The Riddle of the Night Part 7

"Perhaps he didn't, Mr. Narkom; perhaps somebody did the coaxing for him. A woman is a clever lure, my friend, and we know that one or two, perhaps three---- Oh, well, let it go at that."

A faint sound of an automobile horn sounded its blare through the distance and darkness.

"Lennard is coming back with the local authorities. I'd know the hooting of that horn among a thousand, Mr. Narkom. And with their coming, 'Monsieur de Lesparre' returns to his native kit bag. This way, Dollops--look sharp! Pick us up at the old railway arch as soon as you can, Mr. Narkom. We'll be on the lookout for you. Now then, Dollops, my lad, step lively!"

"Right you are, gov'ner. So long, Mr. Narkom. We're off--as the eggs said to the cook when she got a whiff of 'em."

"Good-bye for a little time," said Cleek, reaching out and gripping the superintendent's hand. "At the arch, remember. It has been child's play up to this, Mr. Narkom. Now the real work begins. And unless all signs fail, it promises to be the case of my career."

And so, like this, he stepped off into the mist and darkness, and went his way--to the beginning of the chase; to the reading of the riddle; to those things of Love and Mystery, of Faith and Unfaith, of Sorrow and of Joy, whose trail lay under the roof of Wuthering Grange and which walked as shadows with Lady Katharine Fordham and Ailsa Lorne.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE"

Once the affair had been reported to the local police, news of the tragedy spread over the neighbourhood with amazing velocity, and by nine o'clock next morning there wasn't a soul within a radius of five miles who had not heard of it; by ten the Common and the immediate vicinity of Gleer Cottage were literally black with morbid-minded sightseers and reporters.

As yet, however, none but the police and the representatives of the press had been permitted to cross the threshold of the house or to obtain even the merest glimpse of the murdered man. For all that, certain facts relative to the position in which the body had been found, together with the mysterious marks upon his s.h.i.+rt bosom, had leaked out, and as Scotland Yard, as represented by Cleek and Superintendent Narkom, had chosen to remain silent for the present relative to such clues as had been discovered, this gave room for some fine flights of fancy on the part of the representatives of the press.

The special correspondent of the _Evening Planet_ "discovered" that the Count was "a well-known Austrian n.o.bleman" who had offended the famous Ravaschol group, and was the author of the equally famous "Ninth Clause"

which had acted so disastrously against it--a circ.u.mstance which, the _Planet_ claimed, left no shadow of a doubt regarding "the true meaning of the mysterious markings upon the s.h.i.+rt bosom of the unfortunate gentleman." Whereupon the representative of its bitterest rival, the _Morning Star_, as promptly discovered that he was nothing of the sort; that he had been "positively identified" as the former keeper of a sort of club in Soho much frequented by Russian, German, French, and Italian anarchists; and that, on its being discovered by those gentry that he had sold to the police of their several countries secrets thus learned, he had been obliged to disappear from his regular haunts in order to save his skin. And, furthermore, as the address of the house in which that club had been maintained, and from which he had carried on his system of betrayal, was 63 Ess.e.x Row, the explanation of the markings was quite clear--to wit: "Four and two make six; one and two make three; furthermore, the peculiar formation of the repeated figure 2 is, of course, a rude attempt to make it serve for the letter S. as well; which, taken in conjunction with the three X's, leaves no room for doubt that these markings stand for Number Sixty-three Ess.e.x Row and for nothing else."

Now as it happened that 63 Ess.e.x Row had, at one time in its career, been the seat of just such a club and just such a proceeding as the _Morning Star_ stated, nothing was left the _Evening Planet_ but sneeringly to point out that "the imaginative genius of our esteemed contemporary should not let it fail to remember that the man Lovetski--to whom it doubtless refers, and whose mysterious vanishment some years ago has never been cleared up--had his supporters as well as his accusers. It was clearly shown at the time that although he dwelt in the house where the 'club' in question held forth, there never was any absolute proof that he was himself in any way actually connected with it, his vocation being that of a maker of dressing for boots, shoes, ladies' bags, and leather goods generally, which dressing he manufactured upon the premises."

This statement, being correct, gave the _Morning Star_ a chance to clinch its argument yet more forcibly and to prove itself better informed than its rival by coming out in its next issue with the declaration that "there can no longer be any question relative to the ident.i.ty of the murdered man. That he is, or rather was, the long-vanished Ferdinand Lovetski who was formerly identified with the club _and_ the boot-dressing industry carried on at 63 Ess.e.x Row, is established beyond all cavil, since the marks smeared upon his s.h.i.+rt bosom are now known to have been made with shoe-blacking of that variety which is applied and polished with a cloth, and which has of recent years almost entirely superseded the brush-applied variety of our fathers' and grandfathers' days!"

Narkom, much impressed thereby, showed these two articles from the _Morning Star_ to Cleek.

"An ingenious young man that reporter, Mr. Narkom, and his deductions regarding those marks reflect great credit upon him," said the latter.

"For it is positively certain that whoever he may or may not have been, the man certainly was _not_ the Count de Louvisan, for the simple reason that there is _no_ 'Count de Louvisan' in the Austrian n.o.bility, the t.i.tle having lapsed some years ago. The theory that the dead man is that Ferdinand Lovetski who formerly lived at 63 Ess.e.x Row, however, will bear looking into. It is well thought out. I should, perhaps, be more impressed with the genius of the chap who worked out so likely a solution to those mysterious figures if he hadn't made me lose faith in his powers of observation by the 'shoe blacking' statement. It is not a bad _guess_, in the circ.u.mstances--for each would leave marks very similar, if one trusted to the eye alone--but I happen to _know_ that the figures were _not_ smeared on with shoe-blacking, but with a stick of that greasy, highly scented black cosmetic which some actresses use for their eyelashes and some men employ to disguise the gray hairs in the moustache. You know the kind of stuff I mean. It is always wrapped in a brilliant, ruby-coloured tin foil; is to be found in most barbers'

and hairdressers' establishments, and is very heavily and peculiarly perfumed. You will remember that, when I wanted to ascertain if the odour of the _Huile Violette_ emanated from the body of the dead man or not, I told you he _was_ scented, but _not_ with violets? Very well, the scent which was upon him was the peculiar spicy fragrance of that particular kind of cosmetic; and I had only to get one whiff of his s.h.i.+rt bosom to understand what had been used to make those marks upon it."

"My dear Cleek, could you be sure of that?" ventured Narkom. "I know the kind of stuff you mean. But few Englishmen use it these days, though I remember it was once very popular. It comes in light brown shades for fair people, as well as in black for dark ones; and the Count was extremely fair, almost flaxen. Could you be positive then that what you smelt was not on his hair or moustache? If he had used the light sort it would not show, remember."

"My dear Mr. Narkom, have you so poor an opinion of my methods that you fancy I would be likely to be slipshod in my examination, and to pa.s.s over so important a possibility as that? The man had brilliantine on his hair and moustache, and the latter had been dressed with curling irons!

Believe me, when we find who put those marks upon him, we shall find some one who is addicted to the use of black cosmetic of the kind which I have mentioned."

And afterward, when the rush of events had crowded yet more important ones from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered those words and set that statement down in his diary as another proof of the amazing thoroughness and the shrewd far-sightedness of this remarkable man.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AILSA LORNE

Mrs. Raynor positively jumped as the premonitory knock trembled on the door before Johnston the butler opened it and entered. Ordinarily she was but little given to "nerves" and was by no means easily startled, but this morning was a decided exception to the rule. And why not? You don't get called up out of your bed every morning to learn that a gentleman who had been walking about your tulip beds yesterday afternoon had been barbarously murdered during the night in a house but a few yards away. Nor is it pleasant to face the likelihood of getting your name and your residence mentioned in the daily papers in connection with a police affair, and to know that before nightfall every groom, washerwoman, and chambermaid within a fifty-mile radius will have read exactly what the interior of your home is like, exactly what you wore when "our representative" called, and will know a good deal more about you than you ever knew about yourself.

"Begging pardon, madam, but a gentleman----" began Johnston, but was suffered to get no further.

"If it is a reporter I will not see him," interrupted his mistress with a decisive wave of the hand. "You know very well that your master and Mr. Harry have gone over to the scene of the abominable affair to ascertain if there is or is not any likelihood of its being a case of mistaken ident.i.ty; and you ought to know better, Johnston, than to admit strangers of any sort during their absence."

"Your pardon, madam, but n.o.body has called--at least at the door,"

replied Johnston with grave politeness. "The gentleman in question is asking over the telephone to speak with Miss Lorne."

"With me?" exclaimed Ailsa, turning around in the recess of the big bay window of the morning room where she had been standing with her arm about Lady Katharine Fordham and looking anxiously down the drive which led to the Grange gates. "Did you say that somebody was asking over the telephone for _me_, Johnston? Thank you! I will answer the call directly."

"My dear, do you think that wise? Do you think it discreet?" said Mrs.

Raynor rather anxiously. "Consider what risks you run. It may be a reporter--I am told that they are up to all sorts of tricks--and to be trapped into giving an interview in spite of one's self---- Dearest, you must not let yourself be dragged into this abominable affair."

"I think it will be a clever man who can do that against my will--and over the telephone," replied Ailsa gayly. "I shan't be gone more than a minute or two, Kathie dear; and while I'm away, you might get your hat and be ready for a stroll in the grounds when I come back. And you, too, Mrs. Raynor, if you will. The weather is glorious, and one might as well spend the time waiting for the General's and Mr. Harry's return in the open air as cooped up here at half-past nine o'clock on a brilliant April morning."

"My dear, you are wonderful, positively wonderful," said Mrs. Raynor admiringly. "How _do_ you maintain your composure under such trying circ.u.mstances? Look at Katharine and me--both of us shaking like the proverbial aspen leaf and looking as washed out as though neither of us had slept a wink all night; and you as fresh and serene as the morning itself. No, I don't think I will go out, thank you. There may be people with cameras you know; and to be snapshotted for the edification of the readers of some abominable halfpenny paper----"

Ailsa did not wait to hear the conclusion of the remark, but slipped out, went hastily to the library and the telephone, and lost not a moment in making her presence known to the caller at the other end of the line. She had barely spoken three words into the receiver, however, when she gave a little start, eyes and lips were involved in a radiant smile, and her face became all red and warm with sudden blushes.

"Yes, yes, of course I recognize your voice!" she said in answer to a query unheard by any ears but hers. "How wonderful you are! You find out everything. I had meant to write and tell you, but we came up so unexpectedly and---- What! Yes, I can hear you very distinctly. Pardon?

Yes. I am listening." Then letting her voice drop off into silence she stood very, very still, with ever-widening eyes, lips parted, and a look of great seriousness steadily settling down over her paling countenance.

She had said that she would be absent for but a minute or two; it was five or six, however, before she came back, to find Lady Katharine and Mrs. Raynor just as she had left them.

"No, it wasn't a reporter," she said gayly in response to Mrs. Raynor's inquiring look. "It was a dear old friend"--blus.h.i.+ng rosily--"a Mr.

Philip Barch, whom I first met through my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in the days before his second marriage. Mr. Barch has asked if he may be permitted to call this morning, and I have taken the liberty of saying that he may."

"Take a further one, dear, and ask him to stop to luncheon when he comes," said Mrs. Raynor. "When a girl blushes like that over the mere mentioning of a man's name---- Oh, well, I wasn't always fifty-two, my dear, and I flatter myself that I know the duties of a hostess."

Miss Lorne's only response was another and a yet more radiant blush and an immediate return to the side of the slim, dark girl standing in the recess of the window.

"Kathie, you are positively lazy," she said. "You haven't budged an inch since I left, and I distinctly asked you to get your hat."

"I know it," admitted Lady Katharine. "But, Ailsa, dear, I simply couldn't. I am afraid Uncle John and Harry may return, and you know how anxious I am."

"Still, Kathie, staying in will make no difference," said Ailsa gently, "and you will soon know when they arrive."

Reluctantly Lady Katharine let herself be piloted through the open French windows and out into the grounds, ablaze with flowers.

"I should think Geoffrey would be here, too," said Ailsa, with a swift glance at her companion's pale face. "He must have heard the news by this time, but something has evidently delayed him."

A wave of scarlet surged into Lady Katharine's face.

"Oh, if only he would!" she muttered. "I am so tired----"

"I daresay, dear," said Ailsa sympathetically. "You did not sleep well, darling, did you?"