Читать книгу The Red-headed Man - Fergus Hume - Страница 7

Doing is better than dreaming; and a year of experience is worth a century of theorising. All his life Darrel had sat in his study laboriously weaving romances out of such material as he had collected in his wanderings. Now, by a happy chance of fortune, he was about to step out of his ideal world into actual life, and take an active part in a real story. Already fate had laid the foundation of an intricate plot; and it was his business to work out to a fit conclusion the criminal problem presented to him. In his own mind Darrel considered the task impossible.

Conceive the difficulties of the case. A man--name unknown--meets with, and is murdered by, a woman. This woman--also unknown--goes to keep tryst with an individual--either male or female--and is killed by him, or her. This was all the material upon which Darrel had to work, and it may be guessed that his heart failed him at the meagre detail afforded by the affair. The sole clues were two clay images coloured blue; the initials 'J.G.' marked on the murdered man's linen; and the possible chance of extracting useful information from a cabman. Yet starting from these three points, Torry hoped to arrive at the goal he aimed at, viz.: to capture, and condemn, and hang, the guilty individual. Darrel could not with-hold his admiration at the determination of the little man.

"Detective fiction is easier to follow than detective fact," said Darrel to himself as he prepared to go out. "With the materials supplied by this Mortality-lane case, I could work out a very fair novel. Fate, Fortune, Destiny, or whosoever is designing this actual romance will develop it in quite a different way, no doubt. Well"--he put on his hat--"I am one of the actors in the drama, and it is my turn to step on to the stage. Here goes for an elucidation of the Blue Mummy Mystery."

Rather amused by his own ideas, Darrel stepped into a hansom, and drove to his friend's rooms near the British Museum. In his pocket he carried the grotesque little image from which he hoped to learn so much. Luckily the Egyptologist--Patron was his name--proved to be at home, a long, lean savant with grizzled hair and spectacles. He received Darrel very amiably, for they were old friends, and had been fellow-students at Oxford. Frank looked still young and blooming, as was natural at the age of five-and-twenty; but Patron, though barely thirty, was already aged by hard study and a misanthropic temperament. In the hands of this prematurely old individual Darrel placed the image.

"Look at the Egyptian mummy, old fellow," said he taking a seat, "and tell me what you think of it."

Mr. Patron stroked his cheek and chin; examined the azure idol through his learned spectacles, and contradicted Frank in a clear, calm voice. "As usual, my dear Darrel, you speak without thinking," said he, "the image is not Egyptian at all."

"It is the representation of a mummy," protested Frank, "and I always understood that the Egyptians were the only people who salted and dried their dead."

"Then you understood wrongly," contradicted Patron. "The ancient Peruvians also embalmed their dead. This is the image of a Peruvian mummy."

"How do you know?" asked Darrel, rather amazed at this remark.

"Don't you see the representation of the sun on its breast?" snapped the other. "The ancient Peruvians were sun-worshippers. Judging from the solar symbol, I should say that this mummy comes from the tomb of some Inca. It is--what we call--a tomb image."

"What is that?" questioned the visitor.

Patron cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and prepared for a long historical lecture. "In common with certain Asiatic nations," said he, "the ancient Peruvians practised the barbarous custom of immolating victims at the obsequies of great men. Sometimes--according to Prescott--a thousand attendants and favourite concubines would be slaughtered, so that they might accompany the dead Inca to his bright mansion in the sun. On occasions, however, the actual slaughter was dispensed with, and images of clay in the form of mummies, such as we see here," said the savant, pointing to the blue figure, "were substituted for human beings. For every counsellor, or slave, or wife, or attendant, a clay image was placed in the sepulchre of the dead; so that, in such instance, there would be many hundreds of these fictitious mummies arranged round the corpse. The figure we have here is an example of a tomb image. I hope I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," rejoined Darrel, slipping the image into his pocket. "But your lecture does not help me in the least."

"In what way? Where did you get the mummy?" questioned Patron disconnectedly.

"Out of a murdered woman's pocket."

"Bless me! how strange! Why was she murdered? And how did she become possessed of so unique a curiosity as a Peruvian tomb-image?

"Patron, my friend, those are two questions to which I am trying to obtain an answer."

"If I can help you, Darrel----"

"Thank you; Patron; but I fear you can help me no further. Good-day."

"Good-day, good-day," replied the Egyptologist hastily; for his mind was already reverting to his own particular work, and he was becoming oblivious to the story told by his visitor. "Good-day;" after which he soared into cloudland.

Darrel went away little satisfied with his visit. He had obtained certain historical information, but none likely to throw any light on the mystery of the double crime. The Blue Mummy was connected with the murders in some concealed way, independent of its archæological merits; and it was this hidden connection which Darrel desired to discover. At present, however, he could not see the slightest chance of gaining the necessary information; therefore, this especial clue was absolutely useless--at all events for the time being. Later on its value might be discovered and utilised; but in the meantime, Frank dismissed it, to follow up the clue of the initials on the linen of the dead man. To accomplish this he drove directly to Bond-street.

The mere fact that the red-haired man--as in the absence of an actual name it is convenient to call him--was in the habit of dealing with Harcot and Harcot, shewed that he must have been, if not rich, at least fairly well off. The shop, as Darrel knew, was a very expensive one, and the goods it supplied were sold at much above their market value, from the fact that they were supposed to be particularly fashionable. Darrel carried with him the shirt of the dead man which had been confided to him by Torry; and this he displayed to the eyes of the senior partner. Mr. Harcot was a tall, stately-looking man, more like a Duke than a shopkeeper, and after examining the shirt through his pince-nez, he inquired loftily what it was Mr. Darrel desired to know. Darrel promptly supplied the information.

"I wish to learn what those initials stand for," said he, laying his forefinger on the letters 'J.G.'

"May I ask why!"

Darrel reflected. "I see no reason why you should not know," he remarked; "but you must respect my confidence."

"Certainly, sir, certainly," replied Harcot, whose curiosity was now excited. "Please come this way where we shall not be disturbed."

The tradesman led the way into a small room partitioned off from the shop by a glass screen and on closing the door of this, he handed Darrel a chair with great politeness.

"I await your explanation, sir," he said, smoothing out the shirt on the table.

"One moment," said Frank quickly. "If I tell you my reason for asking this question, and you agree to answer it, can I rely on your being able to give me the desired information?"

"Assuredly, sir. You will observe that under these letters 'J.G.' there is a number, one thousand four hundred and twenty. Well, sir, we index, so to speak, all shirts of our manufacture in that way; and--should your reason for seeking information satisfy me--I have only to look up that number in our books to learn for whom this shirt was made."

"Then you had better do so at once, Mr. Harcot; for thereby you may be able to capture a criminal."

The tradesman looked amazed. "Capture a criminal?" he repeated.

"Yes. On Sunday morning last, after one o'clock, the man to whom that shirt belonged was murdered."

"Murdered, sir!"

"Yes; stabbed to the heart in Mortality-lane."

"Dear, dear!" cried Mr. Harcot in much agitation. "You don't say so! I noticed an account of the tragedy in the Star--an early issue, Mr. Darrel, published at two o'clock; but I did not think that a customer of ours was the victim. How very dreadful! Who is the unfortunate gentleman?"

"That is what I wish you to tell me, Mr. Harcot."

"With pleasure, with pleasure; but if you will excuse my saying so, sir, I did not know that you were an officer of the law."

"Nor am I," rejoined Darrel drily. "I am a novelist; but the detective in charge of this case has permitted me to assist him."

"Oh, indeed, sir," replied Mr. Harcot, considerably astonished. "If you will permit me, sir, I will look up our books."

Washing his hands with invisible soap, and bowing politely, Mr. Harcot vanished, leaving Darrel to his own thoughts. In about ten minutes he returned, looking very pale and concerned. Frank was a trifle surprised at this agitation.

"Dear, dear!" gasped the man, sitting down with an air of consternation. "I am shocked, really. Such a respectable gentleman! so old a customer!"

"What is the name?" cried Darrel anxiously.

"Grent, sir; Jesse Grent, of Wray House, Wraybridge."

"Grent--Grent!" muttered Darrel thoughtfully. "I seem to know the name."

"Everybody does, Mr. Darrel. Grent and Leighbourne, of Fleet-street."

"What! the bankers?"

"Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Jesse Grent was the head of the firm and now he is an angel. I hope so, for he was a good man, sir, who paid his bills most regul----"

"Thank you, Mr. Harcot," said Frank, cutting short these lamentations, which were a trifle mercenary. "You have told me all I wish to know. Mr. Jesse Grent, banker. H'm!--so he was the red-haired man."

Mr. Harcot was about to protest that the late Mr. Grent had white hair, but that Frank, with a curt nod, walked smartly out of the shop. Whereupon Harcot senior went to inform Harcot junior of the loss of a good customer, and to suggest an immediate sending in of the bill to the executors.

It was now too late to call at Torry's private office, as it was long after six o'clock before Frank terminated his inquiries; so he went back to his rooms and pondered over his discovery. He had heard of Mr. Grent, who was a rich banker and much respected. That he should be found dead in a disreputable neighborhood, in disguise, added to the mystery of the case. Frank thought over the matter all night, until his brain was on fire; and he was glad when the morning came that he could see Torry. Just as he was considering the advisability of paying a visit, the detective himself made his appearance and looked considerably disturbed.

"I say, Mr. Darrel," he burst out, "there are two murderers!"

"Two!"

"Yes--a man and a woman!"