The Clue of the Twisted Candle

  CHAPTER XIX

  One would not readily associate the party of top-booted sewermen whodescend nightly to the subterranean passages of London with the stoutviceconsul at Durazzo. Yet it was one unimaginative man who lived inLambeth and had no knowledge that there was such a place as Durazzo whowas responsible for bringing this comfortable official out of his bed inthe early hours of the morning causing him--albeit reluctantly and withviolent and insubordinate language--to conduct certain investigations inthe crowded bazaars.

  At first he was unsuccessful because there were many Hussein Effendisin Durazzo. He sent an invitation to the American Consul to come over totiffin and help him.

  "Why the dickens the Foreign Office should suddenly be interested inHussein Effendi, I cannot for the life of me understand."

  "The Foreign Department has to be interested in something, you know,"said the genial American. "I receive some of the quaintest requestsfrom Washington; I rather fancy they only wire you to find if they arethere."

  "Why are you doing this!"

  "I've seen Hakaat Bey," said the English official. "I wonder whatthis fellow has been doing? There is probably a wigging for me in theoffing."

  At about the same time the sewerman in the bosom of his own family wastaking loud and noisy sips from a big mug of tea.

  "Don't you be surprised," he said to his admiring better half, "if Ihave to go up to the Old Bailey to give evidence."

  "Lord! Joe!" she said with interest, "what has happened!"

  The sewer man filled his pipe and told the story with a wealth oframbling detail. He gave particulars of the hour he had descended theVictoria Street shaft, of what Bill Morgan had said to him as they weregoing down, of what he had said to Harry Carter as they splashed alongthe low-roofed tunnel, of how he had a funny feeling that he was goingto make a discovery, and so on and so forth until he reached his longdelayed climax.

  T. X. waited up very late that night and at twelve o'clock his patiencewas rewarded, for the Foreign Office messenger brought a telegram tohim. It was addressed to the Chief Secretary and ran:

  "No. 847. Yours 63952 of yesterday's date. Begins. Hussein Effendi aprosperous merchant of this city left for Italy to place his daughter inconvent Marie Theressa, Florence Hussein being Christian. He goes on toParis. Apply Ralli Theokritis et Cie., Rue de l'Opera. Ends."

  Half an hour later T. X. had a telephone connection through to Parisand was instructing the British police agent in that city. He received afurther telephone report from Paris the next morning and one whichgave him infinite satisfaction. Very slowly but surely he was gatheringtogether the pieces of this baffling mystery and was fitting themtogether. Hussein Effendi would probably supply the last missingsegments.

  At eight o'clock that night the door opened and the man who representedT. X. in Paris came in carrying a travelling ulster on his arm. T.X. gave him a nod and then, as the newcomer stood with the door open,obviously waiting for somebody to follow him, he said,

  "Show him in--I will see him alone."

  There walked into his office, a tall man wearing a frock coat and a redfez. He was a man from fifty-five to sixty, powerfully built, with agrave dark face and a thin fringe of white beard. He salaamed as heentered.

  "You speak French, I believe," said T. X. presently.

  The other bowed.

  "My agent has explained to you," said T. X. in French, "that I desiresome information for the purpose of clearing up a crime which hasbeen committed in this country. I have given you my assurance, if thatassurance was necessary, that you would come to no harm as a result ofanything you might tell me."

  "That I understand, Effendi," said the tall Turk; "the Americans and theEnglish have always been good friends of mine and I have been frequentlyin London. Therefore, I shall be very pleased to be of any help to you."

  T. X. walked to a closed bookcase on one side of the room, unlocked it,took out an object wrapped in white tissue paper. He laid this on thetable, the Turk watching the proceedings with an impassive face. Veryslowly the Commissioner unrolled the little bundle and revealed atlast a long, slim knife, rusted and stained, with a hilt, which in itsuntarnished days had evidently been of chased silver. He lifted thedagger from the table and handed it to the Turk.

  "This is yours, I believe," he said softly.

  The man turned it over, stepping nearer the table that he might securethe advantage of a better light. He examined the blade near the hilt andhanded the weapon back to T. X.

  "That is my knife," he said.

  T. X. smiled.

  "You understand, of course, that I saw 'Hussein Effendi of Durazzo'inscribed in Arabic near the hilt."

  The Turk inclined his head.

  "With this weapon," T. X. went on, speaking with slow emphasis, "amurder was committed in this town."

  There was no sign of interest or astonishment, or indeed of any emotionwhatever.

  "It is the will of God," he said calmly; "these things happen even in agreat city like London."

  "It was your knife," suggested T. X.

  "But my hand was in Durazzo, Effendi," said the Turk.

  He looked at the knife again.

  "So the Black Roman is dead, Effendi."

  "The Black Roman?" asked T. X., a little puzzled.

  "The Greek they call Kara," said the Turk; "he was a very wicked man."

  T. X. was up on his feet now, leaning across the table and looking atthe other with narrowed eyes.

  "How did you know it was Kara?" he asked quickly.

  The Turk shrugged his shoulders.

  "Who else could it be?" he said; "are not your newspapers filled withthe story?"

  T. X. sat back again, disappointed and a little annoyed with himself.

  "That is true, Hussein Effendi, but I did not think you read thepapers."

  "Neither do I, master," replied the other coolly, "nor did I know thatKara had been killed until I saw this knife. How came this in yourpossession!"

  "It was found in a rain sewer," said T. X., "into which the murderer hadapparently dropped it. But if you have not read the newspapers, Effendi,then you admit that you know who committed this murder."

  The Turk raised his hands slowly to a level with his shoulders.

  "Though I am a Christian," he said, "there are many wise sayings of myfather's religion which I remember. And one of these, Effendi, was, 'thewicked must die in the habitations of the just, by the weapons of theworthy shall the wicked perish.' Your Excellency, I am a worthy man,for never have I done a dishonest thing in my life. I have traded fairlywith Greeks, with Italians, have with Frenchmen and with Englishmen,also with Jews. I have never sought to rob them nor to hurt them. If Ihave killed men, God knows it was not because I desired their death, butbecause their lives were dangerous to me and to mine. Ask the blade allyour questions and see what answer it gives. Until it speaks I am asdumb as the blade, for it is also written that 'the soldier is theservant of his sword,' and also, 'the wise servant is dumb about hismaster's affairs.'"

  T. X. laughed helplessly.

  "I had hoped that you might be able to help me, hoped and feared," hesaid; "if you cannot speak it is not my business to force you either bythreat or by act. I am grateful to you for having come over, althoughthe visit has been rather fruitless so far as I am concerned."

  He smiled again and offered his hand.

  "Excellency," said the old Turk soberly, "there are some things in lifethat are well left alone and there are moments when justice should be soblind that she does not see guilt; here is such a moment."

  And this ended the interview, one on which T. X. had set very highhopes. His gloom carried to Portman Place, where he had arranged to meetBelinda Mary.

  "Where is Mr. Lexman going to give this famous lecture of his?" was thequestion with which she greeted him, "and, please, what is the subject?"

  "It is on a subject which is of supreme interest to me;" he saidgravely; "he has called his lecture 'The Clue of the Twisted Candle.'There is no
clearer brain being employed in the business of criminaldetection than John Lexman's. Though he uses his genius for theconstruction of stories, were it employed in the legitimate businessof police work, I am certain he would make a mark second to none inthe world. He is determined on giving this lecture and he has issued anumber of invitations. These include the Chiefs of the Secret Police ofnearly all the civilized countries of the world. O'Grady is on his wayfrom America, he wirelessed me this morning to that effect. Even theChief of the Russian police has accepted the invitation, because, as youknow, this murder has excited a great deal of interest in police circleseverywhere. John Lexman is not only going to deliver this lecture," hesaid slowly, "but he is going to tell us who committed the murder andhow it was committed."

  She thought a moment.

  "Where will it be delivered!"

  "I don't know," he said in astonishment; "does that matter?"

  "It matters a great deal," she said emphatically, "especially if I wantit delivered in a certain place. Would you induce Mr. Lexman to lectureat my house?"

  "At Portman Place!" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "No, I have a house of my own. A furnished house I have rented atBlackheath. Will you induce Mr. Lexman to give the lecture there?"

  "But why?" he asked.

  "Please don't ask questions," she pleaded, "do this for me, Tommy."

  He saw she was in earnest.

  "I'll write to old Lexman this afternoon," he promised.

  John Lexman telephoned his reply.

  "I should prefer somewhere out of London," he said, "and since MissBartholomew has some interest in the matter, may I extend my invitationto her? I promise she shall not be any more shocked than a good womanneed be."

  And so it came about that the name of Belinda Mary Bartholomew was addedto the selected list of police chiefs, who were making for London atthat moment to hear from the man who had guaranteed the solution ofthe story of Kara and his killing; the unravelment of the mystery whichsurrounded his death, and the significance of the twisted candles, whichat that moment were reposing in the Black Museum at Scotland Yard.