The Red Room

“Well?”

Joseph, the parrot, set up a loud screeching, trying to attract his master’s attention.

“Two hours later Antonio discovered upon the stairs leading up to the drawing-room a curious little gold and enamel charm in the form of a child’s old-fashioned wooden doll – a beautifully-made little thing,” he went on; “and half an hour later a maid, while cleaning the boudoir outside the locked door giving entrance to the laboratory, was surprised to find a small spot of blood upon the white goatskin mat. This seems to have aroused Antonio’s apprehensions. A telegram to the Professor at the North British Hotel in Edinburgh, sent by his daughter, brought, about three o’clock in the afternoon, a reply stating that he was quite well, and it was not until seven o’clock last evening that Ethelwynn communicated with me, her father having suggested this in the note she had received. I called upon her at once, and was shown the note, the little golden doll, and the ugly stain upon the mat. By then my curiosity became aroused. I went out to a telephone at a neighbouring public-house, and, unknown to anybody, got on to the reception clerk at the North British Hotel in Edinburgh. In answer to my inquiry, the young lady said that during the day a telegram had arrived addressed to Professor Greer, and it had been placed upon the board where telegrams were exhibited. Somebody had claimed it, but no one of the name was staying in the hotel.”

“You have now said that the Professor was your friend,” I remarked. “I understood you to say that he was an enemy.”

“I’ll explain that later,” said my companion impatiently, drawing hard at his pipe. “Let me continue to describe the situation. Well, on hearing this from Edinburgh, I drove to King’s Cross, and, somewhat to my surprise, found that Professor Greer had left London by the train he had intended. The sleeping-car attendant who had travelled with him up North was just back, and he minutely described his passenger, referring to the fact that he refused to have an early cup of tea, because tea had been forbidden by his doctor.”

“A perplexing situation,” I said. “How did you account for the bloodstain? Had any of the servants met with an accident?”

“No, none. Neither dog, nor cat, nor any other pet was kept, therefore the stain upon the mat was unaccountable. It was that fact which caused me, greatly against Miss Ethelwynn’s consent, to seek a locksmith and take down the two locked doors of the laboratory.”

And he paused, gazing once more straight into the flames, with a curious expression in those deep-set brown eyes.

“And what did you find?” I eagerly inquired.

“I discovered the truth,” he said in a hard, changed tone. “The doors gave us a good deal of trouble. At the end of the laboratory, huddled in a corner, was the body of the Professor. He had been stabbed to the heart, while his face presented a horrible sight, the features having been burned almost beyond recognition by some terribly corrosive fluid – a crime which in every phase showed itself to be due to some fiendish spirit of revenge.”

“But that is most extraordinary!” I gasped, staring at the speaker. “The sleeping-car conductor took him to Edinburgh! Besides, how could the two doors be locked behind the assassin? Were the keys still upon the victim?”

“They are still upon the dead man’s watch-chain,” he said. “But, mark you, there is still a further feature of mystery in the affair. After her father’s departure for the station, his daughter put on a dressing-gown and, sending Morgan to bed, seated herself in her arm-chair before the fire in the Red Room, or boudoir, and took a novel. She read until past four o’clock, being in the habit of reading at night, and then, not being sleepy, sat writing letters until a drowsiness fell upon her. She did not then awake until a maid entered at seven to draw up the blinds.”

“Then she was actually at the only entrance to the laboratory all the night!”

“Within a yard and a half of it,” said Kershaw Kirk. “But the affair presents many strange features,” he went on. “The worst feature of it all, Mr Holford, is that a motive – a very strong motive – is known to certain persons why I myself should desire to enter that laboratory. Therefore I must be suspected of the crime, and – well, I admit at once to you I shall be unable to prove an alibi!”

I was silent for a moment.

“Unable to prove an alibi!” I echoed. “But the police have as yet no knowledge of the affair,” I remarked.

“No; I have, however, reported it in another quarter. It’s a most serious matter, for I have suspicion that certain articles have been abstracted from the laboratory.”

“And that means – what?”

“It means, my dear sir, very much more than you ever dream. This is at once the strangest and the most serious crime that has been committed in England for half a century. You are a man of action and of honour, Mr Holford. Will you become my friend, and assist me in trying to unravel it?” he asked quickly, bending forward to me in his earnestness.

“Most certainly I will,” I replied, fascinated by the amazing story he had just related, quite regardless of the fact that he was the suspected assassin.

I wonder whether if I had known into what a vortex of dread, suspicion, and double-dealing that decision of mine would have led me I would have so lightly consented to render my help?

I think not.

“Well,” he said, glancing at his watch, “the place has not been touched. If you consent to help me, it would be best that you saw it and formed your own independent theory. Would you care to come with me now? You could run along and make some excuse to Mrs Holford.”

The remarkable mystery, surrounding as it did one of the best-known scientists in the land, had already gripped my senses. Therefore I did as he suggested, and about an hour later alighted from one of my own cars at the portico of that house of tragedy.

A white-faced, grave-eyed man in black, the man Antonio, opened the door in response to our ring, but on recognising my companion he gripped him quickly by the arm, gasping:

“Ah, signore, I had just telephoned to you! I had no idea you were returning here to-night. Madonna Santa, signore, it’s terrible – terrible! Something else has happened. The young lady – she’s – ”

“What do you mean? What has happened now?” asked Kirk quickly. “Tell me; she’s – what?”

But the old Italian could not speak, so overcome and scared was he. He only pulled my companion forward into the dining-room on the left, and with his thin, bony finger pointed within.

And as I entered the big room my eyes fell upon a sight that staggered me.

Like the old servant, I, too, stood aghast.

Truly Kershaw Kirk had spoken the truth when he had said that the mystery was no ordinary one.

At that moment the problem seemed to me to be beyond solution. It already ranked in my mind as one of those mysteries to which the key is never discovered. Who did kill Professor Greer?

Chapter Three

The House of Mystery

What I saw in the house of Professor Greer on the night of that fifteenth of January formed indeed a strange and startling spectacle.

Ah, I am haunted by it even now!

That sallow-faced man who had conducted me there was himself a mystery, and upon his own confession was suspected of a foul crime. Besides, it was being kept rigorously from the police, which, to say the least, was a proceeding most unusual.

What could it all mean? Who was this Kershaw Kirk, this “dealer in secrets,” as he called himself, who was immune from public trial, even though not immune from arrest and imprisonment? The whole intricate problem launched upon me during those past few hours held me in fascination as nothing had ever held me before.

I could see that the man Antonio held Mr Kirk in great fear or great regard, for he was urbanity itself.

But what we saw within the fine, solidly-furnished dining-room, with its carved buffet filled with antique shining silver, was so unexpected that even my companion gave vent to an exclamation of amazement. Upon the dark carpet near the empty grate, her head pillowed upon a yellow silken cushion, lay a very pretty, fair-haired girl of about twenty-two. Her hat was off, otherwise she was in walking dress, with a short fur jacket and a fine blue fox boa, which, loosened, showed the delicacy of her white throat. Her face contour was bloodless; but all one side of her face was swollen, disfigured, and white as marble.

“Great heavens!” cried Kirk, as he fell on his knees beside her and grasped her hands. “Why, look! She’s been disfigured, just as her father has been!” And he bent until his ear was against her heart.

“Get me that little mirror from the wall – over there, Mr Holford. Quick!” he urged.

I sprang to do his bidding, and he placed against her mouth the little carved bracket wherein the square of looking-glass was set. When he withdrew it, it was unclouded.

“She may not be dead?” I exclaimed. “Shall I go for a doctor?”

“No,” Kirk snarled; “we want no doctors poking their noses about here. This is a matter which concerns only myself, Mr Holford!” And he bent to the prostrate girl to make a more minute investigation in a manner which showed me that he understood the various symptoms of death.

“As you know, signore,” Antonio said, “Miss Ethelwynn left last night to stay at her aunt’s, Lady Mellor’s, in Upper Brook Street, and I have not seen her since, until ten minutes ago I chanced to enter here, when, to my amazement, I found her lying just as you see her, except that I put the pillow beneath her head before telephoning for you. I didn’t know whom to call.”

“You’ve told no one else of this?” Kirk asked quickly.

“Only my brother, signore. He’s staying with me. The girls have all left, and Morgan, Miss Ethelwynn’s maid, is at Lady Mellor’s.”

“Your brother!” repeated Kirk reflectively.

“Yes, signore. He’s here.” And a respectably-dressed man a trifle younger than Antonio, who had been standing out in the hall, entered and bowed. “Pietro keeps a tobacconist’s in the Euston Road,” he explained. “I asked him here, as I don’t care to stay in this place alone just now.”

Kirk regarded the new-comer keenly, but made no remark. His attention was upon the unfortunate girl, who as far as we could gather, had returned in secret, entered quietly with her latch-key, and removed her hat, placing it upon the couch, sticking its pins through it, before she had been struck down by some unseen hand.

There was no perceptible wound, and Kirk could not determine whether she was still alive, yet he refused to summon medical aid. I confess to being somewhat annoyed at his obstinacy, and surprised at the secrecy with which he treated the whole of the remarkable circumstances. That very fact tended to strengthen the suspicion that he himself knew more about the crime than he had admitted.

Surely the police should be informed!

He was very carefully examining the girl’s clothing, seeking to discover a wound; but, as far as we could see, there was none, yet the pallor of the countenance was unmistakably that of death, while the hard, white disfigurement of the face was weird and horrible. The eye was closed, distorted, and screwed up by pain, and both mouth and ear seemed shrivelled out of shape.

“Who’s responsible for this, I wonder?” growled Kirk to himself. “Why did she wish to return here in secret – to the house wherein she knew her father was lying dead? There was some strong motive – just as there is a motive for her death as well as her father’s.” Then, looking up to me, he added, “You know, Mr Holford, this poor young lady was her father’s assistant and confidante. She was in the habit of helping him in his experiments, and making notes at his dictation of certain results.”

I knelt at the other side of the inert, prostrate form, and took the ungloved hands in mine. The stiffening fingers were cold as ice.

“It’s brutal – blackguardly!” cried Kirk in a frenzy of anger. “Whoever has thus sacrificed the girl’s beauty deserves a dog’s death. The motive in both cases must be vengeance. But for what?”

Antonio and his brother were active in getting brandy, sal volatile, ammonia, hot water, and other restoratives; but, though Kirk worked unceasingly for half an hour in a manner which showed him to be no novice, all was to no purpose.

There was no sign of life whatever. Indeed, the colour of the disfigured portion of the fair countenance seemed to be slowly changing from marble-white to purple.

Kirk watched it, held his breath, and, staying his hand, shook his head.

“Why don’t you call a doctor?” I again urged. “Something may be done, after all. She may not be dead!”

“I can do all that a doctor can do,” was his calm, rather dignified reply, and I saw by the dark shadow upon his brow that he was annoyed at my suggestion.

So I straightened myself again and watched.

At last my eccentric companion came to the conclusion that no more could be done for the unfortunate girl, and we all four lifted her from the carpet on to the large leather sofa set near the window.

Then Kirk led the way up the broad, thickly-carpeted staircase to the floor above. Entering an open door leading from the square landing, he touched an electric switch, revealing a small elegantly-furnished room, a boudoir, upholstered in dark red silk. The walls were enamelled dead white, relieved by a beading of gold, and set in the panels were two fine paintings of the modern Italian school.

The red room was a veritable nest of luxury, with low easy chairs, a cosy corner near the fire, and a small reading table, whereon stood a selection of the latest novels from the library. In the cosy corner I noticed that the cushions were crushed, just as they had been left by the unfortunate girl as she had been aroused from her sleep by the entrance of the maid at early morning.

One side of the room was occupied by a big bay window of stained glass, that probably faced a blank wall, while about four feet to the right of the cosy corner was a closed white-enamelled door – the door which gave entrance to the passage leading to the laboratory. The carpet was a pale grey, with a wreath of small roses running round the border, and before the door lay the white goatskin mat. My companion pointed to it, and I saw there the tell-tale stain of blood. The fire had been left just as it had died out on the morning of the tragedy.

“You see,” Kirk said, advancing to the closed door which led to the laboratory, “there is here a patent lock – an expensive make, which has but one key. This door I found still locked!”

Opening it, we passed into a short passage about twelve feet long, closed by a similar door. This also he reopened, and I found myself in a large long apartment, very lofty, and well lit by a long high window along the side towards the street and at the end, while a skylight occupied part of the roof.

Upon rows of shelves were many bottles of chemicals, retorts, and delicate experimental apparatus, while on the right was a small furnace. There were also three zinc-covered tables with the miscellaneous accumulation of objects which the owner of the place had been using. I saw a blocked-up door on the right, which my companion explained let into the conservatory over the portico.

“Look!” whispered my friend in a low voice. “This way.” And he switched on the lights at the further end of the great high apartment.

I stepped forward at his side, until I distinguished, huddled up in the further corner, a human figure in dark grey trousers and black frock-coat. It seemed as though he had been propped in the corner, and his grey head had fallen sideways before death.

I went further forward, holding my breath.

The victim was apparently nearly sixty, with hair and moustache turning white, rather stoutly built, and broad-shouldered. His position was distorted and unnatural, as though he had twisted himself in the final agonies of death. The thin waxen hands were clenched tightly, and the linen collar was burst from the neck, while the Professor’s dark blue fancy vest bore a stain where the assassin’s knife had struck him unerringly in the heart.

Of his features I, a stranger, could distinguish but little, so swollen, livid, and scarred were they that I was instantly horrified by their sight. The disfigurement had been so terrible that there remained hardly any semblance to a human face.

“Well,” exclaimed Kirk at last, “you have seen it! Now what is your opinion?”

We were standing alone in the great laboratory, for Antonio and his brother had remained downstairs at my companion’s suggestion.

I looked round that great silent workshop of one of the most distinguished chemists of the age, and then I gazed upon the mortal remains of the man upon whom so many honours had been showered. Warped, drawn, crouching, with one arm uplifted almost as though to ward off a blow, the body remained a weird and ghastly object.

“Has it been moved?” I inquired when I recovered speech.

“No; it is just as we found it – just as the unknown assassin left it,” he said. “The disfigurement, as far as I can judge, has been caused by some chemical agency – some acid or other substance placed upon the face, with fiendish cruelty, immediately before death.”

I bent closer to the lifeless face in order to examine it, and afterwards agreed with him. It was undoubtedly a murder prompted by a fierce and bitter vengeance.

“The work of a madman, it may be,” I suggested.

But Kershaw Kirk shook his head, saying: “Not of a madman, but of a very clever murderer who has left not a trace of his identity.”

“Do you think that the Professor was struck down at the spot where he now is?” I asked, for my friend seemed to be something of an expert in the habits of the criminal classes.

“I think not. Yet, as you see, the place is in no way disordered. There is no sign whatever of a struggle.”

I looked around, and as far as I could discern everything was as it should be. Upon the nearest table in the centre was a very delicate glass apparatus in which some experiments had recently been made, for certain yellowish liquids were still within. Had this table been violently jarred, the thin glass tubes would have been disarranged and broken, a fact which showed conclusively that the fatal blow had been struck with great suddenness and in silence.

It had not occurred to Kirk to examine the dead man’s pockets before, and now, kneeling at his side, he was in the act of doing so.

The various objects he took out, first examined, and afterwards handed them to me. There were several letters, none of any great importance, some chemical memoranda scribbled in pencil upon a piece of blank paper, a gold presentation watch and chain, fifteen pounds odd in money, and a few minor trifles, none of which threw any light upon the mysterious tragedy.

My companion made another careful examination of the body. Then, rising to his feet, he walked slowly around the laboratory, in further search, it seemed to me, of anything that the assassin might have left behind. But by his countenance I saw that this eccentric man who dealt in secrets, as he had admitted to me, was much puzzled and perplexed. The enigma was complete.

So complicated and extraordinary were the whole circumstances that any attempt to unravel them only led one at once into an absolute cul-de-sac.

To whom had the dead man signalled in the Morse code by raising and lowering the blind?

Someone, friend or enemy, had been waiting outside near Clarence Gate in Regent’s Park in the expectation of a message.

He received it from the Professor’s own hands, those hands which before the dawn were cramped in the stiffness of death.

Chapter Four

A Silent Message

For a full hour we remained there in the presence of the dead.

Before that huddled figure I stood a dozen times trying to form some feasible theory as to what had actually occurred within that room.

The problem, however, was quite inexplicable. Who had killed Professor Greer?

There, upon the end of the unfortunate man’s watch-chain, were the two keys which he always carried, keys which held the secrets of his experiments away from the prying eyes of persons who were undesirable. Many of his discoveries had been worth to him thousands of pounds, and to public companies which exploited and worked them hundreds of thousands of pounds more. There, in that very room in which I stood, had the Greer process of hardening steel been perfected, a process now used in hardening the armour-plates of our newest Dreadnoughts. Yet the master brain which had thought out those various combinations, and by years of patience had perfected the result, was now before me, inactive and dead.

I shuddered at sight of that disfigured face, hideous in its limp inertness and horrible to the gaze. But Kershaw Kirk, his eyes narrower and his face more aquiline, continued his minute investigation of every object in the room. I watched him with increasing interest, noticing the negative result of all his labours.

“I shall return again to-morrow when it is light,” at last he said; “artificial light is of little use to me in this matter. Perhaps you’ll come with me again – eh?”

“I’ll try,” I said, though, to be candid, I was not very keen upon a second visit to the presence of the disfigured body of the Professor. I could not see why Kirk was so anxious to avoid the police and to keep the affair out of the papers.

“The body must be buried before long,” I remarked. “How will you obtain a medical certificate and get it buried by an undertaker?”

“Mr Holford,” he said, turning to me with an expression of slight annoyance upon his face, “I beg of you not to anticipate difficulty. It is the worst attitude a man can take up – especially in trying to solve a problem such as this. The future kindly leave entirely with me.”

At that moment I was fingering a small test-tube containing some thick grey-coloured liquid, and as I turned I accidentally dropped it upon the tiles with which the Professor had had the place paved. In an instant there was a bright flash, almost like a magnesium light, so brilliant that for a second we were both blinded.

“I wonder what that was?” he remarked, startled by the result. “One must be careful in handling what the dead man has left behind.”

“Evidently,” I said; “we cannot tell what these various experimental apparatus and tubes contain. Therefore we should handle them delicately.”

And I bent to the table to examine another tube containing some bright red crystals held over an extinguished spirit-lamp by a brass holder, an action which my companion, I noticed, watched with a curious expression.

Was it suspicion of myself?

“Well, my dear friend,” he exclaimed suddenly as he stood beside the table, “the problem is, as you see, rendered the more difficult of solution by the inexplicable fate which has overtaken the Professor’s daughter. Here is a man against whom, as far as we know, nobody in the world had a grudge, who receives a telegram which he is careful to destroy, makes a preconcerted signal at his drawing-room window, and goes upon a journey to Edinburgh. We know that he went, for the conductor recollects asking if he would take an early cup of tea. Again, he received his daughter’s telegram and replied to it. Yet at the same time he was in Edinburgh he was in this very room behind two locked doors of which he alone had the key, the victim of a brutally murderous attack! These doors were locked, and to enter here both he and the assassin must have passed through the boudoir within a yard or so of his daughter.”

“Is there no other means of access except through the boudoir?” I asked. “Have the windows been examined?”

“Yes; all the windows were screwed down on the inside. To-morrow, in the light, you shall satisfy yourself. I must come here to search for any finger-prints,” was his hasty reply. “When I caused these doors to be opened, I was careful not to allow the locksmith to see that any tragedy had occurred. The man was paid, and went away in ignorance. Yet when Miss Ethelwynn realised the truth she was as one demented. At first she refused to leave the place, but I persuaded her, and she went with her maid to her aunt’s. I impressed upon her the value of silence, and she gave me her word that she would say nothing of what had occurred.”