on the following saturday i made what ultimately turned out to be my last attempt at crime, and never before had i been in such great and deadly peril. at one time it was any odds on my being captured, and it was only by the most fortunate combination of circumstances that i escaped at all.
i had partly got over my fear of meadows, and in an evil humor that evening had even boldly carried my bar of iron with me up to the police head-quarters.
i had long since bound it well round with string at the handle end, to give a better grip, and i found it fairly easy to carry, suspended to my side just under my left arm.
they were all down in the dumps again at victoria square, where the police head-quarters were situated. the paragraph in the ‘journal’ about policeman sullivan’s snake bite had made the chief commissioner wild with rage, and for the last few days he had hardly spoken to me, although he had seen me several times.
i neither knew nor cared whether he was aware that the information had come through me. he should have treated me with more confidence, i argued, and it served him right.
about nine o’clock i got on the tram for prospect, with no particular definite object in my mind. i felt the lust of blood upon me, however, and was quite reckless of any danger i might run.
i went the full tram journey, and for quite half an hour wandered aimlessly about the roads. i kept a good eye out for my patrols, and dodged three of them when i saw them coming.
presently i turned off into a small side road, and almost immediately came upon what thrilled me with a terrible joy.
a man was sleeping on an outside verandah, and he had left the small glow-worm electric light burning directly over his head. i could see his face quite plainly.
he had evidently been reading, and had apparently read himself to sleep. he was a fat-faced, jovial-looking man, and somehow reminded me of waller.
i looked round. everything was quiet, and there was not a soul in sight. i gently opened the gate.
i pulled my cap hard down over my eyes, and, holding my deadly weapon handy, crept stealthily up the path.
then three totally unexpected things happened.
a bulldog rushed at me from under the bed, the man sprang up instantly and covered me with a revolver, and i heard a motor coming up the road.
the dog i downed with one furious and fortunate blow that crashed his head in, even before he had touched me, but the man on the verandah was a very different type of customer.
he blazed twice at me with his revolver before i had bounded into the shadows, and then it seemed all hell was loose.
a woman screamed inside the house — the door snapped open and three men burst out — the motor ground its brakes and pulled up dead against where i had just come in-and the man with the revolver called out “hell!” and shouted to everyone the way i had gone.
i was round the house and down the back garden in a trice, only to butt against a high wooden fence that was too high and would have taken me too long to scale.
i doubled back, escaping one of my stumbling pursuers only by about a foot. he made a grab at me, but i struck him on the chest. he lurched over backwards and brought down someone else in his fall.
then, before they could recover themselves i was back in the front garden again, but this time on the other side and right away from the gate.
a man was standing at the gate, holding it closed, and the staring headlights from the car showed up everything and made the road as light as day.
i crouched behind a clump of bushes, not knowing what to do. my escape was apparently cut off in all directions. the fence was too high to get over anywhere — behind me were the three or four men i had just evaded. in front stood the other man blocking the only sure way of getting back into the road. luckily for me, and it was the only piece of good fortune so far, the clump of bushes behind which i crouched was in the deepest shadow, and i was quite invisible to the man standing by the gate.
i waited, however, without any sense of fear — only in a cold, fierce rage at being trapped. round came my pursuers from the back of the house.
“where is he?” shouted the man with the revolver excitedly. “he can’t have got away. i heard him yell; i must have winged him anyhow.”
the man at the gate was rather confused. he was dressed as a chauffeur. he replied that he didn’t think anyone had come out — they certainly hadn’t come out since he had been there, but he didn’t exactly know what it was all about.
“it’s the man we’ve got here, you silly ass — the murderer,” the shooter yelled. “he was going to bash me, just as he’s bashed poor boxer here. but he can’t have got away — he’s in the bushes somewhere — spread out, boys, quick — look out for his iron, though.”
it was all up with me, i thought, and only the matter of a short and bloody fight before the end.
then an idea struck me. if only i could divert their attention for even half a minute i might stand a chance of getting out into the road.
i grasped my bit of iron firmly by the end, and, swinging it furiously twice round my head, hurled it fiercely in the direction of the house right on the other side of the road.
there was a second’s silence, and then a resounding crash of splintered glass. i had hit a window somewhere.
“there he is,” shouted someone hoarsely. “he’s got over the road into mr. webber’s — after him, all of you, quick.”
they rushed pell-mell through the gate, and i was about to follow them when two other men came running out of the house next door, and planted themselves deliberately right in front of where i should have to pass.
“don’t all of you go in,” called out one of them sharply. “someone stop in the road. he may double back, and we shall see in which direction he’s gone.”
“damn them!” i swore. “someone’s got some sense at last.” i ran softly round, intending to try the back garden again, but whistles began sounding in all directions, and i heard voices on the other side of the fence.
i stood hesitating for quite half a minute and then, hearing footsteps coming up the gravel in both directions, in sheer desperation shinned up one of the verandah posts and got softly on to the roof of the house.
for a moment i thought it was absolutely the very worst place for hiding i could have chosen, and then — i realised it might perhaps be the very best.
at first sight there was apparently no cover for even a cat to hide. the corrugated iron roof just sloped up one side and down the other. all the way round, at the foot of the sloping roof there was a flat lead-sheeted gutter about a foot wide. this gutter was quite unprotected and open, and a sparrow even could not have found a hiding place there. just over the front door, however, there was a piece of ornamental wood lintel, at the most ten inches high.
i wondered instantly if, by squeezing myself flat upon the lead guttering, this piece of wood lintel would hide me from the observation of anyone on the ground. at any rate, it was my only hope, and, stretched out at full length, i breathlessly regarded the operations below through a crack in the wood.
there was tremendous excitement going on and, in the short time that had elapsed since the first alarm had been given, all the neighborhood seemed to have gathered in the road.
a second motor-car had arrived, and they were detaching the supplementary oil lamps to search thoroughly through all the gardens round.
several of my armletted patrols were in the crowd, and even in my dreadful plight, i felt proud that we had beaten the regular police.
i heard the telephone going inside the house. it was the man with the revolver speaking to the police station. i was startled to hear how close his voice sounded. he was just underneath me in the hall. he told a very bumptious tale.
he had got the murderer for sure, if they came quick. mr. sam podsley, he was, and number eight, angas terrace, was his address. no, they hadn’t actually got hold of the man, but they had taken his weapon and he was surrounded somewhere in the block of houses. he couldn’t possibly get away, and he couldn’t run far in any case for he had winged him with his revolver. he was a dead shot.
i heard the telephone ring off sharply, and then there was a perfect babel of voices in the garden. they were handing round my iron bar for inspection, and everyone wanted to see it close.
“now, you fellows,” shouted the revolver man truculently, “don’t waste time looking at that thing now. we’ll have plenty of time to examine that when we’ve got the handcuffs on our man. the police will be here in two shakes, but let’s truss him up before they come. he must be somewhere in the block, and he’s not got a dog’s chance of getting away. flash all the lights round now, quick.”
round and round came the detached lamps, flashing in every direction. the bushes were trampled through most thoroughly, and i thanked my stars gratefully that my footprints must have been very effectually blotted out.
everyone who passed flashed his lamp for a second on the roof, but my strip of lintel seemed so hopelessly small and low that no one for a second gave a thought as to whether it could hide a man. lying flat up there, i thought what asses they all were, but when, a couple of days later, i came to examine the house in clear and broad daylight, i quite understood the mistake they had made.
from the ground the woodwork didn’t look six inches high, and i marvelled to myself how it could have hid me there.
presently a great white light came in the sky, and two big long police cars discharged quite a score of uniformed and ununiformed members of the force.
inspector wedlake was in charge and, quickly put in possession of all the facts, he began to swear in true policeman fashion.
“come out of the garden, all of you blank ninnies standing there. haven’t any of you got any more sense than that? how the devil do you think we’re going to find that man’s tracks out of all the footmarks there? come out, i say.”
the crowd filed out quickly and the policemen were soon the only ones in possession of the scene.
the man with the revolver was cross-examined sharply by the inspector. he was most voluble and most minute in all his details.
“this is where i was lying,” he explained delightedly, “and this is where boxer was killed. he saw the man first and growled. he ran at him at once. i caught sight of him just as he hit boxer on the head. i let fly at him on the second, and winged him somewhere, for i heard the beggar yell. he jumped quite a foot into the air. then he tore round the house. we ran after him but he dodged back and somehow got over the road. he broke in the window there, with his iron. then we couldn’t find him, but he can’t have got away for there is no escape on either side at the back. the walls are too high there — and not a mouse has crossed the road. for certain, he’s now in the gardens somewhere.”
the chauffeur was next quickly handled. he looked a fool and the inspector was soon glaring angrily at him. the tale, he told was very muddled. yes — he had been standing by the gate all the time, almost from the very first second when the revolver had been fired. the murderer must have run very quickly across the road. no — he didn’t actually see him run. in fact, he hadn’t seen anyone run. what he meant was — that if he had really run he didn’t know how he could have done it at all, for he had been watching the road all the time. no — he wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t making anything up. he didn’t care who asked him anything if they asked him politely, and he didn’t mind now who heard him say —“blast the police!” he was disgusted.
all this took place exactly below me, and right before the front door. i heard all the instructions given to the policemen, and for three hours they hunted incessantly in and out and all about the gardens of the adjoining houses.
the police were puzzled and frankly said so. the cordon had been drawn so quickly and so closely round the entire terrace that they couldn’t possibly make out how i had got away.
“wait till morning,” at last snarled inspector wedlake, “and we’ll go through every bally inch of the whole place with a tooth-comb. meanwhile, everyone’s to keep his place and not a living soul’s to cross out over the cordon.”
soon after midnight meadows himself arrived, and it made me shudder to see his cold set face under the half light. his eyes glared with vicious determination.
“if we lose him this time, inspector,” he whispered hoarsely, “the chief will never forgive us. it’s the right man now, if it never was before; that string-bound iron’s an eye opener at last.”
there were few people about angas terrace that night who could have slept a wink.
to begin with there were the people in the house. save for two little boys, who i gathered from the conversation going on inside — and i could plainly hear every word that was said — had gone off to sleep again almost at once — no one could have taken their clothes off, even if they had lain down at all.
in the dining-room below, there was a continual noise of rattling glasses and drawing corks all night long. all the police in turn must have come in for a ‘wad,’ and the talk — oh, the talk! the fat brute with the revolver was boasting and yapping from midnight until dawn. he told his beastly rotten tale over and over again until every word of it was as familiar to me as my own name. he had been sleeping on his right side. boxer’s growl had awakened him in a sweat — he had seized his revolver and fired twice — he had winged me once for sure — i had yelled like hell, and i had jumped a good foot in the air, &c. thank goodness, someone else got sick of it besides me, and at last he was told to shut up.
“oh, curse you — podsley,” i heard a sleepy voice say, “we’re damn sick of your rotten yarn. i don’t believe you hit him at all. how the devil did the blighter get away if you put all the lead in him that you say you did? i believe it was boxer you hit after all. you killed your own bally dog, old man — that’s what you did — so shut up.”
then followed a long and bitter argument that, in the end, was almost as boring as the shooting episode itself.
the police, too, could have had no sort of rest at all. all night long numbers were pacing the road — never more than a dozen yards from one another. they talked in gruff voices and repeatedly wished for the morning, when everything wonderful was going to happen, and i should be taken, without doubt. they cursed the people in the house for a lot of muddlers to have let me get away at all, and gave it as their opinion that it would be a hanging matter for half the police if i weren’t caught this time.
then there was myself. i know i never slept. i was listening and listening the whole night long. i was in a bitter agony of mortification, and fear, too, was now creeping like a cold palsy over my mind. what chance of escape had i now, and when i was taken what would it all mean? i should be hanged for certain, and what would become of lucy then? she would be branded for ever because of my love, and every kiss i had given her would leave its dark memory of dreadful shame. why — oh, why had i ever touched the paste. i had never dreamed of things like this. it was fate that had turned my steps this awful way. i was only a pawn in her dreadful game.
the night was long and terrible for me, and yet in contrast such a perfect night it was, too. starry and beautiful, in such a wondrous sky. the air was warm and mild and everything spoke of peace and quiet, with the tired world resting in its dreams.
just as the dawn came i believe i must have been almost on the point of dropping asleep. at any rate, i know i had got my eyes shut, and had partly forgotten my surroundings. suddenly — so suddenly that i remember jerking myself upon my elbow to listen — i heard a sound that froze the very marrow in my spine. it was the baying of a dog. a deep-throated hollow sound like a dog moaning in a cave. all my faculties were alive in an instant. then it came again — mournful and hollow, but with dreadful menace in its tone.
a policeman in the road called out briskly:—
“here they are, mates — the bloodhounds at last.”
the bloodhounds — of course! the terror of it struck me like a blow — i had not thought of them. the police were bringing them up to put them on my trail. they had got my iron bar now, and that would give them for the first time the scent they were needing to follow.
i lay back in a muck sweat, with my teeth chattering horribly. dawn comes very quickly in australia, and within five minutes of first hearing the hounds i saw the two of them brought up in leash to the other side of the road, just in front of the house.
they were terrible looking beasts, with huge flopping ears and large bloodshot eyes. two men were in charge of them and holding them back with thick leathern straps.
early as it was, a little half-dressed crowd had already collected from the adjoining houses.
“everybody keep away from the hounds,” shouted one of the keepers angrily. “this isn’t a picture stunt, and we don’t want any help either. we want perfect quiet, too, please.” the crowd obediently edged a little away and stopped talking among themselves.
a milk cart came clattering up and stopped noisily, right in front of the gate. there was a little fox terrier on the seat, and catching sight of the bloodhounds, it started to bark furiously.
“stop that dog,” roared one of the men; “take it away. it’ll spoil everything. take it off — do you hear?”
the flustered milkman leaned over savagely to seize the animal, but losing his balance he banged up against one of his large milk cans and, in a second, a generous torrent of milk was pouring into the road.
“oh, you damned fool,” shrieked the keeper, now wild with rage. “if that milk gets on them, all the scent will be lost. get out of it — you idiot — take your horse away.”
a dozen willing pairs of hands quickly bundled the milkman and his cart away, but the bloodhounds had smelt the milk and were anxious for a closer acquaintance with it.
“come on, pluto, you brute,” swore the keeper. “now then,” to the other man, “keep jezebel away. pull her back, right over.”
there was a lot of shouting and expostulating and, finally, the two big animals were given my iron bar to smell, and encouraged to pick up the trail.
“good boy, pluto — find it now,” coaxed the keeper. “nose it, jezebel — nose it now.”
pluto lifted his great muzzle interestedly and was making strenuous efforts to come across the road. he pulled and tugged, but his keeper wouldn’t let him go, and kept drawing him back to the footpath, in front of the broken window.
“it’s that damned milk he’s after,” he explained savagely; “once he’s lapped it, we may as well take him home. oh, good girl, jezebel — good girl.”
jezebel had smelt something, for with her head low down, she was running backwards and forwards on the path by the side of the road. i remembered, with a pang of fear, that it was there i had stood for a few seconds before i had crossed the road to slink up the garden after the man asleep on the verandah.
it was an agonising moment for me — which way would the great beast go? would she try, like her mate had done, to cross the road, or would she follow my trail back along the way i had come from the prospect tram?
i could see everything so plainly through the crack in the wood. she ran backwards and forwards for about a minute and then, to my great joy, with a deep throated bay, started pulling hard in the direction away from the house.
the crowd gave a little encouraging cheer, and pluto now shambling contentedly after her, they both disappeared out of my sight up the road.
most of the crowd followed excitedly after them, and, for a moment, i hoped that i might get down and escape in the confusion.
but no, to my dismay not a policeman had moved, and all down the road i could see them keeping their allotted stations just as they had done through out the entire night.
the inspector was taking no chances, i thought.
for two hours i lay wondering what had happened, and then news began to filter through. from the remarks i picked up from the policemen and the people standing about, the bloodhounds were not proving quite a success.
they had got to the shelter from where the trams started — they had lost the scent altogether — they had followed a milk cart — they wouldn’t leave a butcher’s shop, and so on, and so on.
in the meantime, a big crowd had gathered in the road in front of the house. somehow the news had quickly got about, and on foot and in all sorts of conveyances they had hurried to the spot. bicycles, motor cars and carts had all been pressed into service, and soon spectators were standing ten and twelve deep on the footpath gaping curiously at the house.
the police were furious, but the crowd was too great to handle easily, and they had to be content with keeping them out of the garden in front.
presently i heard the baying of the dogs again. they were being brought back to pick up another trail. in a scene of intense excitement, a way was opened through the crowd and they were brought straight into the garden, just under where i lay.
my heart was thumping terribly in my chest, and i could hardly breathe. the great beasts smelt something at once. they tore excitedly round and round the house, and sniffed about in every place where i had been. time after time they nosed to the verandah post, up which i had climbed to get on the roof, but every time, directly they came there, they were immediately pulled roughly back.
i had killed the bulldog just under there and his blood was still dark and red upon the gravel.
“for the lord’s sake they mustn’t lick that blood,” implored the head keeper; “if they touch it once, they’ll never scent anything again. some of you men stand round it, please. pull them back hard now.”
a little sheltering group stood round the post, and, my confidence now returning, i smiled amusedly to myself at the protection i was receiving.
the dogs had a long stay near the bushes where i had hid, and then nosed off to the gate. the road had been entirely cleared of sight-seers now, just in front of the house, and the beasts ambled out to and fro over the path. but they were always at fault at once, and returned inside. again and again they went from the verandah post to the gate, but the milk — trodden all over the place by then — evidently fogged them, and they only bayed hoarsely and turned round.
for quite half an hour they were kept smelling round the house but nothing happened, except that they invariably made straight for the verandah post.
“curse that blood,” said the head bloodhound man at last, “and curse the milk, too. everything’s against us. if it hadn’t been for that milk, we should have been straight on him by now. it’s no good going on. the scent in this garden’s as strong as hell, i’m dead sure of that. but what’s the good if it leads nowhere? directly they get into the road the scent’s gone.”
in great disappointment, the bloodhounds were at length led away, and a few minutes later a sort of conference was held just by the front door. six or seven of the heads of the police were there.
inspector wedlake looked tired, white, and angry. “what are we to tell the chief when he comes back tonight?” he asked savagely. “same old tale he’ll say — had him actually in your hands and you let him go. he’ll be jolly pleasant, i can see.”
“well, it isn’t our fault, inspector,” said another voice. “we can’t catch him if he isn’t here, can we?”
“but he must be here,” replied the inspector irritably. “if there’s any truth in what these men say, he never got out of the garden of these two houses. i don’t understand it. we’ve gone through every inch of the place.”
“well, we’ve got his weapon now,” said the other shortly. “he’s lost his mascot, anyhow.”
“what’s that to us?” was the sneering reply; “we can’t hang his bit or iron, can we?”
i saw meadows standing there. he said nothing, but he was looking very glum.
a few minutes later the order was passed round for the police to go. meadows was the last to leave. when he got to the garden gate, he turned round and for quite a couple of minutes stood looking thoughtfully at the house. his eyes roved over every part of it, and for a moment i was terrified that, in that last second, he might unravel all. but no — just when i had fully made up my mind that he was coming back, he shrugged his shoulders disappointedly and turned off down the road.
but if with the departure of the police i had thought my troubles were to be all over, i soon found i was greatly mistaken. i had only exchanged one set of troubles for another.
it began to get hot, terribly hot. the sun shone down with awful violence upon the roof and i had no shelter for my head from its burning rays.
i stood it as long as i could and then, in desperation, i took out my pocket knife and started cutting softly at the lead gutter to bend a piece up.
to my delight it cut very easily, and in a few minutes i had turned up quite a long piece and made an arch of it over my head and part of my back.
i had to be very careful and make no noise, for i was exactly over the hall, and in one corner where the plaster had broken away i found i could see right in through the dining-room ventilator, on to the dining-room table itself.
i was very thirsty by now and it exasperated me most intensely to see some tumblers and a nice cool jug of what looked like lemonade.
they started laying the table in preparation for dinner, and from time to time all the members of the family came within my range of view. there were two little boys, one about six, and the other some years older. they were both of them evidently immensely impressed with the importance their home had suddenly assumed in the public eye.
“will daddy’s picture be in the newspapers, mummy?” asked the younger one between vigorous bites at a large succulent looking pear.
“i expect so, dear — it may be.”
“will mine be in, too. mummy? i might have been killed as well as daddy.” the child’s mother assured him that possibly all their photos would be in next week, and a few minutes later rang the bell vigorously for dinner.
the fat man carved and i had a good view through the ventilator. there was a big joint of beef and delicious brown-looking gravy. there was also a big, fine bottle of cool lager beer that i heard had just come straight off the ice. they evidently had visitors, for the fat man, between huge mouthfuls of potatoes and beef, reeled off his same rotten tale.
“i fired twice — winged him for sure — he yelled like hell — jumped a foot in the air,” &c.
i shut my eyes and groaned. my hunger and thirst were a torment to me, and this fat beast, with his perfect contentment of drink and food, quite put the cap on my misery — i could have killed him.
in the afternoon there were more visitors, more “i fired twice”— more lager beer, and, oh heavens! — cups of tea.
the sun was pitiless and my eyes began to swim in faint and heat. suddenly, as in a flash, there came to me the distinct memory of green leaves upon the trellis round the hall door. my mind went back to that second when i had first suggested to myself that the lintel over the door might give me the hiding place that i required. yes — i was sure there had been leaves there, and big leaves, too. oh, if only they grew upon a vine.
i turned over on my side and, quite mad with suffering, stretched my arm down recklessly over the wall. almost instantly, to my amazement, i touched a bunch of grapes. i tore it off anyhow and in a second was crunching the sweetest grapes that ever passed through mortal lips. it was quite a large bunch i had pulled up and although i could, of course, have eaten more, i was refreshed beyond measure when i had consumed them.
i felt quite a different being almost at once, and hope and confidence began to revive. i would diddle them yet, i thought, and i had only now to wait till dusk to slip down and get away.
before dusk — i knew it would be quite hopeless. all day long, on and off, curious little groups had gathered in the front of the house, staring with eyes as big as saucers.
i didn’t know what the silly fools expected to see, but they evidently derived some sort of morbid pleasure, gaping at a place where an attempted murder had occurred.
during the afternoon, thank goodness, the sun went in and clouds began to gather for a shower of rain. all good fortune seemed now to be coming my way, but — i found there was yet another peril to get over.
a good many times during the day i had noticed a pretty pair of pigeons flying round about the roof. they had made several attempts to alight on the gutter near by, but each time, seeing me, they had shied off in swift and startled curves.
just about five, the little boy jack came out into the garden with the fat man and, with the strange observance of little children, noticed at once that something was wrong.
“why don’t my pigeons sit down today, daddy?” he asked. “kafferleen won’t tum near the roof.”
“oh, blow your pigeons,” his father replied brusquely; “a jolly good thing if they don’t. they only fill up the gutters with their rubbish and bits of straw. they want their necks broken, i say.”
the little boy ignored his father’s lack of interest, and his mother coming out presently, he tried plaintively to enlist her sympathy in his distress.
“mummy, i fink kafferleen’s got a sore toe, like wot i had the other day. she won’t sit on the roof with joe.”
“no, dear, i don’t think it’s that,” his mother comforted, “the poor birdies have been so frightened by all the noise we’ve had today. tomorrow they’ll be quite all right again, you’ll see.”
the little boy looked puzzled still, but, thank goodness, at the suggestion of his mother, went in to get his tea.
just as dusk was drawing down it began to rain.
the last remaining spectators in the road cleared off and someone inside the house started a noisy jazz tune on the gramophone.
now was my opportunity, i thought. i crawled painfully along the gutter to the verandah post, and, with great difficulty, slid down it to the ground.
i was so stiff and cramped that for quite two minutes i could only stand and cling helplessly to the post. then i started vigorously to rub down my legs and the blood soon began to flow easily again.
i hobbled slowly and very softly to the gate, devoutly hoping no one would come out of the house as i was on my way. i was almost safe now, i knew, but even at that last moment misfortune still tried to throw another hand against me. just when a few yards from the garden gate, it clicked open and a man came in. i pulled myself painfully erect and gave an off-hand good-night. he replied shortly and passed by, but i saw him turn round to stare inquisitively before he reached the house. he couldn’t have seen much of me in the dark, i knew. i thought it must have been the whiteness of my face that interested him.
directly i got into the road i bustled along quickly and it was with an intense sigh of relief that i finally settled myself in a corner of the prospect tram.
i was too tired and worn out to rejoice much. i was wondering, now, what on earth i could say to mrs. bratt. i had never been away all day before without giving her notice, and how to explain my general bedraggled appearance i couldn’t think.
when i reached home, however, i found all the place locked up and i had to use my key to get in. i switched on the lights and, with great astonishment, found everything exactly as i had left it the previous evening after tea. mrs. bratt, i realised, couldn’t have been in at all since the previous afternoon. depressed and tired as i was, i chuckled happily to myself. even the stars in their courses were now fighting for me, i thought, and if meadows at any time suspected me, he would never get the slightest inkling from mrs. bratt of what i had been doing during the past twenty-four hours.
i got myself together some sort of scratch meal and turning into bed, without any desire at all for my usual dose of paste, slept heavily and thankfully the whole night long.
next morning early, mrs. bratt brought me the usual cup of tea. she was red-eyed, weeping and apologetic. her sister had died the previous afternoon, and all day she had never left the sick room. she was sure i would understand.
i tried to be as nice as possible to the old girl, and told her quite truthfully, too, that she had done perfectly right in stopping away.
she hadn’t seen anything of meadows, i heard.
i went up to the office soberly and quietly that morning. something, i felt, had happened to me, but i hadn’t had time to realise what it was, yet.
i met waller just as i was going in, and to my astonishment found myself speaking nicely and friendly to him. i asked him how the gee-gees were going and told him i wished i could find another winner like the boss.
he seemed quite embarrassed with my attention, and i almost fancy addressed me in parting as “sir.”
soon after i had settled down to work, mr. william came into my room for a chat. he was very interested in the affair at prospect, and suggested our both going up to the house to have a look. he said he would drive me up just before lunch in his car.
my heart began to beat furiously directly he mentioned it, but i couldn’t well refuse and, in a way, i was anxious to go myself. i wanted to understand more fully than i did how i had been able to evade all the perils that i had been faced with.
arriving at the house just before one we could not possibly have come at a more awkward time.
the very moment i opened the garden gate several people at once came out of the front door, and in a second i recognised the chief commissioner of the police, inspector wedlake and meadows. there was also a reporter from ‘the register,’ a press photographer, and the master of the house — the fat man with the revolver.
evidently they had been taking the chief over the scene immediately upon his return to the city from eudunda.
he smiled rather spitefully when he saw me.
“ah, now,” he called out loudly, “now we shall know everything. here’s our sapient friend, mr. peter wacks. he’ll explain everything to us for sure. you haven’t met mr. wacks, mr. podsley. mr. sam podsley, mr. peter wacks,” and he introduced us with a mocking assumption of great regard.
“pleased to meet you, mr. wacks,” said the fat man cordially and extending a large, flabby hand. “i wish we’d had you here on saturday, i do. you’d have helped us then, i’m sure. i’ve heard you speak several times and i know a man when i see one.”
i introduced mr. william and we all stood round.
“well, mr. wacks, aren’t you going to do anything for us?” went on the chief still mocking. “we confess we’re quite at a standstill now.” the chief’s sneering words had a very strange effect on me. i had come up to the house almost timid and trembling. somehow i had got all the kick taken out of me and i just loathed the whole crime business as much as the most nervous creature in the city. but the chief struck an old chord in me and my anger rose at his contempt. i looked at him coldly.
“have you discovered nothing at all then?” i asked incredulously.
“nothing at all, sir,” interrupted the fat man volubly, delighted evidently at the prospect of a new audience. “we’re just as much out-generalled now as we have been all along from the very first moment when we saw him.”
“you saw him plainly?” i asked interestedly.
“quite plainly, he’s a spare sort of man like you. it was like this. that’s where i was lying, and that’s where boxer was killed. he saw the man first and growled. he ——”
i shut my eyes and mentally groaned. it was the same awful tale i had heard so many times through my agony on the roof. he recited it again, word for word, like a horrible litany and now it was stringing up my nerves almost to breaking point.
“yes — yes,” i interrupted irritably, at last unable to bear it any more, “but who saw him get into the house over the way?”
“that’s it — that’s it,” he exclaimed excitedly. “no one saw him. he got over with a man staring up and down the road all the time. no one saw him leave the garden even.”
“well, then, he never left it — that’s clear.”
“but — man — the window there — he broke the window.”
“his bit of iron broke it, you mean. he needn’t have been there. why couldn’t he have thrown the thing?”
“oh, but he couldn’t aim as straight as that; besides, look at the distance.”
i sniffed contemptuously and looked across to the house opposite.
“bah! — the distance is nothing with the curved iron he used. nothing would have been easier than for him to have thrown it across. i don’t suppose for a moment he aimed at the window. it was just chance that he hit it. good gracious, if he were trying to escape and had got into the garden there, surely the very last thing he would have wanted to do would have been to advertise the fact. he wouldn’t want to start breaking windows and bring everyone down on him in a rush.”
they all stared very hard at me and the fat man hummed and hawed in a rather crestfallen sort of way.
“well, what the devil did happen?” he said at length.
“oh, i don’t know that,” i replied still irritably, “but tell me — what exactly were you doing when you heard the crash of the breaking glass.”
“we were looking for him here.”
“oh, yes — i know that — but where exactly were you? i mean where were you in the garden here?”
he thought for a moment.
“well, there’s no difficulty at all in remembering that. we were stretched out in a line, over there on the lawn. there were four of us and we thought the beggar was hiding in those bushes in the dark. i had just shouted to them to walk up carefully when — bang went the window opposite and off we rushed.”
“and if you hadn’t rushed off,” i went on, “in another quarter of a minute or so you would have been round those bushes and laid hands on anyone if he were hiding there?”
“jolly sure we should, and given him hell, too.”
“exactly — and no doubt our friend realised that, if he were in those bushes, as he probably was. so he just threw his iron over to take your unpleasant attentions away and off you all went, like a pack of goats. it’s as plain as the roof of this house. you bungled badly there.”
the fat man again looked very crestfallen and didn’t seem to know exactly how to make any reply, but the chief, who had put up a great affectation of being very bored, came to his rescue promptly.
“there, what did i tell you?” he said sarcastically. “i was quite sure mr. wacks would unravel all. in a few minutes we shall be knowing everything — even the rascal’s name and address.”
but the fat man was thinking deeply. “by jove, sir,” he said, quite respectfully to me at last. “i do believe you’re right. but still,” and his voice took on a triumphant tone again, “if he was in the garden as you say — how the devil did he get out again?”
“i didn’t say he did get out,” i replied bluntly. “i believe that when your backs were turned he just hid here.”
“but where, man, where? not an inch was left unturned. we all searched everywhere.”
i shrugged my shoulders as if the matter had nothing to do with me and the chief again broke in sarcastically.
“stumped, mr. wacks, stumped like we poor policemen here!”
“well, chief,” i replied smiling, “it strikes me this way. if he was in here and didn’t get out of here and yet couldn’t be found — well, then, it follows naturally that he must have hidden somewhere. he couldn’t vanish like air — now could he?”
“yes, but mr. wacks,” asked the fat man still politely, evidently chastened by the passage of arms we had already had, “where on earth could he have hid — where was there we didn’t look and the police here as well?”
i made to cast my eyes round carelessly over me place.
“what about the roof?” i asked sharply. “did you search there?”
“no good,” he grinned bluntly. “we could see if a cat was there, from the ground.”
“oh, i don’t know so much about that,” i went on stubbornly. “what about the lintel over the door here, for instance? i’m sure there’d be good hiding there for a spare man, such as i, for instance. there’s a good ten inches anyhow, and that’s quite enough if he lay down close.”
there was a sudden dead, hard silence after i had said this, and i could hear more than one person take in a deep breath. i didn’t dare myself to look straight at them, and inwardly i cursed my folly for beginning such a dangerous game. it was only the sneers of the chief commissioner that had egged me on.
it was the fat man who first recovered himself — perhaps because he had less at stake than any of the others.
“but how the devil could he have got up there,” he asked, “even if he did?”
“easy as pot,” i sneered contemptuously. “why — as i stand here now i can see scratches plainly on the verandah post there.”
“good lord, and that’s where the bloodhounds went every time,” he almost cried. “the men kept pulling them back because they thought it was poor old boxer’s blood they were after — oh my hat! my hat!”
again, there was a tense and awkward silence. the wire door pushed suddenly open and the little boy jack ran out.
“daddy,” he called out in his pretty childish voice, “daddy, my pigeons is all right today. kafferleen’s been sitting on the roof again with joe, all this morning.”
“darn that kid,” shouted his father in great excitement. “he knew that something was wrong yesterday. all day long, he kept whining that his damned birds wouldn’t go near the roof anyhow, and i guess now we know why. yes,” he shouted in still more excitement, “and i’m a dead man if someone hasn’t been and sneaked a big bunch of grapes off the top — off the top, mind you. bring out the steps quickly, maria — we’ll soon find out.”
i had perfect command of myself now, and i set my face rigidly for the explosion that i knew was coming.
i looked round coolly and took in the varying expressions of them all.
the chief was frowning sternly. the sneering banter had all left him now, and he looked worried and annoyed.
inspector wedlake looked far more than annoyed. he was positively frightened, and breathed heavily like a man about to undergo some fearful punishment.
meadows — well, meadows was cold and impenetrable as ever, but i fancied his eyes had an evil gleam. he too, sensed something of what was about to come.
there was a minute’s waiting and a high pair of steps was banged and bumped out of the front door and finally placed in position. the fat man went up in a rush and, clinging to the lintel, looked over the top.
“lord! lord!” he almost shrieked. “the man was here right enough. he’s torn up all the lead and there’s grape skins all over the place.”
on a sign from the chief, meadows squeezed up the steps, too. he got right on to the roof at once and, after a moment’s intense looking round, beckoned grimly to the chief to come up.
the fat man made way and, for three or four minutes meadows and the chief stood whispering on the roof. then they came down and we all of us in turn mounted the steps and looked over — i with a heart that i know was almost bursting with the bitter memories that surged up.
the reporter went up last. when he came down he shook me solemnly by the hand and said feelingly, “a most remarkable piece of deduction, mr. wacks. very fine — very fine indeed — great credit to you.”
the chief heard him speak and turned on me savagely. he was white and choking and glad to find anyone on whom to vent his rage. he made no pretence of hiding his dislike, and looked as if he could have killed me where i stood.
“yes, very fine, mr. whacks,” he snarled spitefully, “and perhaps now — as you’re so fond of poking your nose in everywhere when it’s too late to do any good — you’ll very kindly oblige with the name of the murderer and his address. in fact — as you’re so clever you might let us know everything right from the very beginning, and tell us just who was the gentleman who killed boulter’s rabbits.”
i heard someone draw a deep sharp breath behind me, and, half-turning, saw that it was meadows. his mouth was wide open, and there was a look of sheer and startled amazement on his face. incredulity and surprise were struggling for the mastery, and his eyes seemed bulging from their head. for one second he had lost control of his thoughts.
i looked at him, startled in my turn, but he saw me looking and, as in a flash, his face closed down and took on its old expression of impassive calm. he dropped his eyes to the ground.
i felt myself trembling. i knew quite well what had happened. the meaning of everything was clear to him and he was sure now that the man— was i.
but the chief was still claiming my attention and his sneering went on.
“what, run dry, mr. wacks?” he asked insistently. “surely the source of inspiration hasn’t dried up already — so soon too. when, pray, did your friend up there get away?”
“look here, chief,” i said, stirred up at last. “be a sport and don’t grudge me this little success. you’re always down on us specials, and you never give us any credit for anything we do. everything here was as plain as day to a mind that came in fresh. how the devil you all missed it i don’t know! the wretch up there,” i went on, pointing to the roof, “must have lain out all yesterday under that burning sun and slipped away at dusk when the rain came on. that seems the first chance he had of getting away.”
“a bull’s-eye again, mr. wacks,” enthusiastically burst in the fat man, who at that moment had come round the house with a tray of drinks. “that’s just when he did get away and i know for sure now. a friend of mine — a chap named biggar — called here yesterday just after dusk and he asked me later on in the evening who was the white-faced looking beggar he had met at the gate when he was coming in. i didn’t know what he meant then, but i do now. lord! lord! what fools we’ve all been. the worst of it was, biggar couldn’t describe him at all — it was so dark. all he saw was that the man had got a white face and limped a bit.”
mr. william and i drove back a few minutes later in the car. i was greatly relieved it was all over. of one thing i was fully determined; that morning should mark the turning point about the paste. i would never touch the little that was left again.
the newspapers next day were most exciting and a regular paean of triumph for me.
‘the register’ got its knife deeply into the police and made any amount of cuts, too. it was bitter and sarcastic in its attack and plainly hinted that a change of personnel at head-quarters would be a good thing.
it made a fine story of the whole affair at angas terrace, and pictured the perplexities of the official police as being all cleared up and made plain by a five minutes’ touch of my magic wand.
strange to say, when i next met the chief, however, he had quite recovered his good humor, and remarked with his same old smile that, after all, perhaps only one lamp-post would be required, but, enigmatically, he didn’t say for which of us it would be.
