The Big Book of Rogues and Villains

by Otto Penzler

  For a man who, as it seemed to me, lived in a perpetual atmosphere of crime and violence, of death and coroners’ courts, his habitual cheerfulness and brightness of manner were remarkable. Perhaps it was only the reaction from his work, for he had the reputation of being one of the most astute experts of the day in medical jurisprudence, and the most skilled analyst in toxicological cases on the Metropolitan Police staff. Before I could send him word that I wanted to see him I heard a door bang, and Vandeleur came hurrying down the passage, putting on his coat as he rushed along.

  “Halloa!” he cried. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Do you want me?”

  “Yes, very urgently,” I answered. “Are you busy?”

  “Head over ears, my dear chap. I cannot give you a moment now, but perhaps later on.”

  “What is it? You look excited.”

  “I have got to go to Eaton Square like the wind, but come along, if you like, and tell me on the way.”

  “Capital,” I cried. “The thing has been reported then? You are going to Mr. Selby’s, No. 34a; then I am going with you.”

  He looked at me in amazement.

  “But the case has only just been reported. What can you possibly know about it?”

  “Everything. Let us take this hansom, and I will tell you as we go along.”

  As we drove to Eaton Square I quickly explained the situation, glancing now and then at Vandeleur’s bright, clean-shaven face. He was no longer Eric Vandeleur, the man with the latest club story and the merry twinkle in his blue eyes; he was Vandeleur the medical jurist, with a face like a mask, his lower jaw slightly protruding and features very fixed.

  “The thing promises to be serious,” he replied, as I finished, “but I can do nothing until after the autopsy. Here we are, and there is my man waiting for me; he has been smart.”

  On the steps stood an official-looking man in uniform, who saluted.

  “Coroner’s officer,” explained Vandeleur.

  We entered the silent, darkened house. Selby was standing in the hall. He came to meet us. I introduced him to Vandeleur, and he at once led us into the dining-room, where we found Dr. Osborne, whom Selby had called in when the alarm of Edith’s illness had been first given. Dr. Osborne was a pale, under-sized, very young man. His face expressed considerable alarm. Vandeleur, however, managed to put him completely at his ease.

  “I will have a chat with you in a few minutes, Dr. Osborne,” he said; “but first I must get Mr. Selby’s report. Will you please tell me, sir, exactly what occurred?”

  “Certainly,” he answered. “We had a reception here last night, and my sister-in-law did not go to bed until early morning; she was in bad spirits, but otherwise in her usual health. My wife went into her room after she was in bed, and told me later on that she had found Edith in hysterics, and could not get her to explain anything. We both talked about taking her to the country without delay. Indeed, our intention was to get off this afternoon.”

  “Well?” said Vandeleur.

  “We had breakfast about half-past nine, and Miss Dallas came down, looking quite in her usual health, and in apparently good spirits. She ate with appetite, and, as it happened, she and my wife were both helped from the same dish. The meal had nearly come to an end when she jumped up from the table, uttered a sharp cry, turned very pale, pressed her hand to her side, and ran out of the room. My wife immediately followed her. She came back again in a minute or two, and said that Edith was in violent pain, and begged of me to send for a doctor. Dr. Osborne lives just round the corner. He came at once, but she died almost immediately after his arrival.”

  “You were in the room?” asked Vandeleur, turning to Osborne.

  “Yes,” he replied. “She was conscious to the last moment, and died suddenly.”

  “Did she tell you anything?”

  “No, except to assure me that she had not eaten any food that day until she had come down to breakfast. After the death occurred I sent immediately to report the case, locked the door of the room where the poor girl’s body is, and saw also that nobody touched anything on this table.”

  Vandeleur rang the bell and a servant appeared. He gave quick orders. The entire remains of the meal were collected and taken charge of, and then he and the coroner’s officer went upstairs.

  When we were alone Selby sank into a chair. His face was quite drawn and haggard.

  “It is the horrible suddenness of the thing which is so appalling,” he cried. “As to Beatrice, I don’t believe she will ever be the same again. She was deeply attached to Edith. Edith was nearly ten years her senior, and always acted the part of mother to her. This is a sad beginning to our life. I can scarcely think collectedly.”

  I remained with him a little longer, and then, as Vandeleur did not return, went back to my own house. There I could settle to nothing, and when Vandeleur rang me up on the telephone about six o’clock I hurried off to his rooms. As soon as I arrived I saw that Selby was with him, and the expression on both their faces told me the truth.

  “This is a bad business,” said Vandeleur. “Miss Dallas has died from swallowing poison. An exhaustive analysis and examination have been made, and a powerful poison, unknown to European toxicologists, has been found. This is strange enough, but how it has been administered is a puzzle. I confess, at the present moment, we are all nonplussed. It certainly was not in the remains of the breakfast, and we have her dying evidence that she took nothing else. Now, a poison with such appalling potency would take effect quickly. It is evident that she was quite well when she came to breakfast, and that the poison began to work towards the close of the meal. But how did she get it? This question, however, I shall deal with later on. The more immediate point is this. The situation is a serious one in view of the monetary issues and the value of the lady’s life. From the aspects of the case, her undoubted sanity and her affection for her sister, we may almost exclude the idea of suicide. We must, therefore, call it murder. This harmless, innocent lady is struck down by the hand of an assassin, and with such devilish cunning that no trace or clue is left behind. For such an act there must have been some very powerful motive, and the person who designed and executed it must be a criminal of the highest order of scientific ability. Mr. Selby has been telling me the exact financial position of the poor lady, and also of his own young wife. The absolute disappearance of the step-brother, in view of his previous character, is in the highest degree strange. Knowing, as we do, that between him and two million sterling there stood two lives—one is taken!”

  A deadly sensation of cold seized me as Vandeleur uttered these last words. I glanced at Selby. His face was colourless and the pupils of his eyes were contracted, as though he saw something which terrified him.

  “What happened once may happen again,” continued Vandeleur. “We are in the presence of a great mystery, and I counsel you, Mr. Selby, to guard your wife with the utmost care.”

  These words, falling from a man of Vandeleur’s position and authority on such matters, were sufficiently shocking for me to hear, but for Selby to be given such a solemn warning about his young and beautiful and newly-married wife, who was all the world to him, was terrible indeed. He leant his head on his hands.

  “Mercy on us!” he muttered. “Is this a civilized country when death can walk abroad like this, invisible, not to be avoided? Tell me, Mr. Vandeleur, what I must do.”

  “You must be guided by me,” said Vandeleur, “and, believe me, there is no witchcraft in the world. I shall place a detective in your household immediately. Don’t be alarmed; he will come to you in plain clothes and will simply act as a servant. Nevertheless, nothing can be done to your wife without his knowledge. As to you, Druce,” he continued, turning to me, “the police are doing all they can to find this man Silva, and I ask you to help them with your big agency, and to begin at once. Leave your friend to me. Wire instantly if you hear news.”

  “You may rely on me,” I said, and a moment later I had left the room. As I walked rapidl
y down the street the thought of Madame Sara, her shop and its mysterious background, its surgical instruments, its operating-table, its induction coils, came back to me. And yet what could Madame Sara have to do with the present strange, inexplicable mystery?

  The thought had scarcely crossed my mind before I heard a clatter alongside the kerb, and turning round I saw a smart open carriage, drawn by a pair of horses, standing there. I also heard my own name. I turned. Bending out of the carriage was Madame Sara.

  “I saw you going by, Mr. Druce. I have only just heard the news about poor Edith Dallas. I am terribly shocked and upset. I have been to the house, but they would not admit me. Have you heard what was the cause of her death?”

  Madame’s blue eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

  “I am not at liberty to disclose what I have heard, Madame,” I answered, “since I am officially connected with the affair.”

  Her eyes narrowed. The brimming tears dried as though by magic. Her glance became scornful.

  “Thank you,” she answered, “your reply tells me that she did not die naturally. How very appalling! But I must not keep you. Can I drive you anywhere?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Goodbye, then.”

  She made a sign to the coachman, and as the carriage rolled away turned to look at me. Her face wore the defiant expression I had seen there more than once. Could she be connected with the affair? The thought came upon me with a violence that seemed almost conviction. Yet I had no reason for it—none.

  To find Henry Joachim Silva was now my principal thought. My staff had instructions to make every possible inquiry, with large money rewards as incitements. The collateral branches of other agencies throughout Brazil were communicated with by cable, and all the Scotland Yard channels were used. Still there was no result. The newspapers took up the case; there were paragraphs in most of them with regard to the missing step-brother and the mysterious death of Edith Dallas. Then someone got hold of the story of the will, and this was retailed with many additions for the benefit of the public. At the inquest the jury returned the following verdict:

  “We find that Miss Edith Dallas died from taking poison of unknown name, but by whom or how administered there is no evidence to say.”

  This unsatisfactory state of things was destined to change quite suddenly. On the 6th of August, as I was seated in my office, a note was brought me by a private messenger. It was as follows:

  “Norfolk Hotel, Strand.

  “Dear Sir—I have just arrived in London from Brazil, and have seen your advertisements. I was about to insert one myself in order to find the whereabouts of my sisters. I am a great invalid and unable to leave my room. Can you come to see me at the earliest possible moment? Yours, Henry Joachim Silva.”

  In uncontrollable excitement I hastily dispatched two telegrams, one to Selby and the other to Vandeleur, begging of them to be with me, without fail, as soon as possible. So the man had never been in England at all. The situation was more bewildering than ever. One thing, at least, was probable—Edith Dallas’s death was not due to her step-brother. Soon after half-past six Selby arrived, and Vandeleur walked in ten minutes later. I told them what had occurred and showed them the letter. In half an hour’s time we reached the hotel, and on stating who I was we were shown into a room on the first floor by Silva’s private servant. Resting in an armchair, as we entered, sat a man; his face was terribly thin. The eyes and cheeks were so sunken that the face had almost the appearance of a skull. He made no effort to rise when we entered, and glanced from one of us to the other with the utmost astonishment. I at once introduced myself and explained who we were. He then waved his hand for his man to retire.

  “You have heard the news, of course, Mr. Silva?” I said.

  “News! What?” He glanced up to me and seemed to read something in my face. He started back in his chair.

  “Good heavens,” he replied. “Do you allude to my sisters? Tell me, quickly, are they alive?”

  “Your elder sister died on the twenty-ninth of July, and there is every reason to believe that her death was caused by foul play.”

  As I uttered these words the change that passed over his face was fearful to witness. He did not speak, but remained motionless. His claw-like hands clutched the arms of the chair, his eyes were fixed and staring, as though they would start from their hollow sockets, the colour of his skin was like clay. I heard Selby breathe quickly behind me, and Vandeleur stepped towards the man and laid his hand on his shoulder.

  “Tell us what you know of this matter,” he said sharply.

  Recovering himself with an effort, the invalid began in a tremulous voice: “Listen closely, for you must act quickly. I am indirectly responsible for this fearful thing. My life has been a wild and wasted one, and now I am dying. The doctors tell me I cannot live a month, for I have a large aneurism of the heart. Eighteen months ago I was in Rio. I was living fast and gambled heavily. Among my fellow gamblers was a man much older than myself. His name was José Aranjo. He was, if anything, a greater gambler than I. One night we played alone. The stakes ran high until they reached a big figure. By daylight I had lost to him nearly £200,000. Though I am a rich man in point of income under my uncle’s will, I could not pay a twentieth part of that sum. This man knew my financial position, and, in addition to a sum of £5,000 paid down, I gave him a document. I must have been mad to do so. The document was this—it was duly witnessed and attested by a lawyer—that, in the event of my surviving my two sisters and thus inheriting the whole of my uncle’s vast wealth, half a million should go to José Aranjo. I felt I was breaking up at the time, and the chances of my inheriting the money were small. Immediately after the completion of the document this man left Rio, and I then heard a great deal about him that I had not previously known. He was a man of the queerest antecedents, partly Indian, partly Italian. He had spent many years of his life amongst the Indians. I heard also that he was as cruel as he was clever, and possessed some wonderful secrets of poisoning unknown to the West. I thought a great deal about this, for I knew that by signing that document I had placed the lives of my two sisters between him and a fortune. I came to Para six weeks ago, only to learn that one of my sisters was married and that both had gone to England. Ill as I was, I determined to follow them in order to warn them. I also wanted to arrange matters with you, Mr. Selby.”

  “One moment, sir,” I broke in, suddenly. “Do you happen to be aware if this man, José Aranjo, knew a woman calling herself Madame Sara?”

  “Knew her?” cried Silva. “Very well indeed, and so, for that matter, did I. Aranjo and Madame Sara were the best friends, and constantly met. She called herself a professional beautifier—was very handsome, and had secrets for the pursuing of her trade unknown even to Aranjo.”

  “Good heavens!” I cried, “and the woman is now in London. She returned here with Mrs. Selby and Miss Dallas. Edith was very much influenced by her, and was constantly with her. There is no doubt in my mind that she is guilty. I have suspected her for some time, but I could not find a motive. Now the motive appears. You surely can have her arrested?”

  Vandeleur made no reply. He gave me a strange look, then he turned to Selby.

  “Has your wife also consulted Madame Sara?” he asked, sharply.

  “Yes, she went to her once about her teeth, but has not been to the shop since Edith’s death. I begged of her not to see the woman, and she promised me faithfully she would not do so.”

  “Has she any medicines or lotions given to her by Madame Sara—does she follow any line of treatment advised by her?”

  “No, I am certain on that point.”

  “Very well. I will see your wife tonight in order to ask her some questions. You must both leave town at once. Go to your country house and settle there. I am quite serious when I say that Mrs. Selby is in the utmost possible danger until after the death of her brother. We must leave you now, Mr. Silva. All business affairs must wait for the present. It is absolut
ely necessary that Mrs. Selby should leave London at once. Good night, sir. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling on you tomorrow morning.”

  We took leave of the sick man. As soon as we got into the street Vandeleur stopped.

  “I must leave it to you, Selby,” he said, “to judge how much of this matter you tell to your wife. Were I you I would explain everything. The time for immediate action has arrived, and she is a brave and sensible woman. From this moment you must watch all the foods and liquids that she takes. She must never be out of your sight or out of the sight of some other trustworthy companion.”

  “I shall, of course, watch my wife myself,” said Selby. “But the thing is enough to drive one mad.”

  “I will go with you to the country, Selby,” I said, suddenly.

  “Ah!” cried Vandeleur, “that is the best thing possible, and what I wanted to propose. Go, all of you, by an early train tomorrow.”

  “Then I will be off home at once, to make arrangements,” I said. “I will meet you, Selby, at Waterloo for the first train to Cronsmoor tomorrow.”

  As I was turning away Vandeleur caught my arm.

  “I am glad you are going with them,” he said. “I shall write to you tonight re instructions. Never be without a loaded revolver. Good night.” By 6:15 the next morning Selby, his wife, and I were in a reserved, locked, first-class compartment, speeding rapidly west. The servants and Mrs. Selby’s own special maid were in a separate carriage. Selby’s face showed signs of a sleepless night, and presented a striking contrast to the fair, fresh face of the girl round whom this strange battle raged. Her husband had told her everything, and, though still suffering terribly from the shock and grief of her sister’s death, her face was calm and full of repose. A carriage was waiting for us at Cronsmoor, and by half-past nine we arrived at the old home of the Selbys, nestling amid its oaks and elms. Everything was done to make the home-coming of the bride as cheerful as circumstances would permit, but a gloom, impossible to lift, overshadowed Selby himself. He could scarcely rouse himself to take the slightest interest in anything.