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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Place of Dragons, by William Le Queux
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
Title: The Place of Dragons
Author: William Le Queux
Release Date: August 8, 2012 [EBook #40434]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLACE OF DRAGONS ***
Produced by D Alexander, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS
A MYSTERY
By
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Author of "In White Raiment," "If Sinners Entice Thee,"
"The Room of Secrets," etc.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON AND MELBOURNE
MADE IN ENGLAND
Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I PRESENTS A PROBLEM 5
II IS MAINLY ASTONISHING 12
III SHOWS LIGHT FROM THE MIST 22
IV OPENS SEVERAL QUESTIONS 30
V IN WHICH THE SHADOW FALLS 38
VI MYSTERY INEXPLICABLE 44
VII TELLS OF TWO MEN 52
VIII REMAINS AN ENIGMA 60
IX DESCRIBES A NIGHT VIGIL 67
X CONTAINS A CLUE 73
XI THE AFFAIR OF THE SEVENTEENTH 81
XII LOLA 87
XIII RELATES A STRANGE STORY 95
XIV WHEREIN CONFESSION IS MADE 103
XV CONFIRMS CERTAIN SUSPICIONS 110
XVI WHERE TWO C'S MEET 118
XVII REVEALS ANOTHER PLOT 125
XVIII DONE IN THE NIGHT 131
XIX RECORDS FURTHER FACTS 139
XX ANOTHER DISCOVERY IS MADE 145
XXI EXPLAINS LOLA'S FEARS 152
XXII THE ROAD OF RICHES 160
XXIII FOLLOWS THE ELUSIVE JULES 166
XXIV MAKES A STARTLING DISCLOSURE 173
XXV IS MORE MYSTERIOUS 181
XXVI HOT-FOOT ACROSS EUROPE 188
XXVII OPENS A DEATH-TRAP 196
XXVIII DESCRIBES A CHASE 204
XXIX THE HOUSE IN HAMPSTEAD 212
XXX NARRATES A STARTLING AFFAIR 219
XXXI "SHEEP OF THY PASTURE" 227
XXXII THE TENTS OF UNGODLINESS 235
XXXIII DISCLOSES A STRANGE TRUTH 241
XXXIV CONCERNS TO-DAY 250
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS
CHAPTER I
PRESENTS A PROBLEM
"Curious affair, isn't it?"
"Very."
"Now, you're a bit of a mystery-monger, Vidal. What's your theory--eh?"
"I haven't one," I replied with a smile.
"I knew the old boy quite well by sight. Didn't you?" asked my friend,
Major Keppell, as we stood gossiping together in the doorway of the
_Hôtel de Paris_, high up on the cliff opposite the pier at Cromer.
"Perfectly. His habit was to go down the slope yonder, to the pier each
morning at ten, and to remain there till eleven," I said. "I used to
watch him every morning. He went as regularly as the clock, wet or
fine."
"A bit eccentric, I thought," remarked the Major, standing astride in
his rough golfing clothes, and puffing at his briar pipe. "Quite a
character for a novel--eh?" and he laughed. "You'll do a book about this
strange affair--what?"
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, as I replied: "Not very likely, I
think. Yet the circumstances are, to say the least, extremely curious."
"They are, from all I hear," said my friend. Then, glancing at his
wristlet watch, he exclaimed: "By Jove!--nearly seven! I must get in and
dress for dinner. See you later."
With this he passed through the swing-doors of the hotel, leaving me
standing upon the short sweep of gravel gazing out upon the summer sea,
golden in the glorious June sunset.
The Major had spoken the truth. A discovery had been made in Cromer that
morning which possessed many remarkable features, and to me, an
investigator of crime, it presented an extremely interesting
problem--one such as I, Herbert Vidal, had never before heard of.
Briefly related, the facts were as follows. Early in February--four
months before--there had arrived in Cromer a queer, wizened, little old
man named Vernon Gregory. He was accompanied by his nephew, a rather
dandified, overdressed young fellow of twenty-three, named Edward Craig.
Strangers are very few in Cromer in winter, and therefore Mrs. Dean,
landlady of Beacon House, on the West Cliff, a few doors west of the
_Hôtel de Paris_, where the asphalted footpath runs along the top of the
cliff, was very glad to let the new-comers the first-floor front
sitting-room with two bedrooms above.
In winter and spring, Cromer, high and bleak, and swept by the wild,
howling winds from the grey North Sea, its beach white with the spume of
storm, is practically deserted. The hotels, with the exception of the
_Paris_, are closed, the boarding-houses are mostly shut, and the
landladies who let apartments wait weeks and weeks in vain for the
arrival of a chance visitor. In August, however, the place overflows
with visitors, all of the best class, and for six weeks each year Cromer
becomes one of the gayest little towns on the breezy East Coast.
So, all through the spring, with its grey, wet days, when the spindrift
swept in a haze across the promenade, old Mr. Gregory was a familiar
figure taking his daily walk, no matter how inclement the weather.
In appearance he was unusual, and seedy. His bony face was long, thin,
and grey; a countenance that was broad at the brow and narrowed to a
pointed chin. He had a longish white beard, yet his deep-set eyes with
their big bushy brows were so dark and piercing that the fire of youth
seemed still to burn within them. He was of medium height, rather
round-shouldered, and walked with a decided limp, aided by a stout ash
stick. Invariably he wore an old, dark grey, mackintosh cape, very
greasy at the collar; black trousers, old and baggy; boots very down at
heel; and on his mass of long white hair a broad-brimmed felt hat, which
gave him the appearance of a musician, or an artist.
Sometimes, on rare occasions, his well-dressed nephew walked with
him--but very seldom were they together.
Craig was a tall, well-set-up young fellow, who generally wore a drab
golf-suit, smoked cigarettes eternally, and frequently played billiards
at the _Red Lion_. He was also a golfer and well known on the links for
the excellence of his play.
Between uncle and nephew there was nothing in common. Craig had dropped
a hint that he was down there with his relative "just to look after the
old boy." He undoubtedly preferred London life, and it was stated that a
few years before he had succeeded to a large estate somewhere on the
Welsh border.
The residents of Cromer are as inquisitive as those of most small towns.
Therefore, it was not very long after the arrival of this curious
couple, that everybody knew that old Mr. Gregory was concealing the fact
that he was head of the famous Sheffield armour-plate making firm,
Messrs. Gregory and Thorpe, though he now took but little part in the
active work of the world-famed house that rolled plates for Britain's
mighty "Dreadnoughts."
Cromer, on learning his identity, at once regarded old Gregory's queer
figure with due reverence. His parsimonious ways, the clockwork
regularity with which he took his morning walk, bought his daily paper
at Munday's Library, and took his afternoon stroll up past the
coast-guard station, or towards the links, or along the Overstrand or
Sheringham roads, were looked upon as the eccentricities of an immensely
wealthy man.
In rich men the public tolerate idiosyncrasies, that in poorer persons
are declared to betoken either lunacy, or that vague excuse for the
contravention of the conventionalities known as "the artistic
temperament." Many men have actually earned reputations, and even
popularity, by the sheer force of cultivated eccentricities. With
professional men eccentricity is one of the pegs on which their astute
press-agents can always hang a paragraph.
In the case of Mr. Vernon Gregory, as he limped by, the good
shop-keeping public of Cromer looked after him with benevolent glances.
He was the great steel magnate who ate frugally, who grumbled loudly at
Mrs. Dean if his weekly bill exceeded that of the City clerk and his
wife who had occupied the same rooms for a fortnight in the previous
July. He was pointed at with admiration as the man of millions who eked
out every scuttleful of coal as though it were gold.
Undoubtedly Mr. Gregory was a person of many eccentricities. From his
secretary in Sheffield he daily received a bulky package of
correspondence, and this, each morning, was attended to by his nephew.
Yet the old man always made a point of posting all the letters with his
own hand, putting them into the box at the post-office opposite the
church.
Sometimes, but only at rare intervals--because, as he declared, "it was
so very costly"--Mr. Gregory hired an open motor-car from Miller's
garage. On such occasions, Craig, who was a practised motorist, would
drive, and the pair would go on long day excursions towards Yarmouth, or
Hunstanton, or inland to Holt or Norwich. At such times the old man
would don many wraps, and a big blue muffler, and wear an unsightly pair
of goggles.
Again, the old fellow preferred to do much of his shopping himself, and
it was no uncommon sight to see him in the street carrying home
two-pennyworth of cream in a little jug. Hence the good people of Cromer
grew to regard their out-of-season visitor as a harmless, but
philanthropic old buffer, for his hand was in his pocket for every local
charity. His amusements were as frugal as his housekeeping. During the
spring his only recreation was a visit to the cinema at the Town Hall
twice a week. When, however, the orchestral concerts commenced on the
pier, he became a constant attendant at them.
So small is Cromer, with its narrow streets near the sea, that in the
off-season strangers are constantly running into each other. Hence, I
frequently met old Gregory, and on such occasions we chatted about the
weather, or upon local topics. His voice was strangely high-pitched,
thin, but not unmusical. Indeed, he was a great lover of music, as was
afterwards shown by his constant attendance at the pier concerts.
His nephew, Craig, was what the people of Cromer, in vulgar parlance,
dubbed a "nut." He was always immaculately dressed, wore loud socks,
seemed to possess a dozen styles of hats, and was never seen without
perfectly clean wash-leather gloves. He laughed loudly, talked loudly,
displayed money freely and put on patronizing airs which filled those
who met him with an instinctive dislike.
I first made his acquaintance in April in the cosy bar of the _Albion_,
where, after a long walk one morning, I went to quench my thirst. Craig
was laughing with the barmaid and gingerly lighting a cigarette. Having
passed me by many times, he now addressed a casual remark to me, to
which I politely responded, and we got into conversation. But, somehow,
his speech jarred upon me, and, like his personal appearance, struck an
unpleasant note, for his white shoes and pale blue socks, his light
green Tyrolese hat, and his suit of check tweeds distinctly marked him
as being more of a cad than a gentleman.
I remarked that I had walked to Overstrand, whereupon he asked--
"Did you chance to meet my uncle? He's gone out that way, somewhere."
I replied in the negative.
"Wonderful old boy, you know," he went on. "Walks me clean right out!
But oh! such a dreadful old bore! Always talking about what he did in
the seventies, and how much better life was then than now. I don't
believe it. Do you?"
"I hardly know," was my reply. "I wasn't old enough then to appreciate
life."
"Neither was I," he responded. "But really, these eccentric old people
ought all to be put in an asylum. You don't know what I have to put up
with. I tell you, it's a terrible self-sacrifice to be down in this
confounded hole, instead of being on the Riviera in decent sunny
weather, and in decent society."
"Your uncle is always extremely pleasant to me when I meet him," I said.
"Ah, yes, but you don't know him, my dear sir," said his nephew. "He's
the very Old Nick himself sometimes, and his eccentricities border upon
insanity. Why, only last night, before he went to bed, he put on his
bed-gown, cut two wings out of brown paper, pinned them on his back, and
fancied himself the Archangel Gabriel. Last week he didn't speak to me
for two days because I bought a box of sardines. He declares they are
luxuries and he can't afford them--he, with an income of forty thousand
a year!"
"Rich men are often rather niggardly," I remarked.
"Oh, yes. But with Uncle Vernon it's become a craze. He shivers with
cold at night but won't have a fire in his bedroom because, he says,
coals are so dear."
I confess I did not like this young fellow. Why should he reveal all his
private grievances to me, a perfect stranger?
"Why did your uncle come to Cromer?" I asked. "This place is hardly a
winter resort, except for a few golfers."
"Oh, because when he was in Egypt last winter, some fool of a woman he
met at the _Savoy_ in Cairo, told him that Cromer was so horribly
healthy in the winter, and that if he spent six months each year in this
God-forgotten place, he'd live to be a hundred. Bad luck to her and her
words! I've had to come here with the old boy, and am their victim."
Then he added warmly: "My dear sir, just put yourself in my place. I've
nobody to talk to except the provincial Norfolk tradespeople, who think
they can play a good game at billiards. I've got the absolute hump, I
tell you frankly!"
Well, afterwards I met the loud-socked young man more frequently, but
somehow I had taken a violent and unaccountable dislike to him. Why, I
cannot tell, except perhaps that he had disgusted me by the way he
unbosomed himself to a stranger and aired his grievances against his
eccentric uncle.
To descend that asphalted slope which led, on the face of the cliff,
from the roadway in front of the _Hôtel de Paris_, away to the
Promenade, old Gregory had to pass beneath my window. Hence I saw him
several times daily, and noted how the brown-bloused fishermen who
lounged there hour after hour, gazing idly seaward, leaning upon the
railings and gossiping, respectfully touched their caps to the limping,
eccentric old gentleman who in his slouch hat and cape looked more like
a poet than a steel magnate, and who so regularly took the fresh,
bracing air on that breezy promenade.
On that morning--the morning of the twelfth of June--a startling rumour
had spread through the town. It at once reached me through Charles, the
head-waiter of the hotel, who told me the whole place was agog. The
strange story was that old Mr. Gregory had at three o'clock that morning
been found by a coast-guard lying near a seat on the top of the east
cliff at a point near the links, from which a delightful view could be
obtained westward over the town towards Rimton and Sheringham.
The coast-guard had at once summoned a doctor by telephone, and on
arrival the medical man had pronounced the mysterious old gentleman
dead, and, moreover, that he had been dead several hours.
More than that, nobody knew, except that the dead man's nephew could not
be found.
That fact in itself was certainly extraordinary, but it was not half so
curious, or startling, as certain other features of the amazing affair,
which were now being carefully withheld from the public by the
police--facts, which when viewed as a whole, formed one of the most
inexplicable criminal problems ever presented for solution.
CHAPTER II
IS MAINLY ASTONISHING
In virtue of the facts that I was well known in Cromer, on friendly
terms with the local superintendent of police, and what was more to the
purpose, known to be a close friend of the Chief Constable at
Norwich--also that I was a recognized writer of some authority upon
problems of crime--Inspector Treeton, of the Norfolk Constabulary,
greeted me affably when, after a very hasty breakfast, I called at the
police station.
Treeton was a thin, grey-haired man, usually very quiet and thoughtful
in manner, but this staggering affair had quite upset his normal
coolness.
"I expect the detectives over from Norwich in half an hour," he said,
with a distinct trace of excitement in his tones, as we stood in his
bare little office discussing the morning's discovery. "You being such a
close friend of the Chief Constable, I don't suppose there'll be any
objection whatever to your being present during our investigations."
All the same, his tone was somewhat dubious as he added cautiously, "You
won't, of course, give anything to the Press?"
"Certainly not," I replied. "You can rely upon my discretion. This isn't
the first mystery I have assisted the police to investigate. This sort
of thing is, so to speak, part of my profession."
"Yes," said Treeton, still with some hesitation, "so I understand, Mr.
Vidal. But our people are terribly particular, as you know, about
admitting unofficial persons into police work. No offence. But we are
bound to be very careful."
"If you like, I'll 'phone to the Chief Constable," I suggested.
"No, sir. No need for that," he said hastily. "When the plain-clothes
men arrive, I don't think any difficulty will be made as to your
accompanying them." Then he added, as if to give the conversation a
turn, "It's a very queer business, very. But I mustn't talk about it at
present. No doubt you'll soon see for yourself what a strange affair it
is."
"What is the curious feature, then?" I inquired anxiously.
"No," said Treeton, with a deprecatory gesture. "No. Mr. Vidal. Don't
ask me. You must wait till the officers come from Norwich. They'll have
a surprise, I can assure you they will. That's all I can say. I've taken
care to have everything kept as it was found so as not to interfere with
any clues, finger-prints, or things of that sort."
"Ah," I said. "Then you suspect foul play, eh?"
Treeton flushed slightly, as if annoyed with himself at having let slip
the words that prompted my query.
Then he said slowly: "Well, at present we can't tell. But there's
certainly something very mysterious about the whole business."
"Where is the body?"
"They've put it in the life-boat house."
"And that young fellow, Craig? I hear he's missing."
The Inspector looked at me with a strange expression on his face.
"Ah," he said briefly, "that isn't the only remarkable feature of this
affair by any manner of means." Then impatiently: "I wish they'd come. I
'phoned to Norwich at six o'clock this morning, and now it's nearly ten.
They might have come over in a car, instead of waiting for the train."
"Yes," I responded. "That is how so many inquiries are bungled. Red tape
and delay. In the meantime a criminal often gets away hours ahead of the
sleuths of the law and eventually may escape altogether. I've known a
dozen cases where, because of the delay in making expert investigation,
the culprit has never been caught."
As I spoke the telephone bell tinkled and Treeton answered the call. The
Superintendent at Holt was asking for information, but my companion
could give him but very little.
"I am watching the railway-station, sir," said Treeton over the 'phone,
"and I've sent word to all the fishermen in my district not to take out
any strangers. I've also warned all the garages to let me know if any
stranger hires a car. The party we fancy may be wanted won't be able to
get away if he's still in the district."
"Which is not very likely," I murmured in a low voice so that my words
should not be heard over the wire.
When the conversation over the phone was ended, I sat chatting with
Treeton, until, some twenty minutes later, three men, bearing
unmistakably the cut of police-officers in plain clothes, entered the
station.
Two of them were tall, dark-haired young fellows, dressed in neat
navy-blue serge and wearing bowler hats. The third man, Inspector
Frayne, as I learnt afterwards, was in dark grey, with a soft grey felt
hat with the brim turned down in front.
"Well Treeton," said the Inspector briskly, "what's all the fuss about
down here?"
"A case--a very funny case. That's all," replied the local inspector. "I
told you over the 'phone all I know about it."
Then followed a brief, low-pitched conversation between the two
officers. I saw Frayne look over at me inquisitively, and caught a few
snatches of Treeton's words to him. "Great personal friend of the Chief
Constable.... Yes, quite all right.... Writes about crime.... No, no,
nothing to do with newspapers ... amateur, of course ... decent sort."
I gathered from this that there was going to be no difficulty about my
joining the party of police investigators. I was right. In a few moments
Treeton brought Inspector Frayne over to me and we were introduced.
Then, after a few friendly words, we started for the scene of the
startling discovery of the morning.
We slipped out of the station in pairs, so as to avoid attracting
attention, which might have led to our being followed and hampered in
our movements by a crowd of idle and curious inhabitants.
Proceeding by way of the path which wound round the back of the high-up
coast-guard station and so up over the cliff, we soon came to the seat
where the body of old Mr. Gregory had been found.
The seat, a green-painted one with a curved back, that had more than
once afforded me a comfortable resting-place, was the first out of the
town towards the links. It was situate a little way from the footpath
amid the rough grass of the cliff-top. Around it the herbage never grew
on account of the constant tread from the feet of many daily visitors,
so that clear about it was a small patch of bare sand.
On the right, upon the next point of the cliff, was another similar
seat, while on the left the path leading back to the town was railed
off because it was dangerous to approach too near the crumbling edge.
At the seat stood a very tall, thin, fair-haired young constable who
had, since the discovery of old Gregory's body, remained on duty at the
spot to prevent any one approaching it. This was done by Treeton's
orders, who hoped, and very logically, that if the sand about the seat
was not disturbed some tell-tale mark or footprint might be found by the
detectives that would give a clue to the person or persons who had
visited the seat with old Gregory in the early hours of that fatal
morning.
Near the constable were two men with cameras, and at a little distance a
small knot of curious idlers, all that remained of the many inquisitive
folks who were at first attracted to the spot, but who, finding nothing
to satisfy their curiosity, had soon returned to the town.
The morning was bright and calm, the sunlight reflected from a glassy
sea, upon the surface of which were a dozen or so fishing-boats lifting
their crab-pots, for the crabs of Cromer are far-famed amongst epicures
for their excellencies. It was a peaceful, happy scene, that none could
have suspected was the setting of a ghastly tragedy.
On arrival, Inspector Frayne, tall, grey-haired, with aquiline,
clean-shaven face, assumed an attitude of ubiquitous importance that
amused me.
"The body was found lying face downwards six feet beyond the south end
of the seat," Treeton explained. "You see this mark in the grass?"
Looking, we all saw distinctly the impression that marked the spot where
the unfortunate man had lain.
"No doubt," said the detective inspector, "the old gentleman was sitting
on the seat when he was attacked from behind by somebody who sneaked
quietly across the footpath, and he fell sideways from the seat. Have
you looked for footprints?"
"There are a number of them, as you see," was Treeton's reply. "Nothing
has been disturbed. I left all to you."
Gazing around, I saw that there were many prints of soles and heels in
the soft sand about the seat. Many people had evidently sat there on the
previous day. In the sand, too, some one had traced with a stick, in
sprawly capitals, the word "Alice."
Frayne and his two provincial assistants bent and closely examined the
prints in question.
"Women's mostly, I should say," remarked the detective inspector after a
pause. "That's plain from the French heels, flat golf-shoe soles, and
narrow rubber-pads, that have left their marks behind them. Better take
some casts of these, Phelps," he said, addressing the elder of his
subordinates.
"Forgive me for making a remark," I ventured. "I'm not a detective, but
it strikes me that if anybody did creep across the grass from the path,
as the Inspector rightly suggested, to attack the old man, he, or she,
may have left some prints in the rear there. In the front here the
footprints we have been examining are obviously those of people who had
been sitting upon the seat long prior to the arrival of the victim."
"I quite agree, Mr. Vidal," exclaimed Treeton, and at this I thought the
expert from Norwich seemed somewhat annoyed. "Yes," continued the local
inspector, "it's quite possible, as Mr. Frayne said, that somebody did
creep across the grass behind the old man. But unfortunately, there have
been dozens of people over that very same spot this morning."
"Hopeless then!" grunted Frayne. "Why on earth, Treeton, did you let
them swarm over there?" he queried testily. "Their doing so has rendered
our inquiry a hundred per cent. more difficult. In all such cases the
public ought to be rigorously kept from the immediate neighbourhood of
the crime."
"At least we can make a search," I suggested.
"My dear Mr. Vidal, what is the use if half Cromer has been up here
prying about?" asked the detective impatiently. "No, those feminine
footprints in front of the seat are much more likely to help us. There's
bound to be a woman in such a case as this. My motto in regard to crime
mysteries is, first find the woman, and the rest is easy. In every great
problem the 'eternal feminine,' as you writers put it, is ever present.
She is in this one somewhere, you may depend upon it."
I did not answer him, judging that he merely emitted these sentiments in
order to impress his listening subordinates with a due sense of his
superior knowledge. But the search went on.
From the footpath across the grass to the seat was about thirty feet,
and over the whole area all of us made diligent investigation. In one of
the patches where the sand was bare of herbage I found the print of a
woman's shoe--a smart little shoe--size 3, I judged it to be. The sole
was well shaped and pointed, the heel was of the latest fashionable
model--rather American than French.
I at once pointed it out to Frayne, but though he had so strongly
expressed the opinion that there was a woman in the case, he dismissed
it with a glance.
"Some woman came here yesterday evening with her sweetheart, I suppose,"
he said with a laugh.
But to me that footprint was distinctly instructive, for among the many
impressed on the sand before the seat, I had not detected one that bore
any resemblance to it. The owner of that American shoe had walked from
the path to the back of the seat, but had certainly not sat down there.
I carefully marked the spot, and telling an old fisherman of my
acquaintance, who stood by, to allow no one to obliterate it, continued
my investigations.
Three feet behind the seat, in the midst of the trodden grass, I came
upon two hairpins lying close together. Picking them up, I found they
were rather thick, crinkled in the middle, and both of the same pale
bronze shade.
Was it possible there had been a struggle there--a struggle with the
woman who wore those American shoes--who was, moreover, a fair woman, if
those pins had fallen from her hair in the encounter?
I showed the hairpins to Frayne who was busy taking a measurement of the
distance from the seat to where the body had been found.
To my surprise, he seemed impatient and annoyed.
"My dear Mr. Vidal," he exclaimed, "you novelists are, I fear, far too
imaginative. I dare say there are hundreds of hairpins about here in the
grass if we choose to search for them. This seat is a popular resort for
visitors by day and a trysting place for lovers after sundown. In the
vicinity of any such seat you will always find hairpins, cigarette ends,
wrappings from chocolates, and tinfoil. Look around you and see."
"But these pins have not been here more than a day," I expostulated.
"They are bright and were lying lightly on the grass. Besides, are we
not looking for a woman?"
"I'll admit that they may perhaps have belonged to somebody who was here
last evening," he said. "But I can assure you they are no good to us."
With this he turned away with rather a contemptuous smile.
I began to suspect that I had in some way antagonized Frayne, who at
that moment seemed more intent upon working up formal evidence to give
before the coroner, rather than in pushing forward the investigation of
the crime, and so finding a clue to the culprit.
I could see that he regarded the minute investigations I was making with
undisguised and contemptuous amusement. Of course, he was polite to me,
for was I not the friend of the Chief Constable? But, all the same, I
was an amateur investigator, therefore, in his eyes, a blunderer. He, of
course, did not know at how many investigations of crime I had assisted
in Paris, in Brussels, and in Rome--investigations conducted by the
greatest detectives in Europe.
It was not to be expected that an officer of the Norfolk Constabulary,
more used to petty larceny than to murder, would be so alert or so
thorough in his methods as an officer from Scotland Yard, or of the
_Sûreté_ in Paris.
Arguing thus, I felt that I could cheerfully disregard the covert sneers
and glances of my companions; and plunged with renewed interest into the
work I had undertaken.
In the sand before the seat, I saw two long, wide marks which told me
that old Mr. Gregory must have slipped from his position in a totally
helpless condition. That being so, how was it that his body was found
several feet away?
Had it been dragged to that spot in the grass? Or, had he crawled there
in his death agony?
In the little knot of people who had gathered I noticed a young
fisherman in his brown blouse--a tall youth, with fair curly hair, whom
I knew well and could trust. Calling him over, I despatched him to the
town for a couple of pounds of plaster of Paris, a bucket, some water,
and a trowel.
Then I went on methodically with my investigations.
Presently the coast-guard, George Simmonds, a middle-aged, dark-haired
man, who was a well-known figure in Cromer, came up and was introduced
to Frayne as the man who, returning from duty as night patrol along the
cliffs, early that morning, had discovered the body.
I stood by listening as he described the incident to the detective
inspector.
"You see, sir," he said saluting, "I'd been along the cuffs to
Trimingham, and was on my way back about a quarter past three, when I
noticed a man lying yonder on the grass. It was a fine morning, quite
light, and at first I thought it was a tramp, for they often sleep on
the cliffs in the warm weather. But on going nearer I saw, to my
surprise, that the man was old Mr. Gregory. I thought he was asleep, and
bent down and shook him, his face being downwards on the grass and his
arms stretched out. He didn't wake up, so I turned him over, and the
colour of his face fair startled me. I opened his coat, put my hand on
his heart, and found he was quite dead. I then ran along to our station
and told Mr. Day, the Chief Officer, and he sent me off sharp to the
police."
"You saw nobody about?" Frayne asked sharply. "Nobody passed you?"
"I didn't see a soul all the way from Trimingham."
"Constable Baxter was along there somewhere keeping a point," remarked
Treeton. "Didn't you meet him?"
"Going out I met him, just beyond Overstrand, at about one o'clock, and
wished him good morning," was the coast-guard's reply.
"But where is Craig, the young nephew of the dead man?" I asked Treeton.
"Surely he may know something! He must have missed his uncle, who,
apparently, was out all night."
"Ah! That's just the mystery, Mr. Vidal," replied the Inspector. "Let us
go down to the life-boat house," he added, addressing the detective.
As they were moving away, and I was about to follow, the tall
fisher-youth arrived with the plaster of Paris and a pail of water.
Promising to be with them quickly, I remained behind, mixed the plaster
into a paste and within a few minutes had secured casts of the imprint
of the woman's American shoe, and those of several other footmarks,
which, with his superior knowledge, the expert from Norwich had
considered beneath his notice.
Then, placing my casts carefully in the empty pail, I sent them along to
the _Hôtel de Paris_ by the same fisher-youth. Afterwards, I walked
along the path, passed behind the lawn of the coast-guard station, where
the White Ensign was flying on the flagstaff, and then descending, at
last entered the life-boat house, where the officers and three doctors
had assembled.
One of the doctors, named Sladen, a grey-headed practitioner who had
been many years in Cromer, recognized me as I entered.
"Hulloa, Mr. Vidal! This is a very curious case, isn't it? Interests
you, of course. All mysteries do, no doubt. But this case is astounding.
In making our examination, do you know we've discovered a most amazing
fact?" and he pointed to the plank whereon lay the body, covered with
one of the brown sails from the life-boat.
"No. What?" I asked eagerly.
"Well--though we all at first, naturally, took the body to be that of
old Vernon Gregory, it isn't his at all!"
"Not Gregory's?" I gasped.
"No. He has white hair and a beard, and he is wearing old Gregory's cape
and hat, but it certainly is not Gregory's body."
"Who, then, is the dead man?" I gasped.
"His nephew, Edward Craig!"
CHAPTER III
SHOWS LIGHTS FROM THE MIST
"But Edward Craig is a young man--while Gregory must be nearly seventy!"
I exclaimed, staring at Dr. Sladen in blank amazement.
"Exactly. I attended Mr. Gregory a month ago for influenza. But I tell
you the body lying yonder is that of young Craig!" declared my friend.
Then he added: "There is something very extraordinary about the whole
affair, for Craig was made up to exactly resemble his uncle."
"And because of it was apparently done to death, eh?"
"That is certainly my theory."
"Amazing," I exclaimed. "This increases the mystery very considerably."
Then, gazing around, I saw that the two doctors, who had assisted Sladen
in his examination, were talking aside eagerly with the detective, while
Mr. Day, a short thick-set man, with his white-covered cap removed in
the presence of the dead, had joined the party.
Cromer is a "war-station," and Mr. Day was a well-known figure in the
place, a fine active type of the British sailor, who had seen many years
afloat, and now, with his "sea-time" put in, was an expert signal-man
ashore. He noticed me and saluted.
"Look," exclaimed Dr. Sladen, taking me across to a bench against the
side of the life-boat shed. "What do you think of these?" and he took up
a white wig and a long white beard.
I examined them. Then slowly replied, "There is much, very much more, in
this affair than any of us can at present see."
"Certainly. Why should the young man go forth at night, under cover of
darkness, made up to exactly resemble the old one?"
"To meet somebody in secret, no doubt; and that somebody killed him," I
said.
"Did they--ah, that's just the point," said the doctor. "As far as we
can find there's no apparent cause of death, no wound whatever. The
superficial examination we have made only reveals a slight abrasion on
the left wrist, which might have been caused when he fell from the seat
to the ground. The wrist is much swollen--from a recent sprain, I think.
But beyond that we can find nothing."
"Won't you prosecute your examination further?" I asked.
"Certainly. This afternoon we shall make a post-mortem--after I get the
order from the coroner."
"Ah. Then we shall know something definite?"
"I hope so."
"Gentlemen," exclaimed Inspector Frayne, addressing us all, "this latest
discovery, of the identity of the victim, is a very extraordinary and
startling one. I trust that you will all regard the matter as one of the
greatest secrecy--at least till after the inquest. Publicity now may
defeat the ends of justice. Do you all promise?"
With one accord we promised. Then, crossing to where the body lay, I
lifted the heavy brown sail that covered it, and in the dim light gazed
upon the white, dead countenance.
Yes. It was the face of Edward Craig.
Frayne at that moment came up, and after two men had taken the covering
from the body, commenced to search the dead man's pockets. In the old
mackintosh cape was a pouch, from which the detective drew a small
wallet of crocodile leather, much worn, together with two letters. The
latter were carried to the light and at once examined.
One proved to be a bill from a well-known hatter in Piccadilly. The
superscription on the other envelope, of pale blue-grey paper, was
undoubtedly in the hand of an educated woman.
Frayne drew from this envelope a sheet of notepaper, which bore neither
address nor date, merely the words--
"At Ealing, at 10 p.m., on the twenty-ninth of August, where the two C's
meet."
"Ah, an appointment," remarked Frayne. Then, looking at the post-mark,
he added: "It was posted the day before yesterday at Bridlington. I
wonder what it means?"
"I see it is addressed to Mr. Gregory!" I pointed out, "not to the dead
man."
"Then the old man had an appointment on the twenty-ninth of August
somewhere in Ealing--where the two C's meet. I wonder where that can be?
Some agreed-on spot, I suppose, where two persons, whose initials are C,
are in the habit of meeting."
"Probably," was my reply. But I was reflecting deeply.
In the wallet were four five-pound notes; a few of Gregory's cards; a
letter from a local charity, thanking him for a contribution of two
guineas; and a piece of paper bearing a number of very elaborate
calculations, apparently of measured paces.
It seemed as though the writer had been working out some very difficult
problem of distances, for the half-sheet of quarto paper was absolutely
covered with minute pencilled figures; lengths in metres apparently.
I looked at them, and at a glance saw that old Gregory had either
received his education abroad, or had lived for a long time upon the
continent when a young man. Why? Because, when he made a figure seven,
he drew a short cross-stroke half-way up the downward stroke, in order,
as foreigners do, to distinguish it from the figure one.
"I wonder what all these sums can mean?" remarked the detective, as
Treeton and I looked over his shoulder.
"Mr. Gregory was a business man," the local police officer said. "These
are, no doubt, his things, not his nephew's."
"They seem to be measurements," I said, "not sums of money."
"Perhaps the old man himself will tell us what they are," Frayne
remarked. Then again examining the wallet, he drew forth several slips
of thin foreign notepaper, which were carefully folded, and had the
appearance of having been carried there for a long time. Upon each was
written a separate word, together with a number, in carefully-formed
handwriting, thus--
"Lavelle 429; Kunzle 191; Geering 289; Souweine 17; Hodrickx 110."
The last one we opened contained the word, "Cromer 900," and I wondered
whether they were code words.
"These are rather funny, Mr. Vidal," Frayne remarked, as he slowly
replaced them in the wallet. "A little mysterious, eh?"
"No doubt, old Mr. Gregory will explain," I said. "The great puzzle to
me is why the nephew should carry the uncle's belongings in his
pockets. There was some deep motive in it, without a doubt."
Frayne returned to the body and made further search. There was nothing
more in the other pockets save a handkerchief, some loose silver and a
pocket-knife.
But, around the dead man's neck, suspended by a fine gold chain, and
worn beneath his shirt, was a lady's tiny, round locket, not more than
an inch in diameter, and engine-turned like a watch, a thin,
neatly-made, old-fashioned little thing.
Frayne carefully unclasped it, and taking it across to the light, opened
it, expecting to find a photograph, or, perhaps, a miniature. But there
was nothing. It had evidently not been opened for years, for behind the
little glass, where once had been a photograph, was only a little grey
powder. Something had been preserved there--some relic or other--that
had, with age, crumbled into dust.
"This doesn't tell us much," he said. "Yet, men seldom wear such things.
Some relic of his sweetheart, eh?" Then he searched once more, and drew
from the dead man's hip-pocket a serviceable Browning revolver, the
magazine of which was fully loaded.
"He evidently expected trouble, and was prepared for it," Treeton said,
as the Norwich detective produced the weapon.
"Well, he certainly had no time to use it," responded Frayne. "Death
must have been instantaneous."
"I think not," I ventured. "If so, why was he found several feet away
from the seat?"
Again Frayne showed impatience. He disliked any expression of outside
opinion.
"Well, Mr. Vidal, we've not yet established that it is a case of murder,
have we?" he said. "The young man may have died suddenly--of natural
causes."
I smiled.
"Curious," I exclaimed, a moment later, "that he should be made up to so
exactly resemble his uncle! No, Inspector Frayne, if I'm not greatly
mistaken, you'll find this a case of assassination--a murder by a very
subtle and ingenious assassin. It is a case of one master-criminal
against another. That is my opinion."
The man from Norwich smiled sarcastically. My opinion was only the
opinion of a mere amateur, and, to the professional thief-catcher, the
amateur detective is a person upon whom to play practical jokes. The
amateur who dares to investigate a crime from a purely independent
standpoint is a man to jeer and laugh at--a target for ridicule.
I could follow Frayne's thoughts. I had met many provincial police
officers of his type all over Europe, from Paris up to Petersburg. The
great detectives of Europe, are, on the contrary, always open to listen
to theories or suggestions.
The three doctors were standing aside, discussing the affair--the
absence of all outward signs of anything that might have caused death.
Until the coroner issued his order they could not, however, put their
doubts at rest by making the post-mortem examination. The case puzzled
them, and they were all three eager to have the opportunity of deciding
how the young man had died.
"The few symptoms offered superficially have some strange points about
them," I heard Dr. Sladen say. "Do you notice the clenched hands? and