The Red Room

I read it through in wonder half a dozen times.

I longed to ring up Ethelwynn Greer again. It would be a weird experience to converse with one whom I had seen dead. Yet I could think of no excuse. Kirk had, no doubt, telegraphed to her, for it seemed that their association was, after all, a very close one.

The day’s work ended, I got into a car and drove to the address in Wimpole Street given me by Leonard Langton.

His chambers were particularly cosy and well-furnished; but his man, a young foreigner, told me that his master had left for Broadstairs by the “Granville” from Victoria that afternoon.

Therefore I remounted in the car, and turned away down into Oxford Street, entirely nonplussed.

I could not discern Kirk’s motive in exposing the tragic circumstances to me. I did not see in what way I could assist him, even though his version of the affair were the true one.

Who was this Kershaw Kirk? That was the main question. Either he was a man of extraordinary power and influence, or else a most cunning and ingenious assassin. Yet was there no suspicion upon Antonio Merli, the foreign servant, who seemed hand-in-glove with Kirk?

Recollection of this caused me to turn the car towards the Euston Road and search along that long, busy thoroughfare for the tobacconist’s shop kept by Antonio’s cadaverous-looking brother, Pietro – the only outsider, apparently, aware of the Professor’s death.

For fully half an hour I searched, until, near the Tottenham Court Road end, I came across a little shop where stationery, newspapers, and tobacco were displayed in the window.

Entering, I asked the dark-eyed girl behind the small counter if Mr Merli kept the establishment.

“Yes, sir, he does,” was her reply.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s been suddenly called abroad, sir,” answered the girl; “he left London this morning.”

“By what train?”

“Nine o’clock from Charing Cross.”

“Do you happen to know a Mr Kershaw Kirk?”

“Yes; he was here last night to see him,” replied the girl. “That’s the only time I’ve ever met him.”

“When do you expect Mr Merli back?”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir! He’s gone to Italy, I expect; and when he goes there he’s generally away for some weeks.”

“Then he often goes abroad?”

“Yes, sir; very often. He has some business, I think, which takes him away travelling, and he leaves this shop in charge of my married sister and myself. He’s not married, as I dare say you know.”

“He’s seldom here, then?” I remarked, gratified at all this information.

“He lives out at Acton, and only comes here occasionally.”

“You know his brother, of course?” I asked, after I had purchased some cigarettes.

“You mean Mr Antonio? Oh, yes; he’s been here once or twice – for letters he has addressed here.”

“In another name – eh?” I laughed lightly.

“Yes, they’re letters in a lady’s hand, so perhaps we’d better not be too inquisitive,” laughed the girl. And then, after some further conversation, I told her I would call again in a week’s time to ascertain if she knew her employer’s whereabouts, and, re-entering the car, drove back to Chiswick, my mind clouded by many anxious apprehensions.

The outlook was every moment growing darker and more perplexing.

Chapter Twelve

A Strange Story Unfolded

I confess to having been half-inclined, when I returned home that night, to take Mabel into my confidence. But I hesitated, because I knew that her frankness and sense of justice would lead her to suggest that I should go to New Scotland Yard and lay the whole facts before the Criminal Investigation Department.

I had no secrets from her – I loved her far too well. But in this crooked affair I had most foolishly given my word of honour to say nothing.

All Kirk’s strange declarations and allegations now recurred to me. Hence I was compelled to abandon all idea of making Mabel my confidante.

I knew, however, by the way she looked at me, that she was troubled and puzzled by my manner. Indeed, that evening when I returned and found her beside the fire in our cosy sitting-room, her slim fingers busy with some fancy needlework, I recognised by her pointed questions that she regarded me with considerable apprehension.

Again she asked me what was the matter, and again I replied evasively that I had just then a good many business worries. And we dropped the subject because Gwen, her younger sister, entered the room.

All next day I debated within myself what course I should now adopt, but, alas! I could not decide upon any. The whole affair was such an entire enigma. The more I had tried to probe the mystery, the more utterly inexplicable did it seem.

Reflect for a moment, and you will fully realise the peril of my position. To me, it seemed quite plain that I had by my readiness to accept Kirk’s friendship, given myself entirely into the hands of the conspirators.

If Kirk were truly an honest man and not afraid, he certainly would have called in the police. Yet had he not openly admitted his inability to prove an alibi?

That afternoon, a damp and dismal one, I had to run out on a car to Tunbridge Wells to see a customer who was purchasing the car which I drove. I took Dick with me, and, the car being a “forty-eight,” we sped along pretty swiftly until we halted before the entrance to that old-world promenade, the Pantiles, near which my customer lived.

Before we got home again it was near midnight, but on that night drive I resolved that on the morrow I would embark upon the work of amateur detective, and endeavour to discover something on my own account.

To solve such a complete enigma as that now presented one must, I realised, begin at the beginning. And that was what I intended to do. Therefore, on the following night, at half-past eleven, I left King’s Cross in a sleeping-car for Edinburgh, having first ascertained that the conductor was the same who had travelled by that train on the night of the Professor’s alleged journey.

He was a tall, lean, fair-whiskered Scot, whose uniform seemed too big for his shrunken frame, but who bustled up and down the corridor as soon as the train had started, inquiring of the passengers at what hour they would like to be called, and whether they would take tea.

I waited until he came to my compartment, and then I put to him certain questions regarding his passengers on the night of Sunday, the thirteenth, asking whether he remembered Professor Greer.

“Why, yes, sir,” was his answer with a strong northern accent. “Another gentleman asked me about the Professor when I got back to King’s Cross.”

“Did you take the Professor up to Edinburgh?”

“Certainly, sir. I remember the name. Indeed, here it is in my book,” and, turning back a few pages, he showed me the name among those who had secured sleeping-berths in advance. “As I told the other gentleman who inquired, he wouldn’t have any tea, and told me to call him at Dunbar.”

“And when you called him did you then see him in his berth?”

“Yes, sir, he pulled the door back and inquired what kind of a morning it was.”

“Where did he alight?”

“At Waverley, of course. I handed him out his bags, and one of the porters of the North British Hotel took them.”