The Mystery of M. Felix

CHAPTER V.

DR. LAMB TELLS THE CONSTABLES AND MRS. MIDDLEMORE WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MR. FELIX

Arrived once more in that comfortable apartment, they shook off the snow dust which had blown in upon them from the street. Then Constable Nightingale assumed a judicial attitude.

"In case of anything being wrong," he said, "we must all be agreed upon what has took place before it's discovered."

"Before what's discovered?" cried Mrs. Middlemore.

"That we've got to find out."

"It's ten to one there's nothing to find out," said Constable Wigg.

"It's ten to one there is," retorted Constable Nightingale. "I go a bit deeper than you, Wigg; but whether there is or there ain't, it's always well to be prepared with a story. I've got something in my mind that you don't seem to have in yours; what it is you shall hear presently. Mrs. Middlemore, going out for her supper-beer at her usual hour, about half-past eleven shuts the street-door behind her, and does not return till past twelve. Is that correct, ma'am?"

"Quite correct, Mr. Nightingale; but what are you driving at?"

"All in good time, my dear. You leave the house safe, and you are sure you shut the street-door tight?"

"I'll take my oath of it."

"It may come to that; I don't want to scare you, but it may come to that. When you come back with the supper-beer you find the street-door open?"

"But I don't."

"Excuse me, you do; it's necessary."

"Oh!"

"And I'll tell you why. When you come home you find Wigg and me here, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You've heard how we got in, but it's a fact that we had no business here unless we was called in. We must have been called in by somebody, and whoever it was must have had a reason for inviting us. Is that sound, Wigg?"

"As sound as a rock, Nightingale."

"Mr. Felix didn't call us in, and there's no one else in the house while you've gone for your supper-beer?" Mrs. Middlemore coughed, which caused Constable Nightingale to ask, "What's that for?"

"It ain't for me to say," replied Mrs. Middlemore. "What you want to git at is that there's only two people living regularly in the 'ouse, Mr. Felix and me. If Mr. Felix makes it worth my while to keep my own counsel, I'm going to keep it, and I don't care what happens."

"I wouldn't persuade you otherwise. Gentlemen that's so liberal with their money as him ain't to be met with every day. Very well, then. There's only you and Mr. Felix living in the house, and he don't call us in. It's you that does that. Why? You shut the street-door tight when you went out; you find it open when you come back, and at the same time you see a man with a red handkercher round his neck run out of the house. Of course you're alarmed; Wigg happens to be near, and you call him; he, thinking he may want assistance, calls me; and that's how it is we're both here at the present moment. That's pretty straight, isn't it?"

Both his hearers agreed that it was, and he proceeded:

"But we mustn't forget that we've been here some time already. I make it, by my silver watch that I won in a raffle, twenty minutes to two. Your kitchen clock, Mrs. Middlemore, is a little slow."

"Do what I will," said Mrs. Middlemore, "I can't make it go right."

"Some clocks," observed Constable Nightingale, with a touch of humor-he was on the best of terms with himself, having, in a certain sense, snuffed out Constable Wigg-"are like some men and women; they're either too slow or too fast, and try your hardest you can't alter 'em. We must be able to account for a little time between past twelve o'clock and now; there's no need to be too particular; such a night as this is 'll excuse a lot. I'll take the liberty of stopping your clock and putting the hands back to twelve, so that you won't be fixed to a half-hour or so. The clock stopped while you was getting your supper-beer, of course. Likewise I stop my watch, and put the hands back to about the same time. Now, what do I do when Wigg calls me here? I hear what you, ma'am, have to say about the street-door being open and a man running out and almost upsetting you, and I make tracks after him. I don't catch him, and then I come back here, and that brings us up to this very minute. Plain sailing, so far. You'll bear it in mind, you and Wigg, won't you?"

"I've got it," said Wigg, "at my fingers' ends."

"So 'ave I," said Mrs. Middlemore.

"But what are you going to do now?" asked Constable Wigg.

"To find the cat," replied Constable Nightingale.

"Going to take it up?" This, with a fine touch of sarcasm.

"No, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, speaking very seriously. "I want to make sure where it got that red color from, because, not to put too fine a point on it, it's blood."

Mrs. Middlemore uttered a stifled scream, and clapped her hands on her hips.

"That," continued Constable Nightingale, in a tone of severity to his brother constable, "is what I had in my mind and you didn't have in yours. Why, if you look with only half an eye at them stains on the floor, you can't mistake 'em."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," moaned Mrs. Middlemore, "we shall all be murdered in our beds?"

"Nothing of the sort, my dear," said Constable Nightingale; "we'll look after you. Pull yourself together, there's a good soul, and answer me one or two questions. I know that Mr. Felix comes home late sometimes."

"Very often, very often."

"And that, as well as being generous with his money, he likes his pleasures. Now, are you sure he was at home when you went out for your beer?"

"I'm certain of it."

"And that he did not go out before you come back?"

"How can I tell you that?"

"Of course. A stupid question. But, at all events, he ain't the sort of man to go out in such a storm as this?"

"Not 'im. He's too fond of his comforts."

"Does he ever ring for you in the middle of the night-at such a time as this, for instance?"

"Never."

"Has he ever been took ill in the night, and rung you up?"

"Never."

"Do you ever go up to his room without being summoned?"

"It's more than I dare. I should lose the best customer I ever had in my life. He made things as clear as can be when he first come into the 'ouse. 'Never,' he ses to me, 'under any circumstances whatever, let me see you going upstairs to my rooms unless I call you. Never let me ketch you prying about. If I do, you shall 'ear of it in a way you won't like.'"

Constable Nightingale was silent a few moments, and then he said, briskly, "Let's us go and hunt up that cat."

But although they searched the basement through they could not find it.

"Perhaps," suggested Constable Wigg, "it got out of the house when we opened the street-door just now."

"Perhaps," assented Constable Nightingale, laconically.

Then they ascended the stairs to the ground floor, Constable Nightingale examining very carefully the marks of the cat's paws on the oilcloth.

"Do you see, Mrs. Middlemore? Blood. There's no mistaking it. And I'm hanged if it doesn't go upstairs to the first floor."

"You're not going up, Mr. Nightingale?" asked Mrs. Middlemore, under her breath, laying her hand on his arm.

"If I know myself," said Constable Nightingale, patting her hand, "I am. Whatever happens, it's my duty and Wigg's to get at the bottom of this. What else did you call us in for?"

"To be sure," said Mrs. Middlemore, helplessly, "but if you have any feeling for me, speak low."

"I will, my dear. My feelings for you well you must know, but this is not the time. Look here at this stain, and this, and this. The spectre cat has been up these stairs. Puss, puss, puss, puss! Not likely that it'll answer; it's got the cunning of a fox. That's Mr. Felix's room, if my eyes don't deceive me."

"Yes, it is."

"But it don't look the same door as the one I have been through; it ain't the first time I've been here, you know. Where's the keyhole? I'll take my oath there was a keyhole when I last saw the door."

"The key 'ole's 'id. That brass plate covers it; it's a patent spring, and he fixes it some'ow from the inside; he presses something, and it slides down; then he turns a screw, and makes it tight."

"Can anyone do it but him?"

"I don't think they can; it's 'is own idea, he ses."

"See how we're getting on, Wigg. No one can work that brass plate but him; that shows he's at home." He knocked at the door, and called "Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix!"

"He'll give me notice to leave," said Mrs. Middlemore, "I'm sure he will. He's the last man in the world to be broke in upon like this."

"Leave it to me, my dear," said Constable Nightingale, "I'll make it all right with him. What did he say to me when I was on this beat? I told you, you remember, Wigg. 'Constable,' says he, 'you're on night duty here.' 'Yes, sir,' I answers. 'Very good,' says he, 'I live in this house, and I always make it a point to look after them as looks after me.' That was a straight tip, and I'm looking after him now. Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix!"

But though he called again and again, and rapped at the door twenty times, he received no answer from within the room.

"It's singular," he said, knitting his brows. "He must be a sound sleeper, must Mr. Felix. I'll try again."

He continued to knock and call "loud enough," as he declared, "to rouse the dead," but no response came to the anxious little group on the landing.

"There's not only no keyhole," said Constable Nightingale, "but there's no handle to take hold of. The door's for all the world like a safe without a knob. Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix, Mr. Felix! Don't you hear us, sir? I've got something particular to say to you."

For all the effect he produced he might have spoken to a stone wall, and he and Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore stood looking helplessly at each other.

"I tell you what it is," he said, tightening his belt, "this has got beyond a joke. What with the silence, and the bloodstains, and the man with the red handkercher round his neck as run out of the house while Wigg and me was talking together outside, there's more in this than meets the eye. Now, Mrs. Middlemore, there's no occasion for us to speak low any more; it's wearing to the throat. Have you got any doubt at all that the brass plate there couldn't be fixed as it is unless somebody was inside the room?"

"I'm certain of it, Mr. Nightingale, I'm certain of it."

"Then Mr. Felix, or somebody else, must be there, and if he's alive couldn't help hearing us, unless he's took a sleeping draught of twenty-horse power. There's a bell wire up there; Wigg, give me a back."

Constable Wigg stooped, and Constable Nightingale stood on his back and reached the wire, which he pulled smartly for so long a time that Constable Wigg's back gave way, and brought Constable Nightingale to the ground somewhat unexpectedly. Certainly every person in the house possessed of the sense of hearing must have heard the bell, which had a peculiar resonant ring, and seemed on this occasion to have a hundred ghostly echoes which proclaimed themselves incontinently from attic to basement. No well-behaved echo would have displayed such a lack of method.

"Oughtn't that to rouse him?" asked Constable Nightingale.

"It ought to," replied Mrs. Middlemore, "if-" and then suddenly paused, the "if" frozen on her tongue.

"Ah," said Constable Nightingale, gravely, "if!"

There was a window on the landing, and he opened it. The snow dust floated through it, but in less quantities, and there was a perceptible abatement in the violence of the storm. He closed the window.

"It ain't so bad as it was. Mrs. Middlemore, do you think I could force this door open?"

"Not without tools," said Mrs. Middlemore. "It's made of oak."

"No harm in trying," said Constable Nightingale. "Here, Wigg, give us a pound."

They applied their shoulders with a will, but their united efforts produced no impression.

"It's got to be opened," said Constable Nightingale, "by fair means or foul. Wigg, do you know of a locksmith about here?"

"I don't."

In point of fact Constable Nightingale knew of one, but it was at some little distance, and he did not want to leave Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore alone.

"There's one in Wardour Street," he said.

"Is there?" said Constable Wigg. "I'm new to the neighborhood, and I'm certain I shouldn't be able to find it."

"All right," said Constable Nightingale, briskly, seeing his way out of the difficulty, "we'll go together."

"And leave me alone 'ere after what's happened!" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "Not if you was to fill my lap with dymens! That 'orrid cat 'd come and scare the life out of me!"

"We can't all go," mused Constable Nightingale, with a stern eye on his comrade, "and I ain't a man to shirk a duty; but don't go back on a pal, Wigg, whatever you do."

"Nobody could ever bring that against me, Nightingale," said Constable Wigg, in an injured tone; "and I don't know what you're driving at."

"I hope you don't," said Constable Nightingale, by no means softened, "that's all I've got to say. I hope you don't. You'd better both see me to the door, and shut it after me. And mind you keep your ears open to let me in when I come back."

Constable Nightingale, a victim to duty, was presently battling with the storm through the deserted streets, while Constable Wigg and Mrs. Middlemore, at the housekeeper's suggestion, made their way to the warm kitchen, where she brewed for her companion a stiff glass of grog. "What did Mr. Nightingale mean," asked Mrs. Middlemore, "when he said never go back on a pal?"

"I'd rather not say," replied Constable Wigg, and then appeared suddenly to come to a different conclusion.

"But why not? The last of my wishes would be to vex you, and when you're curious you like to know, don't you, my-I beg you a thousand pardons-don't you, ma'am?"

"Mr. Wigg," observed Mrs. Middlemore, "I'm a woman, and I do like to know. Oh!" she cried, with a little shriek, "was that somebody moving upstairs?"

"No, my dear, no. Keep close to me; I will protect you and proud of the chance, as who wouldn't be? When Nightingale threw out that hint, he meant, if I'm not mistook, that a lady should have only one admirer, hisself."

"Well, I'm sure!"

"He's not a bad sort of fellow, is Nightingale-it ain't for me to say anything against him-but when he wants a monopoly of something very precious" – and Constable Wigg looked languishingly at Mrs. Middlemore-"when he wants that, and as good as says it belongs to him and no one else, he touches a tender point. There's no harm in my admiring you, my dear; who could help it, that's what I'd like to know? Thank you-I will take another lump of sugar. Yes, who could help it? Charms like yours-if you'll forgive me for mentioning 'em-ain't to be met with every day, and a man with a heart would have to be blind not to be struck. There! I wouldn't have spoke so free if it hadn't been for Nightingale and for your asking me what he meant. But a man can't always restrain his feelings, and I hope I haven't hurt yours, my dear."

"Not a bit, Mr. Wigg," said Mrs. Middlemore, and the tone would have been amorous had it not been for the mysterious trouble in her house; "you've spoke beautiful, and Mr. Nightingale ought to be ashamed of 'isself."

"Don't tell him I said anything, my dear."

"I won't. I give you my 'and on it."

He took it and squeezed it, and said, "What's passed we'll keep to ourselves."

"We will, Mr. Wigg."

"Here's to our better acquaintance, my dear."

"I'm sure you're kindness itself. Oh, Mr. Wigg, I 'ope nothing 'as 'appened to Mr. Felix."

"I hope so, too. My opinion is that he's out, and that the brass plate over the keyhole has got there by accident. But Nightingale always makes the worst of things. That's not my way. Wait till the worst comes, I say; it's time enough. You may worrit yourself to death, and be no better off for it after all."

In this strain they continued their conversation, Mrs. Middlemore declaring that it was quite a comfort to have Constable Wigg with her. She confided to him that she had a bit of money saved, and that Mr. Felix had said more than once that he would remember her in his will, which elicited from Constable Wigg the remark that he hoped Mr. Felix had made his will and had behaved as he ought to; "though, mind you," he added, "I don't believe anything's the matter with him, or that he's at home. It's all through that spectre cat, and as for bloodstains, they've got to be proved." A knocking and rattling at the street-door caused Mrs. Middlemore to cling very closely to him, and when she recovered her fright, they both went upstairs to let Constable Nightingale in.

"Is that you, Nightingale?" Constable Wigg called out before he turned the key.

"Yes, it's me," cried Constable Nightingale, without: "don't keep us waiting all night."

"He's got the locksmith with him," whispered Constable Wigg, with his lips very close to Mrs. Middlemore's ear. Then he threw open the street-door.

Constable Nightingale had somebody else with him besides the locksmith. Accompanying them was a tall, thin, gentlemanly-looking, but rather seedy young gentleman, who stepped quickly into the passage.

"Has anything took place?" inquired Constable Nightingale, glancing suspiciously from Constable Wigg to Mrs. Middlemore.

"Nothing," replied Constable Wigg. "There ain't been a sound in the house."

"Just as we turned the corner," said Constable Nightingale, with a motion of his hand toward the seedy young gentleman, "we met Dr. Lamb, who was coming home from a case, and as there's no knowing what might be wanted, I asked him to favor us with his company."

Mrs. Middlemore knew Dr. Lamb, who kept a chemist's shop in the neighborhood, and she gave him a friendly nod. It must have been a trying case that the young gentleman had come from, for he looked particularly shaky, and was rather unsteady on his legs. The locksmith now made some sensible remarks to the effect that he had been awakened from a sound sleep, and would like to get back to bed again; therefore, had they not better get to work at once? His suggestion was acted upon, and they all proceeded upstairs.

"I'll give him another chance," said Constable Nightingale, and he forthwith exerted the full strength of his lungs and hammered away at the door, to as little purpose as he had previously done. "There's nothing for it," he said, very red in the face, "but to force open the door in the name of the law."

The locksmith, who had brought a basket of tools with him, declared he would make short work of it, but after examining the door was forced to confess inwardly that this was an idle boast. It was of stout oak, and to remove the brass plate and pick the lock occupied him much longer than he expected. However, in the course of about twenty minutes the task was accomplished, and the door stood open for them to enter. Standing for a moment irresolutely on the threshold they were greeted by a blast of cold air. Constable Nightingale was the first to notice that the window was open, and he stepped into the room and closed it. The others followed, and were treading close on his heels when he waved them back, and pointed downward. There, on the floor, was a little pool of blood. They shuddered as they gazed upon it.

"I thought as much," said Constable Nightingale, the first to speak. "There's been foul play here. Who opened that window, and left it open on such a night? The cry for help you heard, Wigg, came from this room."

"But there's nobody here," said Constable Wigg.

"That's his bedroom," said Mrs. Middlemore, in an awestruck voice, pointing to a room the door of which was ajar.

They stepped softly toward it, Dr. Lamb now taking the lead. In an arm-chair by the side of the bed sat a man, his arms hanging listlessly down. Dr. Lamb shook him roughly.

"Wake up!"

But the figure did not move. Dr. Lamb leant over the recumbent form, and thrust his hand inside the man's waistcoat. Then, with his fingers under the man's chin, he raised the head, so that the face was visible.

"Good Lord!" cried Mrs. Middlemore. "It's Mr. Felix! What's the matter with him?"

Dr. Lamb put his finger to his lips, and did not immediately reply. When he removed his hand the head dropped down again, hiding the face.

"If you want to know what's the matter with the man," he said, presently, "he's dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore.

"As a doornail," said Dr. Lamb.

CHAPTER VI.

THE "EVENING MOON" INDULGES IN A BOMBASTIC RETROSPECT, IN WHICH SOME VERY TALL AND VERY FINE WRITING WILL BE DETECTED BY THE OBSERVANT READER

"In pursuance of the policy which we inaugurated some four years since by the romance known as 'Great Porter Square,' we now present our readers with a story of today, which we with confidence declare to be as strange and exciting as that thrilling mystery, which may be regarded as the starting-point of a new and captivating description of journalism for the people. We use the term 'romance' advisedly, and are prepared to justify it, although the incidents which we set before hundreds of thousands of readers were true in every particular, and occurred in a locality with which every Londoner is familiar. We recall with pride the extraordinary variety of opinions which our publication of that story of real life, and the means we pursued to get at the heart of it, elicited. By many we were inordinately praised, by some we were mercilessly condemned. There were critics who declared that it was derogatory to the legitimate functions of a newspaper to present any matter of public interest in the garb in which we clothed it; there were others who, with a juster sense of the altered conditions of society by which we are ruled, and to which we are compelled to submit, declared that the new departure we made in the Great Porter Square Mystery was, to the general mass of readers, as wholesome as it was entertaining. Judging by results, these latter critics were most certainly in the right. The public read with eager avidity the details of that remarkable case as we published them, in our own original fashion, from day to day. The demand for copies of our several editions was so great that we were absolutely unable to satisfy it, and we are afraid that thousands of newspaper readers were compelled to pay exorbitant prices to the ragamuffins who vend the daily journals in the public streets. We made strong endeavors to put a stop to this extortion, but our efforts were vain, chiefly because the people themselves were content to pay three and four times the established price of the Evening Moon rather than be deprived of the pleasure of reading the tempting morsels with which its columns were filled. Letters of congratulation poured in upon us from all quarters, written by persons occupying the highest positions in society, as well as by others moving in the lowest stations, and from that time the success of the Evening Moon, as a journal which had firmly fixed itself in the affections of the people, was assured. If any excuse is needed for the system of journalism of which we were the first bold exponents, we might find it in the trite axiom that the ends justify the means, but we deny that any excuse whatever is required. It was no sentimental experiment that we were trying; we had carefully watched the currents of public opinion, and we started on our crusade to satisfy a need. The present state of society is such that the public insist upon their right to be made acquainted with the innermost details of cases which are brought before the tribunals; the moment these cases come before the public they are public property. There was a time when seemly and closed doors were the rule, and under the cloak of that pernicious system the most flagrant wrongs were committed; it is not so in the present day, and it is right that it should not be so. Public matters belong to the people, and so long as a proper and necessary measure of decency is observed, so long as private characters are not defamed, so long as homes and those who occupy them are not made wretched by infamous innuendoes, so long as the pen of the literary journalist is not employed for the purpose of scandal and blackmail-too often, we regret to say, convertible terms-the people's rights in this respect must be observed.