The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Part 109

"Where now?" he asked.

"Where would you like to go?" said Beecham.

"You don't mean, do you, that the drinks are now on you?" said Mr. Jones. "But Beecham, my own, this is too touching! Very well-there's a decent-looking, old-fas.h.i.+oned hostel over there. Shall we?"

"Anywhere," growled Beecham.

They crossed the square to the old-fas.h.i.+oned hostel where, to Mr. Jones's surprise, the Scotland Yard man immediately booked a private room and ordered the drinks to be sent up there.

"If you'll join me," he said to Mr. Jones.

"Delighted," Mr. Jones agreed. "Does Maxwell remain in the weather and hold the horses' heads?"

"There'll be room for the three of us upstairs," said Beecham.

"What could be better?" said Mr. Jones.

And upstairs they went, with a waiter and tray to follow them.

"Cosy," remarked Mr. Jones, when the waiter had left them and closed the door. "Shall you be staying here long?"

"About as long as it will take me to go through that little bag of yours," Beecham answered.

"Beecham!" Mr. Jones gasped. "I don't understand you."

"You will," said Beecham. "I always thought you'd be too clever. You let me see your train tickets this afternoon. After that, I just had to take this trip with you. Hand over the bag."

"You know, Beecham, my sweet," said Mr. Jones, "really I don't think you have the right."

"I can soon get that," said Beecham. "Please yourself, if you want to waste time. You'll waste it in my presence, that's all."

Mr. Jones sighed.

"Maxwell," he said, "n.o.body trusts us. It's a suspicious world. Pa.s.s the little bag to the gentleman."

Maxwell pa.s.sed the little bag to the gentleman, and the gentleman, frowning, promptly dragged it open. Out fell pyjamas, combs, and toothbrushes. Nothing else. Beecham clicked his teeth and looked up.

"Pockets, probably?" he said.

"No friendliness at all, observed Mr. Jones with a fresh sigh. "Your pockets, Maxwell."

Maxwell emptied his pockets. Mr. Jones emptied his. The detective's complexion darkened. He turned once more to the little bag, fumbled inside it, threw it on the floor. His hands pa.s.sed swiftly, but certainly, down the attire of the other two men; then, with a muttered exclamation, he picked up a telephone that stood on a corner table.

"Friars Topliss police, quick!" he shouted.

"You might tell me, sweet Beecham," Mr. Jones put in, "what is on your mind."

But Beecham didn't. He sat glaring at the instrument in front of his nose until there was a faint tinkle.

"Yes?" he roared. "This is Detective-Inspector Beecham of Scotland Yard. Is the six-fourteen from Liverpool Street-what? Good Lord! Battered up? But I saw him-the jewels? Gone! I'll come along!"

He dropped the receiver and spun round.

"Without having the faintest idea as to what is on your mind," said Mr. Jones, "I think you must admit that I never batter them up. I may have many failings, but never that."

"I don't exactly know where you come into this," snapped Beecham, "but bear this in mind. I'll land you."

"I doubt it." Mr. Jones smiled. "You'd like to, I fear, but it's such a disappointing world."

Beecham strode to the door.

"Say good-bye to the gentleman, Maxwell," said Mr. Jones.

And Maxwell said good-bye to the gentleman.

"Dapper" Dawlish, expert but unlikeable, let himself into his Baker Street flat and snapped on the lights. He was satisfied with himself and the world in general. Or, at least, he was until he snapped on the lights.

Then he found himself looking down the barrel of an automatic, and he changed his opinion of the world at once.

"Good evening," said Mr. Jones. "Or morning. Or what is it? Travelling about the world in a snowstorm makes one lose one's sense of time."

"Who are you?" snarled Dawlish.

"Doesn't matter in the least," said Mr. Jones.

"What do you want?"

"The jewels you stole from Mr. Hadlow Cribb on the Friars Topliss train," said Mr. Jones. "And I want them now. I've been waiting two hours without a fire. I'm depressed. And when I'm depressed I'm nasty. That bulge in your right pocket, I believe. Come on! One-two--"

Which was where "Dapper" Dawlish threw in. "I'm hanged if I see how you knew," he grumbled.

"But, of course, I knew," said Mr. Jones. "It was I who had you put wise this afternoon that the stuff would be on the train."

"You?"

"Mind, you wouldn't have stood an earthly chance if I hadn't been on the train to take their attention away," Mr. Jones added. "They watched dear old Cribb and you'd never have got near him. Brains, my lad. That's what gets you to the top.

"Mind, I couldn't have got the things. I'm too popular with the C.I.D. They won't let me out of their sight. Which is why I sometimes have to leave the labouring to others. Which reminds me."

He opened the parcel of gems, separated one from the rest, and tossed it on the table.

"The labourer is worthy of his hire," he said, with a smile. "You'd have got two-or even three-if you hadn't battered him up. Battering-up is a thing I detest. Or, at least, I've always thought so. I may change my mind one day. Even this day. Try following me and see! Good-bye, Mr.-Dawlish the name is, I believe. Charmed to have met you. And a Merry Christmas."

MARKHEIM.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

IT MAY BE DIFFICULT TO REMEMBER that Robert Louis Stevenson, one of the greatest adventure story authors of all time with such cla.s.sics as Treasure Island (1883), Prince Otto (1885), Kidnapped (1886), and The Black Arrow (1888) to his credit, also wrote the beloved volume of poems for young readers, A Child's Garden of Verses (1885). He frequently wrote of mystery and crime, most famously The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886), a macabre allegory once described as the only crime story in which the solution is more terrifying than the problem. The cla.s.sic murder story "Markheim" was first published in The Broken Shaft (London, Unwin, 1885).

Markheim.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

"YES," SAID THE DEALER, "OUR windfalls are of various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up the candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor; "and in that case," he continued, "I profit by my virtue."

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled s.h.i.+ne and darkness in the shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.

The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas Day," he resumed, "when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you today very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it."

The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, "You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?" he continued. "Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!"

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of horror.

"This time," said he, "you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady," he continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had prepared; "and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected."

There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious lumber of the shop, and the faint rus.h.i.+ng of the cabs in a near thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence.

"Well, sir," said the dealer, "be it so. You are an old customer after all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be it from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now," he went on, "this hand gla.s.s-fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a good collection, too; but I reserve the name, in the interests of my customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole heir of a remarkable collector."

The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had stopped to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a shock had pa.s.sed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a sudden leap of many tumultuous pa.s.sions to the face. It pa.s.sed as swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that now received the gla.s.s.

"A gla.s.s," he said hoa.r.s.ely, and then paused, and repeated it more clearly. "A gla.s.s? For Christmas? Surely not?"

"And why not?" cried the dealer. "Why not a gla.s.s?"

Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. "You ask me why not?" he said. "Why, look here-look in it-look at yourself! Do you like to see it? No! nor-nor any man."

The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse on hand, he chuckled. "Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard-favoured," said he.

"I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas present, and you give me this-this d.a.m.ned reminder of years, and sins and follies-this hand-conscience? Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man?"

The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim did not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth.

"What are you driving at?" the dealer asked.

"Not charitable?" returned the other gloomily. "Not charitable; not pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe to keep it. Is that all? Dear G.o.d, man, is that all?"

"I will tell you what it is," began the dealer, with some sharpness, and then broke off again into a chuckle. "But I see this is a love match of yours, and you have been drinking the lady's health."

"Ah!" cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. "Ah, have you been in love? Tell me about that."

"I," cried the dealer. "I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the gla.s.s?"

"Where is the hurry?" returned Markheim. "It is very pleasant to stand here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry away from any pleasure-no, not even from so mild a one as this. We should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it-a cliff a mile high-high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each other: why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows, we might become friends?"

"I have just one word to say to you," said the dealer. "Either make your purchase, or walk out of my shop!"

"True, true," said Markheim. "Enough fooling. To business. Show me something else."

The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the gla.s.s upon the shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different emotions were depicted together on his face-terror, horror, and resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and through a haggard lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked out.

"This, perhaps, may suit," observed the dealer: and then, as he began to re-arise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long, skewerlike dagger flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a heap.

Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some stately and slow as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried. All these told out the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then the pa.s.sage of a lad's feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness of his surroundings.

He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on the counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that inconsiderable movement, the whole room was filled with noiseless bustle and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots of darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces of the portraits and the china G.o.ds changing and wavering like images in water. The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger.

From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's eyes returned to the body of his victim, where it lay both humped and sprawling, incredibly small and strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in that ungainly att.i.tude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim had feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent voices. There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or direct the miracle of locomotion-there it must lie till it was found. Found! ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would ring over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. Ay, dead or not, this was still the enemy.

"Time was that when the brains were out," he thought; and the first word struck into his mind. Time, now that the deed was accomplished-time, which had closed for the victim, had become instant and momentous for the slayer.

The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with every variety of pace and voice-one deep as the bell from a cathedral turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz-the clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon.

The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered him. He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, beleaguered by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home designs, some from Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeated, as it were an army of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet.

And still, as he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him with a sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. He should have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he should not have used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and only bound and gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should have done all things otherwise-poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the irrevocable past.

Meanwhile, and behind all this activity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, filled the more remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand of the constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the prison, the gallows, and the black coffin.

Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a besieging army. It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour of the struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity; and now, in all the neighbouring houses, he divined them sitting motionless and with uplifted ear-solitary people, condemned to spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now startlingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties, struck into silence round the table, the mother still with raised finger: every degree and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, prying and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him.

Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the clocks. And then, again, with a swift transition of his terrors, the very silence of the place appeared a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze the pa.s.ser-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle aloud among the contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate bravado, the movements of a busy man at ease in his own house.

But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on the brink of lunacy. One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on his credulity. The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his window, the pa.s.ser-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the pavement-these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through the brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate.

But here, within the house, was he alone? He knew he was; he had watched the servant set forth sweet-hearting, in her poor best, "out for the day" written in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; and yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir of delicate footing-he was surely conscious, inexplicably conscious of some presence. Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself; and yet again behold the image of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred.

At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which still seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small and dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the threshold of the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, did there not hang wavering a shadow?

Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to beat with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blows with shouts and railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name. Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which would once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had become an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from his knocking and departed.

Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth from this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge into a bath of London mult.i.tudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety and apparent innocence-his bed. One visitor had come; at any moment another might follow and be more obstinate. To have done the deed, and yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The money, that was now Markheim's concern; and as a means to that, the keys.

He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was still lingering and s.h.i.+vering; and with no conscious repugnance of the mind, yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of his victim. The human character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and yet the thing repelled him. Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the eye, he feared it might have more significance to the touch.

He took the body by the shoulders, and turned it on its back. It was strangely light and supple, and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the oddest postures. The face was robbed of all expression; but it was as pale as wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one temple. That was, for Markheim, the one displeasing circ.u.mstance. It carried him back, upon the instant, to a certain fair-day in a fishers' village: a gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of the bra.s.ses, the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy going to and fro, buried over head in the crowd and divided between interest and fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, he beheld a booth and a great screen with pictures, dismally designed, garishly coloured: Brownrigg with her apprentice; the Mannings with their murdered guest; Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell; and a score besides of famous crimes.

The thing was as clear as an illusion; he was once again that little boy; he was looking once again, and with the same sense of physical revolt, at these vile pictures; he was still stunned by the thumping of the drums. A bar of that day's music returned upon his memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, a breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, which he must instantly resist and conquer.

He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending his mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a while ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth had spoken, that body had been on fire with governable energies; and now, by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, as the horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. So he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful consciousness; the same heart which had shuddered before the painted effigies of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt a gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all those faculties that can make the world a garden of enchantment, one who had never lived and who was now dead. But of penitence, no, not a tremor.

With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the keys and advanced towards the open door of the shop. Outside, it had begun to rain smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had banished silence. Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house were haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of another foot withdrawing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his muscles, and drew back the door.