Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective

  CHAPTER VII

  THE DEATH-TRAP IN THE TUDOR ROOM

  I had not been to Chelsea for some weeks--indeed, I had not been intown, business having kept me in the country--and I returned to find aletter from Quarles which had been waiting for me for three days.

  Several cases were in my hands just then--affairs of no greatdifficulty nor any particular interest--and only in one case had I hadany worry. This trouble was due, not so much to the case itself as tothe fact that it had brought me in contact with another detectivenamed Baines, who would persist in treating me as a rival. He was asirritating as Quarles himself could be on occasion, and was entirelywithout the professor's genius. To be candid, I may admit Baines hadsome excuse. Circumstances brought me into the affair at the eleventhhour, and he was afraid I should reap where he had planted.

  It was a strange business from first to last, and one I am neverlikely to forget.

  A man, riding across an open piece of country near Aylesbury early onemorning, came upon a motor cyclist lying near his machine on theroadside. The machine had been reduced to scrap-iron. The man, who wasdressed in overalls, seemed to have been killed outright by a blow onthe head. Since the man still wore his goggles, and there was no signof a struggle, Baines argued, and reasonably, I think, that death wasnot the result of foul play. That he had been run into by a motor car,and that the people in the car had either not stopped to see whatdamage was done, or, having seen it, feared to give information, wasperhaps giving too loose a rein to imagination.

  However, this was Baines's idea; and he had succeeded in hearing of acar with only one man in it which had been driven through Aylesbury ata furious pace on the night when a second and similar tragedyoccurred, this time near Saffron Walden.

  The man had been killed in the same fashion, he wore goggles andoveralls, and the machine was smashed, though not so completely.Neither of the men had been identified. In the first case, there mightbe a reason for this, as the man was a foreigner. In the second case,the man was an Englishman. Both the machines were old patterns, and ofa cheap make, carried fictitious numbers, and Baines had been unableto find out where they had been purchased.

  He held to his theory of the car, but was now inclined to think thatthe cyclists had been purposely driven into. Granted a certain shapeof bonnet--and the car driven through Aylesbury appeared to have thisshape--he contended that, in endeavoring to avoid the collision, acyclist would be struck in exactly the manner indicated by theappearance of the head. He was therefore busy trying to trace adevil-mad motorist.

  The discovery of a dead chauffeur on a lonely road near Newbury nowbrought me into the affair. He had apparently been killed in preciselythe same manner as the victims of the Aylesbury and Saffron Waldentragedies; and so I was brought in contact with Baines. From the firsthe scorned my arguments and suggestions. It seemed to me that thisthird tragedy went to disprove his theory of a madly driven motorcar, but he insisted that it was only a further proof. Was it notpossible, he asked, that the mad owner of the car, believing that hischauffeur knew the truth, had killed him to protect himself? I askedhim how he supposed the car had been driven at the chauffeur in orderto injure him, exactly as it had injured men on cycles. When Bainesanswered that the chauffeur was probably on a cycle at the time, Iwanted to know why, in this case, the motorist had gathered up thebroken machine and taken it away. In short, we quarreled over theaffair, and Baines was furious when I was able to prove that inneither case was the wrecked cycle a complete machine. True, in onecase, only some trivial pieces were missing which might have beendriven into the ground by the force of the fall; but in the other animportant part was wanting, without which the machine could not havebeen driven.

  I came to the conclusion that there had been foul play, that thebroken machines were a blind, and that the men had been brought to theplaces where they were found after they were dead.

  I returned to London to pursue inquiries in this direction, and foundthe letter from Quarles asking me to go and see him as soon aspossible.

  I went to Chelsea that evening, and was shown into the dining-room.The professor looked a little old to-night, I thought.

  "Very glad to see you, Wigan. I want your help."

  "I shall be delighted to give it, you have helped me so often. Yourgranddaughter is well, I trust?"

  "Yes, she is away. She has taken a situation."

  "A situation!" I exclaimed.

  "The world hasn't much use for a professor of philosophy in thesedays, and that leads to financial difficulty for the professor,"Quarles answered. "You glance round at the luxury of this room, Inotice, and I can guess your thoughts. Selfish old brute, you aresaying to yourself. But it was the child's wish, and we bide our time.She is made much of where she is. I think it is my loneliness whichdeserves most pity. Besides, there is no disgrace in honest work,either for man or woman."

  Something of challenge was in his tone, and I hastened to agree withhim. In a sense, the information was not unpleasant to me. Life wasnot to be all luxury for Zena Quarles. The social standing of adetective, however successful he may be, is not very high, and thenecessity for her to work seemed to bring us nearer together. Thevalue of what I could offer her was increased, and a spirit ofhopefulness took possession of me.

  "But I didn't ask you here to pity either Zena or myself," Quarleswent on, after a pause. "I daresay you have heard of Mrs. Barrymore?"

  "I have."

  "She advertised for a private secretary, and Zena answered theadvertisement. When a woman goes deeply into philanthropic work,visits hospitals, rescue homes, and the like, she often does it tofill a life which would otherwise be empty. Not to Mrs. Barrymore. Sheis a society woman as well, is to be met here, there and everywhere.She is a golfer, a yachtswoman, fond of sport generally, and withal acharming hostess. It is no wonder she wants a secretary. You don'tsuppose I should let Zena go anywhere to be treated as a kind ofhousemaid, and in a way that no self-respecting servant would stand?"

  "Of course not. I gather that you know Mrs. Barrymore personally?"

  "I saw her once or twice when she was a child. I knew her mother."

  I looked up quickly, struck by his tone.

  "There is romance in every life, Wigan. Here you touch mine. Mrs.Barrymore's mother married an American. She chose him rather than me,and, although I afterwards married, I have never forgotten her.Naturally, I feel an interest in her daughter, Mrs. Barrymore, and Iwant your help."

  "In what way?"

  "I want your opinion of her."

  "But I don't know her."

  "You must get to know her. She puzzles me, and certain things whichZena has told me make me think I might help her. I should like to doso, if I can. We have been useful to each other, Wigan, because ourmethods are different. I have formed a certain opinion of Mrs.Barrymore, the result of theorizing. I shall not tell you what it isbecause I want your unbiased view, arrived at by your method of goingto work."

  "There is a mystery about her, then?"

  "My dear Wigan, that is exactly what I want to find out."

  "How am I to make her acquaintance?" I asked.

  "Not as Murray Wigan, certainly," he said, and then he added, after apause: "Would you mind pretending to be Zena's lover? When I saw her afew days ago I said I would suggest this way to her."

  Mind? Pretend! The professor little knew how the proposal pleased me.He was offering me a part I could play to perfection.

  "It is a good idea," was all I said.

  "We even thought of a name for you--George Hastings--and you are asurveyor. Being in Richmond, you thought you might venture to call,not having seen Zena for some time. Mrs. Barrymore lives at LanternHouse, Richmond. If you see Mrs. Barrymore, as I hope you will, andmake yourself agreeable, she may give you permission to come again. Ithink it will work all right."

  "Will to-morrow be too soon to go?" I asked.

  "No."

  "If I am given the chance, I will certainly go again when I can.Unfortunately, I
am very busy just now."

  "Ah, I haven't asked you about your work. Anything interesting?"

  "One case, or, rather, three cases in one." And I told him about thecyclists and the chauffeur.

  "Only wounds in the head? What kind of wounds?" he asked.

  "I did not see the cyclists. I can only speak of the chauffeur fromdirect knowledge. The forehead, just by the margin of the hair, wasbruised and the skin slightly abraded. At the base of the head behind,under the hair, there was another bruise--round, the size of half acrown. There was no swelling, no blood. I am told that the cyclistswere also bruised about the temples."

  "What had the doctor to say?"

  "Very little in the chauffeur's case. Some severe blow had beendelivered, but he could not say how. He was puzzled. When I suggestedthe man might have been run down by a car--quoting Baines's idea--hesaid it was a possible explanation. He said so, I fancy, merelybecause he had no other suggestion to offer."

  "And the man's face, Wigan?"

  "If a man could see death in some horrible shape, and his featuresbecome suddenly fixed with terror, he might look like the chauffeurdid," I answered.

  "He has not been identified either?"

  "Not yet, but I'm hoping to trace him."

  "Have you thought of one point, Wigan?" said Quarles, with someeagerness. "He may not have been a chauffeur, nor the others cyclists.They may only have worn the clothes."

  "It is possible," I returned. "His hands had done manual work, but notof an arduous kind. There were curious marks on the body, adiscoloration under the arms, and the skin somewhat chafed. Also, onthe outer side of the arms, there were marks just above theelbows--depressions rather than discolorations. A rope bound round thebody might have produced the latter."

  "There would have been marks upon the chest and back as well," saidQuarles.

  "I do not say it was a rope," I returned. "Have you any helpfultheory, professor?"

  For a few moments he had seemed keen--I should not have been surprisedhad he suggested our going to the empty room. Now he became apathetic,loose-minded, a man incapable of concentration. I had never knownQuarles quite like this before.

  "I will think of it. When I read the accounts in the papers, I thoughtI should like to assist you," he said slowly. "But it is impossibleto-night. Zena is not here. I am an incomplete machine without her.You must have realized that, Wigan, by this time."

  I have intimated before that the empty room, the listening forinspiration, and Quarles's faith in Zena's questions did not impressme very much. His excuse now I took as an intimation that he wanted tobe alone.

  "I will call at Mrs. Barrymore's to-morrow," I said as I rose to go.

  "That's right; Lantern House, Richmond. And, by the way, Mr.Hastings--that is your name, remember--my granddaughter does not callherself Zena Quarles, but Mary Corbett. I have an old friend, Mrs.Corbett, and she has lent her name and her address for letters. Mrs.Barrymore may have heard of me from her mother, and mine is not a nameeasily forgotten. Besides----"

  "I understand. You would help Mrs. Barrymore without her knowing it."

  "There may be another reason. One does not advertise his financialdifficulties if he can help it."

  "Professor, we are friends," I said, with some hesitation. "If youwant----"

  "No, no," he answered quickly, "I do not want to borrow yet. Thank youall the same, Wigan. Good night. And don't forget you are in love withMary Corbett."

  On the following afternoon I went to Richmond, having supplied myselfwith some surveying instruments to support the part I was to play.This was unnecessary, perhaps, but I like to be on the safe side. Iwas excited. I was in love, there was no pretense about it, and if Icould contrive to let Zena see the reality through the pretense, somuch the better.

  Lantern House, which had grounds running down to the river, was large,rambling, and parts of it were very old, contemporaneous with the oldPalace of Richmond, it was said. A small cupola in the centralportion of the building, possibly once used for star gazing, may havesuggested the name.

  Zena evidently expected me, for the servant, without making anyinquiry, showed me into a room opening on to the gardens at the back.Zena rose hastily from a writing-table and hurried to meet me.

  "George!" she exclaimed.

  I caught both her outstretched hands in mine.

  "Dearest!"

  She turned quickly, a color in her cheeks, and then I saw that we werenot alone. A lady had risen from a chair at the end of the room, andcame forward.

  "This is George Hastings, Mrs. Barrymore," Zena said.

  "Well, Mr. Hastings, you may kiss her if you like. I shall not beshocked," and she laughed good-humoredly. "Mary told me that you mightcome, and I am interested in the man she honors. So many girls makefools of themselves, and marry worthless specimens. Outwardly, I seenothing to take exception to in you. Your character----"

  "I think Mary is satisfied," I said.

  "So it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, eh?"

  I laughed a little awkwardly, playing my part well, I fancy, andshowing just sufficient anxiety to impress Mrs. Barrymore favorably.

  She was a very handsome woman, tall, athletic, and evidently addictedto sport. Yet there was nothing ungraceful about her. Her manner wasgracious and attractive, her dress was charming. It was a marvel shehad succeeded in remaining a widow.

  "I will leave you," she said presently. "But I can only spare Mary fora very short time to-day. You know, my dear, how busy we are with theappeal for that rescue society. Don't look so disappointed, Mr.Hastings. You may come to-morrow and have tea with Mary."

  "Thank you so much."

  "But remember, only a few minutes to-day."

  As she went out of the room, Zena gave me a warning look. I wasevidently to play my part even when Mrs. Barrymore was not there.

  "Was there any harm in my coming, Mary?" I asked.

  "No, dear. Mrs. Barrymore is very kind to me. George, you haven'tkissed me yet."

  She was afraid that curious eyes might be upon us, and felt that theparts we had assumed must be played thoroughly. I think the colordeepened in my own cheeks as I bent and touched her forehead with mylips. I know hers did. For me it was a lover's kiss, the first I hadever given.

  "There is danger, but I am not sure what it is," she whispered, as westood close together. And then, drawing me to a chair, she said aloud:"Tell me all you have been doing, George."

  I concocted a story of my surveying work, and managed to be the lovertoo. If we had an audience I fancy the deception was complete.

  We were not left long together. Mrs. Barrymore came back with anapology, and I departed, thinking a great deal more about Zena than ofany mystery there might be about her employer. Yet, from thinking ofher, I began to fear for her. What danger could there be at LanternHouse?

  There was some mystery--the professor had said as much--but surely hewould not let his granddaughter run any risk? Still there was dangerenough for Zena to take precaution that our deception should not bediscovered, even to the extent of allowing me to kiss her. I passed arestless night, and was in Richmond next day long before it waspossible for me to go to the house.

  When I did go, I was at least an hour before my time.

  I was shown into the same room as on the previous day. Mrs. Barrymorewas there alone.

  "You are early," she said with a smile. "Lovers are ever impatient.Did you meet Mary?"

  "No. Is she out?"

  "Oh, you need not go. She will be back to tea, and I am not sorry tohave a quiet talk with you, Mr. Hastings. I am interested in MaryCorbett. She is nearly alone in the world, and my sympathy goes out tosuch women. I have worked a great deal for societies dealing withwomen's status and employment, and am most anxious to see a revisionof the laws which at present press too heavily on my sex. Come, tellme all about yourself, your present position, your prospects--everything."

  The story I told her would not have done discredit to a weaver ofromance, and she
was so sympathetic a listener that I felt a littleashamed of myself for practicing such deception.

  "I think I am satisfied," she said at last, "and I judge you have asoul above the mere commercial side of a surveyor's business--that thebeautiful has an appeal to you. Do you know anything about thishouse?"

  "I believe part of it is old," I said.

  "Very old," she returned. "I like modern comforts, but I love the oldthings too. We have a few minutes before tea and Mary's return. I willshow you the old part of Lantern House, if you like. I have tried togive the rooms their original appearance, and am rather proud of myachievement."

  She was giving me an opportunity which I could hardly have expected, achance of seeing something which would give me a clew to the mysteryconcerning her. I might have known better what to look for if only theprofessor had been more explicit.

  Talking pleasantly, calling my attention to a view from a window, orto some unique piece of furniture, Mrs. Barrymore led me throughseveral rooms, the contents of which told of the wealth and taste ofthe mistress of the house.

  "I only use the old rooms on great occasions," she said, as we passedfrom a small boudoir into a dim passage. "I have thought of lettingthe public see them on certain days on payment of a small fee for thebenefit of some charity, but I have not quite made up my mind. Itwould cut into my privacy a little, and in some ways I am selfish.There are two steps down, Mr. Hastings."

  She had opened a door and preceded me into a room, Tudor in itsconstruction, Tudor in its contents--at least, I suppose the contentswere all in keeping, but I had not sufficient knowledge to be quitedefinite upon the point. The effect, if somewhat stiff and severe, waspleasing.

  "A Philistine friend of mine complains of the somberness," said Mrs.Barrymore, "and wants me to have the electric light here as it is inthe rest of the house. Fancy Henry the Eighth wooing his many wivesunder the electric light! Why, they would almost have seen what avillain he was. Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hastings, and imagineyourself back across the centuries. It was just such a chair as thatwhich the fat king used when he talked statecraft or divorce withWolsey."

  She seated herself by the table, and I took the chair she indicated.Never did blind man walk into a pit more unsuspectingly. The seat gaveunder me, half a dozen inches, perhaps, setting the hidden mechanismto quick work. My ankles were gripped, the arms closed across me,pinning me securely just above the elbows, and a bar shot under mychin, holding my head rigidly against the back of the chair.

  Mrs. Barrymore got up quickly, went behind me, and, in a moment, hadpassed a cloth of some thick material over my mouth. Then she came andstood in front of me.

  "Caught!" she said. "That chair holds you helpless and speechless. Iknow just how you feel. I am going to tell you why. I daresay you knowI am an American--at least my father was, although my mother wasEnglish. I married an Englishman, who was a genius, a crank, and adevil. We lived in the States, where you know electrocution is thedeath penalty, and my husband, a genius in all that had to do withelectricity, invented an improved method, using little current anddangerous in one particular--it is impossible to tell how the victimhas died. He was so pleased with his invention he would not make itpublic. He used it chiefly to terrify me. I was rich, my money was myown, and to get money from me he has forced me into that chair, alsoan invention of his, and sworn he would kill me. Mine was a life oftorture and terror. Then I played the siren with him. I asked him toexplain his devilish machine to me, and vowed to make over to him alarge sum of money in exchange for the secret. He agreed--the fool! Ikept my promise and paid the money, but one night when he was drunk, Ipushed him into that chair. He was the first victim of his owninvention, and to this day his death remains a mystery."

  She laughed very quietly--not like a mad woman--and, going to a cornerof the room, she opened a panel near the floor and brought out acurious contrivance, circular in shape, but not a completecircle--something like a metal cap with a triangular piece missing atthe back. Wires were attached to it, and were also secured within thecupboard. They uncoiled as she came across the room carrying the metalcap in her hand.

  "My husband was the type of brute who loves to torture women in someform or other," she said. "There are thousands of such men, especiallyin England, I think, or why are societies so necessary to protectwomen, to help them, to relieve them? Such devils are better out ofthe world, and I had the power to be something more than aphilanthropist. I had the knowledge and the money to be an activeagent. I came to England. I hate Englishmen because of my husband, andI have made a beginning. It was easy among my charitable concerns tohear of men who were brutes, and who would not be missed. In such aman I took an interest, was kind to him, brought him here to LanternHouse to befriend him. He has sat in that chair as you are sitting, hehas worn this cap as you wear it. How to get rid of him afterward?Underneath us is a basement where I have a car ready, a car I drivemyself, and of the existence of which nobody knows. An old house wasan advantage to me, you see. It is easy to put goggles and overalls ona dead man. To contrive an iron frame which should keep him in asitting position was not difficult, and you are exactly over a trapthrough which you can be lowered into the car. Then a drive in thenight, when I am dressed like a man, and have a companion with me whosits upright beside me, then an unfrequented piece of country, and Icome home again--alone. Twice cyclists have been found--one of them aforeigner--their broken machines beside them. It was easy to buy afifth rate motor machine, smash it, and carry it in the car. The cycleconfused investigation, and I was secure from detection. Then achauffeur was found. I did not take so much trouble with him, and Iwondered how his death would be explained."

  She laughed again.

  "You may say you are not one of these brutes--perhaps not. But do youremember the day Lord Delmouth married Lady Evelyn Malling? Such awealth of wedding presents required careful watching, and a guest waspointed out to me as Murray Wigan, the great detective. I never forgeta face, and I never underrate an enemy. I heard that Murray Wigan wasinquiring into the mysterious death of the chauffeur. I knew you themoment you came into the house. Who the girl is, I do not care. Youraccomplice has nothing to fear--I do not war against women. I sent herto London. When she returns she will learn that you have been andgone. You will be found, Murray Wigan, sixty or seventy miles fromLondon, and since death by this method draws the features strangely,it is doubtful if you will be identified. You were clever to get uponmy track, but you pay the penalty."

  The perspiration stood out heavily upon me. Fear gripped me, and I washelpless. Yet even in this supreme moment, even when this fiend of awoman fitted that horrible metal cap upon my head, I remembered themarks upon the dead chauffeur. He had been electrocuted as I was tobe. It was the frame holding him in a sitting posture which had markedhis body--it was this awful chair which had left those depressions onhis arms. I was glad to know the truth. It was the ruling passion,strong in death.

  The woman crossed to the cupboard quickly. There was a click, themoving of the switch, and then--nothing. Thank God! Nothing. The capgripped my head, that was all.

  The woman looked at me, and then rushed to the door, only to staggerbackward as Christopher Quarles and Zena met her on the threshold.Their first thought was for me, and Mrs. Barrymore had the moment forwhich she had always been prepared, doubtless. The poison pilule hadbeen concealed in a signet ring she wore, and in a few moments she waslying dead in that horrible Tudor room.

  That Mrs. Barrymore had invited me to come to tea on the followingday, when there was no reason why I should not have stayed then, hadaroused Zena's suspicions, and she had watched Mrs. Barrymore's everymovement. Until then she knew nothing of the secret of the Tudor room,but she saw her employer go there and examine the cupboard.

  In the night Zena went and examined it, and destroyed the current byrendering the switch ineffective. Every day since Zena had been atLantern House Quarles had met her in the grounds. Of course she hadnot gone to London that day, but had met her gra
ndfather, and they hadentered the house together, unseen. They would have been in time toprevent my going through that horrible ordeal had I not arrived anhour before I was expected.

  "You had no right to let Zena ran such a risk," I said to Quarles."You ought not to have sent her to Lantern House to test yourtheories."

  "She ran no risk," was his answer. "It was only against man Mrs.Barrymore fought. I am sorry you had such an experience, Wigan. Inever supposed she would attempt your life, did not imagine she wouldknow who you were. Indeed, I was doubtful of my theory altogether.When the first cyclist was found, I suspected electrocution in someform, and the other two cases went to confirm the suspicion. I knewsomething of Barrymore, a hateful brute but a genius, and I knew hiswonderful knowledge of electricity. His death must have been a reliefto his wife, and the manner of it made me suspicious of her. He wasfound on a lonely road miles away from his home in Washington, and noone could tell how he died. Was it remarkable I should wonder if Mrs.Barrymore were responsible for the crimes here? And I would have savedher if I could, for the sake of her mother. If I could have done that,Wigan, you would have got no theory out of me in this case, and yourfriend Baines might have gone on hunting for his mad motorist for therest of his days."

  So I had touched the professor's romance, and now had one of my own. Ihad pretended to be a lover, and I had found a moment to tell Zenathat it was no pretense with me. The color deepened in her cheeks asit had done when I kissed her, but she did not stop my confession.

  "My grandfather----"

  "He can still remain with us," I said eagerly, seeing no difficulties."Say yes, Zena."

  "It must not be yet."

  "But some day?"

  "Perhaps--some day."

  And I was content.