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Title: The Thousandth Woman Author: E. W. Hornung * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1800291h.html Language: English Date first posted: April 2018 Most recent update: April 2018 This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia Licence which may be viewed online.GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
“I was going to ask you what you thought, but I guess I can see from your face.”
“I think the police are rotters for not setting him free last night!”
“Scruton?”
“Yes. Of course, the case’ll break down when it comes on next week, but they oughtn’t to wait for that. They’ve no right to detain a man in custody when the bottom’s out of their case already.”
“But—but the papers claim they’ve found the very things they were searching for.” Toye looked nonplused, as well he might, by an apparently perverse jubilation over such intelligence.
“They haven’t found the missing cap!” crowed Cazalet. “What they have found is Craven’s watch and keys, and the silver-mounted truncheon that killed him. But they found them in a place where they couldn’t possibly have been put by the man identified as Scruton!”
“Say, where was that?” asked Toye with great interest. “My paper only says the things were found, not where.”
“No more does mine, but I can tell you, because I helped to find ‘em.”
“You don’t say!”
“You’ll never grasp where,” continued Cazalet. “In the foundations under the house!”
Details followed in all fulness; the listener might have had a part in the Uplands act of yesterday’s drama, might have played in the library scene with his adored Miss Blanche, so vividly was every minute of that crowded hour brought home to him. He also had seen the original writing-cupboard in Michelangelo’s old Florentine house; he remembered it perfectly, and said that he could see the replica, with its shelf of a desk stacked with cigars, and the hole in its floor. He was not so sure that he had any very definite conception of the foundations of an English house.
“Ours were like ever so many little tiny rooms,” said Cazalet, “where I couldn’t stand nearly upright even as a small boy without giving my head a crack against the ground floors. They led into one another by a lot of little manholes—tight fits even for a boy, but nearly fatal to the boss policeman yesterday! I used to get in through one with a door, at the back of a slab in the cellars where they used to keep empty bottles; they keep ‘em there still, because that’s how I led my party out last night.”
Cazalet’s little gift of description was not ordered by an equal sense of selection. Hilton Toye, edging in his word in a pause for a gulp of coffee, said he guessed he visualized—but just where had those missing things been found?
“Three or four compartments from the first one under the library,” said Cazalet.
“Did you find them?”
“Well, I kicked against the truncheon, but Drinkwater dug it up. The watch and keys were with it.”
“Say, were they buried?”
“Only in the loose rubble and brick-dusty stuff that you get in foundations.”
“Say, that’s bad! That murderer must have known something, or else it’s a bully fluke in his favor.”
“I don’t follow you, Toye.”
“I’m thinking of finger-prints. If he’d just’ve laid those things right down, he’d have left the print of his hand as large as life for Scotland Yard.”
“The devil he would!” exclaimed Cazalet. “I wish you’d explain,” he added; “remember I’m a wild man from the woods, and only know of these things by the vaguest kind of hearsay and stray paragraphs in the papers. I never knew you could leave your mark so easily as all that.”
Toye took the breakfast menu and placed it face downward on the tablecloth. “Lay your hand on that, palm down,” he said, “and don’t move it for a minute.”
Cazalet looked at him a moment before complying; then his fine, shapely, sunburnt hand lay still as plaster under their eyes until Toye told him he might take it up. Of course there was no mark whatever, and Cazalet laughed.
“You should have caught me when I came up from those foundations, not fresh from my tub!” said he.
“You wait,” replied Hilton Toye, taking the menu gingerly by the edge, and putting it out of harm’s way in the empty toast-rack. “You can’t see anything now, but if you come round to the Savoy I’ll show you something.”
“What?”
“Your prints, sir! I don’t say I’m Scotland Yard at the game, but I can do it well enough to show you how it’s done. You haven’t left your mark upon the paper, but I guess you’ve left the sweat of your hand; if I snow a little French chalk over it, the chalk’ll stick where your hand did, and blow off easily everywhere else. The rest’s as simple as all big things. It’s hanged a few folks already, but I judge it doesn’t have much chance with things that have lain buried in brick-dust. Say, come round to lunch and I’ll have your prints ready for you. I’d like awfully to show you how it’s done. It would really be a great pleasure.”
Cazalet excused himself with decision. He had a full morning in front of him. He was going to see Miss Macnair’s brother, son of the late head of his father’s old firm of solicitors, and now one of the partners, to get them either to take up Scruton’s case themselves, or else to recommend a firm perhaps more accustomed to criminal practise. Cazalet was always apt to be elaborate in the first person singular, either in the past or in the future tense; but he was more so than usual in explaining his considered intentions in this matter that lay so very near his heart.
“Going to see Scruton, too?” said Toye.
“Not necessarily,” was the short reply. But it also was elaborated by Cazalet on a moment’s consideration. The fact was that he wanted first to know if it were not possible, by the intervention of a really influential lawyer, to obtain the prisoner’s immediate release, at any rate on bail. If impossible, he might hesitate to force himself on Scruton in the prison, but he would see.
“It’s a perfect scandal that he should be there at all,” said Cazalet, as he rose first and ushered Toye out into the lounge. “Only think: our old gardener saw him run out of the drive at half past seven, when the gong went, when the real murderer must have been shivering in the Michelangelo cupboard, wondering how the devil he was ever going to get out again.”
“Then you think old man Craven—begging his poor pardon—was getting out some cigars when the man, whoever he was, came in and knocked him on the head?”
Cazalet nodded vigorously. “That’s the likeliest thing of all!” he cried. “Then the gong went—there may even have come a knock at the door—and there was that cupboard standing open at his elbow.”
“With a hole in the floor that might have been made for him?”
“As it happens, yes; he’d search every inch like a rat in a trap, you see; and there it was as I’d left it twenty years before.”
“Well, it’s a wonderful yarn!” exclaimed Hilton Toye, and he lighted the cigar that Cazalet had given him.
“I think it may be thought one if the police ever own how they made their find,” agreed Cazalet, laughing and looking at his watch. Toye had never heard him laugh so often. “By the way, Drinkwater doesn’t want any of all this to come out until he’s dragged his man before the beak again.”
“Which you mean to prevent?”
“If only I can! I more or less promised not to talk, however, and I’m sure you won’t. You knew so much already, you may just as well know the rest this week as well as next, if you don’t mind keeping it to yourself.”
Nobody could have minded this particular embargo less than Hilton Toye; and in nothing was he less like Cazalet, who even now had the half-regretful and self-excusing air of the impulsive person who has talked too freely and discovered it too late. But he had been perfectly delightful to Hilton Toye, almost too appreciative, if anything, and now very anxious to give him a lift in his taxi. Toye, however, had shopping to do in the very street that they were in, and he saw Cazalet off with a smile that was as yet merely puzzled, and not unfriendly until he had time to recall Miss Blanche’s part in the strange affair of the previous afternoon.
Say, weren’t they rather intimate, those two, even if they had known each other all their lives? He had it from Blanche (with her second refusal) that she was not, and never had been, engaged. And a fellow who only wrote to her once in a year—still, they must have been darned intimate, and this funny affair would bring them together again quicker than anything.
Say, what a funny affair it was when you came to think of it! Funny all through, it now struck Toye; beginning on board ship with that dream of Cazalet’s about the murdered man, leading to all that talk of the old grievance against him, and culminating in his actually finding the implements of the crime in his inspired efforts to save the man of whose innocence he was so positive. Say, if that Cazalet had not been on his way home from Australia at the time!
Like many deliberate speakers, Toye thought like lightning, and had reached this point before he was a hundred yards from the hotel; then he thought of something else, and retraced his steps. He retraced them even to the table at which he had sat with Cazalet not very many minutes ago; the waiter was only now beginning to clear away.
“Say, waiter, what have you done with the menu that was in that toast-rack? There was something on it that we rather wanted to keep.”
“I thought there was, sir,” said the English waiter at that admirable hotel. Toye, however, prepared to talk to him like an American uncle of Dutch extraction.
“You thought that, and you took it away?”
“Not at all, sir. I ‘appened to observe the other gentleman put the menu in his pocket, behind your back as you were getting up, because I passed a remark about it to the head waiter at the time!”
He turned on his heel in the balcony, and a minute later found the room behind him empty. He entered, stood thinking, and suddenly began looking all over for the photograph of himself, with a beard, which he had seen there a week before.
“This is Scruton,” explained Cazalet, “who was only liberated this evening after being detained a week on a charge that ought never to have been brought, as I’ve told you both all along.” Scruton thanked him with a bitter laugh. “I’ve brought him here,” concluded Cazalet, “because I don’t think he’s fit enough to be about alone.”
“Nice of him, isn’t it?” said Scruton bitterly. “I’m so fit that they wanted to keep me somewhere else longer than they’d any right; that may be why they lost no time in getting hold of me again. Nice, considerate, kindly country! Ten years isn’t long enough to have you as a dishonored guest. ‘Won’t you come back for another week, and see if we can’t arrange a nice little sudden death and burial for you?’ But they couldn’t you see, blast ‘em!”
He subsided into the best chair in the room, which Blanche had wheeled up behind him; a moment later he looked round, thanked her curtly, and lay back with closed eyes until suddenly he opened them on Cazalet.
“And what was that you were saying—that about traveling across Europe and being at Uplands that night? I thought you came round by sea? And what night do you mean?”
“The night it all happened,” said Cazalet steadily.
“You mean the night some person unknown knocked Craven on the head?”
“Yes.”
The sick man threw himself forward in the chair. “You never told me this!” he cried suspiciously; both the voice and the man seemed stronger.
“There was no point in telling you.”
“Did you see the person?”
“Yes.”
“Then he isn’t unknown to you?”
“I didn’t see him well.”
Scruton looked sharply at the two mute listeners. They were very intent, indeed. “Who are these people, Cazalet? No! I know one of ‘em,” he answered himself in the next breath. “It’s Blanche Macnair, isn’t it? I thought at first it must be a younger sister grown up like her. You’ll forgive prison manners, Miss Macnair, if that’s still your name. You look a woman to trust—if there is one—and you gave me your chair. Anyhow, you’ve been in for a penny and you can stay in for a pound, as far as I care! But who’s your Amer’can friend, Cazalet?”
“Mr. Hilton Toye, who spotted that I’d been all the way to Uplands and back when I claimed to have been in Rome!”
There was a touch of Scruton’s bitterness in Cazalet’s voice; and by some subtle process it had a distinctly mollifying effect on the really embittered man.
“What on earth were you doing at Uplands?” he asked, in a kind of confidential bewilderment.
“I went down to see a man.”
Toye himself could not have cut and measured more deliberate monosyllables.
“Craven?” suggested Scruton.
“No; a man I expected to find at Craven’s.”
“The writer of the letter you found at Cook’s office in Naples the night you landed there, I guess!”
It really was Toye this time, and there was no guesswork in his tone. Obviously he was speaking by his little book, though he had not got it out again.
“How do you know I went to Cook’s?”
“I know every step you took between the Kaiser Fritz and Charing Cross and Charing Cross and the Kaiser Fritz!”
Scruton listened to this interchange with keen attention, hanging on each man’s lips with his sunken eyes; both took it calmly, but Scruton’s surprise was not hidden by a sardonic grin.
“You’ve evidently had a stern chase with a Yankee clipper!” said he. “If he’s right about the letter, Cazalet, I should say so; presumably it wasn’t from Craven himself?”
“No.”
“Yet it brought you across Europe to Craven’s house?”
“Well—to the back of his house! I expected to meet my man on the river.”
“Was that how you missed him more or less?”
“I suppose it was.”
Scruton ruminated a little, broke into his offensive laugh, and checked it instantly of his own accord. “This is really interesting,” he croaked. “You get to London—at what time was it?”
“Nominally three twenty-five; but the train ran thirteen minutes late,” said Hilton Toye.
“And you’re on the river by what time?” Scruton asked Cazalet.
“I walked over Hungerford Bridge, took the first train to Surbiton, got a boat there, and just dropped down with the stream. I don’t suppose the whole thing took me very much more than an hour.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Toye.
“Yes, I was. It was I who telephoned to the house and found that Craven was out motoring; so there was no hurry.”
“Yet you weren’t going to see Henry Craven?” murmured Toye.
Cazalet did not answer. His last words had come in a characteristic burst; now he had his mouth shut tight, and his eyes were fast to Scruton. He might have been in the witness-box already, a doomed wretch cynically supposed to be giving evidence on his own behalf, but actually only baring his neck by inches to the rope, under the joint persuasion of judge and counsel. But he had one friend by him still, one who had edged a little nearer in the pause.
“But you did see the man you went to see?” said Scruton.
Cazalet paused. “I don’t know. Eventually somebody brushed past me in the dark. I did think then—but I can’t swear to him even now!”
“Tell us about it.”
“Do you mean that, Scruton? Do you insist on hearing all that happened? I’m not asking Toye; he can do what he likes. But you, Scruton—you’ve been through a lot, you know—you ought to have stopped in bed—do you really want this on top of all?”
“Go ahead,” said Scruton. “I’ll have a drink when you’ve done; somebody give me a cigarette meanwhile.”
Cazalet supplied the cigarette, struck the match, and held it with unfaltering hand. The two men’s eyes met strangely across the flame.
“I’ll tell you all exactly what happened; you can believe me or not as you like. You won’t forget that I knew every inch of the ground—except one altered bit that explained itself.” Cazalet turned to Blanche with a significant look, but she only drew an inch nearer still. “Well, it was in the little creek, where the boat-house is, that I waited for my man. He never came—by the river. I heard the motor, but it wasn’t Henry Craven that I wanted to see, but the man who was coming to see him. Eventually I thought I must have made a mistake, or he might have changed his mind and come by road. The dressing-gong had gone; at least I supposed it was that by the time. It was almost quite dark, and I landed and went up the path past the back premises to the front of the house. So far I hadn’t seen a soul, or been seen by one, evidently; but the French windows were open in what used to be my father’s library, the room was all lit up, and just as I got there a man ran out into the flood of light and—”
“I thought you said he brushed by you in the dark?” interrupted Toye.
“I was in the dark; so was he in another second; and no power on earth would induce me to swear to him. Do you want to hear the rest, Scruton, or are you another unbeliever?”
“I want to hear every word—more than ever!”
Toye cocked his head at both question and answer, but inclined it quickly as Cazalet turned to him before proceeding.
“I went in and found Henry Craven lying in his blood. That’s gospel—it was so I found him—lying just where he had fallen in a heap out of the leather chair at his desk. The top right-hand drawer of his desk was open, the key in it and the rest of the bunch still swinging! A revolver lay as it had dropped upon the desk—it had upset the ink—and there were cartridges lying loose in the open drawer, and the revolver was loaded. I swept it back into the drawer, turned the key and removed it with the bunch. But there was something else on the desk—that silver-mounted truncheon—and a man’s cap was lying on the floor. I picked them both up. My first instinct, I confess it, was to remove every sign of manslaughter and to leave the scene to be reconstructed into one of accident—seizure—anything but what it was!”
He paused as if waiting for a question. None was asked. Toye’s mouth might have been sewn up, his eyes were like hatpins driven into his head. The other two simply stared.
“It was a mad idea, but I had gone mad,” continued Cazalet. “I had hated the victim alive, and it couldn’t change me that he was dead or dying; that didn’t make him a white man, and neither did it necessarily blacken the poor devil who had probably suffered from him like the rest of us and only struck him down in self-defense. The revolver on the desk made that pretty plain. It was out of the way, but now I saw blood all over the desk as well; it was soaking into the blotter, and it knocked the bottom out of my idea. What was to be done? I had meddled already; how could I give the alarm without giving myself away to that extent, and God knows how much further? The most awful moment of the lot came as I hesitated—the dinner-gong went off in the hall outside the door! I remember watching the thing on the floor to see if it would move.
“Then I lost my head—absolutely. I turned the key in the door, to give myself a few seconds’ grace or start; it reminded me of the keys in my hands. One of them was one of those little round bramah keys. It seemed familiar to me even after so many years. I looked up, and there was my father’s Michelangelo closet, with its little round bramah keyhole. I opened it as the outer door was knocked at and then tried. But my mad instinct of altering every possible appearance, to mislead the police, stuck to me to the last. And I took the man’s watch and chain into the closet with me, as well as the cap and truncheon that I had picked up before.
“I don’t know how long I was above ground, so to speak, but one of my father’s objects had been to make his retreat sound-tight, and I could scarcely hear what was going on in the room. That encouraged me; and two of you don’t need telling how I got out through the foundations, because you know all about the hole I made myself as a boy in the floor under the oilcloth. It took some finding with single matches; but the fear of your neck gives you eyes in your finger-ends, and gimlets, too, by Jove! The worst part was getting out at the other end, into the cellars; there were heaps of empty bottles to move, one by one, before there was room to open the manhole door and to squirm out over the slab; and I thought they rang like a peal of bells, but I put them all back again, and apparently ... nobody overheard in the scullery.
“The big dog barked at me like blazes—he did again the other day—but nobody seemed to hear him either. I got to my boat, tipped a fellow on the towing path to take it back and pay for it—why haven’t the police got hold of him?—and ran down to the bridge over the weir. I stopped a big car with a smart shaver smoking his pipe at the wheel. I should have thought he’d have come forward for the reward that was put up; but I pretended I was late for dinner I had in town, and I let him drop me at the Grand Hotel. He cost me a fiver, but I had on a waistcoat lined with notes, and I’d more than five minutes in hand at Charing Cross. If you want to know, it was the time in hand that gave me the whole idea of doubling back to Genoa; I must have been half-way up to town before I thought of it!”
He had told the whole thing as he always could tell an actual experience; that was one reason why it rang so true to one listener at every point. But the sick man’s sunken eyes had advanced from their sockets in cumulative amazement. And Hilton Toye laughed shortly when the end was reached.
“You figure some on our credulity!” was his first comment.
“I don’t figure on anything from you, Toye, except a pair of handcuffs as a first instalment!”
Toye rose in prompt acceptance of the challenge. “Seriously, Cazalet, you ask us to believe that you did all this to screen a man you didn’t have time to recognize?”
“I’ve told you the facts.”
“Well, I guess you’d better tell them to the police.” Toye took his hat and stick. Scruton was struggling from his chair. Blanche stood petrified, a dove under a serpent’s spell, as Toye made her a sardonic bow from the landing door. “You broke your side of the contract, Miss Blanche! I guess it’s up to me to complete.”
“Wait!”
It was Scruton’s raven croak; he had tottered to his feet.
“Sure,” said Toye, “if you’ve anything you want to say as an interested party.”
“Only this—he’s told the truth!”
“Well, can he prove it?”
“I don’t know,” said Scruton. “But I can!”
“You?” Blanche chimed in there.
“Yes, I’d like that drink first, if you don’t mind, Cazalet.” It was Blanche who got it for him, in an instant. “Thank you! I’d say more if my blessing was worth having—but here’s something that is. Listen to this, you American gentleman: I was the man who wrote to him in Naples. Leave it at that a minute; it was my second letter to him; the first was to Australia, in answer to one from him. It was the full history of my downfall. I got a warder to smuggle it out. That letter was my one chance.”
“I know it by heart,” said Cazalet. “It was that and nothing else that made me leave before the shearing.”
“To meet me when I came out!” Scruton explained in a hoarse whisper. “To—to keep me from going straight to that man, as I’d told him I should in my first letter! But you can’t hit these things off to the day or the week; he’d told me where to write to him on his voyage, and I wrote to Naples, but that letter did not get smuggled out. My warder friend had got the sack. I had to put what I’d got to say so that you could read it two ways. So I told you, Cazalet, I was going straight up the river for a row—and you can pronounce that two ways. And I said I hoped I shouldn’t break a scull—but there’s another way of spelling that, and it was the other way I meant!” He chuckled grimly. “I wanted you to lie low and let me lie low if that happened. I wanted just one man in the world to know I’d done it. But that’s how we came to miss each other, for you timed it to a tick, if you hadn’t misread me about the river.”
He drank again, stood straighter, and found a fuller voice.
“Yet I never meant to do it unless he made me, and at the back of my brain I never thought he would. I thought he’d do something for me, after all he’d done before! Shall I tell you what he did?”
“Got out his revolver!” cried Cazalet in a voice that was his own justification as well.
“Pretending it was going to be his check-book!” said Scruton through his teeth. “But I heard him trying to cock it inside his drawer. There was his special constable’s truncheon hanging on the wall—silver mounted, for all the world to know how he’d stood up for law and order in the sight of men! I tell you it was a joy to feel the weight of that truncheon, and to see the hero of Trafalgar Square fumbling with a thing he didn’t understand! I hit him as hard as God would let me—and the rest you know—except that I nearly did trip over the man who swore it was broad daylight at the time!”
He tottered to the folding-doors, and stood there a moment, pointing to Cazalet with a hand that twitched as terribly as his dreadful face.
“No—the rest you did—the rest you did to save what wasn’t worth saving! But—I think—I’ll hold out long enough to thank you—just a little!” He was gone with a gibbering smile.
Cazalet turned straight to Toye at the other door. “Well? Aren’t you going, too? You were near enough, you see! I’m an accessory all right”—he dropped his voice—“but I’d be principal if I could instead of him!”
But Toye had come back into the room, twinkling with triumph, even rubbing his hands. “You didn’t see? You didn’t see? I never meant to go at all; it was a bit of bluff to make him own up, and it did, too, bully!”
The couple gasped.
“You mean to tell me,” cried Cazalet, “that you believed my story all the time?”
“Why, I didn’t have a moment’s doubt about it!”
Cazalet drew away from the chuckling creature and his crafty glee. But Blanche came forward and held out her hand.
“Will you forgive me, Mr. Toye?”
“Sure, if I had anything to forgive. It’s the other way around, I guess, and about time I did something to help.” He edged up to the folding-door. “This is a two-man job, Cazalet, the way I make it out. Guess it’s my watch on deck!”
“The other’s the way to the police station,” said Cazalet densely.
Toye turned solemn on the word. “It’s the way to hell, if Miss Blanche will forgive me! This is more like the other place, thanks to you folks. Guess I’ll leave the angels in charge!”
Angelic or not, the pair were alone at last; and through the doors they heard a quavering croak of welcome to the rather human god from the American machine.
“I’m afraid he’ll never go back with you to the bush,” whispered Blanche.
“Scruton?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid, too. But I wanted to take somebody else out, too. I was trying to say so over a week ago, when we were talking about old Venus Potts. Blanchie, will you come?”
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