Chapter THREE: What the Papers Said

Silent, tense, our minds grappled. I succeeded in laughing.

“Do I really resemble the assassin?” I asked, with, I fear, humor, ill-assumed.

“You are very like the description given in the papers,” she declared.

“Possibly, but, as far as I read, the woman only saw the fellow by the light of the street-lamp, and the description she gave was, after all, a vague one.” Then I added, “I hope they won’t arrest me, for I wasn’t in London. I only came up from Colchester yesterday.”

“So Mrs. Bowyer has told me,” she said. Her words instantly aroused my suspicion that the pair had already been discussing me in secret.

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, I haven’t any motive to kill anybody. I’m engaged to one of the best girls in the world. She lives here, in London, and that is why I’m up here--to be near her.”

“And yet it is so funny, Mr. Paige,” she remarked, after a brief pause, looking me in full in the face. “When I read the description of the man the police want, and look at you, it seems that it really must be you!”

“It would be most interesting and sensational if you discovered a murderer--wouldn’t it?” I remarked. “But I’m afraid I can’t give the poor, distressed girl the satisfaction of identifying me as her lover’s murderer.”

“I love mysteries,” declared Miss Hatten. “I read all the detective stories I can get hold of. I hate those sloppy love romances written for domestic servants. Women writers are the worst offenders.”

“All of your sex love to become amateur detectives,” I remarked good-humoredly. “But it requires a good deal of training.”

How I wished, in the light of after-events, I had left that final sentence unuttered.

She paused for a moment, evidently puzzled.

“Yes. Perhaps it is for that reason my suspicions have been aroused that you are here in hiding.”

“Really, I hope you don’t think so, Miss Hatten,” I said very seriously. “If so, let us go around to Carter Street Police Station together, and, if you wish, I’ll give myself up for the crime. I can’t say more, can I?” And I laughed heartily.

“Don’t be so silly, Mr. Paige. You really wouldn’t like to go to Carter Street, would you?” the girl said, disarmed at the open frankness which had caused me so much trepidation. “Of course, it’s only my fancy. I could not think that you would actually kill a man.”

“There must always be a motive if one kills one’s fellow-creature--jealousy, gain, hatred, or personal advancement,” I declared, smiling as I stood before her. “But, if that is lacking, then it is seldom that a life is taken. According to the newspapers, the man was shot in cold blood. Hence, there must have been some very distinct motive. It is that which the police must discover before they find the assassin.”

We chatted on, and I was intensely relieved to discover that I had allayed her suspicions. No doubt, my worthy landlady had been discussing the point with her; and, surely, no person is more dangerous to a fugitive from justice than a suspicious landlady.

Ah! What an idiot I had been not to remain beside the man’s body, and brave the consequences! My actions, in themselves, had convicted me.

As I sat opposite her, as we ate our modest meal together, the whole situation was appalling. Over that thin ice which I was treading, I knew not to what destination it would lead me. At any moment might come discovery, exposure, arrest. Women when suspicious, as when they love, are the most dangerous enemies of mankind. But the smart, good-looking girl, seated laughing before me in that unpretentious room in one of London’s crowded suburbs, was a complex problem that I could not solve.

Was she my friend--or my enemy? I could not decide which. On her silence my whole future depended.

Hence, was it any wonder that I sat there apprehensive, watchful, helpless?

Those dark winter days of dread dragged by with terrible monotony in that stuffy little house. That long street of stucco, uniform residences, with their flights of steps to the front door, the deep areas, and the bow-windows, each dingier than its neighbor, was the most depressing place of residence. And, as day followed day, my only recreation was to go out after dark, and tread the worst lit by-streets in the hope of not being recognized.

There was daily a great degree of uncertainty as to whether I really had allayed the girl Lisely’s suspicions, or whether she was watching my movements. I strongly suspected the latter. In some confused, indescribable way, all truth, I felt, was being distorted, probably because of my own miserable obsession.

Each day the papers reported how active search still was being made, and how all the ports were being watched. At Dover, a man was arrested and brought to Bow Street. But, when put up for identification the girl, Hilda Bennett, failed to recognize him as her lover’s assailant.

The worst feature of the situation was that the papers had taken up the case strongly, and were daily criticizing the apparent incompetency of the police, urging them to greater activity.

One journal, after referring to the audacious murder of Mr. Warwick May and the peril of the streets, made the following comments:

“During the past few days, a special squad of detectives has been searching a number of small hotels and boarding-houses in London, where it is believed the man may be in hiding.

“Scotland Yard believe that the alleged assassin may be receiving assistance from a clever woman associate.

“He is described as about thirty years of age, 5 ft. 9 in. in height, fresh complexion, dark-brown hair, hazel eyes with a peculiarity in them which suggests a squint. He may be growing a moustache. He is well built. He talks in a quiet tone.

“There are, including the wanted man, seven men at large somewhere in the British Isles, for whom Scotland Yard, and the police throughout the country, are keeping a day and night vigil.

“These men are all known to the police--their descriptions, haunts, and habits are all recorded in the official records at Scotland Yard.

“Still, for the time, the mysterious seven are eluding their pursuers.

“The man most wanted by the authorities is John Hayes, the well-spoken, handsome young fellow who is believed to be the brains behind the theft of the mail-bags between Southampton and London, last July.

“Hayes, who is in his twenties, was engaged as driver of a royal mail van, and was known among his associates as ‘The Gent.’ He always dressed well and his speech indicated gentle birth and a good education.

“He is known to have served a term of imprisonment in the United States. His photograph has been circulated to every police-station in the kingdom. Yet he still evades arrest.

“‘Good-looking, well-spoken, and young,’ are the main characteristics of another suspect. He is the clever, evening-dress burglar who calmly let himself into the Curzon Street house of Mr. William Bingham, and got away with jewelry valued at £40,000.

“The police have a very shrewd idea of the man they want. At the moment, however, a detailed description of him is not considered advisable.

“The fourth of the elusive seven is the scoundrel who, a fortnight ago, shot and wounded a girl named Carlland, outside her house in Maresfield Gardens, Hampstead.

“Detectives engaged on the case are anxious to interview a certain man in connection with this outrage. But he remains in hiding, and is successfully dodging all efforts to run him to earth.

“There is a distinct clue here, for the man, who is 6 ft. tall, stoops and is splay-footed. He is about 40 years of age, of sallow complexion. Like the other missing suspects, he is well-dressed, usually wearing a well-cut suit, hard felt hat, and brown gloves.

“‘There is no place like London for hiding,’ said a Scotland Yard detective yesterday, ‘and I would wager that all these “wanteds” are within a five-mile radius of Charing Cross.’ And yet the police are baffled!”

Naturally all this increased my alarm, for the police were being goaded into activity by adverse public opinion.

Each time I went out at night I did so in fear and trepidation. I used to purchase my evening paper regularly of a man who stood at the corner of Beresford Street, and more than once I fancied he eyed me with suspicion.

One evening I rang up Bolland, my man, pretending to speak from Reading, saying that I was still detained in the country, and asking him to send my letters to the Grand Hotel at Eastbourne. Next day I wrote to the hotel, engaging a room. Two days later, I sent a polite letter of apology, saying that I was detained, and asking that if any letters should come for me they might be sent, re-addressed, to the poste restante at Charing Cross, to which, one dark, wet evening at half-past five, I ventured to take a taxi, and obtained them.

There were about half a dozen, including two from Joan. In reply to them I sent her a long wire to Cannes. The others were of no account. Concerning one matter, I grew greatly troubled--that of finance. Though I had a fair balance at my bankers, yet I had no check-book, nor had I anybody whom I could trust to go to the bank and cash a check. The one check I carried with me on my flight I would be compelled to send to Bolland for his wages and outgoings. On my long, lonely walks at night, I tried to devise some plan. I knew that my father, not hearing from me, would ring up Bolland, who would tell him that I was away. Yet, looming ahead were a number of political engagements I had made, and, if I were missing, people might wonder, and set up inquiries.

This fact caused me to resolve to brave the dangers and see my father in secret. As the House was sitting, he was, I knew, living at his flat in Albany. Therefore, I sent him word by registered letter that I was in hiding in Camberwell, and gave him my address and name as Paige. I told him that a great misfortune had befallen me, and that it was imperative that I should see him in secret. I asked him to say no word to anyone, but to meet me at midnight at the quietest and most unfrequented spot I had explored, namely, outside Denmark Hill Station. I asked him to name the night.

To my joy, next evening the post brought me a letter from him, expressing greatest anxiety concerning me, and appointing the following night for our rendezvous. He assured me that he was impatient to see me.

Though I could hardly contain myself at the thought of being able to confide in the dear old governor, I knew how furious he would be at the mere thought of besmirching the family honor. In the eyes of both police and public I was an alleged assassin, and if caught would be tried as such. A clever counsel in all probability would obtain my release. But the scandal, in any case, must fall on my honorable family.

Soon after receipt of that letter, the girl Hatten returned from her office, and, as we sat together at dinner, she remarked:

“Do you often go to the pictures?”

“Not very often,” I replied, for in her query I surmised that she wanted me to take her out one evening, to the pictures or a dance-hall. More than once, indeed, she had insinuated such a course. But how dare I show my face in a public place when the whole world had eyes searching for me?

“Whatever do you do when you go out at night?” she asked.

“Usually I take what I have written in the day over to Fleet Street,” I replied glibly.

“I thought journalists worked all night and slept all day. A friend of mine who is on a daily paper never gets home before five in the morning. Yet you are always back by twelve or so. You must have a soft job. I wish I had one like yours,” she said, adding: “To be cooped up in an office all day is getting on my nerves. The fogs in the City are terrible just now. We had the lights on all day to-day.”

“It has been pretty dark here,” I remarked. “We had to light up about two o’clock.”

Then the subject dropped, and she began to relate how her boss had fallen in love with one of her fellow-typists, and that he was taking her to the theatre that evening.

“She’s a silly flapper, and I told her so,” my sprightly companion said. “He’s got a fearful old hag for a wife. She comes to the office sometimes, and eyes me up and down, as though I were some new species of animal. I don’t blame him for wanting to escape from her for an evening.”

“I suppose he flirts with you--eh?” I laughed tantalizingly.

“Flirt? I’d like to see him try it,” she replied promptly. “He wouldn’t do it a second time, you bet. He knows I’m not one of that sort--especially when I have a nice boy of my own.”

“I congratulate you,” I laughed. “Many boys are not exactly nice!”

I always tried to ingratiate myself with her.

Even though she was always so bright and agreeable towards me, I felt, by intuition, that she had penetrated my disguise, and that, sooner or later, she would constitute my gravest danger. Therefore, I resolved to see my father in secret, and, after obtaining funds, change my quarters.

Yet would not such an action confirm her suspicions and those of the police? In my frantic fear I was undecided how to act.

Next day it was still rather foggy, but towards evening it grew thicker, a condition which I welcomed when I went forth to my rendezvous. I left the house at ten o’clock, and walked slowly in the murky gloom along the Camberwell Road, where the street-lamps, usually brilliant, were half hidden in the mantle of one of those “pea soupers” which the Londoner knows so well. Traffic was nearly at a standstill, and a strange silence had fallen on the usually busy thoroughfare. Ascending Denmark Hill, I discovered, not without difficulty, Champion Park, a turning on the left which led to the station. It was a quiet thoroughfare of large houses. The fog was not quite so intense on the hill as in Camberwell below, and, in a few minutes, I saw my gray-bearded father standing in the booking-office awaiting me.

He recognized me at the door and came out to meet me.

I saw surprise on his countenance when he realized my disguise.

“My boy!” he whispered, as he gripped my hand affectionately. “This is terrible! To think that you--that you should be wanted for murder!”

“It is terrible,” I replied, leading the way along the dark, deserted road towards Grove Lane. I had dreaded lest he should express anger at my misfortune. He had always been forgiving, and seldom angry with me at the various peccadilloes and follies of youth. And now most of all, how welcome was his attitude.

My present position was, that I must sooner or later bring dishonor on my family, whose good name and esteem my father so carefully guarded. The Hipwells held a long and honorable record in Northamptonshire ever since Sir Thomas Hipwell, the treasurer to Henry VIII, built Hipwell, where the family, several members of which were from time to time employed in the service of their sovereign, always had lived.

The old governor was a man of few words. He always spoke bluntly and to the point, in Parliament and out of it.

“You swear that it was an accident?” he asked in a hard, unusual voice, which betrayed emotion. It was so dark that, beyond the zone of light from the station entrance, I was unable to see his face.

“I swear it was,” I replied, and then I related exactly what had occurred on the night of the tragedy, just as I have already chronicled it in these pages.

He heard me without comment.

“And what do you intend doing now?” he asked, when I had concluded my story.

“I don’t know,” was my reply.

“Neither do I,” he said in that same strained voice. “You are in a very precarious position, my boy. And how to help you out of it I am at my wits’ ends to suggest.”

“I fear arrest because of our honor,” I answered. “Because of that, I fled.”

“An injudicious course--very injudicious. You have, unfortunately, prejudiced yourself,” he declared.

“The public are, of course, certain that murder was committed, especially in face of the lies that woman has told,” I admitted.

“I have read all about it in the papers, but I never dreamed that it was for you, my boy, the police were so actively searching,” my father said brokenly.

“I must still remain hidden,” I remarked.

“For how long? You must, sooner or later, be identified and arrested. In to-night’s paper I see it stated that the police have a clue. But--of course--they seem to find a fresh clue every day.”

I told him of the suggestions of my handsome fellow lodger, at which he expressed increased apprehension.

“You never know what such a girl may do,” he said. “Perhaps she’ll tell the police her suspicions, just in order to come into the limelight. Most girls of her type love a little publicity. Have you seen to-night’s paper?”

I replied in the negative.

“Well, the police have made some interesting discoveries. The automatic pistol, with which the murder was committed, has been found to have been stolen with a quantity of goods and jewelry from a house in Cromwell Road, about a month ago, and, further, the man whose name was given as Warwick May has been identified by his finger-prints to be a well-known burglar, named Rodwell, who is wanted for a number of thefts, his speciality being safe-breaking.”

“That’s very interesting,” I remarked.

“Yes, it is now supposed to be a crime of revenge,” my father went on, “possibly on the part of one of his friends of the same fraternity, whom he has betrayed to the police. At least, that is the latest theory.”

“It does not help me very much--does it?”

“Only that they will be looking for a burglar, and not for my son,” he said quietly.

“I fear they will be looking for the burglar in just the kind of place of concealment that I have chosen. You see, I dare not move my quarters now, or that girl’s suspicions, and those of my landlady, would certainly be confirmed,” I remarked despondently.

When I spoke of the necessity of having money, he at once produced ten bank of England notes, each for ten pounds, saying:

“I have brought you this to go on with. But I do wish you would return to Sackville Street, and allow Bolland to think you have got back from the country.”

“I would, father, only I dare not leave Avenue Road, for reasons I have just given. Nor dare I risk the channel crossing, for all the ports are watched.”

“True. That girl is, unfortunately, your chief danger. Your disguise is excellent, but your life must be terribly monotonous.”

“Not without its interesting side, though. I am now studying life amid the working-classes.”

“My dear boy! You were always optimistic and cheerful. I, however, confess I do not share your optimism at the present moment. These are dark days for both of us. To-morrow, I’ll see Jesmond, the Home Secretary, and get out of him what the police are doing in the case.”

“Then I have your forgiveness, father?” I asked him, as we were retracing our steps toward the station.

“Of course, my boy. Such a tragic adventure as yours might happen to anybody,” said the dear old fellow. “But your initial mistake was that you did not remain and face the consequences.”

“I thought of you, dad--of the family,” I replied.

“Well, we must hope for the best,” he said. “We had better hold no communication with each other. I will go to Sackville Street, see Bolland, explain your absence, and pay him regularly. You had better not bother about letters or money. I’ll send you cash from time to time. When I came to meet you, I intended to urge you to go back to Sackville Street as though nothing had happened. But I now fully realize the danger of that girl Hatten. You must do all you can to dispel her doubts; and continue to live there at least for a time, until your strange adventures are at an end.”

Then he gripped my hand warmly, and with a final:

“Good-bye, my dear boy! I shall be thinking hourly of you,” the dear old governor entered the station, leaving me alone.

“Until my strange adventures are at an end!” I repeated aloud, as I walked back to the main road.

I never dreamed that I was only at the very beginning of a series of the most remarkable happenings, such as, perhaps, no other man in all the world, except my own unimportant self, Lionel Hipwell, has lived to relate!