The Red Symbol. Ironside John
whispered.
I had seen that at the first glance.
“Shall I go for the police?”
“No,” I said sharply. “He may be only wounded.”
I went and hammered at the door, avoiding contact with that horrible little pool.
“Cassavetti! Cassavetti! Are you within, man?” I shouted; but there was no answer.
“Stand aside. I’m going to break the lock,” I cried.
I flung myself, shoulder first, against the lock, and caught at the lintel to save myself from falling, as the lock gave and the door swung inwards, – to rebound from something that it struck against.
I pushed it open again, entered sideways through the aperture, and beckoned Jenkins to follow.
Huddled up in a heap, almost behind the door, was the body of a man; the face with its staring eyes was upturned to the light.
It was Cassavetti himself, dead; stabbed to the heart.
CHAPTER VII
A RED-HAIRED WOMAN!
I bent over the corpse and touched the forehead tentatively with my finger-tips. It was stone cold. The man must have been dead many hours.
“Come on; we must send for the police; pull yourself together, man!” I said to Jenkins, who seemed half-paralyzed with fear and horror.
We squeezed back through the small opening, and I gently closed the door, and gripping Jenkins by the arm, marched him down the stairs to my rooms. He was trembling like a leaf, and scarcely able to stand alone.
“We’ve never had such a thing happen before,” he kept mumbling helplessly, over and over again.
I bade him have some whiskey, if he could find any, and remain there to keep an eye on the staircase, while I went across to Scotland Yard; for, through some inexplicable pig-headedness on the part of the police authorities, not even the headquarters was on the telephone.
The Abbey bells were ringing for afternoon service, and there were many people about, churchgoers and holiday makers in their Sunday clothes. The contrast between the sunny streets, with their cheerful crowds, and the silent sinister tragedy of the scene I had just left struck me forcibly.
If I had sent Jenkins on the errand, I guess he would have created quite a sensation. That is why I went myself; and I doubt if any one saw anything unusual about me, as I threaded my way quietly through the throng at Whitehall corner, where the ’buses stop to take up passengers.
A minute or two later I was in an inspector’s room at “the Yard,” giving my information to a little man who heard me out almost in silence, watching me keenly the while.
I imagine that I appeared quite calm. I could hear my own voice stating the bald facts succinctly, but, to my ears, it sounded like the voice of some one else, for it was with a great effort that I retained my composure. I knew that this strange and terrible event which I had been the one to discover was only another link in the chain of circumstances, which, so far as my knowledge went, began less than twenty-four hours ago; a chain that threatened to fetter me, or the girl I loved. For my own safety I cared nothing. My one thought was to protect Anne, who must be, either fortuitously, or of her own will, involved in this tangled web of intrigue.
I should, of course, be subjected to cross-examination, and, on my way to Scotland Yard, I had decided just what I meant to reveal. I would have to relate how I encountered the old Russian, when he mistook my flat for Cassavetti’s; but of the portrait in his possession, of our subsequent interview, and of the incident of the river steps, I would say nothing.
For the present I merely stated how Jenkins and I had discovered the fact that a murder had been committed.
“I dined in company with Mr. Cassavetti last night,” I continued. “But before that – ”
I was going to mention the mysterious Russian; but my auditor checked me.
“Half a minute, Mr. Wynn,” he said, as he filled in some words on a form, and handed it to a police officer waiting inside the door. The man took the paper, saluted, and went out.
“I gather that you did not search the rooms? That when you found the man lying dead there, you simply came out and left everything as it was?”
“Yes. I saw at once we could do nothing; the poor fellow was cold and rigid.”
I felt that I spoke dully, mechanically; but the horror of the thing was so strongly upon me, that, if I had relaxed the self-restraint I was exerting, I think I should have collapsed altogether. This business-like little official, who had received the news that a murder had been committed as calmly as if I had merely told him some one had tried to pick my pocket, could not imagine and must not suspect the significance this ghastly discovery held for me, or the maddening conjectures that were flashing across my mind.
“I wish every one would act as sensibly; it would save us a lot of trouble;” he remarked, closing his note-book, and stowing it, and his fountain pen, in his breast-pocket. “I will return with you now; my men will be there before we are, and the divisional surgeon won’t be long after us.”
I pulled out my keys, but, for all the self-control I thought I was maintaining, my hand trembled so I could not fit the latch-key into the lock.
“Allow me,” said my companion, and took the bunch out of my shaking hand, just as the door was opened from within by a constable who had stationed himself in the lobby.
On the top landing we overtook another constable, and two plain-clothes officers, to whom Jenkins was volubly asserting his belief that it was none other than the assassin who had left the door open in the night.
The minute investigation that followed revealed several significant facts. One was that the assassin must have been in the rooms for some considerable time before Cassavetti returned, – to be struck down the instant he entered. The position of the body, just behind the door, proved that. Also he was still wearing his thin Inverness, and his hat had rolled to a corner of the little hall. He had not even had time to replace his keys in his trousers pocket; they dangled loosely from their chain, and jingled as the body was lifted and moved to the inner room.
The rooms were in great disorder, and had been subjected to an exhaustive search; even the books had been tumbled out of their shelves and thrown on the floor. But ordinary robbery was evidently not the motive, for there were several articles of value scattered about the room; nor had the body been rifled. Cassavetti wore a valuable diamond ring, which was still on his finger, as his gold watch was still in his breast-pocket; it had stopped at ten minutes to twelve.
“Run down, so that shows nothing,” the detective remarked, as he opened it and looked at the works. “Do you know if your friend carried a pocket-book, Mr. Wynn? He did? Then that’s the only thing missing. It was papers they were after, and I presume they got ’em!”
That was obvious enough, for not a scrap of written matter was discovered, nor the weapon with which the crime was committed.
“It’s a fairly straightforward case,” Inspector Freeman said complacently, later, when the gruesome business was over, and the body removed to the mortuary. “A political affair, of course; the man was a Russian revolutionary – we used to call ’em Nihilists a few years ago – and his name was no more Cassavetti than mine is! Now, Mr. Wynn, you told me you knew him, and dined with him last night. Do you care to give me any particulars, or would you prefer to keep them till you give evidence at the inquest?”
“I’ll give them you now, of course,” I answered promptly. “I can’t attend the inquest, for I’m leaving England to-morrow morning.”
“Then you’ll have to postpone your journey,” he said dryly. “For you’re bound to attend the inquest; you’ll be the most important witness. May I ask where you were going?”
I told him, and he nodded.
“So you’re one of Lord Southbourne’s young men? Thought I knew your face, but couldn’t quite place you,” he responded.