Chapter FOUR: Deadly Peril

Down Denmark Hill I went, consoled and gratified that, at least, I still had one big-hearted and affectionate friend in the world, my dear old father, who believed my story. But did the world--or would the jury at the Old Bailey--believe it?

Surely it was, in face of the allegation of that poor woman of the night, a very thin defence.

I argued within myself as a man who had been called to the Bar and understood the pros and cons of a criminal case. I saw that, with the bitter enmity of the woman Bennett who, out of revenge, would swear that I had attacked her burglar-lover, I should have a great difficulty to assure any jury of my innocence.

The career of the dead man, his profession as a burglar, the automatic pistol, and his criminal record would all go in my favor. But, I knew only too well that counsel instructed by the Public Prosecutor could make out a deadly case against me, not only of manslaughter, but of murder.

One detail which I examined, placing myself in the case as counsel for the prosecution, was that of the pistol. A burglar, having taken such a weapon from a house in Cromwell Road, would hardly keep it on his person to provide a hall-mark that he was a thief. On the contrary, the prosecution, of a certainty, would argue that the particular weapon--licenses for which go to and fro in every police-station in Britain, after the abortive General Strike, the most careful record being taken--could be traced, and suddenly the clue would be at an end. I might have bought it from somebody--someone unknown--who wanted to rid himself of the responsibility and the tax for carrying firearms.

I walked through the fog, now and then narrowly escaping bumping against half-suffocated people who, on their way home to bed, were treading through the impenetrable veil. My eyes were watering, my breath became affected, and I longed to be back again in my shabby little sitting-room; for, the night was the worst that had been experienced in London for many years.

My father had heartened me. Jesmond, who was Home Secretary and his intimate friend, might reveal to him what Scotland Yard was doing, and that knowledge might allow me a loophole for escape.

In the Camberwell Road the fog, at the lower height, had settled down to a dense blackness, such as South London experiences now and then in the course of every few years. Trains, buses, and taxis had ceased running several hours ago, and the usual busy thoroughfares of the arterial roads to London, Blackfriars, Waterloo, and Westminister Bridges were silent, save for the voices of the unseen, or of those whose passing shadows were weirdly distorted. Only those who have battled with a thick night fog in London can conceive such atmospheric traffic, and ocular conditions.

I had trodden the pavement of the Camberwell Road on so many nights, at all hours, that I was able, after a number of efforts, to find the turning which took me into Avenue Road. All was dark and mysterious in that drab, monotonous thoroughfare; the light of the street-lamps had been blotted out by the fog. There was nothing for me to do but to creep along, feeling the rows of iron railings beside the deep areas.

Each house was uniform in construction, and, in normal conditions, easily distinguishable by daylight, or even by the light of the street-lamps. But that night I became utterly lost. At last, however, I found the house, as I imagined. But, ascending the steps, I felt a brass-plate on the lintel of the door; hence the house was not the one in which I lived.

I tried a second one, but my key did not fit the key-hole. I knew, then that that, too, was not Mrs. Bowyer’s. So thick was the fog that only by feeling the railings could I guide myself. Here and there a red blur in the darkness was visible, but to recognize where I lived seemed impossible. I tried a dozen different doors, but my key refused to open any of them.

Then I wondered whether Mrs. Bowyer, believing I had gone to bed, had let down the catch in the latch, and, therefore, the key refused to turn! The prospect of spending such a night out of doors was certainly not a pleasant one, and, though I had a hundred pounds in my pocket, I dare not seek lodgings in any hotel, even provided I found one.

The night was black and suffocating; many street accidents occurred in consequence. Except the tubes, all traffic was suspended, save perhaps, the mail trains, which crawled slowly out of London where, beyond the greater metropolis, the fog was not quite so thick.

For fully half an hour I endeavored to discover Mrs. Bowyer’s, but without success, when suddenly it occurred to me that I might have mistaken the turning, and that I was in the wrong street! I groped my way back to the main road, and then, to my amazement, established the fact that I was not in Avenue Road at all. So I went on to the next turning and, at last, found the familiar grocer’s shop at the corner. Creeping along by the railings again I counted the flights of steps until I discovered those leading to Mrs. Bowyer’s.

With a sigh of relief, I turned the key and entered. The light in the hall had been extinguished as sign to me that Mrs. Bowyer, her daughter, and her lady lodger had retired. So, having secured the door, as I always did, I crept noiselessly up to my rooms.

As I did so, a rather unusual perfume greeted my nostrils. Every house has its own peculiar smell, but one of the women must have been using some subtle Eastern perfume, sweet and much resembling sandalwood.

Having gained the landing on the first floor, I suddenly heard the gruff voice of a man, followed by a low, exultant laugh; and then I saw that from beneath the door came a streak of light. There came a woman’s high-pitched and rather musical voice, too, followed by that of a second man. Evidently, Mrs. Bowyer had visitors. Why, however, had the hall light been extinguished? I stood listening. Several people were conversing in such low tones that I could not distinguish what they were saying. Suddenly I heard one word quite distinctly. It was “police.”

My heart stood still.

The detectives were there waiting for my return to arrest me!

Again I listened, but they were only discussing something in low whispers. I had walked into the trap set for me.

Having turned, I was about to descend the stairs and creep forth into the fog again when, of a sudden, I became aware of a strong, heavy hand clutching my throat. And somebody whom I could not see, blocked my passage on the stairs.

They had at last discovered me.

What happened during the next exciting moments I can hardly tell.

The man shouted, whereupon the door was flung open, and seven or eight persons emerged excitedly from the room, while I, in the grasp of two rough-looking individuals, was hauled unceremoniously into the light.

In a second I realized that the room was furnished quite differently from that of Mrs. Bowyer. Then it suddenly dawned on me that I had inadvertently entered the wrong house! Yet I saw standing there, statuesque and amazed, the handsome figure of my fellow-lodger, Lisely Hatten. With her was an over-dressed foreign woman, a tall, fair-haired young Englishman, of the type of a naval officer, and four beetle-browed, swarthy foreigners, all in a great state of anger and alarm.

“I found this fellow listening!” cried the very tall, muscular man of Negroid type, with thick lips and bloodshot eyes, who had seized me on the stairs. He spoke with a strange accent. “The spy has overheard!” Whereat the strange nocturnal party stood aghast.

“I heard nothing! I am no spy,” I protested instantly.

“Perhaps not,” exclaimed one of the other men, who was apparently in authority. “But you have seen!”

Then, next second I became aware that upon the table was a quantity of old-fashioned jewelry lying in a heap, gems which flashed and glittered beneath the light, but all in antique settings.

“I have seen nothing,” I assured my captors.

Were they jewel-thieves in the act of dividing their spoils?

“You are a police-spy!” shouted the dark-bearded, undersized foreigner who had just spoken.

“Yes,” cried the girl who was my fellow-lodger. “I suspected him from the first. He told me he was a journalist, but nobody knows him in Fleet Street. He goes out on night duty from Scotland Yard.”

“That is certainly untrue,” I said resentfully. “I am no police-spy, and your affairs, whatever they may be, are surely no business of mine.”

The big, dark-faced man, who had made me his prisoner, laughed mockingly and said:

“Unfortunately for you, we happen to know you. You are Lionel Hipwell. Why do you come to live here in disguise as Mr. Paige if you are not acting for the police?”

I was silent. What could I say?

It was plain that the pretty, half-foreign typist had suspected me, but to my amazement, not as the assassin of Bloomsbury. It was as an agent of the Criminal Investigation Department I had been suspected. In that second my whole outlook on life changed.

I saw myself faced with a greater peril than I ever could have dreamed. By mere mischance, bad fortune following on bad fortune, I had fallen upon the secret of what was evidently a most desperate gang of jewel thieves.

In that narrow, shuttered room, with its cheap table piled with gems of untold value, precious stones that my eyes had never before beheld, I stood bewildered, and at the mercy of my accusers.

Surely I was innocent of everything concerning them. They knew my name! They knew, perhaps, that, being interested in criminology, I had once been able to place the police on the track of one of the greatest forgers of the present century. They evidently knew me, and, what was worse--they feared me.

They did not know that I feared them equally. And yet, dared I reveal why I was in hiding?

I drew a long breath. In a few seconds I passed in review all my hopes, my life, my fears. At last, however, I blurted out:

“The reason I am here is because the police are hunting me for the Bloomsbury murder, of which, I swear to you all, I am innocent.”

An ominous silence of a few seconds fell. Then the under-sized little foreigner, with the black gimlet eyes, laughed derisively and said in a bad English:

“My friends, we have to deal with a very clever fellow in this Mr. Hipwell. Certainly he is not the man for whom his police department is in search. A devilish clever excuse, but when one is faced with extinction, as he is--for the only way to deal with spies is to close their blurting lips by death--then any of us would naturally take upon ourselves any accusation such as he does.”

“I’m innocent! I swear I am!” I shouted, facing the assembly boldly. “I fled from the police, and only by misadventure have I entered here. I have heard nothing, neither have I seen anything. I am innocent!” I cried vehemently.

I could see that they were a desperate gang who, fearing lest I should betray them, intended to put an end to my existence. Their manner and their murderous, evil looks showed only too plainly that the threat of death would be put in execution. Indeed, they were all conversing excitedly in some language entirely foreign to me.

I implored the girl Hatten, who spoke the tongue as fluently as the others, to explain to them that I had not been spying, and to assure them that I would preserve their secret whatever it might be.

But she only turned on me with anger flashing in her eyes, and replied:

“You are an agent of the police! I suspected it from the first. What you say about the murder in Bloomsbury is a lie. I only suggested that you answered to the description which Scotland Yard had circulated in order to watch your face. The way you answered confirmed my suspicions that you are a detective! And as you are a spy, we have decided that you shall pay the penalty.”

I saw that, like her friends, she was fiercely antagonistic and inexorable. Her face, her manner, her kindly attitude towards me,--all had entirely changed. From being my friend, she had suddenly become my worst enemy; and I knew that nothing could save me from the fury of that desperate gang of foreigners, whose nationality I could not determine.

I stood there in deadly peril, scarce daring to breathe, watching my enemies in excited consultation while they decided my fate.

Suddenly the door before me opened and a woman entered.

Our eyes met for an instant. An exclamation froze on my lips.

The newcomer was the woman of the night, Hilda Bennett!