The Mystery of M. Felix

"No."

"She stops out as a rule till about this time; fond of a gossip, you know. Most of us are. She'll be here soon, if she can keep her feet. The snow's getting thicker-and listen to the wind! Let's get close to the door. Well, I remember Mrs. Middlemore coming out to me one night, and saying, 'You're wanted up there,' meaning in Mr. Felix's rooms-"

Constable Wigg interposed. "Just now you said parleyvooish."

"So I did, and so I meant."

"Speaks with a foreign accent, you said."

"I don't deny it."

"And you keep on saying Mr. Felix."

"Well?"

"Shouldn't it be Monseer?"

"Well, perhaps; but not Monseer-Monshure."

"I give in to you, Nightingale; I'm not a French scholar."

"Let's call him Mr., for all that. Monshure twists the tongue unless you're born there."

"I'm agreeable. Call him Mr. if you like. Hallo!"

The exclamation was caused by Mrs. Middlemore's street door being suddenly opened without any preliminary warning from within, and with such swiftness and violence that the policemen almost fell through it into the passage. As they were recovering their equilibrium a man stepped out of the house, or rather stumbled out of it, in a state of great excitement. He had a crimson scarf round his neck; it was loosely tied, and the ends floated in the wind. The little bit of color shone bright in the glare of white snow. Its wearer pulled the door after him and hurried along the street, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and taking no notice of the policemen, who strained their eyes after him. He walked very unsteadily, and was soon out of sight.

CHAPTER II.

THE SPECTRE CAT

"That's a rum start," said Constable Wigg. "Was it Mr. Felix?"

"No," replied Constable Nightingale, "Mr. Felix is altogether a different kind of man. Takes things more coolly. Walks slow, talks slow, thinks slow, looks at you slow. This fellow was like a flash of lightning. Did you catch sight of his face?"

"He was in such a devil of a hurry that there was no catching sight of anything except the red handkerchief round his neck. There was no mistaking that. Seemed a youngish man."

"Yes. Been on a visit to Mr. Felix, most likely."

"Or to some other lodger in the house," suggested Constable Wigg.

"There ain't no other," said Constable Nightingale. "Every room in it except the basement is let to Mr. Felix."

"A married man, then' with a large family?"

"No," said Constable Nightingale, with a little cough. "Single. Or, perhaps, a widower. No business of ours, Wigg."

"Certainly not. Go on with your story, Nightingale. 'You're wanted up there' says Mrs. Middlemore."

"Yes. 'You're wanted up there,' she says, meaning Mr. Felix's rooms. 'Did Mr. Felix send for me?' I ask. 'He did,' she answers. 'He rings his bell and says, "Go for a policeman." And he'll not be sorry it's you, Mr. Nightingale, because you're a man as can be trusted,' Mrs. Middlemore's precise words. You see, Wigg, me and her ain't exactly strangers. I'm a single man, and I'm mistook if she ain't got a bit of money put by."

"You're a knowing one, Nightingale,' said Constable Wigg, somewhat enviously, and it is not to the credit of human nature to state that there flashed into his mind the base idea of endeavoring to supplant his brother constable in Mrs. Middlemore's good graces. What should hinder him? He was a single man, many years younger than Constable Nightingale, and much better looking. All was fair in love and war. The "bit of money put by" was a temptation from Lucifer.

"That's what brings me round here now and then," continued Constable Nightingale, complacently. "A man might go a good deal further than Mrs. Middlemore, and fare a good deal worse. 'I suppose,' says I to her, 'there's somebody with Mr. Felix as he wants to get rid of, and as won't go?' 'I ain't at liberty to say,' she answers, 'but you're pretty near the mark. Come and see for yourself, and don't forget that Mr. Felix has got a liberal heart, and hates fuss.' Upon that, Wigg, I holds my tongue, because I'm a man as knows how to, and I follows Mrs. Middlemore into the house. I'd been inside before, of course, but never upstairs, always down and Mrs. Middlemore had told me such a lot about Mr. Felix's rooms that I was curious to see them. 'Furnished like a palace,' Mrs. Middlemore used to say; so up the stairs I steps, Mrs. Middlemore showing the way, and I don't mind confessing that before we got to the first landing I put my arm round Mrs. Middlemore's waist-but that's neither here nor there. She stops on the landing, and knocks at the door-"

But here Constable Nightingale was compelled to pause, and to hold on tight to his comrade. The storm quite suddenly reached such a pitch of fury that the men could scarcely keep their feet, and it would have been impossible to hear a word that was spoken. It was not a fitful display of temper; so fierce grew the wind that it blew the street door open with a crash, and as the policemen were leaning against it, the consequence was that they were precipitated into the passage, and fell flat upon their backs. The reason of the door being blown open so readily was probably, as Constable Nightingale afterward remarked, because the man who had recently left the house so hastily had not pulled it tight behind him, but the tempest was raging so furiously that it might well have made light of such an obstacle as an old street door. It was with difficulty the policemen recovered their feet, and the strength of the wind as it rushed through the passage was so great that the idea that they would be safer inside the house than out occurred to both of them at once. To expose themselves to the fury of the elements in the open would undoubtedly have been attended with danger. Instinctively they advanced to the door, and after a struggle succeeded in shutting it. That being accomplished, they stood in the dark passage, mentally debating what they should do next.

"There's something moving," whispered Constable Wigg, trembling. He was not remarkable for courage, and had a horror of darkness.

Constable Nightingale was made of sterner stuff. He promptly pulled out his dark lantern, and cast its circle of light upon the floor; and there, creeping timidly along close to the wall, they saw the miserable half-starved cat which had shaken Constable Wigg's nerves earlier in the night. It had taken advantage of the open street door to obtain the shelter for which it had long been seeking.

"It ain't the first time," said Constable Wigg, in a vicious tone, "that this little beast has given me a turn. Just before you come up it run across me and almost sent my heart into my mouth."

But for a mournful, fear-stricken look in its yellow eyes, the light of the dark lantern seemed to deprive the wretched cat of the power of motion. It remained perfectly still, cowering to the ground. Even when Constable Wigg gave it a spiteful kick it did not move of its own volition, and it was only when the attention of the policeman was no longer directed toward it that it slunk slowly and stealthily away.

Meanwhile the tempest raged more furiously than ever outside. The shrieking wind tore through the streets, carrying devastation in its train, and the air was thick with whirling, blinding snow.

"Did you ever hear anything like it?" said Constable Nightingale.

"Never," said Constable Wigg.

"It would be madness to go out," said Constable Nightingale. "We should be dashed to pieces. Besides, what good could we do? Besides, who would be likely to want us? Besides, who's to know?"

* * * * * *

There was a world of philosophy in these reflections, which Constable Wigg was only too ready to acknowledge.

"What do you propose, Nightingale?" he asked.

"That we go down to Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen," replied Constable Nightingale, "and make ourselves comfortable. I know the way."

He led it, and Constable Wigg very cheerfully accompanied him. The kitchen was the coziest of apartments, and their hearts warmed within them as they entered it. Mrs. Middlemore, like a sensible woman, had taken the precaution to bank up the fire before she left the house, and it needed but one touch from the poker to cause it to spring into a bright glowing blaze. This touch was applied by Constable Nightingale, and the shadows upon walls and ceiling leapt into ruddy life.

"This is something like," said Constable Wigg, stooping and warming himself.

Having no further need for his dark lantern, Constable Nightingale tucked it snugly away, and then proceeded to light a candle which, in its flat tin candlestick and a box of matches handy, stood on the kitchen table. They were not the only articles on the table. There was no table-cloth, it is true, but what mattered that? The whitest of table-cloths would have made but a sorry supper, and in the present instance could not have added to the attractions which the lighted candle revealed. There was bread, there was butter, there was cheese, there were pickles, there was a plate of sausages, there was half a roast fowl, and there was a fine piece of cold pork. Constable Wigg's eyes wandered to the table, and became, so to speak, glued there. He was now standing with his back to the fire, and was being comfortably warmed through. Even a kitchen may become a veritable Aladdin's cave, and this was the case with Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen, in the estimation of Constable Wigg.

"If there's one thing I like better than another for supper," he said, meditatively, and with pathos in his voice, "it is cold pork and pickles. And there's enough for three, Nightingale, there's enough for three."

Constable Nightingale nodded genially, and, with the air of a man familiar with his surroundings, took up a piece of butter on a knife, and put it to his mouth.

"The best fresh," he observed.

"You don't say so?" exclaimed Constable Wigg, not contentiously, but in amiable wonder.

"Taste it," said Constable Nightingale, handing his comrade the knife with a new knob of butter on it.

"It is the best fresh," said Constable Wigg. "She lives on the fat of the land." This evidence of good living and the cheerful homeliness of the kitchen strengthened his notion of supplanting Constable Nightingale in the affections of Mrs. Middlemore, but he was careful not to betray himself. "You know your way about, Nightingale. It ain't the first time you've been in this here snuggery."