The Red Symbol

I turned and faced a burly policeman, whom I knew well. He recognized me, also, and saluted.

“Beg pardon; didn’t know it was you, sir. Thought it was one of these here sooicides, or some one that had had – well, a drop too much.”

He eyed me curiously. I dare say I looked, in my hatless and drenched condition, as if I might come under the latter category.

“It’s all right,” I answered, forcing a laugh. “I wasn’t meditating a plunge in the river. My hat blew off, and when I looked after it I saw something that interested me, and stayed to watch.”

It was a lame explanation and not precisely true. He glanced over the parapet in his turn. The rain was abating once more, and the light was growing as the clouds sped onwards. The moon was at full, and would only set at dawn.

“I don’t see anything,” he remarked. “What was it, sir? Anything suspicious?”

His tone inferred that it must have been something very much out of the common to have kept me there in the rain. Having told him so much I was bound to tell him more.

“A rowboat, with two or three people in it; going down-stream. That’s unusual at this time of night – or morning – isn’t it?”

He grinned widely.

“Was that all? It wasn’t worth the wetting you’ve got, sir!”

“I don’t see where the joke comes in,” I said.

“Well, sir, you newspaper gents are always on the lookout for mysteries,” he asserted, half apologetically. “There’s nothing out of the way in a boat going up or down-stream at any hour of the day or night; or if there was the river police would be on its track in a jiffy. They patrol the river same as we walk our beat. It might have been one of their boats you saw, or some bargees as had been making a night of it ashore. If I was you, I’d turn in as soon as possible. ’Tain’t good for any one to stand about in wet clothes.”

We walked the length of the bridge together, and he continued to hold forth loquaciously. We parted, on the best of terms, at the end of his beat; and following his advice, I walked rapidly homewards. I was chilled to the bone, and unutterably miserable, but if I stayed out all night that would not alter the situation.

The street door swung back under my touch, as I was in the act of inserting my latch-key in the lock. Some one had left it open, in defiance of the regulations, well known to every tenant of the block. I slammed it with somewhat unnecessary vigor, and the sound went booming and echoing up the well of the stone staircase, making a horrible din, fit to wake the seven sleepers of Ephesus.

It did waken the housekeeper’s big watch-dog, chained up in the basement, and he bayed furiously. I leaned over the balustrade and called out. He knew my voice, and quieted down at once, but not before his master had come out in his pyjamas, yawning and blinking. Poor old Jenkins, his rest was pretty frequently disturbed, for if any one of the bachelor tenants of the upper flats – the lower ones were let out as offices – forgot his street-door key, or returned in the small hours in a condition that precluded him from manipulating it, Jenkins would be rung up to let him in; and, being one of the best of good sorts, would certainly guide him up the staircase and put him comfortably to bed.

“I’m right down sorry, Jenkins,” I called. “I found the street door open, and slammed it without thinking.”

“Open! Well there, who could have left it open, going out or in?” he exclaimed, seeming more perturbed than the occasion warranted. “Must have been quite a short time back, for it isn’t an hour since Caesar began barking like he did just now; and he never barks for nothing. I went right up the stairs and there was no one there and not a sound. The door was shut fast enough then, for I tried it. It couldn’t have been Mr. Gray or Mr. Sellars, for they’re away week ending, and Mr. Cassavetti came in before twelve. I met him on the stairs as I was turning the lights down.”

“Perhaps he went out again to post,” I suggested. “Good night, Jenkins.”

“Good night, sir. You got caught in the storm, then?” He had just seen how wet I was, and eyed me curiously, as the policeman had done.

“Yes, couldn’t see a cab and had to come through it. Lost my hat, too; it blew off,” I answered over my shoulder, as I ran up the stairs. Lightly clad though he was, Jenkins seemed inclined to stay gossiping there till further orders.

When I got into my flat and switched on the lights, I found I still held, crumpled up in my hand, the bit of geranium I had picked up on the river steps. But for that evidence I might have persuaded myself that I had imagined the whole thing. I dropped the crushed petals into the waste-paper basket, and, as I hastily changed from my wet clothes into pyjamas, I mentally rehearsed the scene over and over again. Could I have been misled by a chance resemblance? Impossible. Anne was not merely a beautiful girl, but a strikingly distinctive personality. I had recognized her figure, her gait, as I would have recognized them among a thousand; that fleeting glimpse of her face had merely confirmed the recognition. As for her presence in Westminster at a time when she should have been at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s house in Kensington, or at home with the Cayleys in Chelsea, that could be easily accounted for on the presumption that she had not stayed long at Mrs. Sutherland’s. Had the Cayleys already discovered her flight? Probably not. Was Cassavetti cognizant of it, – concerned with it in any way; and was the incident of the open door that had so perplexed Jenkins another link in the mysterious chain? At any rate, Cassavetti was not the man dressed as a sailor; though he might have been the man in the boat.

The more I brooded over it the more bewildered – distracted – my brain became. I tried to dismiss the problem from my mind, “to give it up,” in fact; and, since sleep was out of the question, to occupy myself with preparations for the packing that must be done to-morrow – no, to-day, for the dawn had come – if I were to start for Russia on Monday morning.

But it was no use. I could not concentrate my mind on anything; also, though I’m an abstemious man as a rule, I guess I put away a considerable amount of whiskey. Anyhow, I’ve no recollection of going to bed; but I woke with a splitting headache, and a thirst I wouldn’t take five dollars for, and the first things I saw were a whiskey bottle and soda syphon – both empty – on the dressing-table.

As I lay blinking at those silent witnesses – the bottle had been nearly full overnight – and trying to remember what had happened, there came a knock at my bedroom door, and Mrs. Jenkins came in with my breakfast tray.

She was an austere dame, and the glance she cast at that empty whiskey bottle was more significant and accusatory than any words could have been; though all she said was: “I knocked before, sir, with your shaving water, but you didn’t hear. It’s cold now, but I’ll put some fresh outside directly.”

I mumbled meek thanks, and, when she retreated, poured out some tea. I guessed there were eggs and bacon, the alpha and omega of British ideas of breakfast, under the dish cover; but I did not lift it. My soul – and my stomach – revolted at the very thought of such fare.

I had scarcely sipped my tea when I heard the telephone bell ring in the adjoining room. I scrambled up and was at the door when Mrs. Jenkins announced severely: “The telephone, Mr. Wynn,” and retreated to the landing.

“Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Wynn?” responded a soft, rich, feminine voice that set my pulses tingling. “Oh, it is you, Maurice; I’m so glad. We rang you up from Chelsea, but could get no answer. You won’t know who it is speaking; it is I, Anne Pendennis!”

CHAPTER VI

“MURDER MOST FOUL”

“I’m speaking from Charing Cross station; can you hear me?” the voice continued. “I’ve had a letter from my father; he’s ill, and I must go to him at once. I’m starting now, nine o’clock.”

I glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to nine.

“I’ll be with you in five minutes – darling!” I responded, throwing in the last word with immense audacity. “Au revoir; I’ve got to hustle!”

I put up the receiver and dashed back into my bedroom, where my cold bath, fortunately, stood ready. Within five minutes I was running down the stairs, as if a sheriff and posse were after me, while Mrs. Jenkins leaned over the hand-rail and watched me, evidently under the impression that I was the victim of sudden dementia.

There was not a cab to be seen, of course; there never is one in Westminster on a Sunday morning, and I raced the whole way to Charing Cross on foot; tore into the station, and made for the platform whence the continental mail started. An agitated official tried to stop me at the barrier.

“Too late, sir, train’s off; here – stand away – stand away there!”

He yelled after me as I pushed past him and scooted along the platform. I had no breath to spare for explanations, but I dodged the porters who started forward to intercept me, and got alongside the car, where I saw Anne leaning out of the window.

“Where are you going?” I gasped, running alongside.

“Berlin. Mary has the address!” Anne called. “Oh, Maurice, let go; you’ll be killed!”

A dozen hands grasped me and held me back by main force.

“See you – Tuesday!” I cried, and she waved her hand as if she understood.

“It’s – all right – you fellows – I wasn’t trying – to board – the car – ” I said in jerks, as I got my breath again, and I guess they grasped the situation, for they grinned and cleared off, as Mary walked up to me.

“Well, I must say you ran it pretty fine, Maurice,” she remarked accusatively. “And, my! what a fright you look! Why, you haven’t shaved this morning; and your tie’s all crooked!”

I put my hand up to my chin.

“I was only just awake when Anne rang me up,” I explained apologetically. “It’s exactly fifteen and a half minutes since I got out of bed; and I ran the whole way!”

“You look like it, you disreputable young man,” she retorted laughing. “Well, you’d better come right back to breakfast. You can use Jim’s shaving tackle to make yourself presentable.”

She marched me off to the waiting brougham, and gave me the facts of Anne’s hasty departure as we drove rapidly along the quiet, clean-washed, sunny streets.

“The letter came last night, but of course Anne didn’t get it till she came in this morning, about three.”

“Did you sit up for her?”

“Goodness, no! Didn’t you see Jim lend her his latch-key? We knew it would be a late affair, – that’s why we didn’t go, – and that some one would see her safe home, even if you weren’t there. The Amory’s motored her home in their car; they had to wait for the storm to clear. I had been sleeping the sleep of the just for hours, and never even heard her come in. She’ll be dead tired, poor dear, having next to no sleep, and then rushing off like this – ”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Pendennis?” I interpolated. “Was the letter from him?”

“Why, certainly; who should it be from? We didn’t guess it was important, or we’d have sent it round to her at Mrs. Sutherland’s last night. He’s been sick for some days, and Anne believes he’s worse than he makes out. She only sent word to my room a little before eight; and then she was all packed and ready to go. Wild horses wouldn’t keep Anne from her father if he wanted her! We’re to send her trunks on to-morrow.”

While my cousin prattled on, I was recalling the events of a few hours back. I must have been mistaken, after all! What a fool I had been! Why hadn’t I gone straight to Kensington after I left Lord Southbourne? I should have spared myself a good deal of misery. And yet – I thought of Anne’s face as I saw it just now, looking out of the window, pale and agitated, just as it had looked in the moonlight last night. No! I might mentally call myself every kind of idiot, but my conviction remained fixed; it was Anne whom I had seen. Suppose she had left Mrs. Sutherland’s early, as I had decided she must have done, when I racked my brains in the night. It was close on one o’clock when I saw her on the river; she might have landed lower down. I did not know – I do not know even now – if there were any steps like those by Westminster Bridge, where a landing could be effected; but suppose there were, she would be able to get back to Cayleys by the time she had said. But why go on such an expedition at all? Why? That was the maddening question to which I could not even suggest an answer.

“What was it you called to Anne about seeing her on Tuesday?” demanded Mary, who fortunately did not notice my preoccupation.

“I shall break my journey there.”

“Of course. I forgot you were off to-morrow. Where to?”

“St. Petersburg.”

“My! You’ll have a lively time there by all accounts. Here we are; I hadn’t time for breakfast, and I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

As we crossed the hall I saw a woman’s dark cloak, flung across an oak settee. It struck me as being rather like that which Anne – if it were Anne – had worn. Mary picked it up.

“That oughtn’t to be lying there. It’s Mrs. Sutherland’s. Anne borrowed it last night as her own was flimsy for a car. I must send it back to-day. Go right up to Jim’s dressing-room, Maurice; you’ll find all you want there.”

She ran up the stairs before me, the cloak over her arm, little thinking how significant that cloak was to me.

I cut myself rather badly while shaving, and I evinced a poor appetite for breakfast. Jim and Mary, especially Jim, saw fit to rally me on that, and on my solemn visage, which was not exactly beautified by the cut. I took myself off as soon after the meal as I decently could, on the plea of getting through with my packing; though I promised to return in the evening to say good-bye.

I had remembered my appointment with the old Russian, and was desperately anxious not to be out if he should come.

On one point I was determined. I would give no one, not even Mary, so much as a hint of the mysteries that were half-maddening me; at least until I had been able to seek an explanation of them from Anne herself.

My man never turned up, nor had he been there while I was absent, as I elicited by a casual inquiry of Jenkins as to whether any one had called.

I told him when I returned from the Cayleys that I was going away in the morning, and he came to lend a hand with the packing and clearing up.

“No, sir, not a soul’s been; the street door was shut all morning. I’d rather be rung up a dozen times than have bad characters prowling about on the staircase. There’s a lot of wrong ’uns round about Westminster! Seems quieter than usual up here to-day, don’t it, sir? With all the residentials away, except you.”

“Why, is Cassavetti away, too?” I asked, looking up.

“I think he must be, sir, for I haven’t seen or heard anything of him. But I don’t do for him as I do for you and the other gents. He does for himself, and won’t let me have a key, or the run of his rooms. His tenancy’s up in a week or two, and a pretty state we shall find ’em in, I expect! We shan’t miss him like we miss you, sir. Shall you be long away this time?”

“Can’t say, Jenkins. It may be one month or six – or forever,” I added, remembering Carson’s fate.

“Oh, don’t say that, sir,” remonstrated Jenkins.

“I wonder if Mr. Cassavetti is out. I’d like to say good-bye to him,” I resumed presently. “Go up and ring, there’s a good chap, Jenkins. And if he’s there, you might ask him to come down.”

It struck me that I might at least ascertain from Cassavetti what he knew of Anne. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

Jenkins departed on his errand, and half a minute later I heard a yell that brought me to my feet with a bound.

“Hello, what’s up?” I called, and rushed up the stairs, to meet Jenkins at the top, white and shaking.

“Look there, sir,” he stammered. “What is it? ’Twasn’t there this morning, when I turned the lights out, I’ll swear!”

He pointed to the door-sill, through which was oozing a sluggish, sinister-looking stream of dark red fluid.

“It’s – it’s blood!” he whispered.

I had seen that at the first glance.

“Shall I go for the police?”

“No,” I said sharply. “He may be only wounded.”

I went and hammered at the door, avoiding contact with that horrible little pool.

“Cassavetti! Cassavetti! Are you within, man?” I shouted; but there was no answer.

“Stand aside. I’m going to break the lock,” I cried.

I flung myself, shoulder first, against the lock, and caught at the lintel to save myself from falling, as the lock gave and the door swung inwards, – to rebound from something that it struck against.

I pushed it open again, entered sideways through the aperture, and beckoned Jenkins to follow.

Huddled up in a heap, almost behind the door, was the body of a man; the face with its staring eyes was upturned to the light.

It was Cassavetti himself, dead; stabbed to the heart.

CHAPTER VII

A RED-HAIRED WOMAN!

I bent over the corpse and touched the forehead tentatively with my finger-tips. It was stone cold. The man must have been dead many hours.

“Come on; we must send for the police; pull yourself together, man!” I said to Jenkins, who seemed half-paralyzed with fear and horror.

We squeezed back through the small opening, and I gently closed the door, and gripping Jenkins by the arm, marched him down the stairs to my rooms. He was trembling like a leaf, and scarcely able to stand alone.

“We’ve never had such a thing happen before,” he kept mumbling helplessly, over and over again.

I bade him have some whiskey, if he could find any, and remain there to keep an eye on the staircase, while I went across to Scotland Yard; for, through some inexplicable pig-headedness on the part of the police authorities, not even the headquarters was on the telephone.

The Abbey bells were ringing for afternoon service, and there were many people about, churchgoers and holiday makers in their Sunday clothes. The contrast between the sunny streets, with their cheerful crowds, and the silent sinister tragedy of the scene I had just left struck me forcibly.

If I had sent Jenkins on the errand, I guess he would have created quite a sensation. That is why I went myself; and I doubt if any one saw anything unusual about me, as I threaded my way quietly through the throng at Whitehall corner, where the ’buses stop to take up passengers.

A minute or two later I was in an inspector’s room at “the Yard,” giving my information to a little man who heard me out almost in silence, watching me keenly the while.

I imagine that I appeared quite calm. I could hear my own voice stating the bald facts succinctly, but, to my ears, it sounded like the voice of some one else, for it was with a great effort that I retained my composure. I knew that this strange and terrible event which I had been the one to discover was only another link in the chain of circumstances, which, so far as my knowledge went, began less than twenty-four hours ago; a chain that threatened to fetter me, or the girl I loved. For my own safety I cared nothing. My one thought was to protect Anne, who must be, either fortuitously, or of her own will, involved in this tangled web of intrigue.

I should, of course, be subjected to cross-examination, and, on my way to Scotland Yard, I had decided just what I meant to reveal. I would have to relate how I encountered the old Russian, when he mistook my flat for Cassavetti’s; but of the portrait in his possession, of our subsequent interview, and of the incident of the river steps, I would say nothing.

For the present I merely stated how Jenkins and I had discovered the fact that a murder had been committed.

“I dined in company with Mr. Cassavetti last night,” I continued. “But before that – ”

I was going to mention the mysterious Russian; but my auditor checked me.

“Half a minute, Mr. Wynn,” he said, as he filled in some words on a form, and handed it to a police officer waiting inside the door. The man took the paper, saluted, and went out.

“I gather that you did not search the rooms? That when you found the man lying dead there, you simply came out and left everything as it was?”

“Yes. I saw at once we could do nothing; the poor fellow was cold and rigid.”

I felt that I spoke dully, mechanically; but the horror of the thing was so strongly upon me, that, if I had relaxed the self-restraint I was exerting, I think I should have collapsed altogether. This business-like little official, who had received the news that a murder had been committed as calmly as if I had merely told him some one had tried to pick my pocket, could not imagine and must not suspect the significance this ghastly discovery held for me, or the maddening conjectures that were flashing across my mind.

“I wish every one would act as sensibly; it would save us a lot of trouble;” he remarked, closing his note-book, and stowing it, and his fountain pen, in his breast-pocket. “I will return with you now; my men will be there before we are, and the divisional surgeon won’t be long after us.”

I pulled out my keys, but, for all the self-control I thought I was maintaining, my hand trembled so I could not fit the latch-key into the lock.

“Allow me,” said my companion, and took the bunch out of my shaking hand, just as the door was opened from within by a constable who had stationed himself in the lobby.

On the top landing we overtook another constable, and two plain-clothes officers, to whom Jenkins was volubly asserting his belief that it was none other than the assassin who had left the door open in the night.

The minute investigation that followed revealed several significant facts. One was that the assassin must have been in the rooms for some considerable time before Cassavetti returned, – to be struck down the instant he entered. The position of the body, just behind the door, proved that. Also he was still wearing his thin Inverness, and his hat had rolled to a corner of the little hall. He had not even had time to replace his keys in his trousers pocket; they dangled loosely from their chain, and jingled as the body was lifted and moved to the inner room.

The rooms were in great disorder, and had been subjected to an exhaustive search; even the books had been tumbled out of their shelves and thrown on the floor. But ordinary robbery was evidently not the motive, for there were several articles of value scattered about the room; nor had the body been rifled. Cassavetti wore a valuable diamond ring, which was still on his finger, as his gold watch was still in his breast-pocket; it had stopped at ten minutes to twelve.

“Run down, so that shows nothing,” the detective remarked, as he opened it and looked at the works. “Do you know if your friend carried a pocket-book, Mr. Wynn? He did? Then that’s the only thing missing. It was papers they were after, and I presume they got ’em!”

That was obvious enough, for not a scrap of written matter was discovered, nor the weapon with which the crime was committed.

“It’s a fairly straightforward case,” Inspector Freeman said complacently, later, when the gruesome business was over, and the body removed to the mortuary. “A political affair, of course; the man was a Russian revolutionary – we used to call ’em Nihilists a few years ago – and his name was no more Cassavetti than mine is! Now, Mr. Wynn, you told me you knew him, and dined with him last night. Do you care to give me any particulars, or would you prefer to keep them till you give evidence at the inquest?”

“I’ll give them you now, of course,” I answered promptly. “I can’t attend the inquest, for I’m leaving England to-morrow morning.”

“Then you’ll have to postpone your journey,” he said dryly. “For you’re bound to attend the inquest; you’ll be the most important witness. May I ask where you were going?”

I told him, and he nodded.

“So you’re one of Lord Southbourne’s young men? Thought I knew your face, but couldn’t quite place you,” he responded. “Hope you won’t meet with the same fate as your predecessor. A sad affair, that; we got the news on Friday. Sounds like much the same sort of thing as this” – he jerked his head towards the ceiling – “except that Mr. Carson was an Englishman, who never ought to have mixed himself up with a lot like that.”

Again came that expressive jerk of the head, and his small bright eyes regarded me more shrewdly and observantly than ever.