CHAPTER III
With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the Texasstatesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room at theCarlton. There was no question about it--the first epistle from thestrawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention. All day, as shedragged her father through picture galleries, she found herself lookingforward to another morning, wondering, eager.
But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom thisodd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver. The newsrather disappointed the daughter of Texas. At noon she insisted onreturning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed out,they were far from the Carlton at the time. Her journey was rewarded.Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped.
DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am writing this at three in the morning,with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden. That I am so late ingetting to it is not because I did not think of you all day yesterday;not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last evening toaddress you. Believe me, only the most startling, the most appallingaccident could have held me up.
That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.
I am tempted to give you the news at once in one striking and terriblesentence. And I could write that sentence. A tragedy, wrapped in mysteryas impenetrable as a London fog, has befallen our quiet little house inAdelphi Terrace. In their basement room the Walters family, sleepless,overwhelmed, sit silent; on the dark stairs outside my door I hear atintervals the tramp of men on unhappy missions--But no; I must go backto the very start of it all:
Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson's, in the Strand--so earlythat I was practically alone in the restaurant. The letter I was aboutto write to you was uppermost in my mind and, having quickly dined, Ihurried back to my rooms. I remember clearly that, as I stood in thestreet before our house fumbling for my keys, Big Ben on the ParliamentBuildings struck the hour of seven. The chime of the great bell rang outin our peaceful thoroughfare like a loud and friendly greeting.
Gaining my study, I sat down at once to write. Over my head I couldhear Captain Fraser-Freer moving about--attiring himself, probably, fordinner. I was thinking, with an amused smile, how horrified he would beif he knew that the crude American below him had dined at the impossiblehour of six, when suddenly I heard, in that room above me, some strangertalking in a harsh determined tone. Then came the captain's answeringvoice, calmer, more dignified. This conversation went along for sometime, growing each moment more excited. Though I could not distinguish aword of it, I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was a controversyon; and I remember feeling annoyed that any one should thus interferewith my composition of your letter, which I regarded as most important,you may be sure.
At the end of five minutes of argument there came the heavy thump-thumpof men struggling above me. It recalled my college days, when we usedto hear the fellows in the room above us throwing each other about inan excess of youth and high spirits. But this seemed more grim, moredetermined, and I did not like it.--However, I reflected that it wasnone of my business. I tried to think about my letter.
The struggle ended with a particularly heavy thud that shook our ancienthouse to its foundations. I sat listening, somehow very much depressed.There was no sound. It was not entirely dark outside--the longtwilight--and the frugal Walters had not lighted the hall lamps.Somebody was coming down the stairs very quietly--but their creakingbetrayed him. I waited for him to pass through the shaft of light thatpoured from the door open at my back. At that moment Fate intervened inthe shape of a breeze through my windows, the door banged shut, and aheavy man rushed by me in the darkness and ran down the stairs. I knewhe was heavy, because the passageway was narrow and he had to push measide to get by. I heard him swear beneath his breath.
Quickly I went to a hall window at the far end that looked out on thestreet. But the front door did not open; no one came out. I was puzzledfor a second; then I reentered my room and hurried to my balcony. Icould make out the dim figure of a man running through the garden atthe rear--that garden of which I have so often spoken. He did not tryto open the gate; he climbed it, and so disappeared from sight into thealley.
For a moment I considered. These were odd actions, surely; but was it myplace to interfere? I remembered the cold stare in the eyes of CaptainFraser-Freer when I presented that letter. I saw him standing motionlessin his murky study, as amiable as a statue. Would he welcome anintrusion from me now?
Finally I made up my mind to forget these things and went down to findWalters. He and his wife were eating their dinner in the basement. Itold him what had happened. He said he had let no visitor in to see thecaptain, and was inclined to view my misgivings with a cold British eye.However, I persuaded him to go with me to the captain's rooms.
The captain's door was open. Remembering that in England the way of theintruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go first. He stepped into theroom, where the gas flickered feebly in an aged chandelier.
"My God, sir!" said Walters, a servant even now.
And at last I write that sentence: Captain Fraser-Freer of the IndianArmy lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer on hishandsome English face!
The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent morning inthis room of mine which is so like the one in which the captain died. Hehad been stabbed just over the heart, and my first thought was of thatodd Indian knife which I had seen lying on his study table. I turnedquickly to seek it, but it was gone. And as I looked at the tableit came to me that here in this dusty room there must be fingerprints--many finger prints.
The room was quite in order, despite those sounds of struggle. One ortwo odd matters met my eye. On the table stood a box from a florist inBond Street. The lid had been removed and I saw that the box containeda number of white asters. Beside the box lay a scarf-pin--an emeraldscarab. And not far from the captain's body lay what is known--owing tothe German city where it is made--as a Homburg hat.
I recalled that it is most important at such times that nothing bedisturbed, and I turned to old Walters. His face was like this paper onwhich I write; his knees trembled beneath him.
"Walters," said I, "we must leave things just as they are until thepolice arrive. Come with me while I notify Scotland Yard."
"Very good, sir," said Walters.
We went down then to the telephone in the lower hall, and I called upthe Yard. I was told that an inspector would come at once and I wentback to my room to wait for him.
You can well imagine the feelings that were mine as I waited. Beforethis mystery should be solved, I foresaw that I might be involved to adegree that was unpleasant if not dangerous. Walters would remember thatI first came here as one acquainted with the captain. He had noted, Ifelt sure, the lack of intimacy between the captain and myself, oncethe former arrived from India. He would no doubt testify that I had beenmost anxious to obtain lodgings in the same house with Fraser-Freer.Then there was the matter of my letter from Archie. I must keep thatsecret, I felt sure. Lastly, there was not a living soul to back me upin my story of the quarrel that preceded the captain's death, of the manwho escaped by way of the garden.
Alas, thought I, even the most stupid policeman can not fail to lookupon me with the eye of suspicion!
In about twenty minutes three men arrived from Scotland Yard. By thattime I had worked myself up into a state of absurd nervousness. I heardWalters let them in; heard them climb the stairs and walk about in theroom overhead. In a short time Walters knocked at my door and told methat Chief Inspector Bray desired to speak to me. As I preceded theservant up the stairs I felt toward him as an accused murderer must feeltoward the witness who has it in his power to swear his life away.
He was a big active man--Bray; blond as are so many Englishmen. Hisevery move spoke efficiency. Trying to act as unconcerned as an innocentman should--but failing miserably, I fear--I related to him my storyof the voices, the struggle, and the heavy man who had
got by me in thehall and later climbed our gate. He listened without comment. At the endhe said:
"You were acquainted with the captain?"
"Slightly," I told him. Archie's letter kept popping into my mind,frightening me. "I had just met him--that is all; through a friend ofhis--Archibald Enwright was the name."
"Is Enwright in London to vouch for you?"
"I'm afraid not. I last heard of him in Interlaken."
"Yes? How did you happen to take rooms in this house?"
"The first time I called to see the captain he had not yet arrived fromIndia. I was looking for lodgings and I took a great fancy to the gardenhere."
It sounded silly, put like that. I wasn't surprised that the inspectoreyed me with scorn. But I rather wished he hadn't.
Bray began to walk about the room, ignoring me.
"White asters; scarab pin; Homburg hat," he detailed, pausing before thetable where those strange exhibits lay.
A constable came forward carrying newspapers in his hand.
"What is it?" Bray asked.
"The Daily Mail, sir," said the constable. "The issues of Julytwenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth and thirtieth."
Bray took the papers in his hand, glanced at them and tossed themcontemptuously into a waste-basket. He turned to Walters.
"Sorry, sir," said Walters; "but I was so taken aback! Nothing like thishas ever happened to me before. I'll go at once--"
"No," replied Bray sharply. "Never mind. I'll attend to it--"
There was a knock at the door. Bray called "Come!" and a slender boy,frail but with a military bearing, entered.
"Hello, Walters!" he said, smiling. "What's up? I-"
He stopped suddenly as his eyes fell upon the divan where Fraser-Freerlay. In an instant he was at the dead man's side.
"Stephen!" he cried in anguish.
"Who are you?" demanded the inspector--rather rudely, I thought.
"It's the captain's brother, sir," put in Walters. "Lieutenant NormanFraser-Freer, of the Royal Fusiliers."
There fell a silence.
"A great calamity, sir--" began Walters to the boy.
I have rarely seen any one so overcome as young Fraser-Freer. Watchinghim, it seemed to me that the affection existing between him and the manon the divan must have been a beautiful thing. He turned away from hisbrother at last, and Walters sought to give him some idea of what hadhappened.
"You will pardon me, gentlemen," said the lieutenant. "This has been aterrible shock! I didn't dream, of course--I just dropped in for a wordwith--with him. And now--"
We said nothing. We let him apologize, as a true Englishman must, forhis public display of emotion.
"I'm sorry," Bray remarked in a moment, his eyes still shifting aboutthe room--"especially as England may soon have great need of men likethe captain. Now, gentlemen, I want to say this: I am the Chief of theSpecial Branch at the Yard. This is no ordinary murder. For reasonsI can not disclose--and, I may add, for the best interests of theempire--news of the captain's tragic death must be kept for the presentout of the newspapers. I mean, of course, the manner of his going. Amere death notice, you understand--the inference being that it was anatural taking off."
"I understand," said the lieutenant, as one who knows more than hetells.
"Thank you," said Bray. "I shall leave you to attend to the matter, asfar as your family is concerned. You will take charge of the body. Asfor the rest of you, I forbid you to mention this matter outside."
And now Bray stood looking, with a puzzled air, at me.
"You are an American?" he said, and I judged he did not care forAmericans.
"I am," I told him.
"Know any one at your consulate?" he demanded.
Thank heaven, I did! There is an under-secretary there named Watson--Iwent to college with him. I mentioned him to Bray.
"Very good," said the inspector. "You are free to go. But you mustunderstand that you are an important witness in this case, and if youattempt to leave London you will be locked up."
So I came back to my rooms, horribly entangled in a mystery that islittle to my liking. I have been sitting here in my study for some time,going over it again and again. There have been many footsteps on thestairs, many voices in the hall.
Waiting here for the dawn, I have come to be very sorry for the coldhandsome captain. After all, he was a man; his very tread on the floorabove, which it shall never hear again, told me that.
What does it all mean? Who was the man in the hall, the man who hadargued so loudly, who had struck so surely with that queer Indian knife?Where is the knife now?
And, above all, what do the white asters signify? And the scarabscarf-pin? And that absurd Homburg hat?
Lady of the Carlton, you wanted mystery. When I wrote that first letterto you, little did I dream that I should soon have it to give you inoverwhelming measure.
And--believe me when I say it--through all this your face has beenconstantly before me--your face as I saw it that bright morning in thehotel breakfast room. You have forgiven me, I know, for the mannerin which I addressed you. I had seen your eyes and the temptation wasgreat--very great.
It is dawn in the garden now and London is beginning to stir. So thistime it is--good morning, my lady.
THE STRAWBERRY MAN.