MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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letter.”
He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself.
“DEAR FATHER (it ran)—I hope this finds you as well at it leaves me. Mrs. Puddle’s youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks I had better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few days. Please tell Ellen I won’t give her no trouble. I’ll start at ten if I don’t hear nothing.—Your loving daughter,
“Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here,” Mrs. Bunting slowly. “It’ll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life.”
And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content himself.
Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by. When dusk fell Mr. Sleuth’s landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor. She remembered that this was the signal for her to go and do his room.
He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place. No, he kept everything scrupulously tidy. His clothes, and the various articles Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first two days he had been there, were carefully arranged in the chest of drawers. He had lately purchased a pair of boots. Those he had arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first day that he never wished them to go down to be cleaned.
A funny idea—a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after midnight in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were glad to be at home, snug in bed. But then Mr. Sleuth himself admitted that he was a funny sort of gentleman.
After she had done his bedroom the landlady went into the sitting-room and gave it a good dusting. This room was not kept quite as nice as she would have liked it to be. Mrs. Bunting longed to give the drawing-room something of a good turn out; but Mr. Sleuth disliked her to be moving about in it when he himself was in his bedroom; and when up he sat there almost all the time. Delighted as he had seemed to be with the top room, he only used it when making his mysterious experiments, and never during the day-time.
And now, this afternoon, she looked at the rosewood chiffonnier with longing eyes—she even gave that pretty little piece of furniture a slight shake. If only the doors would fly open, as the locked doors of old cupboards sometimes do, even after they have been securely fastened, how pleased she would be, how much more comfortable somehow she would feel!
But the chiffonnier refused to give up its secret.
About eight o’clock on that same evening Joe Chandler came in, just for a few minutes’ chat. He had recovered from his agitation of the morning, but he was full of eager excitement, and Mrs. Bunting listened in silence, intensely interested in spite of herself, while he and Bunting talked.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m as right as a trivet now! I’ve had a good rest —laid down all this afternoon. You see, the Yard thinks there’s going to be something on to-night. He’s always done them in pairs.”
“So he has,” exclaimed Bunting wonderingly. “So he has! Now, I never thought o’ that. Then you think, Joe, that the monster’ll be on the job again to-night?”
Chandler nodded. “Yes. And I think there’s a very good chance of his being caught too—”
“I suppose there’ll be a lot on the watch to-night, eh?”
“I should think there will be! How many of our men d’you think there’ll be on night duty to-night, Mr. Bunting?”
Bunting shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said helplessly.
“I mean extra,” suggested Chandler, in an encouraging voice.
“A thousand?” ventured Bunting.
“Five thousand, Mr. Bunting.”
“Never!” exclaimed Bunting, amazed.
And even Mrs. Bunting echoed “Never!” incredulously.
“Yes, that there will. You see, the Boss has got his monkey up!” Chandler drew a folded-up newspaper out of his coat pocket. “Just listen to this:
“‘The police have reluctantly to admit that they have no clue to the perpetrators of these horrible crimes, and we cannot feel any surprise at the information that a popular attack has been organised on the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. There is even talk of an indignation mass meeting.’
“What d’you think of that? That’s not a pleasant thing for a gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?”
“Well, it does seem queer that the police can’t catch him, now doesn’t it?” said Bunting argumentatively.
“I don’t think it’s queer at all,” said young Chandler crossly. “Now you just listen again! Here’s a bit of the truth for once— in a newspaper.” And slowly he read out:
“‘The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind man’s buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through the slums of a great city.’”
“Whatever does that mean?” said Bunting. “Your hands aren’t tied, and your eyes aren’t bandaged, Joe?”
“It’s metaphorical-like that it’s intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven’t got the same facilities—no, not a quarter of them—that the French ‘tecs have.”
And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: “What was that word, Joe—‘perpetrators’? I mean that first bit you read out.”
“Yes,” he said, turning to her eagerly.
“Then do they think there’s more than one of them?” she said, and a look of relief came over her thin face.
“There’s some of our chaps thinks it’s a gang,” said Chandler. “They say it can’t be the work of one man.”
“What do you think, Joe?”
“Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don’t know what to think. I’m fair puzzled.”
He got up. “Don’t you come to the door. I’ll shut it all right. So long! See you tomorrow, perhaps.” As he had done the other evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s visitor stopped at the door. “Any news of Miss Daisy?” he asked casually.
“Yes; she’s coming tomorrow,” said her father. “They’ve got scarlet fever at her place. So Old Aunt thinks she’d better clear out.”
The husband and wife went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bunting found she could not sleep. She lay wide awake, hearing the hours, the half-hours, the quarters chime out from the belfry of the old church close by.
And then, just as she was dozing off—it must have been about one o’clock—she heard the sound she had half unconsciously been expecting to hear, that of the lodger’s stealthy footsteps coming down the stairs just outside her room.
He crept along the passage and let himself out very, very quietly.
But though she tried to keep awake, Mrs. Bunting did not hear him come in again, for she soon fell into a heavy sleep.
Oddly enough, she was the first to wake the next morning; odder still, it was she, not Bunting, who jumped out of bed, and going out into the passage, picked up the newspaper which had just been pushed through the letter-box.
But having picked it up, Mrs. Bunting did not go back at once into her bedroom. Instead she lit the gas in the passage, and leaning up against the wall to steady herself, for she was trembling with cold and fatigue, she opened the paper.
Yes, there was the heading she sought:
“The AVENGER Murders”
But, oh, how glad she was to see the words that followed:
“Up to the time of going to press there is little new to report concerning the extraordinary