Читать книгу Tracked to Doom - James Edward Muddock - Страница 4

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WHEN the news was spread that Vesta Florence, the public favourite, had been murdered in her house at St. John's Wood, the excitement was intense. No murder of modern time had aroused Londoners as this one did. Apart from the woman being so well known as an actress, the crime was shrouded in mystery. And, by the papers, the public learnt for the first time that Vesta Florence was a married woman, and the wife of Eugène Ricardo. The evening papers also announced that Eugène Ricardo had been placid under arrest on suspicion of having killed his wife.

The subject of the murder was the one topic of conversation for hours. Business men on the way to the City discussed it. In trains, in 'buses, and at public-house bars it was talked about. Men on 'Change forgot stocks and shares for the moment to speak feelingly of the strange murder of "poor little Florence." If the Prime Minister or the Prince of Wales himself had suddenly died, the attention of London could not have been more strongly concentrated on the event than it was on the death of Vesta Florence, the actress.

That afternoon a gentleman, whose white hair and whiskers and lined face told that he had long passed the meridian of life, drove in a cab from the City to a house near Clapham Common, where he alighted and rang the door-bell with nervous agitation. In a few minutes the door was opened by a neat maid in white apron and cap.

"Is Mr. Sugg in?" asked the visitor, with some manifestations of anxiety, as if he feared that Mr. Sugg might be out.

"Yes, sir," was the answer. Whereupon the gentleman seemed relieved. "Come in, please. Who shall I Bay wants him?" as she showed the gentleman into the front parlour.

"Glindon is my name," was the answer.

The maid withdrew, and in about five minutes Mr. Sugg entered the room, and Glindon shook his hand cordially.

Calvin Sugg was a remarkable man, physically, facially, and mentally. By profession he was a detective, and he had made himself famous almost throughout Europe. It could truly be said of Mr. Sugg that he had been born for his profession; and nature seemed to have embodied in him the ideal detective. Although he might have been considered somewhat short in stature, his wonderfully well-knit frame spoke of great powers of endurance as well as great strength, both of which he possessed in a striking degree.

His hands, shapely and flexible, were joined to wrists that seemed to be all sinews. His general physical appearance was suggestive of the athlete trained to a point of absolute perfection. His face was a study. The features, though somewhat small, were regular. He had soft, blue eyes that in repose were dull; but once let the man feel interested in anything, and those eyes blazed out like living coals, and had such a steady, piercing gaze that it was not many men who could look fixedly at him.

Deep nerve-lines extended from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, and two thought-furrows between the eyes not only gave one the impression that he was capable of great concentration on any particular subject, but had a will that nothing could break down. He was clean shaved, the better to enable him to adopt various disguises, at which he was known to be an adept.

He was slightly bald, and his hair was iron-grey, which made him look older somewhat that his years, which were about forty- four. He had a soft, clear voice that was very pleasant, but somewhat struck a stranger as being a little incongruous when contrasted with his build—a build that one is apt to associate with a deep, even a raucous voice.

His mental gifts were in keeping with his other qualities.. There were few things, in a general way, he did not know something about. He spoke at least six languages fluently, and had a good knowledge of several others; while his memory for detail, dates, and minutiae was simply astounding. He had been instrumental in tracking down some of the most notorious criminals of the age. So that, if he was the criminal's horror, he was the law's pride; and hidden away—for a retiring modesty was not the least conspicuous of his many conspicuous qualities—he had innumerable medals and souvenirs of all kinds that had been presented to him by different Governments for service rendered.

But Calvin Sugg never boasted, never talked of his own power, and had as sympathetic arid as kindly a heart as ever beat in man's breast. He used to say sometimes, when in a jocular mood, that nature had given him a detective's brain but a woman's heart.

"Well?" he said, as he shook his visitor's hand. "It must be something urgent and important that has brought you here, Mr. Glindon."

"It is, it is," answered Glindon. "Of course you've heard of the murder of Ricardo's wife, Vesta Florence?"

"Oh yes."

"Have you received any instructions in the matter?"

"No. I understand that the Scotland Yard people have put Peter Grierson on the case."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Mr. Glindon, with an expression of profound disgust; "Grierson is a fool. Now, look here, Sugg: you know that Ricardo has been arrested?"

"Yes."

"According to what the papers say, however, the murder is surrounded with the deepest mystery, and that there is no evidence at present against Ricardo. In my own mind I am sure the wretch is guilty, and I want you to bring the crime home to him. You must do this, Sugg; you must. And if he should be convicted, then indeed I shall breathe freely and live again."

"Mr. Glindon, what is the strange power that that man exercises over you?" asked Sugg, with the pointed emphasis that he always gave to any question that interested him in an unusual way.

"Do not ask, for I cannot tell you," answered Glindon, with a look of keen distress in his face, which was careworn and anxious. "But if you can bring this crime home to him you will relieve me of an incubus. Take the case up on my behalf, and rest assured that your guerdon will be no mean one."

"Don't mention that," answered Sugg. "When I saw the account of the murder I was, of course, greatly surprised, and intended to call upon you to-morrow."

"Well, you see, I could not wait. I was too anxious and too impatient, and I resolved to come out and see you. If Ricardo really murdered his wife, he must not be allowed to escape for the want of evidence, and there is no living man so capable of getting that evidence, if it is to be got, as you. You will try, won't you?"

"Yes," said Sugg, after some reflection. Then he asked, "Did you know Mrs. Ricardo?"

"No."

"But you knew that Vesta Florence was Ricardo's wife?"

"No, I did not even know that. It is two years, nearly, now since I first commissioned you to watch the man, and for some time you have not reported anything to me."

"True; because I had nothing to report. However, I will do what I can in this business, and call upon you in a few days."

"Do, do; and leave no stone unturned to convict Ricardo."

"But supposing that he did not murder his wife?"

"I cannot suppose any such thing, Sugg. I believe there is no crime under the sun that he would not commit. He is an incarnate devil."

"That may be true, and yet he may not be responsible for this crime."

"Don't harass me with these doubts, there's a good fellow," said Mr. Glindon irritably. "I know the man and you don't. However, I must go now; but I shall hope to see you in the course of a day or two."

Mr. Sugg wished his visitor good-night, and they parted; and when Sugg was alone he mentally asked himself—

"What is the link, I wonder, between Ricardo and Glindon, and why should Glindon wish to see Ricardo hanged? Umph! Perhaps some day it will come out, but at present I don't know that it is my business to discover it. I do not like to interfere in other folks' concerns if I have no interest in them. Every man has his skeleton, and poor Glindon is no exception to the rule."

Pour days later Calvin Sugg, in fulfilment of his promise, called upon Mr. Glindon at his place of business in the City. Mr. Glindon, still looking very anxious, very troubled, and very careworn, received him in his private room, and betrayed his great anxiety by the way in which he asked the question—

"Well, Sugg, what success?"

"In accordance with your request, I have left no stone unturned, and I am bound to confess that the murder is one of the most mysterious crimes I have ever been called upon to investigate."

"Yes, yes; but you discovered something?"

"Yes, I've discovered several things."

"And you have no doubt that Ricardo is guilty?"

"On the contrary, I haven't the slightest hesitation in expressing my conviction that he did not murder his wife, and that, when he is again brought before the magistrate, he will be discharged."

Tor a moment or two Mr. Glindon presented the appearance of a man who was stunned, and he gazed at the detective with a look that was like a look of reproach.

"But, Sugg," he exclaimed at last, "you are surely mistaken."

"Oh, dear, no," answered Sugg, with the air of one who knew that his words were absolutely indubitable. "I tell you that Ricardo did not murder his wife, and yet the man who did seems, strangely enough, to have borne a strong resemblance to Ricardo."

"What man? What man?" gasped Mr. Glindon hoarsely.

"A week before the murder," continued Sugg, ''a man in evening-dress and wearing an Inverness-cape inquired for Miss Florence at the stage-door of the theatre. The stage-door porter knew Ricardo, and thought for a moment that this man was Ricardo, but soon saw that he was mistaken. When Florence left the theatre, and was about to get into a cab that was waiting for her, the man accosted her, and they seemed to have an altercation. They subsequently drove to an hotel in Piccadilly and sapped, and afterwards were driven in a cab to St. John's Wood.

"From that point all is shrouded in mystery. On the night of the murder Vesta Florence drove home from the theatre as usual; and the cabman says she was alone. She reached her residence between twelve and one, and let herself in with a latch-key. None of the servants were in the habit of sitting up unless Ricardo was at home. He had gone to a dinner on this particular night, and the servants were in bed. They heard nothing and knew nothing until aroused by Ricardo frantically ringing the bell, and he himself rushed out for Dr. Wilkinson.

"It was a quarter to three when Wilkinson arrived, and he says in his evidence that the woman had been dead then from an hour to an hour and a half. Consequently she must have been murdered soon after she got in. Now, Ricardo did not arrive home until half- past two, as proved by friends who were with him and parted from him at his gate. The mysterious murderer has for the time escaped. The coroner's verdict is, 'Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.' Ricardo is to be brought before the magistrate to-morrow, and as there is not a tittle of evidence against him he will be discharged."

"And then—and then?" muttered Glindon, speaking rather to himself than addressing his visitor.

"And then," said Sugg drily, "the murderer must be hunted down. There are two things that, I hope, will ultimately enable me to bring him to justice. The first is this silk handkerchief. It is of the finest Tussore silk, and though large, as you see, it will pass through a wedding-ring. With that handkerchief Vesta Florence was strangled. The Thugs of India used to strangle their victims with handkerchiefs exactly like this one; for it is readily twisted, and is as strong as steel wire. The second thing is this ring, a massive gold signet-ring. It slipped from the finger of the murderer, and was found on the couch where the dead woman lay. You will note that on the stone is engraved the unusual device of a skull and cross-bones."

Mr. Glindon examined the handkerchief and the ring with some manifestations of curiosity, and yet, so to speak, in a mechanical way. And then he said again—

"And you believe Ricardo innocent?"

"I am certain he is. But I am going to find the murderer."

Mr. Glindon showed that he had lost all interest in the subject now, and Calvin Sugg soon took his leave.

And when the merchant was alone he paced up and down, pressing his hands to his head like one who was sorely troubled, and he murmured audibly—

"Fate mocks me; even Heaven turns its face away, and the torture I suffer is +he torture of Tantalus."