Corner House — Chapter VII, At the Corner House; Chapter VIII, Paul Prout

CHAPTER VII. AT THE CORNER HOUSE.

Bruce walked home slowly and thoughtfully.

The sound of a church clock striking the hour of one came vaguely to his ears.

As a matter of fact he was more disturbed by Hetty's disclosures than he cared to admit.

Hetty was not in the least given to hallucinations, and, after all, there was something mysterious about Countess Lalage.

Still, she was so rich, and she was a favoured guest in some of the best houses.

Bruce put his latchkey in the door and let himself in.

As he did so a motor came up and pulled to the pavement.

The whole concern was a dull black, like silk; it was absolutely the most noiseless machine Gordon Bruce had ever seen.

It came like a ghost out of the darkness; like a black phantom it stood to command.

The driver was clad in goggles and leather coat, thereby proclaiming the fact that he was used to a high rate of speed.

He placed a note in Bruce's hand; there was an interrogative gleam in his eyes.

"For me?"

Bruce asked.

The man merely made a gesture with his hands.

Then followed a sign, by which Bruce knew that he was speaking to a dumb man, a startling affliction for a smart chauffeur.

Not that it mattered much, seeing that the letter was addressed to Bruce.

The note inside was evidently dashed off in a violent hurry.

It was an agitated request to the recipient to come in the motor at once;

there was no address, nothing more than this agitated plea.

Under the circumstances there was nothing startling in the presence of the automobile.

Bruce started off, only staying long enough to get his professional black bag.

He might have satisfied a little of his curiosity on the way, only his companion's affliction prevented that.

He was on familiar ground presently as the car flew along smoothly as a boat sails down stream, until at length it pulled up with a jerk at the end of Lytton-Avenue.

The car had stopped just before the corner house!

Evidently it was going to be a night of surprises.

If Bruce had any astonishment he concealed it behind his professional manner.

For the corner house was dark and deserted no longer.

A brilliant light burnt in the hall.

The door was opened presently by a woman who had a Spanish mantilla over her head.

Her hair was down, and in the gleam of the lamplight Bruce could see that it was wonderfully long and fair and beautiful.

Bruce spoke to her, but she only replied in what he deemed to be Spanish.

So far as he could see there were no signs of dust or desolation about the corner house.

The hall was clean and bright, there was a thick carpet on the stairs.

Every door was shut save one on the first floor, into which the fair beauty with the lovely hair led the way.

Four or five gas jets were flaring away with a hissing roar.

A draught from somewhere made them flicker restlessly on a large room absolutely devoid of furniture save for an old-fashioned four-post bedstead in the middle.

The air was close and stuffy, as if the window had not been opened for months.

There were barred shutters before them.

The Spanish beauty said something, and pointed to the bed.

A man in a deep sleep lay there--so deep a sleep that at first Bruce took him to be dead.

But there was just the slightest flicker of a pulse, a quiver of the eyelids.

On a table close by was a glass containing, from the odour of it, laudanum.

A half-empty phial of it was clenched in the patient's hand.

A small, twisted man, with a nose all crooked on one side, and fingers covered with huge orange-coloured freckles!

Bruce choked down a cry of amazement.

It was indeed proving a night of surprises.

Here was the very man whom Hetty had seen at the window of the corner house--the very man whose features, as seen from the morning room, had been reflected in the mirror.

It was impossible that there could be any coincidence here.

Once seen the man could never be forgotten.

It looked as if the new mystery of the corner house was going to be explained.

Just for a moment Bruce almost lost his self-possession.

The beauty with the fair hair was regarding him curiously.

He felt half annoyed that he had been so near betraying himself.

The medical man was uppermost now.

Evidently the patient was in a state of almost collapse from alcoholic poisoning.

As is usual in such instances, sleep had forsaken the wretched man, and he had had recourse to drugs.

He had taken an overdose and medical aid had been summoned just in the nick of time.

The corner house, the mystery--everything was now forgotten.

Bruce called for hot water, he made a sign for it, he simulated the mixing of mustard in a pot.

Fortunately his companion's native intelligence was equal to the strain.

She vanished with a quick nod of her head.

The house was wonderfully quiet; not a sound came from anywhere.

The repulsive figure of the man lay there like some new and hideous form of death.

Who he was and why he came there Bruce did not dare to think for the present.

Perhaps the dark owner of the house had returned;

perhaps this was the very man himself.

Certainly there was no foul play here, no audacious criminal invasion of the house, seeing that the light in the hall could be seen from the street.

Surely they were a long time getting that hot water.

In such a case as this hurry was everything.

Bruce crept from the room and looked over the banisters.

The whole place was in darkness!

Bruce caught his breath sharply.

He had scarcely time to consider what it all meant when the light flared up again, and the fair woman returned with a kettle and basin and a tin of mustard.

The doctor slipped off his dress-coat and turned up his sleeves.

In a prim sort of way his fair attendant took the coat away and hung it up carefully in the dim recesses of a big cupboard at the far side of the room.

With great care and patience Bruce contrived to coax a quantity of the hideous mixture of mustard and water down the unconscious man's throat.

For the next hour the struggle between life and death was a severe one.

Once the strong emetic had done its work something like consciousness returned.

The patient staggered backwards and forwards across the room on Bruce's arm until the latter was fagged and weary and the moisture dripped from his forehead.

The first faint streaks of dawn were breaking as Bruce donned his coat and deemed it safe to proceed home.

He made the woman with the golden hair understand that he would come again.

She shook her head and smiled as she held out three pounds and three shillings.

Evidently this kind of thing had happened before, and this was the fee usually paid.

Bruce slipped the money in his pocket, feeling that he had earned it.

The guide picked up a Bradshaw from the table and indicated Dover therein.

Two strapped portmanteaus were on the floor.

The meaning of this was all plain enough.

Bruce had had his fee and was dismissed because these strange people were leaving for the Continent at once, provided the patient was well enough to travel.

Suddenly the hall light went out again, and once more the house was in darkness.

There was the sound of a heavy footfall outside.

Bruce put his back to the wall prepared for eventualities.

A scraping of a match, a flood of light again, a queer half-amused smile on the Spaniard's face, as she noted Bruce's expression.

Then the front door was opened, and he was bowed out politely.

Before he had time to cross the road the light was out again, and the whole house in darkness.

The cool morning air was grateful after the stuffy atmosphere of the corner house.

Here was an adventure to think about and ponder over.

Strange coincidence that he of all men should have been called there!

It never occurred to Bruce that the thing could be anything but coincidence.

Should he keep the whole matter to himself, he wondered.

At any rate he need not tell anybody but Hetty.

Perhaps that drunken lunatic was some relation to the master of the corner house; he might have found his way into Lytton Square in a state of semi-insanity by favour of a careless servant.

The thing was capable of a very practical solution.

Bruce put the thing out of his mind for the time being.

The next morning was a busy one.

When the back of it was broken he drove to Tottenham Court Road, where he managed to secure the old-fashioned furniture which had so taken his fancy.

He felt pleased with his bargain, but as he repaired to the Lotus Club to lunch with Gilbert Lawrence nothing remained of the old Dutchman's banknotes.

Lawrence was deep in the early edition of "The Star."

He nodded to Bruce and looked up from his paper eagerly.

"By Jove, listen to this," he exclaimed.

"Here's a strange thing for you.

Some houses seem famed for tragedy, like some men are."

"Something in your line?"

Bruce asked.

"Well, I should say so.

Listen:" "'The Tragedy of the Corner House.'

" "'The Corner House keeps up its reputation.

A mysterious murder in Raven Street where an undiscovered crime happened years ago.

"'At a little past twelve today a policeman on duty in Raven Street saw that the door of an unoccupied furnished house was open, and proceeded to investigate the premises.

In a room upstairs he found the body of a man with his throat cut and a horrible wound at the back of his head.

Robbery appears to be the motive.

The matter is all the more mysterious as the place called the Corner House has been supposed to be shut up for years.

It was here that the famous "Corner House" poisoning mystery took place.

"'Later.

--The murdered man is described as being of misshapen appearance, a nose very much hooked on one side, and long hands, covered with orange-coloured warts----'" "What?"

Bruce cried.

"Read that over again."

"Do you mean to say you know anything about it?"

Lawrence asked.

"He was my patient," Bruce said hoarsely.

"I was with him at daybreak."

Lawrence dropped "The Star" and gazed at the speaker with absolute amazement.

CHAPTER VIII. PAUL PROUT.

There was something about the Corner House mystery that gripped the public imagination.

There was about it both the realism and the romance that always go to make up a popular sensation.

In the first place, the corner house was already marked as the scene of one unsolved tragedy.

For years it had been shut up, for years the boys of the locality had challenged one another to go down the area steps after dark, for years nobody had crossed the threshold.

Then the door had been left open for the public eye to look on another tragedy.

The victim was no ordinary man either.

People flocked to view the body as morbid folks will do on such occasions.

The victim of the crime was no more attractive in death than he had been in life.

There were the crooked limbs, the hideous hooked nose, the claws with the orange splashes on them.

But nobody identified the dead man; the police had not expected anything of the kind.

The inquest had been formally opened at the corner house, and at the suggestion of Sergeant Prout, who had the case in hand, was adjourned for a fortnight.

It was hard to get the people out of the house afterwards.

They were gone out at last, and Sergeant Prout was left to make his investigations in peace.

Up to now he had hardly as much as examined the body.

An attempt had been made to find the owner of the house, or the agents, but without success.

"It's a queer thing," said Prout, scratching his snaky little head reflectively; "a very queer thing.

Now here's a house for you.

Given a man of energy and pluck who has learnt its story, and what is to prevent his taking possession and living here as if the place was his own?

He comes and picks the lock, he has his servants in, and gives out that he is Jones or Robinson, and there's an end of it so long as he holds his head high and pays his creditors.

Of course there is the risk of the real man turning up, but criminals must always take chances.

In a way that's what happened.

The poor fellow was lured here to be murdered by some one who pretended that the house was his.

It's a very pretty case."

It was a puzzling one, too.

Every policeman who had been on night duty in Lytton Avenue for months was closely examined.

Once or twice a night the doors of the house had been tried without effect.

Nobody had ever been seen to come away or enter.

No suspicious characters had been seen loafing about.

Not one of the officers had ever seen a light in the place.

"I'll go and look at the gas meter," said Prout.

He was an efficient officer in his way, only, like most members of the force, he lacked imagination.

Give him something to work on, and there was not a more efficient detective in New Scotland Yard.

But there was no clue here, so he had to fall back on the old familiar methods.

Here was the gas meter under the stairs as usual.

Behind it was the grimy, dirty card, which showed no entry for years.

It was marked "taken 5 Feb.

," in other words the meter had been read the day the owner had disappeared.

By reading the index Prout saw that a hundred odd cubic feet of gas had been used since.

Here was something to go upon.

Beyond doubt that gas had been used lately.

Prout made a careful examination of the burners, sniffing and blowing at all of them.

He found out one thing, only the burners in the hall and the bedroom where the murdered man had been found had been used for a long time.

In a bedroom at the top of the house was a paraffin lamp with quite a new wick in it.

With a stump of pencil Prout made a rapid calculation on the wall-paper.

"Lamp used by murderer waiting for his victim," he deduced.

"Did not want any more light than was necessary, so probably lay low in a back room.

When the hour for the victim came, lighted the hall gas so as not to look suspicious.

Then why the dickens didn't the officer on duty notice it?"

"Because it wasn't there when he passed, Prout," said a quick voice that caused the detective to turn with a start.

"There was a confederate, of course.

Nothing easier than for the confederate to listen for the officer's footsteps and put out the gas till he had gone by.

Other people didn't matter."

"Right as usual, Mr. Lawrence," said Prout, beaming approvingly on the great novelist.

"Why don't you come and join the force?"

Lawrence modestly disclaimed the compliment.

As a strong romantic writer he found a fascination in crimes of this kind; indeed, he boasted that practically all his living dramas were founded on life.

He had a wonderful faculty for tracing the motive of a crime.

Many a useful hint had he given to Scotland Yard.

"What's the theory here, sir?"

Prout asked respectfully.

"A vulgar one," said Lawrence.

"Robbery either from the person or indirectly.

I don't see how anybody could possibly be jealous of a poor misshapen creature like that.

We can put the socialistic element out of the case.

Have you found anything?"

Prout had found nothing.

He had not had time yet to examine the deceased's coat and clothing.

He was just about to do so.

The first examination disclosed a pocketbook containing some score of more or less recent pawn-tickets made out in various names and a letter in an envelope.

"This looks like business," Prout exclaimed.

"The letter is not sealed.

Anyway, it was written here with the pen on the mantelpiece and that penny bottle of ink; see how pale it is and what shabby paper, evidently a ha'porth purchased from some huckster's shop.

Isn't that right, sir?"

Prout scrawled in his pocketbook with the pen.

The ink was just the same pallid hue.

The pen was a "J," and the letter had evidently been written with a "J" too.

Prout had every reason to be satisfied.

"What do you think of the letter, sir?"

Prout asked.

There was no date and no address.

There was a deal of flourish about the letter as if the writer had learned his craft abroad.

It ran as follows: Dear Friend And Partner,--At last the luck of the deuce has departed and my virtue has its own reward.

I have found my man.

At first my man blustered, but logic, mon cher, logic gets the best of temper always.

I parted with him and he parted with £400. In sovereigns.

Mark the cunning of the man!

No notes or cheques for him.

But money in cash I dare not send to you.

Therefore I have changed my gold for notes, and £200 in forty lovely crisp bits of paper I forward herewith.

They are numbered from 190753 to 190792. This I tell you for precaution's sake.

I am waiting for the cipher from K and this I will enclose.

Next Saturday I propose to salute you.

Till then with my most distinguished admiration, Number One.

"What do you think of that?"

Prout asked.

"Proves robbery," Lawrence said, crisply.

"The murderer got away with the notes, but knew nothing of the letter.

You go your way and I'll go mine.

I am greatly mistaken if I don't throw a strong light on the mystery yet."

"You mean that you have a clue, sir."

"Certainly I do.

This is a most amazing case.

Why, it is copied from the plot of one of my own novels.

And, stranger still, that novel has not yet been written!"