The Mystery of M. Felix. B. L. Farjeon
rolling in money. That's what's the matter with Mr. Felix. Don't you wish you had the same complaint? 'Constable,' said he to me, when I came on this beat last year, 'you're on night duty here, eh?' 'Yes, sir,' I answers. 'Very good,' he says, acting like a gentleman; 'I live in this house'--we were standing at this very door--'and I always make it a point to look after them as looks after me.'"
"And a very good point it is," remarked Constable Wigg, with growing interest, "for a gentleman to make."
"I thought so myself, and I found it so. 'And I always make it a point,' says he, of 'looking after them as looks after me.' Fact is, Wigg, he comes home late sometimes, with a glass of wine to much in him, and he knows the usefulness of us. Carries a lump of money about him, and likes to feel himself safe. Never what you call drunk, you know. Just a bit sprung, as a real gentleman should be, and always with a pleasant word ready. So, whenever I met him coming home late, I'd walk behind him to his door here, and give him good-night; which he appreciated."
"Much obliged to you for the information, Nightingale."
"Ought to do these little turns for one another, Wigg. The man who was on the beat before me gave me the office, and it's only friendly for me to give it to you." Constable Nightingale looked pensively over the shoulder of his brother constable, and added, "I behaved liberal to him."
"I'll do likewise to you," said Constable Wigg, "if anything happens."
"Was sure you would, Wigg," responded Constable Nightingale, briskly. "What would the force be worth if we didn't stick together? When I see Mr. Felix I'll put in a good word for you. He took a regular fancy to me, and told me if I got the beat again to come to him immediate. Once you see him, you can't miss knowing him. Tall and slim, with hair getting gray. No whiskers; only a mustache, curled. Speaks with a foreign accent--parleyvooish. His clothes fit like a glove. Patent leather boots always, except when he wears shoes; white tie generally. I remember Mrs. Middlemore----"
"Who's she?"
"His landlady. A most respectable woman--made of the right stuff. Ah, a real good sort she is! Goes out every night for her supper beer between eleven and twelve."
"I must have seen her half an hour ago."
"Of course you did. If it was to rain cats and dogs or snowed for a month, she wouldn't miss going. Has she come back?"
"No."
"She stops out as a rule till about this time; fond of a gossip, you know. Most of us are. She'll be here soon, if she can keep her feet. The snow's getting thicker--and listen to the wind! Let's get close to the door. Well, I remember Mrs. Middlemore coming out to me one night, and saying, 'You're wanted up there,' meaning in Mr. Felix's rooms----"
Constable Wigg interposed. "Just now you said parleyvooish."
"So I did, and so I meant."
"Speaks with a foreign accent, you said."
"I don't deny it."
"And you keep on saying Mr. Felix."
"Well?"
"Shouldn't it be Monseer?"
"Well, perhaps; but not Monseer--Monshure."
"I give in to you, Nightingale; I'm not a French scholar."
"Let's call him Mr., for all that. Monshure twists the tongue unless you're born there."
"I'm agreeable. Call him Mr. if you like. Hallo!"
The exclamation was caused by Mrs. Middlemore's street door being suddenly opened without any preliminary warning from within, and with such swiftness and violence that the policemen almost fell through it into the passage. As they were recovering their equilibrium a man stepped out of the house, or rather stumbled out of it, in a state of great excitement. He had a crimson scarf round his neck; it was loosely tied, and the ends floated in the wind. The little bit of color shone bright in the glare of white snow. Its wearer pulled the door after him and hurried along the street, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and taking no notice of the policemen, who strained their eyes after him. He walked very unsteadily, and was soon out of sight.
CHAPTER II.
THE SPECTRE CAT.
"That's a rum start," said Constable Wigg. "Was it Mr. Felix?"
"No," replied Constable Nightingale, "Mr. Felix is altogether a different kind of man. Takes things more coolly. Walks slow, talks slow, thinks slow, looks at you slow. This fellow was like a flash of lightning. Did you catch sight of his face?"
"He was in such a devil of a hurry that there was no catching sight of anything except the red handkerchief round his neck. There was no mistaking that. Seemed a youngish man."
"Yes. Been on a visit to Mr. Felix, most likely."
"Or to some other lodger in the house," suggested Constable Wigg.
"There ain't no other," said Constable Nightingale. "Every room in it except the basement is let to Mr. Felix."
"A married man, then' with a large family?"
"No," said Constable Nightingale, with a little cough. "Single. Or, perhaps, a widower. No business of ours, Wigg."
"Certainly not. Go on with your story, Nightingale. 'You're wanted up there' says Mrs. Middlemore."
"Yes. 'You're wanted up there,' she says, meaning Mr. Felix's rooms. 'Did Mr. Felix send for me?' I ask. 'He did,' she answers. 'He rings his bell and says, "Go for a policeman." And he'll not be sorry it's you, Mr. Nightingale, because you're a man as can be trusted,' Mrs. Middlemore's precise words. You see, Wigg, me and her ain't exactly strangers. I'm a single man, and I'm mistook if she ain't got a bit of money put by."
"You're a knowing one, Nightingale,' said Constable Wigg, somewhat enviously, and it is not to the credit of human nature to state that there flashed into his mind the base idea of endeavoring to supplant his brother constable in Mrs. Middlemore's good graces. What should hinder him? He was a single man, many years younger than Constable Nightingale, and much better looking. All was fair in love and war. The "bit of money put by" was a temptation from Lucifer.
"That's what brings me round here now and then," continued Constable Nightingale, complacently. "A man might go a good deal further than Mrs. Middlemore, and fare a good deal worse. 'I suppose,' says I to her, 'there's somebody with Mr. Felix as he wants to get rid of, and as won't go?' 'I ain't at liberty to say,' she answers, 'but you're pretty near the mark. Come and see for yourself, and don't forget that Mr. Felix has got a liberal heart, and hates fuss.' Upon that, Wigg, I holds my tongue, because I'm a man as knows how to, and I follows Mrs. Middlemore into the house. I'd been inside before, of course, but never upstairs, always down and Mrs. Middlemore had told me such a lot about Mr. Felix's rooms that I was curious to see them. 'Furnished like a palace,' Mrs. Middlemore used to say; so up the stairs I steps, Mrs. Middlemore showing the way, and I don't mind confessing that before we got to the first landing I put my arm round Mrs. Middlemore's waist--but that's neither here nor there. She stops on the landing, and knocks at the door----"
But here Constable Nightingale was compelled to pause, and to hold on tight to his comrade. The storm quite suddenly reached such a pitch of fury that the men could scarcely keep their feet, and it would have been impossible to hear a word that was spoken. It was not a fitful display of temper; so fierce grew the wind that it blew the street door open with a crash, and as the policemen were leaning against it, the consequence was that they were precipitated into the passage, and fell flat upon their backs. The reason of the door being blown open so readily was probably, as Constable Nightingale afterward remarked, because the man who had recently left the house so hastily had not pulled it tight behind him, but the tempest was raging so furiously that it might well have made light of such an obstacle as an old street door. It was with difficulty the policemen recovered their feet, and the strength of the wind as it rushed through the passage was so great that the idea that they would be safer inside the