The Red Room

“An ulterior one – as you may imagine. But one which was as much in your interests as in ours.”

“Ours!” I echoed. “You mean you and your accomplices?”

“Call them so, if you wish,” he laughed. “I, unfortunately, am not in a position to enlighten you upon the actual reason I invoked your aid.”

“And your action has only brought upon me a great misfortune – bitter despair, and the loss of the woman I loved!” I cried, dismayed.

“Ah!” he said. “You judge me a little too hastily, Mr Holford. It is your failing, Mr Holford, that you are given to rushing to premature conclusions. That is always fatal in any delicate negotiation. When you’ve had my experience – that of a traveller and thorough-going cosmopolitan – you will learn how to repress your own opinions until they are fully and entirely corroborated.”

I looked into the grey face of the clever adventurer, and there saw craft, cunning, and an ingenuity that was superhuman. A look was in his eyes such as I had never before seen in those of any human being.

“But I am in search of my wife!” I cried frantically. “I am in no mood to hear this philosophy of yours.”

“Well – how do you know she is not here – in London?” he asked, waving his thin hand towards the window where showed the glimmering lights of the Thames bank.

To the right, where I stood, I could see the gleam of electric light from the summit of Big Ben, showing that the House, which had assembled only a few days before, was sitting late after the Christmas recess.

“I suppose you wish to mislead me into the idea that she is back again in London, hiding from me, eh?” I exclaimed resentfully. “No, Mr Kirk, I tell you plainly that I’ve had enough of this tragic-comedy of yours, I’ve watched you this evening with your precious friends, Flynn and Langton.”

“And, pray, why should I not possess friends?” he asked, looking at me with some surprise.

“To me Langton denied all knowledge of you.”

“Well – and am I to be blamed for Langton’s pretended ignorance?”

“No; but it shows me that you are not dealing with me in a straightforward manner!” I declared, without mincing words.

But the strange old fellow only laughed. “My dear sir,” he said a few moments afterwards, “I can quite understand your distrust of me, therefore it is as well that I hesitated to place a further confidence in you. You might have betrayed it.”

“Betrayed it!” I echoed angrily. “Have you not betrayed me? Is it not due to you, and you alone, that my wife is missing?”

“That I emphatically deny, my dear sir,” he replied, still quite unperturbed. “But why let us discuss it? Any denial of mine you’ll regard as false. It’s a great pity that my judgment led me to seek your aid. Had you carried out my request and refrained from prying into matters which did not concern you, you might have found it to your distinct advantage.”

“You mean that I should have profited pecuniarily by concealing the fact that Professor Greer is dead and that an impostor has assumed his identity? You intended that I also should be an accomplice of the assassin!”

“No – not exactly,” he replied with an evil, triumphant grin. “But, really, my dear sir,” he added, “I’ve had a very long journey, and I’m tired. Is it any use prolonging this argument?”

“Not unless you wish!” I snapped. “I have given you full warning of my intention to reveal the whole affair to the police.”

“Ah! Then that will be very unfortunate – for you,” replied the queer old man; “and for your wife most of all.”

“Yes, I know. You intend to bring disaster upon me and upon her if I dare to go to Scotland Yard!” I cried.

In my ignorance of the truth I believed my threats would be of avail. Ah, had I but known the actual facts, how differently would I have acted! But surely that enigma was one that was beyond human power to elucidate. Upon every hand I found complications. Plot lay within plot – all directed against myself and against poor innocent Mabel, who had flown to me on receipt of what she had believed to be my urgent telegram.

“My intentions, Mr Holford, entirely depend upon your actions,” said Kirk, very plainly. “If you are foolish – well, then I cannot guarantee the safety of your wife. My advice to you, however, is to recall all I told you, believe in the truth of my statements, and act with slow discretion.”

“But my wife?” I cried. “I must – I will save her. She is in peril, I am sure of that!”

“She may be in grave peril if you go to the police,” he said enigmatically; “and, believe me, they cannot assist us in the least to discover who killed Professor Greer.”

“Why?”

Kirk hesitated. In that pause I scented an intention further to prevent me from speaking.

“Well, regard the matter calmly and without prejudice,” he said at last. “As a matter of fact, what evidence is there that the Professor is dead?”

“Evidence!” I cried. “Why, did not you and I see him dead? Did not his daughter stand before his lifeless body?”

“Ah, she would never tell what she saw!” he said, with a mysterious smile.

“Why not?” I asked, much surprised at his remark.

But my mysterious neighbour only shrugged his shoulders vaguely, answering:

“There is a reason why she will never admit his death – a strong reason.”

“Well,” I said, “I recovered from the ashes of the furnace certain remains – coat buttons and other scraps of clothing.”

“And you think they would be accepted as evidence that Professor Greer was done to death?” he laughed. “You are evidently unaware of the great caution exercised by the Criminal Investigation Department in accepting any evidence such as that which you could furnish. No,” he added, “only Antonio and Ethelwynn were the actual witnesses, in addition to ourselves, of the Professor’s tragic end. And as they refuse to admit that he is dead, any information you may lodge at Scotland Yard must only reflect upon yourself and bring greater peril upon Mrs Holford. I simply tell you the truth – believe me, or believe me not.”

“Well,” I exclaimed, “I disbelieve you, Mr Kirk.”

“Then I wish you good evening!” he exclaimed abruptly. “Act as you think proper!” he added defiantly, as, turning from me in disregard he walked to his large writing-table, where he took up some letters, at the same time singing, with that careless cosmopolitan air of his, Lucien Fugere’s popular chanson, which at the moment one heard everywhere in the streets of Paris.

“Then that’s your last word, eh, Mr Kirk?”

I asked when he had concluded the verse.

“It is,” he replied determinedly. “If you must act as a fool, then I can’t assist you further. Good night!” And he sat down and busied himself with his accumulated correspondence.

I now realised that he was utterly defiant, and thoughts of my loss of Mabel caused my blood to boil within me. His light, careless manner irritated me beyond measure.

“Very well,” I cried. “Good night, Mr Kirk!” And turning swiftly upon my heel, I left the room and found my way down the great staircase and out into Whitehall.

Too late at that hour to call at New Scotland Yard, close by, I hailed a hansom and drove straight home, almost beside myself with rage at the calm, unruffled, defiant attitude with which the adventurer had met me.

Next morning, after writing some letters, I went round to the garage, where I found Pelham, somewhat excited.

“This morning, when I arrived at eight o’clock,” he said. “I found awaiting me a rather shabbily-dressed old man who said he wanted to see an Eckhardt tyre. Recollecting my previous experiences of people who’ve come in to handle them, I told him that if he wished to buy one I could sell him one, but I hadn’t time to waste on sightseers. Whereupon the old fellow promptly paid for a cover before seeing it, and took it away on a cab which he had waiting.”

“Well?” I asked, rather, surprised. “And who was he?”

“That’s the curious point. He was an old chap I’ve seen about the neighbourhood many times – thin, rather shabby and disreputable, grey hair and moustache – lives in your road, I think. Drake says you know him.”

“Kershaw Kirk!” I gasped.

“Yes; that’s the name Drake said before he went out with the ‘sixty,’” replied my manager.