Читать книгу Tracked to Doom - James Edward Muddock - Страница 3

"

I. — THE TRAGEDY AT ST. JOHN'S WOOD.

Table of Contents

IT was a fervid July night. The scene London, and the hour near twelve o'clock. The roar of the vehicular traffic was dying down, for the theatres had emptied some time before, but the restaurants and public-houses were still doing a roaring trade, while the streets were full of bustle and life, for the stagnant and heated atmosphere induced people to linger and chat and smoke in the open air rather than hurry to their homes.

In one of the by-streets off the Strand was the stage-door of a popular theatre. Up to half-an-hour before this the theatre had been packed from floor to ceiling with an enthusiastic audience, to witness the first production of a new burlesque. A young, good-looking, and popular actress had taken a leading part in it. She had been favourably known to London for about a year. Up to that time she had been playing in the provinces, and had come to London a stranger and unheralded, but made her mark immediately. Her professional name was Vesta Florence, and from every photographer's shop-window portraits of "Miss Vesta Florence, the popular burlesque actress," stared one in the face. She was a blonde, with wavy, golden hair and a remarkably pretty face. Her figure was faultless, and she had a sweet, musical voice. Although about twenty-four, she seemed little more than a girl, for she was petite and child-like in her manner.

In the by-street where the stage-door was, a man promenaded up and down with an air of impatience and irritability. He was in evening-dress, and wore a thin Inverness-cape over his frock- coat. He had been in the front of the house, but when the performance ended he went round to the stage-door and inquired of the porter how long Miss Florence would be before she was ready to leave, and was told perhaps half-an-hour or three-quarters. He was a dark man, of about medium height, with a full moustache and no whiskers, while his hair was cropped close. His face was tanned with sun and weather, as if he had travelled abroad a good deal, and his dark, restless eyes seemed to bespeak a passionate, vindictive, and fiery nature. Now and again he glanced nervously at the stage-door, looked at his watch, then resumed his walk, but never going many yards away from the door, and he eagerly scanned the face of every one who came out. Presently the door swung open again; a gleam of light shot athwart the pavement, and a clear, ringing voice exclaimed to some one inside—

"Good-night, dear, Good-night, all."

Then there was the rustle of a silk dress, and a young woman came forth. It was Miss Vesta Florence, and she was about to get into a hansom-cab that waited at the edge of the pavement for her, when the man who had been promenading up and down strode up, seized her by the arm, and hissed into her ear—

"So, Mary, we meet again."

The mere utterance of the name "Mary" and the sound of the man's voice startled her, and as she turned round and looked at him she exclaimed, in low tones—

"My God! you here?"

She was very pale, and evidently greatly agitated.

"Yes," he answered, with a cynical smile. "You didn't expect to see me?"

"No," she faltered. "But come away from this spot, for goodness' sake."

Telling the cabman to wait, she moved down the street, the man in the Inverness-cape by her side. Then she turned to him, and with evident emotion and distress, said—

"What has brought you back? What do you want?"

"To your first question, business has brought me back. To your second, I want you."

"No, no!" she answered in a pleading voice. "You cannot have me; you must forget me. You must go away."

He laughed a cynical laugh again—a laugh that was suggestive of a cold-blooded, sneering disposition, and he said—

"I must go away, must I? No, my sweet Mary; not this time."

She glanced around her nervously, and said—

"Oh! don't let us loiter about, or we shall attract attention.''

"Very well," he answered. "Not that I care, but I am hungry and want some supper. You will sup with me?"

"Anything," she said; "but let us go from here."

He led the way to the cab, handed her in, and telling the cabman to drive to a well-known hotel in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly, took his seat beside her.

Arrived at the hotel he ordered a costly supper, including white wine, sherry, and champagne. He did full justice to it, though she ate but little. Her pretty face wore a look of woebegoneness, and now and again tears welled to her eyes, as though some great trouble was on her mind.

"Why don't you eat?" he asked.

"I can't," she answered curtly.

"Why not?"

"Because you are here," she remarked savagely.

He laughed again.

"You are still the pretty devil of old," he said carelessly. "But perhaps I shall be able to take some of the devil out of you." Then he called for the bill, and when it was brought he said to her—

"As I hear you are making a fortune with your acting, you can pay for this."

Without replying, though her lip curled with scorn, she drew forth a well-filled purse and gave the waiter the money for the bill.

"What are you going to do now?" her companion demanded.

"I am going home," she said.

"Where is your home?"

"Why do you ask? What has it got to do with you where I live?"

He shrugged his shoulders and coolly lighted a cigarette.

"I should say it has much to do with me," he replied. "Any way, I am going with you."

"No; for Heaven's sake, no! You cannot; you must not!"

Then, as she saw that the attention of some other people in the room had been attracted to her, she whispered—

"Don't drive me mad! Let us leave this place at once. Remember I am well known."

They went into the street, and he hailed a passing cab and helped her in.

"Where shall I tell him to drive to?"

After some hesitation she gave an address at St. John's Wood; thither they were driven. And when St. John's Wood was reached she stopped the cab at the corner of a road and alighted, followed by her companion. She paid the cabman and dismissed him, then said peremptorily to her companion—

"You must leave me here."

"Why?" he asked, in astonishment.

"Because my husband will be at home, and there will be a row."

"Your husband!" he exclaimed as he seized her by the wrist, so roughly and cruelly that she cried out and said—

"Leave go. You hurt me."

But he did not leave go; he was excited and chafing with passion. He put his face close to hers, and between his teeth said—

"You lie! I don't believe you. But if you are married, I'll make your life a hell!"

"You've done that already," she answered bitterly, as she wrenched herself free from his grasp, and showing spirit and determination. "You may do your worst now, for I will defy you."

She sped away from him, and entered the gates of a house some little distance down the road. When he had recovered from his surprise he followed, but by that time she had disappeared. The house was a detached villa, standing in a small garden, and on the gate, painted in black and gold, was the name "Linda Villa."

The man noted this, and for some moments stood irresolute, as though he could not make up his mind what to do. But at last he turned on his heel and walked quickly away.

A week later, at about half-past two in the morning, five men alighted at the gate of Linda Villa from two hansoms. They were all smoking—all in evening-dress; while their husky voices and unsteady gait suggested that they had supped not wisely, and had looked on the wine that was red.

"Come in, chappies, and have the final," said one of the men, who evidently lived at Linda Villa. He was of medium height, dark-complexioned, with close-cropped hair, a full moustache, and dark, restless eyes.

"No, no," they all said; "it is too late. It would be a shame to disturb your wife at this time of night."

"Oh, nonsense! Come in," urged the man.

"Not to-night, Ricardo," answered one of his companions, who were also neighbours. "We'll look you up on Sunday evening."

"All right," answered Ricardo. "Don't forget that's an appointment. Well, good-night."

The friends shook hands and parted. Ricardo unlatched the gate of Linda Villa and staggered to the door, which he managed to open after much fumbling with a latch-key. Then he entered the house and closed the door behind him.

About a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later there was a flashing of lights in the house; the street-door was flung violently open, and Ricardo, in slippered feet and with pallid, scared face, rushed out hatless, tore down the road for about a hundred yards till he reached a house on the door of which was a brass plate bearing the inscription, "Dr. Wilkinson." He rang the night-bell violently, and succeeded in arousing the doctor, who, in response to Ricardo's urgent request, returned with him to Linda Villa, and was taken to the dining-room, and this was what he saw:—

On the couch lay a woman. Her left arm was bent, and the hand, tightly clenched, rested on her bosom. Her right arm was stretched at full length; the hand, also tightly clenched, was resting on the floor. The right foot was also on the floor, but the left knee was drawn up. The face was distorted, the eyes bulging out, the tip of the tongue protruding from between the blackened lips, the nostrils dilated. The whole attitude and the distorted features told of agonising suffering.

The woman was Vesta Florence, the burlesque actress and the wife of Eugène Ricardo. She was quite dead. Her beautiful fair hair was disarranged, part of it hanging over the pillow of the couch. The front of her dress was open at the top, and round her white throat was a silk handkerchief, folded into a narrow band, but quite loose. With that handkerchief, however, Vesta Florence had been strangled; for there was a livid mark, corresponding with the handkerchief, all round the throat.

"She is dead," said Dr. Wilkinson, after a very brief examination. "She has been strangled."

"Yes," answered Ricardo, seeming very confused and bewildered. "I found her so."

The doctor looked at him with an incredulous expression. Three or four scared servants in dishabille had crowded into the hall, and were peering in at the doorway. He looked from Ricardo to them, as if expecting them to give him some explanation. But they spoke never a word.

"Well, I can do nothing," he remarked. "Your wife is quite dead, and has died of strangulation; and I don't think she can have strangled herself. It seems to me a case of murder, and it is my duty, therefore, to give notice to the police. If you have the key of the room, let me have it, so that I may lock the door, and prevent the body being touched and the things from being disturbed."

He was told that the key was in the door, so he turned it in the lock, took the key with him, and hurried off to the nearest police-station, where he reported that he believed a dreadful murder had been committed at Linda Villa.