The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “Agreed,” he said.

  When it grew dark, Bunting went out and bought an evening paper. He read it out of doors in the biting cold, standing beneath a street lamp. He wanted to see what was the clue to the murderer.

  The clue proved to be a very slender one—merely the imprint in the snowy slush of a half-worn rubber sole; and it was, of course, by no means certain that the sole belonged to the boot or shoe of the murderer of the two doomed women who had met so swift and awful a death in the arch near King’s Cross station. The paper’s special investigator pointed out that there were thousands of such soles being worn in London. Bunting found comfort in that obvious fact. He felt grateful to the special investigator for having stated it so clearly.

  As he approached his house, he heard curious sounds coming from the inner side of the low wall that shut off the courtyard from the pavement. Under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have gone at once to drive whoever was there out into the roadway. Now he stayed outside, sick with suspense and anxiety. Was it possible that their place was being watched—already?

  But it was only Mr. Sleuth. To Bunting’s astonishment, the lodger suddenly stepped forward from behind the wall on to the flagged path. He was carrying a brown-paper parcel, and, as he walked along, the new boots he was wearing creaked and the tap-tap of wooden heels rang out on the stones.

  Bunting, still hidden outside the gate, suddenly understood what his lodger had been doing on the other side of the wall. Mr. Sleuth had been out to buy himself a pair of boots, and had gone inside the gate to put them on, placing his old footgear in the paper in which the new boots had been wrapped.

  Bunting waited until Mr. Sleuth had let himself into the house; then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latch-key in the door.

  In the next three days each of Bunting’s waking hours held its meed of aching fear and suspense. From his point of view, almost any alternative would be preferable to that which to most people would have seemed the only one open to him. He told himself that it would be ruin for him and for his Ellen to be mixed up publicly in such a terrible affair. It would track them to their dying day.

  Bunting was also always debating within himself as to whether he should tell Ellen of his frightful suspicion. He could not believe that what had become so plain to himself could long be concealed from all the world, and yet he did not credit his wife with the same intelligence. He did not even notice that, although she waited on Mr. Sleuth as assiduously as ever, Mrs. Bunting never mentioned the lodger.

  Mr. Sleuth, meanwhile, kept upstairs; he had given up going out altogether. He still felt, so he assured his landlady, far from well.

  Daisy was another complication, the more so that the girl, whom her father longed to send away and whom he would hardly let out of his sight, showed herself inconveniently inquisitive concerning the lodger.

  “Whatever does he do with himself all day?” she asked her stepmother.

  “Well, just now he’s reading the Bible,” Mrs. Bunting had answered, very shortly and dryly.

  “Well, I never! That’s a funny thing for a gentleman to do!” Such had been Daisy’s pert remark, and her stepmother had snubbed her well for it.

  * * *

  —

  Daisy’s eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave her what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth birthday—a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which Bunting had bought second-hand on the last day he had been happy; it seemed a long time ago now.

  Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present, but she had always had the good sense not to interfere between her husband and his child. Besides, her mind was now full of other things. She was beginning to fear that Bunting suspected something, and she was filled with watchful anxiety and unease. What if he were to do anything silly—mix them up with the police, for instance? It certainly would be ruination to them both. But there—one never knew, with men! Her husband, however, kept his own counsel absolutely.

  Daisy’s birthday was on Saturday. In the middle of the morning Ellen and Daisy went down into the kitchen. Bunting didn’t like the feeling that there was only one flight of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself, so he quietly slipped out of the house and went to buy himself an ounce of tobacco.

  In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts. But today the unfortunate man had a curious longing for human companionship—companionship, that is, other than that of Ellen and Daisy. This feeling led him into a small, populous thoroughfare hard by the Edgeware Road. There were more people there than usual, for the housewives of the neighborhood were doing their marketing for Sunday.

  Bunting passed the time of day with the tobacconist, and the two fell into desultory talk. To the ex-butler’s surprise, the man said nothing at all to him on the subject of which all the neighborhood must still be talking.

  And then, quite suddenly, while still standing by the counter, and before he had paid for the packet of tobacco he held in his hand, Bunting, through the open door, saw, with horrified surprise, that his wife was standing outside a green-grocer’s shop just opposite. Muttering a word of apology, he rushed out of the shop and across the road.

  “Ellen!” he gasped hoarsely. “You’ve never gone and left my little girl alone in the house?”

  Mrs. Bunting’s face went chalky white. “I thought you were indoors,” she said. “You were indoors. Whatever made you come out for, without first making sure I was there?”

  Bunting made no answer; but, as they stared at each other in exasperated silence, each knew that the other knew.

  They turned and scurried down the street.

  “Don’t run,” he said suddenly; “we shall get there just as quickly if we walk fast. People are noticing you, Ellen. Don’t run.”

  He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear and excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking.

  At last they reached their own gate. Bunting pushed past in front of his wife. After all, Daisy was his child—Ellen couldn’t know how he was feeling. He made the path almost in one leap, and fumbled for a moment with his latch-key. The door opened.

  “Daisy!” he called out in a wailing voice. “Daisy, my dear, where are you?”

  “Here I am, father; what is it?”

  “She’s all right!” Bunting turned his gray face to his wife. “She’s all right, Ellen!” Then he waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. “It did give me a turn,” he said; and then, warningly, “Don’t frighten the girl, Ellen.”

  Daisy was standing before the fire in the sitting-room, admiring herself in the glass. “Oh, father,” she said, without turning round, “I’ve seen the lodger! He’s quite a nice gentleman—though, to be sure, he does look a cure! He came down to ask Ellen for something, and we had quite a nice little chat. I told him it was my birthday, and he asked me to go to Madame Tussaud’s with him this afternoon.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “Of course I could see he was ’centric, and then at first he spoke so funnily. ‘And who be you?’ he says, threatening-like. And I says to him, ‘I’m Mr. Bunting’s daughter, sir.’ ‘Then you’re a very fortunate girl’—that’s what he said, Ellen—‘to ’ave such a nice stepmother as you’ve got. That’s why,’ he says, ‘you look such a good innocent girl.’ And then he quoted a bit of the prayer-book at me. ‘Keep innocency,’ he says, wagging his head at me. Lor’! It made me feel as if I was with aunt again.”

  “I won’t have you going out with the lodger—that’s flat.” He was wiping his forehead with one hand, while with the other he mechanically squeezed the little packet of tobacco, for which, as he now remembered, he had forgotten to pay.

  Daisy pouted. “Oh, father, I think you might let me have a treat on my birthday! I told him Saturday wasn’t a very good day—at least, so I’d heard—for Madame Tussaud�
��s. Then he said we could go early, while the fine folk are still having their dinners. He wants you to come, too.” She turned to her stepmother, then giggled happily. “The lodger has a wonderful fancy for you, Ellen; if I was father, I’d feel quite jealous!”

  Her last words were cut across by a loud knock on the door. Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively.

  Both felt a curious thrill of relief when they saw that it was only Mr. Sleuth—Mr. Sleuth dressed to go out: the tall hat he had worn when he first came to them was in his hand, and he was wearing a heavy overcoat.

  “I saw you had come in,”—he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, whistling, hesitating voice—“and so I’ve come down to ask if you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud’s now. I have never seen these famous waxworks, though I’ve heard of the place all my life.”

  As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden doubt, bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to him. Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting had but a moment ago believed him to be!

  “You’re very kind, sir, I’m sure.” He tried to catch his wife’s eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, staring into vacancy. She still, of course, wore the bonnet and cloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing. Daisy was already putting on her hat and coat.

  * * *

  —

  Madame Tussaud’s had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting. In the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent part of their “afternoon out” there. The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of the waxworks’ staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for “self and lady.” But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been inside the place since she had come to live almost next door, as it were, to the big building.

  The ill-sorted trio walked up the great staircase and into the first gallery; and there Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short. The presence of those curious, still figures, suggesting death in life, seemed to surprise and affright him.

  Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger’s hesitation and unease.

  “Oh, Ellen,” she cried, “do let us begin by going into the Chamber of Horrors! I’ve never been in there. Aunt made father promise he wouldn’t take me, the only time I’ve ever been here. But now that I’m eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, aunt will never know!”

  Mr. Sleuth looked down at her.

  “Yes,” he said, “let us go into the Chamber of Horrors; that’s a good idea, Miss Bunting.”

  They turned into the great room in which the Napoleonic relics are kept, and which leads into the curious, vaultlike chamber where waxen effigies of dead criminals stand grouped in wooden docks. Mrs. Bunting was at once disturbed and relieved to see her husband’s old acquaintance, Mr. Hopkins, in charge of the turnstile admitting the public to the Chamber of Horrors.

  “Well, you are a stranger,” the man observed genially. “I do believe this is the very first time I’ve seen you in here, Mrs. Bunting, since you married!”

  “Yes,” she said; “that is so. And this is my husband’s daughter, Daisy; I expect you’ve heard of her, Mr. Hopkins. And this”—she hesitated a moment—“is our lodger, Mr. Sleuth.”

  But Mr. Sleuth frowned and shuffled away. Daisy, leaving her stepmother’s side, joined him.

  Mrs. Bunting put down three sixpences.

  “Wait a minute,” said Hopkins; “you can’t go into the Chamber of Horrors just yet. But you won’t have to wait more than four or five minutes, Mrs. Bunting. It’s this way, you see; our boss is in there, showing a party round.” He lowered his voice. “It’s Sir John Burney—I suppose you know who Sir John Burney is?”

  “No,” she answered indifferently; “I don’t know that I ever heard of him.” She felt slightly—oh, very slightly—uneasy about Daisy. She would like her stepdaughter to keep well within sight and sound. Mr. Sleuth was taking the girl to the other end of the room.

  “Well, I hope you never will know him—not in any personal sense, Mrs. Bunting.” The man chuckled. “He’s the Head Commissioner of Police—that’s what Sir John Burney is. One of the gentlemen he’s showing round our place is the Paris Prefect of Police, whose job is on all fours, so to speak, with Sir John’s. The Frenchy has brought his daughter with him, and there are several other ladies. Ladies always like ’orrors, Mrs. Bunting; that’s our experience here. ‘Oh, take me to the Chamber of ’Orrors!’—that’s what they say the minute they gets into the building.”

  A group of people, all talking and laughing together, were advancing from within toward the turnstile.

  Mrs. Bunting stared at them nervously. She wondered which of them was the gentleman with whom Mr. Hopkins had hoped she would never be brought into personal contact. She quickly picked him out. He was a tall, powerful, nice-looking gentleman with a commanding manner. Just now he was smiling down into the face of a young lady. “Monsieur Barberoux is quite right,” he was saying; “the English law is too kind to the criminal, especially to the murderer. If we conducted our trials in the French fashion, the place we have just left would be very much fuller than it is today! A man of whose guilt we are absolutely assured is oftener than not acquitted, and then the public taunt us with ‘another undiscovered crime’!”

  “D’you mean, Sir John, that murderers sometimes escape scot-free? Take the man who has been committing all those awful murders this last month. Of course, I don’t know much about it, for father won’t let me read about it, but I can’t help being interested!” Her girlish voice rang out, and Mrs. Bunting heard every word distinctly.

  The party gathered round, listening eagerly to hear what the Head Commissioner would say next.

  “Yes.” He spoke very deliberately. “I think we may say—now, don’t give me away to a newspaper fellow, Miss Rose—that we do know perfectly well who the murderer in question is—”

  Several of those standing near by uttered expressions of surprise and incredulity.

  “Then why don’t you catch him?” cried the girl indignantly.

  “I didn’t say we know where he is; I only said we know who he is; or, rather, perhaps I ought to say that we have a very strong suspicion of his identity.”

  Sir John’s French colleague looked up quickly. “The Hamburg and Liverpool man?” he said interrogatively.

  The other nodded. “Yes; I suppose you’ve had the case turned up?”

  Then, speaking very quickly, as if he wished to dismiss the subject from his own mind and from that of his auditors, he went on:

  “Two murders of the kind were committed eight years ago—one in Hamburg, the other just afterward in Liverpool, and there were certain peculiarities connected with the crimes which made it clear they were committed by the same hand. The perpetrator was caught, fortunately for us red-handed, just as he was leaving the house of his victim, for in Liverpool the murder was committed in a house. I myself saw the unhappy man—I say unhappy, for there is no doubt at all that he was mad,”—he hesitated, and added in a lower tone—“suffering from an acute form of religious mania. I myself saw him, at some length. But now comes the really interesting point. Just a month ago this criminal lunatic, as we must regard him, made his escape from the asylum where he was confined. He arranged the whole thing with extraordinary cunning and intelligence, and we should probably have caught him long ago were it not that he managed, when on his way out of the place, to annex a considerable sum of money in gold with which the wages of the staff were about to be paid.”

  The Frenchman again spoke. “Why have you not circulated a description?” he asked.

  “We did that at once,”—Sir John Burney smiled a little grimly—“but only among our own people. We dare not circulate the man’s description among the general public. You see, we may be mistaken, after all.”


  “That is not very probable!” The Frenchman smiled a satirical little smile.

  A moment later the party were walking in Indian file through the turnstile, Sir John Burney leading the way.

  Mrs. Bunting looked straight before her. Even had she wished to do so, she had neither time nor power to warn her lodger of his danger.

  Daisy and her companion were now coming down the room, bearing straight for the Head Commissioner of Police. In another moment Mr. Sleuth and Sir John Burney would be face to face.

  Suddenly Mr. Sleuth swerved to one side. A terrible change came over his pale, narrow face; it became discomposed, livid with rage and terror.

  But, to Mrs. Bunting’s relief—yes, to her inexpressible relief—Sir John Burney and his friends swept on. They passed by Mr. Sleuth unconcernedly, unaware, or so it seemed to her, that there was anyone else in the room but themselves.

  “Hurry up, Mrs. Bunting,” said the turnstile-keeper; “you and your friends will have the place all to yourselves.” From an official he had become a man, and it was the man in Mr. Hopkins that gallantly addressed pretty Daisy Bunting. “It seems strange that a young lady like you should want to go in and see all those ’orrible frights,” he said jestingly.

  “Mrs. Bunting, may I trouble you to come over here for a moment?” The words were hissed rather than spoken by Mr. Sleuth’s lips.

  His landlady took a doubtful step forward.

  “A last word with you, Mrs. Bunting.” The lodger’s face was still distorted with fear and passion. “Do you think to escape the consequences of your hideous treachery? I trusted you, Mrs. Bunting, and you betrayed me! But I am protected by a higher power, for I still have work to do. Your end will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword. Your feet shall go down to death, and your steps take hold on hell.” Even while Mr. Sleuth was uttering these strange, dreadful words, he was looking around, his eyes glancing this way and that, seeking a way of escape.