CHAPTER II
THE ANGEL FACES
Hugesson Gastrell had accepted Lord Easterton's invitation to dine atthe club, and the three men were seated near the fire as I entered,Easterton and Jack Osborne on one of the large settees, their visitorfacing them in an arm-chair, with his back to me. I went towards themacross the big room, apologizing for my unpunctuality, for I was nearlyten minutes late. To my surprise they remained silent; even Eastertondid not rise, or greet me in any way. He looked strangely serious, andso did Jack, as a rule the cheeriest of mortals.
"I am dreadfully sorry for being so late," I exclaimed, thinking that myunpunctuality must have given them offence. I was about to invent someelaborate excuse to account for my "delay," when the man seated with hisback to me suddenly rose, and, turning abruptly, faced me.
I recognized him at once. It was Gastrell, whom I had met at the HotelMetropol in Geneva. As he stood there before me, with his back halfturned to the light of the big bay window, there could be no mistakinghim. Again I was struck by his remarkable appearance--the determined,clean-cut features, the straight, short nose, the broad forehead, thesquare-shaped chin denoting rigid strength of purpose. Once more Inoticed the cleft in his chin--it was quite deep. His thick hair wasdark, with a slight kink in it behind the ears. But perhaps thestrangest, most arresting thing about Gastrell's face was hiseyes--daring eyes of a bright, light blue, such as one sees in someCanadians, the bold, almost hard eyes of a man who is accustomed togazing across far distances of sunlit snow, who habitually looks up intovast, pale blue skies--one might have imagined that his eyes had caughttheir shade. He wore upon his watch-chain a small gold medallion, atrinket which had attracted my attention before. It was about the sizeof a sovereign, and embossed upon it were several heads of chubbycupids--four sweet little faces.
At first glance at him a woman might have said mentally, "What niceeyes!" At the second, she would probably have noticed a strangething--the eyes were quite opaque; they seemed to stare rather than lookat you, there was no depth whatever in them. Certainly there was noguessing at Gastrell's character from his eyes--you could take it orleave it, as you pleased, for the eyes gave you no help. The glance wasperfectly direct, bright and piercing, but there could be absolutely notelling if the man when speaking were lying to you or not. The hard,blue eyes never changed, never deepened, nor was there any emotionin them.
To sum up, the effect the man's personality produced was that of anextraordinarily strong character carving its way undaunted through everyobstacle to its purpose; but whether the trend of that character werelikely to lean to the side of truth and goodness, or to that of lyingand villainy, there was no guessing.
All these points I observed again--I say "again," for they had struck meforcibly the first time I had met him in Geneva--as he stood therefacing me, his gaze riveted on mine. We must have stayed thus staring ateach other for several moments before anybody spoke. Then it was LordEasterton who broke the silence.
"Well?" he asked.
I glanced at him quickly, uncertain which of us he had addressed. Aftersome instants' pause he repeated:
"Well?"
"Are you speaking to me?" I asked quickly.
"Of course," he replied, almost sharply. "You don't seem to know eachother after all."
"Oh, but yes," I exclaimed, and I turned quickly to Gastrell,instinctively extending my hand to him as I did so. "We met in Geneva."
He still stood looking at me, motionless. Then gradually an expression,partly of surprise, partly of amusement, crept into his eyes.
"You mistake me for someone else, I am afraid," he said, and his voicewas the voice of the man I had met in Geneva--that I would have sworn toin any court of law, "It is rather remarkable," he went on, his eyesstill set on mine, "that Mr. Osborne, to whom Lord Easterton has justintroduced me, also thought he and I had met before."
"But I am certain I did meet you," Osborne exclaimed in a curious tone,from where he sat. "I am quite positive we were together on board the_Masonic_, unless you have a twin brother, and even then--"
He stopped, gazing literally open-mouthed at Hugesson Gastrell, while I,standing staring at the man, wondered if this were some curious dreamfrom which I should presently awaken, for there could be no twoquestions about it--the man before me was the Gastrell I had met inGeneva and conversed with on one or two occasions for quite a long time.Beside, he wore the little medallion of the Four Faces.
Easterton looked ill at ease; so did Osborne; and certainly I feltconsiderably perturbed. It was unnatural, uncanny, this resemblance. Andthe resemblance as well as the name must, it would seem, be shared bythree men at least. For here was Lord Easterton's friend, HugessonGastrell, whom Easterton had told us he had met frequently in Londonduring the past month; here was Jack Osborne claiming to be acquaintedwith a man named Gastrell, whom he had met on his way home from Africa,and who, as he put it to us afterwards, was "the dead facsimile" ofEasterton's guest; and here was I with a distinct recollection of a mancalled Gastrell who--well, the more I stared at Easterton's guest themore mystified I felt at this Hugesson Gastrell's declaring that he wasnot my Geneva companion; indeed that we had never met before, and thathe had never been in Geneva.
The dinner was not a great success. Gastrell talked at considerablelength on all sorts of subjects, talked, too, in a most interesting andsometimes very amusing way; yet all the time the thought that was inOsborne's mind was in my mind also--it was impossible, he was thinking,that this man seated at dinner with us could be other than theindividual he had met on board ship; it was impossible, I was thinking,that this man seated at dinner with us could be other than theindividual I had met in Geneva.
Easterton, a great talker in the club, was particularly silent. He toowas puzzled; worse than that--he felt, I could see, anxious anduncomfortable. He had let his house to this man--the lease was alreadysigned--and now his tenant seemed to be, in some sense, a manof mystery.
We sat in the big room with the bay window, after dinner, until abouthalf-past ten, when Gastrell said he must be going. During the wholetime he had been with us he had kept us entertained by his interestingconversation, full of quaint reminiscences, and touched with flashesof humour.
"I hope we shall see a great deal of each other when I am settled inCumberland Place," he said, as he prepared to leave. The remark, thoughspoken to Easterton, had been addressed to us all, and we made someconventional reply in acknowledgment.
"And if, later, I decide to join this club," he said presently, "youwon't mind proposing me, will you, Easterton?"
"I? Er--oh, of course, not in the least!" Easterton answered awkwardly,taken off his guard. "But it will take you a good time to get in, youknow," he added as an afterthought, hopeful that the prospect of delaymight cause Gastrell to change his mind. "Two, even three years, somemen have to wait."
"That won't matter," Gastrell said carelessly, as the hall porter helpedhim on with his coat. "I can join some other club meanwhile, though Idraw the line at pot-houses. Well, good night to you all, and you mustall come to my house-warming--a sort of reception I'm going to give. Iought to be settled into the house in a month. And I hope," he addedlightly, addressing Jack Osborne and myself, "you won't run across anymore of my 'doubles.' I don't like the thought of being mistaken forother men!"
The door of the taxi shut with a bang. In the hall, where the tapemachines were busy, Osborne and I stood looking at each otherthoughtfully. Presently Osborne spoke.
"What do you make of it?" he asked abruptly. "I am as certain that isthe fellow who was with me on board ship as I am that I amstanding here."
"And I am equally positive," I answered, "he's the man I met in Geneva.It's impossible there could be two individuals so absolutelyidentical--I tell you it's not possible."
Osborne paused for some moments, thinking.
"Berrington," he said suddenly.
"Yes? What?" I asked, taken aback at his change of tone.
He took a step forward
and laid his hand upon my shoulder.
"Berrington," he repeated--and in his eyes there was a singularexpression--"I have an idea."
He turned to a page who was standing near.
"Boy," he said sharply, "what address did that gentleman who has justgone tell you to give to his driver?"
"He told the driver himself, sir," the boy answered, "but I heard theaddress he gave, sir."
"What was it?"
"Three forty, Maresfield Gardens, sir. It's near Swiss Cottage--upFitzjohn's Avenue on the right."
Osborne turned to me quickly.
"Come into this room," he said. "There is something I want to ask you.The place is empty, and we shall not be disturbed."
When he had closed the door, and glanced about him to make sure that wewere alone, he said in a low voice:
"Look here, Mike, I tell you again, I have an idea: I wonder if you willfall in with it. I have watched that fellow Gastrell pretty closely allthe evening; I am rather a good judge of men, you know, and I believehim to be an impostor of some kind--I can't say just yet of what kind.Anyway, he is the man I met on the _Masonic_; he can deny it as much ashe likes--he is. Either he is impersonating some other man, or someother man is impersonating him. Now listen. I am going to that addressin Maresfield Gardens that he gave to his taxi-driver. I am going tofind out if he lives there, or what he is doing there. What I want toknow is--Will you come with me?"
"Good heavens, Jack!" I exclaimed, "what an extraordinary thing to do.But what will you say when you get there? Supposing he does livethere--or, for that matter, supposing he doesn't--what reason will yougive for calling at the house?"
"Oh, I'll invent some reason quick enough, but I want someone to be withme. Will you come? Will you or won't you?"
I glanced up at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes to eleven.
"Do you mean now? Do you intend to go at this time of the night?"
"I intend to go at once--as fast as a taxi will take me there," heanswered.
I paused, undecided. It seemed such a strange thing to do, under thecircumstances; but then, as I knew, Jack Osborne had always been fond ofdoing strange things. Though a member of Brooks's, he was unconventionalin the extreme.
"Yes, I will," I said, the originality of the idea suddenly appealing tome. In point of fact I, too, mistrusted this man Gastrell. Though he hadlooked me so straight in the eyes when, two hours before, he had calmlyassured me that I was mistaken in believing him to be "his namesake inGeneva," as he put it; still, as I say, I felt convinced he was thesame man.
"Good," Osborne answered in a tone of satisfaction. "Come, we will startat once."
A strange feeling of repressed excitement obsessed me as our taxi passedup Bond Street, turned into Oxford Street, then to the right intoOrchard Street, and sped thence by way of Baker Street past Lord'scricket ground and up the Finchley Road. What would happen when wereached Maresfield Gardens? Would the door be opened by a stolid footmanor by some frigid maidservant who would coldly inform us that "Mr.Gastrell was not at home"; or should we be shown in, and, if we wereshown in, what excuse would Jack Osborne make for calling so late atnight? I cannot say that I felt in the least anxious, however, forOsborne is a man who has knocked about the world and seen many queersides of life, and who never, under any circumstances, is at a losshow to act.
I glanced at my watch as our taxi turned into Maresfield Gardens. It wasten minutes past eleven. At the house indicated half-way up the hill thetaxi suddenly pulled up.
Osborne got out and pressed the electric bell-push. As I looked up atthe windows, I noticed that nowhere was any light visible. Nor was therea light in the ground-floor windows.
"I believe everybody is in bed," I said to him, when the bell remainedunanswered. Without replying, he pressed the push again, and kept hisfinger on it.
Still no one came.
"We'd better call to-morrow," I suggested, when he had rung a third timewith the same result.
The words had hardly left my lips, when we heard the door-chain rattle.Then the bolts were pulled back, and a moment later the door wascarefully drawn open to the length of its chain.
Inside all was darkness, nor was anybody visible.
"What do you want?" a woman's voice inquired.
The voice had a most pleasant _timbre_; also the speaker was obviously alady. She did not sound in the least alarmed, but there was a note ofsurprise in the tone.
"Has Mr. Gastrell come home yet?" Osborne asked.
"Not yet. Do you want to see him?"
"Yes. He dined at Brooks's Club this evening with Lord Easterton. Soonafter he had left, a purse was found, and, as nobody in the club claimedit, I concluded that it must be his, so I have brought it back."
"That is really very good of you, Mr. Osborne," the hidden speakeranswered. "If you will wait a moment I will let you in. Are you alone?"
"No, I have a friend with me. But who are you? How do you know my name?"
There was no answer. The door was shut quietly. Then we heard the soundof the chain being removed.
By the time Jack Osborne had paid our driver, and dismissed the taxi,the door had been opened sufficiently wide to admit us. We entered, andat once the door was shut.
We were now in inky blackness.
"Won't you switch on the light?" Osborne asked, when a minute or so hadelapsed, and we remained in total darkness.
Nobody answered, and we waited, wondering. Fully another minute passed,and still we stood there.
I felt Osborne touch me. Then, coming close to me, he whispered in myear:
"Strike a match, Mike; I haven't one."
I felt in my pockets. I had not one either. I was about to tell him sowhen something clicked behind us, and the hall was flooded with light.
Never before had I beheld, and I doubt if I shall ever behold again, awoman as lovely as the tall, graceful being upon whom our eyes rested atthat instant. In height quite five foot nine, as she stood there beneaththe glow of the electrolier in the luxurious hall, in her dinner dress,the snowy slope of the shoulders and the deep, curved breast, strong,yet all so softly, delicately rounded, gleamed like rosy alabaster inthe reflection from the red-shaded light above her.
Our eyes wandered from exquisite figure to exquisite face--and there wasno sense of disappointment. For the face was as nearly perfect as awoman's may be upon this earth of imperfections. The uplift of the brow,the curve of the cheek to the rounded chin, the noble sweep of delicate,dark eyebrows were extraordinarily beautiful. Her hair was "a net forthe sunlight," its colour that of a new chestnut in the spring when thesun shines hotly upon it, making it glow and shimmer and glisten withred and yellow and deepest browns. Now it was drawn about her head inshining twists, and across the front and rather low down on the brow wasa slim and delicate wreath of roses and foliage in very small diamondsbeautifully set in platinum. The gleam of the diamonds against thered-brown of the wonderful hair was an effect impossible todescribe--yet one felt that the hair would have been the same miraclewithout it.
"Mrs. Gastrell! Why, I didn't recognize your voice," I had heard Osborneexclaim in a tone of amazement just after the light had been turned on.but my attention had been so centred upon the Vision standing therebefore us that I had hardly noticed the remark, or the emphasis withwhich it was uttered. I suppose half a minute must have passed beforeanybody spoke again, and then it was the woman who broke the silence.
"Will you show me the purse?" she asked, holding out her hand for it andaddressing Osborne.
On the instant he produced his own and gave it to her. She glanced atit, then handed it back.
"It is not his," she said quietly. Her gaze rested steadily uponOsborne's face for some moments, then she said:
"How exceedingly kind of you to come all this way, and in the middle ofthe night, just to find out if a purse picked up at your club happens tobelong to the guest of a friend of yours."
In her low, soft voice there was a touch of irony, almost of mockery.Looki
ng at her now, I felt puzzled. Was she what she appeared to be, orwas this amazing beauty of hers a cloak, a weapon if you will, perhapsthe most dangerous weapon of a clever, scheming woman? Easterton hadtold us that Gastrell was a bachelor. Gastrell had declared that he hadnever before met either Jack Osborne or myself. Yet here at the addressthat Gastrell had given to the taxi-driver was the very woman the mancalling himself Gastrell, with whom Osborne had returned from Africa,had passed off as his wife.
"My husband isn't in at present," she said calmly, a moment later, "butI expect him back at any minute. Won't you come in and wait for him?"
Before either of us could answer she had walked across the hall,unlocked and opened a door, and switched on the light in the room.
Mechanically we followed her. As we entered, a strange, heavy perfume ofsome subtle Eastern scent struck my nostrils--I had noticed it in thehall, but in this room it was pungent, oppressive, even overpowering.The apartment, I noticed, was luxuriously furnished. What chieflyattracted my attention, however, were the pictures on the walls.Beautifully executed, the subjects were, to say the least, peculiar. Thefire in the grate still burned brightly. Upon a table were two syphonsin silver stands, also decanters containing spirits, and severaltumblers. Some of the tumblers had been used. As I sank, some momentslater, into an easy chair, I felt that its leather-covered arms werewarm, as if someone had just vacated it.
And yet the door of this room had been locked. Also, when we hadarrived, no light had been visible in any of the windows of the house,and the front door had been chained and bolted.
"Make yourselves quite at home," our beautiful hostess said, and, as shespoke, she placed a box of cigars, newly opened, upon the table at myelbow. "I am sorry," she added, "that I must leave you now."
There was a curious expression in her eyes as she smiled down at us, anexpression that later I came to know too well. Then, turning, she sweptgracefully out of the room, closing the door behind her.
I looked across at Osborne. For some moments neither of us spoke. Themysterious house was still as death.
"Well, Jack," I said lightly, though somehow I felt uneasy, "what do youmake of it, old man?"
"It is just as I thought," he answered, taking a cigar out of the boxand beginning to trim it.
"How do you mean--'just as you thought'?" I asked, puzzled.
"Gastrell is an impostor, and--and that isn't his wife."
He did not speak again for some moments, being busily occupied inlighting his long cigar. Presently he leaned back, then blew a greatcloud of smoke towards the ceiling.
Suddenly we heard a click, like the wooden lid of a box suddenly shut.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed suddenly, "what's that?"
"What's what?"
"Why! Look!" he gasped.
His gaze was set upon something in the shadow of a small table in acorner of the room--something on the floor. In silence, now, we bothstood staring at it, for Osborne had risen suddenly. Slowly it moved. Itwas gradually gliding along the floor, with a sound like paper beingpushed along a carpet. Whence it came, where it began and where itended, we could not see, for the shadow it was in was very deep. Nor wasits colour in the least discernible.
All we could make out was that some long, sinuous, apparently endlessThing was passing along the room, close to the wall farthest from us,coming from under the sofa and disappearing beneath the table.
All at once Osborne sprang towards me with an exclamation of alarm, andI felt his grip tighten upon my arm.
"Good God!" he cried.
An instant later a broad, flat head slowly reared itself from beneaththe red table-cover which hung down almost to the floor, rose higher andhigher until the black, beady, merciless eyes were set upon mine, and inthat brief instant of supreme suspense my attention became riveted onthe strange, slate-grey mark between and just behind the reptile's crueleyes. Then, as its head suddenly shot back, Osborne dashed towardsthe door.
Once, twice, three times he pulled frantically at the handle with allhis force.
"Good God! Berrington," he cried, his face blanched to the lips, "we'relocked in!"
Almost as he spoke, the serpent with head extended swept forward towardsus, along the floor.
I held my breath. Escape from its venomous fangs was impossible.
We had been trapped!
The Four Faces: A Mystery Page 2
