The King of Diamonds: A Tale of Mystery and Adventure

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  "_Revenge is Mine; I Will Repay._"

  "Can't I have a light?" said Philip, with head screwed round toascertain if the doctor were following him.

  Some sense, whether of sight or hearing he knew not, warned him ofmovement near at hand, an impalpable effort, a physical tension as of aman laboring under extreme but repressed excitement.

  He paid little heed to it. All the surroundings in this weird dwellingwere so greatly at variance with his anticipations that he partlyexpected to find further surprises.

  Dr. Williams did not answer. Philip advanced a halting foot, ahesitating hand groping for a door.

  Instantly a stout rope fell over his shoulders, a noose was tightlydrawn, and he was jerked violently to the stone floor of the passage. Hefell prone on his face, hurting his nose and mouth. The shock jarred himgreatly, but his hands, if not his arms, were free, and, with theinstinct of self-preservation that replaces all other sensations inmoments of extreme peril, he strove valiantly to rise.

  But he was grasped by the neck with brutal force, and some one knelt onhis back.

  "Philip Anson," hissed a man's voice, "do you remember Jocky Mason?"

  So he had fallen into a trap, cunningly prepared by what fiendishcombination of fact and artifice he had yet to learn. Jocky Mason, theskulking criminal of Johnson's Mews. Was he in that man's power?

  Under such conditions a man thinks quickly. Philip's first orderedthought was one of relief. He had fallen into the clutches of an Englishbrigand. Money would settle this difficulty, if all other means failed.

  "Yes, yes," he gurgled, half-strangled by the fierce pressure on histhroat.

  "You hit me once from behind. You can't complain if I do the same. Yousent me to a living hell for ten years--not your fault that it wasn'tforever. Lie still! Not all your money can save you now. I am judge andjury, and hell itself. You are dying--dying--dead!"

  And with the final words drawled into his ears with bitter intensity,Philip felt a terrible blow descend on his head. There was no pain, nofear, no poignant emotion at leaving all the world held so dear to him.There was an awful shock. A thundercloud seemed to burst in his brain,and he sank into the void without a groan.

  Now, in falling, the hard, felt hat he wore dropped in front of hisface. The first wild movement of his head tilted it outward, but thesavage jerk given by his assailant brought the rim slightly over hisskull again.

  In the almost complete darkness of the passage, Mason could not see theslight protection this afforded to his victim, and the sledge-hammerblow he delivered with a life-preserver--that murderous implement namedso utterly at variance with its purpose--did not reveal the presence ofan obstacle.

  He struck with a force that would have stunned an ox; it must havekilled any man, be he the hardest-skulled aborigine that ever breathed.But the stout rim of the hat, though crushed like an eggshell, took offsome of the leaden instrument's tremendous impact. Philip, though quiteinsensible, was not dead. His sentient faculties were annihilated forthe time, but his heart continued its life-giving functions, and hebreathed with imperceptible flutterings.

  Mason rose, panting with excitement, glutted with satisfied hate. Helifted his victim's inert form with the ease of his great strength.

  "Come on!" he shouted, and strode toward a door which he kicked open.

  A step sounded haltingly in the passage. Grenier, the _soi-disant_doctor, livid now and shaking with the ague of irretrievable crime,stumbled after his more callous associate. Unconsciously he kickedPhilip's hat to one side. He entered the room, an apartment with aboundless view of the sea.

  Here there was more light than in the kitchen. The windows faced towardthe northwest, and the last radiance of a setting sun illumined a wallon the right.

  "Not there!" he gasped. "In this chair; his face--I must see his face!"

  Mason, still clasping his inanimate burden, laughed with a snarl.

  "Stop that," he roared. "Pull yourself together. Get some brandy. I'vedone my work. If you can't do yours, let me finish it."

  "Oh, just a moment! Give me time! I hate the sight of blood. Get atowel. Bind it round his neck. His clothes! They will be saturated. Andwipe his face. I must see his face."

  Grenier was hysterical; he had the highly strung nervous system of agirl where deeds of bloodshed were concerned. While Mason obeyed hisinstructions he pressed his hands over his eyes.

  "Bring some brandy, white-liver. Do you want me to do everything?"

  This gruff order awoke Grenier to trembling action. He went to acupboard and procured a bottle. Mason, having placed Anson in a chairand steadied his head against the wall, seized half a tumblerful of theneat spirit and drank it with gusto. The other, gradually recovering hisself-control, was satisfied with a less potential draught.

  "It will be dark soon," growled Mason. "We must undress him first, yousaid."

  "Yes. If his clothes are not blood-stained."

  "Rot! He must go into the water naked in any case. The idea is yourown."

  "Ah! I forgot. It will soon be all right. Besides, I knew I should beupset, so I have everything written down here--all fully thought out.There can be no mistake made then."

  He produced a little notebook and opened it with uncertain fingers. Heglanced at a closely written page. The words danced before his vision,but he persevered.

  "Yes. His coat first. Then his boots. Clothes or linen stained withblood to be burned, after cutting off all buttons. Now, I'm ready. Iwill not funk any more."

  His temperament linked the artistic and criminal faculties in sinistercombination, and he soon recovered his domination in a guiltypartnership. It must have been the instinct of the pickpocket that ledhim to appropriate Philip's silver watch, with its quaint shoelaceattachment, before he touched any other article.

  "Queer thing," he commented. "A rich man might afford a bettertimekeeper. But there's no accounting for tastes."

  Mason, satiated and stupefied, obeyed his instructions like aministering ghoul. They undressed Philip wholly, and Grenier, rapidlydenuding himself of his boots and outer clothing, donned these portionsof the victim's attire.

  Then the paint tubes and the other accessories of an actor's make-upwere produced. Grenier, facing a mirror placed on a table close toPhilip, began to remodel his own plastic features in close similitude tothose of the unconscious man. He was greatly assisted by the fact thatin general contour they were not strikingly different.

  Philip's face was of a fine, classical type; Grenier, whose nose, mouthand chin were regular and pleasing, found the greatest difficulty incontrolling the shifty, ferret-like expression of his eyes. Again,Philip had no mustache. The only costume he really liked to wear was hisyachting uniform, and here he conformed to the standard of the navy. Theshaven lip, of course, was helpful to his imitator. All that was neededwas an artistic eye for the chief effect, combined with a skilled use ofhis materials. And herein Grenier was an adept.

  But the light was growing very uncertain.

  "A lamp," he said, querulously, for time sped and he had much to do;"bring a lamp quickly."

  Mason went toward the front kitchen. Grenier did not care about beingleft alone, face to face with the pallid and naked form in the chair,but he set his teeth and repressed the tendency to rush after hisconfederate.

  The latter, in returning, halted an instant.

  "Hello!" he cried. "Here's his hat."

  After placing the lamp on the table beside the mirror, he went back tothe passage.

  Grenier was so busy with the making-up process that he did not noticewhat his companion was doing. His bent form shrouded the light, andMason placed the hat carelessly on a chair. He chanced to hold it by anuninjured part of the rim, and never thought of examining it.

  At last Grenier declared himself satisfied.

  "What do you think of the result?" he demanded, facing about so that theother could see both Anson and himself.

  "First-rate. It would deceive his ow
n mother."

  A terrific rat-tat sounded on the outer door.

  A direct summons to the infernal regions could not have startled bothmen more thoroughly. Grenier, with the protecting make-up on foreheadand cheeks, only showed his terror in his glistening eyes and palsiedframe. Mason, whom nothing could daunt, was, nevertheless, spellboundwith surprise.

  What intruder was this who knocked so imperatively? They were a mile anda half from the nearest habitation, four miles from a village. Whatfearful chance had brought to their door one who thus boldly demandedadmission? Had their scheme miscarried at this vital moment? Had Ansonsuspected something and arranged that he should be followed byrescuers--avengers?

  The sheer agony of fear restored Grenier's wits. He was not Grenier now,but Philip Anson, a very shaky and unnerved Philip Anson, it was true,but sufficiently likelife to choke off doubting inquiries.

  He clutched Mason's arm and pointed a quivering finger toward Philip.

  "Out with him! This instant! The tide is high!"

  "But his face! If he is found----"

  Mason reached for the life-preserver with horrible purpose.

  "No, no. No more noise. Quick, man. You must go to the door. Only summonme if necessary. Oh, quick!"

  He rushed to another door and opened it. There was a balcony beyond. Itoverhung the very lip of the rock. Far beneath, the deep blue of the seashone, and naught else.

  Mason caught up Anson's limp form and ran with him to the balcony. Witha mighty swing he threw him outward, clear of the cliff's edge. For afew tremulous seconds they listened. They thought they heard a splash;then Mason turned coolly to Grenier:

  "Is there any blood on my coat?"

  "I can see none. Now, the door! Keep inside!"

  With quaking heart he listened to Mason's heavy tread along the passageand across the kitchen. He clinched the back of a chair in the effort tocalm himself by forcible means. Then he heard the unbolting of the doorand the telegraph messenger's prompt announcement:

  "Philip Anson, Esquire."

  Mason came to him carrying the telegram.

  Grenier subsided into the chair he held. This time he was prostrated.He could scarce open the flimsy envelope.

  "Abingdon counsels caution. Says there is some mistake. Much love.

  "EVELYN."

  That was all, but it was a good deal. Grenier looked up with lack-lustereyes. He was almost fainting.

  "Send him away," he murmured. "There is nothing to be done. In themorning----"

  Mason saw that his ally was nearly exhausted by the reaction. He grinnedand cursed.

  "Of all the chicken-hearted----"

  But he went and dismissed the boy. Grenier threw himself at full lengthon a sofa.

  "What's up now?" demanded Mason, finding him prone.

  "Wait--just a little while--until my heart stops galloping. Thatconfounded knock! It jarred my spine."

  "Take some more brandy."

  "How can I? It is impossible. I haven't got an ox-head, like you."

  Mason placed the lamp on a central table. Its rays fell on Philip's hat.Something in its appearance caught the man's eye. He picked up the hatand examined it critically.

  "Do you know," he said, after a silence broken only by Grenier's deepbreathing, "I fancy I didn't kill him, after all."

  "Not--kill him? Why--he was dead--in that chair--for an hour."

  "Perhaps. I hit hard enough, but this hat must have taken some of it.When you were busy, I thought his chest heaved slightly. And just now,when I carried him outside, he seemed to move."

  "Rot!"

  "It may be. I struck very hard."

  Grenier sat up.

  "Even if you are right," he muttered, "it does not matter. He fell threehundred feet. The fall alone would kill him. And, if he is drowned, andthe body is picked up, it is better so. Don't you see! Even if he wererecognized he would be drowned, not--not----Well, his death would be dueto natural causes."

  He could not bring himself to say "murdered"--an ugly word.

  "If you were not such a milksop, there would be no fear of his beingrecognized."

  But Grenier laughed a hollow and unconvincing laugh; nevertheless, itwas a sign of recovery.

  "What nonsense we are talking. A naked man, floating, dead, in the NorthSea. Who is he? Not Philip Anson, surely! Philip Anson is gayly gaddingabout England on his private affairs. Where is Green? Hunter, go andtell Green to bring my traps here instantly. I wish him to return totown on an urgent errand."

  There was a glint of admiration in Mason's eyes. Here was one withAnson's face, wearing Anson's clothes, and addressing him in Anson'svoice.

  "That's better," he chuckled. "By G----d, you're clever when your headis clear."

  "Now be off for Green. You know what to say."

  "You will be alone. Will you be afraid?"

  The sneer was the last stimulant Grenier needed.

  "If you were called on to stand in Philip Anson's boots during the nextweek or ten days, my good friend," he quietly retorted, "you would beafraid sixty times in every hour. Your job has nearly ended; mine hasbarely commenced. Now, leave me."

  Nevertheless, he quitted that chamber of death, carrying with him allthat he needed, and hurrying over the task while he could yet hear thedogcart rattling down the hill.

  He commenced with an inventory of Philip's pockets.

  His eyes sparkled at the sight of a well-filled pocketbook, with ahundred pounds in notes stuffed therein, cards, a small collection ofletters, and other odds and ends. Among Philip's books was Evelyn'shurried note of that morning, and on it a penciled memorandum:

  "Sharpe left for Devonshire yesterday. Lady M. wrote from Yorkshire."

  "That was a neat stroke," thought Grenier, with a smile--when he smiledhe least resembled Philip. "Being a man of affairs, Anson promptly wentto the Morlands' solicitors. I was sure of it. I wonder how Jimmiearranged matters with Sharpe. I will know to-morrow at York."

  A check book in another pocket added to his joy.

  "The last rock out of my path," he cried, aloud. "That saves two days.The bait took. By Jove! I'm in luck's way!"

  There was now no need to write to Philip's bank for a fresh book, whichwas his first daring expedient.

  He seated himself at a table and wrote Philip's signature several timesto test his hand. At last it was steady. Then he put a match to a fireall ready for lighting, and burned Philip's hat, collar, shirt andunderclothing; also the blood-stained towel.

  When the mass of clothing was smoldering black and red he threw a freshsupply of coal on top of it. The loss of the hat did not trouble him; hepossessed one of the same shape and color.

  He was quietly smoking a cigar, and practicing Philip's voice betweenthe puffs, when Mason returned with the valet.

  The scene, carefully rehearsed by Grenier in all its details, passed offwith gratifying success. Purring with satisfaction, the chief scoundrelof the pair left in the Grange House by the astonished servant, began tooverhaul the contents of Philip's bag.

  It held the ordinary outfit of a gentleman who does not expect to pay aprotracted visit--an evening dress suit, a light overcoat, a tweed suit,and a small supply of boots and linen. A tiny dressing case fitted intoa special receptacle, and on top of this reposed a folded document.

  Grenier opened it. Mason looked over his shoulder. It was headed:

  "Annual Report of the Mary Anson Home for Destitute Boys."

  Mason coarsely cursed both the home and its patron. But Grenier laughedpleasantly.

  "The very thing," he cried. "Look here!"

  And he pointed to an indorsement by the secretary.

  "For signature if approved of."

  "I will sign and return it, with a nice typewritten letter, to-morrow,from York. Abingdon is one of the governors. Oh, I will bamboozle themrarely."

  "This blooming charity will help you a bit, then?"

  "Nothing better. Let us go out for a little stroll. Now, don't forget
.Address me as 'Mr. Anson.' Get used to it, even if we are alone. And itwill be no harm should we happen to meet somebody."

  They went down the hill and entered the rough country road that wound upfrom Scarsdale to the cliff. Through the faint light of a summer's nightthey saw a man approaching.

  It was a policeman.

  "_Absit omen_," said Grenier, softly.

  "What's that?"

  "Latin for a cop. You complained of my want of nerve. Watch me now."

  He halted the policeman, and questioned him about the locality, thedirection of the roads, the villages on the coast. He explainedpleasantly that he was a Londoner, and an utter stranger in these parts.

  "You are staying at the Grange House, sir?" said the man, in his turn.

  "Yes. Come here to-day, in fact."

  "I saw you, sir. Is the gentleman who drove you from Scarsdale stayingthere, too? I met you on the road, and he seemed to know me."

  Grenier silently anathematized his carelessness. Policemen in ruralYorkshire were not as common as policemen in Oxford Street. It was thesame man whom he had encountered hours ago.

  "Oh, he is a doctor. Yes, he resides in the Grange House."

  "You won't find much room for a party there, sir," persisted theconstable. "I don't remember the gentleman at all. What is his name?"

  "Dr. Williams. He is a genial sort of fellow--nods to anybody. Take acigar. Sorry I can't ask you to go up and have a drink, but there isillness in the place."

  The policeman passed on.

  "Illness!" he said, glancing at the gloomy outlines of the farm. "Howmany of 'em are in t' place. And who's yon dark-lookin' chap, I wonder?My, but his face would stop a clock!"