Punctually at eight o'clock the following morning Wheeler presented himself, and under the seal of secrecy I gave him a fair insight into the Mystery. He was greatly excited, and said if I succeeded in bringing the truth to light I was a made man. I was beginning to think so myself, but I did not underrate the difficulties with which I had to contend. I seemed to be pulled in so many ways at once, and to have so many things to look after, that I saw the danger of wasting my time upon matters of no importance and allowing the leading strings to slip away from me. I was glad, therefore, to obtain the services of a man upon whom I could rely, and as I deemed it imperatively necessary that I should remain in London, I explained to Wheeler my desire that Louis' body should be exhumed and identified, and asked him if he thought he could manage it. He was confident he could; he had friends among the Liverpool police who would do all in their power for him; he laughed at the suggestion of the difficulties that might present themselves, and declared he would carry out his mission even if he had to dig up the body himself in the dead of night. Knowing Wheeler to be a bit of a bulldog, and daring as well as tenacious, I was more than satisfied with his assurances.
"You will have a surgeon with you," I said, "whose evidence will be conclusive as to the scar on the forehead. I understand the bone was penetrated. Everything must be done quickly, and above all the affair must be kept out of the newspapers."
I laid special emphasis upon this, because I did not intend that the game should be taken out of my hands. We settled upon an address in Liverpool to which I could write or wire any further instructions that might be necessary, and he went off in high spirits to catch the ten o'clock train.
Before proceeding to my office I paid a visit to my dram-drinking friend who had been cast off by Madame Lourbet. His name, which she had renounced, was Whybrow. I passed her shop on the way, having no fear that I would be recognized, and taking particular care not to rub my chin with the middle finger of my right hand. I saw Madame Lourbet behind the counter, and caught a glimpse of that confounded green curtain. It is curious how one thing suggests another. The moment my eyes fell upon the curtain an idea suggested itself which set me laughing, and which proved to be perhaps the most important step in the elucidation of the Mystery. I will not mention it in this place, but I determined to act upon it later on if I considered it advisable. Clever as Madame Lourbet was I hoped to show that I was one too many for her.
Mr. Whybrow was in bed, pining for liquor. I sent out for a quartern of gin—that being the cheapest tipple—and under its influence, and fortified by my saying that I thought I should be able to bring Madame Lourbet to book in his interests, he became communicative. I learned that she had two friends who visited her from time to time, and with whom he was not allowed to strike up an acquaintance. One of these was a man, the other a woman. I paid close attention to his description of the man, whom he suspected had supplanted him in her affections. This man was tall and dark; but he had no beard or whiskers. I thought of Wheeler's words, "they might have been false," and I left Mr. Whybrow with the conviction that it was the man who had followed me from Soho. If that were so I had alarmed him by my reference to Louis' mother, and he had signaled to Madame Lourbet to give her a warning that I might be a spy; his beard and whiskers being false was another point in my favor. I had sufficient confidence to introduce myself in my own proper person to that lady and make a trifling purchase. She served me politely, but there was trouble in her face, which rather pleased me than otherwise. I was pleased, too, that she betrayed no recognition of me, and did not connect me with the man who had paid her a visit the night before.
Leaving her, I went on to John Fordham, who was still under remand, and likely to remain so for some time yet, for the police had not progressed in their inquiries, and Fordham had made no recantation of the accusation he had brought against himself. Cheering him with the news that I was gathering valuable information (of which I did not give him the particulars) I obtained from him a description of Maxwell's personal appearance. Tall and dark, wearing neither beard nor whiskers. That settled it. Maxwell was the man who was stationed behind the green curtain, who had shadowed me to my lodgings, and who was so frightened by Fordham's public confession of the murder that, for his own safety's sake, he went about now in a disguise. Good.
Then on to my office, where Mrs. Barlow was waiting to supply me with a description of the birth marks of her missing son by which he could be identified. These have already been recorded and need no further mention here. Needless to say, I did not inform Mrs. Barlow that I had already obtained a clue to the career of her son since she last saw or heard from him.
I made short work of the business in my office which required attention. So absorbed was I in this mysterious Murder Mystery that I could not think seriously of any other subject. My advertisement for Philip Barlow had thus early unearthed three men of that name, whom I found in my office upon my arrival there. I confronted them with Mrs. Barlow, and they were immediately dismissed, much to their dissatisfaction. My second advertisement inquiring for Morgan, was dispatched to the newspaper offices, and I left with my clerk a memorandum of the age and birthday of Mrs. Barlow's son, which were to be the first questions put to all applicants of either name who presented themselves. Their answers not tallying with my memorandum, they were to be sent to the right-about. By these means a great deal of unnecessary trouble was avoided.
At a quarter to twelve I sallied forth to keep my appointment with Jack, having first effected the requisite alteration in my appearance. My own clerk was startled when I emerged from my private room in the character of a costermonger, and was driven to say it was "the best thing I had ever done in the way of disguise." He was not far from the truth; I am always most successful when I depict the manners of the lower class. Jack himself was taken in when I slouched up to him and engaged him in conversation, and it was not till I spoke in my proper voice that he recognized me.
"Well, I'm darned!" was his admiring exclamation. "Guv'nor, you ought to go on the stage."
It was a genuine compliment, and I felt that I had achieved something great. If I don't make a fortune as a private inquiry agent I will go to the music halls and sing coster songs.
"Well, Jack," said I, "do you still believe in your ghost?"
"I'll take my oath on it," he replied.
Then we went boldly forth, on the road to Finchley. First, however, in pursuance of the idea which set me laughing earlier that morning when I passed Madame Lourbet's shop, I turned the donkey's head in the direction of Soho, which was not much out of our way. I had the temerity to enter her shop with a couple of fine ferns, which I offered at so low a price that she was tempted to purchase them, but not before she had baited me down twopence a pot. The price she paid was eightpence. A shrewd woman at a bargain, this Madame Lourbet.
Laughing in my sleeve I rejoined Jack, and we pursued our journey in search of Louis' ghost. It did not appear, and though I kept a sharp lookout I saw nothing of Maxwell. The only satisfaction I obtained was that the route taken by Jack was the same by which Wheeler had tracked the tall, dark man who had been concealed behind the green curtain in Madame Lourbet's shop. I returned home late at night, and completely tired out. A costermonger's life is not an easy one; he truly earns his livelihood by the sweat of his brow.
A telegram from Wheeler lay on my table: "All goes well. The body will be exhumed to-night." My opinion of him was justified; he was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. Nothing more could be done till I received his report. On the following morning I received another telegram from him: "Will be with you at four this afternoon." Not a word as to the result of the examination; but he certainly had lost no time.
So impatient was I as the hour approached that I could not keep indoors, but walked up and down the street, to hail him the moment he appeared. A few minutes past four o'clock his cab rattled up to the door, and out he jumped.
"I am a little behind time," he said as he paid the cabman, and I could see that he was excited.
"Those confounded trains—they are always late."
"You have news," I said.
"Rather queer news," he replied. "Let us go in and talk."
He followed me to my room, the door of which he locked.
"Give me a bite first," he said, "and a drink; and then you shall hear something startling."
I curbed my impatience while he ate and drank.
"That has done me good," he said; "I was almost famished. Before I commence, Godfrey, I want to ask whether you deceived me."
"In what way?"
"In this. You told me that a man of the name of Louis Fordham was murdered, and you described a certain mark by which his body could be identified."
"Yes."
"The mark was a scar on his forehead, caused by a wound inflicted upon him by a gardening tool. It penetrated to the bone, you said, and he would carry the scar to his grave. If I misunderstood you, let me know."
"You did not misunderstand me. The scar is as I described. I have evidence that it turned blood-red whenever he was excited. I have not misled you in the slightest particular."
"I am glad to hear it. His half-brother, John Fordham, who gave himself up for the murder——"
"Of which we know him to be innocent," I interrupted.
"That is not the point I'm coming to," said Wheeler. "He gave himself up for the murder, and he is positive that he left the dead body of Louis in the Rye Street house when he left it on the morning of that terrific snow-storm."
"He is quite positive."
"He recognized the body as that of Louis by the scar on the forehead?"
"Quite correct."
"Then all I can say is that there is another mystery to be unraveled. Now, for what I did. I went down to Liverpool, determined to see this matter through, and not to waste a moment over it. I may fairly claim that not a moment has been wasted."
"Undoubtedly. I could not have done it more expeditiously myself."
"I 'pass over," he continued, "the preliminary steps I took to effect my object. The police assisted me, and an order from a magistrate armed me with the necessary authority. Accompanied by two of the force and by a surgeon who knew what he was about, the grave was dug up at eleven o'clock last night, and the coffin taken to the surgeon's house. There an examination of the body was made. The upper portion of the skull was perfect. Neither during the man's lifetime, nor after his death, had the slightest injury been inflicted on a single bone in it."
"Impossible!" I cried.
"Here is the surgeon's report. It leads to but one conclusion. If such an injury as you described to me was inflicted upon Louis Fordham, the body that was buried is not his, but another man's."
I gazed at Wheeler, open-mouthed. Here was another mystery, indeed, if what he stated was true.
"You must have dug up the wrong grave," I said, when I recovered from my astonishment.
"It occurred to me that it might be so," he said, "and I had it looked into. No mistake has been made. The body the surgeon examined was that of the man who had been murdered in Rye Street. Make up your mind to that, or you will be thrown straight off the scent. The man we dug up was murdered; his face had been smashed in, but as I have said, the upper part of the skull was uninjured. What do you make of it?"
What could I make of it except that both John Fordham and Jack were laboring under some monstrous delusion? But to establish that hypothesis the conclusion must be drawn that these two men were in collusion, and that an impossible story had been invented for some hidden purpose. Now, except during the struggle on the night of the murder, when Jack had dashed out of the house into the arms of John Fordham, who was under the impression that a murderous attack was made upon him, the men had never met, and each declared that he had not seen the face of the other. How, then, could they have invented such a story? I dismissed the idea as impossible. While I pondered over this fresh mystery, Wheeler sat quietly looking at me and fingering the surgeon's report, which I had not taken from him. Presently I found my voice.
"Were there any other marks on the body by which it might be identified?"
"Oh, yes," Wheeler replied, "two. On the left side, just above the hip, is a small growth of bone, which in lifetime might have been mistaken for a mole; and the bones of the toe next to the big toe on the right foot are completely bent under."
I listened in silent amazement. These were the marks upon the body of Philip Barlow, alias Morgan. Here, then, was the key to the Mystery—here, to a certain extent, was an explanation of the ghost of Louis that Jack saw in Finchley. For if only one body was found in Rye Street, and only one body was buried (of which there was proof positive), it was that of Maxwell's associate and confederate, Morgan, and Louis Fordham must be alive. It was not Louis' ghost that Jack saw, it was Louis himself, and the reason why Philip Barlow had not come forward to claim the legacy left to him by his uncle was satisfactorily explained. I declare, my breath was almost taken away.
But how had this substitution of bodies been effected? Everything seemed to hang upon an answer to this question. It must be answered, and answered soon, and now without delay must I put into execution the idea that crossed my mind when I caught sight of the green curtain on the morning of this very day. If any person could assist me that person was Madame Lourbet.
In as few words as possible I explained to Wheeler the position of affairs and my plan of action, in the carrying out of which his assistance was necessary. He followed me with lively interest, and in a few minutes we were on our way to Soho.
I entered the shop alone, Wheeler keeping watch in the street. I stood at the counter while Madame Lourbet served a customer, and then she turned to me.
"What do you require, monsieur?"
"A little information, madame."
"Well, monsieur?"
"In private, madame," I said, "unless you wish all the world to know."
She gathered from my tone that I had not come as a friend, and she was instantly on her guard.
"What is it, monsieur, that I should not wish all the world to know?"
"I advise that we speak in private," I replied.
"If I r-refuse, monsieur?"
"You will take the consequences, and we will converse before your customers."
"Ah," she said, playing a devil's tattoo on the counter with her fingers, "if I mistake not, you were one of my customers this morning, monsieur. I had the pleasure of serving you."
"I had also the pleasure of serving you this morning, madame."
"So!"
I assumed the voice of a costermonger, and inquired if she wished to buy any more ferns. She caught her breath, and cried, "It was you!"
"It was I, madame. It was also I, madame, who purchased of you last night and gave you a reference."
"A reference, monsieur?"
"A reference, madame—to Mrs. Fordham, Louis' mother, and stepmother to John Fordham, now in prison for murder."
"You are clever, monsieur—very clever." I smiled. "What is your John Fordham to me? And what are you?"
"I have the honor to be a detective. In that capacity behold me here." I thought this rather dramatic and Frenchified, and I had the pleasure of seeing her turn white to the lips. "A comrade is on watch outside," I continued. She slipped from the counter to the door, and peering cautiously about, saw Wheeler, who, I being by her side, gave me a nod of recognition. "Are you satisfied, madame?" I asked, when she had taken her place again behind the counter.
"There is protection for women in this country," she said. "Are you employed by the Government?"
"Fortunately for you I am not. You will, perhaps, understand when I say I am a private detective. If a Government official were in my place it would be with a warrant."
"A warrant, monsieur?"
"A warrant, madame—for your arrest. Shall we converse here or in your private room?" She moved towards the green curtain. "A moment," I said. "Last night, when I had the pleasure of purchasing some of your very excellent provisions, and happened to mention that I was recommended by Mrs. Fordham, you had a visitor in that room, who gave you a signal. Is the gentleman there now?"
"There is no gentleman in the room," she said, throwing open the door. "How know you there was one?"
"I shall surprise you, madame, with the extent of my knowledge. In order that we may not be interrupted we will turn the key in the shop door."
"You are not afraid?" she asked, and there was a look in her eyes resembling that of a cat who is about to spring.
"Oh, no, madame," I replied, following her to the inner room, "the English are not afraid of the French."
"Nor the French of the English," she hissed.
"You are a brave nation," I said, with a polite bow, "so are we. I propose, in your interests, an alliance."
"Not in your own, monsieur?"
"Not in my own, madame. I am merely an agent, and am not in any danger. You are a principal."
"A principal! What is that?"
"Your knowledge of our language, Madame Lourbet, is almost perfect; one might take you for a native, you speak English so fluently. But at your wish I will explain what I mean by my use of the word. It is that of a man or a woman who, without actually committing a crime, aids in its perpetration.
"I defy you to prove that I knew of it," she cried.
"I have not finished—though your denial, being in the past tense (a point of grammar, madame), is partial proof that it does not apply to the present. By the term 'principal' I mean also a man or a woman who, not being a witness of the crime, assists afterwards in keeping those who are guilty out of the hands of justice, and who, at the same time, assists in fixing that crime upon the innocent. That affects you, madame, and if you persist in shielding the guilty, you will see the inside of a prison door. I am going to be quite plain with you. Some years ago you, being then in Paris, entered the service of a gentlemen who is now in prison on a charge of murder."
"I did not. I entered the service of a lady."
"John Fordham's wife. In English law it is the same. You were John Fordham's servant. You came to England with him and his wife and exercised authority in his house. I am acquainted with every particular of your conduct during the years you remained with them. You hated your master, and conspired against him. Your mistress was a drunkard, and you secretly supplied her with liquor."
"She gave me orders, and I obeyed them."
"You went much further than that, madame. You invented lying stories against your master, you gave secret evidence against him. I could entertain you for an hour with the details of your treachery and that of other enemies of his with whom you were in collusion. It succeeded too well. It drove him from his home, it drove him from his country. Confess, madame, that I am well informed."
"I confess nothing. I wait."
"Do not wait too long, madame. I pass over the intervening years, and come straight to the peril in which you stand—a peril which, if you do not avert it by your own action, your own immediate action, madame, will make a convict of you. You know what that means, do you not? A convict—so many years' imprisonment—hard labor—no more red wine, no more nice French dishes. Somewhat over a year ago a brutal murder was committed in Liverpool, and quite lately your former master, Mr. John Fordham, laboring under a singular hallucination, accuses himself of the murder of his half-brother Louis."
I kept my eyes on her face as I mentioned the name, but not a muscle moved.
"It is his own business," she said, "not mine."
"I shall prove to you that it is yours in an indirect manner. You know of this murder, you know that John Fordham is in prison on the charge of committing it. It is my turn to wait now, madame."
"Say that I know of it. What then?"
"This. You are aware that Louis Fordham was not murdered, you are aware that he is this day alive, and that John Fordham is innocent of the crime of which he accused himself, and for which you would like to see him hanged. You are intimately acquainted with Louis, you know where he lives. Last night, when I was in your shop, a man was concealed behind this green curtain."
"It was not Monsieur Louis," she cried, and then she bit her lip, as though she had said too much.
"No, madame," I said, smiling, "it was not Monsieur Louis. The man was your dead mistress' brother, Maxwell. You see, madame, we have been keeping watch on you. We have even the evidence of the rascal you married under a deplorable misrepresentation. I refer to Monsieur Whybrow."
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "The ingr-rate!"
"He is a scoundrel, madame, but evidence is evidence, and we shall take advantage of his if it be necessary. You can punish him—why do you not? Is it that you fear he might blurt out something about your present intimacy with Monsieur Louis' mother and with Maxwell, who visits you disguised with false beard and whiskers? Is it that you fear that this might lead the police to inquire into the reasons for your association with the villain who murdered Monsieur Morgan?" And now I had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch and of knowing that I had hit the nail on the head. "It would make you in some sense an accomplice in the crime. Do you perceive the danger that hangs over you, madame? Do you perceive that your hatred of John Fordham may be carried too far? Intensely disagreeable as it will be to you to assist in proving his innocence, it is your only chance of safety. Decide for yourself; I use no persuasion."
"No, you use threats," she said, and I think, if a look from a woman's eyes could kill, I should not be here now to tell my tale.
"Hardly that. I have been very frank with you; if I have hurt your feelings permit me to offer you my apologies."
"What do you require of me?" she asked.
"The address of Monsieur Maxwell, and of Louis Fordham and his mother," I replied.
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more."
"And then you and your spies will trouble me no more?"
"No more than is necessary to protect ourselves from treachery."
"I will not be dragged into your witness box," she cried. "I will not—I will not!"
I considered a moment. If success continued to attend me—and I believed that it would—we could dispense with her evidence. To be able to lay hands upon John Fordham's enemies this very night was the all-important move in the game. To-morrow they might be out of our reach, and I should be confronted with difficulties that might be unsurmountable.
"Every effort shall be made," I said, "not to bring you forward as a witness." And, indeed, as I spoke these words, I was penetrated by a conviction that such evidence as she could give would be of little value; but I kept this to myself. It is not wise to show your weak cards.
"You promise it," she said, "on your honor as a gentleman?"
"On my honor as a gentleman, madame," I replied, with my hand on my heart, and repressing a smile, "I promise it."
To my surprise she sprang to her feet; the devil within her obtained the mastery, and I never heard the human voice express hatred so vindictively and forcibly. The stories I had heard of the female fiend in the French Commune came vividly to my mind; a representative stood before me in the person of Madame Lourbet, as she hissed:
"No, I will not help him! I would go in my holiday clothes to see him hanged!"
"You shall not have that pleasure, madame," I said. "I wish you good evening."
Her fears returned. There is no weapon so effective as calmness in dealing with hysterical natures. If you shriek, they shriek the louder; if you stand firm, they quail.
"What to do?" she asked, showing in her face the conflicting emotions by which she was torn.
"To obtain a warrant for your arrest," I answered boldly. "My spies will take care that you do not escape."
I was half out of the room when she cried, "Stop! I will do it—I will do it!"
"I do not know, madame," I said, appearing to hesitate. "We can manage without your aid. You shall stand in the dock by the side of your friend Maxwell."
And now she was thoroughly terrified; she wept, she implored, she fell upon her knees. It was a great victory, but though I knew I could not do without her I did not yield easily. When I had worked her up to a proper pitch I said:
"Rise, madame, and write the address in Finchley where I shall find your friends."
"They are not my friends," she cried, tottering to the table on which lay writing materials. "They would ruin, they would destroy me! And you, monsieur—you will save me? You have promised, on the honor of a gentleman. You will save me—you will save me!"
"I will keep my promise, madame. Write—it is your only chance. You allowed your hatred of John Fordham to carry you too far. Be thankful that I came here as your friend."
"If I had never met these Fordhams," she said, her hands trembling as she took up a pen, "it would have been better for me."
"It would have been better for you if you had been faithful to your master, and not entered into a conspiracy against him. We English have a proverb—honesty is the best policy. Take it to heart, and for the future be content with making money out of us." I looked at the address she had written, 23 Lethbridge Road, N. W. "Do they all live together, madame?"
"I think so, monsieur," she replied, and even now she made a motion, as though she would have liked to pluck the paper from me.
There was no fear of my forgetting the address, and I held it out to her.
"Do you wish for it back?"
"No, no!" she said with a shudder.
"Very good. Just another word of sensible advice, madame. Keep in your shop, and preserve silence until I bring this affair to a satisfactory conclusion. If you stir you will be followed; if you write a letter of warning it will fall into the hands of the police. You understand?"
"Yes, I understand.''
"It only remains to me to thank you for this very pleasant interview." So I left her, saying to myself as I rejoined Wheeler. "Checkmate to Madame Lourbet."
"Well?" said Wheeler.
"Success, my boy, success!" I replied. "The game is in our hands, but not a moment must be lost. I am going in for desperate measures. Will you back me up?"
"In anything."
"Do you carry a pistol?" I asked, grasping his hand.
"Colt's double action revolver, six chambers," he answered, tapping the back of his waistband. "Took it to Liverpool with me."
"Good. I have mine on me. I want two more men. Jack for one. Can you recommend another?"
"A capital man. Pick him up in five minutes. Sure to be at home. Just married, and in want of a job. Name, Bob Garlick."
"He's the man for us." I hailed a growler, and Wheeler told the driver where to go. "I have screwed Maxwell's address out of Madame Lourbet," I said, as we rattled along. "You would have laughed if you had heard us argue—I fairly frightened her. I shouldn't be surprised if he and Louis, and perhaps Louis' mother, are preparing for flight, and I hope to catch the lot to-night. There's nothing in the last two that would warrant us in arresting them, but it is on the cards that I shall arrest Maxwell for the murder of Morgan, whose real name is Philip Barlow."
"How do you know he murdered him? Best be sure of your ground, Godfrey."
"I will make sure. The plan I have in my head will not fail. I never in my life felt more confident, but everything, of course, depends upon our coming face to face with the scoundrelly crew. We are going straight to their house, you, I, Bob Garlick, and Jack, and then we shall see what we shall see."
What my plan was will presently be made clear. Sufficient now to say that we found our new recruit at home, and that he took it as a compliment to be invited to work with me. Jack also joined us. He was overjoyed to hear that it was not a ghost he had seen in Finchley Road, but Louis himself in the flesh.
"You've lifted a ton weight off me, guv'nor," he said. "That clears me, don't it?"
"You will come out of it with flying colors, my lad," I answered, clapping him on the shoulder.
"But 'ow did it happen?" he asked, in wonder.
"We shall know soon," I said. "Only keep cool."
"Poor Morgan!" he sighed, with genuine feeling. "'E was worth a 'undered of sech stuck-up cads as Louis."
Over a hasty and ample meal, for a full stomach puts courage into a man, I gave my recruits their instructions, and then the four of us rattled on to Lethbridge Road. Night had fallen before we reached our destination. A dark night, too, for which I was not sorry. Directing the cab where to wait for us, we proceeded to the house.
"How are we to get in?" whispered Wheeler.
I did not answer him, but rang the bell, and gave the double rat-tat of a messenger from the telegraph office.
Whenever a summons of this kind is answered quickly it betokens either that the inmates are in a nervous state or are in dread or expectation of important news. A peaceful household takes things more calmly, and is content to let the telegraph messenger cool his heels on the doorstep. I did not expect this household to be at peace with itself, nor did I wish it, for such a state of things would have augured ill for the success of my expedition. I was therefore pleased to hear a rush of footsteps in the passage, followed by the swift opening of the street door.
The woman who answered the summons held a candle in her hand, and there was nothing particularly clever in my jumping at the conclusion that Louis' mother stood before me. Until this night I had never seen her or her son, nor, so far as I am aware, had they seen me. I had counted upon this as of importance in the move I was about to take. We being in the dark, and Mrs. Fordham in the light, we had the advantage of her.
As she peered forward and held out her hand for the telegram, three of us darted into the passage, Wheeler, Bob Garlick, and myself. Jack was on the watch outside, to be called in by a whistle when he was required. Mrs. Fordham fell back with a shriek of alarm, and a man ran out of the nearest room, crying:
"What's the matter?"
This man had a scar on his forehead.
"Mr. Louis Fordham, I believe," I said, advancing, while Mrs. Fordham continued to retreat.
"Yes." "No." The two answers came simultaneously from the man and the woman, the man acknowledging his name, the woman denying it.
We were moving slowly towards the room from which Louis had emerged, and now reached the door. Mrs. Fordham flung herself against it, and crying, "You can't come in here—this is a private house," actually had the boldness to blow out the candle. I could not but admire her for it, for she must have seen that there were three of us, and pluck, especially in a woman, always commands my admiration. But she reckoned without her host, for two bull's eye lanterns instantly flashed their light upon her face.
"Have you come to rob us?" she demanded. "I will call the police."
"Save yourself the trouble," I replied. "We are officers, and I warn you not to resist. Here is a police whistle, if you would like to use it."
She did not take it, and driving her and Louis before us we entered the room. The gas was lighted there, and it was clear to see what was going on. Trunks and bags were open, and the floor was littered with clothing and traveling requirements, on the point of being packed away.
"Preparing for a journey?" I remarked.
"That doesn't concern you," Mrs. Fordham retorted.
"No, it concerns you more than us," I said. "I am afraid your journey will have to be postponed." I motioned to Wheeler, and pointed to an inner door which communicated with another apartment. "See who is in there."
"It is my bedroom," screamed Mrs. Fordham. "You ruffians—how dare you?"
"See who is in there," I repeated.
"There is nobody there," she said.
We did not take her word for it. Wheeler examined the apartment, and returning, said it was empty.
"Whom did you expect to find?' demanded Mrs. Fordham.
"Shall I give him a name?"
"You can do as you please about that."
"Oh, I thought you wanted to know."
"You shall suffer for this," she said, but curiosity was too much for her. "Give him a name, then."
"What do you say to a party of the name of Maxwell?"
She made no answer, but I observed that her face grew suddenly white, as had been the case with Madame Lourbet when I made a good shot. In dealing with self-willed women this is always a satisfactory sign. My observation of the tender sex leads me to another conclusion—the most obstinate of them when the barriers are broken down show the most fear, and are the most subservient and submissive, though I am bound to say this was not exactly the case with Mrs. Fordham. But then she was an exceptional woman, and she hated John Fordham as only a woman can hate.
"Who is in the house besides yourselves?" I asked.
"You wouldn't have dared to molest us," she answered, "if we had protectors."
"Answer the question," I said sternly.
"You know that we are alone in the house."
"Go and see," I said to my two assistants. "I can take care of these."
They departed on their errand, and until their return, when they informed me that the house was empty except for those who were in this room, not a word was exchanged between me and Mrs. Fordham. As for Louis, he had taken no part in the conversation. He was evidently ruled by his mother, for he kept his eyes upon her, and took his cue for silence from her.
"Now," said I, "we are here upon very serious business, and I don't want you to incriminate yourselves. I have had an interview with one lady to-day—a friend of yours, Madame Lourbet, provision dealer, Soho—. and after some stupid reluctance on her part, I put it to her whether she would treat me as a friend or an enemy. If it had been as an enemy she would have been in prison by this time. I should have had her arrested. But she acted like a sensible woman, and accepted me as her friend, recognizing that it was her only chance of being kept out of the criminal dock. The consequence is, she is free—and safe." I repeated the last two words. "And safe. I offer you the same chance. If, without incriminating yourselves, you can do as she did, I advise you to follow her lead. If it is to be the other way, blame yourselves for the course I shall take."
Louis made a motion, as though about to speak, but his mother restrained him.
"Be silent," she said. "Pray what course do you propose to take?"
"I shall arrest you, Mrs. Fordham, and you, Louis Fordham, on the charge of complicity in the murder of a man known as Morgan, over a year ago in Liverpool."
Louis staggered, and caught at the mantelpiece for support, and Mrs. Fordham rushed to his side. I remembered what John Fordham wrote in his Confession about the love she bore her son, and I now had evidence of it.
"You are not very strong," I said, stating a palpable fact. "Probably you still feel the effects of the wound you received on the night Morgan was murdered."
And now Louis was not to be restrained. "What do you know of it?" he screamed. "What do you know of it?"
"Up to a certain point," I replied, "I know everything. Of the company you kept in Liverpool and elsewhere, of the way you spent your days and nights, of the gambling that was going on, of your accusing Maxwell that he cheated you at cards, of your being stabbed by him"—I stopped here. I had given them an inkling of what I did know, but had no intention of telling them what I did not know; so I branched off on another tack. "You are both aware that John Fordham is in prison for a murder he did not commit. Your presence alone in a criminal court will prove him to be innocent. But we do not need that to set him free; it can be accomplished without your aid. And for the rest—well, it is in your hands. I shall not give you long to decide."
"My son was a victim," said Mrs. Fordham. "He is no murderer."
"You can prove that to a judge and jury instead of to me, if you prefer it. I have a conveyance waiting for you. Be advised. Don't trifle with me."
"You mentioned an alternative, but have not explained it."
"Ah, you are growing sensible. I must have plain answers to plain questions, and a plain statement of facts."
"May I speak privately to my son?"
"I have no objection, but it must be in this room. We shall not let you out of our sight. You can talk in the corner there, and we will remain here by the door. If you speak low we shall not overhear you."
She dragged Louis into the corner, and there they held a whispered conference. I did not seek to overhear them, but I saw that Louis, overcome by fear, was ready, even eager, to unbosom himself. Such opposition as was apparent to me came from her. She was the kind of woman that hates to give in—she and Madame Lourbet would have made a pretty pair—but in the end she allowed herself to be persuaded.
"We will answer your questions, such as we think fit to be answered," she said, "under compulsion. Understand that—under compulsion."
I shook my head and smiled. "That will not do. You will answer all my questions of your own free will, or you will answer none; and your desire is to assist the course of justice."
She shut her mouth with a snap, and I think she would have liked to bite me.
"If you don't answer," cried Louis, "I will."
"Put your questions," she said, frowning at him and us.
"You wish me to do so?" I asked, knowing I had her in my power, and she was forced to answer, "Yes." She did not exactly love me at that moment.
I pointed to the litter of clothing and open trunks.
"You are packing up to go away?"
"Yes—we have a right to go where we please."
"To Paris?"
"Yes."
"And from there?"
"It is not decided."
"It was your intention to travel by the night train?"
"Yes."
"Who was to go with you?"
"A friend."
"He is not a friend," Louis exclaimed, "I don't care for your dark looks, mother; I will speak! He has never been my friend. Didn't he rob me—didn't he nearly murder me? And you stand up for him because—because——"
"Hold your tongue!" she cried.
But though he did not finish the sentence I did, in my mind. She stood up for Maxwell because there was a tie between them; he had obtained a hold upon her through her affections—for even such women as she can love. Conjectures, of course, but I afterwards learned that they went straight to the bull's eye.
I continued. "Maxwell was to be your companion?"
"Yes."
"He is coming for you? You expect him here tonight?"
It needed but the slightest hesitation on her part to cause me to turn to Louis, and when he answered, "Yes, he is coming for us," I thought she would have struck him.
"Quarrel away," thought I, "it all makes for us."
It made for us also, that she was torn two ways at once—by her undoubted love for Louis, and by what had taken place between her and Maxwell.
"At what time do you expect him?"
"At ten."
I looked at my watch; there was nearly an hour to spare.
"When was it arranged that the three of you were to go together to the continent?"
"Yesterday."
"Last night, you mean."
"Well, last night. That is yesterday."
"It was Maxwell who suggested it?"
"Yes."
"After he had followed a certain person home from Madame Lourbet's shop?"
"You are well informed," said Mrs. Fordham, bitterly.
"There is very little in this rascally affair," I responded, "upon which I am not well informed, but it is always satisfactory to receive confirmation. I have no further questions to ask at present. What I require now is a plain statement of facts. Relate what occurred after Maxwell stabbed you."
I do not propose to set it down in Louis' own words. Mrs. Fordham wished to give me the information, but I would not receive it from her, although it was to her eagerness to prove Louis' innocence that I was indebted for some part of the disclosure. For the filling in of the narrative I am also indebted to the natural intelligence of a man who knows his business, that man, without any affectation of false modesty, being myself. The importance of this disclosure cannot be exaggerated. It filled up the gaps of the mystery, and made the whole thing clear.
I give the incidents in the consecutive order in which they occurred.
When Louis fell to the ground in the house in Rye Street, Maxwell and Morgan, believing him to be dead, stood transfixed with fear, appalled by the tragic termination to their plan of robbery. Jack had rushed from the room in terror, but this they scarcely noticed, so engrossed were they in fears for their own safety. What aroused them were the sounds of a desperate fight in the passage below—the fight that was going on between John Fordham and Jack. Their impression was that they had been watched, and that the police were upon them. If that were indeed the case, their peril could not have been greater, for, with the body of their victim on the ground, they would be caught red-handed. The conflict in the passage continued for several minutes, and it seemed as if one or more of the combatants were endeavoring to force their way upstairs. Suddenly there was a lull—they heard the thud of a fallen body, and then the violent slamming of the street door. Following that, a dead silence.
It was long before they could muster sufficient courage to go from the room to ascertain what had taken place. They took a light with them, and coming upon the body of a man, they stooped to see who it was.
"By God!" cried Maxwell. "It is my brother-in-law, John Fordham! How did he come here?" and then, "What a slice of luck!"
I can almost hear him utter these words as I write them down—and if he did not utter them he thought them, which I take it amounts to the same thing.
Quick as lightning he saw the opportunity of diverting suspicion from himself, and fixing the guilt upon an innocent man. Assisted by Morgan, to whom probably he disclosed his plan, he carried Fordham's body into the room, took the knife with which he had stabbed Louis, and put in its place the gold-digger's knife he found in Fordham's sheath, smearing it first with blood. Then he and Morgan removed every article which would draw suspicion upon themselves, and stole from the house to await the issue of events. Whether they kept watch upon the house to see what John Fordham would do—for they had ascertained that he had only been stunned by the fall, and was certain to soon recover his senses—or went away and returned after an interval, is not material. Sufficient that they did return—to find John Fordham flown, and Louis still lying on the ground in a state of insensibility, and apparently dead. But the wound he had received was not mortal, as we know. He became conscious while Maxwell and Morgan were quarreling. Morgan, it appears, was under the impression that Maxwell intended to cheat him of his share of the spoil, and he was insisting upon a fair division then and there. Maxwell refused, and a stormy scene ensued, of which Louis was a witness, though he did not dare to stir lest they should really make an end of him. From words, the two men came to blows, and Maxwell was heard to threaten to serve Morgan as he had served Louis. But Morgan, thoroughly enraged, was not to be intimidated, and a savage struggle ensued—ending in Maxwell dealing Morgan a death stroke with the knife with which he had stabbed Louis. In a paroxysm of fury he battered the face of the dead man and stamped upon it; and finally overturned the heavy table upon the body, and fled. Then Louis, fearful lest the murder would be fastened upon him, managed to rise and stumble from the house unobserved.
The violence of the storm, which was raging furiously without, favored him, and he succeeded in making his way to a common lodging-house, frequented by thieves and men of the worst character, to whom the sight of a man who had been engaged in a desperate fight was familiar. There he remained in hiding for a couple of days, by which time he was strong enough to leave Liverpool and take train to London, where he joined his mother and was nursed by her. Meanwhile Maxwell had also returned to London, devoured by anxiety, and by curiosity to ascertain what had become of John Fordham. After keeping quiet for a week he paid a visit to Louis' mother, and was astonished to see Louis in her house. As may be imagined he was not cordially received, for Louis had given his mother a true account of what had occurred.
At this juncture Maxwell's natural cunning—of which there are so many instances in John Fordham's Confession—came to his aid. He professed the greatest delight at Louis' escape, and the deepest regret that he had allowed his temper to master him in their dispute over cards. Concerning Morgan's death he pointed out that Louis' peril was no less than his own, and that, if the worst should happen, it was not he alone who would be accused of the murder. Naturally, he argued, Louis would throw the crime upon him, and naturally he would throw it upon Louis. It was a fair assumption that his story would be believed before Louis' because of the wound which the latter had received, which people would say was inflicted by Morgan while defending himself against the attack made upon him. These arguments were strong enough to show the dangerous position in which Louis stood in relation to the crime. Maxwell then went on to say that their safety lay in fixing the guilt upon John Fordham, and he related to them how that unfortunate man came to be entangled in the affair. The hatred they bore to John Fordham induced them to listen with avidity to the villainous proposal, and they hailed with pleasure the opportunity of being revenged upon him.
"He believes you to be dead," said Maxwell to Louis. "Let him rest in that belief. All you have to do is to keep quiet. If, as I suspect, he is in London, I will track him down. By Barbara's death a large sum of money has reverted to him. Let me but succeed in finding him, and I will bleed him of every shilling. You need not be seen; I will do the dirty work, and you shall share the plunder." The temptation was irresistible, and a peace was patched up between them. By what means Maxwell discovered John Fordham in hiding in London under an assumed name, and how he worked upon the unhappy man's feelings till the poor fellow was beggared, is fully explained by Fordham himself in his Confession.
Thus, step by step, was the whole mystery revealed. I had good reason to be satisfied with my work, though something still remained to be done.
When his story was finished Louis looked anxiously at me, but I was silent, having a mind to play with him a bit.
"It proves my innocence, doesn't it?" he asked at length.
"I believe it does," I answered. "The question is, will others believe it? You see, Maxwell will stick to his story as you will stick to yours. He is not likely to have any feeling of tenderness towards his betrayers."
"Do you see what you have done, you fool!" cried Mrs. Fordham. "You have set that beast John free, and you have put a halter round your neck! We have been tricked—tricked!"
She looked about her wildly, and Louis trembled in every limb.
I smiled amiably at her. "In that nice Liverpool party of yours there were four men—you, Maxwell, Morgan, and another."
"Jack!" he cried. "He can prove my innocence. He saw Maxwell stab me!"
"Yes," I said, "he is the only man who can back up your story and save you from Maxwell. If he could be found now, and be induced to speak the truth?"
"He must be found," screamed Louis; "he must be! For God's sake give me something to drink, or I shall go into a fit!"
His mother flew to the sideboard, and poured brandy into a glass, which she held up to his chattering teeth.
I enjoyed the sight—I don't deny it—and had it not been that the time was drawing near for the appearance of Maxwell upon the scene, I have no hesitation in admitting that I should have prolonged the agony. My blood fairly boiled within me as I gazed upon the terror-stricken wretches, and thought of the sufferings they had inflicted upon John Fordham. I controlled my feelings, however, and applied myself steadily to the business I had in hand.
"Talking is dry work," I said. "Being in a manner of speaking your guests, it would be politeness on your part to pass the bottle round."
"I second that," said Bob Garlick, passing his tongue over his lips.
The woman took no notice of the hint, but Louis stumbled eagerly forward and held out the bottle to me. If I had not taken instant hold of it a lot of good liquor would have been wasted, his hand was so shaky. We helped ourselves, and felt the better for it, and then I said:
"I don't drink at any one's expense—except in the way of friendship—without paying for it. I am going to pay for the drinks, and to prove to you that you have acted wisely in trusting us. You have called your son a fool, Mrs. Fordham, and it would be rude to contradict a lady. Perhaps he is something worse than that, but at all events he has not been a fool tonight. Had he followed your advice the pair of you would have seen the inside of prison walls. As it is, he has saved you and himself. Do you think we left Jack out of the reckoning? Not a bit of it. At this present moment he is within twenty yards of us, waiting for orders, and it is a good job that his account of the stabbing tallies with that we have just heard. I shouldn't like to have such a record as yours, Mr. Louis, to my score, but there will be no charge of murder brought against you. That is all you care for, I expect, never mind what happens to any one else."
His eyes literally flashed with joy when he heard this, and Mrs. Fordham drew a long, deep breath of relief. She would have made almost any sacrifice to save both men, but Louis came first. That is the way with mothers, even when they are the worst of women.
"Is the liquor paid for?" I asked.
"Yes, yes," Louis replied. "Take some more."
I put the bottle aside, and held up my hand, for just then we heard three single raps at the street door, a short interval between each. Then, after a longer interval, three rapid knocks.
"Is that Maxwell's signal?" I whispered. "Speak low."
"Yes."
"Do you have to say anything? Must he hear your voice?"
"Yes. And I must hear his."
"Go and say it, and open the door, and leave the rest to us. We shall be behind you."
I did not trust her even then, you see.
We stepped softly out of the room, Mrs. Fordham first, and we at her heels. The passage was dark; I would not allow her to carry a light.
"Who is there?" she asked.
The answer came. "All right, M."
She was in such a state of agitation that she fumbled at the lock. I put my hand warningly on her shoulder, and the door was opened.
"What did you keep me so long for?" cried Maxwell, as he entered. "Is that you, Louis? Everything's ready. What the——"
Before he could get out another word he was seized and handcuffed. I blew my whistle, and Jack came up. Directing him in an undertone to remain in the passage till I called for him, I followed Wheeler and Bob Garlick into the room where they had conveyed their prisoner, Mrs. Fordham having run in first. She was panting as though she had lost her breath. Maxwell had said nothing more in the dark passage, his impression being, of course, that the police were upon him, and that silence would best serve him. When I entered he was safe in the grasp of my assistants, and was glaring at Mrs. Fordham and Louis, neither of whom had the courage to meet his eye.
"Have you searched him?" I asked of my assistants. They shook their heads. "Well, let us see what he has in his pockets."
We turned them out, the slight resistance he was able to make being of no avail. There was a loaded pistol, money, keys, and other oddments, and a pocketbook, containing letters and memoranda. Some of the letters were old and some recently written. Among the old letters were two signed by Morgan before the Liverpool affair, the contents of which proved the association of the two men for the purpose of robbing Louis. The recent letters were from Mrs. Fordham, and my hurried perusal of them left no doubt as to the nature of the intimacy between her and Maxwell. It was a ticklish position for a woman—on one side a lover, on the other a son whom she worshiped; but she had made her choice, and there was no retreat for her.
While I was examining the letters there was no sound in the room except the rustling of the papers. The truth dawned slowly upon Maxwell, and his face grew darker and darker as he gazed upon the forms of his confederates. He could no longer control himself.
"—— you all!" he cried. "What is the meaning of this?"
"You are charged with the murder of a man you knew by the name of Morgan in Liverpool," I replied.
"It's an infernal lie!" he shouted. "And you—what have you to say to it?" He addressed this question to Louis and Mrs. Fordham, but neither of the two answered him. "So," he said, between his teeth, while a deadly pallor spread over his features, "you have laid a trap for me, after all I have done to save you. There stands the murderer"—with a nod of his head towards Louis—"and I am ready to give evidence against him."
"What kind of evidence?" I asked.
"The evidence of an eye witness," he said. "I saw him do it—saw him strike Morgan down!"
"Ah," said I, and I stepped to the door, and beckoned Jack in. "What do you think of your ghost now, Jack?" His face beamed, and then his eyes wandered from Louis to Maxwell. "Don't you know an old pal when you see him? But I forgot. He has something on him which does not properly belong to him."
And as I spoke I plucked the false beard and whiskers from Maxwell's face.
"Maxwell!" cried Jack.
Then the murderer knew that the game was lost.
* * * * * *
That very night, after lodging Maxwell in prison, and laying the information against him, I paid a visit to Ellen Cameron. It was past midnight when I reached her lodgings, but I knew she wouldn't mind that when she heard the news I brought. Luckily the landlady of the house was up, or I should have had some trouble in obtaining admittance; she had a birthday party, and they were merrymaking. I explained to her that I had some wonderfully good news to communicate to her lodger, and she allowed me to go to her rooms. Ellen's voice trembled as she answered my summons at her door, and trembled more when she heard who her visitor was. I called to her not to be frightened, but to dress herself quickly.
"Good news!" I cried. "The best of good news!"
I was soon admitted. What a picture of neatness that room was, and how sweet and pretty Ellen looked, despite the trouble she had gone through! I declare a lump rose in my throat as I looked at her—but there! another man had got her, and he was worthy of her, and she of him.
We spoke low because her boy was asleep in the next room, and as she listened to the story I had to relate, tears of joy ran down her beautiful face.
I finished, and rose to go.
"John is to be brought up to-morrow," I said, "and to-morrow he will be free. Come to my office at half-past nine in the morning, and we will go to the court together. I know you would like to be there to welcome him. That is one of my reasons for coming here at such an hour. Another reason is, that I thought it would be a sin if I lost a single minute in giving you the good news."
She fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. Tears were in my eyes, too, as I was stealing out of the room. But she sprang to her feet and caught my hand, and kissed it.
"How can we repay you—how can we repay you!" she sobbed.
"I am repaid already," I said, and I pressed her hand and left her.
* * * * * *
And indeed in one way I was more than repaid. You know the stir the case made in the papers, and the flattering things that were said of my skill—which I am too modest to set down here. My proceedings were not perhaps exactly regular, and it is quite likely that Scotland Yard would rather have had the credit of bringing the Mystery to light. I doubt if they would have succeeded had it been left to them. And as for what I did, and the way I did it—well, nothing succeeds like success.
I became famous—really. And the business that flocked upon me! I am in a fair way of making my fortune. No need to go on the stage.
* * * * * *
All this happened twelve months ago. John and Ellen are in Australia doing well, and as happy as birds in summer time. We write to each other regularly, and they are continually sending me little presents. Pleasant, isn't it, to feel that, though many thousands of miles are between us, we shall hold one another in affectionate remembrance to the last days of our lives?
And then, would you believe it, a week or two ago I was introduced to a young lady so like Ellen that they might be sisters. The moment I set eyes on her my heart went twenty to the dozen, and—— But that has nothing to do with the story.