The Mystery Queen

by Fergus Hume

  “Do you take me for a fool?” cried Mrs. Pelgrin, her sallow face becoming a fiery red; “am I not telling you again and again that Mrs. Jarsell never went to see your rubbishy race? She came here to get some eggs from me, and sat in this very room at nine o’clock, or a little after. You take me for a liar, you—you—oh, I’ll best see to the dinner, or I’ll lose my temper,” and the sharp-tongued woman, having already lost it, bounced out of the room.

  “Mrs. Jarsell was here at nine o’clock, or a little after,” repeated Dan, in a wondering tone, “then she could not have been in London. All the same, I swear I saw her on that cinematograph.” Here he opened his bag and took out an “A.B.C.”, to see the trains from Thawley to London.

  An examination showed him that, even if Mrs. Jarsell had left Thawley Station at nine o’clock exactly, she would not have reached St. Pancras until twelve-five. This would scarcely give her time to arrive at Blackheath. The aeroplanes had started in the race at one o’clock, and, according to the evidence at the inquest the people had been looking at them flying northward at the moment Durwin was stabbed. Mrs. Jarsell could hardly have arrived on the ground by one o’clock if she only got to St. Pancras at mid-day. And then, to do that, she would have been obliged to leave Thawley at nine o’clock. According to George she had not been near the station on that day, and if Mrs. Pelgrin was to be believed, she was in the very room he now occupied at the hour when the express departed. It was clearly impossible that she could have got to Thawley for the nine o’clock train, let alone it being impossible that had she caught the express she could have arrived in London in time to execute the crime by one o’clock, or a trifle later. Yet, on the one hand, was the evidence of Mrs. Pelgrin and her nephew, while on the other hand was the evidence of the cinematograph. One or the other must assuredly be wrong. Of course the landlady and George might be telling lies, but on the face of it there was no need for them to do so. Moreover, as Dan had sprung his questions on them unexpectedly, they could not have been ready with false answers.

  “She must have used a motor-car,” thought Halliday, restoring the “A.B.C.” to his bag, “yet even so, she was here at nine o’clock, and could not have reached town in the three hours and odd minutes. D— it!”

  Mrs. Pelgrin brought in the dinner with compressed lips and showed small disposition to chatter. Anxious not to arouse her suspicions by asking any further questions, Dan began to talk of other matters, and gradually she became more friendly. He told her that he had employed George and had given him half-a-crown, since the mention of money appeared to melt her into civility more than did anything else. Mrs. Pelgrin smiled grimly, and observed that “George was a grasping hound,” an amiable speech which did not argue that she was on the best of terms with the sleepy-eyed man at Thawley Station. After Dan had learned indirectly all he could from her he sought out Vincent’s cottage, only to learn that the inventor and his niece were absent for the day. As he could frame no excuse to visit Mrs. Jarsell there was nothing left for him to do but to travel back to town; therefore he found himself once more in St. Pancras Station, comparatively early in the evening, wondering what was the solution of this new problem.

  Chapter XII. AN AMAZING ADVENTURE

  Next day Dan went to look up Laurance and have a consultation, as he was considerably puzzled over the new problem and did not know exactly how to act. But Fate was against him, so far as having a second opinion was concerned, for Laurance proved to be absent. An anarchistic plot, of which “The Moment” desired to know the details, had taken him to Vienna, and it was probable that he would not return for at least a week. Halliday might have expected something of the sort, as in the prosecution of his business Freddy was here, there, and everywhere, never knowing his next destination, which depended entirely on the latest sensation. But hitherto few startling events had summoned Laurance out of England, and Dan had been accustomed to finding him always on the spot for a consultation. He left the office of “The Moment” in a rather disconsolate frame of mind.

  There was no doubt that Halliday badly needed someone to talk to about the matters which occupied his thoughts. But, failing Freddy, who was working alongside him, he did not know any one worth consulting—any one, that is, whose advice would be worth taking.

  Certainly there were the two inspectors of police—one at Hampstead and one at Blackheath—who were deeply interested in the respective deaths of Moon and Durwin. They would have been delighted to discuss the entire business threadbare in the hope of solving the mystery of the two crimes. But Dan did not wish to bring the police into the matter until he had more evidence to go upon. After all, what he knew concerning Mrs. Jarsell and Penn was both vague and uncertain, while the clue of the perfume being so slight might be scouted as ridiculous by these cut-and-dried officials. What Halliday wished to do was to establish a connection between the doings at Sheepeak, Blackheath, and Hampstead on evidence that could not be questioned, so that he might submit a complete case to the police. He could not do this until he acquired positive proof, and he desired to acquire the same by his own endeavours supplemented by those of Laurance. Therefore, as Freddy was away on business, and Dan did not care about placing his unfinished case before the inspectors, he went about his ordinary affairs, waiting for his friend’s return. This was all that he could do, and he did it reluctantly.

  A hint from Lord Curberry had evidently made Sir John more vigilant as regarded his niece. Dan called at the house and was denied an interview; he wrote a letter and received no answer; and although he haunted Bond Street and Regent Street, the park and the theatres, he could catch no glimpse of Lillian. After three days of unavailing endeavour he went to Bedford and attended to the transfer of his aeroplane to Blackheath, bringing it up in the train personally. Then he put it together again, and took short flights in the vicinity of London, after repairing the damage done to the rudder. All the same, his heart was not in the business of aviation at the moment, as the detective fever had seized him, and he felt that he could not rest until he had solved the mystery of the two crimes. But at the moment, he saw no way by which he could advance towards a consummation of his wishes, and simply fiddled away his time until the return of Laurance. Then, after a threshing out of details, he hoped to make some sort of move in the darkness.

  But Fate decreed that he should act alone and without advice, and the intimation of Fate’s intention came in the form of a short letter from Marcus Penn, asking for an interview. “I am confident,” wrote the secretary, “that from what you threatened in the aeroplane you suspect me of knowing something relative to Sir Charles Moon’s murder. As I am entirely innocent, I resent these suspicions, and I wish you to meet me in order that they should be cleared away. If you will meet me at the booking-office of the Bakerloo Tube, I can take you to the person who gave me the perfume. He will be able to tell you that I have no connection with any one criminal.” Then the letter went on to state day and hour of the appointment, and ended with the feeble signature of the writer. Dan always thought that Penn’s signature revealed only too plainly the weakness of his character.

  Of course he intended to go, even though he remembered that Penn had declared the identity of the person who had given him the perfume. His cousin in Sumatra had sent the same to him, the secretary had said, yet he now proposed to introduce Dan to another person, who was the donor of the scent. Unless, indeed—and this was possible—the Sumatra cousin had come to England with the intention of exonerating Penn. Certainly, Penn might mean mischief, and might be dexterously luring him into a trap. But Halliday felt that he was quite equal to dealing with a timid personality such as the secretary possessed. Also, when going to keep the appointment, he slipped a revolver into his hip-pocket, to be used if necessary. It might be—and Dan’s adventurous blood reached fever heat at the mere idea—that Penn intended to introduce him to his brother scoundrels, who constituted this mysterious gang. If so, there was a very good chance that at last he might learn something tangible conc
erning the organisation. Undoubtedly there was a great risk of his losing liberty, if not life, and it was impossible to say what precautions this society of cut-throats might take to preserve its secrets. But Halliday was not of a nervous nature, and, moreover, was willing to risk everything on one cast of the die, instead of lingering in suspense. He therefore got himself ready without saying a word to anyone, and kept the appointment. And, indeed, now that Laurance was absent, there was no one to whom he could speak.

  It chanced to be a somewhat foggy night when Dan descended to the underground in Trafalgar Square, but out of the darkness and in the light he had no difficulty in recognising Penn. The secretary was well wrapped up in a heavy great-coat, and welcomed the young man with a nervous smile, blinking his pale eyes furiously, as was his custom when much moved. However, he spoke amiably enough, and appeared to bear no malice against his companion, notwithstanding the threat in the aeroplane.

  “I am glad you have come, Mr. Halliday,” said Penn, in a would-be dignified tone, “as I wish to clear my character from the grave doubts you cast upon it when we last met.”

  “Your admissions favoured the grave doubts,” retorted Dan lightly.

  “I spoke foolishly, Mr. Halliday, as I was quite upset by your threats.”

  “H’m! I wonder to see you trust yourself again with such a bloodthirsty being as I am, Mr. Penn.”

  “Oh, I knew you were only bluffing in the aeroplane,” said the secretary, in a meek voice and with a shrug.

  “The means you took to escape further questioning showed me that!”

  The dry tone of Dan stirred the man’s chilly blood to greater heat. “You have no right to interfere with my private affairs,” he said, furiously.

  “But when those affairs have to do with a crime—”

  “They have not. I know nothing about the matter,” Penn’s breath was short, and he tried to keep his voice from quavering. “When you see my cousin he will prove that he gave me the scent.”

  “Oh! then your Sumatra cousin is now in England?”

  “Yes! Otherwise, I should not have asked you to come.”

  “Are we to meet him here?” questioned Dan, glancing round curiously.

  “No. We can go to him in a taxi. I thought of the Tube first, but we can get to our destination quicker in a motor. Come!” and Penn, leading the way, ascended the stairs down which Halliday had lately come.

  “Where are we going to?” asked Dan, but the secretary, being some distance ahead, either did not hear the question, or did not desire to reply to the same. “I suppose,” added Halliday, as the two stood once more in the foggy upper-world, “that your cousin wishes to see Mrs. Jarsell?”

  “My cousin doesn’t know Mrs. Jarsell, neither do I,” retorted Penn, sharply.

  “Curious that she should possess the perfume,” murmured Dan, sceptically, “and one which you say is unique.”

  “In England that is,” said the secretary, as they stepped into a taxi-cab which evidently was waiting for them, near the Trafalgar Square lions, “but this lady whose name you mention may know someone in Sumatra also, and in that way the perfume may have come into her possession.”

  “Ah!” Dan made himself comfortable, while Penn pulled up the windows of the taxi, so as to keep out the damp air, “the long arm of coincidence?”

  “The improbably usually occurs in real life and not in novels, Mr. Halliday.”

  Dan laughed and watched the street lights flash past the blurred windows as the taxi turned up the Haymarket. He wondered where they were going, and as he believed that Penn would not give him any information he carefully watched to see the route. His companion adjusted his silk muffler well over his mouth, with a murmured explanation about his weak lungs, and then held out a silver cigarette case to Dan, clicking it open as he did so.

  “Will you smoke, Mr. Halliday?”

  “No, thank you,” replied the other, cautiously, “for the present, I don’t care about it,” and Penn shrugged his shoulders, evidently understanding that Dan did not trust him or his gifts. After a time he took out a cigarette and lighted a match.

  “These cigarettes are of a particular kind,” he remarked, and blew a cloud of smoke directly under Halliday’s nose, after which he readjusted the muffler, not only over his mouth, but over his nose.

  Dan started, for the whiff of smoke filled the close confinement of the taxi with the well-known flavour of the Sumatra scent. He was about to make a remark when the scent grew stronger as the cigarette burned steadily with a red, smouldering tip, and he felt suddenly faint. “Pull down the window,” he gasped, and leaned forward to do so himself.

  For answer, Penn suddenly pulled the young man back into his seat, and enveloped him in a cloud of drowsy smoke, keeping his own mouth and nose well covered meanwhile with the silk muffler. Halliday made a faint struggle to retain his senses and the control of his muscles, but the known world receded rapidly from him, and he seemed to be withdrawn into gulfs of utter gloom. The last coherent thought which came into his mind was that the pretended cigarette produced by Penn was a drugged pastile. Then an effort to grasp the undoubted fact that he had been lured into a skilful trap which had shut down on him, used up his remaining will-power, and he remembered no more. Whither he went into darkness, or what he did, Dan never knew, as there seemed to be no break in the time that elapsed from his becoming unconscious in the taxi and waking with the acrid smell of some reviving salts in his nostrils. He might have been on earth or in sky and sea; he did not know, for he opened his eyes languidly in a dense gloom.

  “Where am I?” he asked, but there was no reply. His senses came back to him with a rush, owing perhaps to the power of the stimulant applied to bring him round. He sat up alertly in his chair, and felt immediately that his arms were bound tightly to his sides, so that he could not use his revolver, or even strike a match. He certainly would have done this latter had he been able to, for he greatly desired to be informed as to the quality of his surroundings. He presumed that he was in a large room of some kind, and he became convinced by his sixth sense that the room was crowded with people. When fully himself Dan could hear the soft breathing of many unseen beings, but whether they were men or women, or a mixture of the sexes, he could not say. Even when his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could discern nothing, for the darkness was that of Egypt. And the silence, save for the steady breathing, was most uncanny.

  Dan felt it incumbent upon him to make some attempt towards acquiring knowledge. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” he demanded loudly and in a resolute tone, “I insist upon knowing!”

  From the near distance came a whispering voice, which made him shiver. “No one insists here,” said the unknown speaker, “all obey.”

  “Who is it that all obey?” demanded the prisoner undauntedly.

  “Queen Beelzebub!” murmured the voice, soft and sibilant.

  There flashed into Dan’s mind some teaching, secular or sacred—he could not tell which at the moment—relative to a deity who had to do with flies. A Phoenician deity he fancied, but surely if his memory served him, a male godling. Beelzebub, the god of Flies! He remembered now, and remembered also the trade-mark of the mysterious society formed for the purpose of murdering various people, for various reasons, known and unknown.

  “So you have got me at last,” he said aloud; “I might have guessed that Penn would trap me.”

  “No names,” said the unseen speaker coldly, “it will be the worse for you if you mention names.”

  “Am I addressing Beelzebub?” asked Dan, and for the life of him he could not keep the irony out of his tones, for the whole thing was so theatrical.

  “Queen Beelzebub!”

  “I see; you have given the god of Flies a consort. May I ask why I have been brought here?”

  “We intend to make you an offer.”

  “Who we? What we?”

  “The members of the Society of Flies, of which I am the head.”

  “H�
�m, I understand. Don’t you think you had better loose my hands and turn up the lights?”

  “Be silent!” ordered the voice imperiously, and, as Dan fancied, with some hint of temper at the flippant way in which he talked, “be silent and listen!”

  “I can’t help myself,” said Halliday coolly, “go on, please.”

  There was a soft rustle, as if the unseen company admired his courage for behaving calmly in what was, undoubtedly, a weird and trying situation. Then some distance away a disc of red light, like a winter sun, appeared with nerve-shaking swiftness. It revealed none of the company, for all were still in the gloom, but concentrated its angry rays on a large and solemn visage, unhuman in its stillness and awful calm. It was an Egyptian face, such as belongs to the statues of the gods of Kem, and the head-dress, stiff and formal, was also suggestive of the Nile. Of more than usual size, Dan could only see its vast features, but fancied that a red robe fell in folds from the neck downward. There was something grand about this severe face, and in the darkness, with the scarlet light gleaming fiercely on its immobility, it was assuredly effective, if somewhat theatrical. The lips did not move when Queen Beelzebub began to speak, but the eyes were alive; the eyes of the person concealed behind the mask. Dan noticed that when the face became visible in the angry red light, that the speaker ceased to whisper, and the voice became deep, voluminous, and resonant as that of a gong. The tone was that of a man, but it might have been a woman speaking through an artificial mouthpiece. The final thing which Dan noticed was that the whole atmosphere of the room reeked with the rich fragrance of the Sumatra scent.

  “You are very daring and meddlesome,” said the voice, issuing in chilly tones from behind the stately mask, “for you have intruded yourself into affairs which have nothing to do with you.”

  “They have everything to do with me,” retorted Halliday decisively, and feeling reckless, “if you and your society are omniscient, you should know.”