The Riddle of the Night Part 20

He got up suddenly, walked to the door, opened it a foot or so, peeped out, then reclosed it and walked back to his seat. He poured out a third brandy, and drank it almost neat this time, then put his elbows upon the table, and, leaning forward, looked straight into Cleek's eyes.

"Barch, I've discovered something," he said in a lowered voice. "My father's playing a double game. He's a d.a.m.ned old two-faced hypocrite, that's what, and I've found him out at last!"

The cigar dropped suddenly from Cleek's fingers, and he ducked down in quest of it. He simply _had_ to have some excuse to cover up the state of his feelings, or they would have got the better of him. A while ago he had said to himself that the fellow was despicable enough to implicate his own parents if it were necessary to save his skin; but even then he had only half believed it; now, however, he knew, and a fierce indignation bit into the very soul of him.

The worm had suddenly developed into a viper.

He went on groping for the dropped cigar. He might have found it at once had he chosen to do so, but he did not. It needed a moment or two to whip his savage desires into subjugation, to get himself well in hand again that he might face this unnatural son without giving way to the temptation to thrash him; and all the while his head was whirling with the crus.h.i.+ng recollections that were crowding into it.

If it were worth his while--to save his own skin, to divert suspicion from himself---- Well, was it not worth his while now? The chase was narrowing, and perhaps he knew it--one could not be certain what such a man _would_ find means of discovering. Perhaps he knew of the unearthing of the buried clothing. Perhaps he knew that there was proof the murderer had been traced to Wuthering Grange, and knowing, realized the necessity for diverting suspicion from himself, if he were guilty? But, guilty or innocent, princ.i.p.al or accessory, this one thing was certain: last night a murder had been committed; last night a dead man had been spiked to the wall in true Apache fas.h.i.+on; and this Mr. Harry Raynor, who was casting slurs upon his own father, was hand and glove with the Apache queen!

CHAPTER TWENTY

"HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH"

Cleek found his cigar at last, and rose with it in his hand, leaving young Barch to finish his story in his own inimitable way.

"Yes," he continued, "what I call a regular facer for me. I was swindled into going away by a forged letter, which I swear he wrote himself.

Recollect, don't you, that when you came to meet me at the ruin, I told you I'd suddenly been called away? Well, so I had. While I was waiting there at the ruin for you to get shot of that m.u.f.f Geoff Clavering and come to join me, up walks the pater and hands me a letter--a typewritten letter, mark you--with word that a messenger had just brought it. Now listen to this closely, Barch! Last January some fool of an editor suggested to my pater that he should write a series of articles upon the proper cultivation of hot-house fruits for his tomfool paper, and said that typewritten copy was absolutely necessary. Out goes the pater and buys a typewriter, and engages a girl to operate it. Got her from some typewriting school in town, and a rippin' fine little girl she was, too!

Name, Katie Walters. Pretty as a picture and lively as a cricket. Well, Katie and I became jolly good pals. Pater found it out, and then just what you might have expected happened. I got a lecture, and Katie got the sack and was packed off to town before I could get a private word with her. Now, the letter my father handed me this afternoon was supposed to come from that girl."

"And didn't?"

"No, it didn't. It asked me to run up to town and meet her just outside the typewriting school when the day's work was over. I went, but I didn't do exactly as I'd been asked. I suppose the party that wrote it hoped that I'd wait there until dark, and that when she didn't come out I'd come to the conclusion that I'd missed her, and, being in town, would probably go somewhere else and make a night of it, as I most likely should have done under ordinary circ.u.mstances. But I didn't feel like waiting round for that bally school to close; so as soon as I got there, I walked upstairs and asked to see her."

"Humph! And she wasn't there?"

"No, she wasn't. And what's more, she hadn't been there for weeks and weeks. Had got a position up in Scotland, and is going to be married to a bank clerk next month."

"Oho!" said Cleek, "I see! I see!"

He walked over to the other side of the room, where there was a huge potted azalea on an ebony pedestal. He had admired and he had examined that azalea earlier in the evening, so it was, perhaps, only natural that he should be attracted by it now. Still, for once in a way, it was not the blossoming beauty of the plant that lured him to it, much as flowers always had and always would appeal to him. He could see the trend of young Raynor's tale now, the dim, shadowy outline of the argument he was putting forth, the suspicion he was endeavouring to lead; and he was afraid that something in his face or his eyes might betray the true state of his feelings if he remained there in the bright light for the man to study him. The big azalea offered the refuge of shadow. He walked there and stood in the shade of it, and began idly poking at the earth in the huge pot.

"Naturally, dear boy," he went on, "when you heard that you knew that you had been taken in."

"So I did, on the instant," said young Raynor, tackling yet a fourth gla.s.s of brandy. "It was as plain as the nose on your face that somebody had tried to spoof me; somebody had an interest in sending me off to town on a wild-goose chase and getting me out of this neighbourhood to-night, and that that somebody hadn't reckoned upon my doing what I did, and didn't know about my having promised you to take you to see Mignon de Varville, when that blithering letter intervened. And speaking of that-- I say, Barchie, we'll go to-night, if you like--eh, what?"

"Sorry, dear boy," said Cleek, whose intention was to get out on the Common to-night and test the truth of Geoff Clavering's story; "sorry, but I'm afraid we'll have to put that off until to-morrow. Thinking you weren't coming back in time, I arranged with the ladies for an evening of bridge; so, if you don't join us, you'll have to pay your respects to 'Pink Gauze' to-night without me. And, by the way, how did you get that bit of pink gauze, old chap? Any particular significance attached to it?"

"Lord, no! Bit of gauze scarf she wore the other night--always wears pink, by the way--caught in my watch chain. Tore in gettin' loose, and I kept the bit as a memento."

"Ah, I see. Well, get on with the other subject; I'm immensely interested. As soon as you'd found out that Katie What's-her-name couldn't have written the letter, and that you'd been deceived by somebody, then what?"

"Why, then I put back home by the first possible train. I had my suspicions--yes, rather--so I came back to prove them true."

"And did you?"

"Ah, didn't I? n.o.body knew of my affair with Katie outside of my father, and my father has a typewriter ready to hand, and typewriters don't betray anybody's 'fist.' I went to the lodgekeeper. No messenger had pa.s.sed him to-day. I went to Hawkins and Hamer. No messenger had brought any letter that they knew of to the house. I couldn't ask Johnston, because this is his evening off; but no doubt that when I do ask him he'll say the same. Well, now, you put all those things together, Barch, and see for yourself what they make. As n.o.body but my father knew anything about the girl, and n.o.body gave him a letter, and he has a typewriter ready to hand, why there you are. He wrote the letter, that's what. And if he wrote it to get me away and keep me away until late at night, why he's got a devilish good reason for it; and if he has got a reason for doing things at night that he doesn't want other people to know about and doesn't want his own son to discover, then he's playing a double game. And last, when a man sets himself up for a howling saint in the virtue line and yet plays a double game, why he's a rotter and a hypocrite, whether he's my father or not, and I'm not going to stand it." He nodded with drunken solemnity. "I'm going to have it out with him to-night, you'll see. Come with me if you like----"

"Not I, old man, I've promised to join the ladies, see you later, eh?"

said Cleek, and with a look of unseen contempt at the drink-sodden figure, he turned abruptly and left the youth to continue his potations at his own sweet will.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHEN TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR

It would not be overstating the case if one were to say that Cleek's mind was absolutely in a whirl when he closed the door of the dining-room behind him and stood alone in the brilliantly lighted hall; for, added to the loathing contempt he felt for the young reprobate he had just left, there was the knowledge that this new and unexpected development threatened to destroy the whole fabric of his theories in almost every particular.

Not for one moment, heretofore, had he looked upon young Raynor as other than a shallow, empty-headed wastrel; a mere cuckoo hatched in an eagle's nest; a thing to be scorned, not dreaded; a mere mischievous atom that hadn't the courage to be a bird of prey, nor blood enough in its veins to be dangerous. Now, however---- G.o.d! what a riddle life is!

You never know!

The door that led out into the grounds of the Grange was but a rope's cast distant. He felt that he couldn't trust himself to go in and face the ladies just yet a while; that he must think over this new and staggering turn which events had taken: think over it for a time in the hush and darkness of the outer world; and, turning on his heel, went swiftly to the door and let himself out.

By this time the night had closed in, the moon had risen, and the gardens were simply a shadowy place of dark and fragrant mystery, with here and there a silver arabesque on the earth where the moonlight shafted through the boughs of trees, and here and there a streak of yellower radiance where the windows of the house threw man-made light across the lawn and against the ma.s.sed green of crowded leaves. Cleek took to the gra.s.s that his footsteps might not be heard, and there, in the darkest shadow of all the darkened land, walked up and down, up and down, with his lower lip pinched up between his thumb and forefinger, his brows knotted, and the elbow of one arm in the hand of the other: a quiet, slow-moving figure, as silent as the other soundless shades that were about it.

So that was how the cat jumped, was it? Directing suspicion--not openly, not with any positive hint of _what_, but with deadly seriousness, considering that last night a man had been mysteriously murdered and the police were out for the a.s.sa.s.sin--directing suspicion against his own father, and at such an appallingly significant time.

What a cur the fellow was! Even if his father could in any way have been implicated in the crime, by any means, upon any pretext, what a devil's act it was to lead the law into the right channel. But when there was not one solitary circ.u.mstance that pointed, when it was merely to save his own skin, merely to divert suspicion away from himself, what an act of unspeakable atrocity! Couldn't the fellow reason? Couldn't he see that the very thing he was doing to mislead justice was the one circ.u.mstance which directed its sword against himself? That the simple fact of his endeavouring to direct suspicion against one who was in no way implicated was absolute proof that he had a purpose in wis.h.i.+ng it to be misdirected. And if he _had_ a purpose in doing that, the inference was so obvious that a child might read between the lines.

Heigho! It was just another exemplification of the truth of the old adage that "when the wine's in the wit's out." If he'd let that brandy decanter alone, if he hadn't fuddled his reason and clogged his wretched brain with alcohol, he must have seen what an a.s.s thing he was doing, and what a fool his loosened tongue was making of him.

True, as yet there did not seem any just cause for connecting him with the murder of De Louvisan, any reason why he should have killed the man; any single purpose he might serve, any solitary thing he might gain by slaying him; but still---- Oh, well, you never know how deep a well is until you have reached the bottom of it. The thing had every appearance of being an Apache crime, and he was "in" with Margot--Margot, who played for money and money alone; so if---- Good G.o.d! the little reptile hadn't let her lead him into _that_ folly, had he? Hadn't let her lure him into taking the oath and enrolling himself a member of the Apache?

If he had been mad enough to do that, if that were the explanation, why, then, all the rest was possible. The law of the Apache is the law of the commonwealth; and he would find that out, as Lovetski had found it out--too late. If St. Ulmer was in any way implicated, St. Ulmer's fortune would be _one_ stake. And if this brainless weakling should fall heir to his father's money, ho! there was the other "stake"; there the possible motive, there the first connecting link!

Was that Margot's little game? Was that the way the idiot had been tricked into becoming an accomplice? Just so! let's put the jumbled bits together and see if they fit; let's sum up two and two and learn if they really do make four.

First bit: De Louvisan with such a hold upon St. Ulmer that he can compel his lords.h.i.+p to cancel his daughter's engagement and force her to accept him as a fiance. Quite so! Second bit: De Louvisan, without any rupture occurring between himself and St. Ulmer, suddenly murdered in cold blood. And not only murdered, but spiked up to the wall after the manner of Lanisterre and other traitors to the Apache. A clear proof that this De Louvisan himself was an Apache; and being a traitor to the cause---- Quite so! quite so! Prevented from marrying Lady Katharine, because that was not part of the agreement; because he was making an effort to obtain for himself and his own personal use a fortune which it was intended should come into the commonwealth. Hum-m-m! Those two pieces seem to fit together. Now for the next:

If St. Ulmer, over whom this De Louvisan undoubtedly had a hold of some sort, bought that fellow's silence by promising him his daughter for a wife, then it is quite certain that he was acquiescing in his traitors.h.i.+p to the Apache and quite willing that the man should have Lady Katharine's dower for himself. That bit fits also. Now for another: if in doing that thing this De Louvisan merited the name of traitor, it must have been that he came between the Apache and the possession of the St. Ulmer fortune, and if the owner of that fortune had to make terms such as he did with the man, the inference is as plain as the nose on your face. In other words, St. Ulmer, too, had reason to dread the Apache, and there must, therefore, be some connection between him and Margot. Two and two--and it makes four exactly! St. Ulmer, then, is the game, St. Ulmer the pivot upon which the whole case revolves.

Where, then, does young Raynor come in? Hum-m-m! Ah! Of course, of course. Very crafty, very crafty indeed. A beautiful woman could do anything in the world with such a worm as he. The stage-door Johnnie will be best caught by a chorus girl. Yes, yes, just so. Get one who is out of an engagement or in debt--anything that will make her willing and eager to accept a bribe. She will do the introducing; the rest you can do yourself. Easy enough with such an a.s.s as that fellow. Lovely women and jolly chaps for companions.h.i.+p; a lonely house, music, dancing, champagne; a famous French variety star heels over head in love with him, letters, photographs, nights of revelry, and quarts of wine; and then--_voila_, the fish is hooked!

Sworn in, by heaven! sworn in in a drunken fit, to wake and find himself not only an Apache, but to have his vanity tickled, his empty head turned, and his love of being thought a regular ladies' man pampered to the full by being told that he is in reality the _king_ of the Apaches, and that hundreds and hundreds of just such jolly fellows and girls as he sees about him are willing and eager to do the little worm homage and to be ruled by him as though he were actually royal.

It is an old, old game of yours, that, isn't it, Margot? So you have caught many a fool in your day, wiser fools than this one, and sillier, too, in their way, but none of them ever held his kings.h.i.+p beyond the s.p.a.ce of a month; none at all but that bolder rascal, the Vanis.h.i.+ng Cracksman.

And this little maggot of a Harry Raynor is the latest dupe, eh? Hooked in a drunken moment, the silly gudgeon, hooked that you may get at St.

Ulmer and--get even--with the chap called De Louvisan. It must have been a shock when you found what a cowardly cur the fellow is at heart.

Still there must be an accomplice, and there must be a strong incentive to command the services of this one.