The Master Detective by Percy James Brebner

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"I end by cheating you," said Delverton.

"Not me, but the hangman. I will warn your butler that the port is
poisoned, and tell him to telephone for the doctor."

"You can go to the devil," said Delverton.

He died that night, and the following day the Delverton mystery filled
columns of the papers. It was a dull season, and the press made the most
of it. It is only right to say that Kellner was not generally believed to
have known that Farrell had been done to death by his uncle. Quarles
believes he was absolutely innocent in this respect. I am doubtful on the
point, I admit.

CHAPTER IV

THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE IN MANLEIGH ROAD

The dramatic suicide of Martin Delverton, and the solution of a mystery
which had been relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes produced a
sensation. The public clamored for intimate particulars concerning
Christopher Quarles, the house in Chelsea was besieged by hopeful
interviewers, and the professor could only escape their attentions by
going out of town. It was an excellent excuse for golf, he declared, and
an opportunity to improve on his five handicap. I am bound to say that
while I was with him he never went round in less than twenty over bogey,
and when he only took twenty over he had luck.

This sudden enthusiasm on the part of the public was the cause of some
difficulty and not a little annoyance so far as I was personally
concerned.

As I have said elsewhere, I have constantly received the credit of
unmasking a scoundrel simply because Quarles chose to remain in the
background, but I have never claimed any credit to which I was not
entitled. It was distinctly hard, therefore, when all the praise for
bringing a series of crimes to light was given to him when justly it
should have been accorded to me. I had been engaged on the work at the
time the case of Eva Wilkinson had cropped up, my investigations had
prevented my accompanying Quarles and Zena to Devonshire. He would be the
first to deny that he had any part in solving these problems. I daresay I
mentioned certain points about them to him, he may possibly have made a
suggestion or two, but it is only because he had really nothing to do
with them that they have found no place in his chronicle. I admit I was
much annoyed, because I rather prided myself on the astuteness I had
displayed.

Curiously enough, it was not only the public who persisted in giving him
the credit, but the victims of my ingenuity as well, and the mistake was
destined to bring peril to both of us in a most unexpected manner.

I was at breakfast one morning about a week after our little golfing
holiday, when Quarles telephoned for me to go to him at once. He would
give me no information, except that it was an urgent matter, and it was
like him to ignore the possibility that I might have another
engagement. As it happened I was free that morning, and was soon on my
way to Chelsea.

I found him studying some pamphlets and letters which had apparently come
altogether in the big envelope which was lying on the table.

"Have you seen the paper this morning?" he asked.

"I had just opened it when you 'phoned to me."

"Did you read that?"

He pointed to a paragraph headed, "Strange Affair in Savoy Street," and I
read as follows:

"Last night, just after twelve o'clock, an elderly gentleman was walking
down Savoy Street, and was approaching the Embankment end, when a man
stepped from a doorway and deliberately fired at him. This was the old
gentleman's story told to half a dozen pedestrians who came running to
the spot. He seemed rather dazed, as well he might be, at the sudden
attack, and his assailant had disappeared. None of those who were first
upon the scene saw him, and although there is no doubt that a revolver
was fired, and that the gentleman's description of the assailant's
position was so exact that the bullet was found embedded in a door on the
opposite side of the street, the denouement casts some doubt on the
story. Quite a small crowd had collected by the time the police arrived,
and then the old gentleman was not to be found. In the excitement he had
slipped away without any one seeing him go. We understand that the police
theory is that there was no attempt at murder, but that the old
gentleman, having fired a revolver for a lark, or perhaps for a wager,
told a tale to save himself from the consequences of his folly, and then,
seizing his opportunity, quietly slipped away. Those who were first upon
the spot say his dazed condition may have been the result of too much to
drink. We cannot say the explanation is altogether satisfactory to us."

"Well?" said Quarles when he saw I had finished.

"I agree with the writer of the paragraph," I answered. "The explanation
is far from satisfactory. Such a story and such a smart disappearance do
not suggest drunkenness."

"Perhaps not, although it is wonderful how Providence seems to watch over
the drunken man. However, the elderly gentleman was not drunk and his
story was strictly true. I was the elderly gentleman."

"You! And your assailant?"

Quarles got up and walked slowly to the window and back again.

"It was a very near thing, Wigan, and it has got on my nerves a bit. You
know that I am held chiefly responsible for the solution of these robbery
cases with which you have been busy lately. That belief is at the bottom
of this attempt, I fancy. You remember the fellow who got off over the
first affair. There was little doubt of his guilt, but you had
insufficient evidence to bring it home to him. He was the man who fired
at me last night."

"Had you no chance of capturing him?"

"No, and the moment I saw his face clearly by the light of a street
lamp as he turned to run away, I made up my mind not to give
information. I should have got away at once, only people were on the
spot too quickly; so I told the simple truth, and slipped away at the
first opportunity to avoid being recognized by the police. It was
rather neatly done, I think."

"But I do not see why you should withhold information," I said.

"I didn't want my name mentioned in connection with the affair, and I
did not want the man to know I had recognized him. I think there is
bigger game to go for. All along I have believed that in these cases of
yours there was a connecting-link, a subtle personality in the
background. I believe you have only succeeded in bringing some of the
tools to justice."

"And you want to get at the central scoundrel?"

"I must, or he will get at me. Without knowing it I have probably escaped
other traps he has set. The fact that I am only your scapegoat does not
alter the position. He means to have me if he can. We, or rather you,
have come very near to unmasking him, I imagine, and his fear has made
him desperate."

"What is to be done?"

"I want you to go very carefully through those cases, treating them as
though they were all part of one problem. If necessary, you could get an
interview with one or two of the men who are doing time. When a man is
undergoing punishment, and believes that an equally guilty person has
got off scot-free, he is likely to become communicative."

"All this will take time, and in the meanwhile--"

"I am chiefly concerned with the meanwhile," said Quarles, "and it
happens rather fortunately that I have something to interest me and take
my mind off the matter. These letters and pamphlets were sent to me a few
days ago by Dr. Randall. You have heard of him, no doubt."

"I don't think so."

"He is a specialist in nervous diseases, so is naturally interested in
psychological matters. An article of mine in a psychological review
attracted his attention, and through a mutual friend--a barrister in the
Temple--we were introduced last night. To-night I am dining with Randall
at a little restaurant in Old Compton Street, and--well, I want you to
come too, Wigan."

"But--"

"Oh, I can make it all right. I shall send him a note, asking if I can
bring a friend who is much interested in these matters."

"But I am not, and directly I open my mouth I shall show my ignorance."

"Then obviously you must keep your mouth shut," said Quarles. "The fact
is, Wigan, last night has got on my nerves. I am--I may as well be quite
honest--I am a little afraid of going about alone. I want you to call for
me and go with me."

"Of course I will. But surely, with your nerves on edge, it would be
wiser to keep away from psychological problems. What is the
particular problem?"

"Randall will explain to-night, and you must at least pretend to be
interested. As regards my nerves, I can assure you this kind of thing is
a relief after the other. I do not think I am a coward as a rule, but I
am afraid of this unknown scoundrel. I have a presentiment that I am in
very real danger."

"You probably exaggerate it," I said.

"Maybe. But I never ignore a strong presentiment, and I--I slept with a
loaded revolver under my pillow last night, Wigan."

There was no doubt as to his nervous condition; he showed it in his
restlessness, in his acute consciousness of sounds in the house and in
the street. He expected to be brought suddenly face to face with danger,
and was afraid he would not be ready to meet it.

He certainly was not himself. Zena had gone to stay with friends in the
country for a few days, or I should have got her to persuade the old man
to give up this psychological business--at least until he was in a normal
condition again.

The restaurant, where we found Dr. Randall waiting for us, was one of
those excellent little French places which cannot be beaten until they
have become too successful and popular, when they almost invariably
deteriorate. Randall said he was delighted the professor had brought me,
and dinner was served at once at a cozy table in a corner.

"A patient of mine originally brought me here," said the doctor. "It is
rather a discovery, I think, and personally I prefer dining where I am
unlikely to come in contact with a lot of people I know. In recent years
we have improved, of course; but in England we still eat, while in France
they dine. Here we are practically in France."

Certainly more French was spoken than English, and the doctor spoke in
French to the waiter. Quarles's nervousness, which had been apparent
during the drive from Chelsea, disappeared as dinner progressed, and I
did not suppose a stranger like Randall would notice it. He would
probably form rather a wrong impression of the professor, would look upon
him as a highly-strung man, and would not realize that he was not in a
normal condition this evening. Randall carried his profession in his
face, but for the time being his medical manner was laid aside; nor did
he speak of the business which had brought us together until we had got
to the coffee and liqueur stage.

"I suppose you read the papers I sent you, Professor?"

"Yes, but rather cursorily," Quarles answered. "I think if you told the
whole story I should understand it better; besides, my friend here knows
nothing of it, and will bring an unbiased mind to bear upon it."

"And may give us a new idea," said the doctor. "I don't know whether you
are acquainted with Manleigh Road, Bayswater. There are about fifty
houses in it--a terrace, in fact, on either side. The houses are sixty or
seventy years old, I daresay, ugly but roomy, and some few years ago a
lot of money was spent in bringing them up to date, putting in
bath-rooms, modernizing them, and redecorating them thoroughly. In spite
of this, however, they have not attracted the kind of tenant they were
intended for. Many of them have apartments to let. The house we have to
do with is No. 7. The even numbers are on one side of the road, the odd
on the other. No. 5 is a boarding-house of a very respectable kind,
frequented by young fellows in business chiefly. No. 9 is occupied by a
man who, after retiring from business comparatively wealthy, had
financial losses. His four daughters have had to go out and work. I
mention these facts to show that the surroundings are entirely
commonplace. The owner of No. 7 went abroad some years ago, owing to the
death of his wife, I understand, and left the house in the hands of an
agent. It was to be let furnished, but, except for a caretaker, it
remained empty for several months. It was then taken by a newly-married
couple. They could not remain in it. The house was haunted, they said,
and I believe the agent threatened them with legal proceedings if they
spread such an absurd report. He seemed to think they said so only to
repudiate their bargain. It was then let to a man named Greaves, about
whom nothing was known. He paid the rent in advance, and lived there
alone with a housekeeper and a young servant. One morning he was found
dead in his bed, in the large room on the first floor at the back. A
piece of cord was fastened tightly round his neck. There seemed little
doubt that he had committed suicide, for when he did not come down to
breakfast the housekeeper went to his room and found the door locked on
the inside. It had to be broken open. Perhaps you heard of the case?"

Quarles shook his head.

"Well, the door was locked on the inside, the window was shut and
fastened, there was no sign that any one had entered the room, and
nothing was missing. Foul play was out of the question, but the doctor
who was called in was troubled about the affair. It was from him that I
had these particulars. Dr. Bates had become acquainted--not
professionally, I believe--with the young couple who had lived in the
house for a time, and they had told him the place was haunted. In
bringing his judgment to bear upon Greaves' death, it is only right to
remember that his mind had received a bias."

"I take it he did not believe it was a case of suicide," said Quarles.

"His reason told him it must be, yet something beyond reason told him
it wasn't."

"He thought it was murder?" I asked.

"No, not ordinary murder," Randall answered. "He thought it was a
supernatural death."

"I have read the letter he wrote to you; there is nothing very definite
in it," said Quarles.

"It was his indefinite state of mind which caused him to relate the whole
story to me. When the police failed to make any discovery, he thought
some one interested in psychological research might solve the mystery."

"What, exactly, were the experiences of this young couple?" I asked.

"Chiefly noises, footsteps echoing through a silent house. Once the
shadow of a man, or so it seemed, was thrown suddenly upon the wall by a
ray of moonlight, and once the curtains and sheets of a bed were found
torn, as if hands, finding nothing else to destroy, had taken vengeance
upon them. Of course, this all comes second-hand from Dr. Bates."

"And is probably unconsciously exaggerated," said Quarles. "The ordinary
man is almost certain to overstate and to emphasize unduly one part of
the evidence."

"That was my feeling exactly," returned Randall, "so I spent a night in
that haunted room myself. The result was disappointing."

"Did nothing happen?" I asked.

"There was no direct manifestation--at least I saw nothing, and I do not
think I heard anything, but I am sure that I felt something. It was very
vague. You know it is my theory," Randall went on, addressing me, "that
different individuals are sensitive to different influences. For example,
let us suppose a certain spot is haunted, a spot where something
particularly desperate has taken place in the past. Now I believe that A,
B, and C, all sensitive to supernatural influences, may watch there and
seeing nothing, but that D, being sensitive to that particular influence,
or moving on that particular plane, may be successful. In another case,
where D fails, A, B, or C may be successful. I think it is this fact
which accounts for the comparatively small number of experiences which we
are able to authenticate. It was an article of the professor's, setting
forth similar views, which made me anxious to make his acquaintance."

"Are you suggesting that he should spend a night in this house?" I asked.

"I do not think I suggested such a thing," said Randall with a smile,
"but I believe that is the professor's intention."

"It is," said Quarles.

"When?" I asked.

"On Friday night."

"Greaves died on a Friday night," said Randall. "It is a small point,
perhaps, but, like myself, the professor believes in small details."

"I suppose the agent will let me have the key," said Quarles.

"I do not know the agent. I got the key through Dr. Bates, and I can give
you a card of introduction to him."

"It will be a very interesting experiment," I said, looking as learned as
I could. I thought I had kept my end up very well, and far from having to
pretend to be interested, as Quarles had suggested, I was profoundly
interested, not in the psychological discussion, but in the Bayswater
mystery. I had heard of it before, and remembered that Martin, one of the
oldest members of the force, had said that it was no more a case of
suicide than he was a raw recruit. I am far from saying that no mystery
is to be accounted for by the supernatural, but I always want to test it
in every other way first.

Quarles was pleased to jeer at me for a skeptic as we drove back to
Chelsea. He did not consider me altogether a fool as a detective, but he
had no use for me as a psychological student.

"Anyway, it is a pity you are undertaking this business in your present
nervous state," I said. "At least let me be with you on Friday night."

"Nonsense, that would make the experiment useless. You clear up the
mystery of this subtle scoundrel who has tried to get me shot and my
nervous state will soon disappear."

As a matter of fact, I couldn't settle to a careful study of my recent
cases, as the professor had suggested. I tried and failed. I could not
forget the experiment which was to be made on Friday night, and on
Wednesday morning I took action. First of all, I arranged that a special
constable should be on duty in Manleigh Road, and from his appearance no
one would have supposed that anything in the way of a genius had been
introduced into the neighborhood. He looked a fool; he was one of the
smartest men I knew. Strangely enough, on the Thursday night No. 7 was
burgled quite early in the evening as soon as it was dusk. Two men got in
at a basement window, and the constable was quite close at the time. He
had instructions, in fact, to give warning to the burglars if there was
any danger of their being seen.

I had not burgled the house alone; I had taken a young detective named
Burroughs with me. Of course, I might say it was because I wanted to give
him a chance, or because I thought we might encounter desperate
characters in the house; but as a fact, it was the supernatural element
which decided me. I do not like the idea of the supernatural; my nerves,
excellent in their way and in their own sphere, are inclined to get jumpy
under certain conditions.

We went up from the basement cautiously, and it would have needed keen
ears to have heard our movements.

Without showing a light, we went into every room in the house. Those in
front had some light in them from a street lamp outside, but those at the
back were dark, although, after a while, we got accustomed to the dark,
and could see to some extent. None of the blinds was drawn, and although
there was no moon, it was a clear, starlit night.

Our special attention was devoted to the room where Greaves had been
found dead. It was substantially furnished, mid-Victorian in character.
The lock on the door, which had been broken open, had been mended, and
the window was fastened. Systematically we examined every article of
furniture and the innocent-looking cupboard. The walls were substantial,
but we did not subject them to tapping. I did not want to arouse the
neighbors to the fact that No. 7 was not empty to-night.

"We have a long vigil before us, Burroughs," I said.

"What do you expect to discover, sir?"

"I don't know, nothing most likely; but if anything does happen it is
going to happen in this room. I am going to take up my position in this
chair by the bed, and I want you to keep watch on the landing. If you
hear any one about the house come in to me at once, but if you only hear
me move don't come in unless I call. I shall not fasten the door, but I
shall put it to. If in some way it is possible to find out that this room
is occupied, I want to appear as if I were quite alone. Do you
understand?"

"Perfectly."

I saw Burroughs settled in a chair on the landing; then I entered the
room and closed the door without latching it, and there was a certain
feeling down my spine, in spite of the knowledge that I had a comrade
near at hand.

It was quite beyond me how Quarles could undertake to stay there all
alone. I could have done it had I been convinced that danger could only
come from a material foe; it was the idea of the supernatural which beat
me. I was not skeptic enough to be unmoved.

I had determined to sit beside the bed; but remembering that Greaves had
been found on the bed I first of all lay down for a minute or two. The
bed was not made up, but the mattresses were there with blankets over
them, and the hangings were in place. The key to the mystery might lie in
some hidden mechanism in the bed. Then I settled myself in the chair
beside the bed, my hand in my pocket on my revolver.

This kind of waiting is always a trial. The silence, the bodily
inactivity while the mind is strained to be keenly alert, have a sort of
hypnotic influence. An untrained man will certainly fancy he hears and
sees things, and even a trained man has to light hard against the desire
to sleep. There comes a longing for something, anything, to happen. I
think I got into a condition at last in which I should have welcomed a
ghost. There was no church clock near to break the monotony with its
striking; time seemed non-existent.

Once I thought I heard Burroughs shift his position on the landing
outside, and there presently came to me an uncontrollable desire to move.
I stood up. Just to walk to the window and back would make all the
difference.

My journey across the room was noiseless, and, coming back, I
stopped suddenly.

To my left there was movement, movement without sound. In an instant my
revolver was ready, and then I felt a fool. In a recess there was a glass
fixed to the wall, we had noticed it when we examined the room, and I had
caught the dim reflection of my head and shoulders in it. The glass was
just at that height from the floor.

I went to it and called myself a fool to my reflection. I could only see
myself very dimly, so I cannot say whether the incident had driven any
color from my face.

It had the effect of quieting my restlessness, at any rate. I returned to
my chair refreshed, feeling capable of keeping a vigil, however long it
might last.

Almost unconsciously I began to consider how many deceptions
looking-glasses were responsible for, and remembered some of the
illusions I had seen at the Egyptian Hall. No doubt looking-glasses had
played a large part in some of them.

And then I began to wonder why the mattresses had been left upon the bed.
Was the agent expecting to let the house again at once, or had they been
put there for Quarles's convenience to-morrow night?

How long my mind slid from one thing to another I cannot say; but
gradually my ideas seemed to dwindle away into nothingness, and it is
easy to imagine that I slept. I do not think I did, however.

Although my mind was a blank for a time, I am convinced I never lost
consciousness of that room or of the business I had in hand. There was
absolutely no sensation of waking, only another sudden desire to move.

Again I walked to the window, and as I came back I glanced in the
direction of the glass. This time my own reflection did not startle me;
not because I was ready for it, but because I did not see it.

I must have crossed the room at a different angle, or my eyes--

I went to the glass, and then I started. There was no reflection. I was
not in the glass.

In a moment the knowledge that this room was haunted came to me in full
force. There was the glass, plainer than I had seen it before, my eyes
were not at fault. Indeed, as I stared into it, there was a dim outline
of images in the glass, the furniture of the room, but of me no
reflection at all. Was I bewitched? Surely I must be in my chair,
sleeping, dreaming, for suddenly in the glass, moving as in a mist, there
were shadows--a bed and a man lying on it, and bending over him was
another man whose hands were twisting about his companion.

I tried to call out to stop him, then I drew back, and the next moment I
was at the door, speaking to Burroughs in a whisper.

"What is it?" he asked, coming swiftly into the room.

"Look!" and I seized him by the arm and drew him to the looking-glass.

"Well, what is it?" he asked again.

His reflection and mine were looking out at us, one scared face, mine;
one full of questioning, his.

I told him what I had seen.

"You dropped off to sleep, Mr. Wigan, that's what it was."

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