An Eye for an Eye. William Le Queux

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      “Better let Boyd see them when he comes down. The affair grows more queer and complicated as we proceed.”

      “Don’t you recollect,” I said suddenly, “in the dead man’s pocket was a card exactly similar, but quite blank. You threw it into the fireplace.”

      “Ah! of course,” he answered quickly. “That fact shows that he had something to do with these mysterious symbols. I wonder what is their real meaning.”

      “I wonder,” I said. “As you say, the mystery grows each moment more and more inexplicable. Curious, too, that the snake in the garden path should have directed your attention to it.”

      “No,” he said quickly, his face in an instant pale and serious, “don’t mention that, there’s a good fellow. I’m trying not to think of it; for when I recollect all that it means to me I’m unnerved.”

      “Bah!” I laughed. “Surely there’s nothing to fear. It only shows that however careful the assassin is to cover his crime it must be unearthed sooner or later. The finger of Fate always points to the crime of murder, however well it may be concealed.”

      “True,” he sighed, his brows knit in serious thought. “But the finger of Fate has in this case shown me an omen of evil.”

      “You’re a fool, Patterson,” I said bluntly. “You have here every chance to distinguish yourself as a shrewd officer, yet you calmly stand by talking of omens and all that rot.”

      “Yes,” he answered. “I know I’m an idiot, Mr Urwin, but I can’t help it. That’s the worst of it.”

      “Well,” I suggested, “while Boyd is upstairs, why not make inquiries of the next-door neighbours regarding those who occupied this place?”

      He at once acted on my suggestion, and together we went out and rang the bell of the house adjoining on the right. My friend’s curious apathy in this matter surprised me, for usually he was a quick, active fellow, who prosecuted his inquiries methodically, and worked up evidence in a manner that had more than once called forth the commendation of the judge at the Old Bailey. That night, however, he was plainly upset — nervous, trembling and agitated, in a manner quite unusual to him.

      Boyd, the keen-eyed, quick-witted detective inspector, had noticed this when at the police-station, but Patterson had only replied —

      “I’m a bit unwell, that’s all.”

      Our summons at the house next door was answered by the occupier’s wife, a rather stout, white-haired, gaily-capped old lady named Luff.

      The appearance of Patterson in uniform surprised her, but when she had asked us in, and we were seated, he said —

      “There is no occasion to be alarmed, madam. I have merely called to make an inquiry of you. It is in your power to render us assistance in a rather confidential matter regarding the occupiers of the house next door — your neighbours on the left. What do you know of them?”

      “Nothing,” she answered. “They came about six months ago, a young lady and a very old gentleman, with a single maid-servant. They speak to no one, and, as far as I have observed, have very few friends. I have often remarked to my son, who is a civil engineer, and now away making the railway in China, that they are a mysterious couple. What is wrong with them?”

      “Oh, it’s simply a private matter,” my companion answered carelessly, not wishing to alarm the neighbourhood by news of our discovery.

      “What is the old gentleman like? Can you describe him?” I inquired. No doubt she took me for a detective, but at that moment this thought did not occur to me.

      “He is sixty, I should think, old and decrepit, with white hair, and always walks with a stick.”

      “And the lady was his daughter?” suggested the inspector.

      “I suppose her to be his daughter,” she answered. “The old man’s name is Dawson, I believe — at least one day a messenger-boy brought a note here by mistake, addressed to Professor Dawson. The daughter is a very good pianist, and plays every morning regularly.”

      “They are well off, as far as you can judge?” Patterson inquired with his assumed careless air.

      “No, I don’t think they are, because my maid heard at Boucher’s — the grocer’s across the way — that they owed a large bill which they couldn’t settle. Again, people who have a house of that sort do not have coal by the hundredweight taken down into the kitchen as they do.”

      Patterson nodded. No more sure sign of a light purse is there than the purchase of coal by the half-sack. Yet the interior of that house, with its well-laid dinner-table, certainly did not betray any sign of poverty. Indeed, I had noticed in the cellar a dusty stock of choice wines, hocks, ports, and champagnes of expensive brands.

      “You don’t know the young lady’s name, then?” asked my friend, after a slight pause.

      “If she’s really his daughter it would, I suppose, be Dawson,” she replied with a smile. “But I’m not certain, remember, as to either of their names.”

      “Perhaps your servants may know something about them. Servants generally gossip and pick up information about one’s neighbours, you know.”

      “You are right,” answered the affable old lady, “they gossip far too much. Unfortunately, however, both my servants are out at this moment.”

      We chatted on, but it was evident from her conversation that her servants knew little beyond what she did. One statement she made was somewhat curious. She alleged that a few nights before she was awakened about two o’clock in the morning by hearing the loud shrill screams of a woman who seemed to be in the room next hers in the adjoining house. She could hear a man’s voice talking low and gruffly, and three or four times were the screams repeated, as if the woman were in excruciating pain.

      “What visitors came to the house?” Patterson asked at length.

      “Very few. A youngish gentleman came sometimes. He called the other morning just as I was going out.”

      “Who admitted him?”

      “The young lady herself.”

      Many more questions Patterson put to the old lady, but elicited no noteworthy fact, except that two large, heavy trunks had been sent away by Parcels Delivery a couple of days before. Therefore, thanking Mrs Luff, who, of course, was extremely curious to know why the police were taking such an active interest in her neighbour, we left and made inquiries of the people in the adjoining house on the opposite hand.

      It was a lodging-house and the owner, a rather surly old widow, was not at all communicative. What she told us amounted practically to what we had already learnt. She, too, had long ago set the old man and his daughter down as mysterious persons, and her two servants had never been able to find out anything regarding them.

      So after nearly half an hour’s absence we returned to the house of mystery, watched, of course, by the persons in the houses on either side. None suspected a tragedy, but all remained at their windows expecting to see somebody arrested.

      In the dining-room we found Doctor Knowles, the police divisional surgeon, СКАЧАТЬ