Читать книгу Killer Kay - Edgar Wallace - Страница 3

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WHEN the Eastbourne Express pulled out of Victoria Station on a bright afternoon in June, Mary Boyd had neither eyes for the glories of the Sussex scenery through which the train was presently flying, nor for the heartening sunshine, nor yet for the other occupant of the carnage in which she sat. For the greater part of an hour he was so immersed in the study of newspapers, that he also seemed oblivious to her presence.

The express was shrieking through Three Bridges when, looking up, she caught his eyes fixed on her. A lanky, lean-faced man of forty, his hair grey at the temples, but for the rest a deep brown, brushed back from his forehead, he had the appearance of a successful professional man. He was dressed with finicking care; his morning coat fitted perfectly, his dark trousers were carefully creased, and the silk hat on the seat by his side polished so that it shone. In that one glance she took him in, from the pearl pin in his cravat to the shiny point of his enamelled shoes. And there her interest might have ended if those deep-set eyes of his had not held hers in fascinated bondage.

Only for a second and then, flushing, she turned her gaze to the countryside which was running swiftly past.

"Aren't you Miss Boyd?"

His voice was remarkably deep and rich, and in it was an indefinable quality of sympathy.

She turned her eyes again in his direction, surprise, suspicion, resentment at this intrusion into her sorrow, manifested in that one glance.

"Yes, I am Miss Boyd," she said quietly, and wondered if she had ever met him. It was hardly likely, for his was a face which she would not have forgotten.

"I am Dr. Kay of the Home Office," he introduced himself, and she was puzzled. Dr. Kay? She remembered something about him. Frank must have spoken of him.

"I did not wait for the end of the inquest," he went on. "I was trying to find the verdict in the last editions. I suppose it was...?"

She nodded, her lips compressed, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Bertram Boyd had not been an ideal father. His pitiful weakness had estranged him from his family, and had brought his wife to a premature end. Yet there were memories of him that Mary treasured. She remembered him before his love of the bottle had mastered him—a jolly, good-natured man, who had carried her on his shoulder through the garden of Ashcome House. So that was how this stranger had seen her; in that dismal court where twelve bored tradesmen had adjudicated upon the method by which Colonel Bertram Boyd had ended his life. They might well regard it as a waste of time, since Boyd had been found one morning by a horrified kitchenmaid, with his head in a gas oven and all the taps turned on. And this in the town house of Sir John Thorley, his brother-in-law.

"I was in court," said the lean-faced man. "I wonder... I realise it must pain you to speak of these things even to a doctor—but I wonder if you can tell me whether your father had shown any suicidal tendencies before?"

She hesitated, loath, as he knew, to talk about the hideous tragedy which clouded her life. And yet those eyes of his were very compelling, as they were kind. He looked like a man who felt intensely, though it was hardly likely, she told herself, that a doctor of experience should feel things very deeply.

"Yes, sometimes... he used to drink a great deal, and lately, since my aunt's death—Lady Thorley, you know—he had been very depressed. Uncle John took him to town, thinking that a change of scene and new interests might brighten him, but I don't think that his new life had any effect. I had a letter from Sir John only a day before—before this dreadful thing happened, saying that poor father had been strange in his manner."

"But," persisted the other, "did your father ever say to you, 'I am tired of life,' or anything of that kind?"

She shook her head.

"No. But he has said it to Uncle John... it came out in the evidence."

Dr. Kay was silent. He sat hunched up in a corner of the compartment, a heavy frown on his face, his lips pursed, his eyes fixed on the carpeted floor.

"I wish I had stayed, but unfortunately I had an appointment. Was anything found in your father's room?"

Again she seemed disinclined to answer.

"Two whisky bottles—one empty, the other nearly empty," she said.

"Was he dressed when he was found?"

She nodded.

"Fully dressed, except he was in his stockinged feet. He had put on his slippers earlier in the evening. Sir John's valet, in his evidence, said that when he went into the room the last thing that night he was sitting in his slippers."

"Can you tell me what kind of slippers he wore?"

Her gesture of distaste was not lost on the questioner.

"They were bathroom slippers—the kind without backs that you slip your feet into. I am awfully sorry if I seem rude, Dr. Kay, but I really wish not to discuss this matter."

He nodded gravely.

"I understand that, Miss Boyd. Will you please believe that I am not asking out of idle curiosity? Nevertheless, I am being unpardonably cruel, for I could discover all these things without questioning you. I had met your aunt, by the way; she was always an invalid, and if I remember aright, she died of scarlet fever. There was some story of a burglar having frightened her. Do you live in Eastbourne?"

Her father had a house there, she told him, and he went on to talk enthusiastically of Sussex. He was a Sussex man, and to him there was no other county in the world. He once had a cottage on the downs, but a wandering Zeppelin making for Portsmouth had dropped a bomb, which had left a large hole filled with splinters of furniture where the cottage had been.

"You have built another, doctor?"

He shook his head.

"No. I am going to Eastbourne on business," he said, and did not enlarge upon the object of his visit.

Frank Hallwell was waiting for her at the station—a tall, athletic figure that was good to look upon. In the excitement of meeting him she did not say good-bye to her travelling companion.

"I was a beast to let you go up alone, darling," said the young man as he tucked her arm in his. "I should have taken no notice of your commands. Thank God it is all over."

She heaved a quick sigh.

"Don't let us talk about it," she said, and then saw a tall hat shining above the press of passengers at the barriers.

"Do you know him?" she asked. "The man in the silk hat—he travelled down with me."

Frank Hallwell followed the direction of her eyes.

"Good Lord!" he said. "It is Killer Kay."

"Killer Kay!" she said, puzzled. "I know his name is Kay, but why 'Killer'?"

Frank was a rising lawyer in the Public Prosecutor's office, and was an authority upon her travelling companion.

"They call him 'Killer' at the Home Secretary's office because he has sent more men to the gallows than any three men in this country. There isn't a criminal in England who doesn't know him by name, for he is one of the greatest crime experts the world has known. Lombrose and Mantazana were kindergarten pupils compared with Killer."

She shivered.

"I suppose he is down here in connection with that beach murder that everybody is talking about," he went on enthusiastically. "I wish I had seen him. I would have introduced you."

"Frank, please..."

He was instantly penitent.

Frank Hallwell lived with his father in a house adjoining the three-acre estate of the late Colonel Boyd.

He had spent the evening with the girl the second night after her return, and was drinking a night-cap preparatory to turning in, when there was announced the man for whom he had devoted two days of fruitless search.

"This is a pleasant surprise, doctor," he said, helping the visitor to divest himself of his shining oilskins, for half a gale was blowing up the Channel, and the rain splashed ceaselessly against the curtained windows. "I knew that you were here, and I've been looking for you. You travelled down with Miss Boyd, to whom, by the way, I am engaged."

Killer Kay had a smile of infinite sweetness.

"Had I known that you were Miss Boyd's fiancé, I should have looked you up two nights ago, HallweIl. I only learnt that fact to-night."

He preceded the young man into his snug study, chose a cigar from the open box with the greatest deliberation, and sank with a little sigh of comfort into a big arm-chair.

"She died accidentally," he said. "I have been experimenting——"

"She—who?" asked the startled Frank.

"The girl on the beach... I'm sorry." Kay smiled again at the alarm he had caused. "The local police were satisfied that the girl was murdered. The man in custody swears that the stone fell from the cliff above. Nobody has ever seen stones fall from the cliff, but they do fall at night. I was nearly killed an hour ago by one. They were lovers, and had found what they thought was a cosy and sheltered spot under the cliff. It is a death trap, and if nobody has seen the stones that come down, it is because the cliff chooses the dark hours for its eccentric shedding of rock."

"He is innocent?"

"Undoubtedly. I have examined the body... however, that was not what I intended talking about. How is Sir John?"

"Thorley? Did they tell you he was down? Yes, he came this afternoon. Poor chap, he is terribly upset about the whole affair."

Dr. Kay pulled at his cigar, his eyes half closed, a picture of content.

"I wonder if I could meet him?" he asked at last. "I have an idea that he may throw some light upon a very peculiar circumstance attending Boyd's death—his valet would do as well, of course, but I prefer tapping the stream at the source."

"That is easy. He is staying over for a day or so to settle the Colonel's estate. Sir John is being very decent about it all, and has advanced poor Mary a thousand to carry on until the estate is administered.... Rich? I think he is very rich. He has a big house in town, an estate in Worcestershire, and a villa at Mentone. He carries very large sums about with him, which isn't very wise. For example, he paid Mary in notes."

Killer Kay was sitting upright, his eyes blazing.

"Notes, eh? Fine!"

"I don't see anything 'fine' about paying in banknotes, doctor," smiled Frank.

"You don't, eh? Well—anyway, we shall see."

Next night he strolled up the long avenue to the Boyds' house, and before he was announced Mary Boyd came out into the hall to meet him.

"I had no idea I was travelling with such a celebrity, doctor," she said, with a faint smile. "I have not told my uncle about your—your profession. He is rather worried just now and I thought it might..."

"Exactly, Miss Boyd," Killer Kay smiled. "You are very wise. I suppose you have been very busy?"

She nodded.

"Signing things, eh? With witnesses?"

She nodded again.

"Uncle John hates lawyers; my own is coming to-morrow, but there were one or two things that concerned poor daddy and which we felt, for the sake of his memory, we ought to keep in the family.... I don't know why I tell you this," she added almost sharply, and laughed.

He had thought she was pretty in the train; he saw now that she was beautiful.

"Before we go in, will you do me a favour?"

Her eyebrows rose.

"Why, surely... if I can."

"Will you promise me that the next time you come to London you will wire me the train by which you are travelling?"

She stared.

"But how—why?"

"Will you? You promised you would, if you could."

"I will, if it pleases you, but..."

"But me no buts," he said good-humouredly, and followed her into the drawing-room.

Sir John Thorley was a stout, red-faced man, with white moustache and heavy white eyebrows. He looked to be a peppery colonel who had served many years in India, and his manner was so irascible as to support this view of him.

"Glad to meet you, doctor," he snapped. "Glad to meet you. Friend of young Hallwell—hum."

He generally added a doubtful "hum" after any phrase which might be construed into a compliment. It was as though he thought he had gone too far, or had offered a larger meed of affability than the object deserved. Very soon he ignored the doctor altogether, and addressed himself solely to the girl.

"It is a big house for a young gal to run," he said, shaking his head. "You'd do better, my dear, if you took a flat in town and put up at an hotel here. I simply can't ask you to stay at my house—simply can't, after—well, you understand. But you mustn't stay here alone in this big house."

"Why not, Uncle John?" she asked, amused for a second (it struck Dr. Kay that she was incapable of being amused for longer in her present frame of mind).

"Why not? My dear good gal, I should be sick with fright. First your dear aunt, then your dear father—no, no, I can't stand it. I must have you where I can see you, hum. After my burglar, my dear... no solitude. He killed your poor dear aunt, the blackguard. Gave her a fright, probably infected the house with the beastly scarlet fever that carried her off."

Mary went out of the room a little while later and Dr. Kay seized the opportunity.

"Sir John, where were Colonel Boyd's slippers found?"

Sir John blinked at him.

"Where were... don't know what you mean, sir. Boyd's slippers? In his room, sir. Where the devil could they be found?"

"They might have been on his feet," said the Killer gently. "I gather they were soft slippers. I wonder why he took them off?"

"Huh? Never thought of that. Anyway, he was mad. I haven't told her, but he was stark, staring mad. Been drinking heavily. Terrible. Couldn't stop him. Very sad."

He shook his big head, and just then the girl came back and the conversation was changed.

The next morning Killer Kay went to London and spent the day pursuing certain inquiries. In the afternoon he left by the Western Express, carrying with him a Home Office order.

He spent the night in Plymouth, and the next morning a hired car carried him to Princetown-on-the-Moors.

A circle of men slouched round a stone-flagged circle. Between each was a space of four feet. Mostly they kept their eyes fixed on the ground, for there was little or nothing for them to see. One of the sides of the quadrilateral in which they exercised was a high wall of grey stone; another was formed by the end of the ugly chapel, covered with black pitch to ensure the hundred-years-old brick-work from decay. A third side was formed by a companion wall, and the fourth by the stub "B" ward with its yellow grill-protected door.

At three points outside of the circle stood uniformed men—silent, watchful, suspicious. They carried no weapons, but drooping from the side- pocket of one was the worn leather strap of a truncheon. The circle moved at an even pace—brown-faced, unshaven men in shabby yellow, their legs encased in buttoned gaiters, their blue-and-white striped shirts open at their red throats. Perched on each head was a nondescript black cap ornamented with letters of the alphabet crudely embroidered. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the heavy boots crashed on the stone walk.

"Stop talking there!"

A sharp order from one of the watchful officers, every untidy face a picture of blank innocence.

"Halt!"

Those facing in the right direction saw the cause of the order. The deputy-governor had come round the corner of the prison chapel, and convicts must not move when the governor or his deputy are approaching.

"Thirty men; exercise party; all correct, sir."

The senior warder saluted stiffly.

But it was not the sight of the young deputy in his stained trench-coat that generated that electric thrill which ran through the thirty hidden men of Dartmoor. It was his companion.

"Killer!"

The word was hissed from man to man for the benefit of those who might not turn their heads.

They knew him by repute, for the most part; some had personal acquaintance with the Home Office expert whose word had sent so many cruel men to the trap.

He stood watching that motionless circle of misery, fingering his chin with a white hand, a look of gloom and doubt upon his face.

"That is Ridgeman—the fellow who is nearest the warder," said the deputy, no less intrigued by the unexpected presence of the Killer than any of the men who stood stiffly to attention.

"Yes—I will talk to him."

The deputy beckoned forward the officer in charge.

"367—bring him to Dr. Kay."

The doctor strolled away from the group, making his way to an open space near the farther wall.

Presently came 367, a little white of face, a little unsteady of hand. He was a small man, grey at the temples.

Dr. Kay nodded to the warder and the man stood back.

"Ridgeman, do you remember breaking into 408 Lowndes Square?"

"Yes, sir. That's what I got my lagging for."

"I know, I know. But do you remember all the particulars of your burglary? You got into the place through the window of the housekeeper's room, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. The room was empty, because the housekeeper was on a visit to the country. Her door was locked. I had to open it with a skeleton."

The Killer gave a sigh of relief and his eyes sparkled.

"That is what I want to know. The door was locked, eh—nothing valuable in the room, eh? Just an ordinary housekeeper's room—with a few nicknacks, I suppose, a picture or two, photographs of the housekeeper's relations?"

Ridgeman, wondering, nodded.

"Nothing else?" The doctor eyed him keenly.

"There was a parcel in red paper——"

"Not on the bed?" The question was shot at the man so sharply that he stepped back as though he were dodging a blow.

"There was a sort of white dressing-gown—no, not a dressing-gown, more like a painter's overall."

"And gloves, eh?" Kay's saturnine face was eager.

"Why—yes, sir. There were a pair of old gloves sticking out of the pocket of the overall."

The Killer rubbed his hands joyously, his thin lips were curled in a smile.

"The only place they could be—in the housekeeper's room, Ridgeman—the only place. Now tell me this. Was there any kind of label on the parcel? Did it look as though it had been carefully packed, as it would be if it came from a store or shop? Or was it rough-tied, as you or I might tie it?"

Ridgeman nodded.

"No, sir. It was nicely tied, but the label had been scratched off. I didn't open it. I was out for jewellery. Lady Thorley had a lot. It's a lie what they said at the trial, that I frightened her to death. I didn't go into her room, because I knew she was ill and had a nurse, and besides, all the stuff was kept in a safe in the library. I was working on the safe when Sir John caught me. I was a fool to bash him. I should have got away with twelve months instead of seven years if I hadn't. But it's a lie to say I had anything to do with the lady's death. I never knew she was dead until I came up for trial."

"Thank you, Ridgeman," Kay nodded. "You may not serve your full time."

Ridgeman went back to the circle, and deputy and expert strolled up the slope and into the prison offices.

"Did you find what you wanted to find?" asked the deputy.

"Yes. How many murders are there committed in England in the course of a year?"

The other looked at him, astonished.

"Fifty?" he suggested.

The Killer smiled.

"Fifty are brought to the bar of judgment. I should say that the number is between four hundred and five hundred. It is difficult to estimate. You only hear of the bunglers, the men and women who do their victims to death by violence—the crimes of passion committed by muddle-headed people who invite detection. 'A' uses poison, and is found with the poison in his possession, and there is always a chemist in the neighbourhood to prove the sale. Generally 'A' says he wanted to poison mice or kill a dog. 'B' butchers his wife (because he loves another woman) and throws her down a well. 'C' lays wait for his enemy (everybody knows of the enmity) and shoots him. 'D' has a quarrel with his girl and kills her. If he doesn't commit the crime in the presence of witnesses, he advertises his guilt by running away. 'E' is a woman who adopts babies for a certain sum and destroys them. And so on. Examine the mentality of these people. Ninety per cent, of them are ignorant, almost illiterate. The great histories of crime that might guide them are closed to them. They must slay in their own primitive ways. But since the instinct for murder is not confined to the low-minded, it follows that there are other methods employed—methods which successfully defy detection. I never see a respectable funeral cortege processing through the street, but I wonder in which of the mourning coaches the murderer is riding."

His voice was earnest, so earnest that the deputy-governor stifled the laugh that was on its way.

"You suggest that murder is practised as a fine art?" he asked.

"Murder is a fine art," said the Killer thoughtfully, "and it is so easy! Popular education has brought to the millions a knowledge of science which enables the evil-minded to dispense with poison and axe. It has given them weapons undreamt-of by their grandfathers—a knowledge of micro- organisms that destroy as surely as a bullet; of natural forces that can be employed to cut soul from body more swiftly than the knife or guillotine. Do you imagine that they are not using their knowledge? Of course they are. A man who knows that finger-prints are fatal leaves no finger-prints. A poisoner who knows that arsenic or any other metallic poison endures for years in the body of his victim uses a vegetable poison. The fellow anxious to rid himself of an obnoxious partner contrives it in such a way that he receives most of the condolences."

The deputy-governor smiled again.

"I shouldn't like to come into purview as a murderer, however clever I was," he said.

"Don't," replied Kay grimly. "They call me 'Killer.' I am proud of the name. I'd rather kill bad men than found an orphanage. I find joy in the chase! When the drop falls and the hunt is ended, I'm like a man that is lost."

The deputy walked with him through the immense iron grille that guards the entrance of the prison, and watched his car until it was out of sight.

"The pity is," he said to the governor afterwards, "that most of the Killer's most interesting victims never get as far as Dartmoor——"

Dr. Kay had two calls to make on his return to London. He went to Somerset House and made a search of certain files; then he called at a laundry, and what he learnt at these two places seemed to satisfy him, for he spent the rest of the day in his laboratory, perfecting his new test for the discovery of arsenic in solution.

It was nearly a week after her uncle's departure that Mary Boyd received a letter from him, asking her to lunch with him at a club which had both a man and woman membership.

Half-way to town she remembered that she had not kept her promise to Dr. Kay. She missed her uncle on the Victoria platform, and was wandering about the broad spaces of the station when she saw the telegraph office. Should she wire? She hesitated. It seemed so silly a thing to do; besides, she was in town now, and she had only promised that she would wire him before she left Eastbourne, telling him the time she would arrive. And she was here already.

She half turned to walk away when, with sudden resolution, she entered the office and scribbled on a form:

"Am in town, lunching at the Regal Club."

She had no sooner sent the wire than she regretted her act, and regretted it all the more when, walking from the office, she came face to face with the ruddy-faced Sir John.

"Hello! here you are then—missed you. Who have you been wiring to, my dear?"

"To—to the housekeeper, to tell her what time I shall be back."

She hated herself for lying, but she could not tell him the truth. It felt foolish, it would have sounded imbecile.

"Seen your lawyer, eh? Didn't tell him about your poor father's youthful escapade?"

She shook her head.

The car was passing along Whitehall, and she wondered in which of those gloomy buildings Killer Kay had his office.

"Boys will be boys," said Sir John gruffly, "and if your father had an affair in his youth, it is not for us to tell the prying, spying lawyers all about it—huh?"

She was not in the mood to discuss her father's early follies. It was sufficient that she had signed the deed which would provide for the woman concerned. She had had an unpleasant five minutes when she had learnt that the document had to be witnessed by her servants, but Sir John had assured her that it was not necessary that the document should be read—even she had not read it again after she had perused the draft.

"Here we are," he said, and helped her out of the car as it stopped before the palatial entrance of the Regal.

The lunch was well ordered, for Sir John Thorley was something of an epicure.

They lingered over the dessert, and when the coffee came :

"Don't use sugar—makes you fat," growled Sir John.

She smiled indulgently as he pushed a saccharine tablet along the tablecloth.

"Thank you, Uncle John," she said; "I'm hardly likely to get fat, but——"

She held the tablet between her finger and thumb above the coffee. Another fraction of a second and it would have dropped.

"Excuse me."

A hand came under hers, and the tablet dropped into a thin brown palm.

She turned, startled, to meet the smiling eyes of Killer Kay.

"Will you go over and see Frank Hallwell? he is sitting at the table in the window," he said smoothly.

"What the devil is the meaning of this, sir?" stormed Sir John, growing purple.

But Killer Kay did not speak until, with a frightened glance at the two men, Mary left them alone.

"It saves a lot of unpleasantness to have the tablet," said Dr. Kay in his suavest voice. "Otherwise it means getting a bottle for the coffee and attracting everybody's attention."

"Will you—please tell me..." Sir John's voice was husky.

"Come with me."

The words were a command, and Sir John followed the doctor meekly.

In the vestibule of the club two men were sitting as though they were waiting for somebody. They rose at the sight of Killer Kay and came toward him.

"Here is your man, Inspector," said Kay brusquely. "I charge him with the wilful murder of Isabel Alice Thorley, and further with the wilful murder of Bertram James Boyd."