The Lodger (14 page)

  Mr. Sleuth stared at her with a wild, almost a
terrified glance. But Mrs. Bunting stood her ground. She felt far
less afraid now than she had felt before he came in. Then she had
been so frightened that she had nearly gone out of the house, on to
the pavement, for company.

  "Of course I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink
in there."

  She spoke as if she were on the defensive, and the
lodger's brow cleared.

  "I was aware you used ink, sir," Mrs. Bunting went
on, "for I have seen you marking that book of yours - I mean the
book you read together with the Bible. Would you like me to go out
and get you another bottle, sir?"

  "No," said Mr. Sleuth. "No, I thank you. I will at
once proceed upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I
require you I shall ring."

  He shuffled past her, and five minutes later the
drawing-room bell did ring.

  At once, from the door, Mrs. Bunting saw that the
chiffonnier was wide open, and that the shelves were empty save for
the bottle of red ink which had turned over and now lay in a red
pool of its own making on the lower shelf.

  "I'm afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs.
Bunting. Perhaps I was ill-advised to keep my ink in there."

  "Oh, no, sir! That doesn't matter at all. Only a
drop or two fell out on to the carpet, and they don't show, as you
see, sir, for it's a dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away? I
may as well."

  Mr. Sleuth hesitated. "No," he said, after a long
pause, "I think not, Mrs. Bunting. For the very little I require it
the ink remaining in the bottle will do quite well, especially if I
add a little water, or better still, a little tea, to what already
remains in the bottle. I only require it to mark up passages which
happen to be of peculiar interest in my Concordance - a work, Mrs.
Bunting, which I should have taken great pleasure in compiling
myself had not this - ah - this gentleman called Cruden, been
before.

***

  Not only Bunting, but Daisy also, thought Ellen far
pleasanter in her manner than usual that evening. She listened to
all they had to say about their interesting visit to the Black
Museum, and did not snub either of them - no, not even when Bunting
told of the dreadful, haunting, silly-looking death-masks taken
from the hanged.

  But a few minutes after that, when her husband
suddenly asked her a question, Mrs. Bunting answered at random. It
was clear she had not heard the last few words he had been
saying.

  "A penny for your thoughts!" he said jocularly. But
she shook her head.

  Daisy slipped out of the room, and, five minutes
later, came back dressed up in a blue-and-white check silk
gown.

  "My!" said her father. "You do look fine, Daisy.
I've never seen you wearing that before."

  "And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!" observed
Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And then, "I suppose this dressing up
means that you're expecting someone. I should have thought both of
you must have seen enough of young Chandler for one day. I wonder
when that young chap does his work - that I do! He never seems too
busy to come and waste an hour or two here."

  But that was the only nasty thing Ellen said all
that evening. And even Daisy noticed that her stepmother seemed
dazed and unlike herself. She went about her cooking and the
various little things she had to do even more silently than was her
wont.

  Yet under that still, almost sullen, manner, how
fierce was the storm of dread, of sombre, anguish, and, yes, of
sick suspense, which shook her soul, and which so far affected her
poor, ailing body that often she felt as if she could not force
herself to accomplish her simple round of daily work.

  After they had finished supper Bunting went out and
bought a penny evening paper, but as he came in he announced, with
a rather' rueful smile, that he had read so much of that nasty
little print this last week or two that his eyes hurt him.

  "Let me read aloud a bit to you, father," said Daisy
eagerly, and he handed her the paper.

  Scarcely had Daisy opened her lips when a loud ring
and a knock echoed through the house.

  
I
t was only Joe.
Somehow, even Bunting called him "Joe" now, and no longer
"Chandler," as he had mostly used to do.

  Mrs. Bunting had opened the front door only a very
little way. She wasn't going to have any strangers pushing in past
her.

  To her sharpened, suffering senses her house had
become a citadel which must be defended; aye, even if the besiegers
were a mighty horde with right on their side. And she was always
expecting that first single spy who would herald the battalion
against whom her only weapon would be her woman's wit and
cunning.

  But when she saw who stood there smiling at her, the
muscles of her face relaxed, and it lost the tense, anxious, almost
agonised look it assumed the moment she turned her back on her
husband and stepdaughter.

  "Why, Joe," she whispered, for she had left the door
open behind her, and Daisy had already begun to read aloud, as her
father had bidden her. "Come in, do! It's fairly cold
to-night."

  A glance at his face had shown her that there was no
fresh news.

  Joe Chandler walked in, past her, into the little
hall. Cold? Well, he didn't feel cold, for he had walked quickly to
be the sooner where he was now.

  Nine days had gone by since that last terrible
occurrence, the double murder which had been committed early in the
morning of the day Daisy had arrived in London. And though the
thousands of men belonging to the Metropolitan Police - to say
nothing of the smaller, more alert body of detectives attached to
the Force - were keenly on the alert, not one but had begun to feel
that there was nothing to be alert about. Familiarity, even with
horror, breeds contempt.

  But with the public it was far otherwise. Each day
something happened to revive and keep alive the mingled horror and
interest this strange, enigmatic series of crimes had evoked. Even
the more sober organs of the Press went on attacking, with
gathering severity and indignation, the Commissioner of Police; and
at the huge demonstration held in Victoria Park two days before
violent speeches had also been made against the Home Secretary.

  But just now Joe Chandler wanted to forget all that.
The little house in the Marylebone Road had become to him an
enchanted isle of dreams, to which his thoughts were ever turning
when he had a moment to spare from what had grown to be a
wearisome, because an unsatisfactory, job. He secretly agreed with
one of his pals who had exclaimed, and that within twenty-four
hours of the last double crime, "Why, 'twould be easier to find a
needle in a rick o' hay than this - bloke!"

  And if that had been true then, how much truer it
was now - after nine long, empty days had gone by?

  Quickly he divested himself of his great-coat,
muffler, and low hat. Then he put his finger on his lip, and
motioned smilingly to Mrs. Bunting to wait a moment. From where he
stood in the hall the father and daughter made a pleasant little
picture of contented domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart
swelled at the sight.

  Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress
about which her stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low
stool on the left side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in
his own comfortable arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear,
in an attitude - as it was the first time she had caught him doing
it, the fact brought a pang to Mrs. Bunting - which showed that age
was beginning to creep over the listener.

  One of Daisy's duties as companion to her great-aunt
was that of reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on
her accomplishment.

  Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy bad
been asking, "Shall I read this, father?" And Bunting had answered
quickly, "Aye, do, my dear."

  He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on
seeing Joe at the door, he had only just nodded his head. The young
man was becoming so frequent a visitor as to be almost one of
themselves.

  Daisy read out:'

  "The Avenger: A - "

  And then she stopped short, for the next word
puzzled her greatly. Bravely, however, she went on. "A
the-o-ry."

  "Go in - do!" whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor.
"Why should we stay out here in the cold? It's ridiculous."

  "I don't want to interrupt Miss Daisy," whispered
Chandler back, rather hoarsely.

  "Well, you'll hear it all the better in the room.
Don't think she'll stop because of you, bless you! There's nothing
shy about our Daisy!"

  The young man resented the tart, short tone. "Poor
little girl!" he said to himself tenderly. "That's what it is
having a stepmother, instead of a proper mother." But he obeyed
Mrs. Bunting, and then he was pleased he had done so, for Daisy
looked up, and a bright blush came over her pretty face.

  "Joe begs you won't stop yet awhile. Go on with your
reading," commanded Mrs. Bunting quickly. "Now, Joe, you can go and
sit over there, close to Daisy, and then you won't miss a
word."

  There was a sarcastic inflection in her voice, even
Chandler noticed that, but he obeyed her with alacrity, and
crossing the room he went and sat on a chair just behind Daisy.
From there he could note with reverent delight the charming way her
fair hair grew upwards from the nape of her slender neck.

  "The AVENGER: A THE-O-RY"

  began Daisy again, clearing her throat.

  "DEAR Sir - I have a suggestion to put forward for
which I think there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very
probable that The Avenger - to give him the name by which he
apparently wishes to be known - comprises in his own person the
peculiarities of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson's now famous
hero.

  "The culprit, according to my point of view, is a
quiet, pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West
End of London. He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is
the husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care,
and is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his
widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he has
become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life,
occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy
nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out
of the house, maybe between one and two o'clock, and swiftly makes
his way straight to what has become The Avenger's murder area.
Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like
gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home
again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once
more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother,
esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and
acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene
of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal
lunatic.

  "I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but
I confess that I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their
inquiries to the part of London where these murders have been
actually committed. I am quite sure from all that has come out -
and we must remember that full information is never given to the
newspapers - The Avenger should be sought for in the West and not
in the East End of London - Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very
truly - "

  Again Daisy hesitated, and then with an effort she
brought out the word "Gab-o-ri-you," said she.

  "What a funny name!" said Bunting wonderingly.

  And then Joe broke in: "That's the name of a French
chap what wrote detective stories," he said. "Pretty good, some of
them are, too!"

  "Then this Gaboriyou has come over to study these
Avenger murders, I take it?" said Bunting.