dartmoor.
“Kara knew my innocence had been proved and his hatred for me being his great obsession, since I had the thing he had wanted but no longer wanted, let that be understood—he saw the misery he had planned for me and my dear wife being brought to a sudden end. He had, by the way, already planned and carried his plan into execution, a system of tormenting her.
“You did not know,” he turned to T. X., “that scarcely a month passed, but some disreputable villain called at her flat, with a story that he had been released from Portland or Wormwood Scrubbs that morning and that he had seen me. The story each messenger brought was one sufficient to break the heart of any but the bravest woman. It was a story of ill-treatment by brutal officials, of my illness, of my madness, of everything calculated to harrow the feelings of a tender-hearted and faithful wife.
“That was Kara’s scheme. Not to hurt with the whip or with the knife, but to cut deep at the heart with his evil tongue, to cut to the raw places of the mind. When he found that I was to be released,—he may have guessed, or he may have discovered by some underhand method; that a pardon was about to be signed,—he conceived his great plan. He had less than two days to execute it.
“Through one of his agents he discovered a warder who had been in some trouble with the authorities, a man who was avaricious and was even then on the brink of being discharged from the service for trafficking with prisoners. The bribe he offered this man was a heavy one and the warder accepted.
“Kara had purchased a new monoplane and as you know he was an excellent aviator. With this new machine he flew to Devon and arrived at dawn in one of the unfrequented parts of the moor.
“The story of my own escape needs no telling. My narrative really begins from the moment I put my foot upon the deck of the Mpret. The first person I asked to see was, naturally, my wife. Kara, however, insisted on my going to the cabin he had prepared and changing my clothes, and until then I did not realise I was still in my convict’s garb. A clean change was waiting for me, and the luxury of soft shirts and well-fitting garments after the prison uniform I cannot describe.
“After I was dressed I was taken by the Greek steward to the larger stateroom and there I found my darling waiting for me.”
His voice sank almost to a whisper, and it was a minute or two before he had mastered his emotions.
“She had been suspicious of Kara, but he had been very insistent. He had detailed the plans and shown her the monoplane, but even then she would not trust herself on board, and she had been waiting in a motor-boat, moving parallel with the yacht, until she saw the landing and realized, as she thought, that Kara was not playing her false. The motor-boat had been hired by Kara and the two men inside were probably as well-bribed as the warder.
“The joy of freedom can only be known to those who have suffered the horrors of restraint. That is a trite enough statement, but when one is describing elemental things there is no room for subtlety. The voyage was a fairly eventless one. We saw very little of Kara, who did not intrude himself upon us, and our main excitement lay in the apprehension that we should be held up by a British destroyer or, that when we reached Gibraltar, we should be searched by the Brit’s authorities. Kara had foreseen that possibility and had taken in enough coal to last him for the run.
“We had a fairly stormy passage in the Mediterranean, but after that nothing happened until we arrived at Durazzo. We had to go ashore in disguise, because Kara told us that the English Consul might see us and make some trouble. We wore Turkish dresses, Grace heavily veiled and I wearing a greasy old kaftan which, with my somewhat emaciated face and my unshaven appearance, passed me without comment.
“Kara’s home was and is about eighteen miles from Durazzo. It is not on the main road, but it is reached by following one of the rocky mountain paths which wind and twist among the hills to the south-east of the town. The country is wild and mainly uncultivated. We had to pass through swamps and skirt huge lagoons as we mounted higher and higher from terrace to terrace and came to the roads which crossed the mountains.
“Kara’s, palace, you could call it no less, is really built within sight of the sea. It is on the Acroceraunian Peninsula near Cape Linguetta. Hereabouts the country is more populated and better cultivated. We passed great slopes entirely covered with mulberry and olive trees, whilst in the valleys there were fields of maize and corn. The palazzo stands on a lofty plateau. It is approached by two paths, which can be and have been well defended in the past against the Sultan’s troops or against the bands which have been raised by rival villages with the object of storming and plundering this stronghold.
“The Skipetars, a blood-thirsty crowd without pity or remorse, were faithful enough to their chief, as Kara was. He paid them so well that it was not profitable to rob him; moreover he kept their own turbulent elements fully occupied with the little raids which he or his agents organized from time to time. The palazzo was built rather in the Moorish than in the Turkish style.
“It was a sort of Eastern type to which was grafted an Italian architecture—a house of white-columned courts, of big paved yards, fountains and cool, dark rooms.
“When I passed through the gates I realized for the first time something of Kara’s importance. There were a score of servants, all Eastern, perfectly trained, silent and obsequious. He led us to his own room.
“It was a big apartment with divans running round the wall, the most ornate French drawing room suite and an enormous Persian carpet, one of the finest of the kind that has ever been turned out of Shiraz. Here, let me say, that throughout the trip his attitude to me had been perfectly friendly and towards Grace all that I could ask of my best friend, considerate and tactful.
“‘We had hardly reached his room before he said to me with that bonhomie which he had observed throughout the trip, ‘You would like to see your room?’
“I expressed a wish to that effect. He clapped his hands and a big Albanian servant came through the curtained doorway, made the usual salaam, and Kara spoke to him a few words in a language which I presume was Turkish.
“‘He will show you the way,’ said Kara with his most genial smile.
“I followed the servant through the curtains which had hardly fallen behind me before I was seized by four men, flung violently on the ground, a filthy tarbosch was thrust into my mouth and before I knew what was happening I was bound hand and foot.
“As I realised the gross treachery of the man, my first frantic thoughts were of Grace and her safety. I struggled with the strength of three men, but they were too many for me and I was dragged along the passage, a door was opened and I was flung into a bare room. I must have been lying on the floor for half an hour when they came for me, this time accompanied by a middle-aged man named Savolio, who was either an Italian or a Greek.
“He spoke English fairly well and he made it clear to me that I had to behave myself. I was led back to the room from whence I had come and found Kara sitting in one of those big armchairs which he affected, smoking a cigarette. Confronting him, still in her Turkish dress, was poor Grace. She was not bound I was pleased to see, but when on my entrance she rose and made as if to come towards me, she was unceremoniously thrown back by the guardian who stood at her side.
“‘Mr. John Lexman,’ drawled Kara, ‘you are at the beginning of a great disillusionment. I have a few things to tell you which will make you feel rather uncomfortable.’ It was then that I heard for the first time that my pardon had been signed and my innocence discovered.
“‘Having taken a great deal of trouble to get you in prison,’ said Kara, ‘it isn’t likely that I’m going to allow all my plans to be undone, and my plan is to make you both extremely uncomfortable.’
“He did not raise his voice, speaking still in the same conversational tone, suave and half amused.
“‘I hate you for two things,’ he said, and ticked them off on his fingers: ‘the first is that you took the woman that I wanted. To a man of my temperament that is an unpardonable crime. I have never wanted women either as friends or as amusement. I am one of the few people in the world who are self-sufficient. It happened that I wanted your wife and she rejected me because apparently she preferred you.’
“He looked at me quizzically.
“‘You are thinking at this moment,’ he went on slowly, ‘that I want her now, and that it is part of my revenge that I shall put her straight in my harem. Nothing is farther from my desires or my thoughts. The Black Roman is not satisfied with the leavings of such poor trash as you. I hate you both equally and for both of you there is waiting an experience more terrible than even your elastic imagination can conjure. You understand what that means!’ he asked me still retaining his calm.
“I did not reply. I dared not look at Grace, to whom he turned.
“‘I believe you love your husband, my friend,’ he said; ‘your love will be put to a very severe test. You shall see him the mere wreckage of the man he is. You shall see him brutalized below the level of the cattle in the field. I will give you both no joys, no ease of mind. From this moment you are slaves, and worse than slaves.’
“He clapped his hands. The interview was ended and from that moment I only saw Grace once.”
John Lexman stopped and buried his face in his hands.
“They took me to an underground dungeon cut in the solid rock. In many ways it resembled the dungeon of the Chateau of Chillon, in that its only window looked out upon a wild, storm-swept lake and its floor was jagged rock. I have called it underground, as indeed it was on that side, for the palazzo was built upon a steep slope running down from the spur of the hills.
“They chained me by the legs and left me to my own devices. Once a day they gave me a little goat flesh and a pannikin of water and once a week Kara would come in and outside the radius of my chain he would open a little camp stool and sitting down smoke his cigarette and talk. My God! the things that man said! The things he described! The horrors he related! And always it was Grace who was the centre of his description. And he would relate the stories he was telling to her about myself. I cannot describe them. They are beyond repetition.”
John Lexman shuddered and closed his eyes.
“That was his weapon. He did not confront me with the torture of my darling, he did not bring tangible evidence of her suffering—he just sat and talked, describing with a remarkable clarity of language which seemed incredible in a foreigner, the ‘amusements’ which he himself had witnessed.
“I thought I should go mad. Twice I sprang at him and twice the chain about my legs threw me headlong on that cruel floor. Once he brought the jailer in to whip me, but I took the whipping with such phlegm that it gave him no satisfaction. I told you I had seen Grace only once and this is how it happened.
