The Clue of the Twisted Candle

Grace rose from the piano as Kara entered the little drawing-room and murmured a few conventional expressions of regret that the visitor’s stay had been so short. That there was no sincerity in that regret Kara, for one, had no doubt. He was a man singularly free from illusions.

They stayed talking a little while.

“I will see if your chauffeur is asleep,” said John, and went out of the room.

There was a little silence after he had gone.

“I don’t think you are very glad to see me,” said Kara. His frankness was a little embarrassing to the girl and she flushed slightly.

“I am always glad to see you, Mr. Kara, or any other of my husband’s friends,” she said steadily.

He inclined his head.

“To be a friend of your husband is something,” he said, and then as if remembering something, “I wanted to take a book away with me—I wonder if your husband would mind my getting it?”

“I will find it for you.”

“Don’t let me bother you,” he protested, “I know my way.”

Without waiting for her permission he left the girl with the unpleasant feeling that he was taking rather much for granted. He was gone less than a minute and returned with a book under his arm.

“I have not asked Lexman’s permission to take it,” he said, “but I am rather interested in the author. Oh, here you are,” he turned to John who came in at that moment. “Might I take this book on Mexico?” he asked. “I will return it in the morning.”

They stood at the door, watching the tail light of the motor disappear down the drive; and returned in silence to the drawing room.

“You look worried, dear,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

He smiled faintly.

“Is it the money?” she asked anxiously.

For a moment he was tempted to tell her of the letter. He stifled the temptation realizing that she would not consent to his going out if she knew the truth.

“It is nothing very much,” he said. “I have to go down to Beston Tracey to meet the last train. I am expecting some proofs down.”

He hated lying to her, and even an innocuous lie of this character was repugnant to him.

“I’m afraid you have had a dull evening,” he said, “Kara was not very amusing.”

She looked at him thoughtfully.

“He has not changed very much,” she said slowly.

“He’s a wonderfully handsome chap, isn’t he?” he asked in a tone of admiration. “I can’t understand what you ever saw in a fellow like me, when you had a man who was not only rich, but possibly the best-looking man in the world.”

She shivered a little.

“I have seen a side of Mr. Kara that is not particularly beautiful,” she said. “Oh, John, I am afraid of that man!”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Afraid?” he asked. “Good heavens, Grace, what a thing to say! Why I believe he’d do anything for you.”

“That is exactly what I am afraid of,” she said in a low voice.

She had a reason which she did not reveal. She had first met Remington Kara in Salonika two years before. She had been doing a tour through the Balkans with her father—it was the last tour the famous archeologist made—and had met the man who was fated to have such an influence upon her life at a dinner given by the American Consul.

Many were the stories which were told about this Greek with his Jove-like face, his handsome carriage and his limitless wealth. It was said that his mother was an American lady who had been captured by Albanian brigands and was sold to one of the Albanian chiefs who fell in love with her, and for her sake became a Protestant. He had been educated at Yale and at Oxford, and was known to be the possessor of vast wealth, and was virtually king of a hill district forty miles out of Durazzo. Here he reigned supreme, occupying a beautiful house which he had built by an Italian architect, and the fittings and appointments of which had been imported from the luxurious centres of the world.

In Albania they called him “Kara Rumo,” which meant “The Black Roman,” for no particular reason so far as any one could judge, for his skin was as fair as a Saxon’s, and his close-cropped curls were almost golden.

He had fallen in love with Grace Terrell. At first his attentions had amused her, and then there came a time when they frightened her, for the man’s fire and passion had been unmistakable. She had made it plain to him that he could base no hopes upon her returning his love, and, in a scene which she even now shuddered to recall, he had revealed something of his wild and reckless nature. On the following day she did not see him, but two days later, when returning through the Bazaar from a dance which had been given by the Governor General, her carriage was stopped, she was forcibly dragged from its interior, and her cries were stifled with a cloth impregnated with a scent of a peculiar aromatic sweetness. Her assailants were about to thrust her into another carriage, when a party of British bluejackets who had been on leave came upon the scene, and, without knowing anything of the nationality of the girl, had rescued her.

In her heart of hearts she did not doubt Kara’s complicity in this medieval attempt to gain a wife, but of this adventure she had told her husband nothing. Until her marriage she was constantly receiving valuable presents which she as constantly returned to the only address she knew—Kara’s estate at Lemazo. A few months after her marriage she had learned through the newspapers that this “leader of Greek society” had purchased a big house near Cadogan Square, and then, to her amazement and to her dismay, Kara had scraped an acquaintance with her husband even before the honeymoon was over.

His visits had been happily few, but the growing intimacy between John and this strange undisciplined man had been a source of constant distress to her.

Should she, at this, the eleventh hour, tell her husband all her fears and her suspicions?

She debated the point for some time. And never was she nearer taking him into her complete confidence than she was as he sat in the big armchair by the side of the piano, a little drawn of face, more than a little absorbed in his own meditations. Had he been less worried she might have spoken. As it was, she turned the conversation to his last work, the big mystery story which, if it would not make his fortune, would mean a considerable increase to his income.

At a quarter to eleven he looked at his watch, and rose. She helped him on with his coat. He stood for some time irresolutely.

“Is there anything you have forgotten?” she asked.

He asked himself whether he should follow Kara’s advice. In any circumstance it was not a pleasant thing to meet a ferocious little man who had threatened his life, and to meet him unarmed was tempting Providence. The whole thing was of course ridiculous, but it was ridiculous that he should have borrowed, and it was ridiculous that the borrowing should have been necessary, and yet he had speculated on the best of advice—it was Kara’s advice.

The connection suddenly occurred to him, and yet Kara had not directly suggested that he should buy Roumanian gold shares, but had merely spoken glowingly of their prospects. He thought a moment, and then walked back slowly into the study, pulled open the drawer of his desk, took out the sinister little Browning, and slipped it into his pocket.

“I shan’t be long, dear,” he said, and kissing the girl he strode out into the darkness.

Kara sat back in the luxurious depths of his car, humming a little tune, as the driver picked his way cautiously over the uncertain road. The rain was still falling, and Kara had to rub the windows free of the mist which had gathered on them to discover where he was. From time to time he looked out as though he expected to see somebody, and then with a little smile he remembered that he had changed his original plan, and that he had fixed the waiting room of Lewes junction as his rendezvous.

Here it was that he found a little man muffled up to the ears in a big top coat, standing before the dying fire. He started as Kara entered and at a signal followed him from the room.

The stranger was obviously not English. His face was sallow and peaked, his cheeks were hollow, and the beard he wore was irregular-almost unkempt.

Kara led the way to the end of the dark platform, before he spoke.

“You have carried out my instructions?” he asked brusquely.

The language he spoke was Arabic, and the other answered him in that language.

“Everything that you have ordered has been done, Effendi,” he said humbly.

“You have a revolver?”

The man nodded and patted his pocket.

“Loaded?”

“Excellency,” asked the other, in surprise, “what is the use of a revolver, if it is not loaded?”

“You understand, you are not to shoot this man,” said Kara. “You are merely to present the pistol. To make sure, you had better unload it now.”

Wonderingly the man obeyed, and clicked back the ejector.

“I will take the cartridges,” said Kara, holding out his hand.

He slipped the little cylinders into his pocket, and after examining the weapon returned it to its owner.

“You will threaten him,” he went on. “Present the revolver straight at his heart. You need do nothing else.”

The man shuffled uneasily.

“I will do as you say, Effendi,” he said. “But—”

“There are no ‘buts,’” replied the other harshly. “You are to carry out my instructions without any question. What will happen then you shall see. I shall be at hand. That I have a reason for this play be assured.”

“But suppose he shoots?” persisted the other uneasily.

“He will not shoot,” said Kara easily. “Besides, his revolver is not loaded. Now you may go. You have a long walk before you. You know the way?”

The man nodded.

“I have been over it before,” he said confidently.

Kara returned to the big limousine which had drawn up some distance from the station. He spoke a word or two to the chauffeur in Greek, and the man touched his hat.

CHAPTER II

Assistant Commissioner of Police T. X. Meredith did not occupy offices in New Scotland Yard. It is the peculiarity of public offices that they are planned with the idea of supplying the margin of space above all requirements and that on their completion they are found wholly inadequate to house the various departments which mysteriously come into progress coincident with the building operations.

“T. X.,” as he was known by the police forces of the world, had a big suite of offices in Whitehall. The house was an old one facing the Board of Trade and the inscription on the ancient door told passers-by that this was the “Public Prosecutor, Special Branch.”

The duties of T. X. were multifarious. People said of him—and like most public gossip, this was probably untrue—that he was the head of the “illegal” department of Scotland Yard. If by chance you lost the keys of your safe, T. X. could supply you (so popular rumour ran) with a burglar who would open that safe in half an hour.

If there dwelt in England a notorious individual against whom the police could collect no scintilla of evidence to justify a prosecution, and if it was necessary for the good of the community that that person should be deported, it was T. X. who arrested the obnoxious person, hustled him into a cab and did not loose his hold upon his victim until he had landed him on the indignant shores of an otherwise friendly power.

It is very certain that when the minister of a tiny power which shall be nameless was suddenly recalled by his government and brought to trial in his native land for putting into circulation spurious bonds, it was somebody from the department which T. X. controlled, who burgled His Excellency’s house, burnt the locks from his safe and secured the necessary incriminating evidence.

I say it is fairly certain and here I am merely voicing the opinion of very knowledgeable people indeed, heads of public departments who speak behind their hands, mysterious under-secretaries of state who discuss things in whispers in the remote corners of their clubrooms and the more frank views of American correspondents who had no hesitation in putting those views into print for the benefit of their readers.

That T. X. had a more legitimate occupation we know, for it was that flippant man whose outrageous comment on the Home Office Administration is popularly supposed to have sent one Home Secretary to his grave, who traced the Deptford murderers through a labyrinth of perjury and who brought to book Sir Julius Waglite though he had covered his trail of defalcation through the balance sheets of thirty-four companies.

On the night of March 3rd, T. X. sat in his inner office interviewing a disconsolate inspector of metropolitan police, named Mansus.

In appearance T. X. conveyed the impression of extreme youth, for his face was almost boyish and it was only when you looked at him closely and saw the little creases about his eyes, the setting of his straight mouth, that you guessed he was on the way to forty. In his early days he had been something of a poet, and had written a slight volume of “Woodland Lyrics,” the mention of which at this later stage was sufficient to make him feel violently unhappy.

In manner he was tactful but persistent, his language was at times marked by a violent extravagance and he had had the distinction of having provoked, by certain correspondence which had seen the light, the comment of a former Home Secretary that “it was unfortunate that Mr. Meredith did not take his position with the seriousness which was expected from a public official.”

His language was, as I say, under great provocation, violent and unusual. He had a trick of using words which never were on land or sea, and illustrating his instruction or his admonition with the quaintest phraseology.

Now he was tilted back in his office chair at an alarming angle, scowling at his distressed subordinate who sat on the edge of a chair at the other side of his desk.

“But, T. X.,” protested the Inspector, “there was nothing to be found.”

It was the outrageous practice of Mr. Meredith to insist upon his associates calling him by his initials, a practice which had earnt disapproval in the highest quarters.

“Nothing is to be found!” he repeated wrathfully. “Curious Mike!”

He sat up with a suddenness which caused the police officer to start back in alarm.

“Listen,” said T. X., grasping an ivory paperknife savagely in his hand and tapping his blotting-pad to emphasize his words, “you’re a pie!”

“I’m a policeman,” said the other patiently.

“A policeman!” exclaimed the exasperated T. X. “You’re worse than a pie, you’re a slud! I’m afraid I shall never make a detective of you,” he shook his head sorrowfully at the smiling Mansus who had been in the police force when T. X. was a small boy at school, “you are neither Wise nor Wily; you combine the innocence of a Baby with the grubbiness of a County Parson—you ought to be in the choir.”

At this outrageous insult Mr. Mansus was silent; what he might have said, or what further provocation he might have received may be never known, for at that moment, the Chief himself walked in.

The Chief of the Police in these days was a grey man, rather tired, with a hawk nose and deep eyes that glared under shaggy eyebrows and he was a terror to all men of his department save to T. X. who respected nothing on earth and very little elsewhere. He nodded curtly to Mansus.

“Well, T. X.,” he said, “what have you discovered about our friend Kara?”

He turned from T. X. to the discomforted inspector.

“Very little,” said T. X. “I’ve had Mansus on the job.”

“And you’ve found nothing, eh?” growled the Chief.

“He has found all that it is possible to find,” said T. X. “We do not perform miracles in this department, Sir George, nor can we pick up the threads of a case at five minutes’ notice.”

Sir George Haley grunted.

“Mansus has done his best,” the other went on easily, “but it is rather absurd to talk about one’s best when you know so little of what you want.”

Sir George dropped heavily into the arm-chair, and stretched out his long thin legs.

“What I want,” he said, looking up at the ceiling and putting his hands together, “is to discover something about one Remington Kara, a wealthy Greek who has taken a house in Cadogan Square, who has no particular position in London society and therefore has no reason for coming here, who openly expresses his detestation of the climate, who has a magnificent estate in some wild place in the Balkans, who is an excellent horseman, a magnificent shot and a passable aviator.”

T. X. nodded to Mansus and with something of gratitude in his eyes the inspector took his leave.

“Now Mansus has departed,” said T. X., sitting himself on the edge of his desk and selecting with great care a cigarette from the case he took from his pocket, “let me know something of the reason for this sudden interest in the great ones of the earth.”

Sir George smiled grimly.

“I have the interest which is the interest of my department,” he said. “That is to say I want to know a great deal about abnormal people. We have had an application from him,” he went on, “which is rather unusual. Apparently he is in fear of his life from some cause or other and wants to know if he can have a private telephone connection between his house and the central office. We told him that he could always get the nearest Police Station on the ‘phone, but that doesn’t satisfy him. He has made bad friends with some gentleman of his own country who sooner or later, he thinks, will cut his throat.”

T. X. nodded.

“All this I know,” he said patiently, “if you will further unfold the secret dossier, Sir George, I am prepared to be thrilled.”

“There is nothing thrilling about it,” growled the older man, rising, “but I remember the Macedonian shooting case in South London and I don’t want a repetition of that sort of thing. If people want to have blood feuds, let them take them outside the metropolitan area.”

“By all means,” said T. X., “let them. Personally, I don’t care where they go. But if that is the extent of your information I can supplement it. He has had extensive alterations made to the house he bought in Cadogan Square; the room in which he lives is practically a safe.”

Sir George raised his eyebrows.

“A safe,” he repeated.

T. X. nodded.

“A safe,” he said; “its walls are burglar proof, floor and roof are reinforced concrete, there is one door which in addition to its ordinary lock is closed by a sort of steel latch which he lets fall when he retires for the night and which he opens himself personally in the morning. The window is unreachable, there are no communicating doors, and altogether the room is planned to stand a siege.”

The Chief Commissioner was interested.

“Any more?” he asked.

“Let me think,” said T. X., looking up at the ceiling. “Yes, the interior of his room is plainly furnished, there is a big fireplace, rather an ornate bed, a steel safe built into the wall and visible from its outer side to the policeman whose beat is in that neighborhood.”

“How do you know all this?” asked the Chief Commissioner.

“Because I’ve been in the room,” said T. X. simply, “having by an underhand trick succeeded in gaining the misplaced confidence of Kara’s housekeeper, who by the way”—he turned round to his desk and scribbled a name on the blotting-pad—“will be discharged to-morrow and must be found a place.”

“Is there any—er—?” began the Chief.

“Funny business?” interrupted T. X., “not a bit. House and man are quite normal save for these eccentricities. He has announced his intention of spending three months of the year in England and nine months abroad. He is very rich, has no relations, and has a passion for power.”

“Then he’ll be hung,” said the Chief, rising.

“I doubt it,” said the other, “people with lots of money seldom get hung. You only get hung for wanting money.”

“Then you’re in some danger, T. X.,” smiled the Chief, “for according to my account you’re always more or less broke.”

“A genial libel,” said T. X., “but talking about people being broke, I saw John Lexman to-day—you know him!”

The Chief Commissioner nodded.

“I’ve an idea he’s rather hit for money. He was in that Roumanian gold swindle, and by his general gloom, which only comes to a man when he’s in love (and he can’t possibly be in love since he’s married) or when he’s in debt, I fear that he is still feeling the effect of that rosy adventure.”

A telephone bell in the corner of the room rang sharply, and T. X. picked up the receiver. He listened intently.

“A trunk call,” he said over his shoulder to the departing commissioner, “it may be something interesting.”

A little pause; then a hoarse voice spoke to him. “Is that you, T. X.?”

“That’s me,” said the Assistant Commissioner, commonly.

“It’s John Lexman speaking.”

“I shouldn’t have recognized your voice,” said T. X., “what is wrong with you, John, can’t you get your plot to went?”

“I want you to come down here at once,” said the voice urgently, and even over the telephone T. X. recognized the distress. “I have shot a man, killed him!”

T. X. gasped.

“Good Lord,” he said, “you are a silly ass!”

CHAPTER III

In the early hours of the morning a tragic little party was assembled in the study at Beston Priory. John Lexman, white and haggard, sat on the sofa with his wife by his side. Immediate authority as represented by a village constable was on duty in the passage outside, whilst T. X. sitting at the table with a writing pad and a pencil was briefly noting the evidence.

The author had sketched the events of the day. He had described his interview with the money-lender the day before and the arrival of the letter.

“You have the letter!” asked T. X.

John Lexman nodded.

“I am glad of that,” said the other with a sigh of relief, “that will save you from a great deal of unpleasantness, my poor old chap. Tell me what happened afterward.”

“I reached the village,” said John Lexman, “and passed through it. There was nobody about, the rain was still falling very heavily and indeed I didn’t meet a single soul all the evening. I reached the place appointed about five minutes before time. It was the corner of Eastbourne Road on the station side and there I found Vassalaro waiting. I was rather ashamed of myself at meeting him at all under these conditions, but I was very keen on his not coming to the house for I was afraid it would upset Grace. What made it all the more ridiculous was this infernal pistol which was in my pocket banging against my side with every step I took as though to nudge me to an understanding of my folly.”

“Where did you meet Vassalaro?” asked T. X.

“He was on the other side of the Eastbourne Road and crossed the road to meet me. At first he was very pleasant though a little agitated but afterward he began to behave in a most extraordinary manner as though he was lashing himself up into a fury which he didn’t feel. I promised him a substantial amount on account, but he grew worse and worse and then, suddenly, before I realised what he was doing, he was brandishing a revolver in my face and uttering the most extraordinary threats. Then it was I remembered Kara’s warning.”

“Kara,” said T. X. quickly.

“A man I know and who was responsible for introducing me to Vassalaro. He is immensely wealthy.”

“I see,” said T. X., “go on.”

“I remembered this warning,” the other proceeded, “and I thought it worth while trying it out to see if it had any effect upon the little man. I pulled the pistol from my pocket and pointed it at him, but that only seemed to make it—and then I pressed the trigger....

“To my horror four shots exploded before I could recover sufficient self-possession to loosen my hold of the butt. He fell without a word. I dropped the revolver and knelt by his side. I could tell he was dangerously wounded, and indeed I knew at that moment that nothing would save him. My pistol had been pointed in the region of his heart....”

He shuddered, dropping his face in his hands, and the girl by his side, encircling his shoulder with a protecting arm, murmured something in his ear. Presently he recovered.

“He wasn’t quite dead. I heard him murmur something but I wasn’t able to distinguish what he said. I went straight to the village and told the constable and had the body removed.”