Читать книгу I, Spy - 6 Espionage & Detective Books in One Edition - Frederic Arnold Kummer - Страница 16

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The night that I spent in the green room was in many ways like the one which Robert Ashton spent there. A heavy rain had set in, and the wind from the southwest was driving it against the windows of the room, just as it had done that other night. I had attempted to raise one of the windows before turning in, but it was impossible to keep it open for any length of time as the rain drove in fiercely and threatened to flood the room. As I lay in bed, unable to concentrate my thoughts upon the magazine I had picked up, I began to reconstruct in my mind the scene which had been enacted in this room but a few nights before. I pictured Robert Ashton, sitting at the small, marble-topped table, laboriously copying the inscription upon the base of the emerald figure, for what purpose I could not imagine. I saw him as he opened the door for Miss Temple, his painful interview with her, and his anger at its conclusion. Then, no doubt, he sat down and thought the whole thing over. He remembered Major Temple's threat that he should never leave the house and take the emerald with him. Possibly he may have supposed that Muriel and her father were in league in some way to obtain possession of the jewel and thus defraud him, he felt, of the fruits of his labors. No doubt the question of where to place the stone, during the night, to insure its absolute safety, became in his mind an important one. He determined to hide it, and cast about for a place of concealment. To secrete it about the room would be impracticable: it must be so situated that he could instantly remove it if necessary. Yet to place it in his bag among his other belongings would be no concealment at all. Probably he gave a quick glance about the room, and then the cake of soap, green like the emerald itself, lying upon the washstand, suggested a hiding-place which, because of its very conspicuousness, would be thought of by no one. To cut the cake in half, lengthways, with a knife or more probably a piece of thread, was the work of but a moment. The hollowing out of the chamber within, no doubt, took longer. A glance about for a scrap of paper or other material, to hold the bits of soap as he slowly dug them out with his penknife, revealed the handkerchief lying close at hand upon the floor where Miss Temple had dropped it. Soon the thing was done—the great emerald snugly placed in its improvised case, and the edges of the two halves of the soap softened with water and pressed tightly together until they were once more united. Then it was only necessary to use the soap once to wash his hands, and the telltale line between the two halves would disappear. That his plan had indeed been an ingenious one, subsequent events proved, for the room was searched, twice by the police, once by myself and Major Temple, and once by Li Min, yet of all the people bent upon discovering the jewel, not one had given the cake of soap, lying so obviously and properly in its china dish, more than a cursory glance.

Then I thought, what next? No doubt Ashton had turned off the gas and climbed into bed. I say climbed advisedly, for the bed, one of those old-fashioned four posters with a feather mattress under the hair one, was far higher from the floor than are our modern beds, and to facilitate getting into it, there stood beside it a little, low, wooden stool, by which one ascended to its snowy heights.

Presently, over my imaginings, I felt myself growing unaccountably sleepy and tired. I realized that the strain of the long day had been a heavy one. In spite of the feelings of horror with which the room had at first inspired me, I could see no reason for going without a good night's rest. There was no priceless jewel concealed upon the premises, to bring down upon me either the vengeance of Buddha or the murderous attacks of my fellow men. I laughed a little at my earlier fears as I rose in bed, reached over to the chandelier and turned out the light. The sighing and moaning of the wind, and the dashing of the rain against the window panes were the last sound I heard as I passed into a heavy and restless sleep.

I must have slept for several hours, during which I tossed about, a prey to broken and tortured dreams. At one time I seemed to be again in the underground temple of Buddha, and the glittering green figure of the deity seemed to grow and swell until it filled the whole room, forcing me down and ever down until I seemed to be choking under its enormous weight. Again I thought myself imprisoned in a huge cake of soap, which closed about me slowly and with irresistible force while I vainly tried to force it back with my hands to keep from smothering. For a long time I seemed to be beneath a dark cloud which dissolved into glittering points of light, only to be swallowed up in darkness again. After a time I seemed to be struggling to free myself from a huge, soft object which lay upon my chest and threatened to strangle me. I discovered at last that it was the dead body of Boris, the great mastiff, which, try as I would, I could not free myself from. Presently the dog seemed to become suddenly alive and its huge, dripping jaws opened and closed tightly upon my throat. I struggled madly to extricate myself from his grasp, but I seemed to be slowly, but surely, choking to death. In a madness of fear I half awoke, trembling and weak, and, with a cry, thrust the imaginary body of the animal from me and sprang to my feet in the bed. I saw nothing but the faint light of the window opposite me, and with a mad desire for air I sprang violently toward it, my right foot, as I lurched heavily outward, coming down upon the wooden stool by the side of the bed. And, as I thus dashed headlong in the direction of the window, gasping desperately for breath, I suddenly felt a violent glancing blow upon the side of my head, that shook me to the very marrow, and stretched me stunned and unconscious upon the floor.

I must have remained in this position for several moments, although I had no means of knowing, when I slowly awoke to consciousness, how long a time my insensibility had lasted. Slowly my mind began to grasp the fact that something strange, almost unbelievable, had happened to me, although what it was I did not then understand. I seemed to be swimming in a vast limitless space, filled with light, which gradually contracted until it became a single glowing spark which seemed to be myself, my intelligence. This process of coming back, as it were, seemed to take an age, yet I know now that it could not have been more than a few brief moments. When at last I opened my eyes, and realized my situation, I was intensely weak, and still gasping madly for air. I seemed unable to breathe—my lungs, my heart seemed oppressed as though by heavy weights. I slowly and painfully struggled to my knees and raised my hand to my head, which seemed ready to burst with pain. It came away dripping with blood. The sudden shock of the realization that I was wounded, together with the sharp pain which the touching of the wound gave me, roused me to the necessity of quick and sudden action. I tried to rise, but my legs seemed made of stone. I fell over upon my side and then began to crawl laboriously and painfully toward the door. The choking sensation increased every moment. For a time I thought I should never be able to reach it, and then with a rush I thought of Muriel, and all that the future held for us, and I made a last terrible effort, dragged myself across the few feet remaining between myself and the door, and, with barely enough strength left to reach up and turn the knob, managed somehow to fall across the threshold and into the hall.

I fell with my head and most of my body in the passageway, and, as a result of my almost superhuman efforts, must have again become unconscious. When I once more revived, I no longer felt the horrible sensation of choking which had before oppressed me, and I attributed this to the cold air of the hall. I felt very weak, and my head was lying in a pool of blood, but my senses were fairly clear, and I knew that I must regain my room and attempt in some way to stop the flow of blood from my wound. After some difficulty I managed to rise, and staggered into my room. My first thought was of a flask of whiskey which I usually carried in my bag. I prayed that in sending down my things from London it had not been removed. After groping about for a few moments I came upon it, and lost no time in swallowing the bulk of its contents. Under this sudden and violent stimulation I began to feel better, my strength began to return, and I managed to find a wax taper and light the gas. A look into the mirror caused me to shudder. My face and the entire right side of my head was a gory mass of blood, which, even as I stood there, dripped in heavy drops upon the white cloth on the top of the dresser. I hastily seized a towel and managed to bring my face to some appearance of the human, after which I soaked a couple of handkerchiefs in cold water and bound them upon the wound. It proved to be a long, irregular gash, extending from the side of my head some two or more inches back of the temple down nearly or quite to my right ear. It was still bleeding profusely, but the blood matting with my hair, had begun to coagulate and in the course of an hour or more, during which I constantly renewed the application of the cold water, had practically ceased to flow. I bound my head up, removed the remaining traces of blood from my face and then, returning cautiously to the green room, entered and looked about me. The light from my own room, and the gray signs of dawn without enabled me to see that it was empty. There was no silent figure crouching within, waiting to deal me another deadly blow, nor had I expected to find any. I took one look about, seized my watch from the table and fled. But, when I left that chamber of horrors, and closed the door behind me, I knew how Robert Ashton had come to his death.

On returning again to my own room I glanced hurriedly at my watch. It was nearly six o'clock.

The stimulation of the whiskey had by this time begun to wear off, and I lay down upon the bed to rest. Presently I fell asleep, from pure exhaustion, and did not awake until I was aroused by a tapping at the door. I looked at my watch. It was after ten o'clock, and the bright morning sun was glistening upon the bare ground and the trees without, brilliant in their coats of frozen rain. One of the maids had brought up my breakfast upon a tray, and I managed to take it from her without exhibiting my bound-up head and generally gory appearance. The whole right shoulder and side of the pajamas which I still wore were caked with blood. I sent word to Major Temple that I would join him shortly, and requested the maid to inform him that, should Sergeant McQuade arrive, he be asked to postpone his final examination of the green room until I had seen him. In somewhat less than an hour I had managed to get myself into fairly presentable condition, and with my head bound up in towels that looked for all the world like an Eastern turban, I slowly descended to the main hall and entered the library.

Major Temple was standing with his back to the fire, talking earnestly with the detective, who stood facing him. As the former caught sight of my pale face and bandaged head, he stopped speaking suddenly, sprang forward and took my hand.

"Good God, Mr. Morgan!" he cried, "What's wrong with you?"

I tottered unsteadily to a seat, and laughed. "Nothing much, Sir," I replied. "I had a bit of an accident last night and got a nasty cut in the head. It's nothing serious, however."

"You look rather done up, Sir," said McQuade as he examined me searchingly. "Has Buddha been at work again? Major Temple has just been telling me about his dog. The thing is too deep for me. I've handled many cases, but this one beats them all for uncanniness, and downright mystery. I wonder if the truth of the affair will ever be known."

"Yes," said I, shortly. "I know it."

"You!" Both Major Temple and the detective turned and looked at me as though they could scarcely believe their ears.

"I know how Robert Ashton was killed, and I'm pretty sure I can explain the death of the dog as well. In fact, you came very near having a third mystery on your hands this morning, Sergeant." I smiled grimly.

"What do you mean?" asked the both of them, together.

"I slept in the green room last night," I replied, "and the thing that did for poor Ashton came very near doing for me as well." As I spoke, I felt my wounded head gently. "As it is, I fancy I will be all right, after the doctor has put a few stitches in my head, but it was a close call, I can tell you."

"You slept in the green room?" asked Major Temple in amazement. "What in the name of Heaven did you do that for?"

"To find out what happened to Ashton, and by the merest chance I did so. A little more one way, and you would never have known. And a little more the other," I added, "and I probably never should."

"Explain yourself, man," said the Major, somewhat testily. "What happened? Tell us about it, can't you?"

"I can and will," I said, slowly, "but not here. We must go there, before you can fully understand."

"Come on, then," said McQuade, and they both started toward the door.

At that moment Muriel came in, glancing about, I felt, for me. She came toward me, as I rose from my chair, with a happy smile, which slowly faded away and was replaced by a look of deepest concern as she saw my bandaged head. "Why, Owen!" It was almost the first time she had called me by my Christian name and it made me feel wildly happy in spite of the racking pains in my head. "What on earth is the matter? Are you hurt?" She came up and took my hand, unmindful of the presence of her father and the man from Scotland Yard.

"Not much," I managed to reply; "just a nasty bit of a cut about the head. I slept in the green room last night, and, as I was just telling your father, I managed to find out the secret of Mr. Ashton's death, but I had rather a bad quarter of an hour doing so." I smiled ruefully and felt my turban to see if it was on straight.

"You—you slept in that room!" she cried, turning a bit white. "Why—you—what could you have been thinking of?"

"Don't think about it," I said, patting the hand she had placed upon my arm. My realization of her concern, her love, her fears, because of my possible danger, filled me with joy. "We are just going there now, and I hope to explain to all of you just what happened. But I would not advise you to use it as a guest chamber, in future," I concluded with a slight laugh.

The Major lead the way, with Sergeant McQuade at his heels. The little man from Scotland Yard was all professional eagerness. He felt, no doubt, that his reputation as a detective had been brought into question. He had worked on the case for nearly a week and had succeeded only in arresting a number of innocent persons, while it was left for myself, a rank outsider, to discover the solution of the mystery which had so completely baffled himself and his men. I could not help feeling a secret sensation of satisfaction. The Sergeant had acted very decently all through, I had to admit, but I had not quite forgiven Inspector Burns and himself for the famous theory they had so carefully constructed, which resulted in so much suffering on Muriel's part, as well as a great deal of discomfort and unhappiness upon my own.

As we followed the others up the stairway, she took my arm and pressed it gently, and the look she gave me repaid me many times over for all the horrors of the night just past.

McQuade took out his key as we reached the door of the room, but I explained that it was not locked, and that Major Temple had opened it the night before with a duplicate key. The pool of blood on the floor of the hall, which had collected while I lay there earlier in the morning, still gave mute evidence of the experience through which I had passed. Muriel shuddered as she looked at it, but I hurriedly pushed open the door, and bade the others enter. I had no desire for further sympathy nor did I wish to bring about any dramatic climax. We all entered, the Major and Muriel looking about fearsomely as though they momentarily expected some unseen figure to rise and confront them, weapon in hand. When they had all got inside, I closed the door and said: "The weapon that fractured Mr. Ashton's skull has been in plain view to everyone, ever since the morning his death was discovered. There it is," I continued, quietly, and pointed to the heavy bronze chandelier which hung from the ceiling close to the side of the bed.