The Lodger (18 page)

  "Very good, sir." And then Mrs. Bunting left the
lodger.

  But when she found herself downstairs in the
fog-laden hall, for it had drifted in as she and her husband had
stood at the door seeing Daisy off, instead of going in to Bunting
she did a very odd thing - a thing she had never thought of doing
in her life before. She pressed her hot forehead against the cool
bit of looking-glass let into the hat-and-umbrella stand. "I don't
know what to do!" she moaned to herself, and then, "I can't bear
it! I can't bear it!"

  But though she felt that her secret suspense and
trouble was becoming intolerable, the one way in which she could
have ended her misery never occurred to Mrs. Bunting.

  In the long history of crime it has very, very
seldom happened that a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge
with her. The timorous and cautious woman has not infrequently
hunted a human being fleeing from his pursuer from her door, but
she has not revealed the fact that he was ever there. In fact, it
may almost be said that such betrayal has never taken place unless
the betrayer has been actuated by love of gain, or by a longing for
revenge. So far, perhaps because she is subject rather than
citizen, her duty as a component part of civilised society weighs
but lightly on woman's shoulders.

  And then - and then, in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting
had become attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes
light up his sad face when he saw her come in with one of his
meals, and when this happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased - pleased
and vaguely touched. In between those - those dreadful events
outside, which filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and
such suspense, she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr.
Sleuth.

  Often and often, when lying wide awake at night, she
turned over the strange problem in her mind. After all, the lodger
must have lived somewhere during his forty-odd years of life. She
did not even know if Mr. Sleuth had any brothers or sisters;
friends she knew he had none. But, however odd and eccentric he
was, he had evidently, or so she supposed, led a quiet,
undistinguished kind of life, till - till now.

  What had made him alter all of a sudden - if, that
is, he had altered? That was what Mrs. Bunting was always debating
fitfully with herself; and, what was more, and very terribly, to
the point, having altered, why should he not in time go back to
what he evidently had been - that is, a blameless, quiet
gentleman?

  If only he would! If only he would!

  As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead,
all these thoughts, these hopes and fears, jostled at lightning
speed through her brain.

  She remembered what young Chandler had said the
other day - that there had never been, in the history of the world,
so strange a murderer as The Avenger had proved himself to be.

  She and Bunting, aye, and little Daisy too, had
hung, fascinated, on Joe's words, as he had told them of other
famous series of murders which had taken place in the past, not
only in England but abroad - especially abroad.

  One woman, whom all the people round her believed to
be a kind, respectable soul, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen
people in order to get their insurance money. Then there had been
the terrible tale of an apparently respectable, contented innkeeper
and his wife, who, living at the entrance to a wood, killed all
those humble travellers who took shelter under their roof, simply
for their clothes, and any valuables they possessed. But in all
those stories the murderer or murderers always had a very strong
motive, the motive being, in almost every case, a wicked lust for
gold.

  At last, after having passed her handkerchief over
her forehead, she went into the room where Bunting was sitting
smoking his pipe.

  "The fog's lifting a bit," she said in an
ill-assured voice. I hope that by this time Daisy and that Joe
Chandler are right out of it."

  But the other shook his head silently. "No such
luck!" he said briefly. "You don't know what it's like in Hyde
Park, Ellen. I expect 'twill soon be just as heavy here as 'twas
half an hour ago!"

  She wandered over to the window, and pulled the
curtain back. "Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway," she
observed.

  "There's a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road.
I was thinking of asking if you wouldn't like to go along there
with me."

  "No," she said dully. "I'm quite content to stay at
home."

  She was listening - listening for the sounds which
would betoken that the lodger was coming downstairs.

  At last she heard the cautious, stuffless tread of
his rubber-soled shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bunting only
woke to the fact when the front door shut to.

  "That's never Mr. Sleuth going out?" He turned on
his wife, startled. "Why, the poor gentleman'll come to harm - that
he will! One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope
he hasn't taken any of his money out with him."

  "'Tisn't the first time Mr. Sleuth's been out in a
fog," said Mrs. Bunting sombrely.

  Somehow she couldn't help uttering these over-true
words. And then she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how
Bunting had taken what she said.

  But he looked quite placid, as if he had hardly
heard her. "We don't get the good old fogs we used to get - not
what people used to call 'London particulars.' I expect the lodger
feels like Mrs. Crowley - I've often told you about her,
Ellen?"

  Mrs. Bunting nodded.

  Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bunting's ladies, one
of those he had liked best - a cheerful, jolly lady, who used often
to give her servants what she called a treat. It was seldom the
kind of treat they would have chosen for themselves, but still they
appreciated her kind thought.

  "Mrs. Crowley used to say," went on Bunting, in his
slow, dogmatic way, "that she never minded how bad the weather was
in London, so long as it was London and not the country. Mr.
Crowley, he liked the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt
dull-like there. Fog never kept her from going out - no, that it
didn't. She wasn't a bit afraid. But - " he turned round and looked
at his wife - " I am a bit surprised at Mr. Sleuth. I should have
thought him a timid kind of gentleman - "

  He waited a moment, and she felt forced to answer
him.

  "I wouldn't exactly call him timid," she said, in a
low voice, "but he is very quiet, certainly. That's why he dislikes
going out when there are a lot of people bustling about the
streets. I don't suppose he'll be out long."

  She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Sleuth would be
in very soon - that he would be daunted by the now increasing
gloom.

  Somehow she did not feel she could sit still for
very long. She got up, and went over to the farthest window.

  The fog had lifted, certainly. She could see the
lamp-lights on the other side of the Marylebone Road, glimmering
redly; and shadowy figures were hurrying past, mostly making their
way towards the Edgware Road, to see the Christmas shops.

  At last to his wife's relief, Bunting got up too. He
went over to the cupboard where he kept his little store of books,
and took one out.

  "I think I'll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long
time since I've looked at a book. The papers was so jolly
interesting for a bit, but now there's nothing in 'em."

  His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. A
good many days had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and
the papers had very little to say about them that they hadn't said
in different language a dozen times before.

  She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit
of plain sewing.

  Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked
to see her so engaged. Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger
she had not had much time for that sort of work.

  It was funny how quiet the house was without either
Daisy, or - or the lodger, in it.

  At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit
of cambric slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly,
for Mr. Sleuth's return home.

  And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering
with a painful wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for,
from what she knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he
got into any kind of - well, trouble outside, he would never betray
where he had lived during the last few weeks.

  No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as
sudden a way as he had come. And Bunting would never suspect, would
never know, until, perhaps - God, what a horrible thought - a
picture published in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful
fact to Bunting's knowledge.

  But if that happened - if that unthinkably awful
thing came to pass, she made up her mind, here and now, never to
say anything. She also would pretend to be amazed, shocked,
unutterably horrified at the astounding revelation.

  
"T
here he is at
last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. 'Tain't a night you would wish a
dog to be out in."

  Bunting's voice was full of relief, but he did not
turn round and look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued
to read the evening paper he held in his hand.

  He was still close to the fire, sitting back
comfortably in his nice arm-chair. He looked very well - well and
ruddy. Mrs. Bunting stared across at him with a touch of sharp
envy, nay, more, of resentment. And this was very curious, for she
was, in her own dry way, very fond of Bunting.

  "You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth
can look out for himself all right."

  Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on
his knee. "I can't think why he wanted to go out in such weather,"
he said impatiently.

  "Well, it's none of your business, Bunting, now, is
it?"

  "No, that's true enough. Still, 'twould be a very
bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger's the
first bit of luck we've had for a terrible long time, Ellen."

  Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high
chair. She remained silent for a moment. What Bunting had said was
too obvious to be worth answering. Also she was listening,
following in imagination her lodger's quick, singularity quiet
progress - "stealthy" she called it to herself - through the
fog-filled, lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase.
What was that Bunting was saying ?

  "It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such
weather - no, that it ain't, not unless they have something to do
that won't wait till to-morrow." The speaker was looking straight
into his wife's narrow, colourless face. Bunting was an obstinate
man, and liked to prove himself right. "I've a good mind to speak
to him about it, that I have! He ought to be told that it isn't
safe - not for the sort of man he is - to be wandering about the
streets at night. I read you out the accidents in Lloyd's -
shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then,
that horrid monster 'ull soon be at his work again - "

  "Monster?" repeated Mrs. Bunting absently.

  She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps
overhead. She was very curious to know whether he had gone into his
nice sitting-room, or straight upstairs, to that cold
experiment-room, as he now always called it.

  But her husband went on as if he had not heard her,
and she gave up trying to listen to what was going on above.

  "It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such
a party as that in the fog, eh, Ellen?" He spoke as if the notion
had a certain pleasant thrill in it after all.

  "What stuff you do talk!" said Mrs. Bunting sharply.
And then she got up. Her husband's remarks had disturbed her. Why
couldn't they talk of something pleasant when they did have a quiet
bit of time together?