Читать книгу The White Room - Hume Fergus - Страница 1

"Eleven o'clock and a windy night!" might have been the cry of a mediæval watchman at that hour on the 24th July 19-. Constable Mulligan was more reticent, as it formed no part of his duties to intimate publicly the time or the state of the weather. Nevertheless the bells of the Anglican Church, Troy, London, S.W., chimed the hour through the clamour of a high wind; and those people who were not in bed must have decided to retire. Not that any one appeared to be stirring. The lights were extinguished in all windows within the range of Mulligan's vision, and the flashing of his lantern on the doors and gates in Achilles Avenue showed that they were discreetly closed. Not even a tramp or a cat enlivened the roadway. Mulligan was apparently the sole waking person in a sleeping world.

Troy was a bran-new suburb, built by a jerry-builder, who knew Greek history through the medium of Lempriere's Dictionary. This pseudo-scholar had erected classic villas with classic names in roads, avenues, and streets designated by Hellenic appellations. The rents in this anachronistic suburb were rather high, and the houses were inhabited mostly by stockbrokers, prosperous or not, according to their wits or the state of the money-market. There was also a sprinkling of schoolmasters, professors, and students, attracted by the phraseology of the place, which promised cultured surroundings. The drainage was perfect and the morals were unexceptional So new was the suburb, that not even a slum had been evolved to mar its cleanliness. The police, having little to do in so genteel a neighbourhood, were individually and collectively more for ornament than use. The ten years' history of the locality was one of order, intense respectability, and consequent dulness. Only in a rogues' purlieus is life picturesque and exciting.

Mulligan was a black-haired giant, somewhat dull, but possessed of a dogged sense of duty, eminently useful when taken in conjunction with brute force. He paced his beat in a ruminative frame of mind, thinking, not unpleasantly, of a certain pretty housemaid, with whom he intended to walk out on Sunday. Being as talkative as Bunyan's character of that name, Mulligan would not have been displeased to meet a brother-officer, or even a stray reveller, with whom to converse. But his fellows were in other neighbourhoods, and revellers were unknown in the respectable streets of Troy; so Mulligan, for the sake of hearing his own voice, hummed a little song in a deep bass growl. He passed Hector Villa, Agamemnon Villa, Paris Villa, and Priam Villa, all of which were in darkness, enshrined in leafy gardens. At the gate of Ajax Villa he halted. A light in a first-floor window over the classic porch showed that the inmates had not yet retired. Also a woman was singing. Constable Mulligan, being fond of music, waited to hear the song.

"Kathleen Mavourneen;" thought he, recognising the melody, "and a fine pipe she has who sings it. It's a party they'll be having within, with the tongues clapping and the whisky flowing. Begorra, it's myself that's wishing I had some of that same," and he wiped his mouth with a longing air.

As he stood at the gate, looking up the wide path which ran straightly to the shallow steps of the porch through a short avenue of elms in full leaf, he became aware that some one was coming out of the front door. The constable put it to himself in this way, as he heard the sound of opening and shutting, but no stream of light, as he expected, poured from the hall. With such darkness there could scarcely be a party in progress. Also-as Mulligan's quick ears detected-the door was opened with unusual caution and closed with equal care. The person who had emerged-whether it was a man or a woman the policeman could not guess-hesitated on the steps for a few minutes. Apparently the officer's form bulked blackly against the light of the opposite street-lamp, and the stranger was undecided whether to re-enter the house, or to come down the path. Mulligan was too dense to be suspicious, and merely wondered why the person in question did not fulfil his or her original intention. Meanwhile the song flowed an smoothly, and Mulligan half unconsciously noted that although the words were sung slowly, the piano music between each verse was played hurriedly.

Finally, thinking that the stranger on the steps would not approve of a policeman leaning on the gate, Mulligan turned away with the airy grace of an elephant. Hardly had he taken a few steps when a young man came quickly down the path with a light, springy step. In a pleasant tenor voice he called to the constable. "Anything wrong, officer?" he asked, and the gate clicked behind him as he uttered the words.

Mulligan, halting under a street-lamp, saluted good-humouredly. "No, sir," he declared. "I was just listening to your good lady singing."

"My sister," corrected the man, also pausing under the lamp, but in such a position that the light did not reveal his countenance. "You ought to like that song, constable."

"An' for why, sir?"

"It's Irish, as you are."

"Augh! An' is it me, sir, you'd be calling Irish?"

"The way in which you turn that sentence would stamp your nationality, even if the brogue didn't," retorted the young man, taking out a silver cigarette-case. "You smoke, officer?"

"Mostly a pipe, sir," rejoined Mulligan, accepting the little roll of tobacco. "Is it a light you'll be wanting?"

"Thanks," said the other, and bent down to ignite his cigarette at the match provided by the policeman. But he still kept his face in shadow. Not that Mulligan had any desire or reason to see it. He merely thought that the gentleman was a departing guest, although he could not account for the dark hall, which set aside the idea of a party. Moreover, the stranger was arrayed in a light tweed suit, which was not exactly appropriate for a party. Also he wore a loose overcoat of bluish-black cloth, with a deep velvet collar and velvet cuffs made in the latest fashion. On so warm a night, this garment was quite unnecessary. Still, Mulligan had no reason to be suspicious, and was the last man to be inquisitive. He had the politeness if not the keen wit of the Celt.

After lighting his cigarette the gentleman strolled away towards the ancient village which formed the nucleus of modern Troy. Unwilling to lose the chance of a pleasant conversation, and perhaps a kindly shilling, Mulligan followed, and beside the light active form of his companion looked like a bear lumbering in the company of an antelope. The gentleman did not appear anxious to talk, so Mulligan made the first remark.

"The song's done," said he, as they walked on.

"It isn't a long song," replied the other carelessly. "I dare say she'll start another soon, and you can listen at the gate half the night, if you have a mind to."

"It's a party you'll be having then, sir?"

"Party! No! Can't people sit up till midnight without having the house full of dancers?"

"Augh," grunted Mulligan; "there being no light in the hall, I might have guessed there was no party."

The other man started slightly and laughed uneasily. "My sister asked me to turn out the light when I went," said he. "I did so before I opened the door."

"You'll be going home then, sir?"

"Yes-to the other end of London. Is there a hansom about?"

"Near the station, sir. That'll be half a mile away."

"I know-I know," retorted the other quickly. "I often come here to see my sister." He paused, then added anxiously: "I suppose you know most of the people who live in these villas?"

"None, sir. I've only been on this beat a week."

"You'll get to know them soon, I expect. A quiet place, officer."

"It is that, sir," assented Mulligan, as they turned down a narrow and lonely street. "Never a robbery or an accident or a murder to make things happy."

"Why should there be a murder?" asked the man angrily. "Murders are not so common."

"More common than you think, sir, but the most of them aren't found out. It is I who'd like a really fine crime with my name in the papers, and a printed recommendation as an efficient officer. None of your poker murders and plain sailing you'll understand, sir, but a mystery, as you read of in them little books written by gentry as don't know the law."

"Ah! Incidents in detective novels rarely occur in real life," said the other, with a more tranquil laugh. "Providence is too original to borrow in that way. But live in hope, officer, a crime may come your way sooner than you expect."

"Not hereabouts, sir." Mulligan shook his head gloomily. "It's too clean a neighbourhood."

"The very place where a crime is likely to occur. Have you another light, constable?"

Mulligan struck another match, and this time he saw the face of the speaker clearly. It was a handsome face, rather worried-looking. But as the stranger wore a moustache and a small pointed beard, and as his Homberg hat-it was grey with a black band-was pressed down over his eyes, Mulligan could not determine if he were more than usually worried. Not that he minded. He fancied after some reflection that this handsome young gentleman was-as he put it-out on the spree, and therefore took the marks of worry for those of dissipation. He did not even examine the face closely, but when the match was extinguished he halted. "There's the half-hour, sir. I must get back to my beat."

"And I must race for a cab," said the stranger, pressing a half-crown into a not unwilling hand. "Thanks for coming so far with me, officer. I wonder if my watch is right," he added, pulling it out. "It's half-past eleven." Something fell at the moment, chipped against the curb with a tinkling sound, and rebounded into the road. "You've dropped something, sir," said Mulligan, flashing his lantern towards the middle of the street.

The other felt his pockets. "No, I don't think so. Can you see anything? Oh, no matter. I dare say-what can I have dropped?"

The two searched for a time without success. At length the stranger shook his head positively, and felt his pockets again. "You must be mistaken," he remarked. "I don't think anything is missing. However, if you do find anything, you can give it to me when you see me next. You are usually on this beat?"

"For the next three nights, sir."

"Ah then, we are sure to meet. I often come here. Good night." And with a wave of his hand the gentleman walked rapidly away. At the turn of the street he looked back and again waved his hand. It might have been that he was anxious to see if the constable was watching him. But no such suspicion occurred to Mulligan. He was too pleased with the half-crown.

"A fine upstanding young gentleman," was the policeman's verdict; "free with his money" – he here produced the cigarette-"and his tobacco, good luck go with him."

As the inspector was not within sight, and indeed would not be until Mulligan returned to the fixed point in Achilles Avenue, the policeman decided to solace himself with a smoke. After lighting up he threw away the match. It fell almost in the middle of the road, and flamed up brightly in a pause of the wind. Although it went out with the next gust, Mulligan, in the short time, caught with his keen eye the glitter of steel. Striking another match, he searched round, and picked up a latch-key, long and slim and with scarcely projecting wards. "He'll not get to his bed this night," said Mulligan, looking towards the corner. "If I was to run after him now-"

But this, he decided, was impossible. The gentleman, walking at an unusually rapid pace, would be some distance away, and also in the meantime he might have met with a hansom. Also Mulligan had to return to the fixed point, as failure to meet his superior officer would meet with a sharp reprimand. "Ah well," said the philosophic policeman, "the young gentleman will be here to-morrow night, or maybe his sister will be still up, and I can give the key to her."

On the chance of securing another half-crown, Mulligan decided that this latter course would be the more diplomatic. Astutely adopting it, he walked smartly to Achilles Avenue. A consultation of his Waterbury watch assured him that he had nearly twenty minutes to spare before the arrival of the inspector. He therefore sought out Ajax Villa, being guided thereto by the fact that the light was still burning on the first floor. But he heard no singing. However, the light showed that the lady was still in the room, though doubtless the servants-as was shown plainly by the stranger's conversation-were in bed. Mulligan walked up to the door and rang. With some foresight he argued the lady would come herself to the door, whereby he would be more certain of his money.

The wind was dying down, now that it was close upon midnight, and everything in the house and garden was absolutely still. Walking up the path under the umbrageous shelter of the elms, Mulligan saw the colours of the flowers in neutral tints under a faint starry sky. There was no moon, but a kind of luminous twilight pervaded the atmosphere. Mulligan, being a Celt, was not impervious to the charm of the place which might have been Juliet's garden, so strangely had the magic of night transmuted its commonplace into romance. But his housemaid was expensive, and he hurried to the door, anxious to obtain a reward for the return of the key.

Several times did he ring, and although he heard the shrill vibration of the bell echo through the house, no one appeared in answer to its imperative summons. Thinking he might have made a mistake, the constable stepped back into the garden. But he was right. This was the villa out of which the young man had issued, for there burned the guiding light on the first floor. Mulligan felt puzzled by the inexplicable silence and rang the bell again. Indeed he pressed his great thumb on the ivory button for nearly one minute. The bell shrilled continuously and imperiously. Still no one came. Mulligan scratched his head and considered. "Something's wrong," thought he. "If I'd the key I'd enter and see if the lady is ill. Queer, the bell don't waken the servants. Augh! The lazy beasts."

It occurred to him that in his hand he held the key dropped by the young gentleman. Almost without thinking he fumbled for the hole and slipped in the key. To his surprise it turned under his involuntary pressure, and the door swung open noiselessly. Again the constable scratched his head. Things-so he assured himself-were becoming mysterious, and he scented an adventure. It was strange that this key should open the door. "Unless this is his home, and he's running away for some devilment. Maybe the lady isn't his sister; perhaps his wife or his sweetheart. Augh! But she'd not let him go at this hour. Catch her."

However he might argue, it was foolish to stand before an open door without doing something. The inspector would be round soon, and might-probably would-demand an explanation. Now that he had got this far, Mulligan naturally decided to see the adventure through. As yet he had no suspicion that anything was wrong, though he certainly thought the whole affair mysterious. Walking into the dark hall, at the end of which, by the light of his lantern, he saw the glimmer of a marble staircase, he called gently up into the blackness. "Is there any one there?" demanded Mulligan. "If so, come down, for I'm in want of an explanation."

He paused and listened. There came no reply. The dense silence held the house. Not even a clock ticked. Mulligan suppressed his breath and listened with all his ears. No sound filled them save the drumming of his heart. Again he ran into the garden and again assured himself that the light was burning overhead. He began to conclude that the position called for the intervention of the law. Assuming an official air, he tramped up the stairs, flashing the light right and left as he ascended. He did not know the position of the room, save that it was in the front of the house. But thus indicated, he thought there would be little difficulty in finding it and solving the mystery.

From the glimpses he caught, the house appeared to be richly furnished. He saw pictures, velvet curtains, marble statues, and all the paraphernalia of a wealthy man's mansion. The stairs were draped with scarlet hangings, contrasting vividly with the whiteness of the polished marble. On the landing, curtains of the same flamboyant hue were parted before another dark hall. Mulligan crossed this, for he saw-or thought he saw-a thread of light beneath a door. The hall was of marble and filled with tropical plants. A glass roof overhead revealed the starry night and the grotesque forms of the plants. The flooring was of mosaic, and here and there stood velvet-cushioned chairs, deep and restful. Evidently the house was owned by rich and artistic people. And the fitful gleams from his lantern exaggerated the wealth and splendour around.

In spite of the noise made by his boots-which were anything but light-no one appeared to demand the reason of his intrusion. He began to feel an eerie feeling creeping over him. This silent, lordly house, the darkness, the stillness, the loneliness: it was all calculated to appeal strongly-as it did-to the Celtic imagination of the policeman.

Towards the thin stream of light flowing, as it seemed, from under the door, Mulligan took his cautious way. Knocking softly, he waited. No reply came. Again he knocked, and again the silence which struck a chill to his heart ensued. At length he took his courage in both hands and flung open the door. It was not locked. A gush of light nearly blinded him. He staggered back, and placed his hands across his dazzled eyes. Then he looked in bewilderment at a remarkable scene. The room was square and rather large, unbroken by pillar or arch, and contained only one window. Walls and roof and flooring aid furniture and hangings were absolutely white. There was not a spot or speck of colour in the place. The walls were of white enamel studded with silver fleur-de-lis; the floor of polished marble strewn with white skins of long-haired animals. The curtains, drawn aside from the window, were of milky velvet. The furniture was of white polished wood cushioned with pearly silks. Everywhere the room was like snow, and the milky globes of the lamps shed an argent radiance over the whole. It looked cold and cheerless but eminently beautiful. An artistic room, but not one that had a homely look about it. The white glow, the dazzling expanse, colourless and severe, made the man shiver, rough though he was. "It's like a cold winter's day," said the imaginative Celt.

Suddenly he uttered an exclamation. On moving cautiously into the room, he saw a piano of polished white wood in a recess, concealed by a white velvet curtain from the door. Before the piano lay a white bearskin; on this, face downward; the body of a woman. She was dressed in black, the one spot of colour in that pale room. But there was another colour-a vivid red, staining the skin. Mulligan touched the body-it was cold and limp. "Dead," said Mulligan. From under the left shoulder-blade trickled a thin stream of blood, and his voice, strong as it was, used as he had been to scenes of terror, faltered in the dead silence of that death-chamber.

"Dead! Murdered!"

Not a sound. Even the wind had died away. Only the strong man looking down at that still corpse, only the blackness of her dress; the redness of her life-blood soaking into the white bearskin, and all around the wan desolation of that white, mysterious room, Arctic and silent.