Checkmate. Le Fanu Joseph Sheridan

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СКАЧАТЬ that fellow again, hold him fast till you put him in the hands of a policeman. And, Charles, you must be prepared, d'ye see, to swear to that description; for I am going to the detective office, and I shall give it to the police.”

      “Yes, Sir,” answered Charles.

      “I sha'n't want you, Franklin; let some one call a cab.”

      So he returned to his dressing-room, and shut the door, and thought – “That's the fellow whom that miserable little fool, Lebas, pointed out to me at the saloon last night. He watched him, he said, wherever he went. I saw him. There may be other circumstances. That is the fellow – that is the very man. Here's matter to think over! By heaven! that fellow must be denounced, and discovered, and brought to justice. It is a strong case – a pretty hanging case against him. We shall see.”

      Full of surmises about his lost boot, Atra Cura walking unheard behind him, with her cold hand on his shoulder, and with the image of the ex-detective always gliding before or beside him, and peering with an odious familiarity over his shoulder into his face, Mr. Longcluse marched eastward with a firm tread and a cheerful countenance. Friends who nodded to him, as he walked along Piccadilly, down Saint James's Street, and by Pall Mall, citywards, thought he had just been listening to an amusing story. Others, who, more deferentially, saluted the great man as he walked lightly by Temple Bar, towards Ludgate Hill, for a moment perplexed themselves with the thought, “What stock is up, and what down, on a sudden, to-day, that Longcluse looks so radiant?”

      CHAPTER IX

      THE MAN WITHOUT A NAME

      Mr. Longcluse had made up his mind to a certain course – a sharp and bold one. At the police office he made inquiry. “He understood a man had been lately dismissed from the force, answering to a certain description, which he gave them; and he wished to know whether he was rightly informed, because a theft had been that morning committed at his house by a man whose appearance corresponded, and against whom he hoped to have sufficient evidence.”

      “Yes, a man like that had been dismissed from the detective department within the last fortnight.”

      “What was his name?” Mr. Longcluse asked.

      “Paul Davies, Sir.”

      “If it should turn out to be the same, I may have a more serious charge to bring against him,” said Mr. Longcluse.

      “Do you wish to go before his worship, and give an information, Sir?” urged the officer, invitingly.

      “Not quite ripe for that yet,” said Mr. Longcluse, “but it is likely very soon.”

      “And what might be the nature of the more serious charge, Sir?” inquired the officer, insinuatingly.

      “I mean to give my evidence at the coroner's inquest that will be held to-day, on the Frenchman who was murdered last night at the Saloon Tavern. It is not conclusive – it does not fix anything upon him; it is merely inferential.”

      “Connecting him with the murder?” whispered the man, something like reverence mingling with his curiosity, as he discovered the interesting character of his interrogator.

      “I can only say possibly connecting him in some way with it. Where does the man live?”

      “He did live in Rosemary Court, but he left that, I think. I'll ask, if you please, Sir. Tompkins – hi! You know where Paul Davies puts up. Left Rosemary Court?”

      “Yes, five weeks. He went to Gold Ring Alley, but he's left that a week ago, and I don't know where he is now, but will easy find him. Will it answer at eight this evening, Sir?”

      “Quite. I want a servant of mine to have a sight of him,” said Longcluse.

      “If you like, Sir, to leave your address and a stamp, we'll send you the information by post, and save you calling here.”

      “Thanks, yes, I'll do that.”

      So Mr. Longcluse took his leave, and proceeded to the place where the coroner was sitting. Mr. Longcluse was received in that place with distinction. The moneyed man was honoured – eyes were gravely fixed on him, and respectful whispers went about. A seat was procured for him; and his evidence, when he came to give it, was heard with marked attention, and a general hush of expectation.

      The reader, with his permission, must now pass away, seaward, from this smoky London, for a few minutes, into a clear air, among the rustling foliage of ancient trees, and the fragrance of hay-fields, and the song of small birds.

      On the London and Dover road stands, as you know, the “Royal Oak,” still displaying its ancient signboard, where you behold King Charles II sitting with laudable composure, and a crown of Dutch gold on his head, and displaying his finery through an embrasure in the foliage, with an ostentation somewhat inconsiderate, considering the proximity of the halberts of the military emissaries in search of him to the royal features. As you drive towards London, it shows at the left side of the road, a good old substantial inn and posting-house. Its business has dwindled to something very small indeed, for the traffic prefers the rail, and the once bustling line of road is now quiet. The sun had set, but a reflected glow from the sky was still over everything; and by this somewhat lurid light Mr. Truelock, the innkeeper, was observing from the steps the progress of a chaise, with four horses and two postilions, which was driving at a furious pace down the gentle declivity about a quarter of a mile away, from the Dover direction towards the “Royal Oak” and London.

      “It's a runaway. Them horses has took head. What do you think, Thomas?” he asked of the old waiter who stood beside him.

      “No. See, the post-boys is whipping the hosses. No, Sir, it's a gallop, but no runaway.”

      “There's luggage a' top?” said the innkeeper.

      “Yes, Sir, there's something,” answered Tom.

      “I don't see nothing a-followin' them,” said Mr. Truelock, shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed.

      “No – there is nothing,” said Tom.

      “They're in fear o' summat, or they'd never go at that lick,” observed Mr. Truelock, who was inwardly conjecturing the likelihood of their pulling up at his door.

      “Lawk! there was a jerk. They was nigh over at the finger-post turn,” said Tom, with a grin.

      And now the vehicle and the reeking horses were near. The post-boys held up their whips by way of signal to the “Royal Oak” people on the steps, and pulled up the horses with all their force before the door. Trembling, snorting, rolling up wreaths of steam, the exhausted horses stood.

      “See to the gentleman, will ye?” cried one of the postilions.

      Mr. Truelock, with the old-fashioned politeness of the English innkeeper, had run down in person to the carriage door, which Tom had opened. Master and man were a little shocked to behold inside an old gentleman, with a very brown, or rather a very bilious visage, thin, and with a high nose, who looked, as he lay stiffly back in the corner of the carriage, enveloped in shawls, with a velvet cap on, as if he were either dead or in a fit. His eyes were half open, and nothing but the white balls partly visible. There was a little froth at his lips. His mouth and delicately-formed hands were clenched, and all the furrows and lines of a selfish face fixed, as it seemed, in the lock of death. John Truelock said not a word, but peered at this visitor with a horrible curiosity.

      “If СКАЧАТЬ