  Produced by Al Haines. No. 13 Toroni A Mystery By JULIUS REGIS NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1922, First printing, October, 1922 PRINTED IN U. S. A. CONTENTS PART I. THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON CHAPTER
PART II. THE WOODEN DOLLS
PART III. HURRICANE ISLAND
PART I "THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON" CHAPTER I STEPS THAT GROW SILENT "They are all gone ... all, that crazy Craig Russel, Sanderson, the black Colonel, all gone. All, save William Robertson, myself and you, and the mystery of King Solomon is not solved...." Victor Dreyel left off writing and looked expectantly towards the door. As he sat there in his well-lighted studio he looked rather like an old bird of prey in a glass cage. All round him reigned unbroken silence, but in his clear, sad eyes there lurked an expression of suspense, and, if any of his fellow-lodgers in No. 30 John Street had seen him at that moment, they would have said he had cause for the strain; he had the look of one suffering from painful memories. Victor Dreyel, a silent man of about sixty, with wrinkled face and white hair well brushed back from his forehead, his light blue eyes shaded by bushy brows, was spare and thin. Fifteen years ago, when first he had taken up his abode on the fifth floor of No. 30 John Street, in one of the oldest and least frequented quarters of Stockholm, he had been an object of much curiosity among the neighbors; he seemed so lonely, so reticent, yet well able to shift for himself, and as he refused all offers of help with cool but studied politeness, some sort of story regarding his former life had to be invented and set going. One heard that he had been mixed up with Chinese smugglers on the coast of California, another was informed that he had taken part in some Arctic expedition which had ended disastrously; the general opinion, however, was that he had led a life of adventure and had returned to Sweden from North America, where he had been implicated in some mysterious affair which had left an indelible mark upon his character. His business in No. 30 John Street was a very prosaic one—he set up as a photographer. He was fairly capable though, occasionally, a little behind the times. A showcase outside the front door which bore witness to his skill, might have attracted a goodly number of customers, had not the Gothic brick walls of St. John's Church and a thick clump of trees cut John Street off from all ordinary traffic, so that with the years, Dreyel's studio became more and more desolate and empty. People left off associating the aged photographer, in threadbare but well-brushed garments, with any exciting adventure; and there came a time when his very existence was forgotten. For fifteen years the silent lodger went in and out of the old house like a stranger, people got accustomed to him, though the secret of his life had never been discovered. It was, however, decreed that the interest of Victor Dreyel's neighbors should be aroused once more, and that in a way no one would have dreamed of, on the evening of the first of August, 1918.... After having again cast wistful glances at the door, Dreyel once more bent over his desk and continued to write: "Fifteen years have I been living in this somber and quiet corner; perhaps it was my time of probation all along. They say likenesses of the dead bring misfortune to the living. After all those years it was a curious gift to you and me; and whatever may happen to-night I shall not give in without a struggle...." Suddenly he let his pen fall. The church clock struck eight and at the same moment there was a sharp ring at the door. Dreyel's face grew hard and alert; he passed through the studio and waiting-room, and opened the door into the passage; a young man in dripping rain-coat entered precipitately. "You have been a long time, Murner," said Dreyel. "Have you brought him with you?" "No, he is coming at nine o'clock," replied the young man, throwing his hat upon a chair, "he couldn't come earlier. I had a good deal of trouble to get at him, but I know his ways and caught him at last; he seemed very much interested." "Really?" murmured Dreyel thoughtfully. "The question is whether he can help me now." Murner smiled as if he had heard something funny. "My dear Dreyel, you may rest assured that Maurice Wallion can help you. Don't you know that every one calls him the 'problem solver'? Why, man, it was he who only last summer unravelled the mystery of the 'Copper House,' and he has only lately returned to Sweden after working a whole twelve-month for the English government." Murner spoke with all the enthusiasm of youth, and his praise would greatly have delighted the popular detective reporter of the daily paper, could he have heard it. As both men entered the studio Murner continued: "The question seems rather to be whether he will; you are so unnaturally reticent, Dreyel, but you can talk openly to him. I have known you for nearly a year now, and not one word have you ever said about yourself. What is this infernal secret you are carrying about with you? And if you persist in your obstinate silence, what is the use of asking Maurice Wallion to come here?" "When he does I shall speak fast enough. If all you say about your friend is true, he'll see that he has not come here for nothing. Oh, yes, I'll speak out," Dreyel added slowly, "if only it is not too late!" Murner shrugged his shoulders. "He'll be here in an hour's time at the latest," he said, "I can't understand your anxiety; the wire you got this morning cannot possibly do you any harm." "No, the wire can't; it's what will come after," replied Dreyel, making an effort to speak calmly. "I haven't even seen it yet," remarked Murner. "Forgive me," said Dreyel, absently thrusting his hands into his pockets, "here it is." The young man eagerly seized the telegram which read as follows:—
Murner was puzzled, he read it through once more but failed to grasp its meaning. "Despatched from Gothenburg this morning," he said; "but who are E.R. and Toroni?" At the mention of Toroni's name Dreyel set his lips and snatched the paper from Murner. "Toroni?" he repeated after a pause, "Toroni ... he was the thirteenth." He clenched his hands and relapsed into silence, and for a few seconds neither spoke. Rain and wind dashed against the window and a few stray, faded leaves gleamed like gold on the wet panes illumined from within. Dreyel was deadly pale, and the next moment he said in a strained voice: "Don't ask me any more questions now, you will hear all when Maurice Wallion arrives." He stopped, lost in thought; Murner cast an inquiring look at him. On the careworn face of the aged recluse there lay an expression of stern resolve which inspired the young man with a feeling of respect and reverence, and prevented his breaking the silence. Furtively he looked round the large, gloomy room and shivered. The studio was about thirty feet by twenty with a sloping roof of small, dusty panes of glass in lead-setting, painted grey; a protruding bit of wall showed that the studio had been made by pulling down the partition between the two attics. A screen covered with some white and grey material, a movable kind of balustrade, a couch, a looking-glass and, above all, a huge camera under a green cloth and a small table littered with all sorts of photographic paraphernalia formed the inventory of the front part. At the farther end stood a simple writing table, a stool and a bookcase on which were exposed numerous photographs, the lower shelf being filled with books, mostly of a technical character. Two upholstered chairs flanked the book-case; on the right were two doors leading into the dark-room and Dreyel's sleeping apartment. A row of electric lamps, minus shades, cast a weird light over the vast, melancholy chamber which resembled a room in some dismal museum. Murner's eyes scanned the photographs on the upper shelf; almost unconsciously he strove to evolve some sort of connection between that shelf and the mysterious telegram. Suddenly he started ... yes, there among the photos, in the top row, stood the wooden doll mentioned in the telegram! He bent forward that he might see it better, but at the same moment Dreyel, who had been standing behind him, so altered his position that his shadow crept along the wall like that of an unwieldy wounded beast, stooping over the shelf as though something there needed protection. Murner was seized with a feeling of inward discomfort and muttered to himself, "What in the world have I to do with this odd old fellow's existence?" His connection with Dreyel began in a somewhat casual way. When he (Murner) installed himself on the fourth floor of No. 30, John Street, he felt at once considerable sympathy for his taciturn fellow-lodger on the floor above. He had approached Dreyel with regard to some photographs of certain old houses in the neighborhood required for illustrating an article in one of the local papers; that had been the beginning of their acquaintance, and Dreyel appeared to have taken a genuine liking to the young fellow, who was rather inclined to discuss his future plans with an older, much-travelled and experienced man. The curious rumors afloat respecting Dreyel's past had, of course, reached Murner also, but he had made no attempt to pry into secrets, the existence of which his own common-sense led him to consider doubtful. But one day early in June, Dreyel, in Murner's presence, received a parcel by post from America. This parcel was to lead to important results. Murner, in his surprise, had exclaimed, "Oh, I say, it seems your friends in the States haven't forgotten you!" His astonishment had been even greater when Dreyel opened the parcel. It contained only a little wooden image about eight inches high, representing a man in a workman's sweater, broad-brimmed hat and jack-boots, the whole being carved in dark, polished wood. It was a doll or rather a statuette skilfully executed. The features were broad and hard and bore a peculiarly life-like impress of defiance and brute force. Dreyel's face had assumed an ashen hue, but he allowed Murner to examine the curious little figure without a word. When, however, the latter ventured to put a few searching questions, Dreyel curtly replied: "We shall see, this is only the beginning," and would say no more on the subject. It was this identical wooden object Murner had discovered on the shelf in the studio, and this evening it inspired him with unaccountable aversion. In its brown face, hardly bigger than a man's thumb-nail, there seemed to lurk a fixed, diabolical grin, giving it the appearance of some loathsome fetish. "Watch the wooden doll," repeated Murner. "It is nonsensical; first a wooden doll, and then that telegram.... The vile thing! Take it away, I can't bear it." "Don't you touch it," said Dreyel sharply. Murner had already put out his hands for it but drew back, surprised at the tone of Dreyel's voice. They stood face to face. "What do you mean?" asked Murner, "Are you afraid of it?" "No," replied Dreyel, "but no one must lay a finger upon it ... not yet." He took up a position between the shelf and Murner. When he saw the expression of Murner's face, he indulged in a cynical smile. "You are so impatient," he said, "I can't tell you any more just now, but perhaps the visitor I am expecting will...." He stopped abruptly. "Go down to your diggings, Murner, and leave me to myself; when your detective friend does come, he will find a tangle, even in his opinion, worth unraveling." Murner was about to answer, but Dreyel's determined attitude prevented him, and he turned obediently towards the door. Then he looked round once more and said: "Wouldn't it be better if I stayed with you?" "No," replied Dreyel, "it will be better that you should receive Maurice Wallion downstairs." He shook the young man's hand and said good-bye. Then he almost pushed him into the passage and closed the door. It was nearly half-past eight when Murner reached his own quarters, below those occupied by Dreyel. He hung up his wet coat and went into his workroom or study. He felt ill at ease as if he had been drawn into a strange, antagonistic circle against his will. Dreyel's curious behavior both irritated and worried him. What was it that had really happened? He could not prevent his thoughts from dwelling on the telegram which, undoubtedly, had some connection with the wooden doll. Who could "E.R." be, whom Dreyel was so anxious to receive alone that evening? Who was "Toroni," and what secret had he got to know? Impatiently Murner threw himself into an armchair in order to clear his confused brain. The wooden figure had arrived from America early in June, and to-day, August the first, that wire from Gothenburg. The old man had been pacing to and fro in the studio overhead all the morning. Then came his unexpected visit about two P.M., when he was pale, but calm. "Will you render me a service, Murner?" he said, "I can't quite explain, but I have had a wire which has put me into a damned hole. You know Maurice Wallion well, don't you?" Murner nodded, much surprised. "Well, I want his help," continued Dreyel, "it means more to me than I can say; for God's sake make Maurice Wallion come at once." Struck by the painful earnestness of Dreyel's words, Murner promised to find the ever busy and unget-at-able "Journalist Detective" whom he knew well. After a search lasting several hours, Wallion was discovered at last and listened with keen interest to what Murner had to tell him, but he said only: "Remember me to your friend and tell him I will call at nine o'clock." Murner had almost expected a refusal. Could it be possible that Maurice Wallion, with only such slight data to go upon, had already come to some conclusion regarding this wretched affair? And why did Dreyel seek his help now? Naturally he had often talked about Maurice Wallion with Dreyel, but if any serious danger threatened Dreyel, would it not have seemed more practical to communicate with the police? Murner's sensible mind was, for the time being, rather irritated by Dreyel's mysterious ways. Taking a good whiff at his cigar he said to himself: "All this is quite childish; his recluse life has affected his brain." He laid down his cigar and listened intently for footsteps overhead, but all was quiet. What might Dreyel be doing now? The whole house was so still and silent, it might have been tenantless and empty; only the rain beat against the windows. He tried once more to collect his thoughts and calmly recall what Dreyel had said and his own words, but he had to give up the attempt. The bare remembrance of the wooden doll and the telegram was revolting; the whole thing was so foolish.... Suddenly he heard sounds above; some one was walking across the studio; he recognized Dreyel's steps, but immediately after he heard some one go up who seemed to move much more quickly; judging from the sound the steps proceeded from the waiting-room as Dreyel's had done. Murner was startled. So there was a visitor up there? It must have been true then, and the telegram had not been an ill-timed joke; and Dreyel's words had not been the outcome of a diseased brain. Surely the stranger must be the redoubtable "E.R." The steps halted for a few seconds, then turned towards the studio and when they ceased altogether Murner fancied he heard a dull thud, as of a heavy trunk or sack being deposited on the floor. His curiosity waxed stronger; he waited impatiently, but nothing more was to be heard. He tried to picture the situation. Most likely Dreyel and the mysterious visitor had drawn their chairs up to the writing-table and were having a long, subdued conversation; about what? The wooden doll? Murner thrust his hands into his pockets and paced up and down the room, feeling much perturbed. He looked at the clock; it was twenty minutes to nine; twenty more long, tedious minutes must elapse before Maurice Wallion would come. Wouldn't it be better for him to go upstairs at once? Why such profound silence up there? No footsteps ... no anything ... He felt his heart beat; a wave of icy cold seemed to emanate from the stillness above. All at once he realized that possibly he was the only friend Dreyel had, the only one to whom the old man could as a last resource turn with his prayer for help! He hurried to the door; as he was about to open it a shrill scream broke the silence of the house, and a door banged a long way off. CHAPTER II "DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE" Thomas Murner tore open the door and rushed into the passage. Had he for a moment dreamed that this proceeding would land him in an adventure destined to influence all his life and send him to the other end of the world, he might have thought twice before dashing out in such a hurry; but Fate had already cast the die. From that moment or rather from a quarter to nine on August the first, 1918, Thomas Murner became the hero of many a wild and curious episode. At this point it may be as well to give a sketch of this young man's person, character, and position in life. Thomas Murner, at twenty-eight years of age, was in many ways as lonely as Victor Dreyel; both his parents were dead and other family ties were little more than a myth to him, but he differed from Dreyel in that he was a cheerful, sociable and energetic young man, with the normal aspirations and keen intelligence of youth, instead of a soured recluse. In possession of a fair competence inherited from his father, ambitious, and cherishing great plans as a fully qualified architect, the future loomed brightly before him. After a short and laborious apprenticeship in an architect's office, he was now cast upon his own resources; his position at this time might have been much better if he had not devoted so much work and time to a "bright idea"; for "bright ideas" emanating from the brains of aspiring young men do not always meet with due appreciation. Murner's "bright idea" had been the erection of a "Terrace House," but what sort of an edifice this was meant to be no one had had the patience or curiosity to inquire. In person he was of medium height, thin, agile, with an impulsive manner, dark hair, blue eyes and an engaging expression of youthful self-reliance played round his mouth. Every one liked him, and liked him too well to take his "bright ideas" seriously, which amused more than it vexed him. Though skeptical he was ever hopeful, and was prepared to spend a few more years in attaining the realization of his dream, which took the form of a luxurious and prosperous office whence the "fashionable, famous architect" would issue orders and plans for the building of innumerable "Terrace Houses," but, as has been already observed, no one can foretell the future. The first thing Murner heard when he stepped out of the half-dark roomy passage was the sound of some one coming out on the upper landing and shouting down the stairs: "Don't let her escape!" He recognized the croaking voice of the porter's wife, and cried: "What on earth is up?" "Is that Mr. Murner? For God's sake come up here, something awful has happened ... but don't let that little monster escape." The voice could be heard all over the house and, finally ended in an hysterical scream; every door was opened and people were heard coming up from the lower rooms. In two strides Murner was at the top of the stairs where he found the porter's wife, white with fear and shaking from head to foot, standing at the studio door. "Quick, tell me what has occurred and who it is that must not be allowed to escape?" "The girl in the grey dress," stammered the woman, "she came out of here." "Out of the studio? Well, and what then?" "She murdered Mr. Dreyel." For a second Tom stood as if paralyzed, but the next moment he dashed through the waiting-room into the studio. On the floor right in front of the bookshelf lay Dreyel, face downward, his shoulders convulsively drawn up, his head and the upper part of the body turned on one side and both arms stretched out. Murner sank on his knees and put out his hands to turn the dead man over, but quickly drew back. Victor Dreyel was past human aid; a knife had penetrated through his clothes between the shoulder blades; his coat had been considerably crumpled by the fall. The porter's wife suddenly burst into loud and uncontrollable weeping, but the young man strove to keep cool. From the woman's disconnected account he gathered that she was on her usual round, locking the doors, and extinguishing the lights; finding the studio door ajar she had gone in; struck by the unusual quiet she had proceeded to the other end, and, to her indescribable horror had found Dreyel lying dead on the floor. "Well now, about the girl?" asked Murner impatiently, "the girl in grey?" "She stood hidden behind that screen there, and when I screamed and was about to run away, she ran out of the door just in front of me and slammed it after her." "What was she like?" "I could only see that she was in grey; she fled past me like a cat and when I got to the door she was gone. I understood then that she must have killed him." Murner interrupted her. "Telephone at once to the police," he said, "I shall remain here." As she obediently went to the door he called after her, "You wait below for the police and make them send for a doctor." Left alone he gazed for a few minutes at the still and lifeless object before him with dry and smarting eyes, for the tragedy unnerved him; it was so difficult to think that poor shrunken form in his threadbare clothes was a dead man; he knew that the dull thud he had heard while in his workroom, must have been caused by Dreyel's fall, and the light footsteps must have been those of the girl. Dreyel had never mentioned any girl to him.... He endeavored to collect his thoughts, and as he pondered on what Dreyel had or had not said, cursed the indifference with which he had listened to words, some of which, no doubt, had been of serious import. If only he had remained up there with him; it seemed almost as if he had betrayed the old recluse to his enemies. Mechanically he went up to the writing-table where his attention was attracted by a white paper half concealed under the blotter; it was probably a half-finished letter. He began to read it, but the words failed to convey any meaning to his brain, and he caught himself staring again at the motionless body, when a sudden noise made him start violently. Had the police come already? Unconsciously he stuffed the letter into his pocket and strained his ears to listen. Steps were audible in the waiting-room; yes, it was the police. Murner gave vent to a sigh of intense relief. Three detectives entered hastily, followed by the porter's wife. The chief detective was a pleasant, thick set individual, with a small, grizzled mustache; he looked round and, stopping short at sight of the corpse, said in a commanding tone, "Yes, things do look pretty bad up here. Has any one touched him?" The porter's wife denied having done so, and he advanced a step nearer to the body. He cast a quick, penetrating look at Murner and said sternly, "Mr. Murner, I presume?" The young man bowed slightly. "I am Superintendent Aspeland. If I have been rightly informed you also live in this house and were intimately acquainted with the murdered man. Is that so?" "I was acquainted with him, but not intimately." "You were not present at the murder?" "Certainly not," replied Murner, and he would have said more had not the superintendent prevented him. "A young girl, dark, slender, very pale and dressed in grey is said to have run out of the house ... Did you see her? No? Do you know who she is?" "No, I never heard of her before this evening," said Murner, wondering whether in this connection he ought to mention the telegram or his having heard strange footsteps. As though answering his unspoken thoughts the superintendent continued: "I shall presently have a few more questions to put to you, Mr. Murner; perhaps you will be good enough to retire to your own quarters meanwhile. After what this woman has said it seems the girl never left the house at all." "I can swear to that," broke in the porter's wife, "When she ran out of the studio, there were at least five or six people about or on the stairs, but not one of them saw her. She must have hidden somewhere, though I can't make out..." "So much the worse for her if she is here," said the superintendent gruffly, "I have two men stationed in the yard and two more in the road; now I am just going to have a look round till the doctor comes." He took out a pocket-book and pencil, beckoned to one of the other detectives, and bent down over the body. Murner profited by the occasion and left the landing, grateful for the relief; he longed for undisturbed solitude in which to think over recent events. Outside he encountered a dozen inquisitive tenants, mostly women, and beat a precipitate retreat from their alarmed inquiries. He found his door shut but not locked, though he remembered leaving it ajar in his hurry to go up to the studio, and supposed that some passer-by had closed it. He went in, locked the door and switched on the light. Catching sight of himself in the glass, he noticed that he was deadly pale, and seeing his own drawn, distorted features, he was seized with the most unreasonable fury against the inhuman wretch who had murdered Dreyel. "It is horrible," he said, to himself, "there is no possible excuse for such an act of brutality." He took a draught of water and opened the door leading to his study, but remained on the threshold petrified ... some one was sitting in his armchair by the table! It was the tall, slight figure of a girl in a simple grey costume and black silk hat! The large, half open brown eyes were set in a colorless, thin face; her lips quivered and her hands were tightly clasped over a leather satchel on her knee. Their eyes met. CHAPTER III THE GIRL IN GREY Tom Murner closed the inner door mechanically from force of habit and leant against it. He began to wonder if he were dreaming. The girl sat still, immovable, but followed every movement of his with her eyes. All of a sudden she said something but in so low a tone that he could not hear her words. "What was it you said?" he asked hoarsely. She continued staring at him with the same unnatural look in her eyes; but presently the bag slipped from her knees and he noticed that her hands were twitching convulsively. He was beside himself at the awkwardness of the situation and angrily inquired: "How did you get here? Who are you?" She rose from, her chair and said in a listless tone: "I had to hide, I want to get out of here." She bent down to pick up her bag and burst into tears, then leaving the satchel on the floor, she made wildly for the door, but as Tom did not move she stopped short in front of him with bowed head, her whole form shaking. "Let me go," she said. "Oh, God, let me get away from here!" "The house is full of police," he answered deliberately. "They declare that Victor Dreyel met with his death at the hands of a girl in grey." She staggered as though she had been struck. She moaned pitifully, lifted her hands to her throat and fixed her eyes upon his face as if dazed. The silent appeal in her feverishly burning eyes made him regret his harshness. "It is not true," she said, closed her eyes and fell back in a dead faint. He caught her in his arms and carried her to the easy chair; her white blouse showed through the open grey coat. A wave of compassion surged through his brain as he saw how frail and helpless she was; small, pearly teeth gleamed between her half-open lips. She breathed faintly and her deathly pallor accentuated the thinness of her face; her expression was one of childhood innocence. For a moment he touched her hand, which was soft and warm. Could it be that these small hands were stained with the lifeblood of Victor Dreyel? He shuddered at the bare thought and yet how could the situation be explained? Here he was in his own room alone with a girl ... an entire stranger to him ... wanted by the police ... in a dead faint. He was at his wits' end. "This can't go on," he reflected. "What on earth am I to do?" She had not entirely lost consciousness, and he saw that her dark eyes were fixed upon his with a puzzled expression. Presently in a broken voice she said: "I was hiding behind your door when you opened it; I heard people about and ran in here." "You ran in here? And what for, may I ask?" he queried in despair. "I did not want to fall into the hands of the police...." "Then you must have some reason for being afraid of them?" She looked down without answering; after a few seconds she glanced up again and asked, "Is there any one about who could hear me?" The unexpected question startled him; he was about to reply in the negative, but his suspicious were roused, and he made a hasty examination of his rooms. His quarters comprised three rooms—his study littered with sketches, plans and models; his living—or as he preferred to call it his smoke-room, with comfortable leather chairs; and his bedroom. At first he had intended to make his household a model one, but his various housekeepers having proved failures he had turned his domestic offices into lumber rooms. Returning from his investigation he said: "There is no one about, and now, I trust, you will explain how you came to be found in the studio?" "And supposing I can't?" she whispered. "In that case I am afraid the police will make you!" At that moment there was a violent ring at the outer door and Tom caught the buzz of voices. The ringing was renewed from time to time, accompanied by loud knocking; and he went towards the hall—as in a dream. The girl jumped up without a word and threw her arms round him in order to hold him back. Her tears broke out afresh, and her flaming eyes made her look like a little fury; but he pushed her away and said in a decisive tone: "Look here, this won't do, I must open the door." "No, no," she whimpered, "you must help me.... I can swear ... Oh, do help me!" She covered her face with her hands and he heard her murmur: "There is no one in the world who will help me." He did not release his hold of her and the small figure seemed to dwindle in his grasp: without knowing how it happened he found her head resting on his shoulder. "Well, well, try to be calm," he said austerely "I never said I should hand you over to the police, did I?" "No, you did not," she replied gravely "you did not." She sighed and dried her tears. "Go into the next room and keep quiet," he said hurriedly. The girl hesitated, but another furious ring scared her and the next minute she had disappeared. Tom stuffed her satchel under some papers, looked round once more and found a grey glove on the chair which he bundled into his pocket and went to open the door. Superintendent Aspeland walked in. "So this is where you live," he grunted, looking about him. "Yes, you seem to have all you want here. Have you heard anything of the woman since you came down from the studio? Have you seen her? What about that window there, does that look into the street?" Tom drew a long breath. "Are you referring to the girl in grey, Inspector?" "Yes, of course." "I know nothing more about her," said the young man in a loud voice; "but that window over there does look into the street," he added. "Hm!" said the superintendent, who had already thrown open the window, and was looking up and down the road. He closed it rather noisily. "I see," he mumbled, tugging at his mustache, "and what about that door over there?" "Goes into the next room," Tom said, inwardly quaking. "It is..." "Oh," remarked Aspeland carelessly, taking out pocket-book and pencil. "Oh, I say, I just picked up a telegram here." He made Tom tell him what he knew about the telegram from Gothenburg, then he said rather crossly, "It seems to me as if no one here were capable of giving any explanation of this tiresome business! Oh, well, I haven't done with it yet; we shall see." He stood still for a while without appearing to be looking at anything in particular, then he slowly walked out, shutting the door after him. Tom began to feel dizzy and to wonder what he really had been doing; had he really in cold blood been trying to bamboozle a police superintendent? The door of the next room was gently opened and the girl came out. They looked at one another in silence. Tom essayed to speak, but his voice failed him. In his mind's eye he still beheld the lifeless body, and his wrath and indignation against the murderer broke out afresh. "Anyhow, you were there," he said, hardness and suspicion in his tone. The girl hung her head. "Then you don't believe me?" she said in a low voice. "I ... I can't explain. It is so hard ... I am so awfully lonely." Tom went a step nearer to her. "If only you..." he began eagerly, then stopped abruptly. What had he been going to say? What did he know? "Won't you tell me who you are?" he continued more gently. She shivered. "No, I had better go; thanks for what you have done, and ... goodbye." She put out her hand without raising her eyes, and let the small, soft fingers rest for a moment in his own. She withdrew them with a nervous exclamation. There was again a ring at the door as the church clock struck nine, and without uttering a word the girl ran back into the smoking room. "She trusts me," he thought, and he felt oddly touched, but quickly pulled himself together. He went out into the hall, fully determined to tell the inspector everything. Was it not his duty? But when he opened the door he was completely taken aback; for without any ado, a tall, well set-up man in a mackintosh crossed the threshold, hung his hat on a peg and unbuttoned his coat. "Good evening," he said in a deep, mellow voice, "this house seems more lively than I was led to believe. Where is your mysterious friend Dreyel?" Tom stood as if turned to stone. "Maurice Wallion, by Jove!" he said panting, "I had quite forgotten you were coming." The journalist looked at him as he wiped the rain drops from his face. Tom felt like a guilty schoolboy before those calm grey eyes, and went hot all over. A sudden smile passed over the detective's usually grave and impassive features. "I begin to suspect," he said, "that you ought to have called me in sooner. You promised me an interesting evening and the first persons I run into are two men from the police. What has happened? Has Victor Dreyel got himself into a mess?" "He was murdered half-an-hour ago." said Tom. Maurice Wallion bit his lip and cast a peculiarly keen look at the young man; then he slowly took his way to the study, looked round and said: "Too late, I see. Where and how did it happen?" Tom, in an incoherent manner, told him. He mentioned his conversation with Dreyel at eight o'clock, the wooden doll, the telegram and the mysterious footsteps, finishing up with the suspicions of the police in regard to a certain young girl in grey. But he went no further. Now, having recapitulated all the details in order, he himself for the first time got a clear insight as to how matters stood. A cold sweat came over him. Up there, in the studio ... a dead man; down here in the very next room an unknown girl, possibly an adventuress, most likely Dreyel's murderess, in spite of her assertions to the contrary ... concealed in his own abode! "I do believe you are turning pale," observed Wallion, who had been narrowly studying his friend's face; "got anything more to tell me?" Tom hesitated. "Wallion," he said at last, "do you believe the poor girl did it?" "Who? Your girl in grey, the stranger? How should I know? Funnier things than that have happened." Wallion looked annoyed and absent. He listened attentively to occasional footsteps overhead; without asking, he knew they came from Dreyel's studio. "They have got something to think about now," he muttered with an odd flash in his eye. "I say, Murner, the story Dreyel might have told would have been worth hearing. Is that Aspeland walking about up there?" "I think it must be," answered Tom feebly. He was in doubt as to what Wallion intended to do, and dared not ask; he kept thinking of the girl in hiding not ten feet away—thinking it might be better to let Wallion know that she was there. In his confusion he fancied that Wallion knew everything already, and was only making fun of him; he became desperate. He had the confession on the tip of his tongue. Better make a clean breast of it at once, he thought—and was just going to open his mouth when the journalist said: "If the wooden doll has disappeared, then the matter will be cleared up." Tom drew a deep breath. "What ... what do you mean?" "Let us go up to the studio," was Wallion's answer: "if I judge the situation aright this is the most curious mystery I have ever had to deal with." "You have had to deal with?" "Yes, and I intend to get to the bottom of it too; I feel I owe it to poor old Dreyel." He went out quickly. Tom followed, taking good care to shut the door tight this time. They went upstairs and into the studio. Aspeland, two detectives and a well-dressed gentleman with a grey beard stood silent and transfixed in the middle of the room. All the lamps were lighted, and the Superintendent was busy making notes in his book. "What do you want here?" he called out without turning round. "Good evening, Aspeland," said Wallion, "how are you?" Aspeland turned quickly. "'The Problem Solver,' as sure as I am alive," he said awkwardly, "however did you get here? Are you a conjurer? Has the news of this tragedy already reached the town?" "No, not the town, but it has reached me; it is something in my line of business you see. Have you got him fast?" "Him? Who?" "Why, the murderer, of course." "Well it isn't a HE, it's a SHE," Aspeland answered, "and she is here in this house, and we are going to be after her." "How do you know she is here in this house?" "Because she was seen running out of the studio after the crime, also because nobody saw her go down the stairs, though heaps of people were about. I tell you she is in hiding somewhere not far off, and if I have to send fifty men after her I mean to catch her." Wallion gazed thoughtfully at Tom. "Oh, very well," was all he said. He thrust his hands into his pockets and took a good, long look round the studio. The body had been removed, but a dark red spot, scarcely dry, showed on the grey linoleum in front of the bookcase; it was but a small stain which could easily have been covered with an inverted teacup, but it was of supreme importance, and all eyes were automatically turned upon it, as Wallion bent over it. For several seconds there was no sound save the patter of the rain on the glass roof, and then Wallion inquired as to the whereabouts of the body. "It has been taken into the bedroom," answered Aspeland. "The doctor says death must have been instantaneous, the man having been stabbed in the back," he pointed to the silent gentleman with the grey beard by way of introduction, and said, "Doctor Baum." Having bowed to each other, the doctor laconically remarked, "A most cold-blooded murder—the work of an expert. Between the shoulder-blades—straight through the heart—internal hemorrhage, death practically instantaneous." "Does the wound give any clue to the instrument used?" "Yes, it must have been a sharp, long and narrow blade, possibly a daggerlike weapon, used with unerring precision." Aspeland interrupted the doctor impatiently. "Would you like to view the corpse?" he inquired of Wallion. "I am not against hearing your opinion," he added, somewhat clumsily, and called to one of the detectives: "Tell the porter's wife to come up again." Then the superintendent, Wallion and the doctor proceeded to Dreyel's small, untidy bedroom. Tom followed in their wake, but he could not bring himself to go near the iron bedstead from which the doctor lifted the sheet. "Let me look at his hands," said Wallion with decision, "and then help me to turn him over." "The wound has closed, as you see," said the doctor, as if he were giving a lecture on anatomy, "an uncommonly well-directed blow—not a bone touched—the inquest will show..." Tom shuddered and went back into the studio, the other three soon followed, and the doctor took up his hat. "We shall meet again to-morrow," he said to Aspeland. "Good evening, gentlemen." Wallion's face assumed a new expression; he seemed to have been deeply impressed at sight of the dead man, and Tom inquired anxiously, "Found out anything?" The journalist looked at him for a moment, "Tom," he exclaimed suddenly, "I wonder whether any man has ever been murdered from a more incomprehensible motive than your poor friend. Whoever it was who did the deed he is the vilest monster I ever came across, unfit to be called a human being. Yes," he added abjectly, "Dreyel, in his extreme need, begged for my help—I know why now—and the help came too late..." The muscles of his face were working. "But whoever it was that killed Victor Dreyel, he shall not escape." Before Tom's eyes there rose a vision of a girl hidden in the dark room and, quaking with fear and apprehension, he listened to the steps of the pursuers. At last he asked: "What are you going to do?" "I am going to unravel the mystery, of course," replied Wallion, rather irritably. He went up to the portrait shelf and said, "It seems absurd, and yet it is true, Tom, this is the place where the wooden doll stood, isn't it?" The young man shivered. Wallion was pointing to the upper shelf and to his dismay, Tom perceived that the little wooden figure was indeed no longer there; but Wallion gave him no time to speak. Turning to the superintendent, he suddenly remarked: "Well, Aspeland, and what is supposed to have been the motive?" The officer who was just then deep in conversation with the porter's wife, replied with some irritation: "The motive, sir? That will be a question to be answered later on. Once we've got hold of the perpetrator the motive will reveal itself fast enough." Wallion smiled at Aspeland's display of temper. He knew that clever, conscientious official of old and could make a shrewd guess at what had put him out. It would have been an immense gratification to the old veteran to have laid hands on a reckless criminal, but to run down a poor girl who might have been driven to commit the crime, and was now probably hiding like some hunted animal, was not at all to his taste. Wallion cast an interrogative glance at Tom and said: "Isn't it rather a waste of time to wait here any longer?" "What do you mean?" said the inspector in a grumbling tone. "Would it not be more to the point to search for the short, slim individual who climbed on to the roof through that window there?" Nothing in Wallion's tone gave the slightest indication that he attached any importance to his question, but all eyes turned to him and the official became uncomfortably red. "Eh! What? Window ... I ... what window?" "That one over there," said Wallion pointing to the one furthest from the door. "Oh, that one," said Aspeland drily, hurrying towards it. "I saw that, you need not teach me observation; Dreyel may have closed it himself." Wallion called his attention to a chair which stood under said window, and had on its seat the mark of a wet shoe. "If you measure that mark you 'll find that it was made by a shoe two or three sizes shorter than Dreyel's. Besides the window can only have been opened a few minutes or there would be some drops of rain about here, and it is not—as you say—closed. It has only dropped—as can be seen by the unturned bolt. You will notice also that the intruder, probably to facilitate getting on to the roof, stood on the fore part of his feet or toes, as the impression on the seat shows." Aspeland stroked his chin. "Well, well," he said deprecatingly. "But about the girl, the murderess? Apparently she had an accomplice..." Wallion's manner and speech had so far been those of a calm, critical observer; now, he was roused, and in an authoritative voice, he said, "Aspeland, it was not a girl who dealt that blow. Dismiss all thought of her from your mind for the present; you don't believe me, but I say it again, some man has escaped through that window on to the roof. I maintain that it was he who murdered Dreyel. Moreover here is his card!" Wallion went back to the shelf and pointed to its surface where the dust lay thick, except for a small space of perhaps three inches, indicating that some object which had lain there for a long time had recently been removed. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed the porter's wife who had just come up, wringing her hands, "the wooden image has gone." "Yes, it has," answered Wallion, "but Mr. Murner can bear witness that it was there at 8:30 this evening; the marks in the dust are irrefutable.... They were made by a coat sleeve with two buttons, therefore, undoubtedly, that of a man. At a guess one would say the shelf must be about three and a half feet in height, and the marks in the dust lead to the conclusion that the man must have been short of stature and slight, otherwise he could not have wriggled through that small aperture in the corner." "If it happens to have been that one," growled Aspeland. "Of course, but why shouldn't it have been that one? There were no marks of dust on Dreyel's sleeve, so it wasn't he who removed the wooden doll, and there was no one else here." "No, but the wooden figure—what was the story about it?" broke in Aspeland. "A wooden image?" he added fixing his eyes on Tom. "That must have been a most wonderful thing, what do you know about it?" "Nothing more than that Dreyel received the figure from America early in July," said Tom, describing the packet as well as he could. "That's all, but it must certainly have been the object alluded to in the telegram." "Telegram, telegram," muttered the superintendent, looking round distractedly. "So there is a wooden doll and a man who..." his bloodshot eyes turned to the window in the corner. "Johnson," he cried, "go out and whistle for one or two men to help you, and then go and examine the roof minutely." Addressing the porter's wife he said: "Did you happen to see a short, agile man anywhere about the house this evening?" She shook her head. Aspeland sniffed. "Come along with me," he said roughly, "we'll ask some of the other tenants; some one must have noticed him, seeing he was made of flesh and blood," and, giving Wallion an angry look, he went out. The other detectives remained to keep watch on the window. Murner and Wallion lighted a cigarette and went out arm-in-arm, "Let's go down to your digs," said Wallion. |
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