CHAPTER XVII
THE WOMAN WITH THE BASKET
Deep in thought respecting the inexplicable nature of this latestmystery, I turned in the direction of the bridge, and leaving behindme an ever-swelling throng at the gate of Wyatt's Buildings,proceeded westward.
The death of the dwarf had lifted the case into the realms of themarvellous, and I noted nothing of the bustle about me, for mentallyI was still surveying that hunched-up body which had fallen out ofempty space.
Then in upon my preoccupation burst a woman's scream!
I aroused myself from reverie, looking about to right and left.Evidently I had been walking slowly, for I was less than a hundredyards from Wyatt's Buildings, and hard by the entrance to anuninviting alley from which I thought the scream had proceeded.
And as I hesitated, for I had no desire to become involved in adrunken brawl, again came the shrill scream: "Help! help!"
I cannot say if I was the only passer-by who heard the cry;certainly I was the only one who responded to it. I ran down thenarrow street, which was practically deserted, and heard windowsthrown up as I passed for the cries for help continued.
Just beyond a patch of light cast by a street lamp a scene was beingenacted strange enough at any time and in any place, but doublysingular at that hour of the night, or early morning, in a lane offthe Waterloo Road.
An old woman, from whose hand a basket of provisions had fallen,was struggling in the grasp of a tall Oriental! He was evidentlytrying to stifle her screams and at the same time to pinion herarms behind her!
I perceived that there was more in this scene than met the eye.Oriental footpads are rarities in the purlieus of Waterloo Road.So much was evident; and since I carried a short, sharp argument inmy pocket, I hastened to advance it.
At the sight of the gleaming revolver barrel the man, who wasdressed in dark clothes and wore a turban, turned and ran swiftlyoff. I had scarce a glimpse of his pallid brown face ere he wasgone, nor did the thought of pursuit enter my mind. I turned tothe old woman, who was dressed in shabby black and who wasrearranging her thick veil in an oddly composed manner, consideringthe nature of the adventure that had befallen her.
She picked up her basket, and turned away. Needless to say I wasrather shocked at her callous ingratitude, for she offered no word ofthanks, did not even glance in my direction, but made off hurriedlytoward Waterloo Road.
I had been on the point of inquiring if she had sustained any injury,but I checked the words and stood looking after her in blankwonderment. Then my ideas were diverted into a new channel. Iperceived, as she passed under an adjacent lamp, that her basketcontained provisions such as a woman of her appearance would scarcelybe expected to purchase. I noted a bottle of wine, a chicken, and alarge melon.
The nationality of the assailant from the first had marked the affairfor no ordinary one, and now a hazy notion of what lay behind allthis began to come to me.
Keeping well in the shadows on the opposite side of the way, Ifollowed the woman with the basket. The lane was quite deserted;for, the disturbance over, those few residents who had raised theirwindows had promptly lowered them again. She came out intoWaterloo Road, crossed over, and stood waiting by a stopping-placefor electric cars. I saw her arranging a cloth over her basket insuch a way as effectually to conceal the contents. A strong mentalexcitement possessed me. The detective fever claims us all at onetime or another, I think, and I had good reason for pursuing anyinquiry that promised to lead to the elucidation of the slippermystery. A theory, covering all the facts of the assault incident,now presented itself, and I stood back in the shadow, watchful; ina degree, exultant.
A Greenwich-bound car was hailed by the woman with the basket. Icould not be mistaken, I felt sure, in my belief that she castfurtive glances about her as she mounted the steps. But, havingseen her actually aboard, my attention became elsewhere engaged.
All now depended upon securing a cab before the tram car hadpassed from view!
I counted it an act of Providence that a disengaged taxi appearedat that moment, evidently bound for Waterloo Station. I ran outinto the road with cane upraised.
As the man drew up--
"Quick!" I cried. "You see that Greenwich car--nearly at theOphthalmic Hospital? Follow it. Don't get too near. I will giveyou further instructions through the tube." I leapt in. We wereoff!
The rocking car ahead was rounding the bend now toward St. George'sCircus. As it passed the clock and entered South London Road itstopped. I raised the tube.
"Pass it slowly!"
We skirted the clock tower, and bore around to the right. Then Idrew well back in the corner of the cab.
The woman with the basket was descending! "Pull up a few yardsbeyond!" I directed. As the car re-started, and passed us, thetaxi became stationary. I peered out of the little window at theback.
The woman was returning in the direction of Waterloo Road!
"Drive slowly back along Waterloo Road," was my next order."Pretend you are looking for a fare; I will keep out of sight."
The man nodded. It was unlikely that any one would notice thefact that the cab was engaged.
I was borne back again upon my course. The woman kept to the right,and, once we were entered into the straight road which leads to thebridge, I again raised the speaking-tube.
"Pull up," I said. "On the right-hand side is an old woman carryinga basket, fifty yards ahead. Do you see her? Keep well behind, butdon't lose sight of her."
The man drew up again and sat watching the figure with the basketuntil it was almost lost from sight. Then slowly we resumed ourway. I would have continued the pursuit afoot now, but I fearedthat my quarry might again enter a vehicle. She did not do so,however, but coming abreast of the turning in which the mysteriousassault had taken place, she crossed the road and disappeared fromview.
I leapt out of the cab, thrust half a crown into the man's hand,and ran on to the corner. The night was now far advanced, and Iknew that the chances of detection were thereby increased. Butthe woman seemed to have abandoned her fears, and I saw her justahead of me walking resolutely past the lamp beyond which a shorttime earlier she had met with a dangerous adventure.
Since the opposite side of the street was comparatively in darkness,I slipped across, and in a state of high nervous tension pursuedthis strange work of espionage. I was convinced that I hadforestalled Bristol and that I was hot upon the track of those whocould explain the mystery of the dead dwarf.
The woman entered the gate of the block of dwellings even moreforbidding in appearance than those which that night had stageda dreadful drama.
As the figure with the basket was lost from view I crept on, andin turn entered the evil-smelling hallway. I stepped cautiously,and standing beneath a gaslight protected by a wire frame, Icongratulated myself upon having reached that point of vantage assilently as any Sioux stalker.
Footsteps were receding up the stone stairs. Craning my neck, Ipeered up the well of the staircase. I could not see the woman,but from the sound of her tread it was possible to count thelandings which she passed. When she had reached the fourth, and Iheard her step upon yet another flight, I knew that she must bebound for the topmost floor; and observing every precaution, almostholding my breath in a nervous endeavour to make not the slightestsound, rapidly I mounted the stairs.
I was come to the third landing in this secret fashion when quitedistinctly I heard the grating of a key in a lock!
Since four doors opened upon each of the landings, at all costs,I thought, I must learn by which door she entered.
Throwing caution to the winds I raced up the remaining flights ...and there at the top the woman confronted me, with blazing eyes!--witheyes that thrilled every nerve; for they were violet eyes, theonly truly violet eyes I have ever seen! They were the eyes of thewoman who like a charming, mocking will-o'-the-wisp had dancedthrough this tragic scene from the time that poor Professor Deepinghad brought the Prophet's s
lipper to London up to this present hour!
There at the head of those stone steps in that common dwelling-houseI knew her--and in the violet eyes it was written that she knew,and feared, me!
"What do you want? Why are you following me?"
She made no endeavour to disguise her voice. Almost, I think, shespoke the words involuntarily.
I stood beside her. Quickly as she had turned from the door at myascent, I had noted that it was that numbered forty-eight which shehad been about to open.
"You waste words," I said grimly. "Who lives there?"
I nodded in the direction of the doorway. The violet eyes watchedme with an expression in their depths which I find myself whollyunable to describe. Fear predominated, but there was anger, too,and with it a sort of entreaty which almost made me regret that Ihad taken this task upon myself. From beneath the shabby black hatescaped an errant lock of wavy hair wholly inconsistent with theassumed appearance of the woman. The flickering gaslight on thelanding sought out in that wonderful hair shades which seemed toglow with the soft light seen in the heart of a rose. The thickveil was raised now and all attempts at deception abandoned. Atbay she faced me, this secret woman whom I knew to hold the key tosome of the darkest places which we sought to explore.
"I live there," she said slowly. "What do you want with me?"
"I want to know," I replied, "for whom are those provisions inyour basket?"
She watched me fixedly.
"And I want to know," I continued, "something that only you cantell me. We have met before, madam, but you have always eluded me.This time you shall not do so. There's much I have to ask of you,but particularly I want to know who killed the Hashishin who liesdead at no great distance from here!"
"How can I tell you that? Of what are you speaking?"
Her voice was low and musical; that of a cultured woman. Sheevidently recognized the futility of further subterfuge in thisrespect.
"You know quite well of what I am speaking! You know that youcan tell me if any one can! The fact that you go disguised alonecondemns you! Why should I remind you of our previous meetings--ofthe links which bind you to the history of the Prophet's slipper?"She shuddered and closed her eyes. "Your present attitude is asufficient admission!"
She stood silent before me, with something pitiful in her pose--awonderfully pretty woman, whose disarranged hair and dilapidated hatcould not mar her beauty; whose clumsy, ill-fitting garments couldnot conceal her lithe grace.
Our altercation had not thus far served to arouse any of theinhabitants and on that stuffy landing, beneath the flickeringgaslight, we stood alone, a group of two which epitomized strangethings.
Then, with that quietly dramatic note which marks real life entrancesand differentiates them from the loudly acclaimed episodes of thestage, a third actor took up his cue.
"Both hands, Mr. Cavanagh!" directed an American voice.
Nerves atwitch, I started around in its direction.
From behind the slightly opened door of No. 48 protruded a steelbarrel, pointed accurately at my head!
I hesitated, glancing from the woman toward the open door.
"Do it quick!" continued the voice incisively. "You are up againsta desperate man, Mr. Cavanagh. Raise your hands. Carneta, relieveMr. Cavanagh of his gun!"
Instantly the girl, with deft fingers, had obtained possession ofmy revolver.
"Step inside," said the crisp, strident voice. Knowing myselfhelpless and quite convinced that I was indeed in the clutches ofdesperate people, I entered the doorway, the door being held openfrom within. She whom I had heard called Carneta followed. Thedoor was reclosed; and I found myself in a perfectly bare and dimpassageway. From behind me came the order--
"Go right ahead!"
Into a practically unfurnished room, lighted by one gas jet, Iwalked. Some coarse matting hung before the two windows and afairly large grip stood on the floor against one wall. A gas-ringwas in the hearth, together with a few cheap cooking utensils.
I turned and faced the door. First entered Carneta, carrying thebasket; then came a man with a revolver in his left hand and hisright arm strapped across his chest and swathed in bandages. Oneglance revealed the fact that his right hand had been severed--revealedthe fact, though I knew it already, that my captor was Earl Dexter.
He looked even leaner than when I had last seen him. I had no doubtthat his ghastly wound had occasioned a tremendous loss of blood.His gaunt face was positively emaciated, but the steely gray eyeshad lost nothing of their brightness. There was a good deal aboutMr. Earl Dexter, the cracksman, that any man must have admired.
"Shut the door, Carneta," he said quietly. His companion closedthe door and Dexter sat down on the grip, regarding me with hisoddly humorous smile.
"You're a visitor I did not expect, Mr. Cavanagh," he said. "Iexpected someone worse. You've interfered a bit with my plans butI don't know that I can't rearrange things satisfactorily. I don'tthink I'll stop for supper, though--" He glanced at the girl, whostood silent by the door.
"Just pack up the provisions," he directed, nodding toward thebasket--"in the next room."
She departed without a word.
"That's a noticeable dust coat you're wearing, Mr. Cavanagh," saidthe American; "it gives me a great notion. I'm afraid I'll have toborrow it."
He glanced, smiling, at the revolver in his left hand and back againto me. There was nothing of the bully about him, nothingmelodramatic; but I took off the coat without demur and threw itacross to him.
"It will hide this stump," he said grimly; "and any of the Hashishingentlemen who may be on the look-out--though I rather fancy theroad is clear at the moment--will mistake me for you. See the idea?Carneta will be in a cab and I'll be in after her and away beforethey've got time to so much as whistle."
Very awkwardly he got into the coat.
"She's a clever girl, Carneta," he said. "She's doctored me allalong since those devils cut my hand off."
As he finished speaking Carneta returned.
She had discarded her rags and wore a large travelling coat and afashionable hat.
"Ready?" asked Dexter. "We'll make a rush for it. We meant to goto-night anyway. It's getting too hot here!" He turned to me.
"Sorry to say," he drawled, "I'll have to tie you up and gag you.Apologize; but it can't be helped."
Carneta nodded and went out of the room again, to return almostimmediately with a line that looked as though it might have beenemployed for drying washing.
"Hands behind you," rapped Dexter, toying with the revolver--"andthink yourself lucky you've got two!"
There was no mistaking the manner of man with whom I had to deal,and I obeyed; but my mind was busy with a hundred projects. Veryneatly the girl bound my wrists, and in response to a slight nodfrom Dexter threw the end of the line up over a beam in the slopingceiling, for the room was right under the roof, and drew it up insuch a way that, my wrists being raised behind me, I became utterlyhelpless. It was an ingenious device indicating considerableexperience.
"Just tie his handkerchief around his mouth," directed Dexter:"that will keep him quiet long enough for our purpose. I hope youwill be released soon, Mr. Cavanagh," he added. "Greatly regretthe necessity."
Carneta bound the handkerchief over my mouth.
Dexter extinguished the gas.
"Mr. Cavanagh," he said, "I've gone through hell and I've lost themost useful four fingers and a thumb in the United States to gethold of the Prophet's slipper. Any one can have it that's open topay for it--but I've got to retire on the deal, so I'll drive ahard bargain! Good-night!"
There was a sound of retreating footsteps, and I heard the entrancedoor close quietly.