The Beetle

by Richard Marsh

  ‘Doctor, if there is any of that brandy left will you let me have it for my friend?’

  Lessingham disposed of the remainder of the ‘shillings worth.’ I rather fancy it saved us from a scene.

  The Inspector was speaking to the woman of the house.

  ‘Now, Mrs Henderson, perhaps you’ll tell us what all this means. Who is this man, and how did he come in here, and who came in with him, and what do you know about it altogether? If you’ve got anything to say, say it, only you’d better be careful, because it’s my duty to warn you that anything you do say may be used against you.’

  CHAPTER XLV

  ALL THAT MRS ’ENDERSON KNEW

  MRS HENDERSON PUT HER HANDS under her apron and smirked.

  ‘Well, Mr Phillips, it do sound strange to ’ear you talkin’ to me like that. Anybody’d think I’d done something as I didn’t ought to ’a’ done to ’ear you going on. As for what’s ’appened, I’ll tell you all I know with the greatest willingness on earth. And as for bein’ careful, there ain’t no call for you to tell me to be that, for that I always am, as by now you ought to know.’

  ‘Yes,—I do know. Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘Rilly, Mr Phillips, what a man you are for catching people up, you rilly are. O’ course that ain’t all I’ve got to say,—ain’t I just a-comin’ to it?’

  ‘Then come.’

  ‘If you presses me so you’ll muddle of me up, and then if I do ’appen to make a herror, you’ll say I’m a liar, when goodness knows there ain’t no more truthful woman not in Limehouse.’

  Words plainly trembled on the Inspector’s lips,—which he refrained from uttering. Mrs Henderson cast her eyes upwards, as if she sought for inspiration from the filthy ceiling.

  ‘So far as I can swear it might ’ave been a hour ago, or it might ’ave been a hour and a quarter, or it might ’ave been a hour and twenty minutes—’

  ‘We’re not particular as to the seconds.’

  ‘When I ’ears a knockin’ at my front door, and when I comes to open it, there was a Harab party, with a great bundle on ’is ’ead, bigger nor ’isself, and two other parties along with him. This Harab party says, in that queer foreign way them Harab parties ’as of talkin’, “A room for the night, a room.” Now I don’t much care for foreigners, and never did, especially them Harabs, which their ’abits ain’t my own,—so I as much ’ints the same. But this ’ere Harab party, he didn’t seem to quite foller of my meaning, for all he done was to say as he said afore, “A room for the night, a room.” And he shoves a couple of ’arf crowns into my ‘and. Now it’s always been a motter o’ mine, that money is money, and one man’s money is as good as another man’s. So, not wishing to be disagreeable—which other people would have taken ’em if I ’adn’t, I shows ’em up ’ere. I’d been downstairs it might ’ave been ’arf a hour, when I ’ears a shindy a-coming from this room—’

  ‘What sort of a shindy?’

  ‘Yelling and shrieking—oh my gracious, it was enough to set your blood all curdled,—for ear-piercingness I never did ’ear nothing like it. We do ’ave troublesome parties in ’ere, like they do elsewhere, but I never did ’ear nothing like that before. I stood it for about a minute, but it kep’ on, and kep’ on, and every moment I expected as the other parties as was in the ’ouse would be complainin’, so up I comes and I thumps at the door, and it seemed that thump I might for all the notice that was took of me.’

  ‘Did the noise keep on?’

  ‘Keep on! I should think it did keep on! Lord love you! shriek after shriek, I expected to see the roof took off.’

  ‘Were there any other noises? For instance, were there any sounds of struggling, or of blows?’

  ‘There weren’t no sounds except of the party hollering.’

  ‘One party only?’

  ‘One party only. As I says afore, shriek after shriek,—when you put your ear to the panel there was a noise like some other party blubbering, but that weren’t nothing, as for the hollering you wouldn’t have thought that nothing what you might call ’umin could ’ave kep’ up such a screechin’. I thumps and thumps and at last when I did think that I should ’ave to ’ave the door broke down, the Harab says to me from inside, “Go away! I pay for the room! go away!” I did think that pretty good, I tell you that. So I says, “Pay for the room or not pay for the room, you didn’t pay to make that shindy!” And what’s more I says, “If I ’ear it again,” I says, “out you goes! And if you don’t go quiet I’ll ’ave somebody in as’ll pretty quickly make you!”’

  ‘Then was there silence?’

  ‘So to speak there was,—only there was this sound as if some party was a-blubbering, and another sound as if a party was a-panting for his breath.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Seeing that, so to speak, all was quiet, down I went again. And in another quarter of a hour, or it might ’ave been twenty minutes, I went to the front door to get a mouthful of hair. And Mrs Barker, what lives over the road, at No. 24, she comes to me and says, “That there Arab party of yours didn’t stop long.” I looks at ’er, “I don’t quite foller you,” I says,—which I didn’t. “I saw him come in,” she says, “and then, a few minutes back, I see ’im go again, with a great bundle on ’is ’ead he couldn’t ’ardly stagger under!” “Oh,” I says, “that’s news to me, I didn’t know ’e’d gone, nor see him neither—” which I didn’t. So, up I comes again, and, sure enough, the door was open, and it seems to me that the room was empty, till I come upon this pore young man what was lying be’ind the bed.’

  There was a growl from the doctor.

  ‘If you’d had any sense, and sent for me at once, he might have been alive at this moment.’

  ‘’Ow was I to know that, Dr Glossop? I couldn’t tell. My finding ’im there murdered was quite enough for me. So I runs downstairs, and I nips ’old of ’Gustus Barley, what was leaning against the wall, and I says to him, “’Gustus Barley, run to the station as fast as you can and tell ’em that a man’s been murdered,—that Harab’s been and killed a bloke.” And that’s all I know about it, and I couldn’t tell you no more, Mr Phillips, not if you was to keep on asking me questions not for hours and hours.’

  ‘Then you think it was this man’—with a motion towards the bed—‘who was shrieking?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Phillips, about that I don’t ’ardly know what to think. If you ’ad asked me I should ’ave said it was a woman. I ought to know a woman’s holler when I ’ear it, if any one does, I’ve ’eard enough of ’em in my time, goodness knows. And I should ’ave said that only a woman could ’ave hollered like that and only ’er when she was raving mad. But there weren’t no woman with him. There was only this man what’s murdered, and the other man,—and as for the other man I will say this, that ’e ’adn’t got twopennyworth of clothes to cover ’im. But, Mr Phillips, howsomever that may be, that’s the last Harab I’ll ’ave under my roof, no matter what they pays, and you may mark my words I’ll ’ave no more.’

  Mrs Henderson, once more glancing upward, as if she imagined herself to have made some declaration of a religious nature, shook her head with much solemnity.

  CHAPTER XLVI

  THE SUDDEN STOPPING

  AS WE WERE LEAVING the house a constable gave the Inspector a note. Having read it he passed it to me. It was from the local office.

  ‘Message received that an Arab with a big bundle on his head has been noticed loitering about the neighbourhood of St Pancras Station. He seemed to be accompanied by a young man who had the appearance of a tramp. Young man seemed ill. They appeared to be waiting for a train, probably to the North. Shall I advise detention?’

  I scribbled on the flyleaf of the note.

  ‘Have them detained. If they have gone by train have a special in readiness.’

  In a minute we were again in the cab. I
endeavoured to persuade Lessingham and Atherton to allow me to conduct the pursuit alone,—in vain. I had no fear of Atherton’s succumbing, but I was afraid for Lessingham. What was more almost than the expectation of his collapse was the fact that his looks and manner, his whole bearing, so eloquent of the agony and agitation of his mind, was beginning to tell upon my nerves. A catastrophe of some sort I foresaw. Of the curtain’s fall upon one tragedy we had just been witnesses. That there was worse—much worse, to follow I did not doubt. Optimistic anticipations were out of the question,—that the creature we were chasing would relinquish the prey uninjured, no one, after what we had seen and heard, could by any possibility suppose. Should a necessity suddenly arise for prompt and immediate action, that Lessingham would prove a hindrance rather than a help I felt persuaded.

  But since moments were precious, and Lessingham was not to be persuaded to allow the matter to proceed without him, all that remained was to make the best of his presence.

  The great arch of St Pancras was in darkness. An occasional light seemed to make the darkness still more visible. The station seemed deserted. I thought, at first, that there was not a soul about the place, that our errand was in vain, that the only thing for us to do was to drive to the police station and to pursue our inquiries there. But as we turned towards the booking-office, our footsteps ringing out clearly through the silence and the night, a door opened, a light shone out from the room within, and a voice inquired:

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My name’s Champnell. Has a message been received from me from the Limehouse Police Station?’

  ‘Step this way.’

  We stepped that way,—into a snug enough office, of which one of the railway inspectors was apparently in charge. He was a big man, with a fair beard. He looked me up and down, as if doubtfully. Lessingham he recognised at once. He took off his cap to him.

  ‘Mr Lessingham, I believe?’

  ‘I am Mr Lessingham. Have you any news for me?

  I fancy, by his looks,—that the official was struck by the pallor of the speaker’s face,—and by his tremulous voice.

  ‘I am instructed to give certain information to a Mr Augustus Champnell.’

  ‘I am Mr Champnell. What’s your information?’

  ‘With reference to the Arab about whom you have been making inquiries. A foreigner, dressed like an Arab, with a great bundle on his head, took two single thirds for Hull by the midnight express.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘It is believed that he was accompanied by a young man of very disreputable appearance. They were not together at the booking-office, but they had been seen together previously. A minute or so after the Arab had entered the train this young man got into the same compartment—they were in the front waggon.’

  ‘Why were they not detained?’

  ‘We had no authority to detain them, nor any reason, until your message was received a few minutes ago we at this station were not aware that inquiries were being made for them.’

  ‘You say he booked to Hull,—does the train run through to Hull?’

  ‘No—it doesn’t go to Hull at all. Part of it’s the Liverpool and Manchester Express, and part of it’s for Carlisle. It divides at Derby. The man you’re looking for will change either at Sheffield or at Cudworth Junction and go on to Hull by the first train in the morning. There’s a local service.’

  I looked at my watch.

  ‘You say the train left at midnight. It’s now nearly five-and-twenty past. Where’s it now?’

  ‘Nearing St Albans, it’s due there 12.35.’

  ‘Would there be time for a wire to reach St Albans?’

  ‘Hardly,—and anyhow there’ll only be enough railway officials about the place to receive and despatch the train. They’ll be fully occupied with their ordinary duties. There won’t be time to get the police there.’

  ‘You could wire to St Albans to inquire if they were still in the train?’

  ‘That could be done,—certainly. I’ll have it done at once if you like.’

  ‘Then where’s the next stoppage?’

  ‘Well, they’re at Luton at 12.51. But that’s another case of St Albans. You see there won’t be much more than twenty minutes by the time you’ve got your wire off, and I don’t expect there’ll be many people awake at Luton. At these country places sometimes there’s a policeman hanging about the station to see the express go through, but, on the other hand, very often there isn’t, and if there isn’t, probably at this time of night it’ll take a good bit of time to get the police on the premises. I tell you what I should advise.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The train is due at Bedford at 1.29—send your wire there. There ought to be plenty of people about at Bedford, and anyhow there’ll be time to get the police to the station.’

  ‘Very good. I instructed them to tell you to have a special ready,—have you got one?’

  ‘There’s an engine with steam up in the shed,—we’ll have all ready for you in less than ten minutes. And I tell you what,—you’ll have about fifty minutes before the train is due at Bedford. It’s a fifty mile run. With luck you ought to get there pretty nearly as soon as the express does.—Shall I tell them to get ready?’

  ‘At once.’

  While he issued directions through a telephone to what, I presume, was the engine shed, I drew up a couple of telegrams. Having completed his orders he turned to me.

  ‘They’re coming out of the siding now—they’ll be ready in less than ten minutes. I’ll see that the line’s kept clear. Have you got those wires?’

  ‘Here is one,—this is for Bedford.’

  It ran:

  ‘Arrest the Arab who is in train due at 1.29. When leaving St Pancras he was in a third-class compartment in front waggon. He has a large bundle, which detain. He took two third singles for Hull. Also detain his companion, who is dressed like a tramp. This is a young lady whom the Arab has disguised and kidnapped while in a condition of hypnotic trance. Let her have medical assistance and be taken to a hotel. All expenses will be paid on the arrival of the undersigned who is following by special train. As the Arab will probably be very violent a sufficient force of police should be in waiting.

  ‘AUGUSTUS CHAMPNELL.’

  ‘And this is the other. It is probably too late to be of any use at St Albans,—but send it there, and also to Luton.’

  ‘Is Arab with companion in train which left St Pancras at 13.0? If so, do not let them get out till train reaches Bedford, where instructions are being wired for arrest.’

  The Inspector rapidly scanned them both.

  ‘They ought to do your business, I should think. Come along with me—I’ll have them sent at once, and we’ll see if your train’s ready.’

  The train was not ready,—nor was it ready within the prescribed ten minutes. There was some hitch, I fancy, about a saloon. Finally we had to be content with an ordinary old-fashioned first-class carriage. The delay, however, was not altogether time lost. Just as the engine with its solitary coach was approaching the platform someone came running up with an envelope in his hand.

  ‘Telegram from St Albans.’

  I tore it open. It was brief and to the point.

  Arab with companion was in train when it left here. Am wiring Luton.

  ‘That’s all right. Now unless something wholly unforeseen takes place, we ought to have them.’

  That unforeseen!

  I went forward with the Inspector and the guard of our train to exchange a few final words with the driver. The Inspector explained what instructions he had given.

  ‘I’ve told the driver not to spare his coal but to take you into Bedford within five minutes after the arrival of the express. He says he thinks that he can do it.’

  The driver leaned over his engine, rubbing his hands with the usual oily rag.
He was a short, wiry man with grey hair and a grizzled moustache, with about him that bearing of semi-humorous, frank-faced resolution which one notes about engine-drivers as a class.

  ‘We ought to do it, the gradients are against us, but it’s a clear night and there’s no wind. The only thing that will stop us will be if there’s any shunting on the road, or any luggage trains; of course, if we are blocked, we are blocked, but the Inspector says he’ll clear the way for us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Inspector, ‘I’ll clear the way. I’ve wired down the road already.’

  Atherton broke in.

  ‘Driver, if you get us into Bedford within five minutes of the arrival of the mail there’ll be a five-pound note to divide between your mate and you.’

  The driver grinned.

  ‘We’ll get you there in time, sir, if we have to go clear through the shunters. It isn’t often we get a chance of a five-pound note for a run to Bedford, and we’ll do our best to earn it.’

  The fireman waved his hand in the rear.

  ‘That’s right, sir!’ he cried. ‘We’ll have to trouble you for that five-pound note.’

  So soon as we were clear of the station it began to seem probable that, as the fireman put it, Atherton would be ‘troubled.’ Journeying in a train which consists of a single carriage attached to an engine which is flying at topmost speed is a very different business from being an occupant of an ordinary train which is travelling at ordinary express rates. I had discovered that for myself before. That night it was impressed on me more than ever. A tyro—or even a nervous ‘season’—might have been excused for expecting at every moment we were going to be derailed. It was hard to believe that the carriage had any springs,—it rocked and swung, and jogged and jolted. Of smooth travelling had we none. Talking was out of the question;—and for that, I, personally, was grateful. Quite apart from the difficulty we experienced in keeping our seats—and when every moment our position was being altered and we were jerked backwards and forwards up and down, this way and that, that was a business which required care,—the noise was deafening. It was as though we were being pursued by a legion of shrieking, bellowing, raging demons.