‘I’m off,’ said Jones, when he had finished his story. ‘I’ll have no more o’ this—a man’s life isn’t safe.’ Neither threats nor persuasion availed to induce him to resume his place on the engine. Another driver and fireman were eventually procured from Mansion House, and traffic was resumed.
***
Matters, however, have come to a pretty pass when such an occurrence is possible, and something has got to be done, and at once, to put an end to this unheard-of state of affairs.
***
The authorities offer a reward of £1,000 for information leading to the arrest of the killer, and no further murders are committed on the Underground. However, the Link reporter, Charles Lester, discovers that the culprit is about to flee for Australia on a ship called the Bendigo. Lester joins the other passengers on board, but two more murders occur at sea before Lester deduces that the unlikely culprit is an elderly man called Hood, who is accompanied by his pretty grand-daughter. Hood arouses the suspicion of Shannon, the ship’s doctor, whom he tries to kill. But Shannon fights back, and Hood falls to his death. His grand-daughter, an unwitting accomplice to the old man’s crimes, invites Lester to Hood’s cabin.
The girl was kneeling on the floor, amid piles of books, papers, clothing, etc., which she had taken from his boxes.
She beckoned me inside, and bade me close the door.
‘You have a right to see some of these things, Mr Lester,’ she said. ‘When you have seen all you care to, will you help me to get rid of them? I only learned this morning from Captain Joram that you were the Mr Lester who—’ She faltered, and the large eyes, turned pathetically up to mine, were swimming with tears.
‘Try and forget all about it,’ I said, ‘and let me help you.’
She stooped hurriedly, and picked up a bundle of papers.
‘Read those—and those—and look at these,’ putting into my hand some strange steel instruments, quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. One had a horse-shoe clutch at the end, and, at the other extremity, it was pinned on to another long, thin steel rod, one end of which terminated in four fine sharp teeth, like the prongs of a fork.
I turned it over in my hand, but could make nothing of it, so proceeded to look over the papers. And, reading them, I arrived at old Hood’s story.
A mechanical engineer, of quite unique powers, he had patented a number of inventions, and offered them to the District Railway Company, in whose employment he had spent the best part of his life. Nothing had come of them, however, and I gathered from some of the company’s letters in reply that the old man had accused them of using his ideas, but giving him no benefit of them. Then he left the company’s service, with his brain bursting with grievances, and it was easy to conceive that he determined to strike at them in a way that was as horribly effective as it was, for him, easy of accomplishment.
I was puzzling over the strange implements, and trying to get at their use. In thought, I went back to one of the murderer’s journeys along the swinging footboards, and suddenly it all flashed upon me. A long steel rod, with curved top—that hitched on to the edge of the carriage roof, and had enabled him to pass rapidly along, without troubling to grasp each handle. That spidery implement, with the curved horse-shoe clutch and the pronged lever—I could see the sharp teeth inserted quietly into the window sash, the clutch fitted to the bottom outside frame, the pressing of the lever—and my closed window was sliding quietly down, the wind and rain of Wormwood Scrubs were beating in on me again, and my paralysed eyes were looking once more down the deadly death-tube. I could see myself lying bruised and stunned in the corner, and, in imagination, could follow the murderer as he rapidly made his way back to the carriage he had issued from, and, perhaps, concealed himself under the seat, or, riding between two carriages, dropped quietly off as the train began to slow up to the station.
There were other curious contrivances, whose meaning I could not fathom, but had no doubt they all tended to the same end—the boarding of, or hanging on to, trains in motion.
I looked up at the girl.
‘What do you want me to do with all these things?’
‘Throw them all overboard—clothes—books—papers—everything. I have kept the only papers I need. Please get rid of them all for me.’
I did. Shannon, however, claimed the air-gun, and certainly no one who wanted it had a better right to it.
It was a wonderful weapon, the only remaining monument to the old engineer’s skill. With two twists it came into three pieces, and was easily stowed in one’s ordinary pockets. The first day Shannon appeared on deck, Miss Hood being below, he tried that demon air-gun on the main-mast with a bullet of his own making. It buried itself out of sight, and a three-inch probe failed to reach it.
‘No wonder it knocked the wind out of you, old man,’ he said; ‘ if you hadn’t had that breastplate on, you wouldn’t be here now.’
We cleaned our memories of Old Man Hood as far as we could, as we had cleaned the ship of himself and his belongings, and Mary Hood grew brighter every day. Her burden lay behind her at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, and her sweet face was set bravely and hopefully towards the new life that awaited her in the unknown land that lay beneath the rising sun.
The Finchley Puzzle
Richard Marsh
Richard Marsh was a pseudonym for London-born Richard Bernard Heldmann (1857–1915), whose most famous creepy thriller, The Beetle, was published in the same year as Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and was at first more successful. His grandson, Robert Aickman, was also a talented author of ‘strange stories’.
Marsh ventured into the detective genre from time to time, and he created Judith Lee, an interesting and early example of the female sleuth. She is a teacher of the deaf whose ability to lip-read makes her an unexpectedly formidable adversary. Although Marsh’s fiction requires a certain amount of suspension of disbelief, his ability to tell a good tale compensates for an occasional lack of credibility.
***
As I cut the string, and, unfolding the brown paper, saw what the little package contained, some trick of memory bore me back to an incident which had happened nearly two years before. I had been with a girl friend to the theatre, and had come back alone in an omnibus which put me down at the corner of the road in which I then had rooms. There had been a promise of rain all day, and just as I descended from the vehicle, something seemed to happen to the clouded heavens which caused water to descend in pailfuls. I was lightly attired; owing to some stupidity I had omitted to take an umbrella. I had to take refuge somewhere; I found it in the entry to a mews which was at the beginning of the street.
It did rain! I wondered what would happen if it kept on. I was only a couple of hundred yards from my dwelling-place, but if I had to approach it in that downpour I should be drenched before I got there. All at once I heard footsteps coming along the pavement from the direction in which my rooms were. Presently a man came quickly past. He had no umbrella; his billycock hat was pressed close down on his head; his coat collar was turned up to his ears—he must have been soaked. Just as he passed the entry in which I stood a man came rapidly across the road, who wore a waterproof and carried an umbrella. At sight of him the other paused. There was a lamp-post on one side of the mews; in spite of the deluge they paused under its glow to exchange a few sentences, standing in such a position that both their faces were visible to me. I heard nothing, but I saw quite plainly what the new-comer said.
‘Did you give it her?’
The other shook his head. ‘She wasn’t in. I said to the girl who opened the door, ‘Give this to Miss Lee directly she comes in.”’
‘If the girl does and we have any luck, Miss Lee will be where there are no deaf and dumb in the morning.’
The man with the umbrella held a part of it over the other, and the two went striding off as if they were walking for a wager, leaving me to wonder. I was quit
e certain that they had mentioned my name, and, though I had heard nothing, something in the expression of their faces convinced me that it had been in no friendly fashion. I was sure that they were strangers to me. The wet man was an undersized, pale-faced, mean-looking youth, whose appearance did not appeal to me at all; the other was a scarlet-visaged, bloated individual, who looked as if he might have been a publican. What had he meant by saying that if they had luck I should be where there were no deaf and dumb in the morning? I was quite sure that those were the precise words which he had used. I am not a supersensitive person, but—something made me shiver.
When at last I did get in—I could not wait for the rain to cease entirely, but so soon as it showed signs of slightly slackening, I made a dash for it—among other matter lying on the table in my sitting-room was a small, oblong-shaped package, addressed in a bold hand, ‘Miss Judith Lee.’ In those rooms a maid always sat up to let in late-comers; she had admitted me. As she commiserated with me on the state I was in—I was rather damp— I asked her, since it had clearly not come by post, how that packet had got there. She said that a young man had brought it who said it was most particular that she should give it to me directly I came in.
When the maid had gone I looked at that parcel for some moments before I even touched it. Although to the superficial glance it was the most commonplace-looking little parcel, there was something sinister about it to me. Had its contents anything to do with that red-faced man’s observation about my being where there were no deaf and dumb in the morning? I opened my other letters first, and left that parcel to the last. Then, telling myself that my hesitation was absurd, I took a pair of scissors, clipped the string, removed the wrapping, and there was an ordinary, white cardboard box within, bearing the imprint of a well-known manufacturer of sweet things. I opened it. It was filled with chocolates; on the top was a scrap of paper on which was written, in the same bold handwriting: ‘To Miss Judith Lee, from an Humble Donor. This Little Present Long Overdue.’
Nothing could seem more innocent. I did receive presents at times from anonymous givers, to whom, I presume, I had been so fortunate as to render services for which they felt they would like to make some sign of recognition. Had I not seen those two men under the lamp-post I should probably have put one of those chocolates into my mouth at once and scrunched it thankfully; but I had seen them, and I did not wish to be where there were no deaf and dumb in the morning.
I took one of the chocolates out of the box. I could hardly receive any hurt from the mere touch. It was a good-sized chocolate, looking as if it might contain a walnut. I was really curious as to what it did contain, and was regarding it attentively when some slight noise behind caused me to look round. I suppose I started; the sweetmeat fell from my fingers, and as it reached the floor there was a blinding flash, a sudden, extraordinary noise, a most unpleasant smell. I was left in a state of doubt as to whether I was alive or dead.
The advent of the maid made it clear that I was still alive. In a few seconds the whole household was there to learn what was the matter. I could not explain; I was myself without information, and actual, tangible information I have remained without until this day. Who sent that box I have never learned; what was the secret of the construction of that toothsome delicacy I do not know. I sought light from a friend who was a famous chemist; he declared that that seeming candy was a bomb in miniature, and that if I had put my teeth into it it would have blown my head off; so it was lucky I had refrained. It was the only candy in the box about whose construction there was anything peculiar; it had been so placed that it was nearly certain that it would be the first I should take. Analysis showed that all the other contents of the box were simple, albeit excellent chocolates, manufactured by a well-known maker, and were in the exact state in which they had left his hands.
Some one had tried to murder me. I caused inquiries to be made on lines of my own, but since nothing came of them, and for reasons of my own I was unwilling to place the matter in the hands of the police, the affair remained ‘wrapped in mystery”; and now, nearly two years afterwards, under altogether changed conditions, there had come addressed to me another seemingly innocent package—whose innocence I gravely doubted.
Two or three evenings before I had been with some friends in a box at a popular variety theatre. Glancing round the crowded house through an opera-glass, the lenses had rested for a moment on two men who were leaning over the partition in the promenade, and in that brief instant I distinctly saw one of them shape my name upon his lips, ‘Judith Lee”: just those two words. The lenses passed on before he had a chance of saying more. It was a curious sensation—to see my name being uttered all that distance off. I brought the lenses back again, just in time to see the second man asking a question, rather a full-flavoured one.
‘Who the blazes is Judith Lee?’
I had been right; no doubt the first man had pronounced my name, because here was his companion doing it also. I allowed the glass to rest upon his companion’s face. He was in evening dress, a crush hat was a little at the back of his head; he had a cigar between his lips, which he took out to answer the other’s inquiry. I saw as clearly what he said as if he had been in the next box.
‘Judith Lee is a young woman who calls herself a teacher of the deaf and dumb; in reality she is the most dangerous thing in England. The police aren’t in it compared with her: they make blunders, thank God; she doesn’t. If she catches sight of your face at a distance of I don’t know how many miles, and you happen to open your lips, you are done. The other day she saw—I won’t mention his name; he was talking business to a friend; before he knew that she was there he said something—only in a whisper, to his friend, you understand—which, when dealing with a sharp young devil such as she is, was enough to give himself clean away. He’s had the fidgets ever since, and I’m bound to say that I think he’s right. I shouldn’t like her to have half that hold on me.’
‘What’s he afraid of? Is she connected with the police?’
‘Not ostensibly; one would know where one was if she were. She has spoilt more good men and more good things by not being connected with the police than I should care to talk about. There has been more than one try to get her out of the way; now there’s to be another. It’s her or—him; and it’s going to be her. She’s going, and she’ll never know what struck her.’ The other man looked round. ‘Take care, there’s a chap behind who seems to be all ears. Let’s stroll.’
They strolled, or, at least, they moved away from the partition and passed from my sight leaving me not at all in a suitable frame of mind to enjoy that variety show. That I should have lighted on such a conversation in such a place and in so odd a fashion was amazing. By what fortuitous accident had my opera-glass rested on that spot at just that moment? What would that speaker’s feelings have been had he known that quite unintentionally I was watching him from below, and that he was furnishing an illustration of his own words, that I had only to catch a glimpse of a man’s face, though only from afar, and if he opened his lips he would give himself away.
Whom the speaker had in his mind when he spoke of the man whose name he would rather not mention, and to whom I was supposed to have given the fidgets, I had not the vaguest notion. I have an idea that since more people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows, I might often give the ‘fidgets’ to persons who might suppose that I had obtruded myself upon their confidence without my having, actually, done anything of the kind. Possibly the speaker, being himself a person of doubtful character, had acquaintances like himself; if I had given one of them a scare it served him right; only—I did not relish that reference to getting me out of the way. As he said, there had been ‘more than one try,’ though I did not know how he knew it, and I did not desire that there should be another—just yet awhile.
Nearly two years before some one had tried to ‘get me out of the way’ by means of a bomb in the shape of a chocolate bonbon; a shiver would go all
over me when sometimes I thought of how narrow my escape had been. It was not the sort of thing one is likely to forget, so when I received that little package, of which I have already spoken twice, I hesitated before I inquired into what it contained.
It had come by post, the address was typed, the post-mark Fleet Street, the wrapping coarse brown paper, within was a box of stiff brown cardboard. In the box there were four roses, arranged so as to form a small bouquet. Whether they were real I was not sure, imitations are, nowadays, so exquisitely done. They looked like four lovely Maréchal Niel blooms which had just been taken from the bush, deep golden yellow. It might seem very silly, but I was reluctant to take them out of the box. I raised it to enable me to eye them more closely. They must be real, imitations could not be so perfect. I had a strong impulse, as any woman would have had, to take them out and smell them; it was absurd to be afraid of roses.
I took them out and was advancing them towards my nose, when I saw something gleaming in the very heart of them, something which sprang out towards me. I gave the roses a swift twirl, and something went whirling out of them to the floor, a curiously coloured something which lay for a moment as if stunned, and then began to move across the carpet. About a week before some one had given me a Pomeranian puppy, the queerest, daintiest morsel of living jet. It had been asleep on a cushion. The noise of that thing being thrown to the ground disturbed him. He jumped up. Seeing the thing wriggling across the floor, imagining, I take it, that it was some new plaything, with its funny little bark the puppy dashed towards it. The thing on the floor reared itself, leaped at the puppy, not once or twice, but again and again.
It all happened so quickly that I hardly grasped what was taking place. Then all at once I realized that that simple-minded puppy was being attacked by that hideous little snake which had been contained in my bouquet of roses. When I rushed to its assistance it was already too late. I struck the creature with a poker I had snatched up, and with that one blow killed it; but the puppy was dead.
Capital Crimes: London Mysteries Page 5
