Collected works of j s f.., p.232
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 232
“You!” I exclaimed.
“I — monsieur — I,” she said, as quietly as before. “But, I did not mean to kill him; I meant to strike him. Listen, monsieur,” she continued, suddenly laying her hand on my knee with an almost child-like appeal. “I will tell you — I have heard of you before; you once did a service to my friend, Madame Leviquae, and I know you are to be trusted. I will tell you the truth. He was a bad, wicked man, that!”
A look of indescribable hatred and loathing came into her face; it had not cleared away when she went on.
“Years ago, monsieur, when I was a mere girl, I was guilty of a foolish indiscretion,” she continued. “It is useless to go into its history now, but this man Becker became aware of it; more, he became possessed of a few letters — only three in all — of mine. For the past three years, since I have had so much money, he had steadily blackmailed me on the strength of his knowledge — I have paid him large sums. And recently he found out that on the termination of my engagement I was going home — to be married.”
She seemed to be on the point of breaking down then, but again came the flash of the eye which I had noticed before, and she went steadily on:
“Then he decided to make a grand, a final coup, monsieur. He demanded a great sum for the three letters, a sum which would practically absorb all my profits on this engagement. It was shameful, it was cruel; yet he had me in his power, and I negotiated with him. And eventually it was arranged that I should meet him last night near the place you have just mentioned, and that we should conclude matters. I met him; we went to the private room to which you have referred. I did not wish to eat or drink with him; he insisted, and I made some show of trifling with the supper, all the time entreating him to come to business. Then, although I firmly believed him to be lying, he said he had not the letters with him, that I should have to accompany him to his flat to get them. I insisted then that we should go at once; I would brook no denial. He grumbled; I became the more insistent. Then he put a bottle of champagne which stood on the supper-table in the pocket of his cloak and we left. Oh, monsieur, how did you even find out that I had been there? For I was so thickly veiled!”
“Never mind that just now,” I answered. “Pray continue.”
“Well, I accompanied him to his flat,” she said. “He appeared ill at ease; he fidgeted. He lighted a cigar; he put it down; he forgot all about it; he lighted another. Then he swore that before we did any business, I should drink with him; we should pledge each other. He had set the champagne on the table; he knelt down to get glasses out of his chiffonier; but, as he was then occupied, monsieur, as he was withdrawing a glass, he made a cruel, a cynical, an insulting remark about my — my approaching marriage. And before I was aware of what I was doing, I snatched up the bottle of champagne and crashed it down upon his head, and he fell just as — as if he were dead!”
“Ah!” I murmured, “the bottle of champagne! That’s another thing I had not thought of. But proceed, mademoiselle.”
“But he was not dead, Monsieur Campenhaye, for he breathed,” she continued. “And then I saw my chance. And he had lied to me, for the three letters were in the breast-pocket of his coat. I took them; I left him where he was; I hurried away and came home here, and burnt the letters; and not until noon to-day did I hear that he was dead. I did not mean to kill him. Monsieur Campenhaye, what shall I do?”
I remained silent for some time, thinking. I had no doubt whatever that I had heard the truth. And in my own heart I rejoiced that the world was rid of at least one specimen of a particularly verminous type. I rose at last and drew out the tiny handkerchief with its embroidered butterfly, and handed it over to Mademoiselle de Contanges.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “continue your packing — make your journey. Let what happened last night be dead to you. Never speak of it to anyone, not even your husband, unless you tell him, at your discretion, in years to come. And rest assured — you are safe.”
I said good-bye to her then, and repaired to Monsieur Gourgand, who at once conducted me into his private room. I slapped him on the shoulder.
“My friend Gourgand,” said I. “You are a man of a great judgment and of a ripe wisdom. Therefore, you will do exactly what I tell you to do, will you not?”
“I have sufficient confidence in Monsieur Campenhaye to do whatever he wishes,” he replied.
“It is good, friend Gourgand,” I said, slapping his shoulder again. “So you will at once and for ever forget that you ever served up a supper in your private cabinet last night; you will forget that you found anything there; you will forget all that you said to me this afternoon. You understand? In effect, you have forgotten already.”
Monsieur Gourgand spread out his hands.
“It is as monsieur says,” he said solemnly. “I have already forgotten. Oh, yes, then I remember nothing!”
Wherefore it is that the police have never found out who it was that killed Mr. Charles Becker.
CHAPTER IX. THE SETTLING DAY.
IT SEEMED TO me (perhaps because I was but half-awake) that there was something peculiarly sinister in the sudden ring of the telephone bell which sounded at my bedside, sharply and insistently, in the gloom of that December morning. Incidentally, as I pulled myself up to answer it, I glanced at the clock on my mantelpiece, and noticed that it was already past nine. Then I remembered that I had not got to bed until a long way past midnight, and must have slept much more soundly than I usually did. I felt a sense of comfortable reflection in remembering that, so far as I knew, I had nothing particular to do that morning, and, for the moment, I yawned, and stretched my arms.
The telephone bell rang again. I picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” I said.
A voice which I recognised at once as that of a man, a barrister, of my acquaintance who lived in chambers in the Temple, came through. It sounded hurried, agitated.
“That you, Campenhaye? This is me — Cotherstone. I say — can you come here — my chambers — at once? Just now?”
“I’m not yet out of bed. Will an hour do?”
“No, I want you at once — at once, you understand? Something very serious has happened. I want you here before the police are fetched. Do hurry up!”
“Very well. But what is it?”
“I don’t know. Come quick!”
“I’ll be with you inside twenty minutes,” I answered.
I was living at that time in rooms in Whitehall Court. It took but little time to make a remarkably hurried and primitive toilet, to descend the lift, to hail the first taxi-cab I saw: within a quarter of an hour from hanging up the receiver I was running up the stairs of the old house in King’s Bench Walk in which Cotherstone lived in modest bachelor fashion. Half-way I met Cotherstone himself, and behind him I saw the frightened face of a man who plainly belonged to the class from which college scouts, superior caretakers, and single gentlemen’s gentlemen naturally spring. And if his face wore a frightened expression, Cotherstone’s was an anxious and puzzled one.
“That’s right,” he said, with an obvious sigh of relief, as I ran up. “Here, come into my room a minute — you come too, Grimes. Look here, Campenhaye, I sent for you because I wanted you to have a look into this before we send for the police — they’ll have to be sent for, without doubt.”
“Give me a clear idea of what you’re driving at,” I said.
“All right. There’s a man lying dead in the chambers across there. Old Taplin. Stone dead!”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Practised at the Chancery Bar. Retired, recluse sort of chap, always. I was on little more than speaking terms with him. Oh, he’s quite dead!”
“Why have you sent for me, Cotherstone?” I asked quietly.
“Because — because I think there’s something queer. And as soon as Grimes here fetched me across and I saw — it — I thought of you, and of your reputation as a specialist in criminology, you know, and I thought I’d like you to see things, to look at things, just as they really are, you know, before we sent for the police.”
“But — why?” I repeated.
Cotherstone gave me a queer look which, somehow, seemed to take in the man who stood, silent, watchful, still frightened-looking, near the door.
“Come and see for yourself,” answered Cotherstone.
There was a door across the landing on which appeared a single name painted in white letters on the drab background — Mr. C. B. Taplin. Grimes opened it with a key, which he had carried in his hand; opened another behind it; led us through an outer room into an inner one. There the wick of a tall standard lamp was just flickering out; in what illumination it afforded, and in the pale, fog-laden light which came in between hastily-opened curtains, I saw the dead man.
You might have fancied from a first glance — yes, and from a second! — that he was not dead, but asleep. He sat in a comfortable easy-chair, drawn up to the hearth, on which there still lingered the last faint glow of a wood log; his attitude was that of a man who had dropped into his favourite seat, and unconsciously relapsed into a nap. At his side, within convenient reach, stood a small table whereon was set a decanter of whisky, a syphon of mineral water, and a glass, the contents of which had been scarcely touched. At his feet, on the hearthrug, lay a silver-mounted briar pipe and a copy of the current issue of the Fortnightly Review; they, it was evident, had dropped from his hands, just as if they had dropped as he sank into slumber. I motioned Grimes to draw back the curtains to their full extent, and I went nearer and looked more closely at the still figure in the easy-chair. I found myself regarding a man of apparently fifty to fifty-five years of age; his hair had already assumed a silver-grey tint, and lent distinction and dignity to handsome features of the true legal type. He was a tallish man, slenderly built; and I noticed his well-shaped hands and the small feet, in their silk socks and patent leather slippers. He was in evening dress. On the opposite side of the hearth, thrown carelessly over the back of another easy chair, was an overcoat, a white muffler, gloves, a cloth cap; tilted up against the fender was a pair of dress boots. It seemed evident that he had come into his rooms, thrown off his outer things, got into his slippers, mixed himself a drink, lighted his pipe, sat down to read, and had — died.
I said as much to the two men who stood by. But Cotherstone fidgeted.
“He always struck me as being a sound, strong man, Taplin,” he said. “Didn’t you consider him so, Grimes?”
“I always looked upon Mr. Taplin as being an uncommon healthy gentleman, sir,” answered the man. “He was quite well when he went out to dinner last night, sir.”
“Yes, and I met him crossing Fountain Court on his way to dine,” remarked Cotherstone. “He was all right then.”
“That doesn’t prove that he hasn’t died from purely natural causes,” I said. “It may be — heart-failure. I see nothing for it but to send for the police and a doctor, Cotherstone. What about his relations — friends?”
“All that I know is that he has a cousin, Dr. Francis Taplin, who lives in Wimpole Street,” replied Cotherstone. “I’ve met him — here.”
“Dr. Taplin was in here yesterday, sir,” said Grimes. “Come in soon after Mr. Charles had gone across to the Courts, and followed him there, sir.”
“Well, my dear fellow, telephone to this cousin at once,” I said. “And send Grimes out for the police. I can do nothing.”
Cotherstone muttered something to the man, who thereupon left the room. I looked at Cotherstone; it appeared to me that he seemed to be experiencing some sense of dissatisfaction.
“There’s really nothing to do,” I added. “Except that.”
Cotherstone walked towards the door. He hesitated as he got near it, turned, and looked at the dead man.
“I — I don’t believe that was a natural death,” he said. “He was a very sound and healthy man. I think — all the same, there aren’t any signs of any foul play, are there, Campenhaye?”
“I see none. But if you are so anxious about the matter, get his cousin, the doctor, here. There will, of course, have to be a post-mortem examination. Something may be learnt from that. He may, for instance, have been poisoned. Nothing’s been touched in this room, I suppose?”
“Nothing. Grimes came up here as usual before nine, expecting to find Taplin in bed — that’s his bedroom there — and found — this. Then he rushed to me, and I thought of you; thought that you might see something that the police wouldn’t see. You don’t. Well — I’ll telephone to Francis Taplin.”
I remained in the dead man’s chambers with Cotherstone until the police came, bringing with them a police surgeon. They were shortly followed by Dr. Taplin, who was evidently greatly surprised, and immediately remarked that he should have believed his cousin the last man in the world to be liable to a sudden seizure, adding that he had seen him in the Law Courts only the previous afternoon, and that he then seemed to be in the best of health. He and the police surgeon made a hasty examination of the body and gave it as their opinion that death had occurred some six or seven hours previously — namely, about two or three o’clock in the morning. And then the police, in their own way, began to take note of the surroundings, carefully removing the decanter of whisky, the syphon, and the contents of the glass. And before removing the body, they investigated the pockets of the garments, laying out what they found there in order upon a centre table. To this part of the proceedings I gave particular attention; it seemed to me that from them I might obtain some clue as to where the dead man had passed the last evening of his life.
There was little that was out of the ordinary in the various articles which were taken from the clothing. A dress-watch of an old-fashioned type; a gold pencil-case; a gold-mounted cigar-cutter; a curious old silk-mesh purse, containing several sovereigns and half-sovereigns; some loose silver; a gold cigar-case; these were things that one might reasonably expect to find on a well-to-do man. The only articles found which were at all exceptional were an empty glass phial which had apparently contained digestive tablets and bore on its label the name of a well-known firm of manufacturing chemists, and, in the left-hand pocket of the trousers, a quantity, some twenty or thirty, of little brass discs, coloured red, black and yellow, and ornamented on one side with curious, engraved arabesques.
I looked at these small discs with considerable curiosity, wondering what they were. They were uniform in size, and rather smaller than a sixpenny-piece; they were beautifully finished, and I felt sure that the arabesque work on them was Moorish. Yet they were not coins. What then, were they? And why was the dead man carrying them in his pocket?
Standing there between those busied around the body and the table on which the various articles taken from it had been laid out, I conceived a sudden idea about the little brass discs. And, knowing very well that the police had not counted them, and being aware that they were paying no attention to my doings, I appropriated one of each colour and dexterously slipped the three into my pocket.
There was, of course, the usual coroner’s inquest in the matter of Charles Taplin’s death. There were no sensational facts brought forward. According to the evidence of his cousin, of Cotherstone, of Grimes, of one or two professional friends who knew him, he was a man of very quiet and sober habits, of regular life. There seemed to be no reason why he himself should put an end to his life; no reason why anybody should wish to put an end to it. Nevertheless, I soon saw that there was a suspicion afoot that this was a case of either suicide or murder. And the inquest was adjourned until certain pathological experts could give the result of their thorough investigation of the viscera.
My own impression was that Taplin had died a natural death, and I said so to Cotherstone as we came away from the coroner’s court. But Cotherstone shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I believe there was foul play, I do!”
“And upon what do you found your belief, Cotherstone?” I asked, perhaps a little cynically. “I suppose you have some grounds.”
“None,” he answered. “None. It’s an — an intuition.”
“I’m afraid intuitions don’t go for much in these matters,” I said. “Come — where would your intuition be if these experts tell you that there isn’t the slightest trace of poison in the organs they’ve taken away?”
Cotherstone shook his head again.
“I don’t care,” he replied. “It’s my conviction there was foul play. I felt, thought it from the first. That was why I sent for you. And you don’t seem to find anything out of the common in the affair.”
Now, in plain truth, I did find something out of the common in the affair, but I was not going to confess as much to Cotherstone — just then, at any rate. Ever since I had appropriated them from the little heap on the table of the dead man’s room, I had been asking myself what those little black, red, and yellow discs of engraved brass were, and what they were doing in Taplin’s pocket in what you might call some quantity. I had formulated several theories about them: there was only one which seemed to me to be good. I took these things to be counters which were in use at some house where cards were played a good deal — or at a gaming establishment. Quietly, unobtrusively, I had been trying to gain some knowledge of Charles Taplin’s habits. But all I could learn was that he lived a very quiet, methodical life. He had resided in rooms attached to his chambers in King’s Bench Walk for some years; the man Grimes and his wife had attended to his simple wants. He was in court all day as a rule; he always dined out, five nights out of the seven at his club: he was known at his club as a very quiet and retiring man. Grimes said that, with rare exceptions, he was always at home by half-past eleven, drank one glass of whisky, smoked a pipe, and read a little before retiring at midnight. This did not seem the sort of man who would frequent those secret gambling houses of which the West End of London possesses not a few.
