The Wiles of the Wicked. William Le Queux
kindly tell me your name and address?”
I did so, and the scratching of a quill told me that he was about to take down my statement.
“Well?” he inquired at length. “Please go on, for my time is limited. What’s the nature of the affair?”
“I’ve been present to-night in a house where a double murder has been committed,” I said.
“Where?”
“Ah! That’s unfortunately just the mystery which I cannot solve. Being blind, I could obtain no idea of the exterior of the place, and in my excitement I left it without properly marking the house.”
“Tell me the whole of the facts,” observed the officer. “Who are the victims?”
“A woman and a man.”
“Young or old?”
“Both young, as far as I can judge. At any rate, I examined the body of the man and found him to be about twenty-eight.”
“The gentleman has no idea of the street where the tragedy has occurred,” chimed in the constable. “He met me outside the Museum, and the blood on his clothes was still wet.”
“He’s got an injury to the head,” remarked the inspector.
“I was knocked down and rendered insensible by a cab,” I explained. “When I again became conscious I found myself in a strange house.”
“They didn’t rob you?”
I felt in my pockets, but I could not discover that I had lost anything. I remembered that I had only a couple of half-sovereigns and some loose silver upon me, and this remained still in my pocket. My fingers touched the stud and pencil-case, and I hesitated whether to give these up to the police. But next second the thought flashed through my mind that if I did, suspicion might be aroused against me, and further that while I kept them in my possession I should possess a secret clue to the victims of the terrible tragedy.
After I had fully explained the whole circumstances, and the inspector had written down with infinite care each word of my remarkable statement, he said—
“It seems as though both the man and woman fell victims to some plot or other. You say that there were no high words, and that all you heard was a woman’s shriek, and a man’s voice say, ‘Why, you’ve killed her!’ Now, have you any idea of the identity of that man?”
“None whatsoever,” I answered. “My mind is a perfect blank on everything, save the personal appearance of the man who was afterwards struck to the heart.”
“Exactly. But don’t you think that the man who expressed horror at the first crime fell the victim of the second?”
“Ah! I never thought of that!” I said. “Of course, it seems most likely.”
“Certainly. The second crime was committed undoubtedly in order to conceal the first.”
“Then how extraordinary it is that I was spared.”
“There was a motive, I believe, for that. We shall no doubt find that later.”
“You will communicate with Scotland Yard, I suppose,” I remarked.
“Perhaps we shall; perhaps not,” answered the inspector, vaguely. “The affair must, of course, be fully investigated. Have you anything to add? You say that some woman treated you kindly. Have you any idea of her personal appearance?”
“None,” I answered. “The only fact I know was that she was in evening dress, and that upon her wrist was a curious smooth-worn bangle of a kind of fine plaited wire, very pliable, like those worn by African native women.”
“Eh! What—impossible!” gasped the inspector, in a voice which surprised me. But next moment he recovered his self-possession and made a calm remark that this fact did not lead to anything definite. Yet the sudden exclamation of startled surprise which escaped him aroused within me a belief that my words had given him some mysterious clue.
“You have no further statement to make?”
“None,” I responded.
There was a few moments’ silence during which time the quill continued its rapid scratching.
“You will kindly sign your information,” the officer said, whereupon the constable brought me the sheet of foolscap and a pen wherewith I scrawled my name.
“Good,” observed the inspector, with a grunt of satisfaction. “And now I must ask you to excuse me further, Mr—Mr. Heaton, and wish you good morning.”
I made my adieu, after obtaining from him a promise to communicate with me if anything transpired, and, accompanied by the constable, made my way out into the long passage again.
I had not walked a dozen paces ere I knew instinctively that some persons were near me, and next instant felt myself seized roughly by both arms and legs.
“What are you doing?” I shouted in alarm; “let me go!”
But only for an instant I struggled. The force used was utterly irresistible, and not a single word was uttered. My arms were in a moment pinioned, rendering me helpless as a child. With my terrible affliction upon me, I could neither defend myself nor could I see my assailants. Whoever the latter were, it was evident that they were determined, and, further, that I had been cleverly entrapped.
My first thought was that I had been arrested, but ere the lapse of a few moments the hideous truth became impressed forcibly upon me.
I tried to fight for life, but my wrists had been seized in grips of steel, and after a few desperate wrenches I stood, bound, and utterly unconscious of where I was.
My real position was, to a certain degree, plain. The man whom I had believed to be a constable was no police-officer at all, but some thief or London ruffian; I, far too confiding, had neglected to take the precaution of feeling his uniform.
A shrewd suspicion overcame me that this trap had been purposely laid for me. The man who had posed as a police inspector had obtained from me a signed declaration of the remarkable occurrence, for what reason I knew not. Did they now intend to silence me for ever? The thought struck a deep and terrible dread within my heart.
To my demands to know where I was, no response was given.
Indistinct whisperings sounded about me, and by the liquid “s’s” of one person I felt convinced that a woman was present.
Little time, however, was I given in which to distinguish my surroundings, for two persons gripped my bound arms and drew me roughly through a narrow door, across an uneven floor, and thence down a long, crooked flight of stone steps.
From below came up a dank, mouldy smell, as of some chamber long unopened, and suddenly there broke upon my quick ears the wash of water.
In that moment of mental agony the truth was rendered plain. I was not in a police-station, as I believed, but in some house beside the Thames, and, moreover, I was descending to the water—going to my death.
Once again, as a last effort, I struggled and fought with the fierce desperation begotten of terror, but in a moment the strong hands that held me pushed me violently forward, and I then felt myself falling helplessly from some dizzy height. My head reeled, and weakened as I already was, all knowledge of things became blotted out.
The touch of a cool, sympathetic hand upon my brow was the first thing I subsequently remembered. My arms had apparently been freed, and with a quick movement I grasped the hand. It was a woman’s.
Was I dreaming?
I stretched forth my left hand to obtain some idea of my surroundings, and found myself lying upon an uneven stone flooring that seemed covered with the evil-smelling slime of the river.
With my right hand I touched a woman’s firm, well-moulded