CHAPTER I

THE TRAGEDY OF THE STRANGE ROOM

On the night of July 24th, in the year 1896, between the hours of eleven and twelve, Grangebury, a little-known suburb of London, was wrapped in slumber, as became a respectable neighbourhood whose inhabitants retired regularly shortly after sunset. Not that they had done so on this particular night, for the unusual excitement of a lecture on Dickens, delivered in the tiny Town Hall, had kept them from their beds later than was customary. At a quarter to eleven, a stream of instructed pleasure-seekers, discussing lecture and lecturer, filled the narrow streets; but gradually the crowd diminished until highways and byways were left deserted, save by watchful policemen and vagrant cats. The lamps were then extinguished by order of an economical municipality, the few lights still twinkling from the upper windows of various houses disappeared, and the little town lay under moon and stars as silent and almost as lonely as the spell-bound cities in eastern fables.

Every now and then the footsteps of policemen making their rounds, could be heard echoing along the streets, and sometimes an official lantern would be flashed into dark corners to search out possible burglars or homeless beggars. But no thieves or vagabonds could be discovered; for, on the whole, Grangebury, being a comparatively new suburb, was free from such criminal pests, and the police force there, under the command of Mr. Inspector Lackland had a very easy time. There was nothing on this night to indicate any ending to this Arcadian Age of security and innocence; yet, shortly after eleven o'clock a yawning policeman, leaning against a convenient wall, heard a word cried aloud which told him of crime and danger. The word was "Murder!"

"Murder!" repeated the constable, looking up and down the street.

"Murder!" shrieked the voice again; and then there came the sound of running feet, cries for help, and the quick panting of an exhausted creature. Before the policeman could decide in which direction to move, a dishevelled woman, screaming and gesticulating, came at full speed round the corner, and almost fell into his arms. Her face was pearly white in the moonlight, her eyes were filled with terror, and an almost continuous cry issued from her open mouth without any motion of the lips.

"'Ere! 'ere, wot's this?" said the policeman, seizing the flying creature by the arm. "Wot d'ye mean, screeching out murder like a loonatic? Come now!"

Trembling violently, the woman grappled with the policeman, shrieking the while, and evidently beside herself with terror. Not being gifted with brains, the officer of the law shook her vigorously to brighten her intellect; and she wavered limply in his grasp like a dummy figure.

"Murder!" she whimpered, clawing and clutching at the man. "Lord! it's awful! Ugh! Ugh! I've seen her dead!"

"Seen 'oo dead?" demanded the policeman, stolidly.

"My lodger! Dead! Strangled! Ugh! Ugh!" cried the woman, breathlessly, raising her voice higher at each word. "A corpse in the Yellow Room! Paradise Row! Come and see—come and— Oh, poor soul!" and she fell to wringing her hands again, quivering and panting.

"Wait a bit!" said the jack-in-office, bound by red-tapeism, "the police station is just roun' th' corner. Kim up an' see th' Inspector!"

"I—I—I am innocent!" gasped the woman, hanging back. "Neither 'Tilda nor I laid a finger on her."

"'Oo said y' did?" retorted the man, suspiciously; and, for his own protection he recited an official formula, "Wot y' say now 'ull be used in hevidence agin y'. Kim up, I tell y'." And, grasping her arm, he hurried her fighting and crying round the near corner, and into a red-brick building, over the door of which was a lamp inscribed "Police Station."

In a stuffy room, rendered almost unbearable by the heat of the flaring gas, two men were talking earnestly together, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The one in uniform was a burly, red-faced martinet known in Grangebury as Inspector Lackland. He was too completely hemmed in by red tapeism to count for much; but the other in plain clothes was Absolom Gebb, well known in Scotland Yard as a capable detective, but not so infallible as the miracle-monger of fiction. It was Gebb who brought home the theft of Lady Daleshire's diamonds to herself; who proved Dr. Marner to be guilty of poisoning his wife, in spite of strong evidence to the contrary; who solved nine out of every ten criminal problems submitted to him, and who was the terror of all evil-doers. This tall, lean man with his clean-shaven face and black, observant eyes was an enthusiast in his profession, and loved to ponder over and follow out the intricacies of criminal mysteries. At the present moment he was conversing with Lackland about a recent Anarchist conspiracy, and therefore happened to be in the

Grangebury Police Office when the zealous policeman appeared with his terrified prisoner. She cried out when she was thrust into the room, and, confronted by inspector and detective, covered her face with her hands.

"Hey! What!" said Lackland, in his rasping voice. "What's all this about?"

"Case of murder, sir," jerked out the policeman, pushing forward the prisoner. "Paradise Row! Woman strangled!"

"Murder?" cried Gebb, pricking up his ears at the ominous word.

"Murder!" screeched the woman, and fell into a chair. Evidently she had received a shock and was on the verge of hysterics, for she began to babble and weep copiously. Accustomed to deal with this sort of emotion, Lackland seized a jug of water standing near his desk, and dashed the contents into her face. The remedy was efficacious, for with a gasp and a shiver the woman recovered her self-control and tongue, also her inherent feminine vanity. "You brute!" she screamed, jumping up wrathfully. "My best bonnet's spoilt."

"Attention!" roared the inspector in his sternest military manner; "none of this nonsense here. What about this murder in—"

"I didn't kill her!" interrupted the woman, wiping her face. "'Tilda and me knew nothing about it till we found her strangled when we came back from the lecture."

"Did you attend the lecture on Dickens in the Town Hall?" asked Gebb.

"Yes, I did, sir; both me and 'Tilda, who is my servant, went."

"What is your name?" asked the detective, with professional sharpness.

"Maria Presk."

"Married or single?"

"Married once, single now," sighed the woman. "I am what you call a widow, sir; and I let lodgings in Paradise Row."

"Was this dead woman a lodger of yours?"

"Miss Ligram, you mean? Yes. Miss Ligram was in the first floor front."

"And who killed Miss Ligram?" asked Gebb, looking keenly at Mrs. Presk.

The good lady turned ever paler than before.

"I—I don't know, sir," she stammered, with a scared look. "I can take my stand in any court of—"

"Face this way, ma'am!" interrupted Lackland, who was indignant at the way in which Gebb was usurping his authority. "I'm in charge of this office. I'm the officer to take your evidence. Mr. Gebb! Discipline!"

"Alright! Go ahead!" replied the detective, inwardly cursing the too methodical procedure of his superior, "I don't want to interfere. But," he added with emphasis, "I think we should go at once and look at the corpse."

"All in good time, Mr. Gebb. More haste, less speed!" said Lackland, crisply.

"And the more delay, the less chance of getting at the truth," retorted Gebb.

The fact was that Gebb's sporting instincts were roused, and he wanted to be off on the trail while it was yet fresh. Every moment was of importance. Yet, as he was not in charge of the case, he was forced to stand idly by and hear the blundering inspector putting a lot of irrelevant questions—good for nothing, but wasting time. However, Gebb managed to extract some grains of wheat out of a vast quantity of chaff, and in a roundabout way—thanks to the inspector's method of questioning—learned the following facts, which were sufficient to inform him how matters stood at present.

Miss Ligram was—or rather, had been, since she no longer existed—a lodger in the house of Mrs. Presk, No. 13, Paradise Row. She was a quiet, inoffensive old lady, who gave little trouble, and who remained by preference in her own room. On the night of the 24th July, Mrs. Presk and her servant, Matilda Crane, had attended a lecture delivered in the Town Hall. The lecture—an amusing one on Charles Dickens and his works—had afforded them much pleasure, and they returned at eleven o'clock to Paradise Row in a state of high spirits. On passing round to the back entrance they saw that a light was still burning in Miss Ligram's sitting-room, and, wondering at the sight—for the lodger usually retired early—Mrs. Presk, on entering the house, had gone upstairs to see if anything was wrong. To her horror she found Miss Ligram dead, with a cord round her neck. Terrified by the sight, she had called up Matilda Crane, who, more impressionable and less hardened, had promptly fainted away. Mrs. Presk, a woman of energy and resource, had immediately sought the aid of the police, and now

insisted that Lackland and his subordinates should remove the corpse and capture the murderer.

"That last is easier said than done," was Gebb's comment on this demand. "By this time the assassin is far enough away. However, there's no time to be lost in looking at the scene of the crime, as I suggested."

"Quite so," said Lackland, gruffly. "No time to waste, ma'am"—to Mrs. Presk. "March! Gebb, come with me and catch the murderer!"

This proposition recommending itself to Mrs. Presk, she left the police-office with inspector and detective, and led the pair to her house, which was situated down a side street no great distance away. As the front door was closed, she conducted the men round the back way, through the kitchen, and up the stairs into Miss Ligram's sitting-room. On the mat in the passage, 'Tilda, the servant, lay still insensible, so Mrs. Presk lifted her in her strong arms and carried her to the kitchen to be revived as speedily as possible, in case, as was almost certain, her evidence might be wanted. In the mean time Lackland and Gebb had entered the room wherein the crime had been committed, and were amazed at the splendour of the apartment. For colouring and evidence of wealth it was like a scene out of the Arabian Nights.

The room was of no great size, with a window looking out on to the street, and two doors, one leading in from a narrow passage, the other giving admittance into an inner apartment, evidently a bedroom. The walls were draped with rich hangings of satin, yellow as a buttercup in hue, and a tent-like roof of the same tint and material was drawn in many folds to a dome-like centre, whence depended by a brass chain an Arabian lantern studded with knobs of yellow glass, which, illuminated from within, shone like pale topaz stones. Tables, chairs, and couches were framed of gilded cane, with coverlets and quilts of yellow silk, and the ground of the carpet was of the same colour, embroidered with bunches of primrose flowers. Also there were tall narrow mirrors framed in yellow satin, clusters of daffodils in grotesque Chinese vases of a deep yellow shade, and numerous candles—all lighted—in candelabra silver gilt. Near the window, from a brass chafing-dish standing on a tripod of the same metal, curled up a thin white vapour diffusing a heavy rich perfume, and everywhere lay

nicknacks of gold and silver more or less costly; fur mats and rugs dyed yellow, and many books covered in a homely fashion with yellow paper. The prevailing colour of the room was a violent yellow; and this, with the glare of the candles, the glitter of the mirrors, the scent of the flowers, and the strong perfume of the incense, made the heads of the onlookers reel. Even the matter-of-fact inspector was impressed by the uncanny magnificence of the place.

"By George, sir!" said he to Gebb, with the instincts of an old soldier, "it's like a Mandalay Pagoda. If t'was in Burmah, now, shouldn't mind looting it."

Gebb was rubbing his hands, with sparkling eyes.

"By the sight of it," he said joyfully, "this is going to be a romantic case. I only hope I'll be lucky enough to get charge of it. Did you furnish this room, ma'am?" he asked, turning sharply to Mrs. Presk, whose pale grey face appeared over the shoulder of the burly, staring inspector.

"No, I didn't," retorted the landlady. "Miss Ligram furnished it herself, and called it her Yellow Boudoir."

CHAPTER II

THE DEATH-CARD

If the appearance of the room was amazing, that of the dead woman was not less so. The body was lying loosely in an armchair, with sprawling legs and arms, like a saw-dust doll. The head lay limply on the shoulder, and a yellow cord—evidently torn from a near curtain—was bound tightly round the lean throat The distorted face, the protruding tongue, the bulging eyes, and discoloured skin, all showed that the poor creature had been strangled in the most remorseless manner. Before her was placed a low cane table, on the yellow coverlet of which a pack of cards was spread out face downward, but in the lap of the dead woman lay another card with the face upward. It was the ace of spades. Mrs. Presk noting it for the first time gave a screech of mingled horror and surprise.

"The death-card!" she gasped, stepping back. "Lord! how awful!"

"What do you mean by the death-card?" asked Gebb, sharply.

"Why!" said Mrs. Presk, astonished at the question, which to her seemed unnecessary, "it's the card in the pack as stands for death. When you turn up the ace of spades you know it's time to order your coffin."

"Rubbish!" said Gebb. "Humbug!" roared the inspector; and they both shrugged their shoulders to show their contempt for such superstition.

Mrs. Presk shook her head gloomily. "Talk won't alter the matter!" she said, pointing to the card. "There's the death-token, and there's the corpse; what do you make of that?"

"I make this," said Gebb, dryly; "that the murderer must be a person of imagination."

"He ought to be shot, the blackguard," growled Lackland, "play-acting with a corpse. I wonder what they were fooling with cards for? Looks like a madman's work to me. What do you say, Gebb?"

Gebb said nothing at the moment. He was examining the dead woman, who was arrayed with unusual splendour quite in keeping with the room, yet too richly for the front parlour of a fifth-rate lodging-house.

Miss Ligram's body was that of an old woman close upon sixty years of age, with a wrinkled face, and a profusion of silvery white hair turned back in the style of Marie Antoinette. It was dressed in an old-fashioned dinner-dress of white silk, trimmed with valuable lace, and this was designed so as to show the lean neck and bony arms of the wearer. Anything more incongruous than that poor clay clothed in such costly garments can scarcely be imagined. It seemed to accentuate the grimness of the crime, almost to elevate a sordid murder to the level of tragedy.

"Did Miss Ligram usually dress like this?" asked Gebb, turning to Mrs. Presk.

"Every evening!" replied the landlady, promptly.

"She must have been eccentric!" was Gebb's comment on this reply.

"Very eccentric, sir. I don't think she was quite right here." And the landlady tapped her head significantly.

"A Crazy Jane?" questioned Lackland.

"She was and she wasn't," answered Mrs. Presk, enigmatically. "She wasn't mad enough to be shut up, but she acted in a queerer way than most people. Look at this room, and all its lights; every night it was the same. She usually dined off a chop and potatoes, yet she dressed in silk and lace to eat them. And—" Thus far Mrs. Presk with her eyes on the corpse had proceeded volubly, when suddenly—still staring at the dead woman—she stopped, and her jaw dropped. Motionless as a stone image she stood looking; and then with an ejaculation she ran out of the room. The detective and the inspector looked at her vanishing form, looked at the corpse, looked at one another, and failed to understand her action.

"What the devil does that mean?" said Gebb, with surly amazement.

"Only the devil knows," retorted Lackland, grimly; "but if that jade is hiding anything of importance the sooner we get it out of her the better. You're a bit of a lawyer, Gebb, so I'll bring back Mrs. Presk, and you'll examine her!"

"No!" said Gebb, detaining his friend; "let her go now. I'll get the truth out of her to-morrow."

"By George you will, will you!" grumbled Lackland, annoyed that his advice was not taken; "and what if you don't get charge of the case?"

"I'll grin and bear it, I suppose!" retorted the other; "but I'll work my hardest to be given the handling of this affair, for it strikes me that it will prove a sight more difficult than either of us guesses. This room's a rum one, ain't it? And that pack of cards aren't there for nothing. Then there is the dead woman's dress, and the landlady's queer conduct. Oh, you can bet, inspector, there's a jolly lot more in these things than meets the eye, and I'm the man to find out what they all mean."

"You can blow your own trumpet, I see!" said Lackland, dryly.

Gebb laughed, in nowise embarrassed. "My trumpeter's dead from over-work," he replied coolly. "If I don't praise myself no one else will. However, I'll see to-morrow if the big wigs will let me run this show in my own way. Now you go and look round the house, Lackland, and leave me here to examine the room."

"What about the body?" asked the inspector, dominated by Gebb's strong will.

"We'll let it lie here as it is, until the doctor comes. I told that policeman who brought Mrs. Presk to the station to knock up an M.D."

"By George, sir, one would think you were inspector here!" spluttered the indignant Lackland. "Am I nobody?"

"You're a good fellow—too good to get your monkey up for nothing. You let me look after this murder myself. I'll do you a good turn some other time."

"Well, I'll let you have your own way for once. You're no fool, I will say," muttered Lackland, and withdrew to look through the house. He knew that Gebb was very clever, and in his heart was not unwilling to avail himself of the detective's assistance. Therefore, he left him to his own devices, and set out to seek Mrs. Presk in the kitchen. Having found her, he made her show him the house, but judiciously refrained from commenting on her late conduct. He left the elucidation of that to Gebb.

Left to himself, the detective examined the dead woman and the room with minute attention to detail, keeping up a running commentary the while on his discoveries. He had a habit of talking aloud when alone, as if to emphasize his opinions, and, while examining the boudoir, soliloquized with appropriate actions like a stage-player.

"The furniture is quite in order," he murmured, his keen eyes roving hither and thither. "Therefore there can have been no struggle. The murderer was no intruder, but was expected. A visitor! perhaps a friend! He—let me presume the criminal to be a man—he no doubt entered, and was kindly received by the deceased. Here is a bottle, and two glasses with wine in each; so the two were friendly enough to drink in company. There is a chair on either side of this table whereon the cards are laid out The dead body remains in the one nearest the wall; so I expect the visitor sat in the other with his back to the door. Were they playing cards? I think not, as in that case the whole pack would not be laid out in this fashion. I have it!" cried Gebb, smiting his open palm with his fist, "the visitor was telling Miss Ligram's fortune. He placed the cards in that position and told her to draw one. She drew the ace of spades, which yet lies in her lap, and when face to face with the omen of death he killed her."