The Beetle (43 page)

'Then what happened?'

'Seeing that, so to speak, all was quiet, down I went again. And
in another quarter of a hour, or it might 'ave been twenty
minutes, I went to the front door to get a mouthful of hair. And
Mrs Barker, what lives over the road, at No. 24, she comes to me
and says, "That there Arab party of yours didn't stop long." I
looks at 'er, "I don't quite foller you," I says,—which I didn't.
"I saw him come in," she says, "and then, a few minutes back, I
see 'im go again, with a great bundle on 'is 'ead he couldn't
'ardly stagger under!" "Oh," I says, "that's news to me, I didn't
know 'e'd gone, nor see him neither—" which I didn't. So, up I
comes again, and, sure enough, the door was open, and it seems to
me that the room was empty, till I come upon this pore young man
what was lying be'ind the bed,'

There was a growl from the doctor.

'If you'd had any sense, and sent for me at once, he might have
been alive at this moment.'

"Ow was I to know that, Dr Glossop? I couldn't tell. My finding
'im there murdered was quite enough for me. So I runs downstairs,
and I nips 'old of 'Gustus Barley, what was leaning against the
wall, and I says to him, "'Gustus Barley, run to the station as
fast as you can and tell 'em that a man's been murdered,—that
Harab's been and killed a bloke." And that's all I know about it,
and I couldn't tell you no more, Mr Phillips, not if you was to
keep on asking me questions not for hours and hours'

'Then you think it was this man'—with a motion towards the bed—
'who was shrieking?'

'To tell you the truth, Mr Phillips, about that I don't 'ardly
know what to think. If you 'ad asked me I should 'ave said it was
a woman. I ought to know a woman's holler when I 'ear it, if any
one does, I've 'eard enough of 'em in my time, goodness knows. And
I should 'ave said that only a woman could 'ave hollered like that
and only 'er when she was raving mad. But there weren't no woman
with him. There was only this man what's murdered, and the other
man,—and as for the other man I will say this, that 'e 'adn't got
twopennyworth of clothes to cover 'im. But, Mr Phillips,
howsomever that may be, that's the last Harab I'll 'ave under my
roof, no matter what they pays, and you may mark my words I'll
'ave no more.'

Mrs Henderson, once more glancing upward, as if she imagined
herself to have made some declaration of a religious nature, shook
her head with much solemnity.

As we were leaving the house a constable gave the Inspector a
note. Having read it he passed it to me. It was from the local
office.

'Message received that an Arab with a big bundle on his head has
been noticed loitering about the neighbourhood of St Pancras
Station. He seemed to be accompanied by a young man who had the
appearance of a tramp. Young man seemed ill. They appeared to be
waiting for a train, probably to the North. Shall I advise
detention?'

I scribbled on the flyleaf of the note.

'Have them detained. If they have gone by train have a special in
readiness.'

In a minute we were again in the cab. I endeavoured to persuade
Lessingham and Atherton to allow me to conduct the pursuit alone,
—in vain. I had no fear of Atherton's succumbing, but I was afraid
for Lessingham. What was more almost than the expectation of his
collapse was the fact that his looks and manner, his whole
bearing, so eloquent of the agony and agitation of his mind, was
beginning to tell upon my nerves. A catastrophe of some sort I
foresaw. Of the curtain's fall upon one tragedy we had just been
witnesses. That there was worse—much worse, to follow I did not
doubt. Optimistic anticipations were out of the question,—that
the creature we were chasing would relinquish the prey uninjured,
no one, after what we had seen and heard, could by any possibility
suppose. Should a necessity suddenly arise for prompt and
immediate action, that Lessingham would prove a hindrance rather
than a help I felt persuaded.

But since moments were precious, and Lessingham was not to be
persuaded to allow the matter to proceed without him, all that
remained was to make the best of his presence.

The great arch of St Pancras was in darkness. An occasional light
seemed to make the darkness still more visible. The station seemed
deserted. I thought, at first, that there was not a soul about the
place, that our errand was in vain, that the only thing for us to
do was to drive to the police station and to pursue our inquiries
there. But as we turned towards the booking-office, our footsteps
ringing out clearly through the silence and the night, a door
opened, a light shone out from the room within, and a voice
inquired:

'Who's that?'

'My name's Champnell. Has a message been received from me from the
Limehouse Police Station?'

'Step this way.'

We stepped that way,—into a snug enough office, of which one of
the railway inspectors was apparently in charge. He was a big man,
with a fair beard. He looked me up and down, as if doubtfully.
Lessingham he recognised at once. He took off his cap to him.

'Mr Lessingham, I believe?'

'I am Mr Lessingham. Have you any news for me?

I fancy, by his looks,—that the official was struck by the pallor
of the speaker's face,—and by his tremulous voice.

'I am instructed to give certain information to a Mr Augustus
Champnell.'

'I am Mr Champnell. What's your information?'

'With reference to the Arab about whom you have been making
inquiries. A foreigner, dressed like an Arab, with a great bundle
on his head, took two single thirds for Hull by the midnight
express.'

'Was he alone?'

'It is believed that he was accompanied by a young man of very
disreputable appearance. They were not together at the booking-
office, but they had been seen together previously. A minute or so
after the Arab had entered the train this young man got into the
same compartment—they were in the front waggon.'

'Why were they not detained?'

'We had no authority to detain them, nor any reason, until your
message was received a few minutes ago we at this station were not
aware that inquiries were being made for them.'

'You say he booked to Hull,—does the train run through to Hull?'

'No—it doesn't go to Hull at all. Part of it's the Liverpool and
Manchester Express, and part of it's for Carlisle. It divides at
Derby. The man you're looking for will change either at Sheffield
or at Cudworth Junction and go on to Hull by the first train in
the morning. There's a local service.'

I looked at my watch.

'You say the train left at midnight. It's now nearly five-and-
twenty past. Where's it now?'

'Nearing St Albans, it's due there 12.35.'

'Would there be time for a wire to reach St Albans?'

'Hardly,—and anyhow there'll only be enough railway officials
about the place to receive and despatch the train. They'll be
fully occupied with their ordinary duties. There won't be time to
get the police there.'

'You could wire to St Albans to inquire if they were still in the
train?'

'That could be done,—certainly. I'll have it done at once if you
like.

'Then where's the next stoppage?'

'Well, they're at Luton at 12.51. But that's another case of St
Albans. You see there won't be much more than twenty minutes by
the time you've got your wire off, and I don't expect there'll be
many people awake at Luton. At these country places sometimes
there's a policeman hanging about the station to see the express
go through, but, on the other hand, very often there isn't, and if
there isn't, probably at this time of night it'll take a good bit
of time to get the police on the premises. I tell you what I
should advise.'

'What's that?'

'The train is due at Bedford at 1.29—send your wire there. There
ought to be plenty of people about at Bedford, and anyhow there'll
be time to get the police to the station.'

'Very good. I instructed them to tell you to have a special
ready,—have you got one?'

'There's an engine with steam up in the shed,—we'll have all
ready for you in less than ten minutes. And I tell you what,—
you'll have about fifty minutes before the train is due at
Bedford. It's a fifty mile run. With luck you ought to get there
pretty nearly as soon as the express does.—Shall I tell them to
get ready?'

'At once.'

While he issued directions through a telephone to what, I presume,
was the engine shed, I drew up a couple of telegrams. Having
completed his orders he turned to me.

'They're coming out of the siding now—they'll be ready in less
than ten minutes. I'll see that the line's kept clear Have you got
those wires?'

'Here is one,—this is for Bedford.'

It ran:

'Arrest the Arab who is in train due at 1.29. When leaving St
Pancras he was in a third-class compartment in front waggon. He
has a large bundle, which detain. He took two third singles for
Hull. Also detain his companion, who is dressed like a tramp. This
is a young lady whom the Arab has disguised and kidnapped while in
a condition of hypnotic trance. Let her have medical assistance
and be taken to a hotel. All expenses will be paid on the arrival
of the undersigned who is following by special train. As the Arab
will probably be very violent a sufficient force of police should
be in waiting.

'AUGUSTUS CHAMPNELL.'

'And this is the other. It is probably too late to be of any use
at St Albans,—but send it there, and also to Luton.' 'Is Arab
with companion in train which left St Pancras at 13.0? If so, do
not let them get out till train reaches Bedford, where
instructions are being wired for arrest.'

The Inspector rapidly scanned them both.

'They ought to do your business, I should think. Come along with
me—I'll have them sent at once, and we'll see if your train's
ready.'

The train was not ready,—nor was it ready within the prescribed
ten minutes. There was some hitch, I fancy, about a saloon.
Finally we had to be content with an ordinary old-fashioned first-
class carriage. The delay, however, was not altogether time lost.
Just as the engine with its solitary coach was approaching the
platform someone came running up with an envelope in his hand.

'Telegram from St Albans.'

I tore it open. It was brief and to the point.

'Arab with companion was in train when it left here. Am wiring
Luton.'

'That's all right. Now unless something wholly unforeseen takes
place, we ought to have them.'

That unforeseen!

I went forward with the Inspector and the guard of our train to
exchange a few final words with the driver. The Inspector
explained what instructions he had given.

'I've told the driver not to spare his coal but to take you into
Bedford within five minutes after the arrival of the express. He
says he thinks that he can do it.'

The driver leaned over his engine, rubbing his hands with the
usual oily rag. He was a short, wiry man with grey hair and a
grizzled moustache, with about him that bearing of semi-humorous,
frank-faced resolution which one notes about engine-drivers as a
class.

'We ought to do it, the gradients are against us, but it's a clear
night and there's no wind. The only thing that will stop us will
be if there's any shunting on the road, or any luggage trains; of
course, if we are blocked, we are blocked, but the Inspector says
he'll clear the way for us.'

'Yes,' said the Inspector, 'I'll clear the way. I've wired down
the road already.'

Atherton broke in.

'Driver, if you get us into Bedford within five minutes of the
arrival of the mail there'll be a five-pound note to divide
between your mate and you.'

The driver grinned.

'We'll get you there in time, sir, if we have to go clear through
the shunters. It isn't often we get a chance of a five-pound note
for a run to Bedford, and we'll do our best to earn it.'

The fireman waved his hand in the rear.

'That's right, sir!' he cried. 'We'll have to trouble you for that
five-pound note.'

So soon as we were clear of the station it began to seem probable
that, as the fireman put it, Atherton would be 'troubled.'
Journeying in a train which consists of a single carriage attached
to an engine which is flying at topmost speed is a very different
business from being an occupant of an ordinary train which is
travelling at ordinary express rates. I had discovered that for
myself before. That night it was impressed on me more than ever. A
tyro—or even a nervous 'season'—might have been excused for
expecting at every moment we were going to be derailed. It was
hard to believe that the carriage had any springs,—it rocked and
swung, and jogged and jolted. Of smooth travelling had we none.
Talking was out of the question;—and for that, I, personally, was
grateful. Quite apart from the difficulty we experienced in
keeping our seats—and when every moment our position was being
altered and we were jerked backwards and forwards up and down,
this way and that, that was a business which required care,—the
noise was deafening. It was as though we were being pursued by a
legion of shrieking, bellowing, raging demons.

'George!' shrieked Atherton, 'he does mean to earn that fiver. I
hope I'll be alive to pay it him!'

He was only at the other end of the carriage, but though I could
see by the distortion of his visage that he was shouting at the
top of his voice,—and he has a voice,—I only caught here and
there a word or two of what he was saying. I had to make sense of
the whole.

Lessingham's contortions were a study. Few of that large multitude
of persons who are acquainted with him only by means of the
portraits which have appeared in the illustrated papers, would
then have recognised the rising statesman. Yet I believe that few
things could have better fallen in with his mood than that wild
travelling. He might have been almost shaken to pieces,—but the
very severity of the shaking served to divert his thoughts from
the one dread topic which threatened to absorb them to the
exclusion of all else beside. Then there was the tonic influence
of the element of risk. The pick-me-up effect of a spice of peril.
Actual danger there quite probably was none; but there very really
seemed to be. And one thing was absolutely certain, that if we did
come to smash while going at that speed we should come to as
everlasting smash as the heart of man could by any possibility
desire. It is probable that the knowledge that this was so warmed
the blood in Lessingham's veins. At any rate as—to use what in
this case, was simply a form of speech—I sat and watched him, it
seemed to me that he was getting a firmer hold of the strength
which had all but escaped him, and that with every jog and jolt he
was becoming more and more of a man.