The Stowmarket Mystery by Louis Tracy (best classic books of all time TXT) 📕

“H.L.

“P.S.—David is all right—only shaken and covered with mud. It occurred five minutes ago.”

“Dear me!” said Brett. “Dear me!”

There was such a hiss of concentrated fury in his voice that Winter was puzzled to account for the harmless expression the barrister had twice used. The detective knew that his distinguished friend never, by any chance, indulged in strong language, yet something had annoyed him so greatly that a more powerful expletive would have had a very natural sound.

Brett glared at him.

“It is evident,” he said, “that you do not know the meaning of ‘Dear me.’ It is simply the English form of the Italian ‘O Dio mio!’ and a literal translation would shock you.”

“It doesn’t appear that much damage has been done to your client,” gasped Winter, for Brett had unceremoniously dragged him from his chair with the intention of rushing downstairs forthwith.

They hurried out together, and dashed into the waiting hansom.

“Think of it, Winter,” groaned the barrister. “Whilst we were seduced by a dorking and a French sausage—an unholy alliance—the very man we wanted was waiting in Northumberland Avenue. You are avenged! All my jibes and sneers at Scotland Yard recoil on my own head. I might have known that such a desperate scoundrel would soon make another attempt, and next time upon the right person. You followed Mrs. Jiro. I am led astray by a cooked fowl. Oh, Winter, Winter, who could suspect such depravity in a roasted chicken!”

“I’m dashed if I can guess what you’re driving at,” growled the detective.

“No; I understand. The blood has left your brain and gone to your stomach. You will not be able to think for hours.”

Raving thus, in disjointed sentences that Winter could not make head or tail of, Brett refused to be explicit until they reached the hotel, when he discharged the cabman with a payment that caused the gentleman on the perch to spit on the palm of his hand in great glee, whilst he promptly wheeled the horse in the direction of his livery stables.

They were met by David himself, seated in the foyer by the side of Helen, who looked white and frightened.

“This chap is a terror,” began Hume, once they were safe in the privacy of their sitting-room. “I would never have believed such things were possible in London if they had not actually happened to Robert and me to-day. We had dinner rather early, and dined in private, as Robert is feeling stiff now after this morning’s adventure. Margaret suggested—”

“Where is Mrs. Capella?” interrupted the barrister.

Miss Layton answered:

“She is with Mr. Frazer. They have found a quiet corner of the ladies’ smoking-room—I mean the smoking-room where ladies go—and we have not told them yet what has happened to Davie.”

“Well,” resumed Hume, “Margaret’s idea is that we should all leave here for the North to-morrow. She wanted you to approve of the arrangement, so I got into a hansom and started for your chambers. It was raining a little, and the street was full of traffic. The driver asked if I would like the window closed, but I would sooner face a tiger than drive through London in a boxed-up hansom, so I refused. The middle of the road, you know, has a long line of waiting cabs, broken by occasional crossing-places. The horse was just getting into a trot when a man, wrapped in a mackintosh, ran alongside, caught the off rein in the crook of his stick, swung the poor beast right round through one of the gaps in the rank, and down we went—horse, cab, driver, and myself—in front of a brewer’s dray. Luckily for me and the driver, we were flung right over the smash into the gutter, for the big, heavy van ran into the fallen hansom, crushed it like a matchbox, and killed the horse. Had the window been closed—well, it wasn’t, so there is no need for romancing.”

Poor Nellie clung to her lover as if to assure herself that he was really uninjured.

“Did you see your assailant clearly?”

“Unfortunately, no. The side windows were blurred with rain, and I was trying to strike a match. The first thing I was conscious of was a violent swerve. I looked up, saw a tall, cloaked figure wrenching at the reins with a crooked stick, and over we went. I fell into a bed of mud. It absolutely blinded me. I jumped up, and fancying that the blackguard ran up Northumberland Street I dashed after him. I cannoned against some passer-by and we both fell. A news-runner, who witnessed the affair, did go after the cause of it, and received such a knock-out blow on the jaw that he was hardly able to speak when found by a policeman.”

“Where is this man now?”

“With the cabman in a small hotel across the road. I had not the nerve to bring them here. If we have any more adventures, the management will turn us out. I fancy they think our behaviour is hardly respectable. The instant Robert or I endeavour to leave the door we are used to clean up a portion of the roadway.”

“Miss Layton, would you mind joining the others for a few minutes. Mr. Hume is going out with Mr. Winter and myself.”

The barrister’s request took Helen by surprise.

“Is there any need for further risk?” she faltered. “Moreover, Margaret will see at once that something has gone wrong. I am a poor hand at deception where—where Davie is concerned.”

“Have no fear. Tell them everything. Mr. Hume will be very seriously injured—in to-morrow morning’s papers. This expert in street accidents must be led to believe he has succeeded. In any case, aided by a miserable fowl, he is far enough from here at this moment. We will return in twenty minutes.”

The girl was so agitated that she hardly noticed Brett’s words. But their purport reassured her, and she left them.

The three men passed out into the drizzling rain. Owing to the Strand being “up,” a continuous stream of traffic flowed through the Avenue. Hume pointed out the gap through which the horse was forced, and then they darted across the roadway.

“I fell here,” he said, indicating a muddy flood of road scrapings, in which were embedded many splinters from the wreckage of the hansom.

Brett, careless of the amazement he caused to hurrying pedestrians, waded through the bed of mud, kicking up any objects encountered by his feet.

He uttered an exclamation of triumph when he produced a stick from the depths.

“I thought I should find it,” he said. “When the horse fell it was a hundred to one against the stick being extricated from the reins, and its owner could not wait an instant. You and the stick, my dear Hume, lay close together.”

A small crowd was gathering. The barrister laughed.

“Gentleman,” he said, “why are you so surprised? Which of you would not dirty his boots to recover such a valuable article as this?”

Some people grinned sympathetically. They all moved away.

In an upper room of the neighbouring public-house were a suffering “runner” and a disconsolate “cabby.” The “runner” could tell them nothing tangible concerning the man he pursued.

“I sawr ’im bring the hoss dahn like a bullick,” he whispered, for the poor fellow had received a terrible blow. “I went arter ’im, dodged rahnd the fust corner, an’, bli-me, ’e gev me a punch that would ’ave ’arted Corbett.”

“What with—his fist?” inquired Brett.

“Nah, guv’nor—’is ’eel, blawst ’im. I could ’ave dodged a square blow. I can use my dukes a bit myself.”

“What was the value of the punch?”

The youth tried to smile, though the effort tortured him. “It was worth ’arf a thick ’un at least, guv’nor.”

Hume gave him two sovereigns, and the runner could not have been more taken aback had the donor “landed him” on the sound jaw.

“And now, you,” said Brett to the cabman. “What did you see?”

“Me!” with a snort of indignation. “Little over an hour ago I sawr a smawt keb an’ a tidy little nag wot I gev thirty quid fer at Ward’s in the Edgware Road a fortnight larst Toosday. And wot do I see now? Marylebone Work’us fer me an’ the missis an’ the kids. My keb gone, my best hoss killed, an’ a pore old crock left, worth abart enough to pay the week’s stablin’. I see a lot, I do.”

The man was telling the truth. He was blear-eyed with misery. Brett looked at Hume, and the latter rang a bell. He asked the waiter for a pen and ink.

“How much did your cab cost?” he said to the driver, who was so downcast that he actually failed to correctly interpret David’s action. The question had to be repeated before an answer came.

“It wasn’t a new ’un, mister. I was just makin’ a stawt. I gev fifty-five pound fer it, an’ three pun ten to ’ave it done up. But there! What’s the use of talkin’? I’m orf ’ome, I am, to fice the missis.”

“Wait just a little while,” said David kindly. “You hardly understand this business. The madman who attacked us meant to injure me, not you. Here is a cheque for £100, which will not only replace your horse and cab, but leave you a little over for the loss of your time.”

Winter caught the dazed cabman by the shoulder.

“Billy,” he said, “you know me. Are you going home, or going to get drunk?”

Billy hesitated.

“Goin’ ’ome,” he vociferated. “S’elp me—”

“One moment,” said Brett. “Surely you have some idea of the appearance of the rascal who pulled your horse over?”

The man was alternately surveying the cheque and looking into the face of his benefactor.

“I dunno,” he cried, after a pause. “I feel a bit mixed. This gentleman ’ere ’as acted as square as ever man did. ’E comes of a good stock, ’e does, an’ yet—I ’umbly ax yer pawdon, sir—but the feller who tried to kill you an’ me might ha’ bin yer own brother.”

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The waiter managed to remove the most obvious traces of Brett’s escapade in the gutter, and incidentally cleaned the stick.

It was a light, tough ashplant, with a silver band around the handle. The barrister held it under a gas jet and examined it closely. Nothing escaped him. After scrutinising the band for some time, he looked at the ferrule, and roughly estimated that the owner had used it two or three years. Finally, when quite satisfied, he handed it to Winter.

“Do you recognise those scratches?” he said, with a smile, pointing out a rough design bitten into the silver by the application of aqua regia and beeswax.

The detective at once uttered an exclamation of supreme astonishment.

“The very thing!” he cried. “The same Japanese motto as that on the Ko-Katana!”

Hume now drew near.

“So,” he growled savagely, “the hand that struck down Alan was the same that sought my life an hour ago!”

“And your cousin’s this morning,” said Brett

“The cowardly brute! If he has a grudge against my family, why doesn’t he come out into the open? He need not have feared detection, even a week ago. I could be found easily enough. Why didn’t he meet me face to face? I have never yet run away from trouble or danger.”

“You are slightly in error regarding him,” observed Brett. “This man may be a fiend incarnate, but he is no coward. He means to kill, to work some terrible purpose, and he takes the best means towards that end. To his mind the idea of giving a victim fair play is sheer nonsense. It never even occurs to him. But a coward! no. Think of the nerve required to commit robbery and murder under the conditions that obtained at Beechcroft on New Year’s Eve. Think of the skill, the ready resource, which made so promptly available the conditions of the two assaults to-day. Our quarry is a genius, a Poe among criminals. Look to it, Winter, that your handcuffs are well fixed