The Crimson Blind. Fred M. White
think of anything but their toes in Western Road. Go on.”
“Now I am coming to the point. I had the money, I had that lovely cigar-case, and subsequently I had that battered and bleeding specimen of humanity dumped down in the most amazing manner in my conservatory. The cigar-case lay on the conservatory floor, remember—swept off the table when I clutched for the telephone bell to call for the police. When Marley came he asked if the cigar-case was mine. At first I said no, because, you see—”
“I see quite plainly. Pray go on.”
“Well, I lose that cigar-case; I leave it in the offices of Mossa, to whom I pay nearly £1,000. Mossa, to spite me, takes or sends the case to the police, who advertise it not knowing that it is mine. You will see why they advertise it presently—”
“Because it belonged to the injured man, eh?”
David pulled up and regarded his companion with amazement.
“How on earth—” he gasped. “Do you mean to say that you know—”
“Nothing at present, I assure you,” Bell said, coolly. “Call it intuition, if you like. I prefer to call it the result of logical mental process. I’m right, of course?”
“Of course you are. I’d claimed that case for my own. I had cut my initials inside, as I showed Marley when I went to the police-station. And then Marley tells me how I paid Mossa nearly £1,000; how the money must have come into my hands in the nick of time. That was pretty bad when I couldn’t for the life of me give a lucid reason for the possession of those notes; but there was worse to come. In the pocket of the injured man was a receipt for a diamond-studded gun-metal cigar-case, purchased the day of the outrage. And Walen, the jeweller, proved beyond a doubt that the case I claimed was purchased at his shop.”
Bell nodded gravely.
“Which places you in an exceedingly awkward position,” he said.
“A mild way of putting it,” David replied. “If that fellow dies the police have enough evidence to hang me. And what is my defence? The story of my visit to No. 219. And who would believe that cock-and-bull story? Fancy a drama like that being played out in the house of such a pillar of respectability as Gilead Gates.”
“It isn’t his house,” said Bell. “He only takes it furnished.”
“In anybody else your remark would be puerile,” David said, irritably.
“It’s a deeper remark than you are aware of at present,” Bell replied. “I quite see your position. Nobody would believe you, of course. But why not go to the post-office and ask the number of the telephone that called you up from London?”
The question seemed to amuse David slightly. Then his lips were drawn humorously.
“When my logical formula came back I thought of that,” he said. “On inquiring as to who it was rang me up on that fateful occasion I learnt that the number was 0017 Kensington and that—”
“Gates’s own number at Prince’s Gate,” Bell exclaimed. “The plot thickens.”
“It does, indeed,” David said, grimly. “It is Wilkie Collins gone mad, Gaboriau in extremis, Du Boisgobey suffering from delirium tremens. I go to Gates’s house here, and am solemnly told in the midst of surroundings that I can swear to that I have never been there before; the whole mad expedition is launched by the turning of the handle of a telephone in the house of a distinguished, trusted, if prosaic, citizen. Somebody gets hold of the synopsis of a story of mine, Heaven knows how—”
“That is fairly easy. The synopsis was short, I suppose?”
“Only a few lines, say 1,000 words, a sheet of paper. My writing is very small. It was tucked into a half-penny open envelope—a magazine office envelope, marked ‘Proof, urgent.’ There were the proofs of a short story in the buff envelope.”
“Which reached its destination in due course?”
“So I hear this morning. But how on earth—”
“Easily enough. The whole thing gets slipped into a larger open envelope, the kind of big-mouthed affair that enterprising firms send out circulars and patterns with. This falls into the hands of the woman who is at the bottom of this and every other case, and she reads the synopsis from sheer curiosity. The case fits her case, and there you are. Mind you, I don’t say that this is how the thing actually happened, but how it might have done so. When did you post the letter?”
“I can’t give you the date. Say ten days ago.”
“And there would be no hurry for a reply,” Bell said, thoughtfully. “And you had no cause for worry on that head. Nor need the woman who found it have kept the envelope beyond the delay of a single post, which is only a matter of an hour or so in London. If you go a little farther we find that money is no object, hence the £1,000 offer and the careful, and doubtless expensive, inquiry into your position. Steel, I am going to enjoy this case.”
“You’re welcome to all the fun you can get out of it,” David said, grimly. “So far as I am concerned, I fail to see the humour. Isn’t this the office you are after?”
Bell nodded and disappeared, presently to return with two exceedingly rusty keys tied together with a drab piece of tape. He jingled them on his long, slender forefinger with an air of positive enjoyment.
“Now come along,” he said. “I feel like a boy who has marked down something rare in the way of a bird’s nest. We will go back to Brunswick Square exactly the same way as you approached it on the night of the great adventure.”
IX. THE BROKEN FIGURE
“Any particular object in that course?” David asked.
“There ought to be an object in everything that even an irrational man says or does,” Bell replied. “I have achieved some marvellous results by following up a single sentence uttered by a patient. Besides, on the evening in question you were particularly told to approach the house from the sea front.”
“Somebody might have been on the look-out near the Western Road entrance,” Steel suggested.
“Possibly. I have another theory…. Here we are. The figures over the fanlights run from 187 upwards, gradually getting to 219 as you breast the slope. At one o’clock in the morning every house would be in darkness. Did you find that to be so?”
“I didn’t notice a light anywhere till I reached 219.”
“Good again. And you could only find 219 by the light over the door. Naturally you were not interested in and would not have noticed any other number. Well, here is 218, where I propose to enter, and for which purpose I have the keys. Come along.”
David followed wonderingly. The houses in Brunswick Square are somewhat irregular in point of architecture, and Nos. 218 and 219 were the only matched pair thereabouts. Signs were not wanting, as Bell pointed out, that at one time the houses had been occupied as one residence. The two entrance-halls were back to back, so to speak, and what had obviously been a doorway leading from one to the other had been plastered up within comparatively recent memory.
The grim and dusty desolation of an empty house seemed to be supplemented here by a deeper desolation. Not that there was any dust on the ground floor, which seemed a singular thing seeing that elsewhere the boards were powdered with it, and festoons of brown cobwebs hung everywhere. Bell smiled approvingly as David Steel pointed the fact out to him.
“Do you note another singular point?” the former asked.
“No,” David said, thoughtfully; “I—stop! The two side-shutters in the bay-windows are closed, and there is the same vivid crimson blind in the centre window. And the self colour of the walls is exactly the