An Eye for an Eye

“Nice kind of pets, to keep in a house,” observed Patterson. “That’s one of them that’s escaped into the garden, I expect.”

“I quite agree,” I said, “this place is decidedly the reverse of cheerful. Hadn’t we better report at once? There’s been a mysterious tragedy here, and immediate efforts should be made to trace the assassin.”

“But, my dear fellow, how do you know they’ve been murdered?” he argued. “There’s no marks of violence whatever.”

“Not as far as we’ve been able to discover. A doctor can tell us more after the post-mortem,” I responded.

There were many very strange features connected with this remarkable discovery. My friend’s reluctance to commence an investigation, his firm resolve not to report the discovery, the mysterious voice at the telephone, the fact that some experimental scientist had his laboratory in that house, and the revelation of the unaccountable tragedy itself, were all so extraordinary that I stood utterly bewildered.

Absolutely nothing remained to show who were the pair lying dead, and no explanation seemed possible of that strange red light burning there so steadily, and unflickering. By the appearance of the glass, and the dust in the oil, the tiny lamp must have burned on incessantly for a very long time.

Strange it was that there, within a few yards of one of London’s great arteries of traffic, that charming woman and her companion should have been cut off swiftly and suddenly, without a hand being stretched forth to save them.

In company we went downstairs, leaving the light in the laboratory still burning, and re-entered the drawing-room to take a final glance around. As I approached the prostrate body of the man I felt something beneath my foot, and glancing down saw that some coppers had evidently fallen from his pocket and were lying strewn about the carpet. Then, having remained a few minutes longer, we both went out by the door we had entered, locking it and taking the key.

“We must report it, Patterson,” I said. “It certainly has some queer and very extraordinary features.”

“Yes,” he responded; adding slowly, “did you notice anything strange up in that top room where the chemicals and things were?”

“Yes, a good deal,” I answered. “It isn’t every one who keeps snakes as pets.”

“I don’t mean that,” he answered. “But did you notice on the table a glassful of liquid, like water?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that stuff was bubbling and boiling without any heat beneath.”

“Perhaps the man who experiments there is a conjurer,” I suggested, smiling at his surprise at seeing liquid boil when exposed to air. Police-officers know little of any other science save that of self-defence.

“Now,” he said seriously, as we strode forward together in the direction of Kensington Church, “you must go to the station and report the discovery as if made by you – you understand. Remember, the snake attracted your attention, you entered, found the man and woman lying dead, lit the gas, searched the house, then left to get assistance, and met me.”

“That’s all very well,” I answered. “But you forget that you borrowed that lamp from one of your own men, and that I called on you first.”

“Ah!” he gasped; turning slightly pale. “I never thought of that!”

“Why don’t you report it yourself?” I urged.

“For superstitious reasons,” he laughed nervously.

“Hang superstition!” I cried. Adding: “Of course, I’ll report it if you like, but it would be far better for you to do so and risk this mysterious bad luck that you fear.”

He was silent for a moment, thinking deeply, then answered in a strange, hard voice, —

“Perhaps you’re right, Urwin. I – I’m a confounded fool to be afraid,” and with an effort quite apparent he braced himself up and we entered the police-station. Ascending the stairs we were soon closeted with Octavius Boyd, inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to that Division, a middle-aged, dark-bearded, pleasant-faced man in plain-clothes, who, as soon as he heard our story, was immediately ready to accompany us, while five minutes later the clicking of the telegraph told that news of our discovery was being transmitted to headquarters at New Scotland Yard.

Patterson took down the London Directory, and turning it up at Upper Phillimore Place, found that the occupier of the house in question was Andrew Callender. He made inquiries in the section-house of the men off duty as to what was known of that house, but only one constable made a statement, and it was to the effect that he had, when on duty in Kensington Road, seen a youngish lady with fair hair, whose description tallied with that of the dead woman, come out and go across to the shops on the opposite side of the road.

“Do you know anything of the servants?” inquired Patterson.

“Well, sir,” the man answered, “one was a man, and the other a woman.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the servant of the house next door told me so. The woman was the cook, and the man did the housework. She said that the house was a most mysterious one.”

“Is she there now?” my friend asked.

“No, sir. She was discharged a fortnight ago. Dishonest, I think.”

“And you don’t know where she is?”

Boyd had by this time called one of his plain-clothes men, who had obtained lamps, turning the dark slides over the flame, the station-sergeant had carefully ruled a line and written something in that remarkable register kept in every London police-station, wherein is recorded every event which transpires in the district, from a tragedy to the return of the sub-divisional inspector from his rounds, or the grooming of the horses. Then, after a short conversation with one of the second-class inspectors, we all four, accompanied by a sergeant, started for Upper Phillimore Place.

In order not to attract attention we separated. Patterson walking with me to the opposite side of the road, while the detectives walked together, and the sergeant alone. Little did the passers-by suspect when they saw Patterson and me strolling leisurely along that we were on our way to investigate what afterwards proved to be one of the strangest and most remarkable mysteries that had ever puzzled the Metropolitan Police.

Chapter Four

The Three Cards

On reaching the house, Boyd, an expert officer who had spent years in the investigation of crime, ascended with his subordinate to the drawing-room, while we remained on the ground floor to complete our search, the sergeant being stationed inside the hall.

Our further investigations were not very fruitful. The fact that dinner was laid for three indicated that a third person had been present, or was expected. The room did not differ from any other, except that it was perhaps better furnished than one would have expected in such a house, for although in a first-class and rather expensive neighbourhood the row of houses had declined in popularity of late years, and was now inhabited mostly by the lodging-house fraternity.

In moving about the room, however, my coat caught the plate laid for the person who was to occupy the head of the table, and it was nearly swept off. I saved it, however, but beneath was revealed a plain white card which, until that moment, had been concealed. Patterson caught sight of it at the same moment, and taking it in my hand I examined it, finding that it was a plain visiting card of lady’s size, one side being blank, and other bearing a roughly-drawn circle in ink.

There was nothing else.

“That’s certainly curious,” my companion remarked, looking over my shoulder.

“Yes,” I said, lifting a second plate to see what was there concealed, and finding another card, in all appearances similar, plain, but bearing across its reverse a single straight line drawn with a pen.

“By Jove!” observed Patterson, lifting the other plate, and finding a third card, “this is certainly very strange.”

He turned the card over, but it was blank on both sides.

“I wonder what game is this, or whether these have any connexion with the crime?” I exclaimed, holding all three of the cards in my hand, turning them over and examining them carefully beneath the light. “By the ink they have the appearance of having been prepared long ago. See!” I added, holding one of them towards him, “the corners of this one are slightly turned up and soiled. It has been carried in some one’s pocket, and is not a fresh card.”

Again Patterson took it and examined it. It was the one with the line drawn across it. The others were quite clean, as if just taken fresh from a packet.

“There’s some mystery about these,” he said reflectively, as though speaking to himself. “If we could but solve it we should likewise solve the problem of the crime, depend upon it.”

“No doubt,” I assented. “Each of them have some meaning, occult but extraordinary. They were turned face downwards so that the accidental removal of the plate would not reveal the device upon them.”

“The devices are simple enough, but undoubtedly they have some hidden meaning,” my friend said.

“They were evidently concealed there, and the three persons, unsuspecting, were to discover them when the first plates were removed,” I suggested.

He placed them together on the table, saying —