by Sax Rohmer
“Eh! what’s that?” said the colonel, completing the manufacture of a cigarette and snatching out a lighter. “Weren’t spotted, were you?”
“I hope not, and I believe not. But I am sure this will interest you: he who followed me had a limp.”
“A limp?” Colonel O’Halloran’s small eyes grew even smaller, so that their piercing pupils might have been likened to twin gimlets. “Know the story about Mrs. Vane, don’t you? May be tommyrot, but somehow stuck in my mind. Limping man, eh?”
“Yes, he limped, this one. But when I departed, for it was unwise that I should return, Sergeant Bluett remained on the premises, hoping that the one who limped might come back. It made me to think furiously. I knew, for the good Bluett had told me, that he suspected a car to have followed him. But this I dismissed as a coincidence or a myth, and I worked out patiently, by deduction and by inquiry, what actually had occurred.”
“And what had occurred?”
“I learned that someone, a man called Olivar — oh, without malice, quite innocently — had told some of the people connected with the gambling racket (which is part of my fishery) that when detained late I slept at my office. They spoke, of course, of Mr. Bernstein—”
“Of course!”
“I concluded that what had occurred was as follows: — On my departure from the flat of the charming Mrs. Destrée, someone had gone ahead, perhaps in a car — for these people, under various pretexts, all seem to be able to run their cars in spite of petrol allowances and regulations. This person, I believe, had waited in the yard until I returned, then had crept up the stairs hoping to learn what I was doing and to whom I was speaking.”
“I see,” said the colonel. “Did he discover anything?”
“I have said that I hope not. But I feel that I again may have aroused their suspicions.”
“Again — and in what way?”
“This limping man has become with me, also, an obsession. It is the same with our good Inspector Firth. It is a plague, I think. As there is one mixed up with Madam Destrée who walks like a cat, so lightly, so much on the toes. I wonder if this conceals a — not impediment, but yes, impediment will do — in his feet. By accident, you understand, I remove a pair of shoes.”
“Good lord! how the devil did you manage that?”
“I brought them away in a suitcase which had contained bottles of Hennessy’s brandy, mixed up in the packing; it was easy. I returned them an hour later with apologies, but I had made a discovery.”
“Yes?” the colonel took a step forward, blinking so rapidly now that the movement of his lids became almost continuous.
“One of those shoes had an interior double sole. This man has one leg half an inch shorter than the other!”
“The limping man!”
“We do not know, my colonel. A limping man, yes; but the limping man — my faith! we have to see. Even when we have seen, what do we know? The dreams of a medium, they may mean nothing!”
“But to whom did these shoes belong?” The colonel displayed definite excitement. His home-made cigarette had gone out. He snapped the lighter into flame again.
“To a man called Julian Francis, who occupies a flat above that of Destrée.”
“Yes, yes; mentioned him before. Go on.”
“Yes, her first lieutenant at the roulette racket. Wherever play takes place, and they use many addresses, sometimes Destrée is not there, but always Mr. Francis is.”
“Have we got his record here?”
“I think not. He is a citizen of the United States, domiciled in London. He is correspondent of a well-known news agency, and he is also a talented radio entertainer.”
“Radio entertainer?”
“Surely you have heard him. He sings and plays and makes an occasion. He is called Francis Batt.”
“Francis Batt! Yes, believe I heard him only a few nights ago. Wasn’t he on program called ‘Harry Dean’s guest night’?”
“But, yes, certainly. He travels here and there to entertain the Forces. He is very good; oh, very good.”
“Interests a bit mixed — what! Keeping something up your sleeve, Max.”
Gaston Max revealed gleaming teeth in that smile which dispossessed the thinker and substituted the comedian. “Yes, yes. I know so much and yet so little. I have no evidence, you see, that Francis was the man who stole up Mr. Bernstein’s stairs that night.”
“H’m,” muttered the colonel, doubtfully. “Well — your affair. What about Mrs. Vane. Take it you haven’t lost sight of her?”
“But not at all. I called upon her in a so charming suite at the Barchester Hotel one day last week. She received me with great amiability.”
“Pretty woman, or used to be. Haven’t seen her for some time.”
“But delightful. And her hair! — of that wonderful tint adored by artists who paint fire engines. But, yes, but she is beautiful, of course. She is—” Max shrugged, extending his palms— “of no very deep intelligence. No, but not clever enough to be a good criminal. I think Lord Marcus is right about her; she has psychic qualities.”
“He seems sure of it,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner.
“But, yes, so am I. It seems that she climbs the staircase of the planets, which I suppose is a path which can be mounted only by the use of great force. The Ancient Egyptians, so the charming Mrs. Vane informs me, knew how to generate this force and Lord Marcus has tried, but failed. Now, he is endeavoring to assemble it.”
“Told me so.” The Assistant Commissioner, whose cigarette had gone out a second time, threw it in a waste basket and began to fill his pipe.
“It seems we have all lived before, oh, ever so many lives, and it is the kindred souls, although they may not now belong to those who are our present friends, which can generate this force. If he can find seven in what he calls ‘the same cycle’ he believes that he can propel this wandering spirit of the beautiful Mrs. Vane right up to that high place where the secrets of the Universe are hidden.”
“H’m!” said the Assistant Commissioner, returning loose shreds of tobacco to his coat pocket and pulling out the lighter. “Her story certainly corresponds with his own. Accounts for queer company he keeps. Saw him at Grand Marnier the other day lunching with Destrée.”
“But, yes!” This news seemed to startle Gaston Max. “With Destrée, you say?”
“Yes. I confess I was surprised. Interest purely psychic, so he told me.” His expression grew abstracted ... “Tremendously disturbed about Grand Marnier. Wondering what I may have given away there ...”
28
“Up in the Morning Early”
James Wake in these days was a long remove from that chimera, a happy man; and for his uneasy frame of mind a number of things were responsible. In the first place, it was not every butler of his skill and experience who would have accepted the responsibility for such an establishment as that of Lord Marcus Amberdale. Its mysterious atmosphere, the strange experiments which took place there, queer people who called, and the fact (to which Wake was not blind) that the house with the scarlet door remained under police observation: these inconveniences did not add to the gaiety of life; but there was something else.
Now and again, upon his lawful occasions concerning household catering, Wake would drop in at a discreet public house, extensively patronised by upper servants of Mayfair, at about opening time in the morning, for a glass of bitter beer. On two separate occasions, recently, Mr. Francis had joined him.
Possessed of a chronically suspicious mind, Wake associated these meetings, seemingly accidental, with Mrs. Destrée’s smiling promise to keep in touch with him. The truth was that he had conceived a horror of the gambling racket which urged him in future to keep well away from it, and from those associated with it. But, unhappily, he appreciated the fact that these people knew too much about his affairs to entitle him to take a high hand.
At the first of these meetings, a reunion so unexpected that Wake had felt his treacherous temperature r
ising, Mr. Francis had been most charming. After asking about Mrs. Wake, he had insisted upon ordering a whisky and soda for Mr. Wake. He finally suggested that, since Scotland Yard’s interest in roulette seemed to have slumbered again, he might care to resume his duties from time to time as croupier.
“It’s very good of you, Mr. Francis,” Wake had replied, “but with that other matter still, if I may so express myself, hanging over the house of Lord Marcus, I doubt if it would be wise.”
Although from first to last no publicity whatever had been given to this fact in the press, Wake was aware that Mrs. Destrée knew where the body had been found.
“Oh, I see; you mean the Loeder murder?”
“Exactly, sir. Police interest in the matter might lead them to the other, I thought.”
“Well, we’re short of croupiers, and I guess we wouldn’t mind raising the fee to fifteen guineas a night. Would that interest you?”
“Indeed, sir, it is a handsome offer; and if you should feel justified in renewing it, shall we say early next month, it is one which I might be disposed to accept.”
The purely business part of the conversation had ended there, but this meeting with Mr. Francis left Wake in an uneasy frame of mind. It was not improved when his wife informed him a few days later that Mr. Francis had called at Grosvenor Square, under the impression that Wake was there, and had had some conversation with her.
This disturbed Wake very much indeed, and possibly to relieve his doubts, Mr. Francis dropped in again at Wake’s house of call when he chanced to be present. “We were stumped for a croupier on Wednesday night,” he explained. “I could get no reply on your line, and so I figured you had very likely gone around to your wife’s. But I drew a blank there, too.”
“Oh, I see.” Wake experienced a measure of relief. “Did you find a substitute, Mr. Francis?”
“I took a hand myself.” The dimple appeared in his heavy chin, his whimsical regard hovered on the brink of laughter. “But it was awkward. The offer for next Friday is twenty guineas, Wake. Are you free?”
“I am not, sir.” The reply was quite firm. “Lord Marcus is entertaining.”
“Bad luck!” And again they had parted, on the best of terms, but Mr. Francis was obviously disappointed. Then, only twenty-four hours later, had come another blow, and from an unexpected quarter.
Lord Marcus was dining out and had given Wake permission to spend the evening away from home; he had therefore joined his wife, as he had done much more frequently of late, and from her had learned the news. An official from the Ministry of Supply (Mrs. Wake showed her husband his card) had called only an hour or so before, to announce that Sir George Clarking’s house was to be requisitioned and converted into offices.
“So that means the sack for me, Jim,” she concluded sadly, “unless, of course, Lady Clarking can find a place for me in Scotland.”
Mrs. Wake, a comely, gray-haired little woman, who feared no one in the world except her husband (whom she regarded as a super-mind) was sincerely distressed.
“Have you written to Lady Clarking?”
“Yes; I posted the letter just before you came.”
“When are they going to take over?”
“The gentleman said the premises would be inspected early to-morrow morning. The vans will be here in the afternoon to remove the furniture.”
James Wake looked around that cosy sitting-room in the basement which had been his wife’s home and his own second home for so long, a pathetic expression upon his florid face. “Phew!” he muttered, dropping into an armchair. “That’s the very devil.”
It did not occur to him to ask any questions regarding this representative of the Ministry, that is to say, regarding his personal appearance. Had he done so, possibly the line of conduct which he adopted might have been discarded in favor of another.
Chief Inspector Firth was bending over a double sheet of foolscap spread out upon his desk, on either side of which certain photographs were pasted, when he heard someone whistling “Up in the morning early,” and the door of his office opened. He did not look up until the man who had entered closed the door behind him and rapped upon it. Firth raised his head.
“Ah, Max,” he said, for indeed this pearl gray figure was that of the celebrated Frenchman. “Ye come at a good moment.”
“Any moment is a good moment when I see you, my friend.” Max advanced, extending the jewelled cigarette case.
Firth took a cigarette, and this the Frenchman lighted, then lighting his own, dropped down into a chair facing the Chief Inspector.
“How is the big case shaping?” Firth inquired. “I gather that for some reason the death o’ the man Loeder set ye back.”
“Oh, but most seriously. Loeder was their mouthpiece. It was Loeder who told the news to Berlin. At his death, I had to begin all over again. My faith, yes! If you would tell me who killed him, my friend, it might help a little.”
“Is tha’ so?” said Firth slowly. “Weel, I have here—” he rested a long, sensitive hand upon a document which looked like a legal brief— “a confession witnessed in the presence o’ Michael Corcoran, K.C., of the man who claims to have killed Sir Giles Loeder.”
Gaston Max sprang to his feet, pushing the chair back. His strange eyes might have been thought to emit sparks; his mobile mouth became contracted into a still, straight line. “What! what do you say?”
“This is the confession, no word of which I doubt, of a young American airman, Flight Lieutenant Richard Hawke Kershaw.”
“Richard Hawke Kershaw!” Gaston Max raised his hand to his brow, a man bemused. “Where have I heard that name?”
“I canna say, but here is his confession.”
“And you believe it?”
“Impleecitly.”
“But explain to me, Inspector Firth, my old, relieve me of this great bewilderment: why should this Kershaw kill Sir Giles Loeder?”
“I didna’ say he killed him.”
Max dropped back into his chair, and the mobile lips began to twitch again so that one might have supposed a hundred conflicting ideas to be passing through his brain at the same moment. “You puzzle me, my friend; but yes, I am puzzled.”
“I said it was the confession of a man who claims to have killed him.”
“Claims, you say?”
“Beyond doubt.”
“And to have broken his neck?”
“Tha’s the point,” Firth replied deliberately. “We ha’ been so careful wi’ the press that the exact spot where the body was found and the precise nature of the injuries have never been published. This young fellow didn’t know that Loeder died of a broken neck.”
“But you say that you accept the statement of Kershaw?”
“Most certainly; in every particular. But judging from inquiries which I ha’ been making, Loeder lost his life after his encounter wi’ Kershaw — and also lost his money.”
“You hold me in dreadful suspense. A theory of my own is at stake. Whom do you suspect?”
“With your permission, Mr. Max, I would prefer in words which I ha’ heard you use, to serve up my results piping hot on a gold platter.”
“But this is confusion. It is contrary to all my beliefs, all my deductions, all that I am building upon!”
“Tha’s regrettable. But some time to-night I expect to ha’ more facts, and I shall be willing to share them. Indeed, there’s a favor I’m going to ask ye.”
“Consider it granted, my friend.”
“Would it be putting ye out unduly to become Peter Finch for an hour or two to-night?”
“But not at all!” Max cried eagerly. “Give me my instructions.”
“I am obliged. We can arrange details later. And now, I would like ye to examine these fingerprints.”
Gaston Max stepped around the desk, raised his heavy monocle and through it studied the photographs pasted upon the paper. It became evident to Firth, who had been unaware of this fact, that the monocle was not an ornament, but a powerful
magnifying glass, a lens which no doubt the French investigator frequently found useful. His inspection completed:
“These two sets are identical,” he pronounced. “Both belong to the same person. May I know his name?”
Firth smiled. “When I ha’ all the facts,” he replied. “But this much I can say: the prints on the right are those of a man called Johann Fritz Brandt. They came over in a big consignment from the United States. All I know, so far, is just that. The set on the left are from the handrail of your office in Great Windmill Street.”
“The limping man!”
“The limping man, exactly! For particulars, I have had to send a long code cable to New York, quoting the name and reference number, and I am awaiting a reply.”
“Mon Dieu! But it is wonderful. It is Kismet. You, my friend, have the fingerprints, and I—”
“Weel, what have you got?”
“I have the footprints.”
“The footprints?”
“But yes, the footprints of a limping man! If it should prove to be the same, name of a little dog! — if it should prove to be the same! How excited I am, how confused. Yes, my faith, I am in a whirlwind!”
29
Wake Takes a Taxi
When James Wake came out of the house in Grosvenor Square, he carried a small attaché case which he had borrowed from his wife. The night was clear but moonless, and he felt disinclined to walk. A taxi which glided up beside him provoked a nervous start.
“Taxi, sir?”
“Yes,” Wake said jerkily, and looked surprised when the man climbed down from his seat. “South Audley Street. I will direct you when we get there.”
“Right-o.” The driver, whom he seemed to have seen before, opened the door for him, and closed it carefully when he had got in.
Less than five minutes later Wake was banging on the glass in front, having tried in vain to open the shutter window. “Hello, there!” he cried, and banged ever more furiously. “Where are you taking me? I said South Audley Street.”
