That was one of the most dreadful moments I have ever known when it was borne in on me that the puppy was actually dead, and how easily its fate might have been mine. I am not fond of snakes; to die from the bite of one—that is not the sort of death I would choose at all. If I had advanced those roses only a few inches nearer that creature would have struck me in the face—the puppy’s fate might have been mine. This was the second time I had been saved from attempted murder by what seemed very like a miracle. If I had not seen through the opera-glass those two men talking in the promenade I should have known no hesitation, I should have at once advanced those roses to my face, as most women would, and I should have been dead.
The whole episode, as may be imagined, set me furiously thinking. When something of the same sort had happened before I had not taken any special pains to discover the guilty party. But this time I had a feeling that it was a sort of challenge, that I was on my mettle; I had got off scot free, but my puppy had been slain, and for that some one should pay dearly. The question I had to put to myself was—who?
As I was casting about in my mind to find an answer, I had what seemed to me at the time to be almost an inspiration, though, as I realized afterwards, it was open to the most commonplace interpretation. I recalled a fragment of a conversation I had seen when crossing on the boat from the Isle of Wight. Two men had been walking up and down, talking together, apparently in undertones and very earnestly. I had been seated. I glanced in their direction while they were still at some distance, but were coming towards me along the deck. One was a shortish man with very fair hair and pink-and-white complexion. It was he who was speaking. He had a slight moustache, which was so fair as to be almost white, and which did not prevent my seeing his lips distinctly; his words came back to me from some forgotten cell in my memory with a vividness which—as I surveyed that dead puppy—almost frightened me. I had paid scarcely any attention to them at the moment; how they had got themselves stored in my brain I had no notion. Now they seemed so apposite.
‘Get a man asleep, or unconscious, introduce the proper kind of snake to the proper part of his body, and that man will be dead inside sixty seconds, and I doubt if half a dozen doctors in the world would be able to tell you what had happened. Look at Finchley—’
I remembered that at that point he looked towards me, and, seemingly for the first time, saw that I was there. As he did so he brought himself up with a sudden jerk, put his hand in his companion’s arm, turned him right round, and led him off the upper deck somewhere down below. At the time I was idly amused. The man was a stranger to me; I had no reason to suppose that I was not a stranger to him. Perhaps, conscious that he was talking in rather a curious strain, unwilling to be the object of a stranger’s observation, he had taken himself and his friend away. If I thought about it at all, that was the hazy conclusion I arrived at. But such episodes are so common. I endeavour not to look at people’s faces, since I suffer from a sort of obsession which suggests that, becoming conscious of my glance and the revelation of self which it portends, they remove themselves to where I cannot see them. I more or less vaguely took it for granted that this fair-haired man might be a case in point. I do not remember seeing him again on the boat, or when we landed. I never thought of him again until, all at once, he and his words came back with such terrific suddenness as I was looking at my dead puppy.
He had been speaking of how very easy it was to kill with the proper kind of snake. I had seen that fact illustrated. I wished he had not seen me; I might have heard more. Could the man in the promenade at the music-hall by any chance have been alluding to him? Could he have been the man to whom I had given the fidgets? Experience had taught me that coincidences are the rule rather than the exception, but what an astounding one that would be! And, in any case, why should he have been fidgety because of me?
Then, with the same odd suddenness, something else occurred to me. What was the word he had pronounced when, at sight of me, he stopped short? Was it not Finchley? I was sure that it was Finchley. But if that were so—again, how odd! Were not the newspapers still referring to what they had christened ‘The Finchley Puzzle”?
A Mr and Mrs Le Blanc had lived in a house called The Elms, in Hill Avenue, Finchley. They were elderly folk, of rather eccentric habits—he was a naturalized Frenchman, and she was a Frenchwoman who had not been naturalized. One morning both of them were found dead in bed, each in a separate bedroom. They were alone in the house. They generally kept a French maid, but were for the moment without one. The question was how they died; it came out at the inquest that nobody was able to give a clear explanation. They had died, said the doctors, of shock, but of what sort of shock, and how it chanced to visit them simultaneously, there was the puzzle. The vital organs were fairly healthy, they had no congenital disease, they had been seen together the night before, they were supposed to have retired to bed about ten o’clock; according to the medical evidence about two hours afterwards they were dead. The medical theory was that while they lay asleep in bed something had happened to them of so astounding a nature that both of them were smitten with death. Eminent authorities were called, not one of whom was willing to bind himself to an exact definition. The inquest had dragged on, and finally the jury, acting under the coroner’s direction, had returned what he called an open verdict.
I regretted that that fair-haired man’s discovery of my presence on the boat had caused him to cut his observations short; he might have added something about Finchley which would have shown that the Le Blanc tragedy was not in his mind. I did not say, even to myself, that it was. I picked up that snake, put it back in the box in which it came, concealed in those Maréchal Niel roses, and paid a visit to the Zoological Gardens. I went straight to the snake house, and made inquiry of an attendant if there were any one about who might be regarded as an authority on its occupants. The chief authority, it seemed, was not there, but I was introduced to an elderly gentleman who, I was told, knew probably as much about snakes as I wanted to know. Opening my box I showed him what was in it. He regarded it with considerable interest, took it out, turned it over and over, examining it closely from tip to tip.
‘Where did you get this from?’ he asked.
I told him it had come to me that morning through the post.
‘Alive?’
‘Very much alive,’ I said. ‘I killed it after it had killed my puppy.’
‘Your puppy? It might have killed you. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, because I have never seen one quite like it before. There are probably a large number of snakes of which we have no record; I fancy this is one of them. But I can tell you it is one of the Viperidœ, and possibly West African. I have never seen one anything like so small before, but I have no doubt that it’s one of that family, and I should say all the more dangerous because it is so small. But I can tell you who might be able to give you information, that’s Dr George Evans. He is not only an authority on snakes in general, he has made the Viperidœ his special study. He doesn’t live very far from here; he is always in and out. Here is his address.’ He wrote something on a card. ‘Although it may seem odd to you, snakes are the things he chiefly lives for, and he’s always glad to see any one who wants to know something about them.’
I called on Dr George Evans then and there, with the snake in the box. His house was within a quarter of a mile of the Zoological Gardens. He was at home, and came to see me at once: a big, burly man, with a quantity of grey hair which hung over one side of his forehead like a sort of mane. I told him what I had come about, showing him the snake, and asking what it was. The sight of it affected him in a manner which, by me, was unexpected. His naturally sanguine countenance turned purple.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where did you get that from?’ I told him. His surprise seemed to grow. ‘That thing came to you by post ? But, my dear young lady, how came it to do that?’ I told him that I hoped shortly to find out. ‘You don’t know? Wha
t object could an anonymous person have had in sending it to you? I don’t know your name, but, my dear young lady, are you aware that if that dreadful creature had bitten you it would certainly have killed you on the spot?’
I told him how I had escaped being bitten, and how it had killed the puppy. He dropped on to a chair and seemed positively gasping for breath.
‘It’s one of the most terrible things of which I ever heard. It almost looks as if some one had designed to do you mischief; but what a terrible means to have chosen!’
I had already felt that myself; as I listened to him I felt it more strongly every moment.
‘This is a hitherto quite unknown member of the Viperidœ family. It is the smallest I ever met, and what is worse, I believe one of the most deadly. Until a little time back I was the owner of what I supposed to be a unique specimen. It was brought to me from the West Coast of Africa. It killed a native, and then, while trying to escape, got entangled in a quantity of calico which lay upon the ground, in which it was made a prisoner. The man who captured it was a friend of mine, who, knowing my tastes, and being aware that it was something unusual in snakes—although he knew the district well, he himself had never seen one like it before— refused to have it killed. At considerable risk to himself he transferred it to a metal case, in which he brought it home, and in due course presented it to me, and in my keeping it has been until a month ago last Sunday. I had it on the Sunday evening, but on the Monday morning it was gone; and do you know I am half inclined to suspect that the one you have here in this box is the one I had. I cannot see any other solution, since I am convinced that mine was the only specimen of the kind which has been seen in England.’
‘How do you account for its getting out of your possession, since it was clearly a very dangerous thing to handle? Do you think that it escaped?’
It struck me that Dr Evans seemed to be very curiously distressed.
‘My dear young lady, that’s—that’s the trouble. I—I’m afraid that it was stolen.’
‘Stolen? A thing like that? For what purpose—by whom? I should have thought that an attempt to steal it must have meant death to the thief.’
The doctor got up from his chair, he brushed the mane of hair off his forehead; his manner became what I should have judged to be more normal.
‘Exactly; you put the case correctly. Under ordinary circumstances it would have meant sudden death to the thief. Have you no idea who can have sent it to you, not even a remote suspicion? I have not your name. May I ask who you are?’
‘I am Judith Lee.’ He stared at me hard.
‘Not the—the young lady of whose lip-reading capacity I have heard so many tales which seem to me to border on the miraculous?’
‘The same. I don’t know what tales you may have heard, but I assure you that there is nothing about me which is in the least miraculous.’
Then I told him all about it—about two men whom I had seen talking in the promenade. He stopped me at once.
‘My dear Miss Lee, you say there’s nothing about you that’s the least miraculous, and then you tell me that you followed a conversation between two men who were removed from you by the whole auditorium of a great theatre, and that without hearing a word they said. That seems to me to be a miracle to start with.’
I laughed. ‘I assure you it is nothing of the kind. I assure you it is simply a question of constant practice. Given ordinary perception, and as much practice as I have had, with the greatest ease you would be able to do just the same.’
‘I doubt it. I very gravely doubt it. However, that is by the way; that is a matter about which I should like to have a long talk with you presently. In the meantime, do I understand you to suggest that from what you saw those two men saying you draw the deduction that they may have had something to do with this?’ He touched the box in which the snake was.
‘Dr Evans, I am making inquiries. I do not like to draw deductions, I prefer to deal with facts. Will you please to tell me, so far as you can, just how that snake came to pass from your possession? You see what importance anything you may say may have for me, and under the very peculiar circumstances of the case you must have your suspicions.’
‘I don’t like suspicions any more than you like deductions, Miss Lee.’ He turned quickly towards me. ‘Do you know anything about snakes?’
‘No more than the average person, and you know that that is practically nothing. A little while ago I saw—not heard—a man say something on a boat about a snake, which was news to me. He seemed to hint that an artist in murder might find one rather useful.’
I told him precisely what I had seen. It seemed to me that the doctor’s eyes opened wider as he listened.
‘What sort of man was this you saw—not heard?’ I described him as well as I could. The doctor’s eyes grew more expansive. He plumped down on his chair again. ‘And yet you say, Miss Lee, that you are no dealer in the miraculous. What you saw I have heard him say. Because of him I have been suffering what I really believe to be much more than I deserve.’
The doctor looked furtively about the room as if in search of an unseen listener. He went to the door and looked outside; closing it carefully he came towards me with what was very like an air of mystery. He even lowered his voice as if he feared that the very walls had ears.
‘Miss Lee, what I am about to say to you I perhaps ought not to say, and in any case I must beg you to let it go no farther. Have I your assurance?’ He looked at me with an odd sort of disquietude.
‘I tell you quite frankly that I would rather give you no assurance till I know what you are going to say to me.’ Perceiving that he was about to speak, I stopped him. ‘Permit me to explain. You say you know this man who was on the boat; you are probably thinking of telling me something about him. Is it not possible that it may have something to do with this?’
I placed the tip of my finger on the box which contained the snake.
‘Well, that was not at the moment in my mind; at least, not quite in that form.’
I had one of those inspirations which do come to me every now and then.
‘Has it anything to do with Finchley?’
The bow had been drawn at a venture, but the arrow hit the target; he obviously started. He positively glared at me.
‘With Finchley? What—what do you mean by ‘Has it anything to do with Finchley’?’
‘I mean what you mean, Dr Evans. Is it not odd that the same embryonic thought should have taken root in both our minds? That snake was meant to kill me; is it not possible that it killed some one else before it was sent to my address, two persons, say, at Finchley?’
‘Miss Lee, what a horrible thought; how you jump at conclusions! I thought you liked to deal with facts?’
‘So I do. I am about to deal with them. With your permission, Dr Evans, we will deal with them together. The same thought in embryo is in both our minds; let’s leave it there. Now, tell me, please, all you know about the man I saw on the boat. I have only to go to the police—I have had a good deal to do with them in my short life—and tell them my suspicions. You will find it more agreeable to answer my questions than theirs. You must see for yourself that I have been in danger of my life, probably from your snake; I think I am entitled to ask you to help me from running a similar risk again.’
When Dr Evans and I had said all we had to say to each other—and it took us an unconscionably long time—I paid a visit to The Elms, Hill Avenue, Finchley, the residence of the late Mr and Mrs Le Blanc. There were certain theories which I wished to test by an actual inspection of the premises. Hill Avenue proved to be a broad, old-fashioned road, in which private houses were interspersed with shops. I walked straight past The Elms—I saw the name on the gate-post as I went—because, just as I reached it, a young lady alighted from a taxi-cab which had stopped at the gate. There were four more houses, and then a stationer’s shop. As I stopp
ed to look at the window I kept one eye on the young lady who had descended from the taxi-cab. She was a distinctly pretty young person, about eighteen or nineteen years old, with something about her which told me that she was probably French. She appeared to be in a state of much agitation. From my post of vantage I saw her say to herself, in French—
‘Why is the gate locked?’ She had tried the handle and found that it refused to yield. ‘I have never known it locked before. And all the blinds are down. What does it mean?’
An elderly woman came out of the adjoining house.
‘Why, Miss Le Blanc,’ she exclaimed, ‘so you have appeared at last? I have been wondering what had become of you.’ She stood on the pavement in front of the house with her mouth sufficiently visible to enable me to see what she said. The girl turned towards her; I could see her plainly.
‘Oh, Mrs Green, what is the matter?’
The woman turned more towards her so that her lips were hidden. I had to guess at her words from the other’s reply.
‘Dead!’ said the girl. ‘My parents dead!’ She seemed to reel. ‘Since—since when are they dead?’
Again I had to guess at Mrs Green’s words from her answer.
‘How could I know? I have been staying with my friends in different parts of France. My parents do not often write, they are not fond of writing, but when I had no letters from them at all I supposed they had gone astray because of my so often moving about. But when I could get no answers, not even to my telegrams, I began to wonder if anything were wrong. I hurried back to see. I have been staying in a little village where there come no news at all. It is now more than a month since I heard from them, and when I did last hear they were both well. I could not guess that they were dead, I only imagined it was too much trouble to write. I knew they did not like writing, especially when they had nothing to say.’
Capital Crimes: London Mysteries Page 6
