smileupon her lips, half of sarcasm, half of pleasure; that strangeexpression which had held me entranced yet horrified.
She had disappeared, and here in her place was a dark-complexionedwoman, older, nevertheless handsome--a woman in whose refined face wasan air of romance and tragedy, and upon whose hand was the marriagebond. She, too, was dead. The doctor had examined her and pronouncedlife extinct.
"How could this have occurred?" I exclaimed, turning to Patterson assoon as I had recovered from the shock of the astounding discovery.
"It's simply amazing!" he declared. "I'm utterly at a loss to accountfor it. The woman we found here was most distinctly another person."
"Then there has been a triple tragedy," observed Boyd. "The body of thefirst woman must have been conveyed away during the time you were absentat the police-station."
"But why?" I asked. "What on earth could be the motive?"
"Impossible to tell," Patterson answered. "Perhaps the body is hiddensomewhere in the house."
"No," Boyd replied. "We've made a complete search everywhere. It hasundoubtedly been taken away. This fact, in itself, shows first, thatthere is more than one person implicated in the crime, and secondly,that they were absolutely fearless; while further, the incident of thetelephone is in itself sufficient proof that they had taken the utmostprecautions against detection."
"Are you quite certain that every cupboard and wardrobe has been lookedinto?" I asked doubtfully.
"Quite. From garret to cellar we've thoroughly overhauled the place.There are a couple of large trunks in one of the bedrooms, but weexamined the contents of both. They contain books."
"But loose boards, or places of that sort?" I suggested.
"When we search a place," responded the Scotland Yard inspector with asmile, "we're always on the look-out for places of concealment. I'vesuperintended the investigation myself, and I vouch that nothing isconcealed within this house."
"Do you think that the assassin was actually in the house when we firstentered?"
"That's more than likely," he answered with a pensive air. "Evidentlythe instant you'd gone the body of the fair-haired girl was somehowspirited away."
"Where?"
"Ah, that's what we must find out. Perhaps a taxi-driver will be ableto throw a light upon the matter."
"This is certainly a first-class mystery," observed Dick, withjournalistic instinct and a keen eye to those "special interviews" and"latest revelations" in which readers of his journal always revelled."It will make no end of a stir. What a godsend, now that the gooseberryseason is coming on."
A good murder mystery is always welcome to a certain class of Londondaily journals, but more especially in the season when Parliament is"up," the Courts are closed for the Vacation, and the well of sensationsruns low. This season is termed, in journalistic parlance, "thegooseberry season," on account of the annual appearance of the biggooseberry, that mythical monster of our youth, the sea-serpent, and thestarting of the usual silly correspondence upon "Why should we live?" orsome equally interesting controversial subject.
We were all held in blank astonishment at this latest development of theextraordinary affair. It had so many remarkable phases that, even toBoyd, one of the shrewdest officers of the Criminal InvestigationDepartment, it was bewildering.
To me, however, the disappearance of that dead woman with the fair, pureface was the strangest of all that tangle of astounding facts. Thatface had impressed me. Its every feature had been riveted indeliblyupon my memory, for it was a face which, in life, I should have fallendown and worshipped as an idol, for there was about it a purity andcharm which must have been highly attractive, a vivacity in those eyeswhich, even in death, had held me spell-bound.
"I don't see that we can do any more just now," Boyd remarked in abusiness-like tone to his subordinate.
"You've seen the three cards which were beneath the plates on thedining-table?" I asked.
"Yes," he responded. "There's some hidden meaning connected with them,but what it's impossible at present to guess. In order to prosecute ourinquiries we must preserve secrecy. Nothing must be published yet.Indeed, Patterson, you'll apply to the Coroner at once to take steps towithhold the real state of affairs from the public. If the assassinsfind that no hue and cry is aroused we may have a far better chance oftracing them, for they may betray themselves."
"It's a pity," observed Dick, deeply disappointed. "A first-classsensation of this sort don't occur every day. Why, it's worth fourcolumns if a line."
"Be patient," Patterson urged. "You shall have an opportunity ofpublishing it before long, and I'll see that you are a long way ahead ofyour contemporaries."
"Don't let the news agencies have a word. They always try and get infront of us," said Cleugh, whose particular antagonists were the CentralNews and the Press Association, which possess facilities for thecollection of news and its transmission by wire to the variousnewspapers that form one of the most marvellous organisations in unknownLondon.
"Leave it to me," said the inspector. "As soon as it's wise to let thepublic know anything I'll give you permission to publish. The _Comet_shall be first in the field with it."
"Very well," answered Dick, satisfied with Patterson's answer. Thatofficer had been prominent a few years before in the investigationsrelative to those mysterious assassinations of women in Whitechapel, andwas very friendly with "the _Comet_ man," as Cleugh was termed in thejournal which he represented.
Many were the suggestions we put forth as to how the bodies of thevictims could have thus been changed, but no theory we could advanceseemed likely to have any foundation in fact.
The mystery was certainly one of the strangest that had ever puzzled thecrime investigators of London. The cause of its discovery was a mostremarkable incident, and at every turn as the investigation proceededmystery seemed to follow upon mystery, until the whole affair presentedso many curious features that a solution of the problem seemed utterlyimpossible.
I bent beside the body of the woman who, reclining in the armchair withone arm fallen by her side, presented the appearance of one asleep. Herpresence there was a profound enigma. A thought, however, occurred tome at that moment. The dining-table below had been laid for three.Perhaps she was the third person.
For the greater part of an hour we remained in that house of grimshadows discussing the various phases of the astounding affair, until atlast, about eleven, we all left, two constables in uniform beingstationed within. So secretly had this search been carried out that theneighbours, though, perhaps, puzzled by Patterson's inquiries,entertained no suspicion of any tragic occurrence. In Kensington Roadall the shops facing Upper Phillimore Place were closed save thetobacconist's and the frequent public-houses, the foot passengers werefew, and at that hour the stream of taxis with homeward-boundtheatre-goers had not yet commenced. Market garden carts from Hounslowor Feltham, piled high with vegetables, rumbled slowly past on theirjourney to Covent Garden, and a few empty motor-buses rattled alongtowards Hyde Park, but beyond all was quiet, for that great artery ofWestern London goes early to rest.
At the police-station we took leave of Patterson and Boyd, and enteringa motor-bus at Kensington Church, arrived at our chambers shortly beforemidnight.
"There's something infernally uncanny in the whole business," said theMystery-monger as we sat smoking, prior to turning in. It was our habitto smoke and gossip for half an hour before going to bed, no matter whatthe time. Our talk was generally of "shop" events in our world ofjournalism, the chatter of Fleet Street intermingled with reminiscencesof the day's doings. Dick was sitting in the armchair reflectivelysucking his eternal briar, while I sat at my table pondering over aletter I had found there on my return. It was from Mary Blain, for whomI had once long ago entertained a very strong affection, but who hadsince gone out of my life, leaving only a shadowy recollection of amidsummer madness, of clandestine meetings, of idle, careless days spentin company with a smart, eminently pretty, g
irl in blue serge skirt,cotton blouse and sailor hat. All was of the past. She had played mefalse. I was poor, and she had thrown me over for a man richer thanmyself. For nearly three years I had heard little of her; indeed, Iconfess that she had almost passed from my memory until that eveningwhen I had sat awaiting Dick, and now on my return I opened that letterto discover it in her well-known, bold hand--the hand of an educatedwoman.
The letter, which had had some wanderings, as its envelope showed, andwas dated from her father's house up the river, merely expressed a hopethat I was in good health, and