Chapter IV.Red Blood and Red InkThe girl backed the car skilfully up an almost invisible lane, and switched off the engine.“We’d better get out here,” she said, in matter-of-fact tones. “The house is only a few yards away.”They got out and walked down the road. Behind trim hedges, broken by white gates, loomed up dimly the shadowy masses of substantial houses. Before one of the white gates Mrs. Spettigue paused.“Here we are!” she observed, in a low, thrilling voice.“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, unable altogether to prevent himself from wishing they were not. “I—er—I see.”“What do we do now, Mr. Mullins?”Mr. Priestley pulled himself together and did his best to vanquish the curious sinking feeling at the pit of his waistcoat. He must not forget that he was a professional burglar. The reputation of the absent Mr. Mullins rested on his shoulders.“We go in,” he replied, with a decision which he was far from feeling.They went in.As they walked up the short drive Mr. Priestley pondered very earnestly. Now it came to the point, how on earthdidone break into a house? The nearer he got to the building, the more solid and impenetrable it looked. Weren’t there cunning things to be done with knife-blades and window-latches? And treacle and that he had never come at all and being remarkably glad that he had. Anyhow, turnip indeed!With infinite care they crept into what seemed to be a passage and listened. Not a sound was audible. If ever a house was deserted, Mr. Priestley reflected, surely this one was. A small hand clutched one of his, and he clutched back. They began to move soundlessly down the dark passage.A penetrating squeak brought Mr. Priestley’s heart for a moment into his mouth. Then he saw that the girl had opened a door on the right of the passage. Through the aperture a pair of French windows on the farther side of a fair-sized room was faintly illuminated by the moonlight.“This is the library,” said the girl in a low voice and drew him inside, closing the door behind them.Mr. Priestley’s first action was the result of his ponderings. One item of criminal lore at least he had remembered—always provide for your way of escape! He walked swiftly across the room and opened the French windows.“Oh, Mr. Mullins!” exclaimed the girl with soft admiration, when, not without pride, Mr. Priestley had explained the reason for his action. “What a thing it is to have an experienced burglar to help me. I should never have done that by myself.”Mr. Priestley began to think that perhaps he would not have made such a bad burglar after all.“Now, then, where does he keep those letters?” he asked, in brisk, businesslike tones.“In one of the drawers of the writing-table,” said the girl softly. “Would it be safe to turn on the light, do you think?”“No!” replied Mr. Priestley with firmness. “It wouldn’t.”“Did you bring an electric torch?”“Er—no, I’m afraid I didn’t.”“Well, just strike a match, and I’ll show you the drawer.”It was against Mr. Priestley’s instincts of preservation, but he complied. The flaring match gave him a brief glimpse of a big, comfortable room, and Mrs. Spettigue standing in front of a large writing-desk against one wall. Then it died down and Mr. Priestley prudently extinguished it.“Did you see?” came the girl’s voice. “This one—second from the top on the right-hand side. It’s locked, unfortunately.”“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley with feeling. How on earth did one tackle a locked drawer? Ah, of course! “Do you think you could get me the poker, if there is one?” he asked, feeling his way over to the table.He heard the girl move across the room and a minute later a stout bar of iron was in his hands. He touched the drawer with it tentatively. Nothing much happened.“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley again.“What a pity you didn’t bring your tools, after all,” observed Mrs. Spettigue in a thoughtful voice.Mr. Priestley gave the drawer a smart rap. The noise which resulted seemed as if it must have awakened the Seven Sleepers. Mr. Priestley hurriedly abandoned this method of approach.“I think perhaps, if we——!”He broke off abruptly, for at that moment the electric light flooded the room and a gruff voice remarked, in somewhat jerky tones, “Ah, Chicago Kate—er—um—I suppose? I was—er—um—expecting you.”There was a terrified squeak from the girl at his side, and Mr. Priestley, spinning hastily round, found himself confronting, as it seemed to his horrified gaze, the biggest man he had ever seen.This formidable-looking personage now standing in the open doorway was in full evening kit, with a broad blue ribbon across his shirt-front and an imposing decoration hung about his neck, evidently the insignia of some important order. And these were not the only striking things about him; the big black beard that covered his cheeks and chin and was trimmed to a neat point some three inches below his collar-stud, added considerably to the strikingness of his appearance. The fact that he fingered this beard with a gesture that was very like nervousness, and that his halting, almost reluctant tones were in strange contrast with the general fierceness of his aspect, Mr. Priestley was far too agitated to remark.Mr. Priestley was, in fact, glued to the piece of floor on which he was standing in sheer horror, bereft of the powers both of movement and speech. Not so his companion. With an incoherent expression of emotion she flung herself on her knees before the big man in a gesture that was undoubtedly dramatic.“Spare us, sir!” she exclaimed in heart-rending tones. “Do not send for the police! We were hungry, and came in to see if we could find a crust of bread. We have not tasted food for three days, either of us. Scold us, if you must, but don’t send us to prison!”The big man, whose face during this speech had been a study in conflicting emotions, ranging from embarrassed bewilderment to painful efforts to control his features, looked the relief of one who has recognised an unexpected clue. “I know you, Chicago Kate,” he growled mildly. “I had word of your arrival in this country. You have been after my miniatures before, but this time—er—this time——” He hesitated and looked strangely uncomfortable. “Gimme that poker!” he remarked suddenly, and advanced to twitch the weapon out of Mr. Priestley’s nervous hand. “Have you broken open the drawer in which I keep them?” he demanded over his shoulder of the still kneeling Mrs. Spettigue.That agile young lady followed him across the room on her knees, wringing her hands. “No sir! Before God and this gentleman here, I haven’t! I wouldn’t do such a thing, not if it were ever so!”“What is the name of your dastardly companion, whose face is strange to me?” asked the large man with a despairing expression, as of one this time who has lost all cues and never hopes to find another.“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Spettigue earnestly, “I don’t think he’s got one.”“Then I shall telephone for the police,” said the other, with an air of relieved finality. “If—er—if either of you attempts to escape from this room, you will be shot. I mean—er—biffed on the head with this poker.”It was then at last that Mr. Priestley, to whose dazed mind this scene had fortunately conveyed little or no meaning, came to his senses. At the same moment he found his voice. His brain had turned in an instant from boiling hot into icy cold. Perfect indignation casteth out fear, and Mr. Priestley suddenly discovered that he was very indignant indeed.“Yes, send for the police, you—you scoundrel,” he squeaked fiercely. “Send for the police, and I’ll give you in charge myself. You villain!” He turned round to the girl. “This is the man you were telling me about, I suppose?”The girl jumped up from her knees. “Yes, it is!” she wailed, continuing to wring her hands. “Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?”Her anguish added fuel to the flames of Mr. Priestley’s wrath. He sprang forward and flourished an inexperienced fist a couple of inches below the black beard. “Blackmail!” he spluttered. “Open that drawer and hand over those letters at once, or it will be the worse for you, my friend. You—you hound!”There was no mistaking the large man’s bewilderment. “Letters,” he repeated doubtfully. “There are—er—um—it’s my miniatures in that drawer, you know. Besides,” he added with an appearance of acute discomfort, “I’ve got to ring up the police. Must. Er—duty, you know, and all that.” The thought appeared to strike him that he was perhaps not being quite effective enough. He assumed a terrific scowl, brandished the poker and laid his hand on the telephone.Mr. Priestley sprang forward as if to forestall him, but his companion in crime was quicker. With a piercing shriek she flung her arms about Mr. Priestley’s neck and clung to him desperately.“Save me, Mr. Mullins! Save me!” she cried hysterically. “My husband would never forgive me if I got three years—never! He’s so dreadfully conventional. Oh, save me—save me!”His fair burden embarrassed Mr. Priestley not a little in his efforts to reach the telephone. For a moment he struggled frantically. Then he became aware that she was trying to whisper something into his ear. He ceased his efforts and listened.“Draw your revolver!” she was whispering frantically. “We must get away! That story about the letters was all nonsense, because you’d reformed. It was the miniatures I was after. If he sends for the police we’ll get five years’ imprisonment! For Heaven’s sake draw the revolver and fire it at him! It’s only blank, but he’ll be frightened and we can get away before he realises.”For an instant Mr. Priestley’s long-suffering brain seemed to go suddenly numb. He had been taken in—tricked—bamboozled…. There were no letters—it was a criminal enterprise he was engaged on! Five years in prison!Then his mind ceased to think and became one single emotion—the overpowering desire to getaway. He whipped the revolver out of his pocket, fired it blindly in the direction of the big man and dragged the girl with him towards the open French window, all in one movement.A horrified exclamation from his companion did not check him. A second, and more urgent one, did. On the threshold of the window he turned and looked back. To his horror he saw the big man leaning on the writing-desk in a curiously sagging attitude, one hand to his chest; and below the hand an unmistakably red stream trickled slowly down across his white shirt-front. Before Mr. Priestley’s horrified eyes he crumpled slowly up without a word and collapsed on to the floor, where he lay hideously still.The girl was staring at him too, one hand pressed to her mouth. Slowly she turned a horrified face to Mr. Priestley and gazed at him with wide eyes. “It—it must have been loaded after all!” she whispered in strangled tones.Suddenly she darted forward, fell on her knees by the big man’s side and ripped open his shirt-front, inserting a small hand. For a moment both she and Mr. Priestley were as still as statues, hardly daring to breathe. Then:—“I—don’t—think—his—heart—is—beating!” she muttered jerkily. “You come and feel!”Mr. Priestley shook his head speechlessly, hardly conscious of what he was doing.“Come and feel!” ordered the girl, more peremptorily.Mr. Priestley went.The girl took his hand and held it where hers had been. That this happened to be on the right of the corpse’s chest instead of the left he was far too agitated to notice.“Can you feel anything?” asked the girl anxiously.“No,” Mr. Priestley had to admit.The girl sat back on her heels. “He’s dead,” she said, with horrid finality.They stared at each other.“Good God!” muttered Mr. Priestley distractedly. “What on earth had we better do?”The girl gave him no help. “It’s murder,” she said shortly.“But—but—good God, I nevermeantto kill him! It isn’tmurder. I thought the revolver was loaded with blank ammunition, as you said.”“So did I!” said the girl helplessly. “I’m sure I told my maid to load it with blank. But you wouldn’t believe how careless that girl is. I knew she’d be getting me into trouble one of these days.”The corpse’s face twitched spasmodically, but Mr. Priestley was fortunately still engaged in staring at the cause of all his trouble.“And it won’t help you in the least to say you thought it wasn’t loaded,” that lady told him frankly. “They’ll know we came here after those miniatures. You’re known to the police, I suppose; and of course I am. It’s not much good saying we shot him by mistake; it’s murder they’ll try us for. If we’re caught, it’s a hanging job for both of us.”“There’s no need,” said Mr. Priestley slowly, “for you to appear in it at all. After all, it was I who shot him; nobody’s going to know there were two of us. We’d better separate, and you can——”“’Ullo!” said a gruff voice from the open window—a really gruff voice this time. “What’s all this about, eh?”Both of them started to their feet. Just inside the room was a burly policeman, flashing a quite unnecessary lantern. They stared at him aghast as he advanced upon them.“’Eard a scream comin’ from ’ere, not above two minutes back,” went on the policeman sternly, “an’ then a shot. Or sounded like a shot, it did. So I thought as ’ow——” He caught sight of the corpse on the floor, which had hitherto been partially hidden by an arm-chair, and broke off abruptly. His bulging eyes contemplated it with incredulity.The girl was the first to recover herself. Clapping her hand to her mouth, she turned hastily about and her shoulders heaved as if under great emotion; the next moment she faced the guardian of the law, her face still working painfully.“We didn’t do it, constable!” she cried wildly. “We found it here. We heard the shot too, and came in like you. We didn’t do it!”The constable took no notice of this dramatic cry. His eyes were still fastened on the sprawling corpse, upon whose white shirt-front the large red stain showed up with ominous distinctness. He continued to contemplate it.Mr. Priestley, fastened once more to the ground, contemplated it also. In his paralysed brain one thought only found place—“murder will out!” In his more intelligent moments Mr. Priestley might have noted with interest that the more dramatic the situation became, the more he had recourse to platitudes to express his feelings; as it was, he could not even have told you what a platitude was.“Is ’e—is ’edead?” asked the constable in awed tones.“I’m afraid he is,” replied the girl more soberly.With an effort the constable’s eyes disengaged themselves from the body and roved slowly over the room. They fell on the revolver which Mr. Priestley in his agitation had dropped. With an exclamation of pleasure the constable picked it up.“This ’ere’s the weapon,” he remarked acutely.The corpse took advantage of his and Mr. Priestley’s preoccupation with the revolver to direct an expressive glance towards the girl, uneasy and interrogative. The glance said, as plainly as glances may, “What the blazes are we to do now?”The girl contorted her pretty features into a prodigious wink. The wink said, as clearly as a wink can: “You just lie doggo and leave it all to me. This is an unexpected development, I admit, but advantage may yet be derived from it. Take your cue from me and go on emulating a door-nail.” The corpse did so.“Well, I’ll be blowed!” observed the policeman, continuing to stare at the revolver. A gleam illuminated his stolid face. “Murder!” he exclaimed. “Murder —that’s what it is! And this ’ere’s the weapon that did it.” He looked with sudden suspicion on the guilty couple. “Now then,” he said in an official voice. “What’ve you two got to say, I’d like to know? And I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you.” He scowled upon them darkly.“Then we won’t say anything, constable,” replied the girl brightly. “But we really didn’t do it, you know. Can we go now, please? We’ve got an appointment with——”“Are you sure he’s dead, constable?” Mr. Priestley interrupted, in not too steady tones. His mind had begun to work again and the glimmerings of a plan had appeared to him. “You haven’t—er—examined him, you know. He may not be dead at all.”“But the young lady said he was,” objected the constable, with the air of one scoring a distinct point.Mr. Priestley almost danced with impatience. “Well, examine him, man, and find out for yourself!” he cried. The habit of obedience was strong in the constable. This was how he was accustomed to being addressed, and then he just went and did as he had been told. He did so now, and turned his back on the other two in order to advance towards the corpse.Now it had been Mr. Priestley’s plan, as soon as this large back was turned, to grab the girl by the wrist and make a bolt for it, trusting to the darkness and the waiting two-seater to make a clean get-away. What was to come after that, or what his own future course was to be, he had not had time to consider; for the present the future could take care of itself. He dived forward to grab.The girl must have been a singularly obtuse young woman. Apparently she had not gathered the faintest inkling of Mr. Priestley’s deep scheme. Instead of waiting to be grabbed she had actually darted forward herself and forestalled the constable at the corpse’s side. “His heart isn’t beating at all!” she exclaimed, dropping on her knees again and guiding the constable’s large hand inside the corpse’s shirt.It is remarkable how emotion derives us of a large proportion of our horse-sense. The constable’s emotion had a different basis from that of Mr. Priestley, but neither did he notice that he was anxiously feeling the corpse’s right wing instead of his left.“And his pulse isn’t beating either,” amplified the girl, submitting the corpse’s inert wrist to official inspection.“It isn’t that,” agreed the constable solemnly. He was perfectly right. Pulses very seldom do beat on the wrong side of the wrist.“Let’s try a feather on his nose,” suggested the girl. “Have you got a feather? No? Well, I suppose a hair will do.” She plucked one from her own head and laid it delicately across the corpse’s nostrils; it did not quiver. She waited a few moments till signs of incipient apoplexy became apparent in the corpse’s features, then lifted the hair and examined it closely. “It never moved,” she announced. “Here, constable, you’d better keep this. It’s a valuable piece of evidence, you know. Have you got a pocket-book?”The constable took the hair and placed it carefully between the blank pages of his notebook. He was not quite certain as to its precise importance, but he was very amenable to suggestion. “’E’s dead all right,” he announced portentously.In the background Mr. Priestley was hovering uneasily. The aching to escape was getting almost unbearable. Whatever this extraordinary girl might or might not be, her continued proximity to the representative of the Law was intolerable. Escape first, and explanations, perhaps, afterwards; but anyhow, escape first! He cast agonising glances from her to the invitingly open window, and from the open window to her. The ridiculous child did not seem even to understand the awful gravity of her position.Casting discretion to the winds, he caught her eye with his own rolling optic, jerked his head backward and then nodded it towards the window; he could not make his meaning plainer without words.He had made it only too plain. The constable might not have possessed the brightest intellect in Duffley, but Mr. Priestley’s agitated eye and jerky leaping would have conveyed suspicion to the most charitable. The constable rose portentously to his feet. Mr. Priestley edged towards the window. The constable followed him.Unfortunately for Mr. Priestley’s plans it was his opponent this time who had the revolver. Nor did he scruple to employ it. “You stand still!” ordered the constable in a dignified bellow, the inner meaning of the situation growing plainer to him every minute. Here was a perfectly good murder, and here were two people in a state of considerable agitation, and here also was a revolver. This wanted looking into. “You stand still!” he repeated, advancing to look into it.Mr. Priestley stood still; but he did not stand silent. “Run!” he shouted suddenly to the girl, unawed even by the menacing revolver. “Run for it—window—I’ll look after this chap! Get away!”“Ho!” said the policeman, and promptly placed his burly body between the girl and the window. “Would, would you? You’ll ’ave to comealongerme, both of you. Now then, ’ands up!”It is difficult not to accede to the request of a formidable man when his demand is emphasised by a judiciously wielded revolver, and there was no doubt that the constable was now a very formidable man indeed. The state of affairs had become even clearer to him. Here were not only two murderers, caught quite literally red-handed, but here also was himself, and at the business end of a revolver. Even the constable could put this two and two together and make the answer “sergeant.”After a momentary hesitation, Mr. Priestley’s hands wobbled up. After a still longer hesitation, those of the girl did also. The happy, carefree expression had departed from her face; she looked like a lady who had made advances to a cow and found that she was toying with a bull. The corpse took a hasty glance round and uttered a faint, strangled sound, but spoke no word; his not to reason why, his but to do and die. He went on dying.By means of a series of brisk commands, punctuated by prods of the revolver, the constable manœuvred his captives into line facing the door. They jumped nimbly to execute his pleasure. Then their wrists adjacent to one another were gripped, there was a sharp click, and the sound ensued as of a heavy body stepping back with satisfaction.“Now you can take ’em down,” observed the constable almost benevolently, regarding his handiwork with modest pride. “And stand still while I make out me report,ifyou please. An’ don’t you try any more monkey-tricks withme.” He drew out a stub of pencil from his pocket, seated himself at the desk, laid the revolver in front of him and contemplated the two with a truculent eye.They returned his gaze gloomily, even Mr. Priestley. Mr. Priestley had never before been tethered by the wrist to that of a particularly charming young woman, and he might have been pardoned for feeling a little exhilaration in the idea; yet his countenance was completely lacking in exhilaration. A large number of emotions, it is true, were represented there, but exhilaration was not among them. Nor did the young woman evince any greater delight in being tethered to Mr. Priestley. Handcuffs evidently brought her soul no joy. By her expression, anybody less addicted to the use of handcuffs would have been hard to find. She now wore the air of one who has stepped gaily into a train labelled Birmingham, and finds herself in Crewe; a blend of dismay, annoyance, bewilderment as to the precise whereabouts, and anxiety regarding the return to the starting-point. The corpse was now prudently keeping its eyes tightly closed.And then events happened with a rapidity that would have done credit to an American Cinema producer. With one dive Mr. Priestley was at the desk, and the revolver in his hand. With another he was at the nearest door, and lo! it was open. The young woman, having no option, followed his movements about the room with the jerky leaps of a fish manœuvring in mid-air, at the end of a line; this was not the moment to consider feminine deportment, and Mr. Priestley quite rightly did not stop to do so.The door he had flung open was not that by which they had entered the room; it gave access to a shallow cupboard, having shelves across its upper half and tolerably empty below. Mr. Priestley viewed it for one-fifth of a second with exultation, then he turned back to the thoroughly bewildered constable. Rural constables get very little time for attending the cinema.“Get in there,” said Mr. Priestley very grimly to the constable, “as you value your life.” And he in turn pointed his words by a recourse to theargumentum ad hominem.The constable did value his life. He did not know very much of what was happening, but he did know that. He got in.Mr. Priestley closed the door on him and turned the key. Then he bent down, jerked the young woman’s right wrist somewhere into the neighbourhood of the small of her back, and curved his free arm round her knees. The next moment she was swung off her feet and hoisted up in the air, while this new cave-man edition of Mr. Priestley trotted with hasty, if slightly wobbly steps out into the night. Thus did the knight not only rescue his lady, but even carried her off with him in the orthodox way.The corpse was so far galvanised as to sit up and stare after their swaying figures. Then he, too, rose and fled into the night, uttering strange noises.
The girl backed the car skilfully up an almost invisible lane, and switched off the engine.
“We’d better get out here,” she said, in matter-of-fact tones. “The house is only a few yards away.”
They got out and walked down the road. Behind trim hedges, broken by white gates, loomed up dimly the shadowy masses of substantial houses. Before one of the white gates Mrs. Spettigue paused.
“Here we are!” she observed, in a low, thrilling voice.
“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, unable altogether to prevent himself from wishing they were not. “I—er—I see.”
“What do we do now, Mr. Mullins?”
Mr. Priestley pulled himself together and did his best to vanquish the curious sinking feeling at the pit of his waistcoat. He must not forget that he was a professional burglar. The reputation of the absent Mr. Mullins rested on his shoulders.
“We go in,” he replied, with a decision which he was far from feeling.
They went in.
As they walked up the short drive Mr. Priestley pondered very earnestly. Now it came to the point, how on earthdidone break into a house? The nearer he got to the building, the more solid and impenetrable it looked. Weren’t there cunning things to be done with knife-blades and window-latches? And treacle and that he had never come at all and being remarkably glad that he had. Anyhow, turnip indeed!
With infinite care they crept into what seemed to be a passage and listened. Not a sound was audible. If ever a house was deserted, Mr. Priestley reflected, surely this one was. A small hand clutched one of his, and he clutched back. They began to move soundlessly down the dark passage.
A penetrating squeak brought Mr. Priestley’s heart for a moment into his mouth. Then he saw that the girl had opened a door on the right of the passage. Through the aperture a pair of French windows on the farther side of a fair-sized room was faintly illuminated by the moonlight.
“This is the library,” said the girl in a low voice and drew him inside, closing the door behind them.
Mr. Priestley’s first action was the result of his ponderings. One item of criminal lore at least he had remembered—always provide for your way of escape! He walked swiftly across the room and opened the French windows.
“Oh, Mr. Mullins!” exclaimed the girl with soft admiration, when, not without pride, Mr. Priestley had explained the reason for his action. “What a thing it is to have an experienced burglar to help me. I should never have done that by myself.”
Mr. Priestley began to think that perhaps he would not have made such a bad burglar after all.
“Now, then, where does he keep those letters?” he asked, in brisk, businesslike tones.
“In one of the drawers of the writing-table,” said the girl softly. “Would it be safe to turn on the light, do you think?”
“No!” replied Mr. Priestley with firmness. “It wouldn’t.”
“Did you bring an electric torch?”
“Er—no, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Well, just strike a match, and I’ll show you the drawer.”
It was against Mr. Priestley’s instincts of preservation, but he complied. The flaring match gave him a brief glimpse of a big, comfortable room, and Mrs. Spettigue standing in front of a large writing-desk against one wall. Then it died down and Mr. Priestley prudently extinguished it.
“Did you see?” came the girl’s voice. “This one—second from the top on the right-hand side. It’s locked, unfortunately.”
“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley with feeling. How on earth did one tackle a locked drawer? Ah, of course! “Do you think you could get me the poker, if there is one?” he asked, feeling his way over to the table.
He heard the girl move across the room and a minute later a stout bar of iron was in his hands. He touched the drawer with it tentatively. Nothing much happened.
“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley again.
“What a pity you didn’t bring your tools, after all,” observed Mrs. Spettigue in a thoughtful voice.
Mr. Priestley gave the drawer a smart rap. The noise which resulted seemed as if it must have awakened the Seven Sleepers. Mr. Priestley hurriedly abandoned this method of approach.
“I think perhaps, if we——!”
He broke off abruptly, for at that moment the electric light flooded the room and a gruff voice remarked, in somewhat jerky tones, “Ah, Chicago Kate—er—um—I suppose? I was—er—um—expecting you.”
There was a terrified squeak from the girl at his side, and Mr. Priestley, spinning hastily round, found himself confronting, as it seemed to his horrified gaze, the biggest man he had ever seen.
This formidable-looking personage now standing in the open doorway was in full evening kit, with a broad blue ribbon across his shirt-front and an imposing decoration hung about his neck, evidently the insignia of some important order. And these were not the only striking things about him; the big black beard that covered his cheeks and chin and was trimmed to a neat point some three inches below his collar-stud, added considerably to the strikingness of his appearance. The fact that he fingered this beard with a gesture that was very like nervousness, and that his halting, almost reluctant tones were in strange contrast with the general fierceness of his aspect, Mr. Priestley was far too agitated to remark.
Mr. Priestley was, in fact, glued to the piece of floor on which he was standing in sheer horror, bereft of the powers both of movement and speech. Not so his companion. With an incoherent expression of emotion she flung herself on her knees before the big man in a gesture that was undoubtedly dramatic.
“Spare us, sir!” she exclaimed in heart-rending tones. “Do not send for the police! We were hungry, and came in to see if we could find a crust of bread. We have not tasted food for three days, either of us. Scold us, if you must, but don’t send us to prison!”
The big man, whose face during this speech had been a study in conflicting emotions, ranging from embarrassed bewilderment to painful efforts to control his features, looked the relief of one who has recognised an unexpected clue. “I know you, Chicago Kate,” he growled mildly. “I had word of your arrival in this country. You have been after my miniatures before, but this time—er—this time——” He hesitated and looked strangely uncomfortable. “Gimme that poker!” he remarked suddenly, and advanced to twitch the weapon out of Mr. Priestley’s nervous hand. “Have you broken open the drawer in which I keep them?” he demanded over his shoulder of the still kneeling Mrs. Spettigue.
That agile young lady followed him across the room on her knees, wringing her hands. “No sir! Before God and this gentleman here, I haven’t! I wouldn’t do such a thing, not if it were ever so!”
“What is the name of your dastardly companion, whose face is strange to me?” asked the large man with a despairing expression, as of one this time who has lost all cues and never hopes to find another.
“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Spettigue earnestly, “I don’t think he’s got one.”
“Then I shall telephone for the police,” said the other, with an air of relieved finality. “If—er—if either of you attempts to escape from this room, you will be shot. I mean—er—biffed on the head with this poker.”
It was then at last that Mr. Priestley, to whose dazed mind this scene had fortunately conveyed little or no meaning, came to his senses. At the same moment he found his voice. His brain had turned in an instant from boiling hot into icy cold. Perfect indignation casteth out fear, and Mr. Priestley suddenly discovered that he was very indignant indeed.
“Yes, send for the police, you—you scoundrel,” he squeaked fiercely. “Send for the police, and I’ll give you in charge myself. You villain!” He turned round to the girl. “This is the man you were telling me about, I suppose?”
The girl jumped up from her knees. “Yes, it is!” she wailed, continuing to wring her hands. “Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?”
Her anguish added fuel to the flames of Mr. Priestley’s wrath. He sprang forward and flourished an inexperienced fist a couple of inches below the black beard. “Blackmail!” he spluttered. “Open that drawer and hand over those letters at once, or it will be the worse for you, my friend. You—you hound!”
There was no mistaking the large man’s bewilderment. “Letters,” he repeated doubtfully. “There are—er—um—it’s my miniatures in that drawer, you know. Besides,” he added with an appearance of acute discomfort, “I’ve got to ring up the police. Must. Er—duty, you know, and all that.” The thought appeared to strike him that he was perhaps not being quite effective enough. He assumed a terrific scowl, brandished the poker and laid his hand on the telephone.
Mr. Priestley sprang forward as if to forestall him, but his companion in crime was quicker. With a piercing shriek she flung her arms about Mr. Priestley’s neck and clung to him desperately.
“Save me, Mr. Mullins! Save me!” she cried hysterically. “My husband would never forgive me if I got three years—never! He’s so dreadfully conventional. Oh, save me—save me!”
His fair burden embarrassed Mr. Priestley not a little in his efforts to reach the telephone. For a moment he struggled frantically. Then he became aware that she was trying to whisper something into his ear. He ceased his efforts and listened.
“Draw your revolver!” she was whispering frantically. “We must get away! That story about the letters was all nonsense, because you’d reformed. It was the miniatures I was after. If he sends for the police we’ll get five years’ imprisonment! For Heaven’s sake draw the revolver and fire it at him! It’s only blank, but he’ll be frightened and we can get away before he realises.”
For an instant Mr. Priestley’s long-suffering brain seemed to go suddenly numb. He had been taken in—tricked—bamboozled…. There were no letters—it was a criminal enterprise he was engaged on! Five years in prison!
Then his mind ceased to think and became one single emotion—the overpowering desire to getaway. He whipped the revolver out of his pocket, fired it blindly in the direction of the big man and dragged the girl with him towards the open French window, all in one movement.
A horrified exclamation from his companion did not check him. A second, and more urgent one, did. On the threshold of the window he turned and looked back. To his horror he saw the big man leaning on the writing-desk in a curiously sagging attitude, one hand to his chest; and below the hand an unmistakably red stream trickled slowly down across his white shirt-front. Before Mr. Priestley’s horrified eyes he crumpled slowly up without a word and collapsed on to the floor, where he lay hideously still.
The girl was staring at him too, one hand pressed to her mouth. Slowly she turned a horrified face to Mr. Priestley and gazed at him with wide eyes. “It—it must have been loaded after all!” she whispered in strangled tones.
Suddenly she darted forward, fell on her knees by the big man’s side and ripped open his shirt-front, inserting a small hand. For a moment both she and Mr. Priestley were as still as statues, hardly daring to breathe. Then:—
“I—don’t—think—his—heart—is—beating!” she muttered jerkily. “You come and feel!”
Mr. Priestley shook his head speechlessly, hardly conscious of what he was doing.
“Come and feel!” ordered the girl, more peremptorily.
Mr. Priestley went.
The girl took his hand and held it where hers had been. That this happened to be on the right of the corpse’s chest instead of the left he was far too agitated to notice.
“Can you feel anything?” asked the girl anxiously.
“No,” Mr. Priestley had to admit.
The girl sat back on her heels. “He’s dead,” she said, with horrid finality.
They stared at each other.
“Good God!” muttered Mr. Priestley distractedly. “What on earth had we better do?”
The girl gave him no help. “It’s murder,” she said shortly.
“But—but—good God, I nevermeantto kill him! It isn’tmurder. I thought the revolver was loaded with blank ammunition, as you said.”
“So did I!” said the girl helplessly. “I’m sure I told my maid to load it with blank. But you wouldn’t believe how careless that girl is. I knew she’d be getting me into trouble one of these days.”
The corpse’s face twitched spasmodically, but Mr. Priestley was fortunately still engaged in staring at the cause of all his trouble.
“And it won’t help you in the least to say you thought it wasn’t loaded,” that lady told him frankly. “They’ll know we came here after those miniatures. You’re known to the police, I suppose; and of course I am. It’s not much good saying we shot him by mistake; it’s murder they’ll try us for. If we’re caught, it’s a hanging job for both of us.”
“There’s no need,” said Mr. Priestley slowly, “for you to appear in it at all. After all, it was I who shot him; nobody’s going to know there were two of us. We’d better separate, and you can——”
“’Ullo!” said a gruff voice from the open window—a really gruff voice this time. “What’s all this about, eh?”
Both of them started to their feet. Just inside the room was a burly policeman, flashing a quite unnecessary lantern. They stared at him aghast as he advanced upon them.
“’Eard a scream comin’ from ’ere, not above two minutes back,” went on the policeman sternly, “an’ then a shot. Or sounded like a shot, it did. So I thought as ’ow——” He caught sight of the corpse on the floor, which had hitherto been partially hidden by an arm-chair, and broke off abruptly. His bulging eyes contemplated it with incredulity.
The girl was the first to recover herself. Clapping her hand to her mouth, she turned hastily about and her shoulders heaved as if under great emotion; the next moment she faced the guardian of the law, her face still working painfully.
“We didn’t do it, constable!” she cried wildly. “We found it here. We heard the shot too, and came in like you. We didn’t do it!”
The constable took no notice of this dramatic cry. His eyes were still fastened on the sprawling corpse, upon whose white shirt-front the large red stain showed up with ominous distinctness. He continued to contemplate it.
Mr. Priestley, fastened once more to the ground, contemplated it also. In his paralysed brain one thought only found place—“murder will out!” In his more intelligent moments Mr. Priestley might have noted with interest that the more dramatic the situation became, the more he had recourse to platitudes to express his feelings; as it was, he could not even have told you what a platitude was.
“Is ’e—is ’edead?” asked the constable in awed tones.
“I’m afraid he is,” replied the girl more soberly.
With an effort the constable’s eyes disengaged themselves from the body and roved slowly over the room. They fell on the revolver which Mr. Priestley in his agitation had dropped. With an exclamation of pleasure the constable picked it up.
“This ’ere’s the weapon,” he remarked acutely.
The corpse took advantage of his and Mr. Priestley’s preoccupation with the revolver to direct an expressive glance towards the girl, uneasy and interrogative. The glance said, as plainly as glances may, “What the blazes are we to do now?”
The girl contorted her pretty features into a prodigious wink. The wink said, as clearly as a wink can: “You just lie doggo and leave it all to me. This is an unexpected development, I admit, but advantage may yet be derived from it. Take your cue from me and go on emulating a door-nail.” The corpse did so.
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” observed the policeman, continuing to stare at the revolver. A gleam illuminated his stolid face. “Murder!” he exclaimed. “Murder —that’s what it is! And this ’ere’s the weapon that did it.” He looked with sudden suspicion on the guilty couple. “Now then,” he said in an official voice. “What’ve you two got to say, I’d like to know? And I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you.” He scowled upon them darkly.
“Then we won’t say anything, constable,” replied the girl brightly. “But we really didn’t do it, you know. Can we go now, please? We’ve got an appointment with——”
“Are you sure he’s dead, constable?” Mr. Priestley interrupted, in not too steady tones. His mind had begun to work again and the glimmerings of a plan had appeared to him. “You haven’t—er—examined him, you know. He may not be dead at all.”
“But the young lady said he was,” objected the constable, with the air of one scoring a distinct point.
Mr. Priestley almost danced with impatience. “Well, examine him, man, and find out for yourself!” he cried. The habit of obedience was strong in the constable. This was how he was accustomed to being addressed, and then he just went and did as he had been told. He did so now, and turned his back on the other two in order to advance towards the corpse.
Now it had been Mr. Priestley’s plan, as soon as this large back was turned, to grab the girl by the wrist and make a bolt for it, trusting to the darkness and the waiting two-seater to make a clean get-away. What was to come after that, or what his own future course was to be, he had not had time to consider; for the present the future could take care of itself. He dived forward to grab.
The girl must have been a singularly obtuse young woman. Apparently she had not gathered the faintest inkling of Mr. Priestley’s deep scheme. Instead of waiting to be grabbed she had actually darted forward herself and forestalled the constable at the corpse’s side. “His heart isn’t beating at all!” she exclaimed, dropping on her knees again and guiding the constable’s large hand inside the corpse’s shirt.
It is remarkable how emotion derives us of a large proportion of our horse-sense. The constable’s emotion had a different basis from that of Mr. Priestley, but neither did he notice that he was anxiously feeling the corpse’s right wing instead of his left.
“And his pulse isn’t beating either,” amplified the girl, submitting the corpse’s inert wrist to official inspection.
“It isn’t that,” agreed the constable solemnly. He was perfectly right. Pulses very seldom do beat on the wrong side of the wrist.
“Let’s try a feather on his nose,” suggested the girl. “Have you got a feather? No? Well, I suppose a hair will do.” She plucked one from her own head and laid it delicately across the corpse’s nostrils; it did not quiver. She waited a few moments till signs of incipient apoplexy became apparent in the corpse’s features, then lifted the hair and examined it closely. “It never moved,” she announced. “Here, constable, you’d better keep this. It’s a valuable piece of evidence, you know. Have you got a pocket-book?”
The constable took the hair and placed it carefully between the blank pages of his notebook. He was not quite certain as to its precise importance, but he was very amenable to suggestion. “’E’s dead all right,” he announced portentously.
In the background Mr. Priestley was hovering uneasily. The aching to escape was getting almost unbearable. Whatever this extraordinary girl might or might not be, her continued proximity to the representative of the Law was intolerable. Escape first, and explanations, perhaps, afterwards; but anyhow, escape first! He cast agonising glances from her to the invitingly open window, and from the open window to her. The ridiculous child did not seem even to understand the awful gravity of her position.
Casting discretion to the winds, he caught her eye with his own rolling optic, jerked his head backward and then nodded it towards the window; he could not make his meaning plainer without words.
He had made it only too plain. The constable might not have possessed the brightest intellect in Duffley, but Mr. Priestley’s agitated eye and jerky leaping would have conveyed suspicion to the most charitable. The constable rose portentously to his feet. Mr. Priestley edged towards the window. The constable followed him.
Unfortunately for Mr. Priestley’s plans it was his opponent this time who had the revolver. Nor did he scruple to employ it. “You stand still!” ordered the constable in a dignified bellow, the inner meaning of the situation growing plainer to him every minute. Here was a perfectly good murder, and here were two people in a state of considerable agitation, and here also was a revolver. This wanted looking into. “You stand still!” he repeated, advancing to look into it.
Mr. Priestley stood still; but he did not stand silent. “Run!” he shouted suddenly to the girl, unawed even by the menacing revolver. “Run for it—window—I’ll look after this chap! Get away!”
“Ho!” said the policeman, and promptly placed his burly body between the girl and the window. “Would, would you? You’ll ’ave to comealongerme, both of you. Now then, ’ands up!”
It is difficult not to accede to the request of a formidable man when his demand is emphasised by a judiciously wielded revolver, and there was no doubt that the constable was now a very formidable man indeed. The state of affairs had become even clearer to him. Here were not only two murderers, caught quite literally red-handed, but here also was himself, and at the business end of a revolver. Even the constable could put this two and two together and make the answer “sergeant.”
After a momentary hesitation, Mr. Priestley’s hands wobbled up. After a still longer hesitation, those of the girl did also. The happy, carefree expression had departed from her face; she looked like a lady who had made advances to a cow and found that she was toying with a bull. The corpse took a hasty glance round and uttered a faint, strangled sound, but spoke no word; his not to reason why, his but to do and die. He went on dying.
By means of a series of brisk commands, punctuated by prods of the revolver, the constable manœuvred his captives into line facing the door. They jumped nimbly to execute his pleasure. Then their wrists adjacent to one another were gripped, there was a sharp click, and the sound ensued as of a heavy body stepping back with satisfaction.
“Now you can take ’em down,” observed the constable almost benevolently, regarding his handiwork with modest pride. “And stand still while I make out me report,ifyou please. An’ don’t you try any more monkey-tricks withme.” He drew out a stub of pencil from his pocket, seated himself at the desk, laid the revolver in front of him and contemplated the two with a truculent eye.
They returned his gaze gloomily, even Mr. Priestley. Mr. Priestley had never before been tethered by the wrist to that of a particularly charming young woman, and he might have been pardoned for feeling a little exhilaration in the idea; yet his countenance was completely lacking in exhilaration. A large number of emotions, it is true, were represented there, but exhilaration was not among them. Nor did the young woman evince any greater delight in being tethered to Mr. Priestley. Handcuffs evidently brought her soul no joy. By her expression, anybody less addicted to the use of handcuffs would have been hard to find. She now wore the air of one who has stepped gaily into a train labelled Birmingham, and finds herself in Crewe; a blend of dismay, annoyance, bewilderment as to the precise whereabouts, and anxiety regarding the return to the starting-point. The corpse was now prudently keeping its eyes tightly closed.
And then events happened with a rapidity that would have done credit to an American Cinema producer. With one dive Mr. Priestley was at the desk, and the revolver in his hand. With another he was at the nearest door, and lo! it was open. The young woman, having no option, followed his movements about the room with the jerky leaps of a fish manœuvring in mid-air, at the end of a line; this was not the moment to consider feminine deportment, and Mr. Priestley quite rightly did not stop to do so.
The door he had flung open was not that by which they had entered the room; it gave access to a shallow cupboard, having shelves across its upper half and tolerably empty below. Mr. Priestley viewed it for one-fifth of a second with exultation, then he turned back to the thoroughly bewildered constable. Rural constables get very little time for attending the cinema.
“Get in there,” said Mr. Priestley very grimly to the constable, “as you value your life.” And he in turn pointed his words by a recourse to theargumentum ad hominem.
The constable did value his life. He did not know very much of what was happening, but he did know that. He got in.
Mr. Priestley closed the door on him and turned the key. Then he bent down, jerked the young woman’s right wrist somewhere into the neighbourhood of the small of her back, and curved his free arm round her knees. The next moment she was swung off her feet and hoisted up in the air, while this new cave-man edition of Mr. Priestley trotted with hasty, if slightly wobbly steps out into the night. Thus did the knight not only rescue his lady, but even carried her off with him in the orthodox way.
The corpse was so far galvanised as to sit up and stare after their swaying figures. Then he, too, rose and fled into the night, uttering strange noises.