The Face And The Mask - Robert Barr
"I could not do otherwise," he murmured, "It was too great a risk to
run."
THE GREAT PEGRAM MYSTERY.
(_With apologies to Dr. Conan Doyle, and our mutual and lamented
friend the late Sherlock Holmes_.)
I dropped in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say
about the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the
newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace
and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of
those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm
indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such,
indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers had
contained an article, eulogizing the alertness and general competence
of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's contempt for Scotland
Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would
he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.
He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me,
and greeted me with his usual kindness.
"I have come," I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind,
"to hear what you think of the great Pegram mystery."
"I haven't heard of it," he said quietly, just as if all London were
not talking of that very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on some
subjects, and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance, that
political discussion with him was impossible, because he did not know
who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great
boon.
"The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland Yard."
"I can well believe it," said my friend, calmly. "Perpetual motion, or
squaring the circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is Gregory."
This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. There was no
professional jealousy in him, such as characterizes so many other men.
He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated arm-chair,
placed his feet on the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his head.
"Tell me about it," he said simply.
"Old Barrie Kipson," I began, "was a stockbroker in the City. He lived
in Pegram, and it was his custom to----"
"COME IN!" shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a
suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.
"Excuse me," said my friend, laughing, "my invitation to enter was a
trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I
spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is,
a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about this crime,
and so you will be spared further effort in that line."
"Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude," I said,
rising.
"Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he
was coming."
I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary
talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke
quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.
"I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but,
from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of
objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and
then glanced across the street. I recognized my card, because, as you
know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of
this mystery, it naturally follows that _he_ will talk of it, and
the chances are he wished to consult me about it. Anyone can see that,
besides there is always--_Come_ in!"
There was a rap at the door this time.
A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.
"I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective," said the stranger,
coming within the range of the smoker's vision.
"This is Mr. Kombs," I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly,
and seemed half-asleep.
"Allow me to introduce myself," continued the stranger, fumbling for a
card.
"There is no need. You are a journalist," said Kombs.
"Ah," said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, "you know me, then."
"Never saw or heard of you in my life before."
"Then how in the world----"
"Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an
article slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and
you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I
tell him."
"The devil!" cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his
brow, while his face became livid.
"Yes," drawled Kombs, "it is a devil of a shame that such things are
done. But what would you? as we say in France."
When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself
together somewhat. "Would you object to telling me how you know these
particulars about a man you say you have never seen?"
"I rarely talk about these things," said Kombs with great composure.
"But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in
your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your
paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers
are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal. This
smeared class embraces two sub-classes, clerks or accountants, and
journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink-smear is
slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared;
therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your
pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special
Edition, which will not be on the streets for half-an-hour yet. You
must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you
must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A
journalist always despises every article in his own paper not written
by himself; therefore, you wrote the article you have marked, and
doubtless are about to send it to the author of the book referred to.
Your paper makes a specialty of abusing all books not written by some
member of its own staff. That the author is a friend of yours, I merely
surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinary observation."
"Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are
the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are."
A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the
sideboard and drew his self-cocking six-shooter.
"Do you mean to insult me, sir?"
"I do not--I--I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard
to-morrow----. I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir."
"Then Heaven help you," cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.
I sprang between them.
"Don't shoot!" I cried. "You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw,
don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a
compliment!"
"Perhaps you are right," remarked the detective, flinging his revolver
carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party.
Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland
courtesy--
"You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr.
Wilber Scribbings?"
The journalist started.
"How do you know my name?" he gasped.
Kombs waved his hand impatiently.
"Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name?"
I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen
inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.
"You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery----".
"Tush," cried the detective; "do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery.
There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever
_was_ a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done
before. What about the Pegram affair?"
"The Pegram--ah--case has baffled everyone. The _Evening Blade_
wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will
pay you well. Will you accept the commission?"
"Possibly. Tell me about the case."
"I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at
Pegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and
that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30 train
each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the
influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew
something like L300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to
catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public
have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class
compartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between London
and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head, and his money was gone,
pointing plainly to murder and robbery."
"And where is the mystery, may I ask?"
"There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came
he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at
Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned
him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the tickets sold for
the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, how could the
murderer have escaped? Fourth, the passengers in the two compartments
on each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and
no shot fired."
"Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 21st did not stop between
London and Brewster?"
"Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal just
outside of Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line was
reported clear, and it went on again. This frequently happens, as there
is a branch line beyond Pegram."
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe
silently.
"I presume you wish the solution in time for to-morrow's paper?"
"Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a
month you would do well."
"My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you can
make it convenient to call here to-morrow at 8 a.m. I will give you the
full particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sense
in taking up much time over so simple an affair as the Pegram case.
Good afternoon, sir."
Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He left
in a speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hat
still in his hand.
Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his hands
clasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at
first, then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion,
so I said nothing.
Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. "I do not wish to seem to
be rushing things at all, Whatson, but I am going out to-night on the
Scotch Express. Would you care to accompany me?"
"Bless me!" I cried, glancing at the clock, "you haven't time, it is
after five now."
"Ample time, Whatson--ample," he murmured, without changing his
position. "I give myself a minute and a half to change slippers and
dressing gown for boots and coat, three seconds for hat, twenty-five
seconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a hansom, and then
seven at the terminus before the express starts. I shall be glad of
your company."
I was only too happy to have the privilege of going with him. It was
most interesting to watch the workings of so inscrutable a mind. As we
drove under the lofty iron roof of the terminus I noticed a look of
annoyance pass over his face.
"We are fifteen seconds ahead of our time," he remarked, looking at the
big clock. "I dislike having a miscalculation of that sort occur."
The great Scotch Express stood ready for its long journey. The
detective tapped one of the guards on the shoulder.
"You have heard of the so-called Pegram mystery, I presume?"
"Certainly, sir. It happened on this very train, sir."
"Really? Is the same carriage still on the train?"
"Well, yes, sir, it is," replied the guard, lowering his voice, "but of
course, sir, we have to keep very quiet about it. People wouldn't
travel in it, else, sir."
"Doubtless. Do you happen to know if anybody occupies the compartment
in which the body was found?"
"A lady and gentleman, sir; I put 'em in myself, sir."
"Would you further oblige me," said the detective, deftly slipping
half-a-sovereign into the hand of the guard, "by going to the window
and informing them in an offhand casual sort of way that the tragedy
took place in that compartment?"
"Certainly, sir."
We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news there
was a suppressed scream in the carriage. Instantly a lady came out,
followed by a florid-faced gentleman, who scowled at the guard. We
entered the now empty compartment, and Kombs said: "We would like to be
alone here until we reach Brewster."
"I'll see to that, sir," answered the guard, locking the door.
When the official moved away, I asked my friend what he expected to
find in the carriage that would cast any light on the case.
"Nothing," was his brief reply.
"Then why do you come?"
"Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at."
"And may I ask what those conclusions are?"
"Certainly," replied the detective, with a touch of lassitude in his
voice. "I beg to call your attention, first, to the fact that this
train stands between two platforms, and can be entered from either
side. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware of
that fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before it
started."
"But the door on this side is locked," I objected, trying it.
"Of course. But every season ticket-holder carries a key. This accounts
for the guard not seeing him, and for the absence of a ticket. Now let
me give you some information about the influenza. The patient's
temperature rises several degrees above normal, and he has a fever.
When the malady has run its course, the temperature falls to three-
quarters of a degree below normal. These, facts are unknown to you, I
imagine, because you are a doctor."
I admitted such was the case.
"Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the
convalescent's mind turns toward thoughts of suicide. Then is the time
he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. Barrie
Kipson's friends did _not_ watch him. You remember the 21st, of
course. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud under
foot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified,
if possible but forgets his season ticket. My experience is that a man
about to commit a crime always forgets something."
"But how do you account for the disappearance of the money?"
"The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man, and
knew the stupidness of Scotland Yard, he probably sent the notes to an
enemy. If not, they may have been given to a friend. Nothing is more
calculated to prepare the mind for self-destruction than the prospect
of a night ride on the Scotch Express, and the view from the windows of
the train as it passes through the northern part of London is
particularly conducive to thoughts of annihilation."
"What became of the weapon?"
"That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me
for a moment."
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right hand side, and
examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass.
Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash.
"Just as I expected," he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me.
"There is a slight dent on the top of the window-frame. It is of such a
nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol falling from the
nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weapon far out of
the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen into the
carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the line and lies
among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outside rail. The
only question that now remains is where the deed was committed, and the
exact present position of the pistol reckoned in miles from London, but
that, fortunately, is too simple to even need explanation."
"Great heavens, Sherlaw!" I cried. "How can you call that simple? It
seems to me impossible to compute."
We were now flying over Northern London, and the great detective leaned
back with every sign of _ennui_, closing his eyes. At last he
spoke wearily:
"It is really too elementary, Whatson, but I am always willing to
oblige a friend. I shall be relieved, however, when you are able to
work out the A B C of detection for yourself, although I shall never
object to helping you with the words of more than three syllables.
Having made up his mind to commit suicide, Kipson naturally intended to
do it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are again examined at
that point. When the train began to stop at the signal near Pegram, he
came to the false conclusion that it was stopping at Brewster. The fact
that the shot was not heard is accounted for by the screech of the air-
brake, added to the noise of the train. Probably the whistle was also
sounding at the same moment. The train being a fast express would stop
as near the signal as possible. The air-brake will stop a train in
twice its own length. Call it three times in this case. Very well. At
three times the length of this train from the signalpost towards
London, deducting half the length of the train, as this carriage is in
the middle, you will find the pistol."
"Wonderful!" I exclaimed.
"Commonplace," he murmured.
At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind of
the air-brakes.
"The Pegram signal again," cried Kombs, with something almost like
enthusiasm. "This is indeed luck. We will get out here, Whatson, and
test the matter."
As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line.
The engine stood panting impatiently under the red light, which changed
to green as I looked at it. As the train moved on with increasing
speed, the detective counted the carriages, and noted down the number.
It was now dark, with the thin crescent of the moon hanging in the
western sky throwing a weird half-light on the shining metals. The rear
lamps of the train disappeared around a curve, and the signal stood at
baleful red again. The black magic of the lonesome night in that
strange place impressed me, but the detective was a most practical man.
He placed his back against the signal-post, and paced up the line with
even strides, counting his steps. I walked along the permanent way
beside him silently. At last he stopped, and took a tapeline from his
pocket. He ran it out until the ten feet six inches were unrolled,
scanning the figures in the wan light of the new moon. Giving me the
end, he placed his knuckles on the metals, motioning me to proceed down
the embankment. I stretched out the line, and then sank my hand in the
damp grass to mark the spot.
"Good God!" I cried, aghast, "what is this?"
"It is the pistol," said Kombs quietly.
It was!!
* * * * *
Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused
by the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at
length in the next day's _Evening Blade_. Would that my story
ended here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to
Scotland Yard. The meddlesome officials, actuated, as I always hold, by
jealousy, found the name of the seller upon it. They investigated. The
seller testified that it had never been in the possession of Mr.
Kipson, as far as he knew. It was sold to a man whose description
tallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He was
arrested, and turned Queen's evidence in the hope of hanging his pal.
It seemed that Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man, and usually
came home in a compartment by himself, thus escaping observation, had
been murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, the
miscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of the body--a
subject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind before the
deed is done. They agreed to place it on the line, and have it mangled
by the Scotch Express, then nearly due. Before they got the body half-
way up the embankment the express came along and stopped. The guard got
out and walked along the other side to speak with the engineer. The
thought of putting the body into an empty first-class carriage
instantly occurred to the murderers. They opened the door with the
deceased's key. It is supposed that the pistol dropped when they were
hoisting the body in the carriage.
The Queen's evidence dodge didn't work, and Scotland Yard ignobly
insulted my friend Sherlaw Kombs by sending him a pass to see the
villains hanged.
DEATH COMETH SOON OR LATE.
It was Alick Robbins who named the invalid the Living Skeleton, and
probably remorse for having thus given him a title so descriptively
accurate, caused him to make friends with the Living Skeleton, a man
who seemed to have no friends.
Robbins never forgot their first conversation. It happened in this way.
It was the habit of the Living Skeleton to leave his hotel every
morning promptly at ten o'clock, if the sun was shining, and to shuffle
rather than walk down the gravel street to the avenue of palms. There,
picking out a seat on which the sun shone, the Living Skeleton would
sit down and seem to wait patiently for someone who never came. He wore
a shawl around his neck and a soft cloth cap on his skull. Every bone
in his face stood out against the skin, for there seemed to be no
flesh, and his clothes hung as loosely upon him as they would have upon
a skeleton. It required no second glance at the Living Skeleton to know
that the remainder of his life was numbered by days or hours, and not
by weeks or months. He didn't seem to have energy enough even to read,
and so it was that Robbins sat down one day on the bench beside him,
and said sympathetically:--
"I hope you are feeling better to-day."
The Skeleton turned towards him, laughed a low, noiseless, mirthless
laugh for a moment, and then said, in a hollow, far-away voice that had
no lungs behind it: "I am done with feeling either better or worse."
"Oh, I trust it is not so bad as that," said Robbins; "the climate is
doing you good down here, is it not?"
Again the Skeleton laughed silently, and Robbins began to feel uneasy.
The Skeleton's eyes were large and bright, and they fastened themselves
upon Robbins in a way that increased that gentleman's uneasiness, and
made him think that perhaps the Skeleton knew he had so named him.
"I have no more interest in climate," said the Skeleton. "I merely seem
to live because I have been in the habit of living for some years; I
presume that is it, because my lungs are entirely gone. Why I can talk
or why I can breathe is a mystery to me. You are perfectly certain you
can hear me?"
"Oh, I hear you quite distinctly," said Robbins.
"Well, if it wasn't that people tell me that they can hear me, I
wouldn't believe I was really speaking, because, you see, I have
nothing to speak with. Isn't it Shakespeare who says something about
when the brains are out the man is dead? Well, I have seen some men who
make me think Shakespeare was wrong in his diagnosis, but it is
generally supposed that when the lungs are gone a man is dead. To tell
the truth, I _am_ dead, practically. You know the old American
story about the man who walked around to save funeral expenses; well,
it isn't quite that way with me, but I can appreciate how the man felt.
Still I take a keen interest in life, although you might not think so.
You see, I haven't much time left; I am going to die at eight o'clock
on the 30th of April. Eight o'clock at night, not in the morning, just
after _table d'hote_."
"You are going to _what_!" cried Robbins in astonishment.
"I'm going to die that day. You see I have got things to such a fine
point, that I can die any time I want to. I could die right here, now,
if I wished. If you have any mortal interest in the matter I'll do it,
and show you what I say is true. I don't mind much, you know, although
I had fixed April the 30th as the limit. It wouldn't matter a bit for
me to go off now, if it would be of any interest to you."
"I beg you," said Robbins, very much alarmed, "not to try any
experiments on my account. I am quite willing to believe anything you
say about the matter--of course you ought to know."
"Yes, I do know." answered the Living Skeleton sadly. "Of course I have
had my struggle with hope and fear, but that is all past now, as you
may well understand. The reason that I have fixed the date for April
30th is this: you see I have only a certain amount of money--I do not
know why I should make any secret of it. I have exactly 240 francs
today, over and above another 100 francs which I have set aside for
another purpose. I am paying 8 francs a day at the Golden Dragon; that
will keep me just thirty days, and then I intend to die."
The Skeleton laughed again, without sound, and Robbins moved uneasily
on the seat.
"I don't see," he said finally, "what there is to laugh about in that
condition of affairs."
"I don't suppose there is very much; but there is something else that I
consider very laughable, and that I will tell you if you will keep it a
secret. You see, the Golden Dragon himself--I always call our innkeeper
the Golden Dragon, just as you call me, the Living Skeleton."