“Dawson?” he repeated, “Dawson? I fancy I’ve heard that name in connexion with scientific discovery.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “If he’s a well-known man we shall soon find out all about him at the Royal Institution.”
I was standing near the fireplace with the envelope still in my hand when, of a sudden, I was startled by a strange scuttling noise near my feet.
“Good heavens!” gasped Patterson, his eyes riveted on the spot. “Look there! Look at that glass case! There are snakes in it!”
I sprang away, and looking in the direction he indicated saw that a glass case, standing on the ground, contained two great snakes with beautiful markings of yellow and black. Even as I looked they were coiled, with their flat heads erect and their bead-like eyes shining like tiny stars in the shadow, their bodies half-hidden in a blanket.
“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.