“There!” he said to himself, as he passed downstairs, “I am just as big a fool as she is. She followed me to make a clean breast of everything, and I send her back with a request to keep her lips sealed. Yet I am angry with her for the risk she is taking!”
He reached the hall and was about to cross the foyer when he caught the words, “Gentleman thrown out of a cab,” uttered by a handsome girl, cheaply but gaudily attired, who was making some inquiry at the bureau.
He stopped and searched for a match. Then he became interested in the latest news, pinned in strips on the baize-covered board of a “ticker.”
The girl explained to an official that she had witnessed an accident that evening. She was told that a gentleman who lived in the hotel was hurt. Was he seriously injured?
The hotel man, from long practice, was enabled to sum up such inquirers rapidly.
“Do you know the gentleman?” he inquired.
“No—that is, slightly.”
“Well, madam, if you give me your card I will send it to his friends. They will give you all necessary information.”
She became confused. She was not accustomed to the quiet elegance of a great hotel. The men in evening dress, the gorgeously attired ladies passing to elevator or drawing-room, seemed to be listening to her. Why did the bureau keeper speak so loudly? Then the assurance of the Cockney came to her aid.
“I don’t see why there should be such a fuss about nothing,” she said. “I don’t know his people. I saw the gentleman pitched out of a cab and was sorry for him, so I just called to ask how he was.”
She angrily tossed her head, and stared insolently at an old lady who came to inquire if there were any letters for the Countess of Skerry and Ness.
“No letters, your ladyship,” said the man. “And you, miss, must either send a personal message or see the manager.”
The young woman bounced out in a fury, and Brett followed her, silently thanking the favouring planets which had sent him down the stairs at the very moment when the girl was proffering her request to the clerk.
Fortunately, the weather was better now. There was a clear sky overhead, and the streets looked quite cheerful after the steady downpour, London’s myriad lamps being reflected in glistening zigzags across the wet pavement.
The girl did not head towards the busy Strand, but walked direct to Charing Cross station on the District Railway.
The barrister thought she intended to go somewhere by train. He quickened his pace in order to be able to rapidly obtain a ticket and thus keep up with her. Herein he was lucky. To his surprise, she passed out of the station on the embankment side.
He followed, and nowhere could he see her. Then he remembered the steps leading to the footpath along the Hungerford Bridge. Running up these steps he soon caught sight of the young woman, who was walking rapidly towards Waterloo.
A man of the artisan class stared at her as she passed, and said something to her. She turned fiercely.
“Do you want a swipe on the jaw?” she demanded.
No, he did not. What had he done, he would like to know.
“You mind your own business,” she said. “Where am I goin’, indeed. What’s it got to do with you?”
The episode was valuable to the listening barrister. It classified the anxious inquirer after Hume’s health.
Her abashed admirer hung back, and the girl resumed her onward progress. The man was conscious that the gentleman behind him must have heard what passed. He endeavoured to justify himself.
“She’s pretty O.T., she is,” he grinned.
“Do you know her?” said Brett.
“I know her by sight. Seen her in the York now an’ then.”
“She can evidently take care of herself.”
“Ra—ther. Don’t you so much as look at her, mister, or off goes your topper into the river. She’s in a bad temper to-night.”
Brett laughed and walked ahead. On reaching the Surrey side the girl made for the Waterloo Road. There she mounted on top of a ’bus. The barrister went inside. He thought of the “man with black, snaky eyes,” who “took penn’orths” all the way from the Elephant to Whitehall.
And now he, Brett, took a penn’orth to the Elephant. The ’bus reached that famous centre of humanity, passing thence through Newington Butts to the Kennington Park Road.
In the latter thoroughfare the girl skipped down from the roof, and disdaining the conductor’s offer to stop, swung herself lightly to the ground. The barrister followed, and soon found himself tracking her along a curved street of dingy houses.
Into one of these she vanished. It chanced to be opposite a gas-lamp, and as he walked past he made out the number—37.
Externally it was exactly like its neighbours, dull, soiled, pinched, old curtains, worn blinds, blistered paint. He knew that if he walked inside he would tread on a strip of oilcloth, once gay in red and yellow squares, but now worn to a dirty grey uniformity. In the “hall” he would encounter a rickety hat-stand faced by an ancient print entitled “Idle Hours,” and depicting two ladies, reclining on rocks, attired in tremendous skirts, tight jackets, and diminutive straw hats perched between their forehead and chignons—in the middle distance a fat urchin, all hat and frills, staring stupidly at the ocean.
In the front sitting-room he would encounter horse-hair chairs, frayed carpet, and more early Victorian prints; in the back sitting-room more frayed carpet, more prints, and possibly a bed.
Nothing very mysterious or awe-inspiring about 37 Middle Street, yet the barrister was loth to leave the place. The scent of the chase was in his nostrils. He had “found.”
He was tempted to boldly approach and frame some excuse—a hunt for lodgings, an inquiry for a missing friend, anything to gain admittance and learn something, however meagre in result, of the occupants.
He reviewed the facts calmly. To attempt, at such an hour, to glean information from the sharp-tongued young person who had just admitted herself with a latchkey, was to court failure and suspicion. He must bide his time. Winter was an adept in ferreting out facts concerning these localities and their denizens. To Winter the inquiry must be left.
He stopped at the further end of the street, lit a cigar, and walked back.
He had again passed No. 37, giving a casual glance to the second floor front window, in which a light illumined the blind, when he became aware that a man was approaching from the Kennington Park Road. Otherwise the street was empty.
The lamp opposite No. 37 did not throw its beams far into the gloom, but the advancing figure instantly enlisted Brett’s attention.
The man was tall and strongly built. He moved with the ease of an athlete. He walked with a long, swinging stride, yet carried himself erect He was attired in a navy blue serge suit and a bowler hat.
The two were rapidly nearing each other.
At ten yards’ distance Brett knew that the other man was he whom he sought, the murderer of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, the human ogre whose mission on earth seemed to be the extinction of all who bore that fated name.
It is idle to deny that Brett was startled by this unexpected rencontre. Not until he made the discovery did he remember that he was carrying the stick rescued from the mud of Northumberland Avenue.
The knowledge gave him an additional thrill. Though he could be cool enough in exciting circumstances, though his quiet courage had more than once saved his life in moments of extreme peril, though physically he was more than able to hold his own with, say, the average professional boxer, he fully understood that the individual now about to pass within a stride could kill him with ridiculous ease.
Would this dangerous personage recognise his own stick?—that was the question.
If he did, Brett could already see himself describing a parabola in the air, could hear his skull crashing against the pavement. He even went so far as to sit with the coroner’s jury and bring in a verdict of “Accidental Death.”
In no sense did Brett exaggerate the risk he encountered. The individual who could stab Sir Alan to death with a knife like a toy, hurl a stalwart sailor into the middle of a street without perceptible effort, and bring down a horse and cab at the precise instant and in the exact spot determined upon after a second’s thought, was no ordinary opponent.
Their eyes met.
Truly a fiendish-looking Hume-Frazer, a Satanic impersonation of a fine human type. For the first and only time in his life Brett regretted that he did not carry a revolver when engaged in his semi-professional affairs.
The barrister, be it stated, wore the conventional frock-coat and tall hat of society. His was a face once seen not easily forgotten, the outlines classic and finely chiselled, the habitual expression thoughtful, preoccupied, the prevalent idea conveyed being tenacious strength. Quite an unusual person in Middle Street, Kennington.
They passed.
Brett swung the stick carelessly in his left hand, but not so carelessly that on the least sign of a hostile movement he would be unable to dash it viciously at his possible adversary’s eyes.
He remembered the advice of an old cavalry officer: “Always give ’em the point between the eyes. They come head first, and you reach ’em at the earliest moment.”
Nevertheless, he experienced a quick quiver down his spine when the other man deliberately stopped and looked after him. He did not turn his head, but he could “feel” that vicious glance travelling over him, could hear the unspoken question: “Now, I wonder who you are, and what you want here?”
He staggered slightly, recovered his balance, and went on. It was a masterpiece of suggestiveness, not overdone, a mere wink of intoxication, as it were.
It sufficed. Such an explanation accounts for many things in London.
The watcher resumed his interrupted progress. Brett crossed the street and deliberately knocked at the door of a house in which the ground floor was illuminated.
Someone peeped through a blind, the door opened as far as a rattling chain would permit.
“Good evening,” said Brett.
“What do you want?” demanded a suspicious woman.
“Mr. Smith—Mr. Horatio Smith.”
“He doesn’t live here.”
“Dear me! Isn’t this 76 Middle Street?”
“Yes; all the same, there’s no Smiths here.”
The door slammed; but the barrister had attained his object. The other man had entered No. 37.
In the Kennington Park Road he hailed hansom and drove home. Winter awaited him, for Smith now admitted the detective without demur should his master be absent.
The barrister walked to a sideboard, produced a decanter of brandy, and helped himself to a stiff dose.
“Ah,” he said pleasantly, “our American cousins call it a ‘corpse reviver,’ but a corpse could not do that, could he, Winter?”
“I know a few corpses that would like to try. But what is up, sir? I have not often seen you in need of stimulants.”
“I am most unfeignedly glad to give you the opportunity. Winter, suppose, some time to-morrow, you were told that the body of Reginald Brett, Esq., barrister-at-law, and a well-known amateur investigator of crime, had been picked up shortly after midnight in the Kennington district, whilst the medical evidence showed that death was caused by a fractured skull, the result of a fall, there being no other marks of violence on the person, what would you have thought?”
“It all depends upon the additional facts that came to light.”
“I will tell them to you. You were aware that I had quitted the hotel, because you called there?”
“Yes.”
“Whom did you see?”
“Mr. David. He said that you were angry with Mrs. Capella, for no earthly reason that he could make out. He further informed me that she had followed you when you left the room, and had not returned, being presumably in her own apartment.”
“Anything further?”
“Mr. Hume asked Miss Layton to go and see if Mrs. Capella had retired for the night. Miss Layton came back, looking rather scared, with the information that Mrs. Capella had dressed and gone out. After a little further talk we came to the conclusion that you were both together. Was that so?”
Brett had commenced his cross-examination with the intention of humorously proving to Winter that he (the detective) would suspect the wrong person of committing the imagined murder. Now he straightened himself, and continued in deadly earnest:
“When did you leave the hotel?”
“About 10.15.”
“Had not Mrs. Capella returned?”
“Not a sign of her. Miss Layton was alarmed, both the men furious, Mr. Robert particularly so. I did not see any use in remaining there; thought, in fact, I ought to obey orders and await you here, so here I am.”
The barrister scribbled on a card: “Is Mrs. C. at home?” He rang for Smith, and said:
“Take a cab to Mr. Hume’s hotel. Give him that card, and bring me the answer. If you and the cabman must have a drink together, kindly defer the function until after your return.”
Smith took such jibes in good part. He knew full well that to attempt to argue with his master would produce a list of previous convictions.
Then Brett proceeded to amaze Winter in his turn, giving him a full, true, and complete history of events since his parting from Mrs. Capella in the corridor.
He had barely finished the recital when Smith returned with a note:
“Yes; she came in at 10.45, and has since retired for the night. She says that her head ached, that she wanted to be alone, and went for a long walk. Seemed rather to resent our anxiety. Helen and I will be glad when we are all safely away from London. D.H.”
The barrister pondered over this communication for a long time.
“I fear,” he said at last, “that I came away from Middle Street a few minutes too soon. To tell the truth, I was in an abject state of fear. Next time I meet Mr. Frazer the Third I will be ready for him.”
“Is he really so like the others that he might be mistaken for one of them?”
“In a sense, yes. He has the same figure, general conformation, and features. But in other respects he is utterly different. Have you ever seen a great actor in the role of Mephistopheles?”
“I don’t remember. My favourite villain was Barry Sullivan as Richard III.”
Brett laughed hysterically.
“Let me speak more plainly. You have, no doubt, a vague picture in your mind of a certain gentleman of the highest descent who is popularly credited with the possession of horns, hoofs, and a barbed tail?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Very well. You will see someone very like him, minus the adornments aforesaid, when you set eyes on the principal occupant of 37 Middle Street.”
Winter slowly assimilated this description. Then he inquired:
“Why did you say just now that you came away from Middle Street a few minutes too soon?”
“Where did Mrs. Capella go when she left the hotel?”
“If she went to visit the man you met, then she is acting in collision with her brother’s murderer, and she knows it.”
“That is a hard thing to say, Winter.”
“It is a harder thing to credit, sir; but one cannot reject all evidence, merely because it happens to be straightforward and not hypothetical.”
“Winter, you are sneering at me.”
“No; I am only trying to make you admit the tendency of facts discovered by yourself. There is a period in all criminal investigation when deductive reasoning becomes inductive.”
“Now I have got you,” cried Brett “I thought I recognised the source of your new-born philosophy in the first postulate. The second convinces me. You have been reading ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”
“The book is in my pocket,” admitted Winter.
“I recommend you to transfer it to your head. It should be issued departmentally as a supplement to the Police Code. But let us waste no more time. To-morrow we have much to accomplish.”
“I am all attention.”
“In the first place, Mrs. Capella is leaving London for the North. She must not be regarded in our operations. The woman is weighted with a secret. I am sorry for her. I prefer to allow events as supplied by others to unravel the skein. Secondly, Jiro and his wife, and all who visit them, or whom they visit, must be watched incessantly. Get all the force required for this operation in its fullest sense. You, with one trusted associate, must keep a close eye on No. 37 Middle Street. On no account obtrude yourself personally into affairs there. Rather miss twenty opportunities than scare that man by one false move. Do you understand me thoroughly?”
“I am to see and not be seen. If I cannot do the one without the other, I must do neither.”
“Exactly. What a holiday you are having! You will return to the Yard with an expanded brain. When you buy a new hat you will be astounded and gratified. But beware of the fate of the frog in the fable. He inflated himself until he emulated the size of the bull.”
“And then?”
“Oh, then he burst.”
The detective changed the conversation abruptly.
“What do you propose doing, Mr. Brett?”
“I purpose reading a chapter in ‘The Stowmarket Mystery,’ written by your friend, Mr. Holden.”
They heard a loud rat-tat on the outer door.
“Probably,” continued Brett, “this is its title.”
Smith entered with a telegram. It was in the typed capitals usually associated with Continental messages. It read:
“Johnson leaves Naples to-night with others, I travel same train.—HOLDEN.”
The barrister surveyed the simple words with an intensity that indicated his desire to wrest from their context its hidden significance.
Winter, more subject to the influences of the hour, puffed his cigar furiously.
“You arrange your words to suit the next act for all the world like an Adelphi play,” he growled.
“I see that Holden has the same gift. What does he mean by ‘others’? Who is Capella bringing with him?”
“Witnesses,” volunteered Winter.
“Just so; but witnesses in what cause?”
“How the—how can I tell?”
“By applying your borrowed logic. Try the deductive reasoning you flung at me a while ago.”
“I don’t quite know what ‘deductive’ means,” was the sulky admission.
“That is the first step towards wisdom. You admit ignorance. Deduction, in this sense, is the process of deriving consequences from admitted facts. Now, mark you. Capella wishes to be rid of his wife, by death or legal separation. He thinks he wants to marry Miss Layton. He is convinced that something within his power, if done effectively, will bring about both events. He can shunt Mrs. Capella, and so disgust Miss Layton with the Hume-Frazers that she will turn to the next ardent and sympathetic wooer that presents himself. He knew the points of his case, and went to Naples to procure proofs. He has obtained them. They are chiefly living persons. He is bringing them to England, and their testimony will convict Mrs. Capella of some wrong-doing, either voluntary or involuntary. Holden knows what Capella has accomplished, and thinks it is unnecessary to remain longer in Naples. He is right. I tell you, Winter, I like Holden.”
“And I tell you, Mr. Brett, that if I swallowed the whole of Mr. Poe’s stories, I couldn’t make out Holden’s telegram in that fashion. So I must stick to my own methods, and I’ve put away a few wrong ’uns in my time. When shall I see you next?”
Brett took out his watch.
“At seven p.m., the day after to-morrow,” he said coolly. “Until then my address is ‘Hotel Metropole, Brighton.’”
He kept his word. Early next morning, after despatching a message to David Hume, and receiving an answer—an acknowledgment of his address in case of need—he took train to London-by-the-Sea, and for thirty-six hours flung mysteries and intrigues to the winds.
He came back prepared for the approaching climax. In such matters he was a human barometer. The affairs of the family in whose interests he had become so suddenly involved were rapidly reaching an acute stage. Something must happen soon, and that something would probably have tremendous and far-reaching consequences.
Capella and his companions, known and unknown, would reach London at 7.30 p.m. It pleased Brett to time his homeward journey so that he would speed in the same direction, but arrive before them.
In these trivial matters he owned to a boyish enthusiasm. It stimulated him to “beat the other man,” even if he only called upon the London, Brighton, and South Coast line to conquer a weak opponent like the South-Eastern.
At his flat were several letters and telegrams. Mrs. Capella wrote:
“I have seriously considered your last words to me. It is hard for a woman, the victim of circumstances, and deprived of her husband’s support at a most trying and critical period, to know how to act for the best. You said you wished your hands to be left unfettered. Well, be it so. You will encounter no hindrance from me. I pray for your success, and can only hope that in bringing happiness to others you will secure peace for me.”
“Poor woman!” he murmured. “She still trusts to chance to save her. Whom does she dread? Not her husband. Each day that passes she must despise him the more. Does she know that Robert loves her? Is she afraid that he will despise her? Really, a collision in which Capella was the only victim would be a perfect godsend.”
David telegraphed the safe arrival of the party at a Whitby hotel. “We have seen nothing more of our Northumberland Avenue acquaintance,” he added.
Holden, too, cabled from Paris, announcing progress. The remainder of the correspondence referred to other matters and social engagements, all which latter fixtures the barrister had summarily broken.
Winter was announced. His face heralded important tidings.
“Well, how goes the ratiocinative process?’ was Brett’s greeting.
“I don’t know him,” said the detective. “But I do happen to know most of the private inquiry agents in London, and one of ’em is going strong in Middle Street. He’s watching Mr. Ooma for all he’s worth.”
“Mr. Whom-a?”
“I’m not joking, Mr. Brett. That is the name of the mysterious gent in No. 37—Ooma, no initials. Anyhow, that is the name he gives to the landlady, and her daughter—the girl you followed from the hotel—tells all her friends that when he gets his rights he will marry her and make her a princess.”
“Ooma—a princess,” repeated Brett.
“Such is the yarn in Kennington circles. I obeyed orders absolutely. I and my mate took turn about in the lodgings we hired, where we are supposed to be inventors. My pal has a mechanical twist. He puts together a small electric machine during his spell, and I take it to pieces in mine. Yesterday my landlady was in the room, and Ooma looked out of the opposite window. Then she told me the whole story.”
“Go on—do!”
“Mr. Ooma is evidently puzzled to learn what has become of the Hume-Frazers and Mrs. Capella.”
“Why do you bring in her name?”
“Because it leads to the second part of my story. Someone—Capella or his solicitors, I expect—instructed Messrs. Matchem and Smith, private detectives, to keep a close eye on the lady. Their man is an ex-police constable, a former subordinate of mine who was fined for taking a drink when he ought not to. Of course, I knew him and he knew me, so I hadn’t much trouble in getting it out of him.”
The speaker paused with due dramatic effect.
“Got what out of him?” cried Brett impatiently. “And don’t puff your cheeks in that way. Remember the terrible fate of the frog who would be a bull.”
“There’s neither frogs nor bulls in this business,” retorted Winter, calm in the consciousness of his coming revelation. “Mrs. Capella did go to Middle Street that night. She drove there in a hansom, had a long talk with Ooma, and nearly drove Miss Dew crazy with jealousy.”
“We guessed that already. Miss Dew is the prospective princess, I presume?”
“Yes. She has been twice to the hotel since, trying to find out where the party went to.”
“Next?”
“Ooma has plenty of money, and now for my prize packet—he is a Jap!”
“Impossible!”
“This time you are wrong, Mr. Brett. You have only seen him once. You were full of his remarkable likeness to the Hume-Frazers. It is startling, I admit, and at night-time no man living could avoid the mistake. But I tell you he is a Jap. He met Jiro yesterday, and they walked in Kensington Palace Gardens. They talked Japanese all the time. My mate heard them. He distinctly caught the word ‘Okasaki’ more than once. He managed to shadow them very neatly by hiring a bath-chair and telling the attendant to come near to the pair every time there was a chance. More than that, when you know it, you can see the Japanese eyes, skin, and mouth. It is the grafting of the Jap on the European model that gives him the likeness to—well, to the party you mentioned the other day.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Brett.
“That’s him!”
It was useless to explain that the exclamation was one of amazement.
The barrister began to roam about the apartment, frowning with the intensity of his thoughts. Once he confronted Winter.
“Are you sure of this?” he demanded.
“So sure that were it not for your positive instructions, Mr. Ooma would now be in Holloway, awaiting his trial on a charge of murder. Look at the facts. ‘Rabbit Jack’ can identify him. He knew how to use the Ko-Katana. He knew the Japanese tricks of wrestling, which enabled him to make those two clever attacks on the two cousins. He has some power over Mrs. Capella, which brings her to him at eleven at night in a distant quarter of London. He made Jiro write the typed letter in my possession. He sent Jiro to Ipswich to attend Mr. David’s second trial when the first missed fire. I can string Mr. Ooma on that little lot.”
“Winter,” said Brett sternly, “you make me tired. Have all these stunning items of intelligence invaded your intellect only since you went to Middle Street?”
“No, not exactly, Mr. Brett. I must admit that each one of them is your discovery, except the fact that he is a Jap—always excepting that—but yesterday I strung them together, so to speak.”
“Ending your task by stringing Ooma, in imagination. I allow you full credit for your sensational development—always excepting this, that I sent you to Middle Street. Why did he kill Sir Alan? How does his Japanese nationality elucidate an utterly useless and purposeless murder?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Brett.”
“Unless I am much mistaken, you will learn to-night. Holden is nearly due.”
The barrister resumed his stalk round the room. In another minute he stopped to glance at his watch.
“Half-past seven,” he murmured. “Just time to get a message through to Whitby, and perhaps a reply.”
He wrote a telegram to Hume: “Where is Fergusson? I want to see him.”
“What has Fergusson got to do with the business?” asked the detective.
“Probably nothing. But he is the oldest available repository of the family secrets. His master has told him to be explicit with me. By questioning him, I may solve the riddle presented by Mr. Ooma. Does the name suggest nothing to you, Winter?”
“It has a Japanese ring about it.”
“Nothing Scotch? Isn’t it like Hume, for instance?”
“By Jove! I never thought of that. Well, there, I give in. Ooma! Dash my buttons, that beats cock-fighting!”
The barrister paid no heed to Winter’s fall from self-importance. He pondered deeply on the queer twist given to events by the detective’s statement. At last he took a volume from his book-case.
“Do you remember what I told you about Japanese names?” he said. “I described to you, for instance, what strange mutations your surname would undergo were you born in the Far East.”
“Yes; I would be called Spring, Summer, etc, according to my growth.”
“Then listen to this,” and he read the following extract from that excellent work, “The Mikado’s Empire,” by W.E. Griffis:
“It has, until recently, in Japan been the custom for every Samurai to be named differently in babyhood, boyhood, manhood, or promotion, change of life, or residence, in commemoration of certain events, or on account of a vow, or from mere whim.”
“What a place for aliases!” interpolated the professional.
“At the birth of a famous warrior,” went on Brett, “his mother, having dreamed that she conceived by the sun, called him Hiyoshi Maro (good sun). Others dubbed him Ko Chiku (small boy), and afterward Saru Watsu (monkey-pine).”
He closed the volume.
“This gentleman has twenty other names,” he added; “but the foregoing list will suffice. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the man who struck down the fifth Hume-Frazer baronet on the spot so fatal to his four predecessors, should bring from a country given to such name-changes a cognomen that irresistibly recalls the original enemy of the family, David Hume?”
“It is odd,” asserted Winter.
Someone rang, and was admitted.
“Mr. Holden,” announced Smith.
The long-nosed ex-sergeant entered. His sallow face was browned after his long journeys and exposure to the Italian sun in midsummer. He was soiled and travel-stained.
“Excuse my appearance,” he said. “I have had no time for even a wash since this morning. On board the boat I thought it best to keep a constant watch on Capella and his companions.”
“Who are they?” demanded Brett.
Mr. Holden looked at the barrister with an injured air.
“I am a man of few words, sir,” he said, “and if you do not mind, I will tell my story in my own way.”
Winter was secretly delighted to hear the “Old ’Un,” as they called him in the Yard, take a rise out of Brett in this manner.
“Perhaps,” exclaimed the barrister, “your few words will come more easily if you wet your whistle.”
“Well, I must admit that Italian wine—”
“Is not equal to Scotch; or is it Irish?”
“Irish, sir, if you please.”
Mr. Holden’s utterance having been cleared of cinders, he made a fresh start.
“As I was saying, gentlemen, I kept an observant eye on Capella and his companions, and at the same time occupied myself in the fashioning of certain little models with which to illustrate my subsequent remarks.”
He produced a map of Naples, which he carefully smoothed out on the table, pressing the creases with his fingers until Brett itched to tweak his long nose.
The man was evidently a Belfast Irishman, and the barrister forced himself to find amusement in speculating how such an individual came to speak Italian fluently. Speculation on this abstruse problem, however, yielded to keen interest in Mr. Holden’s proceedings.
On the face of the map he located a number of small wooden carvings, which were really very ingenious. They represented churches, an hotel, a mansion, three ordinary houses, a rambling building like a public institution, and a nondescript structure difficult to classify.
“I find,” said Mr. Holden, when the mise-en-scène was quite to his liking, “that a good map, and a few realistic models of the principal buildings dealt with in my discourse, give a lucidity and a coherence otherwise foreign to the narrative.”
Even Winter became restive under this style of address. Brett caught his eye, and moved by common impulse, they lessened the whisky-mark in a decanter of Antiquary.
“Allow me to remark,” interpolated Brett, “that your telegrams were admirably terse and to the point.”
“Thank you, sir. Many eminent judges have complimented me on my manner of giving evidence. And now to business. I arrived at the railway station here” (touching the non-descript building), “and took a room in the Villa Nuova here” (he laid a finger on the mansion), “which, as you see, is quite close to the Hotel de Londres here” (a flourish over the hotel), “at which, as I expected, Mr. Capella took up his abode. According to your instructions I obtained a competent assistant, a native of Naples, and we both awaited Mr. Capella’s arrival. He reached Naples at 10.30 a.m. the day following my advent at night, and after breakfast drove straight to the Reclusorio, or Asylum for the Poor, situated here” (he indicated the institution), “close to the Botanical Gardens. Mr. Capella arranged with the authorities to withdraw from the poorhouse an elderly woman named Maria Bresciano. It subsequently transpired that she was a nurse employed by a certain English gentleman named Fraser Beechcroft, who became entangled with a beautiful Italian girl named Margarita di Orvieto some twenty-eight years ago.”
Mr. Holden paid not the remotest attention to the looks of amazement exchanged between Brett and Winter. He merely paused to take breath and peer benignantly at the map, following lines thereon with the index finger of his right hand.
“It appears further,” he resumed, “that the Englishman and the Signorina di Orvieto could not marry, on account of some foolish religious scruples held by the young lady, but they entertained a very violent passion for each other, met clandestinely, and a female child was born, whose baptism is registered, under the name of Margarita di Orvieto, in the church of the village of La Scutillo here.” (He tapped a tiny spired edifice on the edge of the map.)
“The two were living there in great secrecy, as they were in fear of their lives, not alone from the young lady’s relatives, but from her discarded lover, the Marchese di Capella, father of the present Mr. Giovanni Capella, who has dropped his title in England. The old woman, Maria Bresciano, attended the signorina and her child, but unfortunately the mother died, and her death is registered both by the civil authorities in the Minadoi section here” (lifting a small house bodily off the map), “and by the ecclesiastical here” (he touched another spire).
“The affair created some stir in the Naples of that day, but Beechcroft’s suffering, the calm daring with which, after the girl’s death, he defied those who had vowed vengeance on him, and the generally passionate nature of the attachment between the two, created much public sympathy for him. Among others who were attracted to him were a Mr. and Mrs. Somers, and their daughter, then resident in Naples. Oddly enough, Beechcroft did not content himself with securing efficient care for his child, but brought the infant to the Hotel de Londres—you note the coincidence—where it was nurtured under his personal supervision.”
Brett drew a long breath. So this was Margaret’s secret and Capella’s vengeance! He was aroused, as from a dream, by Mr. Holden’s steady voice.
“Mr. Beechcroft always held that the Signorina di Orvieto was his true wife in the eyes of Heaven, for their marriage was only prevented by a most uncalled-for and unnatural threat of incurring her father’s dying curse it she dared to wed a Protestant. Eighteen months after her death he married Miss Somers at the British Consulate, and revealed his real name and rank—Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, baronet, of Beechcroft, near Stowmarket, England. His lady adopted the infant girl as her own, and local gossip had it that this was a part of the marriage contract, whilst the ceremony took place at an early date to give colour to the kindly pretence. The pair lived in a distant suburb, at Donzelle here” (another church fixed the spot), “and in twelve months a boy was born, birth registered locally and in the British Consulate. After four more years’ residence in Naples, Sir Alan and Lady Hume-Frazer left Italy with their two children. Mr. Capella found two of their old servants, Giuseppe Conti and Lola Rintesano, living in these small houses here and here” (the remaining houses were lifted into prominence).
“Mr. Capella married Miss Margaret Hume-Frazer in Naples last January, the marriage being properly registered. His estates are situated in the South of Italy, and his father retired thither permanently during the scandal that took place twenty-eight years ago. Mr. Capella has brought with him the persons named as the nurse and servants, together with certified copies of all the documents cited. I also have certified copies of those documents, I now produce them, together with a detailed statement of my expenses. Mr. Capella is residing in a neighbouring hotel.”
The methodical police-sergeant laid some neatly docketed folios on the table near the map, and sat down for the first time since entering the room.
As a matter of fact, he had not uttered an unnecessary word. Other men, describing similar complexities, would have given particulars of their adventures, how this thing had been done, and that person wheedled into confidences.
Mr. Holden rose superior to these considerations. His mission was all-important, and he had certainly fulfilled it to the letter.
“If ever a grateful country makes me a judge, Mr. Holden,” said Brett, “I will add another to the encomiums you have received from the Bench. Indeed, before this affair ends, that pleasant task may be performed by an existing judge, for I do not see now how we are going to keep out of the law-courts. Do you, Winter?”
“Looks like a murder case plus a divorce,” commented the detective.
“You are leaving out of count the biggest sensation, namely, the title to the Beechcroft estates. Under her father’s will, if it is very cleverly drawn, Mrs. Capella may receive £1,000 per annum. She has not the remotest claim to Beechcroft and its revenues or to her brother’s intestate estate.”
Winter whistled.
“My eye!” he exclaimed. “What is Capella going to get out of it?”
“Revenge! His is a legacy of hate, like most other benefactions in the Hume-Frazer family. The next move rests with him. I wonder what it will be!”
Chance, at times, tangles the threads on which human lives depend, and creates such a net of knots and meshes that intelligent foresight is rendered powerless, and plans that ought to succeed are doomed to utter failure.
It was so during the three days succeeding Capella’s return from Italy. Reviewing events in the lights of accomplished facts, Brett subsequently saw many opportunities where his intervention would have altered the fortunes of the men and women in whom he had become so interested.
Although he endeavoured to keep control of circumstances, it was impossible to predict with certainty the manner in which the fifth act of this tragedy in real life would unfold itself.
Would he have ordered things differently had he possessed the power? He never knew. It was a question he refused to discuss with Winter long after everybody was comfortably married or buried, as the case might be.
To divide labour and responsibility, he apportioned Ooma and his surroundings to Winter, Capella to Holden. The strict supervision maintained over the Jiro family was relaxed. Brett proposed dealing with them summarily and in person.
Holden had barely concluded his remarkable narrative when Hume’s reply came from Whitby, giving the address of the hotel where Fergusson resided.
Brett went there at once, and found the old butler on the point of retiring for the night.
Fergusson was at first disinclined to commit himself to definite statements. With characteristic Scottish caution, he would neither say “yes” nor “no” until the barrister reminded him that he was not acting in his young master’s interests by being so reticent.
“Weel, sir, I’m an auld man, and mebbe a bit haverin’ in my judgment. Just ask me what ye wull, an’ I’ll dae my best to answer ye,” was the butler’s ultimate concession.
“You remember the day of the murder?”
“Shall I ever forget it?”
“Before Mr. David Hume-Fraser arrived at Beechcroft from London, had any other visitors seen Sir Alan?”
This was a poser. No form of ambiguity known to Fergusson would serve to extricate him from a direct reply.
“Ay, Mr. Brett,” came his reply at last. “One I can swear to.”
“That was Mr. Robert Hume-Fraser, who met him in the park, and walked with him there about three to four o’clock in the afternoon. Were there others whom you cannot swear to?”
The butler darted a quick glance at the other.
“Ye ken, sir,” he said, “that the Hume-Frazers are mixed up wi’ an auld Scoatch hoose?”
“Yes.”
“Weel, sir, there’s things that happen in this world which no man can explain. Five are dead, and five had to die by violent means. Who arranged that?”
“Neither you nor I can tell.”
“That’s right, sir. I know that Mr. David or Mr. Robert never lifted a hand against their cousin, yet, unless the Lord blinded my auld een, I saw ane or ither in the avenue when I tried to lift Sir Alan frae the groond.”
“You said nothing of this at the time?”
“Would ye hae me speak o’ wraiths to a Suffolk jury, Mr. Brett? I saw no mortal man. ’Twas a ghaist for sure, an’ if I had gone into the box to talk of such things they wad hae discredited my evidence about Mr. David. I might hae hanged him instead o’ savin’ him.”
“Suppose I tell you that the man you saw was no ghost, but real flesh and blood, a Japanese descendant of the David Hume who fought and killed the first Sir Alan in 1763, what would you say?”
“I would say, sir, that it had to be, were it ever so strange.”
“Have you ever, in gossip about family records, heard anything of the fate of the David Hume I have just mentioned.”
“Only this, sir. My people have lived on the Highland estate longer than any Hume-Frazer of them a’. My father remembered his grandfather sayin’ that a man who was in India wi’ Clive met Mr. Hume in Calcutta. There was fightin’ agin’ the French, an’ Mr. Hume would neither strike a blow for King George nor draw a sword for the French, so he sailed away to the East in a Dutch ship, and he was never heard of afterwards.”
This was a most important confirmation of the theory evolved by the barrister. For the rest, Fergusson’s reminiscences were useless.
Next morning Brett went to Somerset House to consult the will in which Margaret’s father left her £1,000 a year. Her brother died intestate.
As he expected, the document was phrased adroitly. It read: “I give and bequeath to Margaret Hume-Frazer, who has elected to desert the home provided for her, the sum of—” etc., etc.
The fact that she was, in the eyes of the law, an illegitimate child could not invalidate this bequest. For the rest, he imagined that when her brother died so unexpectedly, no one ever dreamed of inquiring into the well-intentioned fraud perpetrated by Lady Hume-Frazer and her husband. Margaret was unquestionably accepted as the heiress to her brother’s property, the estate being unentailed.
Then he drove to 17 St. John’s Mansions, Kensington, where Mr. and Mrs. Jiro were “at home.” They received him in the tiny drawing-room, and the lady’s manner betokened some degree of nervousness, which she vainly endeavoured to conceal by a pretence of bland curiosity as to the object of the barrister’s visit.
Not so Numagawa, whose sharp ferret eyes snapped with anxiety.
Brett left them under no doubt from the commencement. He addressed his remarks wholly to the Japanese.
“You have an acquaintance—perhaps I should say a confederate—residing at No. 37 Middle Street, Kennington—” he began.
“I do not understand,” broke in Jiro, whose sallow face crinkled like a withered apple in the effort to display non-comprehension.
“Oh yes, you do. The man’s name is Ooma. He is a tall, strongly-built native of Japan. He sent you to Ipswich to watch the trial of Mr. David Hume-Frazer for the murder of his cousin. He got you to write the post-card to Scotland Yard on the type-writer which you disposed of the day after my visit here. You recognised the motto of his house in the design which I showed you, and which was borne on the blade of the Ko-Katana. For some reason which I cannot fathom, unless you are his accomplice, you made your wife dress in male attire and go to warn him that some person was on his track. You see I know everything.”
As each sentence of this indictment proceeded it was pitiable to watch the faces of the couple. Jiro became a grotesque, fit to adorn the ugliest of Satsuma plaques. Mrs. Jiro visibly swelled with agitation. Brett felt that she was too full, and would overflow with tears in an instant.
“This is vely bad!” gasped Jiro.
“Oh, Nummie dear, have we been doing wrong?” moaned his spouse.
The barrister determined to frighten them thoroughly.
“It is a grave question with the authorities whether they should not arrest you instantly,” he said.
“On what charge?” cried Jiro.
“On a charge of complicity after the act in relation to the murder of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer. Your accomplice, Ooma, is the murderer.”
“What!” shrieked Mrs. Jiro, flouncing on to her knees and breaking forth into piteous sobs. “Oh, my precious infant! Oh, my darling Nummie! Will they part us from our babe?”
The door opened, and a frowsy head appeared.
“Did you call, mum?” inquired the small maid-servant.
“Get out!” shouted Brett; and the door slammed.
“Mr. Blett,” whimpered the Japanese, “I did not do this thing. I am innocent. I knew nothing about it until—until—”
“You verified the motto on the blade by consulting the ‘Nihon Suai Shi’ in the British Museum.”
This shot floored Jiro metaphorically, and his wife literally, for she sank into a heap.
“He knows everything, Nummie,” she cried.
“Evelything!” repeated her husband.
“Then tell him the rest!”. (Yet she was born in Suffolk.)
Brett scowled terribly as a subterfuge for laughter.
“Tell me,” he said, “why you helped this amazing scoundrel?”
“I did not help,” squeaked Jiro, his voice becoming shrill with excitement and fear. “He was my fliend. He is a Samurai of Japan. We met in Okasaki, and again in London. I came to England long after the clime you talk of. He told me these Flazel people were bad people, who had lobbed his father in the old days. He wanted them to be all hanged, then he would get money. He said they might watch him and get him sent back to Japan, where he belongs to a political palty who are always beheaded when they are caught. So when you come, I think, ‘Hello, he wants to find Ooma!’ I lite Ooma a letter, and he lite me to send Mrs. Jilo, dlessed in man’s clothes, to tell him evelything. I did that to save my fliend.”
“Have you Ooma’s letter?”
“Yes; hele it is.”
He took a document from a drawer, and Brett saw at a glance that Jiro’s statement was correct.
“You appear to have acted as his tool throughout,” was his scornful comment.
“But, Mr. Brett,” sobbed the stout lady, “I ought to say that when I—when I—put on those things—and met Mr. Ooma, I disobeyed my husband in one matter. I—liked you—and was afraid of Mr. Ooma, so instead of describing you to him I described Mr. Hume-Frazer from what my husband told me of his appearance in the dock. He was the first man I could think of, and it seemed to be best, as the quarrel was between them. Only—I gave him—a beard and moustache, so as to puzzle him more. Didn’t I, Nummie? I told you when I came home.”
So Mrs. Jiro’s unconscious device had undoubtedly saved Brett from a murderous attack, and Ooma had probably seen him leave the Northumberland Avenue Hotel more than once whilst waiting to waylay David Hume. Hence, too, the partial recognition by Ooma when they met by night in Middle Street.
The barrister could not help being milder in tone as he said:
“I believe you are both telling the truth. But this is a very serious matter. You must never again communicate with Ooma in any way. Avoid him as you would shun the plague, for within three or four days he will be in gaol, and you will be called upon to give evidence against him.”
At his chambers Brett found Holden awaiting him, with the tidings that Capella had gone to Whitby. The Italian’s agents, Messrs. Matchem & Smith, had evidently ferreted out Margaret’s whereabouts. Her husband, full of vengeful thoughts and base schemings, hastened after her, rejoicing in the knowledge that her cousins and Miss Layton would also be present.
“As I knew exactly where he was going, and assumed his object to be a domestic quarrel, I did not think it necessary to accompany him until I had first consulted you, sir,” said the imperturbable Holden.
“You acted quite rightly. Wait until the little beast returns to London!” exclaimed the barrister, with some degree of warmth.
Capella’s conduct reminded him of a spiteful child which deserved a sound spanking. He telegraphed to Hume to inform him of the fiery visitor who might be expected at the hotel that evening.
Oddly enough, Helen, David, and the Rev. Mr. Layton, tempted by a marine excursion to Scarborough and back, left Whitby Harbour on a local steamer at 11 a.m., and were timed to return about 9 p.m. Margaret was not a good sailor, so Robert Hume-Frazer remained with her, the two going for a protracted stroll along the cliffs.
During their walk, the golden influences of the hour unlocked Margaret’s heart. She was overwhelmed with the consciousness of the wretched mistakes of her life. She could not help contrasting the manly, gallant, out-spoken sailor by her side with the miserable foreigner whom she had espoused under the influence of a genuine but too violent passion. The knowledge that Robert might, under happier conditions, have been her husband was crushing and terrible.
There came to her some half-defined resolve to show her cousin how unworthy she was of his affections. Stopping defiantly at a moment when he casually called her attention to a lovely glimpse of rock-bound sea framed in a deep gorge, she said to him:
“Robert, I have something to tell you. I was on the point of telling Mr. Brett the last time I saw him in London, but he would not permit it. You are my cousin, and ought to know.”
“My dear girl,” he cried, “why this solemnity? You give me shivers when you speak in that way!”
“Pray listen to me, Robert. This is no matter for jesting. I am your cousin, but only in a sense. In the eyes of the law I am a nameless outcast. My mother was not Alan’s mother. I was born before my father married the lady who treated me as her daughter until her death. My mother was an Italian, who died at my birth, and whom my father never married.”
Frazer looked at the beautiful woman who addressed these astonishing words to him, and amazement, incredulity, a spasm almost of fear, held him dumb.
“It is too true, Robert. I did not know these things until a few short months ago. Some one, I believe, told my husband the truth soon after our marriage, and it was this discovery that so changed his feelings towards me. At first I was utterly unable to explain the awful alteration in his attitude. Not until I returned to England and settled down at Beechcroft did I become aware of the facts.”
“Surely, Rita, you are romancing?”
“No, there can be no doubt about it. I have seen the proofs.”
“Proofs! How can you be certain? Who made these statements to you?”
“I have been blackmailed, bled systematically for large sums of money. At first I was beguiled into a correspondence. My curiosity was aroused by references to my husband and to my father’s will. Finally, I received copies of documents which made matters clear even to my bewildered brain. More than that, I was sent a memorandum, written by my father, in which he gave Alan all the particulars, corroborated by extracts from registers, and explaining the reasons which actuated him in framing his will so curiously. We were never closely knit together, as you know. I think now that he regarded me as the living evidence of the folly of his earlier years, and perhaps my sensitive nature was quick to detect this hidden feeling.”
“May I ask who blackmailed you?”
Robert’s face grew hard and stern. The woman experienced a tumultuous joy as she saw it. She had at least one defender.
“That is the hard part of my story,” she murmured, in a voice broken with emotion. “The correspondence took place with a man named Ooma, a person I never even met at that time, and—can you believe it, Robert—within the past few days I have good reason to know that he is the murderer of my brother, the man who endeavoured to kill both you and David.”
Frazer caught her by the shoulder.
“Rita,” he said, “what has come to you? Are you hysterical, or dreaming?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, believe me!” she moaned. “Mr. Brett knows it is true. What is worse, he knows that I know it. I cannot bear this terrible secret any longer. I went to this man’s house in London the other night, and boldly charged him with the crime. He denied it, but I could see the lie and the fear in his eyes. To avoid a terrible family scandal I came here with you all. But I can bear it no longer. God help me and pity me!”
“He will, Margaret. You have done no wrong that deserves so much suffering.”
For a little while there was silence. Frazer was only able to whisper gentle and kindly words of consolation. He would have given ten years of his life to have the right to take her in his arms and tell her that, let the world view her conduct as it would, in his eyes she was blameless and lovable.
But this was denied him. She was the wife of another, of one who, instead of shielding and supporting her, was even then engaged in plotting her ruin.
“I nearly went mad,” she continued at last, “when I first became acquainted with the truth concerning my parentage. With calmer moments came the reflection that, after all, I was my father’s child, the sister of Alan, and entitled morally, if not legally, to succeed to the property. My wealth has not benefited me, Robert, but at least I have tried to do good to others.”
“You have, indeed,” he said tenderly. “But tell me about this fiend, Ooma. You say you saw him. Then you were in possession of his address?”
“Yes, during the past five months. When Mr. Brett first appeared on the scene, I feared lest he should discover my secret. How could I connect it with the death of my brother? The explanation given to me was that the documents were purloined by a servant years ago. It was not until the attacks on you and Davie, and the chance mention he made of some curious marks in a type-written communication received by Mr. Winter, that a horrible suspicion awoke in my mind. I had received several type-written letters” (Mr. Jiro, it would appear, had not told “evelything” to Brett), “and I compared some of those in London with the description given by Davie. They corresponded exactly! Then I resolved to make sure, no matter what the risk to myself, so I went to a place in Kennington the last night we were in town, and there I saw Ooma. Oh, Robert, he is so like you and Davie that at first it seems to be a romance! Only you two look honest and brave, whereas he has the appearance of a demon.”
Frazer looked at his watch.
“Brett ought to know all these things at once,” he said. “Let us walk back to the hotel and wire him. Perhaps it will be necessary for David and me to return to London immediately.”
“Why? You are safe here? Why should you incur further risk?”
He could not help looking at her. A slight colour suffused her face. Then he laughed savagely.
“There will be no risk, Rita. Once let me meet Mr. Ooma as man to man and I will teach him a trick or two, if only for your sake. The law will deal with him for Alan’s affair. He has an odd name! It has a Japanese ring, yet you say he resembles our family?”
Margaret, of course, could only describe him in general terms. As they returned to the hotel she explained her strange story in greater detail, largely on the lines already known to Brett.
In the office they found a telegram addressed to David, but his cousin opened it, believing it might be from Brett. It was, and read as follows:—
“Capella arrives Whitby five o’clock. I know everything he has to tell you. If he becomes offensive, boot him.”
Robert did not show the message to his cousin. He gave her its general purport, and added:
“Prepare yourself for an ordeal, but be brave. Perhaps your husband is in the hotel now, as he must have reached here half an hour ago.”
He had barely uttered the words when Mrs. Capella’s maid approached.
“Mr. Capella is here, madam,” she said “and awaits you in your sitting-room.”
Margaret became, if possible, a shade whiter.
“What about you, Robert?” she whispered.
“Me! I am going with you. Brett’s telegram is my authority.”